Джеймс Паттерсон - The 18th Abduction

She said, “I was in shock to see Petrović.”

“Of course.”

“I told you. I chased him on my bike. Crazy.”

“I’m glad you didn’t catch him,” Joe said.

She nodded. “I didn’t even think it was crazy. I couldn’t help myself. I saw him. And if I caught him—what did I think I would do? Call him names? But it was him. The Butcher of Djoba.”

Joe said, “You were very brave, Anna. Crazy but brave.”

She nodded again.

“You wanted to show me something.”

“Yes.”

She opened her handbag, pulled out a plastic folder, 8½" x 11". Inside was a newspaper article that had been folded into thirds. She opened the yellowed and worn page with shaking hands and showed it to Joe.

The article was written in Bosnian. Anna tapped the photo at top center, just under the headline.

“That’s him going into the ICC in handcuffs. See them? He was charged with war crimes and crimes against humanity. And convicted. Thousands were killed. I saw the bodies. But he was simply released. I don’t know why. ”

She took out her billfold and pulled a photo from behind a rectangle of clear plastic, then held the photo so Joe could see the picture of a young man in his twenties, laughing, bouncing a baby in his arms.

“You see how much love?”

Joe said, “I do.”

Anna said, “This is not in question, Joe. Petrović was the commanding officer of the destruction of my town. My poor husband was hanged. They cut my little boy’s throat. Thousands were murdered, and Petrović killed many with his own hands. Why should my family be dead while he is alive and free?”

Joe said, “The words for these crimes are just inadequate.”

She nodded and went on, “You know, after Petrović was released, there was a big protest. Then it was said that he was killed.”

“I read that, too. His body was found quite decomposed in a river. Look, Anna, I’m just asking. Is it possible that Petrović was killed and the man you saw yesterday looked like him? Reminded you of him?”

“It is him, Joe. Don’t you think I would know?” She held the palm of her hand a few inches from her face. “I’ve been this close to him. Under him. You understand?”

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

He was more than sorry. He wanted to kill the guy who’d done this to her. Kill him slowly.

Anna said, “I also believed that he was dead. Now I know it was a mistake or a lie or a covering up. Petrović left Europe. Someone must know how he did that and maybe helped him.”

“I checked with Interpol last night, and there are no warrants out for him, nothing to prevent him from using his passport.”

Anna said, “When he was military, he wore his hair very short. His hair is longer now. He’s put on thirty pounds. Otherwise, he looks the same. He is fat and healthy. He has an expensive car. Seventy-five thousand dollars, Joe. Where is he getting his money?”

Joe couldn’t answer her question. Ten minutes of research had told him that Petrović might have changed his name and flown legally to the United States. The FBI had no jurisdiction over an ICC-convicted war criminal who, for whatever reason, had been released.

“Do you mind if we take a ride?” Anna said.

Chapter 10

The drive was three blocks down Steiner, three blocks on Fell, in under three minutes.

“Over there,” Anna said.

Joe pulled up to the curb, and Anna rolled down her window, saying, “That’s where I saw him.”

She pointed to a Victorian house, pale yellow with dark blue trim, well cared for. “He was coming down the steps like he owned America.”

Anna turned to Joe, pulled back the curtain of hair that had been hiding her scar. “He did this to me. After he raped me, when I called him all the names I could think of. I wanted him to shoot me. I wanted to die. He used his lighter.…”

“You were in the hotel,” Joe said.

She shook her head. “I can’t talk about that.”

She didn’t have to say more. Joe had been with the FBI in Virginia when the Serbs had slaughtered the men of Djoba, captured the women, and kept many in a school, calling it a rape hotel. The point had been not only to humiliate and dishonor these Muslim women and girls but to impregnate them with the children of their enemies.

Anna’s voice broke into his thoughts as she called his name and pointed to a Jaguar parked a hundred yards up the street.

“That’s his car,” she said. “He’s home, inside his house. Can you just go in there and shoot him between the eyes?”

“No. I can’t. Stay here.”

Joe got out of the car and took a picture of the house, and then the man that Lindsay remembered from his photos as a husky, red-faced hog came out the front door of the fancy yellow house. He walked rapidly down the steps while talking into his phone.

Joe aimed his phone’s camera at Petrović’s face, but his features were largely hidden by the phone in his hand. And then he was getting into his car and pulling out onto Fell Street.

Anna was out of the car, crying out to Joe, “That’s him. That’s him. That’s Slobodan Petrović. Now do you believe me? Follow him. Follow him, please. ”

The car had sped off, and other cars quickly filled the gap between the Jag and where Joe was standing with Anna.

“Anna, no. I can’t arrest him for crimes he committed in Bosnia.”

Anna sagged against the car.

“Well,” she said, “maybe I can do something. I need a gun. Then I can shoot him myself.”

Anna stretched her neck so she could watch the Jaguar disappearing up the street.

All around them, normal life went on. Dogs being walked. Joggers heading into the park. A grocery truck making a delivery. People going to work. But to a woman who’d survived a massacre, none of these activities meant a thing.

Joe understood. Anna had built a life again. And then Petrović had appeared. How could it not enflame her?

Joe spoke to her across the roof of his car.

“Anna, listen to me. You asked for my help. I’m a federal law enforcement agent. I’ll do what I can legally do, the right way. Please. Look at me.”

She dragged her gaze away from the disappearing car.

Joe continued.

“Do not confront this man on your own. You know if he feels threatened, you won’t get away from him. Promise me you’ll let me handle this. Promise me you’ll do that.”

“I promise,” she said.

Anna got back into Joe’s car.

Chapter 11

This all happened five years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

That week I had a lunch date with Cindy Thomas. She was waiting for me at Fast ’n Good, a coffee shop two blocks from her office, and I was late. I was still ten minutes away, walking toward Fourth Street as fast as I could without breaking into a run.

Jacobi had called an impromptu meeting that morning. He stood at the front of the squad room and barked, “We have to get a grip on this case. A clue. A witness. A theory that holds water. As you know, Boxer is lead investigator. Boxer—no one goes home until we have something with legs.”

We were all with him. Where were Carly, Adele, and Susan? No freaking idea. A death clock was ticking, and the dozen investigators in the homicide squad were working nonstop and hoping beyond reason that the schoolteachers would be found alive.

Cindy, one of my best friends, is a crime reporter at the San Francisco Chronicle. The first time I met her, she was covering a savage double murder and had finagled her way into the crime scene. My crime scene. In the end, she helped me solve the case and we bonded for good. It was no surprise to me that she was now making a name as a talent with a big future.