Free Stolen Lives: A Detective Mystery Series SuperBoxset by Roger Hayden, James Hunt

rang, displaying an unlisted number. “Yes. Hello?” she said, her voice wavering.
    “You’re alone. Good,” a voice said, less-distorted than before.
    Miriam got to the point. “They’re releasing your relatives. I did my part, now let me speak to Ana.”
    “Hold on, now. Just one minute—”
    “We had a deal!” she said.
    “Enough!” he barked, sounding frustrated.
    Miriam couldn’t help herself. She was tired of the games.
    “I’ll let you speak to Ana as soon as we’re on the same page.”
    “We are,” she said. “I told the FBI that releasing your relatives was the only way to handle this. Whatever else you say is between only the two of us.”
    There was a long pause on the other end.
    “Gee, Miriam,” he replied. “I’m starting to take comfort in our little talks.”
    His words made her stomach tighten in knots. “Can I trust that you won’t hurt my daughter?”
    “Your daughter is fine. I mean, I don’t think she likes me all too much, but she’s fine.”
    “What… what did you do to her?” she asked in a panicked tone.
    “Nothing yet. I’m going to give you the girl, just as promised. I got some guys, and they’re going to transport her to another location.”
    Miriam gripped the phone in her shaking hand. “You said that I could talk to her. I need to talk to her. Don’t you understand?”
    He moved on, ignoring her demands. “Write this address down: One Fifty-Fourth Street, North Homestead, Florida.”
    She searched frantically through her purse and found a pen, scribbling the address on her hand as fast as she could.
    “It’s a bit of a drive from where you’re at, so I’d get a move on if you plan to be there before nightfall.”
    He wasn’t exaggerating. Homestead, in Miami-Dade County, was at least a three-hour drive from Palm Dale. It was already five o’clock.
    “Why so far away?” she asked.
    “Because. That’s why. Stop trying to pry into my business,” he snapped.
    “Is this a house? A building?”
    “It used to be a place called The Plaza. A theater that shut down years ago.”
    “Please, Mr. Anderson. Can’t you just drop her off at the police station? I don’t want her in some abandoned—”
    Phillip cut her off. “Hey, you did me a lot of damage. You ruined my business, tarnished my family’s name, and sent me on the run. You want your daughter, you’re gonna have to work for it.”
    She scanned the address scribbled on her hand. Was he hiding in Homestead? The FBI would certainly like to know. She had the address. The question was, what to do with it? Whatever the answers, she wasn’t going to get them over the phone.
    “I understand,” she said, not pressing him further.
    “It’s simple,” he continued. “You make the drive, get your daughter, and go home. Just consider yourself lucky that I’m not doing to her what I did to your ex.”
    Miriam covered her mouth and held back her tears, silently sobbing.
    “And one more thing—travel alone. You’re not to tell anyone. Not a soul. I’ve got eyes everywhere, Miriam. Don’t fuck with me.”
    “Okay,” she said, hanging up. She lowered the phone and cried into her cupped hands—tears of grief or joy, she couldn’t tell the difference.

 
     
    ***
     
    Captain Porter approached the podium inside the conference hall with a dozen cameras and spotlights on him. He was flanked on both sides by other officers, including the chief of police, and was there to explain to an outraged community why the police department was letting a potential crime family back onto the streets.
    Aside from due process, he had to explain, to the best of his abilities, that the Andersons would be under close surveillance until the investigation was complete. Tables and chairs had been cleared from the room, and over thirty members of the press were packed inside. To some in the media, it was nothing more than damage control.
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