Джеймс Паттерсон - The 18th Abduction

I was optimistic, too. The women were gone, so maybe alive. And Petrović was ours—for as long as we could hold him. How long would that be? Days? Weeks? We needed evidence if we were going to charge him.

And if we couldn’t do that, we’d have to let him go.

I flashed back to Petrović pointing a gun at my face. I was still shaken by that sight and knowing that he could have pulled the trigger. We’d talked him down.

But the thought came to me: What if he got another chance at me? And I thought about Susan and Anna. Totally powerless. I’d never met them, but I felt as though I knew them. And I had a sense of the terror they’d felt, the brutality they’d been subjected to.

I looked up at Joe. I’m pretty sure he could read my face and see how close I was to tears. He reached for me. I went into his arms, and we kissed in front of cops and Feds and God and everyone. He said, “It’s okay, Linds. We did great.”

The Honda pulled up. Conklin honked the horn. I released Joe and squeezed his hand.

Then I got into the car and buckled up.

We passed Petrović’s Jaguar, still parked in front of the men’s clothing shop.

“Richie, back up.”

I got out of the car and copied down the Jaguar’s tag number.

Then I called the lab.

Chapter 105

Same night—or more accurately, that morning—Jacobi stood up from his desk, opened the drawer in his credenza, and pulled out a bag from Sam’s Deli.

“Sit. Sit down,” he told us.

He congratulated us on bringing in Petrović, then passed the bag over his desk, saying, “Here’s what I’ve got. Two BLTs, a bag of chips, two Kind bars, and some information, for what it’s worth.”

Conklin tore open the deli bag, handed a foil-wrapped sandwich to me, and said, “Hang on a minute.”

He got up, headed for the break room, and returned with the coffeepot, mugs, and fixings. He filled mugs for all of us, then said, “Go for it, Lieu.”

Jacobi began, “Marko Vladic is Petrović’s number two guy. He pays his taxes. Keeps his nose clean. In public, anyway.”

Conklin said, “We checked him out. He works as day manager at Tony’s. At night he manages a strip club called Skin.”

Jacobi said, “That’s right. Skin is a small girly joint above a liquor store. Small equals exclusive. Club chairs. Nice little stage. The liquor is expensive. Lap dances are, too. I’m guessing it’s profitable.”

“That fits with what Susan’s sister told us,” I said. “That Susan was dancing to pay off a debt to Mr. Big. Make me happy, boss. Who owns the club?”

“Goes by the name Antonije Branko.”

I said, “Oh, my God,” and fell back in my chair. “Here comes the balloon drop from the ceiling.”

Jacobi laughed.

I stood, threw up my hand, and gave him a high five, a low five, and a hip bump for good measure.

Richie’s turn to laugh.

I sat back down, gulped some coffee, and told Jacobi that Petrović’s Jaguar was on a flatbed truck, speeding out to our forensics lab at Hunters Point.

“CSI is going to hoover the hell out of it.”

“Let me know if they find anything good. In the meantime, I’ll stay to watch your Petrović interview,” said Jacobi.

Conklin looked at his watch.

“It’s almost three. Has Tony stewed in his cell long enough?”

“I’d do it soon,” Jacobi said. “His lawyer won’t be picking up his phone.”

I said, “Joe’s got a dog in this fight.”

“Get him on the line.”

I used Jacobi’s phone, called Joe, and then gave the jail upstairs a blast, requesting that Petrović be escorted down to Interview 1 in a half hour.

I went to the ladies’ room, washed my face, finger-combed my hair, and rehearsed possible interview scenarios. I reminded myself that whatever I had to say to get Susan and Anna home was allowed. Cops are allowed to lie.

There was a clean shirt in my locker. After I changed and felt somewhat fresh, I walked down the hall to the interview rooms. Before going into number one, I looked through the glass.

Petrović was sitting at the small gray table across from the two most important men in my life.

I flipped on the audio and listened for a minute. Joe and Rich were warming him up—talking to a psychotic mass murderer about baseball and the price of gasoline.

Chapter 106

When I entered the interrogation room, Joe stood up and gave me his chair across from Petrović.

“Forgive me if I don’t stand,” said Petrović.

“Relax,” I said. “It’s been a long night for everyone.”

“Sergeant, right? Sergeant, you’re wasting your time with me.”

“Mr. Petrović—”

“Call me Tony.”

Petrović looked comfortable in his street clothes and jail slippers. The handcuffs had been removed. His belt had been confiscated. His gun was at the lab. And although he’d told us that he had a license to carry, that was a lie.

If we needed illegal possession of a firearm to hold him, we’d do it, and we’d get him on brandishing a weapon, too. Maybe we could keep Petrović for thirty days on those charges with a sympathetic judge, but they were the smallest of beans.

We needed Petrović to tell us where to find Susan Jones and Anna Sotovina, and failing that—there was no failing that. We had to find those women.

Meanwhile, it was very early on a Thursday morning. Judges were sleeping. We didn’t have search or arrest warrants, and it would take until the afternoon at the earliest to get them.

I said, “Tony, you’re familiar with police procedure, so I’m going to skip the small talk. You help us, we help you.”

“What do you want? What do you give?”

“We want Susan Jones and Anna Sotovina.”

Joe leaned in. “Before you say you don’t know them, we know that you do. Susan worked at your club. You and Anna have history in Djoba.”

“I don’t have these women.”

Liar.

I said, “Well, we have a few things of yours. For one, we have your car.”

“Where’s the warrant?” he asked me in a tone as smooth as the single malt my father used to hoard for private celebrations.

I said, “We don’t need a warrant if you leave it in a public space. Which you did. Now it’s at our lab. We’re liable for any damage, but don’t worry. We’re treating your car with latex gloves. You could say we’re going to detail it.”

Petrović cracked a smile.

He said, “How do you say it? Knock yourself out.”

I smiled back.

“Oh, we will. You left a water bottle in your car’s cup holder. We’ll collect your DNA from that, and if we find as much as a hair belonging to Carly Myers or Adele Saran, we’re going to charge you with murder.”

The killer yawned. It didn’t seem fake. Slobodan Petrović had beat life imprisonment before. But he might be overconfident now.

He said, “I’ve heard the part where I help you. Where’s the part where you help me?”

I said, “We’ll get there. First I want to set the table. Joe. You have that photo? The one taken in Djoba.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Joe produced his phone, tapped an app, swiped some photos, then showed the screen to Petrović.

Petrović said, “What am I looking at?”

Joe showed Petrović the photo of him in the forest, people strung up in the woodland behind him, a throwing star in his hand. Joe read the caption—in Bosnian. I remembered the gist of the translation.

Colonel Slobodan Petrović and men after taking the Bosnian town of Djoba. Petrović is proficient in the use of shuriken, throwing stars.

Petrović said, “I hate to tell you, but that’s not me. Slobodan is my cousin from my mother’s side. Even so, this is such an old story. My cousin was exonerated, you know.”