Goodbye Sister Disco (7 page)

She lived in a high-rise apartment on Lindell Boulevard, near the St. Louis Cathedral.

She stepped out of the elevator. The doorman opened the door and she walked out of the lobby and down the street.

Her Land Rover was parked around the block. After she'd unlocked it and gotten inside she heard her cell phone ring.

She answered it quickly. “Hello?”

“Judy?”

“Yes?”

Judy Chen had been asked out by football players, baseball players, men of power and wealth, most of them not caring anything about who she was or what she thought, but very much interested in screwing the cute little Asian chick they'd seen on television. Usually, she said no. Very rarely did she give out her private cell number. She said, “Who is this?”

“Well, for purposes of this conversation, my name is Carl.”

“What can I do for you, Carl?”

Terrill said, “Boy, you are tough. Well, today is your lucky day.”

“Why's that?”

“You know about Gene Penmark's daughter being kidnapped, don't you?”

Judy looked at the screen on her cell phone. The number was not identified. She took her hand off the ignition key.

“Who is this?”

“I told you: my name is Carl. Or Bill. Whatever you like.”

“You said something about Penmark's daughter.”

“Yes. I also said that today is your lucky day.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Do you know why?”

“Why?” She had already asked him this, but she knew that he wanted to control the pace of the conversation.

The voice said, “Turn around.”

Judy turned around. On her backseat was a brown paper bag, the top folded over.

“You see a brown paper bag?”

“Yes.”

“Inside that bag is a videotape. On that videotape is Cordelia Penmark. She was kidnapped last night by some very serious, very determined people. Cordelia is alive, you understand. She is very much alive. But she has been abducted.”

“I—”

“Ah, Ms. Chen, I'm talking now. Take that tape to your station and play it. It's going to be the story of the day. Oh, and don't bother thanking me.”

The man hung up.

A few seconds passed before Judy Chen looked in the bag and removed a videotape. She drove straight to the station and didn't stop to change out of her gym clothes.

ELEVEN

Most of the men on his team were in the detectives' squad room when he got there. Klosterman, Murph, Rhodes. They had the television set up and they replayed the tape. Not the original, Klosterman pointed out, but a tape of the news that had run a few minutes earlier.

News reporter Judy Chen was on the screen, saying that this was a News 9 special report. There were some graphics and then another woman's voice could be heard. The voice said, “Gene Penmark is a billionaire. His net worth is approximately two-point-four billion dollars. He is the owner of Penmark Industries. Last month, he floated his microchip company to Entech Company. As a result, Gene Penmark made a personal profit of forty-six million dollars. That figure does not include the net worth of his remaining businesses. That figure does not include the fifteen-million-dollar yacht he keeps on the French Riviera. That figure does not include the twelve-million-dollar jet he keeps at Lambert Airport. Out of that forty-six-million-dollar pure profit, Gene Penmark is being asked to give up two million dollars in exchange for the safe return of his daughter. We believe the decision is an easy one.”

The screen changed and there was a young girl wearing a dress. She was holding a copy of the day's early edition of the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch.
She said, in a strange tone, “Please do as they ask, Dad. I want to come home. Please.”

The picture changed and went back to Judy Chen at her desk. She said, “The police are continuing their investigation.”

Hastings said, “Has anyone here spoken to that fucking woman?”

Klosterman knew he was referring to the news reporter, not the kidnapping victim. He was angry about it too and he said, “We have no record of her calling the Department.”

“Goddammit,” Hastings said. “God
damn
it.”

Rhodes walked up on shells to him. “George,” he said, “Captain Brady says the assistant chief wants to see you.”

No doubt he would, Hastings thought.

*   *   *

Assistant Chief Fenton Murray's relationship with Hastings was not entirely settled. To start with, Murray had never worked as a detective; his entire career had been in either patrol or administration. When he was a patrol lieutenant, he generally took home less money than the average detective, who was technically lower in rank. The reason was, detectives worked a lot of overtime. The detectives did not openly speak of being an elite group. But they were a different tribe. A tribe within the greater tribe of the Metropolitan Police Department. Fenton Murray was black, but had been a policeman long enough that he was probably more Irish than anything.

Hastings, for his part, did not believe that he had any quarrel with Murray. He thought Murray was a bit full of himself and something of a blowhard, but he was more or less honest and a straight shooter. Whatever else could be said of him, Murray was not the sort of man who would glad-hand you in person, then push you off a cliff when your back was turned.

Fenton Murray had been with the St. Louis PD his entire law-enforcement career. In contrast, Chief Mark Grassino had been brought in from Atlanta to run the Department. Grassino had been assistant chief in Atlanta and had been in St. Louis a relatively short time. Hastings's contact with Grassino had been limited but positive.

Hastings was thinking about that now—wondering just how much of the chief's goodwill he had expended—though he wished he weren't, as Murray's secretary led him through the anteroom to Fenton Murray's office.

Murray was on the phone when he walked in, saying, “Yes, sir. Yes.” Gesturing for Hastings to take a seat in front of his desk. “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Hastings is here now.… Yes, sir. Okay.”

He hung up the phone and made a face. Mock curiosity.

Hastings said, “You've seen the news, sir?”

“Yes, I have. How did that happen?”

“I'm waiting to ask her.”

“That was the chief on the phone. He's not happy.”

“I don't blame him.”

Fenton Murray went on as if he hadn't heard the acknowledgment. “It's a matter of perspective, Lieutenant. Perspective. One of the richest men in this city, perhaps the richest, his daughter's kidnapped … people want to believe we're doing something about it. And some television news reporter is one step ahead of us. We can't very well solve this by watching television, can we?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you talked with this television reporter yet?”

“No, sir. I was planning to, but—well, sir, you called me in for this discussion.”

He was pushing it, just. But then he'd just told the man he was waiting to talk to her about it. A police department is like any other organization: something bad happens, and everyone scrambles to avoid taking responsibility for it.
Well, there had been a message, but my secretary forgot to tell me about it.
And so forth. Hastings hated that sort of thing, and he was particularly hard on his own people when they tried it with him. But in this case, what had happened was legitimately beyond his control. He was getting irritated now because he believed Fenton Murray had to know that. And Hastings was fairly sure that Murray had gotten a full night's sleep, while he and his men had not.

Maybe the man sensed this, because the next thing he said was, “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“No, sir,” Hastings said.

Assistant Chief Murray sighed. And Hastings realized it was as close to an apology as he was going to get that day. In a different tone, Murray said, “Well now it's officially a kidnapping. So FBI's in. We can work alongside, but it's their game. The chief's been on the phone with the local SAC. The ASAC and two of his agents are in the conference room.”

“Okay,” Hastings said. He had been expecting it. Indeed, he had even warned the Penmarks that it would happen. But it had happened sooner than he expected. The videotape on the news had accelerated things. It had upset people and made them frightened and anxious. It had reminded the authorities that they were not the ones in control.

Murray said, “Get as much of the file as you can, and meet us there as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” Hastings stood up.

“George?”

“Yes, sir?”

Murray hesitated for a moment. “Have you had any dealings with the FBI since the Cahalin thing?”

The Cahalin thing.

Hastings told himself he should not be surprised that Fenton had brought it up. In fact, now that it was out, he was surprised he hadn't thought of it himself. Once they suspected that the Penmark girl had been kidnapped, it was just a matter of time before the FBI got involved. Frank Cahalin had been the former SAC for the FBI field office. He was dead now, having committed suicide. He had probably been aware that he would lose his trial. Hastings was not vain enough to be haunted by this. He was actually angry at Cahalin for doing it. By killing himself, Cahalin had deprived Hastings and others of the satisfaction of seeing him convicted in court. And Hastings had no doubt that he would have been.

Now Hastings said, “No, sir. I have not had any business with the FBI since then.” His tone was a little hard then. He said, “Is the chief concerned about it?”

Fenton Murray said, “He didn't say anything to me about it.”

After a moment, Hastings said, “And you, sir. Are you concerned about it?”

Murray flashed him a fierce look. “I think Frank Cahalin was a piece of shit,” he said. “I'm not bothered in the slightest about him. But these feds may not see it that way.”

“So what.”

“So they may be a little chilly to you.”

“I can handle it.”

“You sure?”

Hastings wasn't bothering to hide his anger anymore. “Are you pulling me off the case?”

Murray's tone matched his. “No, Lieutenant, I am not. What I'm telling you is, the primary goal is to get this girl returned to her parents safely.
That's
the mission. You say you'll conduct yourself professionally, I believe you. But if they refuse to cooperate with us—directly or indirectly—because of you, then yes, sir, you
will
have to be replaced. If that happens it won't be fair, but fairness to you is not what's important here. Understand?”

Hastings straightened. “I understand,” he said. “If that's all…”

“That's all. Go on.”

Hastings walked out.

TWELVE

They didn't hesitate to bring up the fact that the television station had gotten a videotape of the victim before the police had. The agents wouldn't try to bawl him out or anything else direct like that. Just, “So you saw it on television?” followed by pitiful shakes of the head.

Hastings said, “We can't control the movements of the kidnapper. Or kidnappers.”

There were three agents in the conference room with Hastings and Fenton Murray. Murray had done Hastings the kindness of sitting on his side of the table. The feds were on the other side. Dressed in full suits, as opposed to the herringbone jacket Hastings wore with dark slacks. Two of the feds had American flag pins on their lapels.

The ASAC wore a What Would Jesus Do bracelet. He was a tall, slender man in his fifties. He looked like a runner. His name was Jim Shellow.

The two other agents were in their thirties. Early to midthirties, clean shaven, and well groomed. Their names were Craig Kubiak and Curtis Gabler.

Hastings remembered watching a football game between Nebraska and Stanford University. A year when Stanford had a moderately competitive team. The contrast between the Stanford and Nebraska sidelines had been an added amusement to the game: on one side, clean-cut guys, blond with stylish haircuts, could have been models for
GQ.
On the other side, milling around Saint Tom Osborne, a bunch of mullet-haired two-by-fours in red jerseys who looked like they just got done changing a tractor tire … Stanford did well, but didn't win the game.

Hastings said, “My sergeant is arranging an interview with her right now.”

Agent Shellow said, “Is that all?”

Hastings's voice was civil. He said, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Agent Shellow said, “it seems to me that we should be doing more than that, don't you think?”

“You mean,” Hastings said, “threatening her with obstructing an investigation. Something like that?”

Agent Shellow was a bit taken aback: the Metro lieutenant had already thought of it. “Yes,” Agent Shellow said, “that's exactly what I mean.”

“I'd thought of that,” Hastings said. “But that's only a misdemeanor. And it presumes that our DA would want to file on it. And I doubt he would. But even if he would, I don't think it's a good idea.”

“Why not?” It was Agent Kubiak speaking now. His tone was not one of a man seeking input, but one of conducting an interrogation.

“Because we might need her,” Hastings said. “Maybe the kidnapper feels comfortable talking to her. We go to her threatening charges, the first thing she'll do is refer us to the station's attorney. And we'll be stuck. And … we'll have lost the opportunity to work with her.”

There was a silence then. Agent Gabler was taking notes and he stopped to look briefly at the ASAC. The ASAC looked over to Assistant Chief Murray, who wasn't going to give him any help on this one. Agent Kubiak continued to look at Hastings, appraising him. Hastings thought,
He knows
. He knows about Cahalin, but he's not going to say anything about it now.

“Listen,” Hastings said, “for what it's worth, I'm not very happy about it either. Either she's pretty stupid or she just wanted to break a story and make a name for herself. Either way, she should have contacted the police first. And for whatever reason, she chose not to. But it's already happened and we can't change it.”