David Putnam - The Replacements

“She’s in prison doing life times two. You think maybe Jonas went to visit her? Maybe he told her about his plans to snatch these kids? That’s a long shot, but maybe.”

I muttered, more to myself than to Mack, “Not unless he has a fake ID. Felons aren’t allowed to visit.” I continued to pinch the tab for Elena, too hard, not wanting to turn to the pages. Bella had shot herself in the chest, just as she had Jonas, with a.22, a small-caliber pistol that deflected off her breastbone. Like Jonas, she had come close to dying, but survived. Mack dialed his phone as he drove, got Wicks back on the line. “Hey, it’s me again,” Mack said. “You might have someone go visit Bella Mabry in the joint to check and see if Jonas came to see her.”

The rest of their conversation faded into the background of the passing cars, the miles of salt cedar that lined the freeway on the south side, and the rolling sand dunes. I flipped the tab and read.

Eight-year-old Elena was a foster child named Ellen Sims before adoption to the Cortez family, who legally changed her name. The Cortez family became the second family to adopt her. The first adoptive parent, Martin McGraw, molested her.

My stomach rolled and twisted in a knot. Who could this helpless little girl trust? Now, heaped upon poor Ellen’s trials-add kidnapped by a psychopath. She’d only been with the Cortez family a short time after the adoption was finalized before Jonas had grabbed her.

I flipped over to “Sandy Williams” for further confirmation. Sandy’s life did not read much better. Sandy Collins came to the Williams family only six months prior. Sandy, only seven, testified against her father, who had killed her mother with a knife, all but beheading the mother right in front of her. After the horrific incident, Sandy never spoke again. Her testimony in court relied on two flash cards, one “yes” and one “no.” A mute unable to, if the opportunity presented itself while kidnapped, ask anyone for help.

I looked at the pictures of the little girls and knew I was right. “Tell Wicks it’s a little boy. She should be looking for a missing little boy, not another girl.”

“She wants to know how you know that?”

“Tell her she can raise the money for the exchange, but it’s not about the money. He doesn’t intend to give the kids back. He’s going to take the money and run.”

Mack looked back at the road and said to Wicks into the cell, “What? You’re kidding. All right. All right. We’re about thirty minutes out.”

“Right.”

He hung up, reached under the dash, and switched on the lights and siren. He moved over into the emergency lane and passed cars, the T-Bird doing 100 with little room between the K-rail.

Age had mellowed and smoothed off my rough edges. This reckless maneuver scared the hell out of me. I couldn’t read the file anymore. I pushed my imaginary brake into the floor and held on to the door and dash. Over the loud din, I asked, “What’s changed? What’s happened?”

Mack kept both hands on the wheel, his eyes straight ahead, “The FBI just walked into the incident command center and took over, relieved Wicks of command and control.”

“Why is that so bad? They have the resources and the manpower to put the boots on the ground, which is what this investigation needs.”

“The Feebies have been playing hide-and-seek with their information.”

“Nothing new with that. What do they have? Why are we hauling ass?”

“They’ve got an eye on Jonas Mabry. They’re following him right now.”

I raised my voice over the siren, “You know, if the FBI grabs Jonas and he doesn’t tell them where the kids are, they don’t have the ability to compel him to talk, not with a triple kidnap charge hanging over his head. He’s got nothing to lose.”

Mack leaned forward a little, his eyes intent on the task at hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know. What do you want me to do about it?”

“I’m just thinking out loud.”

“All they can offer Jonas is a lighter sentence on the three counts of kidnapping, but if we never find the kids, we don’t have the kidnapping to offer the lower sentences on. He keeps his mouth shut, he walks.”

“And unless Jonas has someone helping him, the kids will wither and die wherever they are. Mack, those kids are all alone with no one-”

“I know, I know. You got any ideas?”

“I do.”

“What? Spill it, because I got nothing.” The freeway opened up for several miles ahead, and he pulled into the number one lane closest to the center divider. I breathed a little easier. He shut down the siren and kept the red light to the front, kept the speed at 100.

“There’s really only one option,” I said.

He took his eyes off the road for a long, dangerous second and looked at me. He jerked his head back and shook it from side to side. “You’re crazier than a shithouse mouse, you know that?”

“There’s no other option.”

His Adam’s apple rose up and fell as he swallowed hard. “Okay, I’m with you, but we leave Wicks out of it. We do this, just you and me.”

“I agree.”

We rode in silence. “Couple of BMFs doing what’s right?” he asked.

I understood what he said, a way of justifying our actions, ones that ventured far beyond where the Violent Crimes Team used to work in the gray area. We intended going deep into the black, the dark on the other side of the law, and, if caught, neither of us would see daylight the rest of our days. We used to have a saying for when crooks took this path: running head-on into “the other side of forever.”

Mack said, “First, we’ll need to stop at the Valley Suites and pick up a couple FBI radios.”

I nodded as my mind tried to ferret out an option where I didn’t have to involve Mack. I needed a diversion, a good one. I couldn’t wait for an opportunity to pop up. I had to create my own.

“Talk to me, Bruno, what are you thinking? I know what you’re thinking-you’re thinking of leaving me holding my dick in my hand and doing this thing on your own.”

When you worked the same job using the same tactics for so long, reading a partner’s mind came natural. “Tell me about Karl Drago,” I said.

Up ahead in the fast lane, we quickly approached a slower-moving black BMW. Mack changed lanes without signaling, passed the BMW, and changed back to the fast lane. Mack asked, “What? Who?”

“Karl Drago, the guy-”

“I know Karl Drago. He’s the guy we were set up on when the kidnappings went down and I got pulled off. He’s got nothing to do with this.”

I needed Mack thinking in a different direction, a diversion, however minor. And maybe one we could rally into a larger one later on. I said, “The FBI’s going to be spread thin working a mobile surveillance on Jonas, hunting for that third kid, and trying to keep an eye on Karl Drago. They’ll put every available agent out in the field.”

“I agree,” he said, “but how does that help us?”

“We might be able to use Karl Drago as a diversion, to pull away manpower.”

Mack slowly nodded as he wrapped his mind around a tactic with little validity. “All right, but I don’t know how we’d use him.”

“I don’t either, until I have more information.”

“Drago did two tours in the California prison system for murder. Did twenty-five to life on both. This was before ‘three strikes’ came in. He did twelve-and-a-half years, got out on parole, killed again, and got another twenty-five to life. Did another twelve and a half years, and just now got out again. The second victim killed wasn’t a taxpayer. The only reason we’re on him twenty-four seven is because if he kills a third time, it’s going to make a lot of people look like buffoons.”