A Crime of Passion

Henry calmly wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel as he took deep breathes. He needed something solid to hold on to to ground him. This was all kinds of wrong and he knew it. Every fiber of his being wanted him to say no, he should just walk away. But after the unmarked envelope of $20,000 appeared in his mailbox that morning he knew there was no avoiding the inevitable.

He parked his car in the shadows, hidden from view but easily able to get away and in perfect view of the antiquities dealer. Or at least that was the front. It truthfully was an underground vendor who sold and traded in stolen goods. Security would be high. The chances of getting caught even higher. Going back to prison was the least of his worries, but he had to do this. If not for the money, for Emma.

Flipping down the sun visor, he ran his thumb over the faded picture day photo. Her thick curly hair French braided, ending in a bright blue bow. A little frizzed around the edges, but he'd tried his best and she'd been so proud of him that it nearly broke his heart. She'd even said it was perfect. Just like mom used to do.

She had braces now and liked to keep her hair trimmed to the scalp and wore fancy head scarves reminding him more and more of her mother each day and he couldn't be more happy that she didn't take after him.

She was a good egg. Wrote to him each week to tell him about school and a boy that her grandmother wouldn't let her date (of which he agreed. Boys could wait.) He religiously wrote her back, all of the 162 weeks they had been apart.

He got out of the slammer near two months ago. His mother, bless her soul, promised to return custody to him if he could prove that he had truly been rehabilitated and would only do the best by Emma. And he swore on Emma's life that he was a changed man. He had a good job. It didn't pay great, but with work and time he could make his way up the company. He bought a small two bedroom apartment. He got a piece of metal on wheels that he supposed could be called a car; it ran and got him to where he needed to be.

And then two weeks ago, Vince found him.

It had been the first sunny day all spring and Henry decided to eat his lunch outside. He remembered feeling Vince's shadow before it ever crossed him. The two of them couldn't have been more different. Henry in his button up, tie and slacks. Vince in a wife-beater, Carhart hoodie, and steel-toed boots.

Henry thought the man had been intimidating on the inside and managed to stay in his good graces by sneaking him smokes and turning a blind eye to drugs. But on the outside, Vince seemed to take up twice the space.

"I gots a proposition for ya, H." Vince leaned against Henry's piece-of-shit car. He lit up, blowing the spoke into Henry's face before continuing. "You used to be good with locks, yeah?"

The bite of sandwich in his mouth turned rancid and got stuck in his throat. "I don't do that any more."

"It's just the one job. I'll never ask again."

It was never just one job. There was always another. Especially if they went well.

"No thanks." Henry crumpled up his paper bag and got up to leave.

Vince stretched out an arm as thick as a tree branch to block his way.

Henry shook from head to toe, but held his ground. Surely Vince wouldn't try anything out here in the open with all of these witnesses. He glared up at Vince.

"You haven't even heard my offer yet."

Henry knew there was no offer good enough to make him turn his back on Emma, but he heard Vince out and then declined the offer.

A couple days later a burner phone showed up in his car.

A couple days after that he got a text message reiterating the details, asking again if he was in. He never answered. He wanted out of this life. He wanted his daughter back.

Then three days ago he received a picture of Emma getting on the school bus and then another of her at the library and another of her walking into her grandmother's house. Sure you aren't in? Was the accompanying message.

Begrudgingly, Henry agreed. How did they find her? He made sure to never mention her or his mother by name when he was in. He shared as little personal information about his outside life as possible.

And then the money showed up in the mailbox.

So here he was, sliding out of his car and slipping a black ski mask over his face as he slunk along in the shadows becoming one with the night. The chill in the air raised the hairs on the back of his neck as he bent down to pick the door lock.

He barely raised a sweat, picking the lock in under thirty seconds. He hated to admit how good, how familiar this all felt. The door clicking and unlocking to his will. The silent swing of the door. This was the easy part, getting in.

Sixty seconds to disarm the security alarm. Vince had provided the code.

Henry's second obstacle was the cameras. Near every inch of this place would be covered with motion sensor cameras that would alert someone of his presence despite disarming the alarm. He had ninety seconds to make it to the back office to disarm the secondary alarm attached to the cameras. Through another locked door and into a rather posh looking office. A sleek décor. Modern. All chrome.

Should make finding one little black book a piece of cake, Henry thought.

The desk, the most logical place to start, proved to be fruitless. The bookshelves. The filing cabinets. All no go's. The only place left was a small black safe tucked up under the desk that he had missed upon his first sweep. It needed a PIN. None of the keys seemed more used than the others. He wasn't sure how many tries he would get before it completely locked him out.

Henry set out to look for clues. The desk had a small calendar on it, but none of the dates were specifically marked other than days of shipments. The walls were mostly bare other than some kind of certificate and a couple group photos. The year on the certificate didn't work. None of the pictures had dates on the front so he carefully pulled them from the wall and slipped out the photos. Only one had a date on the back. The picture itself was completely inconspicuous. A picture of a farm and a two sun baked young men smiling and shaking hands. Henry could have sworn that one of them was Vince, an easy 100 pounds in muscles mass ago. 1972 was written on the top corner with a small note that said "brother's in all things."

Henry carefully punched in the numbers and the safe clicked open.

As soon as he pulled the door all the way open a screeching siren pierced his ears. A secondary alarm must have been triggered by something he mustn't've bypassed on the safe.

Panic crawled over Henry's skin, squeezing and tying his stomach into knots. The last time he'd been in this position, he found himself behind bars.

Frantically reaching into the safe, not knowing how long he'd have before someone showed up be it the authorities or worse, he dug around for the notebook. There were multiple passports, currency from three countries, inventory sheets and there buried beneath it all, a small black journal that almost camouflaged with the bottom.

Safely tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket, Henry bolted from the office and back through the store. The little red light on the cameras alerted him to their activity, but hopefully they would see nothing more than a black shadow moving across their screens.

With the car door still open, he screeched out of the alley and sped down the road, tearing off his ski mask and tossing it into a dumpster several blocks down.

Shaky breathes made it difficult to get his heart under control. He slowed to a stop at a red light. Henry's shaky hands pulled out the notebook. It was simple and plain. Nothing special about it. Emma probably had a dozen similar ones at home. The cover was smooth, a nicely stitched spine.

And the inside, each page was completely filled with names and addresses. Bank accounts. Coordinates. Everything that could get a lot of people into a lot of trouble. This information comprised of their entire operation. And he was about to hand it over to Vince.

His panic quickly turning into determination. He patted the folder on the passenger seat next to him. He hoped this was the best thing for Emma as he proceeded to the rendezvous point where he was supposed to meet Vince for the exchange.

The pier was dark, the lights no longer on. Leaving his high beams on to lead the way, Henry moved his way toward the darkness and the dark figure that was sure to be Vince.

Henry stopped a good ten feet away. "I want more money." He demanded, not sure where the authority in his voice came from, but was pleased that it didn't shake with nerves.

"You read the book." Vince stated.

"I want more money for my silence."

The click of the gun was nearly inaudible as Vince switched the safety off, but the silver of the weapon glinted in the lights. It only took Vince two steps to close the space between them as he pressed the muzzle to Henry's forehead.

"How about your life?" Vince hissed, spittle flying. He pressed the gun into his skin. "Is that enough?"

"Vincent Price!"

Paralyzed for the briefest of moments, the gun slightly lowered as Vince looked past Henry to the shadows around Henry's car.

"Vincent Price, we have you surrounded! Drop the weapon and slowly raise your hands!"

Vince snarled, swinging up his arm and firing into the night.

The police quickly returned fire. Henry kept low to the ground as he tried to run from the hail of bullets. Fire sliced through his side and then through his leg as he fell to the wooden planks of the pier. The last thing he remembered were a stampede of boots running toward him.

--

Something cold encompassed his right wrist. Something warm wrapped around his left hand. Henry groaned as his body came too and the throb of pain came alive as well. Blinking away the drowsiness of drugs, he looked up into the smiling face of his daughter.

"Emma." He croaked, tears flooding his eyes at the sight of his daughter. How long had it been since he had seen her?

"Dad." She grinned from ear to ear. "You're a hero." She looked up to the TV where the news had Vince's face plastered on the screen as well as the shop owner and a picture of the notebook. The headline read "Local Man Uncovers Antiques Smuggling Ring."

Emma squeezed his hand. He managed a smile for her as he ignored the cool metal of the handcuff around his other hand. He knew things couldn't have gone perfectly, but maybe just maybe things would work out for him. And even if they didn't, he knew Emma would be proud of him and at the end of the day that was the only thing he could truly ask for.