Джеймс Паттерсон - The 18th Abduction

Anna screamed at him in her native language.

“You. I see you. I know you. I know how to find you. I’m calling the police. No, the FBI.”

The man with the gray beard and hair gestured Sorry, but Anna knew that he’d rammed her on purpose. It was a warning. She went back to her car, leaned all the way in, and got her purse from the footwell.

She would take pictures of the man and his license plate. Then she would call Joe. She was so consumed by this task, she never heard the footsteps behind her.

Chapter 85

Joe was on Tenth Avenue at California, waiting for the light to turn, when his phone buzzed.

Lindsay was texting him, saying that she was sorry. She was jammed up at work, not sure when she would be home, and he should go ahead and have dinner without her.

He texted back, No problem. CU later.

Joe had spent the day immersed in the Petrović files, saturated with the man’s documented cruelty, as certain as Lindsay that Petrović had killed Carly Myers and Adele Saran. And also like Lindsay, he had nothing to prove it.

He checked the GPS and saw the pulsing blip representing the blue Jaguar, motionless on California near Tony’s Place. He made a turn and ten minutes later Joe was parked on the corner where he had an unobstructed view of the opposite corner and the brightly lit Place for Steak.

Joe phoned Robert Diano and Bill Ennis, the team assigned to the restaurant. He told them that he was relieving them for an hour, that they should take a break. Diano reported back that they would be at the pizzeria on Bush Street.

Joe watched them head out, and he took over the surveillance of the Jag and the restaurant. A minute later, as if Joe had materialized him, Petrović, holding a paper bag, left the restaurant, waved at him, and crossed the street directly to where Joe sat in the Toyota.

What the hell?

“Hey,” he called out, “Joe Molinari.”

Petrović shook the bag like he had a mouse in there and he was letting his pet owl know that Daddy was home with something tasty.

Joe ran through his options and quickly settled on his only move. He got out of the car and spoke to Petrović over the roof.

“Tony, right?”

Petrović said, “You hungry, Joe?”

Joe said, “How’d you know?”

He smiled, walked around the back of the car, and stretched out his hand for a friendly shake. Petrović did the same. Joe feinted, grabbed Petrović by the knot of his tie, spun him, and shoved him hard against the car.

The big man expelled air and, having been thrown off-balance, tripped over his feet, stumbled, and fell to the pavement. He raged, “Are you crazy, attacking a civilian?”

Joe had his gun in his hand. He pointed the muzzle at the Butcher’s head.

Petrović said, “What are you doing? I’m trying to be a nice guy. I brought you dinner.”

“I know who you are, Petrović,” Joe said. “I wouldn’t call you a civilian. I could shoot you now and become an overnight international hero. I’ve thought about it, and instead I’m going to give you a warning.”

Petrović was grinning, but he wasn’t pushing back.

He must have known that Joe didn’t need much of an excuse, that he probably had a throw-down weapon in the car. That the dash cam was off. If he were in Petrović’s place, that’s what Joe would be thinking. The FBI would win this one.

Joe said, “Bike girl is under FBI protection. Hurt her, and I’m dragging you back to Bosnia myself.”

“You mixed me up with someone else, Joe. She’s not my type. I like them younger. And prettier.”

Joe glared at Petrović for another moment, then said, “Get up.”

Petrović had to use his hands and knees to leverage himself to a standing position, then he dusted himself off with his large hands. He said, “We have to do this again sometime. Did I say that right?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Joe said. “Next time dinner’s on me.”

Petrović smiled, turned, and limped back to the restaurant.

Joe got into his car, while keeping his eyes on Petrović. His pulse was pounding hard, as if he’d sprinted five miles. He was furious at himself, not because he’d crossed a line with Petrović, but that Petrović had made him—twice—and made sure Joe knew it.

Petrović was playing with him.

Joe had a kit in the trunk. He got out an evidence bag, retrieved Petrović’s doggy bag from where it had fallen, sealed and tagged it.

He called Rob Diano and told him what had occurred, adding, “I have to go to the office.”

“We’re on our way back to your location,” said the agent.

When Diano and Ennis pulled up alongside him, Joe waved, then drove to the FBI branch on Golden Gate Avenue.

He knew Petrović would be gunning for him. He hoped so. He’d like a clean shot at this piece of filth. He’d really like to put him down.

Chapter 86

Twenty-four hours after his encounter with Petrović, Joe was in his office, getting ready to head out and salvage some of his Saturday, when Agent Rob Diano called and delivered the chilling news.

“We lost Petrović. I don’t know how, he—”

Joe interrupted. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Molinari, it’s complicated. Hear me out. Last night at twenty-three hundred we followed him from his steak joint to his house. The car didn’t move all night. We had eyes on it throughout. Seven a.m. the car was still in front of the house when we hand him off to Carroll and Bartoff.

“Carroll turns on the GPS, and the monitor shows the car is moving. But he sees it—parked right there on Fell. Plates check out—Petrović’s Jag—but the blip on the screen is moving. Obviously, the subject switched out the tracker, put it on another vehicle. So where is he? Did he leave the house on foot through the backyard overnight and someone gave him a lift? That’s my guess. Sorry, Molinari. We can’t cover all the bases at the same—”

Just then Carroll phoned from the Fell Street location. Without waiting for Joe to speak, he said, “Molinari. The Jag is still outside the house on Fell. I followed the signal and found the tracker on a florist’s delivery truck. We’re on it now. Sunshine Florist, white panel van, on Fair Oaks.”

“Shit.”

“I pulled them over, nice as pie. ‘Would you mind? We’re looking for a criminal.’ No problem. They’re father and son doing their store’s deliveries. We checked out the van. Nobody in there. No cigar fumes. Nothing but flowers. Ran Sunshine’s license, registration, plates. They’re clean. Showed them a picture of Tony. They don’t know him. We pulled the tracking device, so when you see the Jag moving, it’s us. We’re coming in to file a report.”

Joe hung up, thinking that he hadn’t heard from Anna in more than a day. Now that they’d lost Petrović, he felt alarmed. He called her, left a message, asked her to return his call. He texted her. No response. He called the general phone line at the Tesla dealership. After a ring he heard, “Sales, this is Dale Winston.”

Joe said, “Can you put me through to Anna Sotovina?”

“And who may I say is calling?” Winston asked.

“Joe Molinari, FBI.”

“Oh. Anna’s not here. Actually, she didn’t come in today. That’s not like her. In fact, I’m worried. She’s a very disciplined person, but she’s forgetting things, showing up late. And now—this is the worst. I don’t know why I trusted her.”

Winston explained to Joe that Anna had needed to use a loaner overnight, was supposed to return it to the shop this morning by nine. She hadn’t come in with the car, and he hadn’t been able to reach her.

Joe took down details on the vehicle, left an urgent message for Anna with Winston, hung up, and made notes to the file.