Free The Senator's Choice by Noel Nash Page A

kidnapping case. Do you really want to call your boss right now? You ’ re only going to make him think you ’ re incompetent. If you do, I ’ ll have to get my boss on the line with your boss — and nobody will be happy. Let ’ s just go ahead and see those tapes.”
    Mr. Gordon put his head down. “Well, all right. Follow me.”
    Meanwhile, Zellers and Hammond headed straight for the men ’ s restroom.
    Zellers put his shoulder into the door and gave it a shove. They found the restroom unusually clean. Aside from a stray piece of toilet paper square gliding wistfully across the floor and a small puddle of water near the sink, the room looked spotless.
    He loathed public restrooms, much less touching anything in them. He slipped on his latex gloves and began feeling underneath every possible cavity. Underneath the sink, behind the toilet paper roll. Nothing. Then he went to the next stall. Still nothing. He was about to consider it a lost cause as he glanced at the potty humor decorating the walls.
    “You think they even let him go to the bathroom?” Hammond asked.
    “Who knows? These guys are animals, but I doubt anyone is that inhumane, especially to an innocent teenager.”
    “Well, what are we looking for then?”
    Zellers sighed. “A note. You ’ ll know it when you see it.”
    Hammond perked up. “I think I got something. For a good time, call Destiny at …”
    “Knock if off, Hammond. The jokes aren ’ t helping. ”
    “I ’ m just reading what ’ s on the stall wall here.”
    “We ’ d be here all day if I read what was on this wall.”
    Hammond chuckled. “Maybe you can grab a number for Shepherd.”
    “Knock if off, will ya?”
    Zellers scanned the wall but found nothing. He then reached his hand into the toilet paper roll holder and bingo !
    “Look what I found,” he said as he pulled out a tightly folded sheet of paper. Zellers ducked out of the stall and walked near the lights above the pair of sinks.
    “What ’ s it say?” Hammond asked.
    Zellers smoothed out the paper and read a note, written in Luke ’ s handwriting.
    Due east. Three men. One shorter and white. Two big guys — brothers. Both black. One always playing with a knife. Help.
    He walked back outside and meandered back into the manager ’ s office where Jones was transferring over the last few megabytes from the security camera footage file.
    “Look what I found,” Zellers said, holding up Luke ’ s note.
    “Any good intel?” Jones asked.
    Zellers shook his head. “It ’ s nothing we don ’ t already know, but at least the kid is thinking. Maybe he can leave us some more clues that will help us find him.”
    Mr. Gordon licked his fingers dripping with sandwich juice. “Who is this Luke kid? Must belong to somebody pretty important?”
    Zellers gave him a death stare. “Don ’ t utter a word about this to anyone. We know where you live, Mr. Gordon.”
    He put his hands on his hips. “Oh, do you now?”
    Zellers glanced down at the man ’ s grease-stained timecard on his desk and hoped that Matthews was listening.
    “Yes, Mr. Archibald Gordon. I know exactly where you live.”
    He cocked his head to the side. “And where ’ s that?”
    “ Give me a second, ” Shepherd said as he tapped on his keyboard. “Almost there.” Another pause. “Got it. 1694 West Turpentine Lane, Cambridge.”
    “Maybe after I leave here, we should pay a visit to 1694 West Turpentine Lane in Cambridge. Maybe you have some illegal contraband lying around.”
    Zellers watched as the man swallowed hard. “No, no. That won ’ t be necessary. I believe you. I won ’ t say a word about this to anyone.”
    “ You better not. ”
    They stared at the footage for a few moments.
    “Wait. Stop it right there,” Hammond said.
    The clerk froze. “Right where?”
    “Go back a few seconds.”
    The clerk obliged, backing up the video.
    “Right there,” Hammond said.
    The video played again, displaying an image of Luke rubbing his