Kept Boy to Made Man - 11. Agitation

Wednesday, June 22^nd, 1992

Melissa set the paper aside and wiped away her tears after reading Samantha’s story a second time. She had been caught off guard but excited by the early morning call from Samantha James suggesting they meet for breakfast. Melissa had quickly agreed, throwing out the first place that came to mind. She hadn’t known what to expect from the intoxicating woman, but the article before her was truly a surprise.

This is beautiful and heartbreaking, Samantha,” Melissa said softly. “I think both Thomas and Roger will love it.”

Sam was proud of her accomplishment. Landing the frontpage was a big moment, even if it was in a niche weekly publication. She wanted to share her excitement the previous day but hadn’t completely trusted her editor to follow through.

Seeing her photograph and headline as she approached the newsstand had been exhilarating. She had purchased several copies before rushing back to her flat to call the number she had committed to memory.

“Thank you. I’m grateful to Roger for the tip.” Samantha wasn’t sure what to say to the beautiful woman she had been fixated with since Monday afternoon.

“I’m sorry that you feel unwanted. I know how that feels.” Sam’s article had touched Melissa deeply; knowing that the confident, almost brazen woman before her could relate to her familial rejection made Melissa both more and less nervous.

The journalist’s professional excitement ebbed as she was reminded of her deepest personal pain. Her article hadn’t only been about unwanted sons. Sam had found her way in life, largely on her own. She suspected, based on her comment, that Melissa’s story might be like her own, despite the contrasting ways they chose to express themselves to the world.

Sam worked hard to hide how alone she truly was. As a result, no one was ever able to get close to the real Samantha James. Over time, she had learned that nobody really cared. Thinking of Thomas’ vulnerability, the honesty, and the neediness that had drawn her and many others to him made the woman reconsider the walls she had erected. She looked past Melissa’s outward beauty and searched for the wounded soul at her core.

“I’m jealous of Thomas,” Sam said suddenly, surprising even herself.

“Me too,” Melissa confessed after a moment’s reflection.

Both women pondered their shared admission, forgetting for a moment that they sat in a crowded café surrounded by strangers. Melissa was the first to grow self-conscious.

“I’m not very good at this,” she said as she quickly glanced at several nearby faces.

“I don’t think I’ve ever done this, whatever this is.” Samantha didn’t feel the same need to fit in but felt similarly exposed. “I watched you and Roger wrap yourselves around Thomas on Monday. I gave up on the idea of family a long time ago. Well, I thought I did. You all make me wish for something more.”

Sam James had been hardened by the world that didn’t want a girl who liked other girls. She had pulled away and given up, presenting the world her middle finger. Sam James didn’t cry, so the tears that streaked Samantha’s cheeks filled her with shame. She felt scared and small. Her subconscious tried to raise her defenses, but it was too late. Samantha felt a deep human connection with Melissa that was only possible when her guard was down.

Melissa saw it all, saw the real Samantha James in that moment, over coffee and croissants. The Sam she met in courtroom seven had been a charismatic caricature who had both excited and intimidated her. She was attracted to the rebellious and confident woman but knew she could never really relate to her. Seeing the real Samantha was electrifying to Melissa. Her attraction deepened into a desire to know and be known. Melissa, regretfully also knew she needed to get to work.

“Why don’t you bring the paper to the office and join us for an early lunch? You should be the one to share your article with Thomas and Roger.” Melissa pushed the folded Windy City Pages back towards the journalist who was shyly wiping away her tears.

“Where and what time?” Samantha asked nervously.

Melissa pulled a silver card case from her purse and extracted a business card. She handed it across the table to Samantha, noting how much more attractive the journalist was behind her public face.

“We’ll expect you at eleven. Do you have any dietary preferences or restrictions?” Melissa found the sudden role reversal exciting as she became the driving force in that moment.

“Um, no?” Samantha blushed as she realized the shy plaything she met on Monday was much more woman than she had originally thought. “Are you certain you can fit me in?”

A series of expressions flitted across Melissa’s face as she formulated a response. A wicked smirk stuck.

“I didn’t realize you were that well-endowed, but I’m sure I can manage.” Melissa winked at the stunned Samatha James as she pushed back her chair and stood. “I’m glad you called, Samantha. See you in a bit.”

Sam watched Melissa’s long, lean legs propel her perky backside out of Zia Marie’s.

“Wow,” she whispered. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Ms. Motts.”

Samantha’s thoughts were interrupted by a short, stocky, and obviously livid man as he pushed his way through the door Melissa had just disappeared behind. He stormed past the hostess and through the small, crowded dining area before disappearing into the kitchen. Sam’s eyes were not the only pair that followed his progress.

Shrugging, the journalist threw back her now cold coffee. Her free day had gained a sudden appointment. She had no idea what she would do until eleven. Her gaze fell on the photo she had taken of Thomas, Roger, and Melissa. Suddenly inspired, Sam gathered her things and made her way out into the brand-new day. She felt truly happy and hopeful for the first time in recent memory.

. . .

Juan scanned his CPD access card, hearing the electronic lock disengage. Careful to not spill his coffee, the detective backed his way into building that housed the city’s crime lab. It had been a long week, and it was only Wednesday. Events of the previous evening were fresh in his mind as he moved mechanically down the hall.

He and Daniel had been detained for several hours, giving statements and answering questions. He had been impressed by how quickly Internal Affairs had organized a team and taken control of Chief Monroe’s station.

While some would have been frustrated, Juan was grateful for their involvement. He had no more idea about what happened then they did. With IA taking the lead, he was able to focus on the things most relevant to his case instead of the dead detective or the station chief who had pulled the trigger.

Detective Ramos thought about what he had seen on the interrogation room recording, a copy of which was clutched under his arm. He had never liked Joe Gallo or Sal Distefano. The fact that they were dirty hadn’t surprised him in the least.

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved to have unearthed two moles in the station or concerned. The detective had no way of knowing how many others might be on the take. Juan hoped IA would be able to clean up the station’s roster, but his already low confidence in his peers had been shaken badly.

As for the Chief, Juan’s opinion had changed considerably. The man had clearly intended to spy on him, but as a result he had been in place to catch Joe and Sal red-handed, while also saving Charles Miller’s life. As much as he despised his still-breathing suspect, the man had information that would save lives and expose despicable criminals. Juan had never taken a life but had met many in the service who had. He didn’t envy the path before his boss.

“Detective, thank God!” His thoughts were interrupted as he turned towards the voice.

“Good morning, Rachel,” Juan greeted the lab tech who had unofficially become his right hand in the investigation.

“We were calling all afternoon! Where have you been?” Juan’s tired brain tried to understand the urgency in her question, but he lacked the necessary context.

“I’m sorry, I guess I haven’t been back to my desk. Yesterday got a little out of hand.” Juan expected Rachel to ask how, but she didn’t.

“They’re bringing a boy to the house this morning!” Rachel’s statement got stuck in Juan’s brain as he tried to decipher it’s meaning.

“Sitrep, go.” Detective Ramos automatically sought information as his CO had modelled so often in Juan’s recent past.

“Um, okay.” Rachel practically lived in the lab, but she was smart, quickly grasping the unfamiliar command. “Craig was able to access several chat and bulletin boards used by Charles Miller. One of his contacts messaged yesterday afternoon to confirm a studio session. You weren’t around, so I told Craig to confirm it. We’ve been trying to get ahold of you. The appointment is at eleven!”

Juan processed her words before repeating what he believed were the salient points.

“Some fucking pervert is bringing a boy to Charlie’s hellhole at eleven this morning?” His voice was calm except for an underlying tremor of intensity.

“Yes!” Rachel confirmed.

“Fuck. We don’t have much time,” Juan was already moving; He needed to call his new friends with the FBI.

. . .

Jason Rizzo slammed the door to his small office in the back of Zia Marie’s. All he had was rumors, and he needed facts.

“I’m going to fuckin’ kill someone!” He let his rage boil for several seconds before taking a deep breath; he picked up the phone and dialed.

“It’s Riz. I need to talk to the boss,” he said to the minion who answered after only one ring.

“Yeah, I’ll wait.” Riz hated waiting, but he knew the game.

He was made to wait for almost five minutes, which didn’t improve his mood. It rankled that he needed help in the first place, but having to submit to a man Riz saw as incompetent was almost unbearable. If he wasn’t desperate for fast information, he would have found another way.

“Mr. Rizzo. Your name has come up several times in the past few hours. What can I do for you?” Riz hated the pompous voice and sophisticated formality of the man on the other end of the line.

“My eyes in the CPD have gone dark. I need some information.” He tried to mask his disdain, hoping he sounded submissive.

“In that case, let me tell you what my eyes have observed. Joseph Gallo is dead, and Salazar Distefano has been detained. I assume they were digging through Charles Miller's head at your behest?” Riz had never heard the word behest before; normally that would have made him angry, but he was too shocked by the words he did recognize.

“What the fuck?” Riz finally stammered.

“Colorful. I was going to inquire of you the same thing, Riz.” The man dropped his formal tone, allowing disdain to drip off of the man’s chosen street name. “Your recklessness has jeopardized far more than your business.”

Jason Rizzo recognized the underlying threat in his boss’ statement.

“How do I make this right?” He asked.

“I have seen no evidence to suggest you are capable of that.” The man paused, unsure how much to tell the younger man he deemed as unstable and incompetent. “A Detective Juan Ramos is leading the investigation into your associate. He has powerful friends. I’m cleaning up what I can, but I need to know what they will learn when they question Mr. Miller. How concerned should we be?”

“Charlie’s a nobody.” Jason Rizzo was anxious to finish the call; He had a name, which was all he needed.

“That may be true, but he must have names and information.” Damage control started with anticipating impacts.

“Charlie’s studio is a closed book. I’ll have to burn it down and start over, but there’s nothin’ for you to worry about.” Riz almost believed his own lie; the man across town did not.

“Tread carefully, Mr. Rizzo. I’ll be watching.” Jason Rizzo heard a click, followed by the dial tone before slamming the handset down on the receiver.

“Who the hell are you, Detective Juan Ramos?”

. . .

Rosa let out a sigh of relief as she heard Mrs. Renkin leave for the day. She wasn’t the kind of person to speak badly of others, but her current employers made that a difficult standard to maintain.

She had been the resident housekeeper and nanny for John and Rebecca Renkin for almost five years. If it weren’t for their children, Rosa would have left the role long ago. Mary, and now Joshua Renkin had come to mean almost as much to her as her own son, who was her entire world.

For years, everything she did was for her little boy. She got pregnant in the bed of a pickup truck under the Texas stars. Like so many others, her parents had crossed the Rio Grande looking for work. They found it in fields owned by a third generation Mexican American. Rosa, then sixteen, fell deeply in love with the landowner’s twenty-year-old son.

Both sets of parents were furious when they learned of the relationship and pregnancy. Rosa’s parents were deeply ashamed, and they pressured her to end the pregnancy. Their employer wanted to avoid any responsibility for an illegitimate grandchild and threatened to report them to the border patrol agents who would have been happy to deport the entire family.

Rosa immediately and selflessly shifted her focus to her unborn child, refusing to stay where they weren’t wanted. In a small gesture of kindness, Juan’s soon-to-be absentee father secretly provided Rosa with five hundred dollars and a bus ticket to Chicago. Five months later, Juan was born.

She was proud of her American son. His birth on US soil made him a citizen and paved the way for her own naturalization. She worked hard to provide, focusing everything she had and all that she was into their new life together.

After two years of community college, Juan enlisted in the Marine Corps. For the first time in twenty years, Rosa was alone. With a lifetime of domestic experience, Rosa easily found work, deciding to give up her lonely apartment for the live-in role with the Renkin family. It was Mary, then five years old, who had won her heart. Joshua doubled her joy three years later.

While John Renkin signed her checks, it was his wife Rebecca who managed Rosa’s work. Nothing was ever quite good enough for the generally perturbed woman. Fortunately, she was seldom home during the day.

Rosa turned several pancakes on the electric griddle before pouring the bowl of whisked eggs into the hot pan to cook. As if on cue, four small feet could be heard making their way towards the large kitchen. The sound made Rosa smile, lifting her mood immediately as she remembered why she put up with Rebecca Renkin’s near-constant abuse.

Several minutes later, Joshua and Mary were seated with a hot, homemade breakfast in front of them. Joshua wasted no time as he dug in. Ten-year-old Mary seemed content to push the pieces of her cut up pancake around her plate morosely.

“What’s the matter, Mare-Bear?” Rosa asked, using the name she never spoke in front of Mary’s mother.

The small girl looked up at Rosa with sad moist eyes. She glanced at the well-loved book she had brought with her before once again looking at the older woman she adored.

“Am I mean?” Mary asked unexpectedly.

“Of course not, dear. You are the nicest girl in the whole city,” Rosa responded lovingly. “Why would you think you are mean?”

“Aunt Mel said the other Mary, the one in the story reminds her of me. She is really mean.” Mary was close to tears.

Rosa moved quickly around the small kitchen table and sat down in the chair next to her distraught charge. She reached for the small book.

“Tell me about the story.” Rosa thumbed through the pages scanning titles as Mary wiped her eyes with her paper napkin.

“Well, Mary’s parents get sick and die, but they aren’t very nice to her. She has to go live at another place with other kids. The kids are mean to her, but Mary’s not nice too. They tease each other and say lots of mean stuff.” Mary was calming down as she got lost in the narrative. “She goes to another big house with no other kids. Mary is so mean to Martha and Ben and everybody.”

Rosa had never read The Secret Garden. She grew up in Mexico and raised a son who preferred more modern mysteries starring adventurous boys. She had seen the love that radiated from the children’s estranged aunt, however, and was certain that the woman would never intentionally hurt her niece or nephew.

“Have you finished the story already?” Rosa asked.

“No. I got too sad.” The girls tears were returning.

Rosa looked across the table. Despite the big feelings Mary was experiencing, the woman couldn’t help but laugh. Joshua, who had finished his food, was well into a masterwork of syrup art on the table before him.

“Let’s set the story aside for a few minutes and see if you can eat a little while I help your brother. During his nap later, we can read your story together.” Rosa wrestled the sticky little giggling boy out of his pajama top while she reassured the sad girl. “If your aunt thinks this other Mary is like you, then we’ll just have to keep reading to find out why. There is no way anyone thinks my little Mare-Bear is mean!”

Rosa completely forgot about John and Rebecca Renkin as she immersed herself in the young lives of their small and delightful children. She was in her element and would be until one or both of the parents returned.

. . .

“Thompson, what did you learn from the CPD interviews with the neighbors?” Daniel Janick was glad to be back in his domain.

“Not much, boss. He had frequent visitors, which we already knew, but there doesn’t seem to be any pattern to the time of day or frequency. Most of the people in the neighborhood work, but several suggested talking to a Mr. Jenkins who seems to be the retired busybody on the block. Strangely, when the officers talked with him, he had nothing to share about Charles Miller or his guests.” The man had long ago learned to follow details that didn’t fit. “Something’s off with Mr. Jenkins.”

“Alright. Good. Let’s make sure Mr. Jenkins is busy before we get set up.” Daniel suggested.

“We could invite the man in to provide a formal statement. Maybe Charlie will tell us why Mr. Jenkins seems blind to his business.” Juan relished being part of a team again; he realized again how lonely his life had been since returning home from Iraq.

“Great ideas, Detective. Chang, what have we learned from Charles Miller so far?” Daniel’s eyes lingered on Juan a little longer than necessary before moving to his own agent.

“The suspect has been quite forthcoming. He specifically asked that we not provide him an attorney. Apparently, yesterday’s visit from his CPD friends shook him up.

“He has requested immunity, which is ridiculous, but we could talk about possible plea agreements. He claims the names of some of his investors will surprise us.” Special Agent Chang had volunteered for the team due to a personal history of exploitation; He wanted nothing more than to unmask as many of high-society’s financiers and traffickers as possible, even if it meant letting Charlie Miller off lightly.

“Mr. Andersen, can we get at that list without Charlie Miller’s help?” The young computer whiz looked panicked as all eyes turned towards him.

“Ah, I…” He saw Rachel’s glare and took a breath before trying again. “I’ve found a lot of names, Sir, but they seem to be either encoded or actual codenames. I might be able to find a pattern if they are in code, but more likely these guys just make up their own random nicknames. If that’s the case, we will need someone to identify them for us.”

“Alright. Chang, see what Charlie will share for life in minimum security. I suggest a colorful description of gen-pop in a supermax.” Daniel’s predatory sneer made it clear what he would include if he were delivering the offer. “We’ll need approval from the US Attorney’s office, but with what we’ve got so far, I’m sure we’ll get it. I want those names.”

“Swanson,” Rachel was surprised to addressed like one of the guys. “I’d like to pull you off analysis and appoint you liaison between your lab and ours. My team wants lead, but I am not going to pass up the CPD’s help. You have done an amazing job, and I want you to co-lead victim identification efforts. I already have approval from the commissioner to pull you and your team in full time. What do you say?”

“Wow, ah, yeah.” She caught Craig’s smirk out of the corner of her eye and took a calming breath of her own. “Thank you, Sir. I would be happy to help in any way I can.”

“Good,” Daniel nodded. “Fisher. How are we coming on the operational plans. We need to be ready and in place as soon as possible in case our friends arrive early.”

“HRT is standing by and ready to move at your command. Our plan is to greet the visitors in plain clothes and try to isolate the victim before making any arrests. After reviewing the messages between Mr. Andersen and the unknown subjects, we believe we will have the element of surprise.

“It is possible something tipped them off, but we didn’t see any obvious patterns in past messages to indicate passphrases or codewords. If they show, we’ll be ready with agents in the house as well as several undercover throughout the neighborhood.” Special Agent Fisher didn’t like how quickly they were being asked to mobilize, but it wasn’t uncommon.

“Ramos, what did I miss?” Daniel watched his fellow Marine straighten almost fully to attention.

“Trust your guys, and gals, your guts, and your gun!” Juan said while winking at Rachel Swanson.

“You heard him, folks. Let’s get to work!”

. . .

It had cost Riz several threats and a lot of cash to learn almost nothing about Detective Juan Ramos. He looked at the department headshot once more. No one knew anything valuable about the young detective and his personnel file was virtually blank. He had been with the department for a year, in which time he apparently accomplished nothing.

He had no spouse, no kids, and apparently no friends. The only potential weakness he had found was the man’s mother, a Rosa Ramos, who was listed as his emergency contact with the department.

He felt a strong and immediate hatred for the man who thought he could cross Jason Rizzo without consequence. Juan Ramos was an easy target. Hurting him would be satisfying if not productive.

The mafioso knew he should be working to salvage what he could of Charlie’s network, but revenge was easier. He hadn’t felt the need to be involved in the boy trade personally, so without Charlie he really didn’t know where to start. It would take time and money to start over, but he had found Charlie. He could find a replacement easily enough.

The clock on the dash read 10:03. His quarry was somewhere inside the large federal building half a block away. Riz wasn’t a patient man. He looked at Juan’s photo yet again and allowed his rage to build. He looked at the large building once more before pounding his fist against the steering wheel in frustration. He looked back at the clock. It still read 10:03.

Knowing he could wait all day and still possibly miss the man leaving, Riz started his car. He thought about driving by Rosa Ramos’ address. Perhaps he could use her to draw the man out into the open. He shifted into drive, glancing at the large federal building one more time.

He did a double take as he noticed a line of vehicles pulling out of the secured lot. Several black SUVs, an obvious unmarked sedan, and a box truck all exited one after another. Something was happening. Riz knew it was unlikely that it had anything to do with him or his current target, but the idea of driving to Lincoln Park in search of the detective’s old lady was depressing. He had nothing but time.

Riz allowed the caravan to travel several blocks before merging into traffic. The large black truck was easy to follow, so he kept his distance as it moved east. The vehicles in front of him were in a hurry, and traffic was light. He accelerated quickly as the convoy turned south. Seven minutes later, Riz was led into a familiar Bridgeport neighborhood.

The federal SUVs and truck parked, while the sedan continued. Riz turned onto a residential street several blocks away from the parked vehicles. There was only one place they were likely to be going. He left his car and began walking. Juan Ramos was suddenly far less interesting. He wanted to find out why the feds were interested in Charlie Miller’s house once more.

Riz was focused, which was why he didn’t notice the blue Cadillac that pulled to the curb a block away from him. The man who stepped out fell in well behind Jason Rizzo. His presence went unnoticed as well.

. . .

Special Agent Qian Chang knocked loudly on the front door several houses away from Charles Miller’s. He waited, listening to the sounds of movement inside the home. After thirty seconds, he knocked again.

The reports he had read stated Carl Jenkins was retired. Agent Chang wondered if the man had mobility issues. Over a minute later, the door opened to reveal an able-bodied man far younger than Chang expected.

“Carl Jenkins?” The agent asked.

“Yes, who are you?” The man sounded nervous.

“Special Agent Qian Chang, FBI,” he said as he displayed his badge.

“I already told the police that I don’t know anything about Charles Miller,” Chang watched the eyes of the man in front of him shift back of forth rapidly; trust your gut, he thought.

“That’s funny, I talked to your pal Charlie. And now, here I am.” The agent saw the blood drain from the man’s face.

“He’s lying!” Mr. Jenkins shouted before trying to close the door.

Agent Chang’s foot held the door open. Something was clearly not right. Carl Jenkins suddenly let go of the front door and dashed deeper into the house. The agent debated whether he had probable cause for several seconds, before entering the man’s home and thumbing is radio.

“Agent Chang, entering Carl Jenkin’s home in pursuit. Request backup,” he drew his gun as he heard what he assumed was the back door open and close.

“We've got a middle-aged white male, brown hair fleeing your location out the back. Confirm.” A voice said through his handheld.

“Confirmed as Carl Jenkins, apprehend.” As soon as he stopped talking, Agent Chang heard faint sounds of pounding and muffled yells.

“Suspect in custody,” he heard as he tried to isolate the sounds he had heard.

“10-4. I’m hearing strange noises in the house,” Chang replied.

“Hold, I’m sending Thompson and Ramos in to assist,” the agent recognized his boss’ voice.

“Roger. Holding,” he said impatiently.

Special Agent Thompson and Detective Ramos both entered the home through the back door seconds later.

“FBI, we’re coming in,” Thompson shouted.

“Here,” Chang called back.

The three men quickly cleared the single floor rambler, meeting in the kitchen before the only door yet to be opened. Juan tried the knob, but the door was locked.

“Should we ask if Mr. Jenkins is carrying keys?” Agent Thompson asked.

They heard more pounding and what sounded like crying from somewhere behind the door.

“Stand back!” Agent Chang shouted.

The other two did, and Agent Chang delivered a solid kick next to the locked knob. Wood splintered and the door flew inward. The men wasted no time descending the basement stairs with guns drawn.

“Oh, God no!” Chang cried as his eyes took in the sight at the bottom of the stairs.

The man didn’t hear his fellow agent talking into his radio, and he barely saw Detective Ramos rush towards the small, terrified boy who was gagged with his wrists taped together, arms on either side of a support beam.

He did see the mattress in the corner and the fact that the boy wasn’t wearing any clothes. The man’s vision and memories merged. Qian Chang’s legs began to shake, and the room started to spin around him.

“Don’t hurt me,” the man choked as he crumpled to the concrete floor in tears.