Robert Crais - Hostage

“Uh-huh. Just like you said, Disk One and Disk Two.”

“Tell me what you got when you opened them.”

“I got one open right now.”

“Okay, tell me what you see.”

Talley patted himself down for his pad and pen in case he had to write.

Thomas described a list of files named for companies that Talley didn’t recognize, anonymous names like South-gate Holdings and Desert Entertainment. Then Thomas mentioned two more companies: Palm Springs Ventures and The Springs Winery. There was the Palm Springs connection: Smith’s home had been built by a Palm Springs contractor. Talley had Thomas open the Palm Springs Ventures file, but from Thomas’s descriptions it sounded like a balance sheet or some kind of profit-and-loss statement without identifying the individuals involved. Talley scratched down the names on his pad.

“Open the files and see if there are any names.” After a second, Thomas said, “All I see is numbers. It’s money.”

“Okay. Open the other disk. Tell me what that one says.”

Even the few seconds that it took Thomas to change the disks seemed to take forever, Talley sweating every moment of it that the boy would be discovered. But then Thomas read off file names and Talley knew that this was the one: Black, White, Up Money, Down Money, Transfers, Source, Cash Receipts, and others. Thomas was still reading file names when Talley stopped him.

“That’s enough. The file named Black. Open that one.”

“It’s more files.”

“Named what?”

“I think it’s states. CA, AZ, NV, FL. Is NV Nevada?”

“Yeah, that’s Nevada. Open California.”

Thomas described a long table that went on for pages listing names that Talley didn’t recognize, along with dates and payments received. Talley grew antsy. This was taking too much time.

“Read off more of the file names.”

Thomas read off six or seven more names when Talley stopped him again.

“Open that one. Corporate Taxes.”

“Now there’s more numbers, but I think they’re years. Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, like that.”

“Open this year.”

“It’s a tax form that my dad makes up to send to the government.”

“Up at the top of the page, does it say whose tax it is, maybe a company name?” The boy didn’t answer.

“Thomas?”

“I’m looking.”

Talley glanced toward the cul-de-sac. Martin was watching him. She held his eye for a moment, then said something to Hicks and came toward him, hunched over to stay under cover of the cars.

“It says Family Enterprises.”

“But there’s no one’s name?”

“Uh-uh.”

Talley wanted to look at the disks himself; if he could see them he knew he could find what he needed instead of depending on a ten-year-old boy.

“Look for something like Officers or Executive Compensation, something like that.”

Martin had cleared the line of police vehicles and was out of the line of fire from the house. She straightened and came toward him. He held up his hand to warn her off, but she frowned and kept coming.

Martin said, “I want to talk to you.”

“In a minute.”

“It’s important.”

Talley moved away from her, annoyed.

“When I’m off the phone.”

His tone stopped her. Martin’s eyes hardened angrily, but she kept her distance.

Thomas said, “Here it is.”

“You found the name?”

“Yeah, there’s a place called Compensation to Officers, but there’s only one guy listed.”

“Who?”

“Charles G. Benza.”

Talley stared at the ground. The cool night air suddenly felt close. Talley looked at the house, then glanced at Martin. Talley had been wrong. Walter Smith wasn’t a mobster with something valuable in his house. The boy’s father kept Sonny Benza’s books. That’s what it had to be: Smith was Benza’s accountant, and he had Benza’s financial records. It was all right there in Smith’s house, enough to put Benza away and his organization out of business. Right here in Bristo Camino.

Talley sighed deeply, the breath venting from his core in a way that seemed to carry his strength with it. This was why people were willing to kidnap and murder. Smith could put them out of business. Smith knew their secrets and could put them away. The mob. The men in the car were the mob. The head of the largest crime family on the West Coast had Jane and Amanda.

Thomas’s voice suddenly came fast and thin.

“Someone’s coming. I gotta go.”

The line went dead.

Martin put her hands on her hips.

“Are you going to talk to me now?”

“No.”

Talley ran for his car. If the disks could put Benza away, so could Walter Smith. He radioed Metzger at the hospital as he ran.

THOMAS

Thomas heard the nail being pried from his door. He jerked the computer’s plug from the wall, then vaulted onto his bed, shoving the cell phone under the covers as the door opened. Kevin stepped inside, carrying a paper plate with two slices of pizza and a Diet Coke.

“I brought you something to eat.”

Thomas pushed his hands between his crossed legs, trying to hide the fact that he wasn’t tied, but the tape he’d stripped from his wrists was in plain sight on the floor. Kevin stopped when he saw it, then glared.

“You little shit. I oughta kick your ass.”

“It hurt my wrists.”

“Fuckit, I don’t guess it matters anyway.”

Thomas was relieved that he didn’t seem too upset. Kevin handed over the pizza and soda, then checked the nails that held the windows closed. Thomas worried that he would notice that the computer was in a different spot, but Kevin seemed inside himself.

Kevin made sure that the windows were secure, then leaned against the wall as if he needed the support to keep his feet. His eyes seemed to find everything in the room, every toy and book, every piece of furniture, the clothes strewn in the corner, the posters on the walls, the smashed phone thrown on the floor, the TV, the CD player, even the computer against the wall, all with an expression that seemed empty.

Kevin’s gaze finally settled on Thomas.

“You’re fucking lucky.”

Kevin pushed off the wall and went to the door.

Thomas said, “When are you leaving my house?”

“Never.”

Kevin left without looking back and pulled the door closed.

Thomas waited.

The nail was hammered back into the doorjamb. The floor squeaked as Kevin moved away.

Thomas tried to count to one hundred, but stopped at fifty and once more made his way to the closet. He wanted to know what they were planning. He also wanted the gun.

Saturday, 12:02 A.M.

Canyon Country, California

MARION CLEWES

The Canyon Country Hospital sat between two mountain ridges in a pool of blue light. It was modern and low, not more than three stories at its tallest, and sprawled across the parking lot. Marion thought it looked like one of those overnight dot-com think tanks you see in the middle of nowhere, sprung up overnight at a freeway off-ramp, all earth-colored stone and mirrored glass.

Marion cruised around the hospital, finding the emergency room entrance at the rear. Friday night, a little after midnight, and the place was virtually deserted. Marion knew hospitals that saw so much action on Friday nights they ran double ER staffs and you could hear screams from a block away. The Santa Clarita Valley must be a very nice place to live, he thought. He was liking everything he found about it.

The small parking area outside the ER showed only three cars and a couple of ambulances, but four news vehicles were parked off to the side. Marion expected this, so he wasn’t put off. He parked close to the entrance with the nose of his car facing the drive, then went into the hospital.