by G. M. Ford
The guy swallowed hard. “There’s been a shooting,” he said.
Everyone in the room stiffened. Andriatta spun her chair in a half circle.
“Who?”
The guy pulled a hand out from behind his back. He had something written on a small blue piece of paper. “Raymond G. Fritchey.”
“And why would the shooting of Mr. Fritchey be of interest to me?”
“Mr. Fritchey is married to the former Patricia Hildreth.”
Warren stopped what he was doing. “Hildreth…where do I know that name from?” he asked.
“Her father is Brian Hildreth. State director of veterans affairs.”
Morales sat up straight. “Go on.”
“She’s pregnant.”
Impatience crept into his voice. “And?”
“Apparently she’s been kidnapped.”
29
A t 180 miles an hour the sound of the engine was little more than an insistent whine. The morning sun caused Corso to shade his eyes with his hand as he watched the identical Sikorsky helicopter carrying Short and the others disappear into the bank of puffy clouds to the east.
Morales pulled the headphones off and turned his body in the seat. “Here’s what we’ve got so far,” he said. “Sacramento PD got a 911 call at 7:02 this morning. Shots fired. First response team finds this Raymond Fritchey lying facedown in his driveway. Car doors flung open. Two bullet holes in his chest. They call for a tac squad to go through the house, which comes up empty. Neighbors identify Fritchey as the occupant. He and his pregnant wife Patty live there. Both cars are on the premises. Other than hearing gunshots, nobody saw anything.”
“No note? No demand?” Warren asked.
“Not yet.”
The pilot eased the stick forward. The helicopter began to drop.
“Anyway,” Morales continued, “SPD managed to interview the husband before they took him into the operating room.” He checked his notes. “According to Fritchey he’s getting ready for work when he hears a commotion out in the driveway. He runs out and finds two guys dragging his wife across the lawn. One of the guys pulls a gun and shoots him. That’s all he remembers until he wakes up in the hospital.”
“Description?”
“Two males. Both white. Medium height. Medium build.”
“No ski masks? No gloves?”
“He thinks he might be able to identify them.”
“Doesn’t sound like the same crew at all,” Andriatta offered.
“Unless they’ve thrown caution to the winds,” Corso said.
“Why would they do that?” she asked.
“Maybe they see Reyes getting caught as the beginning of the end.”
Morales nodded in agreement. “What else could it be? Another coincidence?” he asked. “We leak the Reyes story. We name him as a suspect in the bombings, hoping it’ll give this bunch pause to wonder. Maybe buy us a little time. We turn the screws a little and neglect to tell the press he’s dead, so maybe we get the perps wondering if maybe he’s running his mouth. And what…somebody else just happens to snatch the California VA director’s daughter the next morning? Just like that? Out of the blue?” He looked around the cockpit. “I’m not buying it for a minute.”
“You didn’t find a single thing in those files that suggested Reyes was anything but a loner and a malcontent,” Andriatta argued.
“Then we must have missed something,” Morales retorted.
Warren changed the subject. “What was she doing outside at that time of the morning?”
“She was on her way to her mother’s place. Hubby says he doesn’t like leaving her alone during the day. Pregnancy’s been a bit dicey. She’s supposed to stay off her feet as much as possible.”
“How far along is she?” Andriatta asked.
“Seven and a half months,” Morales said.
Everybody winced in the short seconds before the radio crackled out a pack of static. The pilot said, “Copy,” and banked to the right. “You copy that fifty-one,” he said into his microphone.
“Copy,” came the answer.
The sensation of falling returned as the helicopter broke through the layer of clouds and the ground suddenly came into view. Twelve hundred feet above the ground, the whine of the turbine engine was replaced by the familiar slap of rotors as the pair of helicopters eased themselves downward through the last wisps of cloud, until the park surrounding the state capitol building came into view, and then, off to the right, the capitol building itself, all gold and white and gleaming in the clean morning air.
A thousand feet up. You could make out the color of the cars in the parking lot.
“They’ve diverted us to the park across the street,” the pilot announced.
“Any reason?” Morales asked.
“Just said they had a problem.”
The pilot pulled the microphone away from his lips and pointed. “You seeing what I’m seeing?” he asked everyone in the cockpit.
Eight hundred feet. Corso leaned forward. He swept his eyes over the ground below. The capitol. The gardens, with great splotches of color here and there. The palm trees. The gold ball on top of the dome. The…And then, just like that, he picked up on the lack of movement. For two blocks in every direction, nothing moved. Wasn’t until they dropped some more that he could make out the roadblocks, the squad cars strewn this way and that, blocking off the surrounding roadways to traffic. The moderate size of the backups said the blockade hadn’t been in place for long. The solid line of people leaving the capitol building via the back door suggested something dire was afoot.
“Looks like ants,” Warren commented as they settled onto the ground.
No doubt about it. Either they were staging a fire drill or an evacuation of the state capitol building was in full swing. A hundred feet above the grass and falling like a leaf. The pads hit the grass with a lurch. The engine began to wind down. The pilot flipped switches and turned knobs. A cloud of loose dirt and debris surrounded the helicopter. As the rotors slowed, the swirling dust sank back to earth, leaving a beige haze floating in the thick morning air as everyone stretched their cramped legs and struggled out of seat belts.
A moment later they were out of their seats and onto the grass, bent at the waist as they duck walked out from beneath the final lazy turns of the rotors. Andriatta followed along at a sullen trot as they traversed the grass and then the wide boulevard separating the capitol grounds from the park.
Minute they got onto the capitol grounds, the place was packed with people and abuzz with speculation. The capitol building’s displaced workers had spread themselves out along the central walkway and around the circular garden, where they’d broken up into conversational groups of five or six, the better to speculate on the cause of this morning’s unwelcome interruption.
Warren and Morales used their badges to clear the way. As they exited the rear of the crowd and approached the state capitol building, a pair of California state troopers trotted up to bar the way.
“FBI,” Morales shouted.
“What’s the story?” Warren demanded.
They shrugged in unison. “Nobody tells us anything,” said the nearest cop. “Just told us to get the building emptied as quick as possible.”
The other cop gestured toward the back door of the capitol building. “Whatever it is, the brass is all huddled up inside trying to decide what to do next.”
At that moment, the buzz of an electric motor announced Short’s arrival. He dropped the chair into low gear, bounced up the first set of stairs, whizzed over the wide stone landing and started up the second tier, his chair rocking from side to side as the powerful hydraulic mechanism lifted him over step after step.
The state troopers looked on dumbfounded.
“He’s with us,” Morales said.
“Yeah,” said one of the cops. “The bomb guy.”
“From TV,” said the other cop.
Short’s ATF crew jogged along in his wake, lugging equipment boxes
, taking the stairs two at a time as they struggled to keep up. Without further ado, Morales and Warren followed suit.
Corso started to follow, but instead glanced back over his shoulder, intending to beckon Andriatta forward. ’Cept there was nobody there. Somewhere along the line, Andriatta had melted into the crowd and disappeared. He paused, considered trying to find her among the hundreds of milling bodies, then headed up the stairs after the others, who had disappeared from view.
By the time Corso jerked open one of the big brass doors, the others had already crossed the foyer and were standing out in the middle of the rotunda, directly beneath the ornate capitol dome. Raised voices rolled around the curved interior as Corso crossed the great seal of the state of California and joined the others.
“I’m not leaving.” The guy was in his fifties. Lithe and fit, he looked like a surfer in middle age. Except for his face. His face was filled with blood and anguish. A vein in the side of his neck looked dangerous to his health. What had once been a head full of blond hair, age had turned the color of unpolished brass. A pair of state troopers stood sentinel at his elbows. The deep wrinkles in his sleeves suggested they’d recently been restraining him by the arms.
A cop in a gray pin-striped suit held up a moderating hand. “Let us handle this,” he said soothingly to the blond guy. “There’s no point in you…”
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled his head around. The sight caused his entire bald head to furrow in wonder. “Who in hell called you guys?” he asked.
“What’s going on?” Morales asked.
“My daughter…” blondie began.
“You’d be Mr. Hildreth,” Warren said.
The cop’s forehead furrows were so deep they looked like louvers. He opened his jutting jaw to demand an explanation, but Morales beat him to the punch.
Morales stepped in close to Hildreth. “Have you heard from your daughter?”
The guy bobbed his head up and down. “She called”—he checked his watch—“twenty-five minutes ago. She said she was coming here.” He pointed down at the floor. “Said I had to be here to meet her.”
“Was that it? That’s all she said?” Morales asked.
Hildreth took a deep breath. Swallowed hard. “She said they’d kill her if either of us failed to follow directions.”
“She mention a bomb?” Corso asked.
Hildreth looked even more stricken. His eyes were wide as he shook his head.
The bald cop stepped between Corso and Hildreth. Put his hands on his hips. “Who’s this?” he wanted to know.
Warren took over. “Mr. Corso is consulting with us on another case,” he said.
“What’s this about bombs?” Hildreth asked.
Warren threw an arm around the bald cop’s shoulders and pulled him aside. Corso watched as Warren brought the other man up to speed. The cop nodded several times before stepping back. “But you don’t know for sure,” he said.
“No,” Warren answered.
“What bomb?” Hildreth demanded. “I’ve got a right to know what’s going on around here, damnit. This is my daughter and her unborn son we’re talking about here. If there’s something about a bomb…”
Warren leaned in close to Corso. “Where’s our friend Ms. Andriatta?”
“No idea,” Corso said, staring straight ahead.
Warren gave Corso the once-over, looking for signs of duplicity, then turned and hustled off toward the nearest wall, pulling out his cell phone as he walked. His face was animated as he whispered instructions into the mouthpiece.
The tic tac of another set of heels echoed through the rotunda. A uniformed trooper crossed the inlaid floor and handed a note to baldy, who read it once and again before passing it on to Morales. His lips moved slightly as he read.
“Let her through,” Morales said.
“What if…” the cop began.
“There’s no ‘what if?’” Morales assured him. “It’s a proven fact. If we don’t follow directions…” He shot a glance at Hildreth, caught himself and swallowed the rest of the sentence. He turned to face Warren and Corso and the rest of the team. He gestured them closer. “We’ve got a blue Dodge van at the north roadblock,” he said in a low voice. “A young woman who has identified herself as Patricia Hildreth says she has orders to drive right up to the capitol steps and wait for her father to come out of the building and join her.” He paused and looked around the room. “…at which point she says she’s supposed to receive further instructions.”
Hildreth swam his way past the cops and confronted Morales.
“My daughter…you’ve heard from my daughter?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Morales said.
“Captain.” Another voice ricocheted through the dome.
Hildreth stepped away from the others and peered over toward the front entrance, where a guy in a blue suit was waving his hands around. A moment passed. Captain whoever translated the hand signals. He turned and faced the others.
“She’s on the way,” he said.
30
B y the time the van rolled to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, each of the eight fluted columns holding the Roman portico aloft had at least one frightened soul cowering behind it. As the crow flew, they were no more than forty yards from the blue Dodge van, which was, at that moment, nosed up to one of the huge concrete planter boxes surrounding the building.
Overflowing with purples and reds and yellows, the massive containers unified style and substance as they simultaneously gladdened the eye and served as a security barrier, preventing anything short of a tank from driving closer to the building.
As they’d awaited the van’s arrival, Hildreth had started for the door, hoping to meet his daughter and her unborn child at the moment of their arrival. A wave of Morales’ hand had quashed any such notion.
And so, behind the cowering collection of federal agents, just inside the first set of brass doors, Hildreth was being held at bay by the same pair of burly troopers who had, a moment ago, found themselves hard-pressed to stop a loving father from carrying out what seemed little more than a father’s duty. When they finally had his writhing body pinned to the floor, he’d looked up at Morales and screamed, “It’s my daughter, for Christ sake. Wouldn’t you go to your daughter?” he bellowed.
Morales had signaled the cops to help Hildreth up. They’d maintained their hold on his elbows as they tilted him into an upright position and set him carefully on his feet. Morales walked over and looked the other man in the eye. “Yes, I would,” he said. “I’d be doing the same things you’re trying to do if I were in your position.”
Hildreth jerked his arms free, ran a hand through his hair and began straightening out his suit. “If you think”—he gulped greath mouthfuls of air—“if you think I’m going to stand idly by while my daughter…” His voice began to break. “While my daughter…” He was unable to finish. Overcome by emotion, he’d turned away, a series of disappointed sobs shook his body as he paced out into the middle of the rotunda where he dropped his face into his hands and cried.
He had finished crying and was blowing his nose for the third time when the van rolled to a stop out front. Whatever emotional reserves he’d mustered in the prior minutes went straight out the window. He bolted for the front of the building; the soles of his shoes slapped the floor like tentative applause as he made for the front doors and his endangered daughter beyond.
Five seconds later, he found himself surrounded by half a dozen cops, ATF types and FBI agents whose collective weight and unified resolve proved sufficent to bring him to a halt. He’d gotten far enough to be able to see the van idling at the bottom of the stairs. Everyone held their breath. Waited. Grabbed another quick gasp of air and waited again. Nothing happened. Normal breathing resumed.
Short motored over. He jerked his head, indicating he wanted to chat. Corso and Morales followed him out into the middle of the room. He didn’t bother to turn his best side toward the others this time,
just leaned forward in the chair and dropped his voice to a rough whisper. “No matter what…” he growled. “…no way we can let this guy and his daughter get anywhere near one another.” He looked from one man to the other until he was satisfied they’d gotten the message. His face was pinched and sweaty; he was obviously distraught. No vestige of his usual jocularity was present. “The minute the perp hears Daddy’s voice, that girl’s going off like a Roman candle.”
The image caused Corso and Morales to suck air. The trio was silent as they made their way back to the top of the stairs.
The van’s windows were tinted dark enough to make the occupant of the driver’s seat little more than an occasional sense of movement behind the glass.
On the left, Hildreth groaned. “What’s…”
Corso stepped around Morales, getting shoulder to shoulder with Hildreth. He bent at the waist and spoke directly into the man’s ear. “I can only imagine how hard this must be for you. But you’ve got to understand…if we’re right about who’s responsible for this…then the very worst thing you could do is to run down those stairs to your daughter’s side.”
Hildreth turned his head and looked at Corso for the first time. Corso put a reassuring hand on his arm. “You saw what happened in L.A. the other day.” The other man nodded in horror. “Then you know these people aren’t kidding. They don’t give a damn about collateral damage and they don’t give a damn about you and your daughter.”
“You think…these people are the same ones who…”
“There’s a good chance,” Corso said. “And if we’re right, it means they’ll have her wired for sound. They’ll know the minute you get to her side.”
Corso threw a look at Morales who picked up the vibe and walked to Hildreth’s other side. “We’ve got an army of agents and police officers checking rooftops, hilltops…anything high,” he assured Hildreth. “We’re looking for any place that might provide the perpetrators with a line of sight. The longer this takes, the better our chances of coming up with something, so just hang in there.”
