Robert Crais - Hostage

Marion was used to meeting Howell in places like this. Howell was never comfortable with him, and was probably afraid of him. He suspected that Howell didn’t even like him, but that was okay. They paid him well for doing what he enjoyed, and he did these things with a merciless dependability.

Marion stared at the woman. She crossed and recrossed her arms until she disappeared behind the fryer, frantic to escape his gaze. He shifted his stare to the parking lot. A fly droned past his ear. It was a black desert fly, fat with juice and thorny with coarse hair, kicking off green highlights in the cheesy fluorescent lights. It buzzed low over the table in an S-shaped course, swung slowly around, and landed in a sprinkle of sugar. Marion slapped it. He waited, holding his hand in place, feeling for movement. When Marion raised his hand, the fly oozed sideways, legs kicking, trying to walk. Marion watched it. The best it could do was drive itself in a pathetic circle. Marion examined his hand. A smear of fly goo and a single black leg streaked his third finger. He touched his tongue to the smear and tasted sugar. He watched the fly push itself in the circle. Gently, he held it in place with his left index finger, and used his right index fingernail to break away another leg. He ate it. Hmm. One by one, he broke away the fly’s legs and ate them. One wing was damaged, but the other beat furiously. He wondered what the fly was thinking.

Headlights flashed across the glass.

Marion glanced up to see Howell’s beautiful Mercedes pull to a stop. It was a lovely car. Marion watched Howell get out of the car and come inside. Marion pushed the fly to the side as Howell took a seat opposite him.

“There’s a woman in the back. I don’t think she speaks English, though.”

“This won’t take long.”

Howell spoke softly, getting down to business. He placed a slip of yellow paper on the table in front of Marion.

“Talley lives here. It’s a condo. I don’t have anything about what the place is like or if there’s security or anything like that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Here’s the drill: We have to own this guy-that’s straight from the top-and we don’t have a lot of time to mess around. I need you to find something we can use to twist him.”

Marion put the address away. He had done this kind of thing before, and knew what was needed. He would look for weakness. Everyone held their weakness close. He would copy bank account numbers; he would search for pornography and drugs, old love letters and sex toys, prescription medications and computer files. Maybe a lab report from a personal physician describing heart disease or phone records to another man’s wife. It could be anything. There was always something.

“Is he there now?”

“Don’t you listen to the news?”

Marion shook his head.

“He’s not home, but I can’t tell you when he will or won’t get back there. So be ready for that.”

“What if he walks in on me?”

Howell averted his eyes, reached a decision, then looked back.

“If he’s got you, kill him.”

“Okay.”

“Listen, we don’t want him dead. We want to control him. We need to use him. But if you’re caught, well, fuck it. Cap his ass.”

“What about later? After he’s used?”

“That’s up to Palm Springs.”

Marion accepted that. Sometimes they were kept alive because they could be used over and over, but most times he was allowed to finish the job. The finishing was his favorite part.

Howell said, “You have my pager number and my cell?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Page me when you’re done. Whether you find something or not, keep me in the loop.”

“What if there’s nothing in his home?”

“Then we’ll hit his office. That’ll be harder. He’s the chief of police.”

Howell got up without another word.

Marion watched the beautiful Mercedes slide away into the deepening twilight, then looked back at the fly. Its legless body lay on its side, still. Marion touched it. The remaining wing fluttered.

Marion said, “Poor fly.”

Marion carefully pulled out the remaining wing, then left to do his job.

Friday, 7:40 P.M.

TALLEY

The helicopters over York Estates switched on their lights to become brilliant stars. Talley didn’t like losing the sun. The creeping darkness changed the psychology of hostage takers and police officers alike. Subjects felt safer in the dark, hidden and more powerful, the night allowing them fantasies of escape. Perimeter guards knew this, so their stress level would rise as their efficiency decayed. Night laid the foundation for overreaction and death.

Talley stood by his car, sipping Diet Coke as his officers reported. Rooney’s employer, who believed that he could identify the unknown subject, had been located and was inbound; Walter Smith’s wife had not yet been found; Rooney’s parole officer from the Ant Farm had been identified but was in transit to Las Vegas for the weekend and could not be reached; ten large pizzas (half veggie, half meat) had just been delivered from Domino’s, but someone had forgotten napkins. Information was coming in so fast that Talley began to lose track, and it would come faster. He cursed that the Sheriffs hadn’t yet arrived.

Barry Peters and Earl Robb trotted up the street from their radio car. Robb was carrying his Maglite.

“We’re set with the phone company, Chief. PacBell shows six hard lines into the house, four of them listed, two unlisted. They blocked all six in and out like you wanted. No one else can call in on those numbers, and the only number they can reach calling out is your cell.”

Talley felt a dull relief; now he didn’t have to worry that some asshole would get the Smiths’ number and convince Rooney to murder his hostages.

“Good, Earl. Did we get more bodies from the Highway Patrol?”

“Four more ChiPs and two cars from Santa Clarita.”

“Put them on the perimeter. Have Jorgenson do it, because he knows what I told Rooney.”

“Yes, sir.”

Robb trotted away as Peters turned on his Maglite, lighting two floor plan sketches that had been made on typing paper.

“I worked these out with the neighbors, Chief. This is the upstairs, this is the downstairs.”

Talley grunted. They weren’t bad, but he wasn’t confident that they were accurate; details like window placement and closet location could be critical if a forced entry was required. Talley asked about architectural drawings.

“These are the best I could do; there wasn’t anything at the building commission.”

“There should be. This is a planned community. Every house plan in the development should be on file.”

Peters looked upset and embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, Chief. I called both the Antelope Valley and Santa Clarita building commissions, but they don’t have anything, either. You want me to try something else?”

“The Sheriffs are going to need those plans, Barry. Get hold of someone from the mayor’s office or one of the council people. Sarah has their home and work numbers. Tell them we need access to the permit office right away. Pull the permits you find and check the contractors. Somebody had to keep a set of file plans.”

As Peters hustled away, Larry Anders’s car rolled around the corner and pulled to a stop beside Talley. A slim, nervous man climbed from the passenger side.

“Chief, this is Brad Dill, Rooney’s employer.”

“Thanks for coming, Mr. Dill.”

“Okay.”

Talley knew that Dill owned a small cement-contracting business based in Lancaster. Dill had weathered skin from working in the sun and small eyes that kept glancing somewhere else. He had trouble maintaining eye contact.