18th Abduction

by Patterson, James

  “No, but she’s convinced he recognized her. Joe thought so, too. Now Anna has been missing for two days. Joe has the case. He’s looking for her and Petrović. As for us, we can wait for Mr. Big to make a mistake, or we can partner up with the FBI.”

  Conklin said, “We’ve done it before. They take over and we buy them coffee.”

  “Who cares? Let’s nail the Butcher before we find another body hanging from a tree.”

  Conklin grabbed his phone and called Jacobi.

  I grabbed mine and called Joe.

  CHAPTER 99

  Jacobi had worked a small miracle.

  This morning he and FBI field office supervisor Craig Steinmetz had shredded the red tape, and a joint task force had been born. Conklin and I, along with Joe and his team, were working together to locate Petrović and bring him in for questioning. Anna’s disappearance was the probable cause we needed.

  Petrović wasn’t in his house on Fell. Likewise, the maître d’ at his restaurant said that Tony wouldn’t be in today, that’s all he knew.

  At 5:00 p.m., after a fruitless day of hide-and-seek, traffic cameras flagged Petrović’s Jaguar coming across the Bay Bridge. A team of agents tailed him to the Laurel Heights neighborhood and then lost him.

  Then a patrol car located Petrović’s car parked on Pine Street in front of a men’s clothier. An undercover went into the shop, looked around, and didn’t see Petrović. When he showed the salespeople a photo, they all said they had not seen him. The cop and his partner canvassed the rest of the block before calling it quits.

  It seemed that Petrović had gone underground once more, to our immense and vocal frustration.

  It was now twenty past midnight.

  Conklin and I waited inside a plain black Honda sedan parked on a pleasant residential block with a good view of the Jaguar. Rich was behind the wheel, and I manned the coms, which were crackling, connecting us to dispatch and to team members stationed at various places in this neighborhood.

  Joe’s team was inside a surveillance van stationed on Geary, four blocks away. I’d seen the van. It had a dinged-up chassis, ladders on top, a decal on the side reading KELLY’S HOME REPAIR. Inside, it was like a spaceship equipped with cutting-edge tech: listening devices, a satellite hookup, a periscope, and four agents dressed in workmen’s clothes so that they could easily leave the van without bringing attention to it or themselves.

  We had eyes, ears, and boots on the street, but there was nothing to report.

  Shops were closed. Traffic was slight. Houses were dark. Six FBI agents, a SWAT team, and Conklin and I were on alert for one man.

  It had been a long night.

  At that moment Conklin was on the phone with Cindy.

  “It can’t be helped, Cin. And no, I can’t tell you about it on the record. I just can’t … I realize that … I understand. Do you understand me? Hold on.”

  He said to me, “Will you talk to her?”

  I said, “Really?”

  I reached for the phone and said, “Cindy, there’s nothing to tell. We’re on a stakeout.”

  My attention was drawn to an SUV with a broken headlight that cruised past us, slowed down, and stopped up the block, keeping the motor on.

  I grabbed my binoculars and took a good look at the vehicle, a Cadillac Escalade. All I could get off the plate were the last three numbers, and even those numbers were approximate.

  Rich took back his phone, saying, “Cindy, we’ve gotta go. Love you.”

  He clicked off, and together we watched as the SUV’s passenger-side door opened and a large man got out. Then the car moved off, north on Presidio Avenue.

  I turned my eyes back to the large man approaching a white-trimmed gray house across the street and up the block a hundred yards from where we were parked. There was a garage on the street level, and behind some shrubbery a staircase rose from the ground level to the front door on the main floor.

  I sharpened my focus on the man with the thick salt-and-pepper hair and a military bearing. He was smoking a cigar.

  I recognized him from his pictures. Finally, a break. Slobodan Petrović was in our crosshairs.

  I called Joe.

  CHAPTER 100

  Joe’s voice was in my ear.

  “What’ve you got, Lindsay?”

  I told him, “Petrović was just dropped off by a dark-colored Escalade with a broken headlight at a house on Pine, middle of the block. I got three numbers off the plate. Petrović’s going through the front door now.”

  I texted Joe a photo of the man and the house, up until now a mystery location to all of us.

  Joe told all units to stand by. He assigned three teams to surrounding intersections and ordered SWAT to come in.

  I used our car’s computer to look up the owner of the house Petrović had just entered. The title search came up with a name: Marko Vladic, formerly a citizen of Serbia, now a naturalized American. He’d lived in San Francisco for nearly five years and owned a blue Escalade.

  I checked the criminal databases, holding my breath as I wondered if Vladic had a police record. If so, Petrović was associating with a known criminal.

  I ran Vladic’s name through the FBI database for good measure before saying to Conklin, “He has no record. At least not under the name Marko Vladic.”

  Conklin said, “Try an image search.”

  As Joe gave orders to the teams and discussed perimeters, potential stumbling blocks, backup plans, I looked for Vladic, Marko in any public record I could think of.

  And I found him.

  I told Rich, “Active liquor license for a strip club in the Tenderloin called Skin. It’s at 816 Larkin. Is that Petrović’s club? Or do we have this wrong? Is Vladic Mr. Big? Is he the one who had Susan under his thumb?”

  “I can’t wait to ask him.”

  I looked up to see the SWAT truck stop at the top of the block, positioned to roll up to 3045 Pine. I wanted to look up Skin, their licenses, any violations.

  But I didn’t get a chance.

  Moments after speaking with him, I saw Joe’s van pull up to the curb a few cars ahead of us.

  When Joe and his partner were standing in front of the gray house, Conklin and I got out of our Honda. I zipped my Windbreaker identifying me as SFPD over my Kevlar vest and pulled my nine. Once Conklin and I were in sync, we crossed the street and ran up the exterior stairs behind Joe and Diano.

  The front door of 3045 Pine was painted charcoal gray, with a peephole and a brass knocker shaped like a fist. Joe was team leader, but I was the primary because it was under SFPD jurisdiction.

  Joe said to me, “After you knock, stand aside.”

  When I knocked, were bullets going to come through the door? Was this my last moment on Earth? If not, what about Joe or Conklin? How would I ever bear that?

  But there were other lives at stake. If Susan Jones and Anna Sotovina were here, it wasn’t their choice.

  I knew the drill.

  I stepped up to the door and lifted the knocker.

  CHAPTER 101

  I knocked and announced, “SFPD. Open up.”

  Conklin and I took positions on opposite sides of the door. I listened for the sounds of footsteps, a voice calling out, “Keep your pants on. I’m coming,” or the real possibility of shots punching through the wooden door.

  There was no response.

  I lifted the knocker again and put some muscle behind it as I banged it against the strike plate and shouted, “Police! Open the door or we’re coming in.”

  Still no answer.

  Joe called down to SWAT. Six guys in tactical gear got out of their armored vehicle and ran up the stairs. Before they reached the front door, there was the sound of breaking glass and an unintelligible, masculine scream. Glass sprayed out from a window on the main floor.

  I saw the muzzle of a gun poking out of the window, followed by three quick bursts of gunfire.

  Joe shouted “Go!” to the SWAT guys, who had a battering ram. They caved in
the locks, kicked in the door, tossed a flashbang into the house, and closed the door as much as possible.

  The grenade discharged, shaking the windows. After a moment Joe and Diano shouldered the door in and entered the house, yelling, “FBI. Put your hands in the air.”

  Conklin and I followed the Feds into a dark and smoky foyer lit by our flashlights and faint streetlights. To our right was what looked to be a large living room with a broken window, dimly lit by a TV.

  Straight ahead, a carpeted staircase led upward to the top floor. To our left was the down staircase to the garage. Joe signed with his hands, directing me and Conklin upstairs, while he and his team took the living room and main floor.

  SWAT split up, half taking the stairs down, the others staying inside the centrally located foyer.

  I heard Joe yelling, “Hands on top of your heads. Face the wall!”

  Joe was okay, thank God, so Conklin and I kept going. The top floor had to be bedrooms. I was thinking ahead to Susan and Anna, with a strong feeling that we were about to find them behind locked doors, alive. My partner was right behind me when we reached the top-floor landing. I was expecting an empty hallway, a row of doors, but there was a hulking and shadowy presence right in front of me.

  I swung my light into his face.

  “Stop right there,” he barked.

  His arm was outstretched and there was a gun in his hand.

  We were face-to-face with the monster, only ten feet away. If anyone fired, someone would die.

  CHAPTER 102

  Petrović was immense.

  Much bigger in real life than I had imagined him. Six five? Six six? I still remember my heart beating in the red-line zone, but thank God, my training kicked in and overrode my near-paralytic shock.

  I yelled, “Police! Drop the gun.”

  Petrović didn’t move.

  Conklin said reasonably, “Don’t make a mistake now, Tony. The house is full of cops. You’ll never leave here alive.”

  Petrović paused to take that in; the flashbang, the shots, and the yelling downstairs. He said, “Okay, okay, look.”

  He stooped, put his gun carefully on the carpet, held up his hands, saying, “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Conklin kicked the gun away as Petrović said, “I have a license for this. I thought you were robbers.”

  My heart was still banging. I could feel it beating in my chest, my throat, behind my eyes.

  Conklin said, “Turn around and grab the wall.”

  I kept my gun on Petrović, and after Rich had cuffed him, I found the light switch. A hundred watts in the ceiling fixture blazed, and my blood pressure dropped to almost normal.

  I told Slobodan Petrović that we were bringing him in as a material witness in the murder of Carly Myers.

  He said, “Who?”

  I ignored the question. A material witness charge would hold him long enough for us to get a search warrant for his house on Fell, the house on Pine, and the strip club, Skin. I also wanted his DNA and a bite impression while we were at it.

  “You’re out of your minds,” he said. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing. I own a restaurant. I live a clean life. This is a setup.”

  So he’d done nothing wrong. A line of crap I’d heard a few hundred times from guilty people since I first pinned on my badge.

  I asked, “Where are Susan Jones and Anna Sotovina?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Where were they? I needed to see them, talk to them, know that they were all right.

  I repeated my question and he repeated his no-answer answer.

  Petrović wasn’t talking.

  I said, “I’ll give you a choice, Mr. Branko. You can talk to us or to the FBI. It’s up to you.”

  He made his choice.

  I radioed for backup and while Conklin kept his gun on Petrović, I checked out the layout of the top floor. There were five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and I searched all of them.

  The rooms were messy and unoccupied. The closets held working men’s clothing, waiters’ uniforms, and shoes, but there was no sign of our missing persons.

  If they weren’t here, where the hell were they?

  Maybe Petrović would tell us.

  Yeah. Right.

  CHAPTER 103

  Patrol officers folded Petrović into the back of a police transport van and took off.

  I returned to the house and found Joe in the living room, standing over two men lying facedown on the carpet with their hands cuffed behind them.

  He brought me up to date on what I’d missed. The two men on the floor worked for Petrović at Tony’s Place for Steak. Free rent was part of their salary, so they both bunked here.

  To me, that made them probable witnesses to what had gone on in this house. I was grateful for that.

  Joe left the room to check out the garage. I studied the guys on the floor.

  The younger one, tattooed and pierced, looked to be in his twenties. That was Carson Wells, who was called Junior. The man lying next to him was ten years older and heavy. Randy LaPierre.

  They were still stunned from the flash grenade, but Junior lifted his chin off the floor and said to me, “Like I just said, I thought someone was breaking in. I fired. I didn’t hit anyone. You’ve got no right to arrest us.”

  I stooped to their level, literally.

  I said, “First one to tell me where I can find Susan Jones and Anna Sotovina makes a friend in the police department. I will work hard to get you a break from the law.”

  Randy said, “I don’t understand. We live here. I don’t know them. I swear on my mother.”

  “What about you, Junior? Want to be my friend?”

  “What Randy said. I never heard of them.”

  I said, “You can tell your mothers you’ll be in jail at 850 Bryant. Seventh floor.”

  I called to the two cops standing in the doorway, and they hauled the men to their feet.

  Randy said, “Do what you want, lady. You’ve got shit on us.”

  Uniforms were taking out the trash when Joe and his partner came up from the garage level, rejoining Conklin and me in the living room.

  “No one is in the house,” Joe said. “Anna’s not here. Susan’s not here.”

  “Come onnnn. Don’t say that.”

  He said, “There are three bedrooms on this floor. We found some women’s clothing in closets. Street clothes and lingerie. There were boxes of makeup in a dressing room. We’ll send it out for testing. If any of the women used the lipstick, we’ll get a DNA match.”

  “So they were here.”

  “What I’m thinking is we may have just missed them,” Joe said. “The garage door to the street was closed, but the rear door to the back garden was wide open. And if a car was waiting for them on Bush?”

  He threw up his hands, looking more demoralized than I’d ever seen him.

  Crap. Team Petrović had seen us, and maybe we’d been breathing down their necks enough that they had to make a move. So they used their exit strategy.

  CHAPTER 104

  Out on the street, flashers lit up the predawn morning.

  Cops had strung crime-scene tape in front of the house to keep passersby out of our scene. Some people had been roused from their beds at 2:00 a.m. and were clumped together on the sidewalks to find out what had happened. We weren’t talking.

  Joe’s ride was waiting.

  He said, “Put Petrović on ice. Diano and I want to stop off at the office and file a report, but I’ll see you at the Hall in an hour. I’m feeling good about this.”

  I was optimistic, too. The women were gone, so maybe alive. And Petrović was ours—for as long as we could hold him. How long would that be? Days? Weeks? We needed evidence if we were going to charge him.

  And if we couldn’t do that, we’d have to let him go.

  I flashed back to Petrović pointing a gun at my face. I was still shaken by that sight and knowing that he could have pulled the trigger. We’d
talked him down.

  But the thought came to me. What if he got another chance at me? And I thought about Susan and Anna. Totally powerless. I’d never met them, but I felt as though I knew them. And I had a sense of the terror they’d felt, the brutality they’d been subjected to.

  I looked up at Joe. I’m pretty sure he could read my face and see how close I was to tears. He reached for me. I went into his arms, and we kissed in front of cops and Feds and God and everyone. He said, “It’s okay, Linds. We did great.”

  The Honda pulled up. Conklin honked the horn. I released Joe and squeezed his hand.

  Then I got into the car and buckled up.

  We passed Petrović’s Jaguar, still parked in front of the men’s clothing shop.

  “Richie, back up.”

  I got out of the car and copied down the Jaguar’s tag number.

  Then I called the lab.

  CHAPTER 105

  Same night—or more accurately, that morning—Jacobi stood up from his desk, opened the drawer in his credenza, and pulled out a bag from Sam’s Deli.

  “Sit. Sit down,” he told us.

  He congratulated us on bringing in Petrović, then passed the bag over his desk, saying, “Here’s what I’ve got. Two BLTs, a bag of chips, two Kind bars and some information, for what it’s worth.”

  Conklin tore open the deli bag, handed a foil-wrapped sandwich to me, and said, “Hang on a minute.”

  He got up, headed for the break room, and returned with the coffeepot, mugs, and fixings. He filled mugs for all of us, then said, “Go for it, Lieu.”

  Jacobi began, “Marko Vladic is Petrović’s number two guy. He pays his taxes. Keeps his nose clean. In public, anyway.”

  Conklin said, “We checked him out. He works as day manager at Tony’s. At night he manages a strip club called Skin.”

  Jacobi said, “That’s right. Skin is a small girly joint above a liquor store. Small equals exclusive. Club chairs. Nice little stage. The liquor is expensive. Lap dances are, too. I’m guessing it’s profitable.”