Джеймс Паттерсон - The 18th Abduction

Still no answer.

Joe called down to SWAT. Six guys in tactical gear got out of their armored vehicle and ran up the stairs. Before they reached the front door, there was the sound of breaking glass and an unintelligible, masculine scream. Glass sprayed out from a window on the main floor.

I saw the muzzle of a gun poking out of the window, followed by three quick bursts of gunfire.

Joe shouted “Go!” to the SWAT guys, who had a battering ram. They caved in the locks, kicked in the door, tossed a flashbang into the house, and closed the door as much as possible.

The grenade discharged, shaking the windows. After a moment Joe and Diano shouldered the door in and entered the house, yelling, “FBI! Put your hands in the air!”

Conklin and I followed the Feds into a dark and smoky foyer lit by our flashlights and faint streetlights. To our right was what looked to be a large living room with a broken window, dimly lit by a TV.

Straight ahead, a carpeted staircase led to the top floor. To our left was the down staircase to the garage. Joe signed with his hands, directing me and Conklin upstairs, while he and his team took the living room and main floor.

SWAT split up, half taking the stairs down, the others staying inside the centrally located foyer.

I heard Joe yelling, “Hands on top of your heads. Face the wall!”

Joe was okay, thank God, so Conklin and I kept going. The top floor had to be bedrooms. I was thinking ahead to Susan and Anna, with a strong feeling that we were about to find them behind locked doors, alive. My partner was right behind me when we reached the top-floor landing. I was expecting an empty hallway, a row of doors, but there was a hulking and shadowy presence right in front of me.

I swung my light into his face.

“Stop right there,” he barked.

His arm was outstretched and there was a gun in his hand.

We were face-to-face with the monster, only ten feet away. If anyone fired, someone would die.

Chapter 102

Petrović was immense.

Much bigger in real life than I had imagined him. Six five? Six six? I still remember my heart beating in the red-line zone, but thank God, my training kicked in and overrode my near-paralytic shock.

I yelled, “Police! Drop the gun.”

Petrović didn’t move.

Conklin said reasonably, “Don’t make a mistake now, Tony. The house is full of cops. You’ll never leave here alive.”

Petrović paused to take that in; the flashbang, the shots, and the yelling downstairs. He said, “Okay, okay, look.”

He stooped, put his gun carefully on the carpet, held up his hands, saying, “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Conklin kicked the gun away as Petrović said, “I have a license for this. I thought you were robbers.”

My heart was still banging. I could feel it beating in my chest, my throat, behind my eyes.

Conklin said, “Turn around and grab the wall.”

I kept my gun on Petrović, and after Rich had cuffed him, I found the light switch. A hundred watts in the ceiling fixture blazed, and my blood pressure dropped to almost normal.

I told Slobodan Petrović that we were bringing him in as a material witness in the murder of Carly Myers.

He said, “Who?”

I ignored the question. A material witness charge would hold him long enough for us to get a search warrant for his house on Fell, the house on Pine, and the strip club, Skin. I also wanted his DNA and a bite impression while we were at it.

“You’re out of your minds,” he said. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing. I own a restaurant. I live a clean life. This is a setup.”

So he’d done nothing wrong. A line of crap I’d heard a few hundred times from guilty people since I first pinned on my badge.

I asked, “Where are Susan Jones and Anna Sotovina?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Where were they? I needed to see them, talk to them, know that they were all right.

I repeated my question and he repeated his no-answer answer.

Petrović wasn’t talking.

I said, “I’ll give you a choice, Mr. Branko. You can talk to us or to the FBI. It’s up to you.”

He made his choice.

I radioed for backup, and while Conklin kept his gun on Petrović, I checked out the layout of the top floor. There were five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and I searched all of them.

The rooms were messy and unoccupied. The closets held working men’s clothing, waiters’ uniforms, and shoes, but there was no sign of our missing persons.

If they weren’t here, where the hell were they?

Maybe Petrović would tell us.

Yeah. Right.

Chapter 103

Patrol officers folded Petrović into the back of a police transport van and took off.

I returned to the house and found Joe in the living room, standing over two men lying facedown on the carpet with their hands cuffed behind them.

He brought me up to date on what I’d missed. The two men on the floor worked for Petrović at Tony’s Place for Steak. Free rent was part of their salary, so they both bunked here.

To me, that made them probable witnesses to what had gone on in this house. I was grateful for that.

Joe left the room to check out the garage. I studied the guys on the floor.

The younger one, tattooed and pierced, looked to be in his twenties. That was Carson Wells, who was called Junior. The man lying next to him was ten years older and heavy. Randy LaPierre.

They were still stunned from the flash grenade, but Junior lifted his chin off the floor and said to me, “Like I just said, I thought someone was breaking in. I fired. I didn’t hit anyone. You’ve got no right to arrest us.”

I stooped to their level, literally.

I said, “First one to tell me where I can find Susan Jones and Anna Sotovina makes a friend in the police department. I will work hard to get you a break from the law.”

Randy said, “I don’t understand. We live here. I don’t know them. I swear on my mother.”

“What about you, Junior? Want to be my friend?”

“What Randy said. I never heard of them.”

I said, “You can tell your mothers you’ll be in jail at 850 Bryant. Seventh floor.”

I called to the two cops standing in the doorway, and they hauled the men to their feet.

Randy said, “Do what you want, lady. You’ve got shit on us.”

Uniforms were taking out the trash when Joe and his partner came up from the garage level, rejoining Conklin and me in the living room.

“No one is in the house,” Joe said. “Anna’s not here. Susan’s not here.”

“Come ooon. Don’t say that.”

He said, “There are three bedrooms on this floor. We found some women’s clothing in closets. Street clothes and lingerie. There were boxes of makeup in a dressing room. We’ll send it out for testing. If any of the women used the lipstick, we’ll get a DNA match.”

“So they were here.”

“What I’m thinking is we may have just missed them,” Joe said. “The garage door to the street was closed, but the rear door to the back garden was wide open. And if a car was waiting for them on Bush?”

He threw up his hands, looking more demoralized than I’d ever seen him.

Crap. Team Petrović had seen us, and maybe we’d been breathing down their necks enough that they had to make a move. So they used their exit strategy.

Chapter 104

Out on the street, flashers lit up the predawn morning.

Cops had strung crime-scene tape in front of the house to keep passersby out of our scene. Some people had been roused from their beds at 2:00 a.m. and were clumped together on the sidewalks to find out what had happened. We weren’t talking.

Joe’s ride was waiting.

He said, “Put Petrović on ice. Diano and I want to stop off at the office and file a report, but I’ll see you at the Hall in an hour. I’m feeling good about this.”