Robert Crais - Hostage

Benza, irritated, glowered at the televisions, two pictures, one showing the house with a bunch of SWAT cops out front, the other some blonde dyke being interviewed, short hair slicked back, dressed like a man.

“Could we get close? Now. Not owning the cops, but now.”

Howell thought about it.

“Okay, look, I don’t have a TV. I’m not seeing what you’re seeing right now, okay? But I know Smith’s house and I’m familiar with the neighborhood, so I’m going to say yeah. We could probably get close.”

Benza looked at Tuzee and Salvetti.

“How about we burn it down? Right now, tonight. Get some guys in there with some accelerant, everybody’s gonna know it’s arson so who gives a shit what, torch the place, burn it to the ground.”

He spread his hands, looking at them, hopeful.

Salvetti shrugged, unimpressed.

“No way to know the disks would be destroyed. Not for sure. I promise you this, if Smith has any of that stuff in his security room, it isn’t gonna burn. Then we’re fucked.”

Benza stared at the floor, ashamed of himself, thinking what a stupid idea, burn the place.

Tuzee leaned back now, crossing his arms, stared at the ceiling.

“Okay, look. Here it is the way I see it: If these kids were going to give up, they would’ve given up. Something’s keeping them in that house, I don’t know what, but they’re sticking. The more cops pile up around that place, the more likely we are to have a breached entry.”

Salvetti sat forward, raising a hand like he was in class, interrupting.

“Wait. Call me crazy, but how about this? Why don’t we just call’m? Talk to these dicks ourselves, cut a deal.”

Howell’s voice hissed from the speaker.

“The lines are blocked. The cops did that.”

“Smith’s regular lines, maybe, but not our lines. We pay extra for those lines.”

Tuzee was saying, “What do you mean, cut a deal?”

“We lay it out for these assholes who they’re dealing with, say they think they’re in trouble with the cops, they haven’t seen the kinda trouble we can bring down. We cut a deal, pay’m something like fifty K to give up, we’ll provide the lawyers, all of that.”

“No fuckin’ way. Uh-uh.”

“Why?”

“You want to tell three punk assholes our business? Jesus, Sally.”

Salvetti fell silent, embarrassed.

Benza caught Tuzee looking at him, resigned.

“What, Phil?”

Tuzee slumped in his chair, more tired now than ever.

“Talley’s family.”

“We’ve got a lot to think about with that.”

“I know. I’m thinking about it. Once we go down that road, no turning back.”

“You know where that ends, don’t you?”

“You’re the guy just suggested we burn the fucking house down, six people inside, the whole world watching.”

“I know.”

“We can’t just sit. We came damned close with what happened tonight, and now they’re looking at the building permits and God knows what else. That’s bad enough, but I’m worried about New York. I’m thinking, how long can we keep the lid on this?”

“We’ve got the lid on. I trust the guys we have on the scene.”

“I trust our guys, too, but old man Castellano is going to find out sooner or later. It’s bound to happen.”

“It’s only been a few hours.”

“However long it’s been, we need to get a handle on things before they find out. By the time that old man hears, we’ve gotta be able to tell him that we’re no longer a threat to him. We’ve gotta laugh about this over schnapps and cigars, else he’ll hand us our asses.”

Benza felt tired in his heart, but relieved, too. Comfort came with the decision.

“Glen?”

“I’m here, Sonny.”

“If we move on Talley like this, you got a man there who can handle it?”

“Yes, Sonny.”

“He can do whatever needs to be done? All the way?”

“Yes, Sonny. Can and will. I can handle the rest.” Benza glanced at Phil Tuzee, Tuzee nodding, then Salvetti, Salvetti ducking his head one time.

“Okay, Glen. Get it done.”

Friday, 11:40 P.M., Eastern time

8:40 P.M., Pacific time

New York City

VIC CASTELLANO

His wife was a light sleeper, so Vittorio “Vic” Castellano left their bedroom to take the call. He put on the thick terry-cloth bathrobe, the birthday present from his kids with Don’t Bug Me embroidered on the back, and gimped alongside Jamie Beldone to the kitchen. Beldone held a cell phone. On the other end of it was a man they employed to keep an eye on things in California.

Vic, seventy-eight years old and two weeks away from a hip replacement, poured a small glass of orange juice, but couldn’t bring himself to drink it. His stomach was already sour.

“You sure it’s this bad?”

“The police have the house locked down with all Benza’s records inside, including the books that link to us.”

“That sonofabitch. What’s in his records?”

“They show how much he kicks to us. I don’t know if it’ll show business by business, but it’s going to show something like that so he can keep track of where his money goes. If the Feds recover this, it will help them build an IRS case against you.”

Vic poured out the orange juice, then ran water in the glass. He sipped. Warm.

“It’s been how long this is going on?”

“About five hours now.”

Castellano checked the time.

“Does Benza know that we know?”

“No, sir.”

“That chickenshit sonofabitch. Heaven forbid he call to warn me like a real man. He’d rather let me get caught cold than have time to fuckin’ prepare.”

“He’s a piece of shit, skipper. That’s all there is to it.”

“What’s he doing about it?”

“He sent in a team. You know Glen Howell?”

“No.”

“Benza’s fixer. He’s good.”

“Do we have our own guy there?”

Beldone tipped the phone, nodding.

“He’s on the line now. I have to tell him what to do.”

Vic drank more of the warm water, then sighed. It was going to be a long night. He was already thinking of what he would say to his lawyers.

“Should we maybe get our own team in there?”

Beldone pursed his lips, then shook his head.

“We’d have to get the guys together, plus the five-hour plane flight; not enough time, Vic. It’s Sonny’s show. Sonny and Glen Howell.”

“I can’t believe that chickenshit hasn’t called me. What’s he thinkin’, back there?”

“He’s thinking that if it goes south, he’s going to run. He’s probably more afraid of you than the Feds.”

“He should be.”

Vic sighed again, then went to the door. Forty years as the boss of the most powerful crime family on the East Coast had taught him to worry about the things he could control, and let other people worry about the things he couldn’t.

He stopped in the door and turned back to Jamie Beldone.

“Sonny Benza is an incompetent asshole, and so was his fuckin’ father.”

“The Mickey Mouse mob, Vic. Brain damage from all the tan.”

“If it goes south, Sonny Benza isn’t goin’ anywhere. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If they fuck this up, they gotta pay.”

“They’ll pay for it, skipper.”

“I’m goin’ to bed. You let me know if anything happens.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vic Castellano shuffled back to his bed, but could not sleep.

Friday, 8:43 P.M.

TALLEY

Talley was in Mrs. Pena’s home with the Sheriffs, sipping her coffee, rich and heavy with brown sugar and cream though none of them had asked for it that way; she told them it was the Brazilian way. They were watching the security tape.