Hostage

by Robert Crais

  Howell asked when the Sheriffs would arrive.

  “Cop I talked to, he said they’ll be here in three hours, maybe four tops.”

  Howell checked his watch, then nodded at Gayle Devarona, one of the two women at the table. Like Seymore, she had pretended to be a news reporter in order to openly ask questions. If the questions were too blatant to ask, she used her skills as a thief.

  “What’s up with the local cops?”

  “We got sixteen full- and part-time employees, fourteen police officers and two full-time office people. I got their names here, and most of the addresses. I could’ve gotten the others, but I had to come here.”

  Seymore laughed.

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

  “Fist yourself.”

  Howell told them to knock it off. Bullshit took time.

  Devarona tore a single sheet from a yellow legal pad and passed it across the table to Howell.

  “I got the names from the Bristo police office. The addresses and phones I got from a contact at the phone company.”

  Howell scanned a neatly hand-printed list. Talley’s name was at the top, along with his address and two phone numbers. Howell guessed that one was the house phone, the other a cell.

  “You get any background on these people, see what we have to deal with?”

  She went through what she had, which made Bristo sound like a burial ground for retired meter maids and retards. Not that bad, really, but Howell thought that they’d caught a break. He knew of small towns in Idaho where half the population had pulled time on LAPD’s Robbery-Homicide Division and the other half were retired FBI. Try to fuck around up there, they’d hand you your ass. Howell checked his watch again. By midnight tonight, he could and would have credit checks and military records (if any) of each of these officers, as well as information about their families.

  “What about Talley?”

  Sonny Benza had specifically told him to zero in on Talley. You cut off the head, the body dies.

  She said, “I got what I could. Single, ex-LAPD. The condo he lives in is provided by the city.”

  Seymore interrupted.

  “Those cops I talked to out at Smith’s place, they said Talley was a hostage negotiator in LA.”

  Devarona scowled, like she hated him stepping on her goods.

  “His last three years on the job. Before that, he was SWAT. There’s a picture of him on the wall in their office, Talley in an assault suit, holding the big gun.”

  Howell nodded at these last two bits of information. They were the first interesting things that he’d heard. He wondered how a SWAT-qualified crisis negotiator ended up crossing school kids in Beemerland. Maybe the free condo.

  Devarona said, “He was on LAPD a total of fourteen years, then he resigned. The woman I talked to didn’t want to say, but I’d make him for a stress release. Something’s hinky about why he hung it up.”

  Howell made a note to pass that up to Palm Springs. He knew that Benza had people on the Los Angeles Police Department. If they turned something rotten on Talley, they might be able to use it as leverage. He had one last question about Talley.

  “He work as a detective down there?”

  “I asked about that. The girl didn’t know, but it’s still a good notion to follow up.”

  When Devarona finished, Howell waited for more, but that was it. Everyone had given what they had. All in all, Howell couldn’t kick. Start to finish, they’d had maybe two hours to get it together. Now there was more to do. He considered the sixteen names on Devarona’s list. The list of bankers, lawyers, private investigators, and police officers owned by Sonny Benza and his associates was far longer; that list numbered in the hundreds, and all of those names could be brought to bear for the task at hand.

  “Okay, get the rest of the addresses, then divide up the names and start digging. Gayle, you’re on credit and finances. We get lucky, one of these clowns is gonna be in so deep that he’s drowning. Maybe we can toss him a life preserver. Duane, Ruiz, find out where these people play. Some married doof is gonna keep a whore on the side; one of these turds is gonna like chasing the dragon with a fruit. Shovel dirt and find the skeletons. Ken, you’re back at the house with the reporters. If anything breaks, I want to know about it before God.”

  Seymore leaned back, irritated. Howell always got pissed off when he did that.

  “Don’t start with the faces, goddamnit. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

  “We’re going to need more people. If this thing drags out a few days, we’re gonna need a lot more.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Now Seymore leaned forward, and lowered his voice still more.

  “If things get wet, we’re going to need people who can handle that end.”

  Wet work was blood work. Howell had already thought of that and had already made the call.

  “The right people are on their way. You worry about your job. I got my side covered.”

  Howell checked his watch again, then copied Talley’s address and phone numbers on the bottom of the sheet. He tore off his copy, then stood.

  “I want updates in two hours.”

  Howell put Talley’s address in his pocket as he walked out to his car. Not just anyone would murder a chief of police with an army of cameras and newspeople around. He needed someone special for a job like that.

  7

  • • •

  Friday, 7:39 P.M.

  Newhall,

  California Sundown

  MARION CLEWES

  His name was Marion Clewes. He was waiting in a donut shop in Newhall, California, twelve miles west of Bristo Camino in an area where all of the signs were in Spanish. Marion was the only person in the shop other than the woman behind the counter who spoke no English and seemed uneasy about his being there. Even at sundown, the unairconditioned shop was hot, leaving her skin filmed with grease. It was a filthy place, with coffee rings on the broken Formica tables and a sticky floor. Marion didn’t mind. He could feel the weight of the air, heavy with grease and cinnamon. He took a seat at a table facing the door to wait for Glen Howell.

  Marion was used to meeting Howell in places like this. Howell was never comfortable with him, and was probably afraid of him. He suspected that Howell didn’t even like him, but that was okay. They paid him well for doing what he enjoyed, and he did these things with a merciless dependability.

  Marion stared at the woman. She crossed and recrossed her arms until she disappeared behind the fryer, frantic to escape his gaze. He shifted his stare to the parking lot. A fly droned past his ear. It was a black desert fly, fat with juice and thorny with coarse hair, kicking off green highlights in the cheesy fluorescent lights. It buzzed low over the table in an S-shaped course, swung slowly around, and landed in a sprinkle of sugar. Marion slapped it. He waited, holding his hand in place, feeling for movement. When Marion raised his hand, the fly oozed sideways, legs kicking, trying to walk. Marion watched it. The best it could do was drive itself in a pathetic circle. Marion examined his hand. A smear of fly goo and a single black leg streaked his third finger. He touched his tongue to the smear and tasted sugar. He watched the fly push itself in the circle. Gently, he held it in place with his left index finger, and used his right index fingernail to break away another leg. He ate it. Hmm. One by one, he broke away the fly’s legs and ate them. One wing was damaged, but the other beat furiously. He wondered what the fly was thinking.

  Headlights flashed across the glass.

  Marion glanced up to see Howell’s beautiful Mercedes pull to a stop. It was a lovely car. Marion watched Howell get out of the car and come inside. Marion pushed the fly to the side as Howell took a seat opposite him.

  “There’s a woman in the back. I don’t think she speaks English, though.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  Howell spoke softly, getting down to business. He placed a slip of yellow paper on the table in front of Marion.

  “Talley lives here. It�
��s a condo. I don’t have anything about what the place is like or if there’s security or anything like that.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Here’s the drill: We have to own this guy—that’s straight from the top—and we don’t have a lot of time to mess around. I need you to find something we can use to twist him.”

  Marion put the address away. He had done this kind of thing before, and knew what was needed. He would look for weakness. Everyone held their weakness close. He would copy bank account numbers; he would search for pornography and drugs, old love letters and sex toys, prescription medications and computer files. Maybe a lab report from a personal physician describing heart disease or phone records to another man’s wife. It could be anything. There was always something.

  “Is he there now?”

  “Don’t you listen to the news?”

  Marion shook his head.

  “He’s not home, but I can’t tell you when he will or won’t get back there. So be ready for that.”

  “What if he walks in on me?”

  Howell averted his eyes, reached a decision, then looked back.

  “If he’s got you, kill him.”

  “Okay.”

  “Listen, we don’t want him dead. We want to control him. We need to use him. But if you’re caught, well, fuck it. Cap his ass.”

  “What about later? After he’s used?”

  “That’s up to Palm Springs.”

  Marion accepted that. Sometimes they were kept alive because they could be used over and over, but most times he was allowed to finish the job. The finishing was his favorite part.

  Howell said, “You have my pager number and my cell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Page me when you’re done. Whether you find something or not, keep me in the loop.”

  “What if there’s nothing in his home?”

  “Then we’ll hit his office. That’ll be harder. He’s the chief of police.”

  Howell got up without another word.

  Marion watched the beautiful Mercedes slide away into the deepening twilight, then looked back at the fly. Its legless body lay on its side, still. Marion touched it. The remaining wing fluttered.

  Marion said, “Poor fly.”

  Marion carefully pulled out the remaining wing, then left to do his job.

  8

  • • •

  Friday, 7:40 P.M.

  TALLEY

  The helicopters over York Estates switched on their lights to become brilliant stars. Talley didn’t like losing the sun. The creeping darkness changed the psychology of hostage takers and police officers alike. Subjects felt safer in the dark, hidden and more powerful, the night allowing them fantasies of escape. Perimeter guards knew this, so their stress level would rise as their efficiency decayed. Night laid the foundation for overreaction and death.

  Talley stood by his car, sipping Diet Coke as his officers reported. Rooney’s employer, who believed that he could identify the unknown subject, had been located and was inbound; Walter Smith’s wife had not yet been found; Rooney’s parole officer from the Ant Farm had been identified but was in transit to Las Vegas for the weekend and could not be reached; ten large pizzas (half veggie, half meat) had just been delivered from Domino’s, but someone had forgotten napkins. Information was coming in so fast that Talley began to lose track, and it would come faster. He cursed that the Sheriffs hadn’t yet arrived.

  Barry Peters and Earl Robb trotted up the street from their radio car. Robb was carrying his Maglite.

  “We’re set with the phone company, Chief. PacBell shows six hard lines into the house, four of them listed, two unlisted. They blocked all six in and out like you wanted. No one else can call in on those numbers, and the only number they can reach calling out is your cell.”

  Talley felt a dull relief; now he didn’t have to worry that some asshole would get the Smiths’ number and convince Rooney to murder his hostages.

  “Good, Earl. Did we get more bodies from the Highway Patrol?”

  “Four more ChiPs and two cars from Santa Clarita.”

  “Put them on the perimeter. Have Jorgenson do it, because he knows what I told Rooney.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Robb trotted away as Peters turned on his Maglite, lighting two floor plan sketches that had been made on typing paper.

  “I worked these out with the neighbors, Chief. This is the upstairs, this is the downstairs.”

  Talley grunted. They weren’t bad, but he wasn’t confident that they were accurate; details like window placement and closet location could be critical if a forced entry was required. Talley asked about architectural drawings.

  “These are the best I could do; there wasn’t anything at the building commission.”

  “There should be. This is a planned community. Every house plan in the development should be on file.”

  Peters looked upset and embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry, Chief. I called both the Antelope Valley and Santa Clarita building commissions, but they don’t have anything, either. You want me to try something else?”

  “The Sheriffs are going to need those plans, Barry. Get hold of someone from the mayor’s office or one of the council people. Sarah has their home and work numbers. Tell them we need access to the permit office right away. Pull the permits you find and check the contractors. Somebody had to keep a set of file plans.”

  As Peters hustled away, Larry Anders’s car rolled around the corner and pulled to a stop beside Talley. A slim, nervous man climbed from the passenger side.

  “Chief, this is Brad Dill, Rooney’s employer.”

  “Thanks for coming, Mr. Dill.”

  “Okay.”

  Talley knew that Dill owned a small cement-contracting business based in Lancaster. Dill had weathered skin from working in the sun and small eyes that kept glancing somewhere else. He had trouble maintaining eye contact.

  “You know what’s going on here, Mr. Dill?”

  Dill glanced up the street past Talley, then inspected the ground. Nervous.

  “Okay, the officer told me. I just want to say I didn’t know anything about this. I didn’t know what they were going to do.”

  Talley thought that Dill probably had a criminal record.

  “Mr. Dill, those two didn’t know what they were going to do until they did it. Don’t worry about it. You’re here because you’ve worked with them and I’m hoping you can help me understand them. You see?”

  “Okay. Sure. I’ve known Dennis for almost two years now, Kevin a little less.”

  “Before we get into that, I want you to identify these guys. Officer Anders says you also know the third subject?”

  “Okay. Sure. That would be Mars.”

  “Let’s look at the pictures. Larry, do you have them?”

  Anders returned to the car and brought back the two 8 × 10 prints that had been made from the security tape. He had to return to his car a second time for his Maglite. Soon they would have to move into one of the houses. Talley wondered if Mrs. Peña would let them use hers.

  “Okay, Mr. Dill. Let’s take a look. Can you identify these people?”

  The first picture showed a slightly fuzzy Kevin Rooney by the front door; Dennis and the third man were clearly visible in the second print. Talley was pleased with the prints. Anders had done a good job.

  “Okay. Sure. That’s Kevin, he’s Dennis’s kid brother. And that one is Dennis. He just come back from the Ant Farm.”

  “And you know the third man?”

  “That would be Mars Krupchek. He come on the job about a month ago. No, wait, not quite four weeks, I guess. Him, I don’t know so well.”

  Anders nodded along with Dill, confirming what he had heard earlier.

  “I called Krupchek in to Sarah on the drive, Chief. She’s running his name through DMV and the NCIC.”

  Talley questioned Dill about how Dennis behaved on the job. Dill described a temperamental personality with a penchant fo
r overstatement and drama. Talley grew convinced that his original impression was correct: Rooney was an aggressive narcissist with esteem problems. Kevin, on the other hand, showed evidence of concern for others; where Dennis would show up for work late and expend little effort on the job, Kevin showed up on time and was willing to help others; he was a passive personality who would take his cues from the stronger personalities in his sphere of influence. He would never drive an action, but would instead react to whatever was presented to him.

  Talley paused to consider if he was missing an obvious avenue of questioning. He took the Maglite from Anders to look at the photograph of Kevin, then decided to move on to Mars Krupchek. He had been concerned about Mars since he had seen the unknown subject lean over the counter to watch Junior Kim die. Talley noticed something on the 8 × 10 of Mars that he hadn’t seen in the security tape. A tattoo on the back of Mars’s head that read: burn it.

  “What can you tell me about Krupchek?”

  “Not so much. He showed up one day looking for work when I needed a guy. He was well-spoken and polite; he’s big and strong, you know, so I gave him a try.”

  “Did he know the Rooneys before he came on the job?”

  “No, I know that for a fact. I introduced them. You know, Mars this is Dennis, Dennis this is Mars. Like that. Mars just kinda stays by himself except for when he’s with Dennis.”

  Talley pointed out the tattoo.

  “What’s this mean, ‘Burn it’?”

  “I dunno. It’s just a tattoo.”

  Talley glanced at Anders.

  “Did you put out the tattoo as an identifier?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Identities on the NCIC computer could be cross-checked by permanent identifiers like tattoos and scars. Talley turned back to Brad Dill.

  “You know what he did before this?”

  “No, sir. Nope.”

  “Know where he’s from?”