Vanish

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Then how did this man get through?”

  “Because he knew exactly how to do it. His clothing, his gear. This was well thought out, Agent Dean. That man was ready.”

  “And Boston PD wasn’t. That’s why they used a code. To take you by surprise.”

  Hayder stared in frustration out the open doorway of the command trailer. Though they’d brought in two oscillating fans, and the street had now fallen into the shadow of late afternoon, it was still unbearably hot in the vehicle. Outside, on Albany Street, cops stood red-faced and sweating, and reporters were retreating back into their air-conditioned news vans. Everyone was waiting for something to happen. The calm before the next storm.

  “It does start to make sense,” said Stillman. The negotiator had been listening to Gabriel’s points with a deepening frown. “Consider the sequence of events. Jane Doe refuses to negotiate with me. She won’t even talk to me. That’s because she’s not ready—she needs her back covered, first. She needs to strengthen her position. She calls the radio station and they broadcast the activation code. Five hours later, that man with the knapsack arrives. He shows up because he was summoned.”

  “And he blithely walks into a suicide mission?” said Hayder. “Does anyone have friends who are that loyal?”

  “A marine will lay down his life for his company,” said Gabriel.

  “Band of brothers? Yeah, sure.”

  “I take it you’ve never served.”

  Hayder flushed an even deeper red in the heat. “Are you saying this is some sort of military operation? Then what’s the next step? If this is so logical, tell us what’s next on their agenda.”

  “Negotiations,” said Gabriel. “The takers have now cemented their position. I think you’re going to be hearing from them soon.”

  A new voice cut in, “Reasonable prediction, Agent Dean. You’re probably right.”

  They all turned to look at the stocky man who had just stepped into the trailer. As usual, Agent John Barsanti wore a silk tie and a button-down shirt; as usual, his clothes did not fit well. He responded to Gabriel’s look of surprised recognition with a sober nod of greeting. “I’m sorry about Jane,” he said. “They told me you were involved in this mess.”

  “No one told me you were, John.”

  “We’re just monitoring developments. Ready to assist if we need to.”

  “Why send someone all the way from Washington? Why not use the Boston field office?”

  “Because this will likely go into negotiations. It made sense to send someone with experience.”

  The two men regarded each other for a moment in silence. Experience, thought Gabriel, couldn’t be the only reason John Barsanti had turned up. The FBI would not normally send a man straight from the deputy director’s office to supervise a local hostage negotiation.

  “Then who’s in charge of the deal making?” Gabriel asked. “The FBI? Or Boston PD?”

  “Captain Hayder!” called Emerton. “We’ve got a call coming in from the hospital! It’s on one of their lines!”

  “They’re ready to negotiate,” said Gabriel. Just as he’d predicted.

  Stillman and Barsanti looked at each other. “You take it, Lieutenant,” said Barsanti. Stillman nodded, and crossed to the phone.

  “I’ve got you on speaker,” said Emerton.

  Stillman took a deep breath, then pressed the connect button. “Hello,” he said calmly. “This is Leroy Stillman.”

  A man answered, just as calm. A reedy voice, with a hint of a southern drawl. “You’re a policeman?”

  “Yes. I’m Lieutenant Stillman, Boston PD. Who am I speaking to?”

  “You already know my name.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Why don’t you ask the FBI guy. There is an FBI guy, isn’t there? Standing in that trailer with you?”

  Stillman glanced over at Barsanti with a look of how the hell does he know? “I’m sorry, sir,” said Stillman. “I really don’t know your name, and I’d like to know who I’m speaking to.”

  “Joe.”

  “Right. Joe.” Stillman released a breath. So far, so good. At least they had a name.

  “How many people are in that trailer with you, Leroy?”

  “Let’s talk about you, Joe—”

  “The FBI is there, though. Am I right?”

  Stillman said nothing.

  Joe laughed. “I knew they’d show up. FBI, CIA, Defense Intelligence, Pentagon. Yeah, they all know who I am.”

  Gabriel could read the expression on Stillman’s face. We’re dealing with a man who clearly has delusions of persecution.

  “Joe,” said Stillman, “there’s no reason to draw this out any longer. Why don’t we talk about ending it quietly?”

  “We want a TV camera in here. A live feed to the media. We have a statement to make, and a videotape to show you.”

  “Slow down. Let’s get to know each other first.”

  “I don’t want to know you. Send in a TV camera.”

  “That’s going to present a problem. I need to clear this through a higher level.”

  “They’re standing right there, aren’t they? Why don’t you turn around and ask them, Leroy? Ask that higher level to get the ball rolling.”

  Stillman paused. Joe understood exactly what was going on. He finally said, “We can’t authorize a live media feed.”

  “No matter what I offer you in exchange?”

  “What would that be?”

  “Two hostages. We send them out as a sign of good faith. You send in a cameraman and a reporter, and we all go on live TV. Once our message gets out, then we send out two more hostages. That’s four people we’re giving you, Leroy. Four lives for ten minutes of TV airtime. I promise you a show that’ll knock your socks off.”

  “What’s the point of this, Joe?”

  “The point is, no one will listen to us. No one believes us. We’re tired of running, and we want our lives back. This is the only way left. The only way people in this country will know we’re telling the truth.”

  Hayder swept a finger across his throat, a signal to interrupt the conversation.

  “Hold on, Joe,” said Stillman, cupping his hand over the receiver. He looked at Hayder.

  “Do you think he’ll even know whether it’s a live TV feed?” asked Hayder. “If we could make him believe it’s actually going on the air—”

  “This man is not stupid,” cut in Gabriel. “Don’t even think of playing games with him. You cross him, you’ll make him angry.”

  “Agent Dean, maybe you could step outside?”

  “They want media attention, that’s all! Let them have their say. Let them rant to the public, if that’s what it takes to end this!”

  Joe’s voice said, over the speaker: “Do you want to deal or not, Leroy? Because we can do it the hard way, too. Instead of live hostages, we can send out dead ones. You have ten seconds to make up your mind.”

  Stillman said, “I’m listening, Joe. The problem is, a live feed isn’t something I can just pull off. I need the cooperation of a TV station. How about we make it a taped statement? We deliver a camcorder to you. You say whatever you want, take as long as you need to—”

  “And then you bury the tape, right? It’ll never see the light of day.”

  “That’s my offer, Joe.”

  “We both know you can do better. So does everyone else standing in that command trailer with you.”

  “Live TV is out of the question.”

  “Then we have nothing more to say to you. Good-bye.”

  “Wait—”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re serious? About releasing hostages?”

  “If you keep up your end of the bargain. We want a cameraman and a reporter to witness what happens here. A real reporter, not some cop with a fake press pass.”

  “Do it,” said Gabriel. “This may be the way to end it.”

  Stillman covered the receiver. “Live TV is not on the table, Agent Dean. It n
ever is.”

  “Goddamn it, if this is what it takes, give it to them!”

  “Leroy?” It was Joe talking again. “Are you still there?”

  Stillman took a breath. He said: “Joe, you have to understand. It’s going to take time. We’d have to find a reporter who’s willing to do this. Someone willing to risk his life—”

  “There’s only one reporter we’ll talk to.”

  “Wait. You didn’t specify anyone.”

  “He knows the background. He’s done his homework.”

  “We can’t guarantee that this reporter will—”

  “Peter Lukas, Boston Tribune. Call him.”

  “Joe—”

  There was a click, then the dial tone. Stillman looked at Hayder. “We’re not sending in any civilians. It will just give them more hostages.”

  “He said he’d release two people first,” said Gabriel.

  “You believe that?”

  “One of them might be my wife.”

  “How do we know this reporter will even agree to it?”

  “For what could be the biggest story of his life? A journalist just might do it.”

  Barsanti said, “I think there’s another question here that no one’s answered. Who the hell is Peter Lukas? A Boston Tribune reporter? Why ask for him in particular?”

  “Let’s call him,” said Stillman. “Maybe he knows.”

  TWELVE

  You’re still alive. You have to be alive. I would know it, feel it, if you weren’t.

  Wouldn’t I?

  Gabriel slumped on the couch in Maura’s office, his head resting in his hands, trying to think of what else he could do, but fear kept clouding any logic. As a marine, he had never lost his cool under fire. Now he could not even focus, could not shut out the image that had haunted him since the autopsy, of a different body lying on the table.

  Did I ever tell you how much I love you?

  He did not hear the door open. Only when Maura sat down in the chair across from him, and set two mugs on the coffee table, did he finally raise his head. She’s always composed, always in control, he thought, looking at Maura. So unlike his brash and temperamental wife. Two such different women, yet somehow they had forged a friendship that he did not quite understand.

  Maura pointed to the coffee. “You like it black, right?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” He took a sip, then set it down again, because he had not really wanted it.

  “Did you eat any lunch?” she asked.

  He rubbed his face. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You look exhausted. I’ll get you a blanket, if you’d like to rest here for a while.”

  “There’s no way I can sleep. Not until she’s out of there.”

  “Did you reach her parents?”

  “Oh god.” He shook his head. “That was an ordeal. The hardest part was convincing them they had to keep it a secret. They can’t show up here, they can’t call their friends. I almost wonder if I should have kept it from them.”

  “The Rizzolis would want to know.”

  “But they’re not good at keeping secrets. And if this one gets out, it could kill their daughter.”

  They sat for a moment in silence. The only sound was the hiss of cool air blowing from the AC vent. On the wall behind the desk were elegantly framed floral prints. The office reflected the woman: neat, precise, cerebral.

  She said, quietly: “Jane’s a survivor. We both know that. She’ll do whatever it takes to stay alive.”

  “I just want her to stay out of the line of fire.”

  “She’s not stupid.”

  “The problem is, she’s a cop.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “How many cops get killed trying to be heroes?”

  “She’s pregnant. She won’t take any chances.”

  “No?” He looked at her. “Do you know how she ended up in the hospital this morning? She was testifying in court when the defendant got out of control. And my wife—my brilliant wife—jumped into the fight to subdue him. That’s when her water broke.”

  Maura looked appropriately shocked. “She really did that?”

  “That’s exactly what you’d expect Jane to do.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Maura said with a shake of the head. “That’s the Jane we both know and love.”

  “For once, just this once, I want her to play the coward. I want her to forget she’s a cop.” He laughed. “As if she’d ever listen to me.”

  Maura couldn’t help smiling as well. “Does she ever?”

  He looked at her. “You know how we met, don’t you?”

  “Stony Brook Reservation, wasn’t it?”

  “That death scene. It took us about thirty seconds to get into our first argument. About five minutes before she ordered me off her turf.”

  “Not a very promising start.”

  “And a few days later, she pulls her gun on me.” At Maura’s startled look, he added: “Oh, it was justified.”

  “I’m surprised that didn’t scare you off.”

  “She can be a scary woman.”

  “And you may be the only man she doesn’t terrify.”

  “But that’s what I liked about her,” said Gabriel. “When you look at Jane, what you see is honest, and brave. I grew up in a family where nobody said what they really thought. Mom hated Dad, Dad hated Mom. But everything was just fine, right up till the day they died. I thought that was how most people went through life, by telling lies. But Jane doesn’t. She’s not afraid to say exactly what she thinks, no matter how much trouble it lands her in.” He paused. Added, quietly: “That’s what worries me.”

  “That she’ll say something she shouldn’t.”

  “You give Jane a shove, and she’ll shove right back. I’m hoping that for once, she’ll stay quiet. Just play the scared pregnant lady in the corner. It may be the one thing that saves her.”

  His cell phone rang. At once he reached for it, and the number he saw on the display made his pulse kick into a gallop. “Gabriel Dean,” he answered.

  “Where are you right now?” said Detective Thomas Moore.

  “I’m sitting in Dr. Isles’s office.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Wait, Moore. What is it?”

  “We know who Joe is. His full name is Joseph Roke, age thirty-nine. Last known address Purcellville, Virginia.”

  “How did you ID him?”

  “He abandoned his car about two blocks from the hospital. We have a witness who saw an armed man leave the car, and she confirms he’s the man on the TV videotape. His fingerprints are all over the steering wheel.”

  “Wait. Joseph Roke’s prints are on file?”

  “Military records. Look, I’ll come right over.”

  “What else do you know?” said Gabriel. He’d heard the urgency in Moore’s voice, and knew there was something the detective had not yet told him. “Just tell me.”

  “There’s a warrant for his arrest.”

  “What charges?”

  “It was . . . a homicide. A shooting.”

  “Who was the victim?”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. We can talk about it when I get there.”

  “Who was the victim?” Gabriel repeated.

  Moore sighed. “A cop. Two months ago, Joseph Roke killed a cop.”

  “It started off as a routine traffic stop,” said Moore. “The event was automatically recorded by the video camera mounted in the police officer’s cruiser. New Haven PD didn’t attach the entire video, but here’s the first of the freeze-frame images they emailed me.” Moore clicked the mouse, and a photo appeared on his laptop computer. It showed the back of the New Haven police officer, caught in midstride as he walked toward a vehicle parked in front of his cruiser. The other car’s rear license plate was visible.

  “It’s a Virginia plate,” said Moore. “You can see it more clearly with image enhancement. It’s the same car we found this afternoon, parked illegally on Harrison S
treet a few blocks from the medical center.” He looked at Gabriel. “Joseph Roke is the registered owner.”

  “You said he was from Virginia.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he doing in Connecticut two months ago?”

  “We don’t know. Nor do we know what he’s now doing in Boston. All I’ve got on him is the rather sketchy biographical profile that New Haven PD has put together.” He pointed to his laptop. “And this. A shooting caught on camera. But that’s not the only thing you see in these photos.”

  Gabriel focused on Roke’s vehicle. On the view through the rear window. “There’s a passenger,” he said. “Roke has someone sitting beside him.”

  Moore nodded. “With image enhancement, you can clearly see this passenger has long dark hair.”

  “It’s her,” said Maura, staring at the screen. “It’s Jane Doe.”

  “Which means they were together in New Haven two months ago.”

  “Show us the rest,” said Gabriel.

  “Let me go to the last image—”

  “I want to see them all.”

  Moore paused, his hand on the mouse. He looked at Gabriel. “You don’t really need to,” he said quietly.

  “Maybe I do. Show me the whole sequence.”

  After a hesitation, Moore clicked the mouse, advancing to the next photo. The police officer was now standing at Roke’s window, looking in at the man who, in the next few seconds, would end his life. The cop’s hand was resting on his weapon. Merely a cautionary stance? Or did he already have an inkling that he was looking into the face of his killer?

  Again, Moore hesitated before advancing to the next image. He had already seen these; he knew what horrors lay ahead. He clicked the mouse.

  The image was an instant in time, captured in all its gruesome detail. The police officer was still standing, and his weapon was out of its holster. His head was snapped back by the bullet’s impact, his face caught in mid-disintegration, flesh exploding in a bloody mist.

  A fourth and final photo finished the sequence. The officer’s body was now lying on the road beside the shooter’s car. It was just the postscript, yet this was the image that made Gabriel suddenly lean forward. He stared at the car’s rear window. At a silhouette that had not been visible in the three earlier images.