Robert Crais - Hostage

“Hey, Chief. I thought you went seven.”

Seven was the code for taking a meal break, but it was also slang for going off duty. Talley let himself through the gate that separated the public space from the desks without making eye contact. He didn’t want conversation.

“I’ve got more to do.”

“What’s happening out at the house?”

“The Sheriffs have it.”

Sarah waved from the communications bay. She was a retired public school teacher with bright red hair who worked the job because she enjoyed it. Talley nodded at her, but didn’t stop to chat the way he ordinarily would. He went straight to the NLETS computer.

Sarah called, “I thought you went home?”

“More to do.”

“Isn’t that sad about that little boy? What happened with that?”

“I just stopped by to look up something. I’ve got to get back to the house.”

He made his manner brusque to discourage her.

Talley typed in the Mustang’s license number, 2KLX561, and requested a California Department of Motor Vehicles search.

“Ah, Chief, I’d like to get some time out there. You know, at the house.”

Kenner had come up behind him, looking hopeful. Talley leaned forward to block the computer’s screen.

“Call Anders. Tell him I said to rotate you out there at the shift change.”

Talley turned back to the computer.

“Ah, Chief? You think I could work the perimeter?”

Talley blocked the screen again, letting his annoyance show.

“You want some trigger time? That it, Kenner?”

Kenner shrugged.

“Well, yes, sir.”

“See Anders.”

Talley stared at Kenner until he returned to the front desk. The DMV search came back, showing that license plate 2KLX561 was currently an unregistered listing. Next, he typed in the name Walter Smith and ran it through the National Crime Information Center, limiting the search to white males in the Southwest within a ten-year time frame. The NCIC search kicked back one hundred twenty-eight hits. That was too many. Talley could have limited the search if he had Smith’s middle name, but he didn’t. He cut the frame to five years, tried again, and this time got thirty-one hits. He skimmed the results. Twenty-one of the thirty-two arrestees were currently incarcerated, and the remaining ten were too young. As far as the law enforcement computer network knew, the Walter Smith who lived in York Estates was just another upstanding American with something in his house that men were willing to kill for.

Talley deleted the screen, then tried to recall as many details as possible about the three men and the woman who kidnapped him. The woman: short dark hair that cupped her face, five-five, slender, light-colored blouse and skirt; it had been too dark to see any more. The three men had worn nicely tailored sport coats, gloves, and masks; he had noticed no identifying characteristics. He tried to remember background noise from when he spoke with Jane, some telling sound that could identify her location, but there had been none.

Talley took out the Watchman’s phone, wondering if a print could be lifted. It was a new black Nokia. The phone’s battery indicator showed a full charge. Talley felt a sudden fear that the battery would fail, and he would never hear from Jane and Amanda again. He trembled as the panic grew, then forced those thoughts down. Think . The cell phone was his link to the people who had Jane and Amanda, a link that might lead back to them. If the Watchman had called Jane’s location, that number would be in the memory. Talley’s heart pounded. He pressed redial. No number came up. Talley checked the phone’s stored memory, but no numbers were listed. Think!!! If the people holding Jane had phoned the Watchman, Talley might be able to reverse-dial the number with the star 69 feature. He pressed star 69. Nothing happened. Talley’s heart pounded harder; he wanted to smash the fucking phone. He wanted to throw it against the wall, then stomp it to splinters. Goddamnit, THINK!!! Someone had paid for the phone and was paying for its service. Talley turned off the phone, then turned it back on. As the view screen lit, the phone’s number appeared. 555-1367. Talley wanted to jump up and pump his fist. He copied the number, his only lead.

Then Talley realized he had another lead: Walter Smith. Smith could identify these people, Smith had what they wanted, and Smith might even be able to tell him where they had taken Jane and Amanda. Smith had answers. All Talley had to do was reach him.

And get him out of that house.

Talley called Larry Anders when he was five minutes from the development, saying to meet him inside the south entrance, and to wait there alone. The traffic passing the development was less than it had been earlier, but a long line of gawkers still made the going slow once Talley turned off Flanders Road. He burped his siren to make them pull to the side, then waved himself through the blockade.

Anders was parked on the side of the road. Talley pulled up behind him and flicked his lights. Anders walked back to Talley’s window, looking nervous.

“What’s up, Chief?”

“Where’s Metzger?”

“Up with the Sheriffs in case they need something. Did I do something?”

“Get in.”

Talley waited as Anders walked around the front of the car and climbed in. Anders wasn’t the oldest person on his department, but he was the senior officer in years served, and Talley respected him. He thought again that the man in the ski mask had someone here, and wondered if that person was Larry Anders. Talley recalled a photograph that had appeared in the Los Angeles Times , one taken at the day-care center that showed Spencer Morgan, the man who had held the children hostage, holding a gun to Talley’s head. Talley thought of the trust it had taken for him to stand there while his friend Neal Craimont lined up the crosshairs.

Anders squirmed.

“Jesus, Chief, why are you staring at me like that?”

“I have something for you to do. You’re not to tell anyone else what you’re doing, not Metzger, not the other guys, not the Sheriffs, no one; just tell them that I want you to run down some background info, but don’t tell them what. You understand me, Larry?”

Anders replied slowly.

“I guess so.”

“I can’t have you guessing. Either you can keep your mouth shut or you can’t. This is important.”

“This isn’t something illegal, is it, Chief? I really like being a cop. I couldn’t do something illegal.”

“It’s police work, the real thing. I want you to find out as much as you can about Walter Smith.”

“The guy in the house?”

“I believe he’s involved in illegal activity or associates with people who are. I need to find out what that is. Talk to the neighbors, but don’t be obvious about it. Don’t tell anyone what you’re doing or what you suspect. Try to find out whatever you can about him, where he’s from, stuff like that; his business, his clients, anything that will give us a handle on him. It will help if you can learn his middle name. When you’ve finished here, go back to the office and run him through the FBI and the NLETS database. I went back five years, but you go back twenty.”

Anders cleared his throat. He was uncomfortable with all this.

“What’s the problem with telling our guys? I mean, why not?”

“Because that’s the way I want it, Larry. I have a good reason, I just can’t tell you right now, but I’m trusting that you’ll keep your word.”

“I will, Chief. Yes, sir, I will.”

Talley gave him the Nokia’s cell phone number.

“Before you do any of that, I want you to trace this cell phone number. You can do this by phone from here. Find out who it’s billed to. If you need a court order, call the Palmdale District Court. They have a judge on page for night work. Sarah has the number.”