“Why we're here?” Ms. Stone snorts at me. “I am only here because you and your friends stormed into a restaurant where I was simply attempting to—”
The door opens.
The chief and Ceepak march in. The chief has a xerox of the fax.
“It's Squeegee,” the chief says. “Please sit down.”
Betty slips demurely into the chief's big rolling chair. She has one of those Sally Field attempting-to-be-brave looks on her face.
“Does she need to hear this?” Ashley's mother pulls rank. You can tell she considers this matter a private, family-members-only type deal. I think Betty also regards Ms. Stone as a nympho-floozy, law degree or no.
“We might need her assistance as chief counsel of Hart Enterprises … to help us meet the kidnapper's financial demands,” Ceepak says. “However, if you'd be more comfortable….”
“No. Fine. Let her stay. Read it.”
The chief has on these reading glasses he's never let anybody see him wear before.
“Okay. It's words he cut out of old magazines … pieced together….”
“Like in the movies?” Ms. Stone sighs, unable to not butt in.
The chief ignores her and reads.
“I HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER. YOU WILL PAY ME TEN MILLION DOLLARS AT NOON TOMORROW OR I WILL KILL ASHLEY WITH THE SAME GUN I USED TO KILL HER FATHER.”
Ashley's mother gasps.
“He's confessing to the murder?” Ms. Stone sounds amazed. “I don't believe it. What an imbecile. Who's giving him his legal advice?”
“I … I don't have ten million dollars,” Betty says. Her voice is faint. “Reginald only paid me an allowance … ten million dollars … I don't have ten million dollars….” She closes her eyes.
The chief turns to Stone. “Harriet Ashley Hart, however, does. You told us her father left her everything? In his will?”
“Yes, but….”
“We need to probate that will. Immediately.”
“Impossible.”
“Judge Erickson is standing by.”
I know that probate is something a court does to prove a will is valid. But when the will involves billions and billions of dollars, dozens of companies, tons of real estate and airlines and shopping malls—I guess they usually like to take their time.
“We don't have much time,” Ceepak says. “Noon tomorrow. A little over twenty-four hours.”
“I'm sorry,” Ms. Stone says, “but—”
“The bank is going to help,” Ceepak says to Betty. “We contacted Don Nelson from First Federal. He's helping us pull together the actual cash.”
Ashley's mom nods.
“Thank you,” she says.
I'm wondering if we're going to use a suitcase stuffed with twenty-dollar bills like you always see when someone gets kidnapped on TV. If we do, I hope the suitcase has wheels. Ten million dollars probably weighs a ton. We might need a truck, like Saddam Hussein's kids did when they robbed the Iraqi Central Bank.
“Mr. Hart's executor is Arnold Bloomfield,” Ms. Stone says, still stuck on the will. “I don't know if….”
“We've already contacted Mr. Bloomfield,” the chief says. “He's on his way. Corporate jet.”
“I see. But surely you don't intend to give this criminal, this murderer ten million dollars—”
“We intend to do whatever it takes to ensure Ashley's safety,” Ceepak says.
“You just make sure Ashley has complete access to her entire inheritance,” the chief instructs her. “Understood? Or do you want another Hart to die this weekend?”
“No. Of course not.” Sounds like our reluctant attorney is finally on board. “We'll make the necessary transfers.”
“We've called the FBI,” the chief says.
Betty nods.
“Of course.”
“Kidnapping is a federal crime.”
“I know.”
“They'll help us figure out how to handle the ransom drop.”
“Do we know if this man has … hurt Ashley?”
“No, ma'am,” Ceepak says. “We do not. But, ma'am?”
“Yes?”
“I won't let him.”
Ceepak doesn't say how he's going to stop Squeegee from hurting Ashley. But no one doubts him.
“Chief Cosgrove?”
One of the State CSI guys sticks his head in the door. I recognize him from the crime scene, even though he's not wearing his hairnet today.
“What've you got?”
“This fax? We tracked down the number.”
“Yeah?”
“Came from the Sea Spray Hotel.”
“The front desk?”
“No, sir. One of their in-room fax machines.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I'm starting to think our friend Squeegee has fried one too many brain cells. He's not being too savvy about this whole ransom demand deal.
The Sea Spray Hotel is like only six blocks up the street from police headquarters—right on Beach Lane.
And doesn't he know every fax machine in the world prints the sender's phone number up on the top of the page in what they call a header, unless you program it not to?
Guess they didn't have in-room fax machines at The Palace Hotel when he and Red were squatting there. Hope Mr. Mendez remedies that when he takes over.
We're racing up Beach Lane. I'm doing about 60 m.p.h. on a road that's mostly used for bike riding, jogging, and pulling kids around in little red wagons.
Ceepak slips a fresh clip of ammo into his Smith & Wesson, the same pistol Squeegee's probably packing. Chances are slim Squeegee will bump into Ceepak in the lobby of the Sea Spray. After all, the fax came in about a half-hour ago, while we were all down at Chesterfield's. But Ceepak wants to Be Prepared, just in case he sees Squeegee running down the beach and has a chance to pop him in the leg and slow him down.
We're one of four cop cars that simultaneously scream up to the canopied entranceway of the Sea Spray.
“Room 162!” the chief says. “Now! Move! Go! Move!”
Ceepak takes the lead, and seven cops follow. Pistols come out of holsters. Radios burble with static.
The Sea Spray is one of our biggest hotels—probably five hundred rooms. This is where businesspeople come for conventions and seminars so they can sit in conference rooms and stare out at the ocean when the PowerPoint presentations get boring.
The lobby is wide and extremely green, like a carpeted football field.
“Room 162?” Ceepak says to the lady behind the concierge desk.
She gapes and gawks. I think she's sort of in shock. Usually, she helps people book restaurant reservations and deep-sea fishing expeditions. Her typical day doesn't involve many heavily armed SWAT teams asking for directions.
“Room 1-6-2?” Ceepak says again.
Other people in the lobby have started to notice our weapons. I suspect panic is soon to follow.
The concierge points to her left.
“First floor,” she says. “Go to the elevators, turn right.”
“Danny?” Ceepak says over his shoulder, as we run past a stand of potted palms.
“Yes sir?”
“Bring up the rear. You're the last one in, understand?”
My partner's looking out for me, the guy without a gun.
“Yes, sir.”
We make the turn and head down a long hall. There are trays sitting on the floor outside doors, the remnants of room service, half-eaten breakfasts hidden under warming lids and pink napkins.
“Stand back!” We're in front of 162.
I take Ceepak's advice. I'll let him and Malloy kick down the door.
They both have good steel-toed shoes and, even better, they both have guns.
The door doesn't budge with their first whack. It's steel. Deadbolted.
Santucci's lugging this one-man battering ram that must weigh about fifty pounds.
“Do it!” the chief says.
Santucci grabs both handles and swings the cement-filled pipe wit
h everything he's got plus a grunt.
The door pops open.
Ceepak's first in, gun held forward in front of him.
“Clear,” he yells.
That's when it's okay for me to enter. I see curtains blowing near the sliding glass door that leads out to a small beachfront patio.
Ceepak checks it out. The patio's empty.
“Nothing,” he says.
The State CSI guy moves to the fax machine sitting on a desk.
“Inn-Fax,” he says, recognizing the make and model of the beige box.
He pulls on his latex gloves and punches a button.
“Log,” he says. The guy is such a pro, he doesn't waste time speaking in complete sentences. “Printing now.”
The machine whirs and groans and spits out a sheet of curling thermal paper.
“What's the story?” the chief asks.
“Auto-Send.”
“Come again?”
“The machine's time delay function.”
“So we got the fax a half an hour ago,” Ceepak says, “but when did he load it in?”
“10 A.M.”
Maybe Squeegee has more unbaked brain cells that I gave him credit for.
“Damn,” the chief says. “Dust the keypad for prints. Search the room.”
“Watch where you step, gentlemen,” Ceepak says. “Could be evidence underfoot—”
“May I be of any assistance, officers?”
“Stay where you are!” Santucci shouts, training his weapon on this old guy in the door.
It's the hotel's security chief. I can tell because he's wearing gray polyester pants and a blue blazer with an embroidered patch on the pocket. He holds up his hands so nobody in the room will shoot him. The radio clipped to his belt squawks and he thinks twice before lowering one hand to twist any knobs. When the squelch is silenced, his hand goes back up.
“Who was in this room?” the chief asks.
“Nobody,” the security guy answers.
“Nobody?”
“It's been empty for weeks. Fly infestation.”
Now that he mentions it, I notice dozens of little black specks scattered across the bedspread and the pillowcases and the carpet. Guess they aren't raisins.
“We've been fumigating, letting the room air out.”
“Did you purposely leave the patio door unlocked?” Ceepak asks.
“No,” the security guy says. “But unless you throw the safety latch up top there, you can pop it open from the outside with a screwdriver. I told maintenance we should change that.”
“Yeah,” Ceepak says, examining the u-bolt latch. “So our guy can come in off the beach … if he has a screwdriver….”
“Or a Popsicle stick,” the chief says, shaking his head.
“Hey, like I said….”
“We're not mad at you, sir,” Ceepak says. “We're mad at the situation.”
The security guy nods. “This have to do with that missing kid?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Ceepak says, adding, “You don't have to hold your hands over your head like that.”
The guy lowers his arms.
“Are there security cameras? Outside?”
“No. I told management we should put in a system. They gave me their standard answer—costs too much.”
“Yeah.”
“You want I should block off the hallway here? Reroute foot traffic?”
“It'd be much appreciated.” Once again, Ceepak stays calm while the angry storm swirls around him.
“Watch it near that door,” the State guy now says, indicating that Ceepak should step away from the patio. “High potential for footprints in that quadrant.”
Ceepak moves back and looks down at the tight weave in the industrial-strength carpet. “Boot print impression near threshold.”
“Timberland?” the state guy asks.
“Affirmative.”
“Malloy?” This from the chief. “You and Santucci go out the exit at the end of the corridor and circle back to the beach outside this patio. See if you can pick up any trace of our guy. See if he dropped anything, left any more boot prints….”
“We're on it.”
They bolt.
“Jesus.” It's the state guy. He just slid open the drawer in the desk under the fax machine. I have a hunch he isn't reacting to the free Sea Spray Hotel post cards he has just found in there.
“What is it?” Ceepak asks. We all move a little closer, watching where we step.
He dips into the drawer with his tweezers and pulls out a sheet of Sea Spray stationery. I can see there's a Polaroid taped to it.
It's a photo of Ashley Hart.
Squeegee must have forced her to put on makeup: lipstick, rouge, mascara—the works. Then he had her tease up her hair so it looks all slutty. In the bleached-out Polaroid, Harriet Ashley Hart looks like something off an Internet porno site. She's wearing a beaded tank top with skinny spaghetti straps that hugs her chest and shows us she's definitely reached puberty.
You can read the fear in her eyes.
Below her small breasts and bare midriff, she holds this morning's newspaper. The one with the big photograph of her mom crying on the front page.
The Polaroid proves Ashley was alive this morning when the paper came out.
What's scribbled beneath the picture proves Squeegee is totally twisted:
BRING ME MY MONEY OR
I'LL MAKE HER PAY
IN SOME OTHER WAY.
XXXOOO
“SQUEEGEE”
P.S.
SEND THE MONEY WITH CEEPAK
ASHLEY SAYS I CAN TRUST CEEPAK
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“You need to be the one on TV,” the chief says to Ceepak. Ceepak nods.
We're standing around the police cars parked higgledy-piggledy in front of the Sea Spray Hotel. Several state police and some local guys are scouring the beach, looking for clues.
Our man was here. Not so long ago. Popped in through the patio door and helped himself to the inn-fax. Who knows—maybe Squeegee even ordered room service. Anything's possible with this screwball.
There's a long line of tourists standing next to suitcases and luggage carts outside the lobby doors. The line snakes back inside, past the concierge desk. Everybody's waiting for the valet parking guys to bring their cars up from the garage so they can get the hell out. Squeegee seems to have that effect on people. So does seeing a SWAT team running through your hotel lobby. It's only July 11th, but summer might be over in Sea Haven.
The chief checks his watch.
“We were supposed to do the press conference at 1100.”
“Let's do it at 1130,” Ceepak says.
He's talking to the chief but looking up and down the road, searching for any sign of the enemy. The picture of Ashley was the last straw—this thing is extremely personal now.
“The FBI should be at headquarters….”
“Yeah.”
Ceepak scans the horizon.
“Let's wait to see what they say,” the chief suggests.
“Yeah.”
“They deal with these kidnapper loony-tunes all the time. And we need some goddamn specifics. Where the hell do we make the drop and pick up the girl? The scum is pretty damn vague about the goddamn particulars.”
Ceepak is only half-listening.
He turns to the chief.
“There's only one way to be certain,” he says quietly.
“Yeah. I know. You need to take him out, John. Eliminate his potential to do more damage.”
Ceepak stares across the road at a plastic bag blowing in the branches of a tree.
“I have an M23 SWS in my office,” the chief says.
“How's the scope?”
“Dead on.”
“That'll work.”
I figure SWS must be military mumbo-jumbo for some kind of rifle, because I remember one of Ceepak's many medals.
Marksmanship.
“I'm Christopher Morgan.”
T
his big man in a dark suit is waiting for us when we return to headquarters.
“FBI Critical Incident Response Group. You Ceepak?”
“Yes, sir. This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”
“Boyle.” Morgan nods in my general direction but fixes his attention on Ceepak. It's easy for these two guys to see eye to eye because they're both six-two and look like they play on the same football team. If Morgan wasn't black, he could be Ceepak's brother.
“We're here to help,” Morgan says.
“Appreciate that.”
“The FBI's primary objective in these instances is always the safe return of the victim. Once Ashley Hart is home, we'll move on to phase two: nailing the bastard who did it.”
“That'll work.”
“Any idea why the bad guy wants you involved?”
“I'm not sure.”
Morgan flips through some pages in his yellow legal pad.
“You talk to her mom?” Ceepak asks.
“Yeah.”
“How's she holding up?”
“Good. All things considered. I told her to grab some air, take a quick walk around the block.”
“What about the reporters?”
“She can handle them,” Morgan assures us. “Used to be in TV, herself. Told me she carries a wig and an ugly-ass floppy hat in her handbag at all times. Helps her avoid her adoring public when she's not in the mood to be adored.”
“Smart lady.”
“Well,” Morgan says, “the media awaits. You ready for your close-up, Mr. Ceepak?”
“Sure. Right after you tell me what I say.”
Morgan hands him a sheet of paper. “Make it your own, but those are your talking points. This guy Squeegee? He'll be watching. Or listening. They usually do. It's how they get their rocks off. They like to watch you squirm a little before their big payday.”
“So I'm talking directly to him?” Ceepak says, his eyes skimming the page of notes.
“Right. Just look him in the eyes and let the son of a bitch know you're his best friend in the whole damn world.”
* * *
There are about a hundred microphones set up in front of our porch steps.
Mayor Sinclair, Chief Cosgrove, Christopher Morgan (very FBI with his Ray-Ban sunglasses and suit), and Ceepak stand on the second step, looking like some kind of four-man boys’ choir.
The TV people are all over our lawn. Thank God it's gravel. If it were grass, it'd be dead. Behind the circle of reporters is an army of big guys lugging video cameras and fuzzy microphones on poles. Behind them are the other TV people—the young ones with clipboards, the ones who stare at monitors and keep a cell phone stuck to one ear at all times.