The Last Detective (25 page)

Pike snapped his pistol across Fontenot's face like before. Fontenot fell sideways onto the bed. Pike cocked his pistol and pressed the muzzle into Fontenot's ear.

I said, “We know. We know that Richard hired them. We know this was all about fucking me over, but it turned upside down. Is Richard in contact with these people? Has he made a deal for Ben?”

Fontenot closed his eyes.

“Is Ben still alive?”

Fontenot tried to say something, but his lower lip trembled. He closed his eyes tighter, like he was trying not to see.

“They cut off Debbie's head.”

I shouted into his face.

“IS BEN STILL ALIVE?”

“Richard doesn't have enough money. They want it in cash, and he can't get enough. They only gave him a few hours. We got some of it, but not all. That's why Debbie went to see them, and look what they did. We been trying to put this together all day, but look what they did.”

Something moved behind me. Lucy had come to the door.

She said, “How much do they want for my son?”

“Five million. They want five million in cash, but Richard couldn't put it together. He's been trying all day, but that was all he could get.”

Fontenot waved at the closet, and cried even more.

A large Tumi duffel was in the closet. It was heavy with packs of hundred-dollar bills, but it wasn't heavy enough.

time missing: 52 hours, 29 minutes

W
hen Myers opened the door, I pushed Fontenot hard into the room. Richard was haggard, with his hair sticking out as if he'd been running his hands over his head all afternoon. Even Myers looked beaten. Richard was holding his cell phone with both hands, like a bible.

“Get out. Get them out of here, Lee.”

Pike heaved the bag into the middle of the floor.

“Look familiar?”

A smile flickered at the corner of Myers's mouth. He was probably relieved.

“I'd say they have the money and they know what we're doing.”

Lucy came in behind Joe. Richard's eyes widened and he raked his hand across his head as if it had become a nervous tick.

“They don't know anything. Keep your mouth shut.”

Myers stared at him.

“Richard, stop. It's time to stop before this mess gets worse. The wheels are coming off, Richard. Jesus Christ, wake up.”

Lucy was as rigid as a statue. Her legs were tight together, her face closed. Her eyebrows were knitted so deeply that her eyes were hidden.

“You self-absorbed sonofabitch. Where is my son?”

Richard's eyes fluttered like two trapped moths. His mouth hung loose, as if he had aged a thousand years since yesterday. I didn't feel so angry any more; I felt empty, and worried for Ben.

Richard was so scared that I turned to Myers.

“What's Fallon doing, Myers? How are they playing this?”

Richard screamed.

“Shut up!”

Myers moved faster than I thought he could; he grabbed Richard by the shirt and bent him backwards toward the bed.

“They know. Get your head around it, Richard—
they know
. Now let's get back to business. Your son is waiting.”

Myers shoved him away, then turned back to the black Tumi bag.

“That's three-point-two million, but they want five. We tried to tell them, but, you know, no one ever believes you with something like this. DeNice was their answer.”

Myers stepped around the money, then looked at me.

“Fallon knows what he's doing, Cole. He's been jamming us all day, pushing it forward to keep us off balance. We didn't even know it was happening until this morning. That's how fast it's been, just this one day. All of it started this morning.”

“Where are you with it?”

“He gave us today to get the money, that's it. Just the one business day. Richard has to call them by nine. That's in eight minutes. Fallon told us not to bother calling after that. You know what he'll do after that.”

Pike said, “You should have told the police.”

Myers glanced at Richard, then shrugged.

Richard said, “They were supposed to take him away for a few days. He was supposed to watch videos and eat pizza until we came out, that's all it was supposed to be.”

Lucy took a step toward him.

“You had him
stolen,
you asshole! You had your son
kidnapped!
And you didn't even love him enough to admit it or ask for help.”

“I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I'm sorry.”

Lucy slapped him, then hit him with her fist. He didn't move, and he didn't try to protect himself. She hit Richard over and over again, grunting loudly with each effort—
unh, unh, unh
—like when she played tennis.

“Luce.”

I caught her arms gently and eased her away.

Richard blubbered like a baby with snot running from his nose. Lucy had broken it. He slumped onto the edge of the bed, and sat there shaking his head.

“I don't have the money. I can't get it in time. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't.”

Myers said, “We have four minutes.”

Fontenot shook his head.

“He wants the money this bad, he'll wait. We can tell him it'll just be another hour, that the money is on the way. He'll go for it.”

Pike spoke softly.

“No, he won't. He's pressing because that's how he controls the situation. He wants to keep you off balance. He won't give you time to think. He wants the money, but he also wants to survive the mission, and that means he will not let you stall. He planned the operation, and now he's working the plan. He'll do what he said he would do, and then he'll disappear.”

Fontenot said, “Jesus Christ, you make it sound like he's in a war.”

Richard rubbed his face. His fingers went through his hair. He seemed calmer now, but still nervous.

“I don't know what to do. I don't have the money.”

I looked at Myers again.

“What's supposed to happen if you had the money?”

“He would tell us where to meet them, then we'd trade the money for Ben.”

I looked at the Tumi bag. It was a big bag because three million dollars took up a lot of room, but five million would take up almost twice as much.

I went over to the bed and sat beside Richard. We stared at each other for a moment, and then he glanced away.

I said, “Do you love him?”

Richard nodded.

“I love him, too.”

Richard blinked a bit, and his eyes filled with sorrow. His voice was hoarse.

“You can't know how much I hate you.”

“I know, but now we're going to save Ben together.”

“Haven't you been listening? I already offered them the three million, but they wouldn't take it. They want five. They said it's five or nothing, and I don't have that much. I can't get it. I don't know what to tell them.”

I put the hotel phone into his hands.

“Do what you do best, Richard. Lie. Tell them that you have all five million and that you're ready to trade for your son.”

Richard stared at the phone, and then he dialed.

23
            

time missing: 52 hours, 38 minutes

R
ichard made the call at exactly nine
P.M.
and he was convincing. Myers and I listened on the extension. Fallon told Richard to bring the money to the west end of Santa Monica Airport. He told Richard to bring it alone.

Myers and I both shook our heads.

Richard's voice shook when he answered.

“No goddamned way. Myers is coming. It'll be just us, and you'd better have Ben. If Ben's not there, I'll call the police. I should call the police anyway.”

“Is Myers listening?”

“I'm here, you prick.”

“It's the west end of the airport on the south side. Drive past the hangars and stop. Get out of your car but stay next to it, and wait.”

Myers said, “No boy, no money. You won't even get close to the money unless we see the boy.”

“I just want the money. Stop, get out of your car, and you'll see me when I want you to see me. I won't be close to you, but you'll see me. When you see me, call this number again. Do you understand?”

“I'll call you when I see you.”

“Guess what happens if I see anyone else?”

“I don't have to guess.”

“That's right. You don't. Fifteen minutes.”

Fallon hung up.

Richard put down his phone and looked at me.

“What do we do?”

“Exactly what he told you to do. We'll do the rest.”

Pike and I left at a dead run. We knew that Fallon was probably already at the airport and would be set up so that he could see Richard approach and watch for the police. Speed was everything. We had to get to the airport before Richard, we had to stay out of sight, and we had to come at Fallon in a way he didn't expect.

I drove fast, and so did Pike, the two of us rat-racing across the city.

Sunset Boulevard glowed with violet-blue light that rippled and shimmered on the hood of my Corvette. The cars we raced past were frozen in place, their tail lights stretched in front of us like liquid red streaks. I couldn't shift hard enough, I couldn't drive fast enough. We screamed across Westwood into Brentwood, and then toward the sea.

Santa Monica Airport was a nice little place, one lonely airstrip built during a time when inland Santa Monica was mostly clover fields and cows, north of LAX and west of the 405. The city grew up around it, and now the airfield was surrounded by homeowners and businesses who hated the noise and lived in fear of a crash. You could get a good hamburger there, and sit on benches across from the tower to watch the airplanes take off and land. Ben and I had done that more than once.

The north side of the airfield was mostly corporate offices and the Museum of Flying; old hangars and parking ramps lined the south. Many of the hangars on the south had been converted into offices or businesses, but many were empty; I guess they were cheaper to abandon than repair.

I called Myers's cell as we got close.

“We're almost there, Myers. Where are you?”

“We just left the hotel. I'd say twelve or fifteen minutes. We're cutting it close.”

“You're driving?”

“Yeah. Richard's in back.”

“When you reach the airport, slow down. Drive slow so that Pike and I have enough time.”

“We can't be too late, Cole.”

“They'll see your limo turn into the airport. They'll know you're here. That's what matters. They know you're from out of town, so just drive like you're confused.”

“Shit, man, I'm doing that now.”

I had to smile, even then.

“I'll call you back when we're there.”

I leaned on the horn all the way down Bundy, slowing for red lights but never once stopping, and twice Joe Pike pulled ahead. I straddled the curb to get around slower cars and hung on their bumpers, then downshifted hard into the oncoming lanes. I hit a trash can on Olympic Boulevard, and raked a street sign as we blew under the freeway. My right headlight went out.

All four tires smoked as I turned toward the sea.

I picked up the phone.

“Myers?”

“I'm here.”

“Two minutes.”

We blew west two blocks north of the airport past a long row of offices and charter jet hangars. The tower stood silently in the distance, asleep for the night, its only sign of life a throbbing green and white light.

Pike stopped at the embankment by the end of the runway, but I kept going. The office buildings gave way to a soccer field, and then to residential streets. I left my car a block away and ran on foot to the dark hangars that lined the south side of the field like overgrown shadows.

Fallon would probably have a man on the roof and maybe another on the little service road that Richard would be using. A few cars were parked along the service road, but I couldn't see if anyone was in them and I didn't have time to go from car to car. The rooflines were clean.

I edged past the last hangar, then peeked around the corner. A few small airplanes were tied down on the ramp with a row of fuel trucks parked by them. The trucks were all by themselves at the edge of nothing.

I whispered into the phone.

“Myers?”

“We're at the east side.”

“I can't see you.”

“I don't care if you can see me; do you see
them
?”

“Not yet. Go slow. I'm moving.”

Pike was working his way toward the ramp from the north. I couldn't see him and didn't try; if I saw him, then they could see him, and either way would be bad. A trailer set up as a temporary office jutted out between the hangars. I slipped out to its end for a better view. I scanned the rooflines again, then the shadows along the base of the hangars, and then the trucks. Nothing moved. I listened as hard as I could. Nothing moved. I looked for shadows and shapes that were out of place, but everything seemed normal. No other cars were present. The hangar doors were closed. Fallon was probably waiting nearby if he was waiting anywhere at all.

I whispered into the phone again.

“I don't see anything, Myers.”

“They'll hold in place until we get there, but they'll have to move. You'll see them.”

I told him where I was hiding.

“Okay, I'm at the drive where he said to turn. I'm making the turn.”

Light swept between two hangars, and then the limousine emerged and turned toward me. They were fifty yards away. Maybe sixty.

The limousine stopped.

I said, “I'm right in front of you.”

“Copy. We're getting out. We have to call him now.”

“Don't hurry. Wait.”

The limousine sat with its engine running and lights on. From the end of the trailer I saw all of the ramp and the taxiway and most of the service road that ran along the south side of the airport. Everything was quiet.

“We're getting out. I'm putting in my earpiece so I can hear you. You see something, you tell me, goddamnit.”

The passenger door opened, and Myers stepped out. He stood by himself alongside the car.

I checked the roofline and service road again, looking for the telltale bump of a human head or the bulge of a shoulder, but saw nothing. I watched the shadows at the base of the ramp, and saw still more nothing.

The third fuel truck from the end of the row flicked its lights.

I said, “Myers.”

His voice came back low.

“I got it. Richard's calling the number.”

I strained hard to see inside the truck but it was dark with shadows and too far away. I took out my gun and trained it on the truck's grill. The grip was slippery. I would put down the phone as soon as I saw Ben. My aim was better with both hands.

I said, “Tell him to get out with Ben. Make him show Ben.”

Pike would have moved up on the far side. He would be closer than me and have a better position. He was a better shot.

Myers's soft voice came through again.

“Richard's talking to him. Richard's getting out to show the money. He wants to see the bags.”

“Don't do that, Myers. Make him show Ben.”

“Richard's scared.”

“Myers, make him show Ben. I don't see Ben.”

“Ben's on the phone.”

“That's not good enough. You have to see him.”

“Keep your eyes on that fucking truck. Richard's flashing the money.”

The limo's back door opened. Myers helped Richard out with the two bags, and then they looked at the truck. Three million dollars is heavy, and five had to look still heavier.

I heard Myers whisper, “C'mon, you fucker.”

The truck lights flicked again. All of us waited. All of us stared at the truck.

Twenty feet behind Richard and Myers, a shadow moved between the oil drums that were stacked at the mouth of the hangar. I caught the movement as Myers turned. Schilling and Mazi surged out of the shadows with their pistols up and ready. I had stared at those oil drums again and again, but I had seen nothing.

I yelled, “MYERS!”

Their hands exploded like tiny suns, flashbulbing their faces with red light. Myers went down. They kept shooting him until they reached the money, and then they fired at Richard. He fell backwards into the car.

I fired two fast shots, then turned for the fuel truck, screaming. I expected the truck to rumble to life or shots to come from the darkness, but none of that happened. I sprinted as hard as I could, shouting Ben's name.

Behind me, Schilling and Mazi heaved the money into the limo and got in with it.

Pike ran onto the ramp from the far side of the trucks and fired as the limo squealed away. All of us had thought that they would approach and leave in their own vehicle, but they didn't; the limo was their getaway, just as they'd planned.

I ran low and hard all the way to the truck, but I knew before I reached it that the truck was empty and always had been. Fallon had rigged the lights with a remote. He was someplace else, and Ben was still with him.

I spun back around, but the limo was gone.

Pike

P
ike thought, they're beating us. These people are so damned good that they're beating us.

Schilling and Ibo stepped out from between the oil drums as if they had come through an invisible door, one moment impossible to see, the next their hands flashing fire, with the absolute efficiency of a striking snake. Pike had studied those drums, but seen nothing. They struck so fast that he could not warn Myers. It happened so quickly, and Pike was so far away, that he was nothing more than a witness to the execution.

They were as good as anyone Joe Pike had ever seen.

Pike ran forward, trying to get into range, as Cole shouted. Pike and Cole fired at almost the same instant, but Pike knew they were too late; the limo's left headlight shattered and a bullet careened off its hood. The limo ripped away as Cole raced toward the truck. Pike didn't bother because he knew what Cole would find.

Pike twisted around, searching for movement; someone had controlled the truck's lights, and that would be Fallon, somewhere nearby with a line of sight on the scene; now that Schilling and Ibo had the money, Fallon would also run, and might give himself away.

Then a heavy shot boomed to the north, and Pike spun toward the sound. Not a handgun shot, but something loud and heavy. Light flashed in one of the parked cars, followed fast by a second boom.

Pike saw shadows in the car. A man and a boy.

Pike shouted at Cole as the car pulled away, then ran hard down the hill for his Jeep, his shoulder sending sharp lightning through his arm as he ran.

Pike thought, I'm scared.

Ben

M
ike wasn't like Eric or Mazi. Mike didn't bullshit or play the radio and leer at the hot chicks they passed on San Vicente Boulevard. Mike spoke only to give commands. He looked at Ben only to make sure Ben got the point. That was it.

They turned into a parking lot at the airport, then sat with the engine running. Mike never turned off the engine. Like he was scared that it wouldn't start when he needed it. After a while, Mike had lifted the binoculars to watch something across the field. Ben couldn't tell what was happening because it was so far away.

The shotgun rested with the muzzle on the floor and the stock leaning against Mike's knee. It wasn't a regular shotgun like the 20-gauge Ithaca that Ben's grandpa had given him for Christmas; this shotgun was really short, with a black stock, but Ben saw a little button in the trigger guard that he knew was the safety. His own shotgun had the same kind of safety. The safety was off. Ben thought, I'll bet he's got one in the box and good to go just like Eric.

Ben glanced up at Mike again, but Mike was still focused across the field.

Mike scared him. Eric and Mazi were scared of Mike, too. If it had been Eric sitting here concentrating on something across the field, Ben thought he would go for the gun. All he had to do was grab the trigger and the gun would go off. But that was Eric and this was Mike. Mike reminded him of a sleeping cobra, all coiled up and good to go. You might think it was sleeping but you never knew.

Mike lowered the binoculars just long enough to find what looked like a small walkie-talkie from the dashboard, then raised the binoculars again. He keyed the walkie-talkie, and lights flickered across the runway. Mike spoke on his cell phone, and then put the phone to Ben's ear.

“It's your dad. Say something.”

Ben grabbed the phone.

“Daddy?”

His father sobbed, and just like that Ben cried like a baby, gushing tears and hiccuping.

“I wanna go home.”

Mike took back the phone. Ben grabbed for it, but Mike held him at arm's length. Ben clawed and bit and punched, but Mike's arm was an iron rod. Mike squeezed Ben's shoulder so hard that his shoulder felt crushed.

Mike said, “You going to stop?”

Ben shrank away from Mike as far as possible, embarrassed and ashamed. He cried even harder.

Mike dropped the phone, then peered through the binoculars again. He keyed the walkie-talkie once more, and now the far lights flashed and stayed on.

Overlapping erratic pops came from the far side of the airport then, and Mike straightened, focused so completely on whatever was happening that Ben thought:
Now!