Джеймс Паттерсон - The 18th Abduction

“We know him,” said Conklin.

“Good. And some of the waiters at Tony’s were in on it. They lived in that house and they all…did what they did. We couldn’t get out, you know? They kept us locked up and they hurt us. We didn’t know when we might die.”

Susan’s voice broke, and tears spilled down her cheeks. It was terrible to see the transformation from the happy young woman she’d seemed to be only moments ago. All smiles and flowers.

I wondered if she’d ever truly be all smiles and flowers again. Still, like Anna, Susan Jones was a fighter.

And she was alive.

“You’ll testify to what they did to you?” Jacobi asked her.

“Of course I will. But I don’t know how I can prove any of it.”

“Leave that to us,” Jacobi said.

Chapter 111

Claire texted our task force: Bombshell briefing, my office @ 8am.

By eight the next morning, all six of us were crammed into Claire’s office at the morgue. Jacobi and Steinmetz had gotten there first and had taken the chairs. Jacobi tried to give me his seat, but his knees were going, so I thanked him anyway and stood against the wall with Joe, Diano, and Conklin.

Claire was behind her desk, wearing bloody blue scrubs, her hair in a cap. She stripped off her gloves, opened a folder, pulled out two items, and placed them faceup on her desk.

One was a photo enlargement of the bite mark on Carly Myers’s neck that she’d taken at the autopsy. The second was the acetate tracing she’d made of the bite mark, the actual size for her records.

Claire said, “The victim stretched away from the person who was biting her. See how the marks are off center? Even if we had the subject’s bite impression, unless there was an obvious dental anomaly, like severely crooked teeth, the chances are small that a mold of the attacker’s mouth would match the impressions on the victim’s neck.”

“Therefore…,” I said.

“Therefore, Sergeant Girlfriend, I’d write the bite off as inconclusive.”

Jacobi muttered, “Bummer,” but Claire wasn’t done.

“And then there’s this,” she said. “It’s either divine inspiration or maybe Carly whispering over my shoulder, ‘Hey, Doc, take another look.’”

Claire ducked under her desk and reappeared holding a sealed manila envelope she’d taken from the one-cubic-foot square refrigerator she kept in her office.

“Clapper called last night,” she said. “We got DNA from Petrović’s water bottle. Then, when Petrović signed a release for his personal property when he was cut loose from the jail, he placed his sweaty paw down on it to sign his name. Richie, I believe it was you who secured the paper with Petrović’s DNA. Inspector, please take a bow.”

My partner smiled and I fist-bumped his shoulder.

Claire resumed, saying, “The DNA samples from the bottle and the release form are a perfect match to this.”

She opened the sealed manila envelope, reached in, took out a small glassine envelope, and held it up so we could see the evidence sandwiched between two glass microscope slides.

Diano peered over Jacobi’s head. “Is that what I think it is?”

Claire smiled like an angel and showed the glassine envelope around so that we all could take a look at the sliver of evidence that just might blow the monster up.

Our esteemed medical examiner said, “I recovered this pubic hair from Carly Myers’s vaginal vault. It’s a 100 percent match to Slobodan Petrović and no other.”

Chapter 112

I was so proud of Claire.

We had evidence, we had probable cause. We had him. I beamed as we gave her a wholehearted round of applause.

She tucked the evidence back into the cooler, curtsied playfully, and said, “Thanks, everyone. I’ve got to go. I’m in the middle of someone.”

The rest of us cleared out, and Conklin, Joe, and I went to the FBI field office with Steinmetz, where we spent the rest of that Friday working out the plan.

First, Steinmetz put in a call to FBI director L. Martin Roberts. He was well regarded, with movie-star looks and some kind of political future. When Roberts was on speakerphone, Steinmetz introduced us, and Conklin and I itemized the evidence: the hanged women, their wounds from throwing stars, and the photo of Petrović in Djoba in a forested killing field, surrounded by hanged bodies and with a throwing star in his hand.

And we told Roberts about our latest findings: that we’d rescued two bound-and-gagged victims from a subfloor inside Petrović’s club.

I said, “One of the victims, a schoolteacher by the name of Susan Jones, made a statement that Petrović had raped her and bragged of killing Carly Myers, and she was the last person to see Adele Saran.”

I finished with Claire’s matching Petrović DNA evidence.

The FBI director said, “How fast can you turn all that into a memo?”

By the time the sun touched the horizon, Roberts had our memo and had reassigned the task force that had been watchdogging Petrović to a transport detail. Steinmetz contacted the CIA, which connected with the powers that be in Bosnia. Green lights all the way. Steinmetz printed out Petrović’s signed deportation order.

I wanted to jump up and hug everyone, but I resisted the impulse.

Steinmetz seemed pretty pleased himself. He looked at all of us and said, “The game’s in play. It’s all over but the shouting.”

It was an old line but a great one. Still, as we all knew, there was much to be done before anyone started shouting.

Petrović didn’t know that he was breathing his last free air, and we didn’t want to risk any ironic accidents, so we had to work fast.

When the meeting broke up, Cappy and Chi picked up Marko Vladic at Skin, where he was going over the damage to the stage with a contractor. Despite the fit Vladic threw about his so-called immunity, he was arrested for kidnapping, rape, and accessory to murder. He was brought to the Hall and slow-walked through booking so that he couldn’t tip off his boss.

Steinmetz, Joe, Conklin, and I blocked out plans A and B to grab Petrović. We diagrammed manpower deployment and made calls.

And then we moved out.

Chapter 113

After leaving Steinmetz, our task force plus reinforcements formed a tight surveillance detail around Tony’s Place for Steak.

California Street and surrounding blocks were lined with unmarked vehicles, and two undercover teams were inside the restaurant having a leisurely meal, with mikes and eyes wide open.

Operatives outside Petrović’s house on Fell gave us a heads-up, and not long afterward a taxi pulled up to Tony’s Place. Petrović got out, paid the driver, and entered his restaurant through the front door.

On Joe’s command, Jacobi, Conklin, and I stormed the front entrance. Joe and Diano kicked in the back door and came through the kitchen.

I took a mental snapshot. Three-quarters of the tables were full. Petrović was chatting with a customer near the front when he heard dishes crashing in the back. He turned, saw Joe, turned again toward the front door, and saw me and Conklin cutting past the maître d’ and bearing down on him.

The dinner crowd reacted; a table flipped, with squealing diners hitting the floor as we advanced on Petrović with guns drawn. The four undercovers were on their feet, badges and weapons in hand.

I saw realization dawn in Petrović’s eyes. He knew he didn’t have a prayer of getting out of his restaurant on his terms. I ordered him to put his hands on his head and drop to his knees.

He did it, saying, “I’m not armed.”

Diano frisked him from chest to ankles and nodded to let us know that in fact Petrović didn’t have a weapon.

Conklin walked up behind him and slapped on the cuffs, while I said, “Mr. Petrović, you’re under arrest for kidnapping, aggravated assault, rape, and murder.”