by S. J. Harper
“Did I miss it?” Torres enters just as the shrill sound of the phone’s ring cuts through the air.
I make a quick introduction as I slide on a headset. “Agent Torres. Olivia Benson.”
The cup of tea Zack made for Olivia hasn’t been touched.
The phone rings again.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” she asks.
Maitlan places his hand on the receiver. His eyes are on Bradley.
“Go ahead. Pick up.”
“Maitlan here.” His voice is shaky. Whether from exhaustion or anxiety, I don’t know.
Probably a bit of both.
The voice on the other side sounds almost as weary.
“Do you have the money?”
There’s quite a bit of background noise—people having conversations, laughter—an undecipherable cacophony.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, here’s what you’re going to do. You know that little coffee shop down the street from you? When we hang up, you’re going to head over there. There’s a burner taped under the table in the corner, the one farthest from the door. Get it and wait at the table for my next call.”
“I’m not doing anything until I speak to my son,” Maitlan says.
I’m watching Olivia. She’s listening intently, her eyes wide, her breath shallow. “It’s not Burt, but you recognize the voice.”
She turns toward me and whispers. “It’s Chuck. I’m sure of it.”
Maitlan continues, “I have your money. We’re close. You’re close. I want to talk to my son. I need to talk to my son. Give me that and we have a deal. I’ll go get the phone. Follow your instructions to the letter.”
Imperiale snorts. “You’ll follow my instructions to the letter regardless.”
Maitlan’s standing now, pressing Imperiale as Bradley instructed. Being insistent but cooperative. “I need to know that my son is all right.”
“You need to head over to the coffee shop. I’m hanging up now.”
“No, I’m hanging up. Until I hear my son’s voice, until I’m able to verify he’s alive and safe, I’m not going anywhere.” The receiver Maitlan’s been speaking into comes crashing down so hard it pops back out of the cradle.
“Mrs. Benson identified the caller as Chuck Imperiale,” I say.
Maitlan turns to Zack. “Did I just make a mistake?”
Zack gives his shoulder a squeeze. “He’s going to call back.” In three quick strides he walks over to the dry erase board in the front and picks up a marker. Let’s play back the recording. See what we hear.
Bradley cues up the tape.
“There’s a lot of noise in the background,” says Torres.
O’Neill chimes in, “Music.”
I close my eyes. Listen intently. “There’s a bell,” I add. “It sounds like an old-fashioned hotel bell. It’s coming from different directions.”
Zack’s writing it all down. “There’s more than one bell. I heard someone order a scotch rocks. That clunk, that’s a glass being set down on a table or bar.”
Olivia sits up suddenly. “I know where he is.”
Bradley shuts off the tape.
The phone rings.
Zack holds up his hand. Looks at Maitlan. “Pick it up. Be cooperative. Tell your son you’ll be seeing him shortly.”
Maitlan reaches for the phone. “Robby?”
“Dad! I want to come home, Dad! I’m scared. I don’t feel well.”
The boy’s speech sounds slurred. His response is slightly sluggish.
The billionaire pinches the bridge of his nose. “Listen to me, son. Everything’s going to be all right. I’m going to be seeing you shortly. Be—” Maitlan’s voice starts to crack. He takes a second to compose himself. “Be brave.”
There’s no response. The line is dead.
We all turn to Olivia. Maitlan is the first to speak. “Where are they?”
Olivia lifts the cup of tea to her lips and takes a sip, her hands are shaking. “When I first met Burt, I was fresh out of college and had moved back in with my parents. They live on the Island. We’d go to this dive motel off 112 called the Starlite. He mentioned it just the other day. Told me how a buddy of his busted a crack ring that had been dealing out of there. The Blue Moon bar is right across the parking lot. The bells. They have them on the tables so you can call your server over.”
Zack starts giving orders. “Torres, go with Maitlan to get that phone and meet us in the garage. Bradley, get HRT on the line. Let’s see how far out they are and if they can meet us at the location. O’Neill, I want you to follow in a separate car with Mrs. Benson.”
“Me? It was Chuck, not Burt.”
I place my hand over hers. “It’s likely that Burt’s with him. Until we know otherwise, that’s our assumption. We’ll want you to help us talk him out.”
Chapter Twelve
The Starlite is an old-fashioned motor lodge, two stories with doors opening directly onto the parking lot. I can imagine what the décor looks like. Worn chenille bedspreads, nightstands with a princess-style phone and one of those machines that will make the bed vibrate for a quarter, and a cathode ray TV hooked up to what used to be a state of the art VHS player.
Zack and I leave the rest of our team and Jastremski’s agents from the HRT a quarter of a mile down the street. We pull into the Starlite’s parking lot and select a space in front of the office. Dressed casually, we leave our vests in the SUV. I’m carrying a large tote bag. Zack is pulling a suitcase. The office smells like stale cigarettes and lemon Pledge. The knotted pine paneling covering the walls and reservations desk is gleaming. The linoleum floor, worn through in sections, is also clean and shiny. The Starlite may have seen better days, but someone has gone to lengths to keep the office spotless.
The woman behind the desk looks up when we enter. My guess is that she’s in her late sixties. Her face is wrinkled, the skin thin like paper. Holding a Danielle Steele novel in one hand and a cigarette in the other, she regards us with skepticism.
“Can I help you?”
Zack places his credentials on the desk alongside photos of Imperiale and Benson. “FBI. Where can we find these men?”
She shrugs, “I don’t know, sweet cheeks, what makes you think they’re here?”
Zack leans on the counter. “You give me their room number, we’ll limit our search and rescue to that room. Otherwise we’re going to have to sweep the entire building. The hotel will become a Federal crime scene. I heard the locals shut you down not too long ago. Bet that wasn’t good for business.”
She hands Zack a key. “They’re in number one. The room on the far corner.”
“How many other rooms are occupied?” I ask her.
She turns around, scans the board covered with keys. “Seven.”
I follow her gaze. “Any of them adjacent to number one?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Windows? Other exits?”
“Just the main door and the adjacent window,” she says.
Zack turns around, lowers his head. “Torres?”
I hear her response in my earpiece. “Torres here.”
“The suspects are in the room on the corner, number one. The front window and door are the only way in or out. Time to roll. As soon as the perimeter is secured, come in with Maitlan, Mrs. Benson, and O’Neill. You handle Mrs. Benson’s call and keep Maitlan inside. O’Neill can oversee the evacuation of the other guests.”
“Will do,” Torres agrees
I hoist the tote bag over my shoulder. “Ready?”
Zack grabs the handle of the rolling bag and opens the door. “Let’s go.”
We head back toward the car, fire up the engine, and drive over toward room one. Just a couple tourists heading over to their room. I slip on my vest. A half-dozen other SUV’s surround ours. HRT agents spill out of them, protective gear on, weapons in hand. Jastremsti quietly conveys orders. Two break off from the rest of the group and head upstairs to the second floor. Wit
hin seconds, they’ve quietly entered the room above number one.
I raise the bullhorn up to my mouth and press the lever. “Burt Benson, this is the FBI. You are surrounded. A call is about to come through on the line to your room. Answer it.”
From my vantage point I can see Torres and Benson inside the office.
“Bradley?” Zack calls out.
“What can I do for you, boss?”
Some static comes through the line, then fades away.
“I want to hear the call.”
“Figured as much. I’m ready,” he replies.
“Dialing,” says Torres.
The phone rings. It rings again.
I hold my breath.
When the third one is waning, Burt finally picks up.
“Hello?”
“Burt?”
“Olivia? Oh, God. You shouldn’t be here. What are you doing?”
From my vantage point I can see inside the office, see Olivia start to crumble. Torres manages to get a chair under her before her legs give way. She’s crying. “You shouldn’t be here either Burt. They say you have the Maitlan boy, Burt. I told them…” She pauses, takes a deep breath, then continues, “I told them you’d never take a boy from his father.”
Benson is crying too. “I’m sorry, baby. This isn’t the way it was supposed to go. I’m doing this for Joey. Like Chuck said, it’s the only way.”
“Chuck’s wrong. We’ll find another way, a way that won’t hurt anyone.” Olivia’s slowly rubbing her belly. She pauses again. Takes a few breaths. “I want you to listen to me, honey. I’m here with the FBI. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“It’s not going to be all right. Everything’s gone to shit, Olivia. I’ve fucked it all up.”
“No. No, you haven’t. You’ve been stressed and confused. We’re going to get through this.”
“Bradley, dispatch an ambulance. I’m worried about Mrs. Benson,” I say.
“Ambulance on the way.”
The line goes silent.
“Burt?”
“I’m here.”
“I think the baby’s coming, Burt. I need you with me. You’re going to open the door slowly and sent that boy out. Then, when the Agents call for you, you and Chuck are going to come out of that room, hands in the air where they can see them. That’s the way it’s supposed to go right? That way no one gets shot.”
“I can’t do that, honey.”
“Yes, you can,” Mrs. Benson says through gritted teeth.
“I can come out,” he says. “But—”
“But what?”
“Robby and Chuck aren’t here.”
The voice of one of the HRT Agents breaks through. “He’s right. We have eyes in the room below. Benson’s alone.”
Torres grabs the phone. “This is Special Agent Torres. Where are they?”
“Chuck left with the kid about ten minutes ago. He was going to put Robby in the trunk and pick up a couple sandwiches at the Blue Moon. I’m coming out. I… I want to see Olivia.”
The line goes dead.
The door opens.
Burt Benson comes out. Hands in the air. Eyes red-rimmed. Face tear-stained.
HRT moves in. Within seconds he’s in cuffs. The hotel room swept.
“What kind of car is Imperiale driving?” I ask Benson.
He scans the lot, then tilts his head in the direction of the Blue Moon. “That black Chrysler over there the one next to the woods.”
As soon as the words are out of Benson’s mouth, the door to the office flies open and Maitlan runs out.
“Robby!”
Zack grabs my elbow. “If Imperiale saw us coming, he might have gone into the woods. If so, I can track him.”
“Go,” I tell him, then I take off after Maitlan.
He had a head start and he’s an experienced runner. When I catch up with him he’s banging on the trunk, prying at it with his bare hands and shouting out the name of his son.
Jastremski is right behind me with a crowbar. “Step aside.”
The scrape of metal on metal sets my teeth on edge.
The trunk pops open.
A child is inside. Duct tape over his mouth and around his ankles. His hands are bound behind his back. His body is still, pale.
“Oh, no! No!” cries Maitlan.
Jastremski wraps his arms around the billionaire, pulling him back with the help of two other agents.
Maitlan is struggling to break free.
“I want my son! Let me have my son!”
I feel for Maitlan. But if the boy is dead, we can’t disturb the scene.
Gingerly I reach inside and press my fingers to the side of his neck, searching for a pulse. The sights and sounds around me disappear.
Thump. Thump.
“He’s alive. Get the paramedics over here.”
I can hear the sirens getting closer.
Jastremski pulls a knife from a sheath attached to his utility belt and cuts through the tape around the boy’s wrists and feet.
I rip the tape off the boy’s mouth.
His eyes flutter open.
“Daddy? Is that you?”
Robby’s speech is slurred, his eyes glassy. He tries to sit up, but can’t quite manage.
“Robby!”
The agents holding Maitlan back let him go. He rushes forward, gathering Robby into his arms. They’re both crying, but it’s from relief.
The ambulance pulls up alongside us and comes to a stop.
I wave over the paramedics, then step aside and let them get to work.
Torres runs up. “Where’s Zack?” she asks. Then she reaches for the arm of one of the paramedics. “There’s a woman in the office over there, she may be in premature labor.”
“We’ll check on her as soon as the boy is stabilized,” she assures Torres.
I step back, Torres follows.
The crew goes to work on Robby, transferring him to a gurney, checking his vitals.
“Where’s Zack?” Torres asks again.
I turn toward the edge of the woods, then glance west where the sun is low in the sky. “He went after Imperiale. It’ll be dark soon. Best get some flashlights and set up a grid search.”
“Jastremski!” Torres calls out. “Any idea how far back the forest goes?”
Zack is the one that answers. His voice crackling over the radio. “About three-quarters of a mile. I’ve picked up a blood trail. It seems fresh.”
“Blood trail?” asks Torres.
“And I have eyes on the suspect. He appears to be wounded. He’s limping.” There’s a moment of silence then, “Charles Imperiale, FBI. You’re under arrest.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Damnedest thing.” Bradley chuckles again.
“I tell you, I grew up on the island,” O’Neill interrupts. “They’re aren’t any wolves. It had to have been a dog.”
“Or a coyote,” adds Zack, helpfully.
“Coyote?” Bradley asks, sounding skeptical.
Torres disappears inside of Maitlan’s office. I assume for a little privacy. It sounds like she’s on the phone, chatting with her kids.
The guys are packing up all of the equipment and I’m letting them. It’s been a long few days.
Zack consults his phone. “Apparently, there are estimated to be more than twenty thousand in New York, more than five thousand in New Jersey.”
“But on the island?” O’Neill asks.
Zack shrugs. “Yeah, even there. This website says the first official sighting of a coyote on Long Island was in early 2004 near Rockaway Inlet.”
“Damnedest thing.” Bradley repeats for the umpteenth time.
Torres emerges from Maitlan’s office, bottle of bourbon in hand. “What do you say we toast before leaving? I doubt Maitlan will miss it.”
“Hell, if he were here, he’d be pouring,” Zack replies.
His phone rings.
“Armstrong. Speak of the devil. How’s Robby?”
Zack
steps out of the room. His voice drifts away as he moves down the hallway.
O’Neill passes some clean cups to Torres and she does the honors.
Bradley takes a sip then settles back in his chair, a look of contentment on his weathered face. “Now that’s smooth.”
“Got one for me?” Zack asks. He slides his cell phone back into his pocket.
Torres hands him his drink. “How’s Robby?”
“Dehydrated. Still a little out of sorts. Looks like they were giving him liquid Benadryl to keep him docile. Fortunately, they didn’t go too overboard. They’re treating him with IV fluids and plan to monitor him through the night. Maitlan’s going to stay with him.”
We raise our cups and wish Robby a long life.
I check the time. “I should get online and find us a hotel. We’re not going to get a flight out tonight.”
“No need,” says Zack. “Roger said we can stay here.”
Torres finishes her drink and sets the cup down. “Well, I for one am heading home.”
O’Neill picks up a box of equipment. “Let’s get this stuff packed in the van.”
Bradley takes it from him. “You have a shuttle to DC to catch. Zack and I can handle this.” He looks at Zack. “Ri-guy here’s got a date with his girl. Wouldn’t want to stand in the way of true love now, would we?”
Zack hefts a box onto his shoulder. “No, sir.”
There’s a momentary pause with handshakes all around and a few slaps on the back for jobs well done. We’re all tired and ready to move on, and yet there’s a reluctance to separate. The case was intense, emotional. How could it be anything else with a child’s life at stake? But we rose above it. We came together and we did our jobs. Robby is alive and safe. It’s over. Time for Torres to return to her kids, for O’Neill to spend the evening with his girlfriend, and for Bradley to go home to… whatever Bradley goes home to.
Me? I want a long, hot bath and glass of cold chardonnay.
The others head down the elevator. I go to the kitchen, find the proper glass, then head for the fridge. There’s a separate one for wine. The left side is stacked full of white, the right side full of red. The corkscrew is easy to find. In no time I have the bottle open, the perfectly chilled light gold liquid is creamy, buttery, with hints of vanilla and oak. Perfection. I take it with me into the bedroom and make my way through to the bath. With no case to solve, I can take all the time I need. I turn on the taps and dump in a handful of salts. By the time I’ve undressed and pinned up my hair, the large tub is a third full, the mirror steamed over. I step inside, lean back, and take another sip of wine. My mind drifts as the water rises, enveloping me in a warm cocoon.
