Ransom River (17 page)

“What the hell was he doing in the courtroom yesterday?” she said.

Seth had a canny light in his eyes. He seemed to be thinking the same thing she was.

Church was a con. A pro.

She scanned the sheet again. “An ex-convict. With nothing on his rap sheet but crimes dealing with money and profit. Something’s missing.” She turned it over. Nothing on the back. “Where’s the record of his ties to extremist groups—prison gangs? Aryan Brotherhood, Christian Identity?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s a big hole here. Called motive.”

“He had to have motive.”

The image on the page gripped her. Church’s eyes were wild, maybe with chemical fury. “How did you find this guy?”

“What time do you have to be at court?”

“Nine thirty. Why?”

“Sylvester Church isn’t the only thing I found. Got time for a drive?”

Seth, Mr. Surprise. Why did she ever doubt it? “Let’s go.”

They drove toward the city center in Seth’s new truck, a black Tundra. The sun was gold and sharp in the sky. In the shadows, frost prickled on the grass. Morning traffic surrounded them: school buses, farm trucks, commuters drinking coffee or texting or both. Rory had grabbed a two-minute shower. Her hair hung damp on her shoulders. She held Sylvester Church’s rap sheet in her hand.

“How’d you get this? Did you talk to somebody in the Ransom River PD?”

“No. Called some contacts to verify information, but only after I found it myself.”

“And what did you find?” she said.

“The two gunmen drove to the courthouse. By themselves.”

“You know this for certain?”

“A Chevy Blazer was found parked behind the building.”

“You saw it?”

“On the news, like five million other people. Being winched onto a flatbed truck. That’s how I know they drove it themselves, and nobody else was with them.”

She thought about it. “Because, if somebody had dropped them off, they wouldn’t have parked the Blazer and left it there. And if anybody else came with them and stayed outside as a getaway driver, they wouldn’t have stuck around when things went bad.”

“You got it. Once the sirens got loud, they would have hauled ass. But nobody did that.”

“Before Judge Wieland got shot, the gunmen ordered four of us to line up and walk through the door to chambers. I didn’t know—” Her voice wobbled. “Didn’t know what they planned to do with us. I thought…”

For a moment she smelled cordite and heard screams.

Seth glanced at her. “Rory? You okay?”

“They were taking us out of the courtroom, but I didn’t know—I was afraid that…”

Her voice was getting away from her. It all was getting away from her. She balled her hands in her lap so Seth wouldn’t see them shake.

After a long moment she could see clearly again. What she felt was relief, so strong that it nearly made her cry.

“If there was a getaway car parked out back, a big SUV, that’s where they were taking us,” she said.

“What else did you think?” He shot a glance at her. “Jesus. You thought they were taking you out to kill you.”

She shut her eyes. When she opened them, Seth was reaching toward her. It seemed an automatic gesture, an urge to comfort her. But he hesitated. His hand hung in midair.

Instead of a gentle touch, he clenched his fist and thumped it against her shoulder. A play-punch, almost a rewind to their childhood.

It was reassurance, and it worked. The humming terror that had gripped her in the courtroom dissolved. She felt lighter. The four chosen hostages hadn’t been headed for execution in the judge’s chambers.

“The gunmen wanted to get away with you,” Seth said. “That’s more interesting.”

“And worrisome. They wanted me yesterday. I assume they still want me today.”

He turned onto a broad avenue and headed downtown. Orchards gave way to crowded housing developments with maple saplings turning autumn red. They passed a park where morning dog walkers were exercising. The swings on the playground were empty.

“Here’s the thing,” Seth said. “Experienced criminals like Sylvester Church, guys who take part in grab-and-go robberies, know that a getaway car is necessary but it isn’t enough.”

She turned, curious.

“In a well-planned heist, the team swaps out their getaway car. They drive away from the scene in one vehicle. Then switch to a second. They either meet up with other members of their team or switch to a vehicle they positioned ahead of time.”

“And did Church and his partner have a switch car?”

“It was the first thing I looked for, when I saw their Blazer getting towed.”

“You found it.”

He continued toward the center of town, poker-faced. “Want to see it?”

“Is it parked in a spot where security cameras can catch it?”

He let out a
heh.
“Clever girl.”

“The cops think I’m an inside man. Video showing me checking out the switch car would do my cause no good.”

“No video cameras. As Church undoubtedly wanted it.”

They passed St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, and then First Presbyterian, and the Assembly of God, and the Unitarian church, and the Iglesia Pentecostal. They passed the cross street that led to the civic center and the courthouse. Rory couldn’t help looking. The tree-lined boulevard ran perfectly straight, cutting across the valley like the crossbar of the letter
H.
The courthouse was two miles west, beyond the long procession of traffic lights, corner after corner of them. Green, yellow, red, an electric pulse driving the city.

At the wheel, Seth looked focused and eager. That look was familiar, and yet it masked two years of blank history.

“What are you doing these days?” Rory said.

“Working in L.A. Living in Santa Monica.”

She wanted to ask him: wife, kids, harem, any new fetishes? Women whipping him? Jesus, why was she thinking these things?

“You finally open that workshop you always dreamed of, crafting exotic Chia Pets?” she said.

He smiled. “I sit behind a desk in the Federal Building all day. Reviewing cold-case files.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You joined the FBI?”

“No. I’m working for a legal outfit, evaluating closed cases, convictions that are being appealed, miscarriages of justice.”

“Like the Innocence Project?”

“Specific to federal cases. Why? You want my card?”

“I guess I’m surprised,” she said. The rest was implied:
Seth, behind a desk?

“It’s a job,” he said. “It’s a paycheck for a guy who ain’t gonna run and jump through fiery hoops anymore.”

Something in his tone worried her. “Are you okay?”

“Got all my fingers and toes. Some say I even still have my mind.”

They passed a strip mall so Californian that in five thousand years, it would be regarded as an archaeological site. Taco Bell, In-N-Out, Applebee’s, Jack in the Box, and Burger King. Teenage wasteland. Next door was a big-barn bed-and-bath store—ten acres of fluffy pillows and downy duvets and king-size beds. In fifth grade, she and Seth once bicycled here after school. They bought Jolly Ranchers and a
Sports Illustrated
at the 7-Eleven and sat on the curb sucking their blue Slurpees through straws. To get out of the heat, they locked their bikes and went inside the Beddie-Buy. It was cool and soft and seemed padded, floor to ceiling. The bedroom displays looked magnificent. Like the White House, Rory thought. And she got the idea that if a global catastrophe occurred, they could hide in the store until
the army came. They spent hours exploring, working out which bedroom they’d each choose if the apocalypse rolled down on Ransom River. The Beddie-Buy had a Starbucks, so they figured they’d have food and drink for the duration.

“Remember our disaster preparedness day?” she said.

“You were a strange little kid.”

“But the only one who would have been prepared for Götterdämmerung.”

She now realized how far back her sense of calamity went. She’d always had the notion that she needed a safe house and an escape plan.

“Riss worked there for a while,” she said.

Seth actually snorted. “Nerissa, working retail, in a store devoted to beds and bedding.”

“Really.”

Beyond the Beddie-Buy near a freeway entrance was another strip mall. It had a tanning salon, Vietnamese noodle house, and palm reader. Gas station and car wash. Seth pulled in and drove around to the back.

Behind the car wash was a parking area for half a dozen cars. It was empty aside from a dark blue Chrysler minivan. Seth stopped.

Rory said, “That’s it?”

It was dusty and freckled with bird shit. Dried mud was splashed along the wheel wells and bottom of the chassis. On the dashboard, crumpled McDonald’s wrappers and crayons were visible.

“You sure it isn’t here for a wash and vacuum?” she said. “It looks like something an overwhelmed mom of triplets would drive.”

“I’m sure.” Seth turned off the engine and climbed out.

Rory followed. The noise of the car wash blended with the drone of traffic on the nearby freeway. She put her hands in the pockets of her peacoat and circled the vehicle, looking for whatever had tipped him.

Parking permit for a Montessori school. Back window showing a fan of clean glass, cleared by the wiper, surrounded by heavy dust. Tailgate crusted with dried, splattered mud.

“I’m not seeing it,” she said.

He nodded at the license plate. “Van’s dirty, but the plate’s clean.”

She stepped closer to the van. He was right: the mud crusted on the tailgate didn’t touch the license plate. And the plate didn’t look as though it had been wiped; it looked pristine.

“They switched the tags?” she said.

He nodded. “I still have contacts at the DMV. I asked them to run it. These plates come back as belonging to a Fiat 500.” He pointed at the corner of the windshield. “The VIN”—vehicle identification number—“comes back to this van.”

She shook her head. “Did you drive around town all night, looking at every vehicle on the street for tiny inconsistencies?”

“Process of elimination.” He walked around the van. “The gunmen would want to park a switch car close to the courthouse, but not too close. And not in a direct line of sight. They’d want witnesses and the police to lose visual contact when they fled the scene.”

“Right.”

“And they’d want to park the switch car someplace where it wouldn’t draw suspicion. For instance, a quiet residential street—a strange van might be noticed by alert neighbors. And they would want to position it so they could swap vehicles and get going again immediately, and at high speed.”

“The freeway,” Rory said.

“Yeah. So they’d want a public place, somewhere the vehicle wouldn’t stand out, with quick access to the interstate.”

“But not the mall?”

“Big malls have CCTV cameras that cover the parking lot and the loading dock. On the other hand, a strip mall might only have an interior camera near the cash register in a convenience store.” He looked around. “And none at all surveilling the back side of a car wash.”

From where they stood Rory could see the freeway entrance. It led over the hill and soon reached a coagulated mass of other arteries: I-5, the 215, the 405. Get on the freeway, and in less time than it took to watch a sitcom,
you could have your hostages headed for Northern California, Las Vegas, or the Mexican border.

“How long did it take you?” she said.

“Three hours. Give or take.”

She huddled deeper into her peacoat. His tenacity and devotion were thrilling and alarming in equal measure.

“And it was the license plate that told you you’d hit pay dirt.”

“Plus the way the vehicle’s parked. It’s facing the street. The driver doesn’t even have to put it in reverse to back out of a slot. It’s ready to roll.”

“I’m impressed.”

He gestured her toward the passenger-side window but said, “Don’t touch it.”

She gave him a
Do I look stupid?
look. She stretched on tiptoe. “Dear God.”

On the front seat was a sealed Baggie, full of heavy cable ties. And airline sleep masks. Another Baggie held four cell phones.

“Their getaway kit,” Seth said. “These guys came prepared to transport hostages and cover their tracks.”

“Burn phones?” she said.

“Prepaid, probably bought with cash earlier this week. Untraceable. And the fact that they’re here in this vehicle, not with the gunmen, speaks to the team’s determination not to be tracked. I bet they’ve never been used. Only turned on once to make sure they work. Turned off, so no GPS system or phone company can back-trace their path through the grid.”

An employee of the car wash came around to the back to throw a trash bag into the Dumpster.

“I’ve seen enough,” Rory said. She didn’t want to be recognized, now or later. She checked her watch. “And I need to get to the courthouse.”

“Let’s book,” Seth said.

They got back in his truck and headed downtown.

“Big question,” Rory said. “You found the switch car. Why haven’t the police?”

“Last night they were overwhelmed with other matters. They were securing the crime scene, sending in the forensics techs to process the courthouse. Debriefing the hostages. Rounding up witnesses. Terrorizing you.”