Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

“I promise you, Mrs. Nunn, we will do everything wecan on this earth to find Gabrielle.”

Tears rolled down Nancy’s face as her husband took herin his arms, comforting her. “If he asks for money, we will pay it.” Paul Nunnsaid. “Whatever he asks for. We’ll sell the house.”

Sydowski nodded.

Two other detectives ushered the Nunns away for morequestioning before taking them home.

Turgeon and Sydowski said nothing in the elevator orduring the walk to the car. Nothing anyone could say would be worth a damn.They were alone with their thoughts and the case. Turgeon started the Caprice,had slipped the transmission into reverse when Gord Mikelson ran up to them.

“CHiPS just locked on to a truck, could be our guy.”

“What?”

“Bearded man driving a battered pickup with a girlabout six or seven wearing a dress. They have a dog in the cab. Near thePresidio, northbound towards the bridge. CHiPS bird has got him and MarinCounty’s rolling. The guy hasn’t made us yet!”

“Punch it, Linda!” Sydowski switched on the policeradio.

The Chevy roared, leaving fifty feet of smolderingrubber at the hall, emergency lights wigwagging and siren screaming.

San Francisco’s skyscrapers and the surging whitecaps of the Bay wheel slowly underthe California Highway Patrol chopper approaching the south end of the GoldGate Bridge near the Presidio.

It had been assisting the San Francisco police in theabduction investigation, hovering over Golden Gate Park, the Sunset, andRichmond districts. It had returned to its Oakland base to refuel when itsradio crackled. An off-duty CHiPS patrol car spotted a pickup matching thedescription in the Nunn kidnapping, northbound on 101 near the Palace of FineArts. The chopper lifted off within forty-five seconds of the call.

The suspect truck was a Ford, the driver Caucasian,bearded. Passenger was a girl, five to eight years old, her head barely visiblefrom the rear. A small dog was in the cab. The cruiser couldn’t get closer forthe truck’s tag without being noticed.

Traffic on 101 near the Golden Gate looked like a setof toy cars from the air. The CHiPS chopper nearly invisible, lingering aquarter mile or so south. The spotter locked onto the pickup throughhigh-powered binoculars. The truck was now on the bridge.

Police radios sizzled with dispatches as cars fromseveral jurisdictions headed to the area. No stop would be made on the bridge.Too risky. It would happen at the viewpoint exit on the north side. The suspectwas considered dangerous and possibly armed.

They would hold him for the SFPD.

Weaving through traffic on the Golden Gate, Turgeonand Sydowski monitored the takedown on their radio.

“Yeah, we’ve got him,” huffed a CHiPS officer. “Noproblem here. No weapons.”

Turgeon and Sydowski arrived minutes after the arrest,with Turgeon blasting the siren, jolting slow-moving rubberneckers out of theirway. Half a dozen officers were at the scene, four cruisers with front doorsopen, emergency lights pulsating, surrounded the pickup, radio calls competingwith the chopper above.

An officer was talking to a man in the backseat of onecar. In the front of another car an officer talked with a little girl, while ablond dog panted in the rear seat behind the cage. Motorists slowed to gawk. Afew tourists nearby watched with worried, puzzled faces as officers searchedthe interior of the pickup’s cab. Sydowski clipped his shield to his jacket andgroaned. Also watching were TV news crews and newspaper photographers.Reporters were talking to people, taking notes.

“Those guys are fast.” Turgeon shook her head.

The Chevy’s Michelin radials screeched as they skiddedto a halt next to the pickup. Sydowski had his door open before the car stoppedand a highway officer glanced at his shield.

“San Francisco PD?” The officer shouted over thechopper.

“That’s right,” Sydowski said, noticing the stripesand the name plate of Sergeant Marvin Miller.

“This is Inspector Turgeon,” Sydowski said. “Mind ifwe talk to these people?” Turgeon went to the car holding the driver, Sydowskiwent to the car with the little girl, opened the cruiser’s passenger door, andsquatted beside the girl. She was terrified.

“Excuse me, officer.” Sydowski did not take his eyesfrom the girl. “Hi there. I’m Inspector Sydowski. I’m a police officer, too.”

She nodded.

“I bet this has got you pretty scared, sweetheart?”

She nodded. Her chestnut brown hair was in a neatponytail, tied with a pink bow. Her face darkened. “Was Daddy driving too fast?He says police will stop you if you drive too fast.”

“Well, that’s true,” Sydowski said. “People shouldn’tdrive too fast. You’re a pretty smart girl to know that. Can you tell me yourname and how old you are?”

“My name is Jennifer Corliss. I’m seven years old andI live at 7077 Brownlington Gardens. Where’s my daddy?”

The dog barked. A retriever pup.

“This your dog, Jennifer?” Sydowski asked, reachinginto his jacket for the Polaroids of Gabrielle Nunn.

“His name is Sonny Corlis. He lives with me and mydaddy and mommy and my little brother, Ethan. Where’s Daddy? We have to go now.Mommy and Ethan are waiting at the cabin.”

Sydowski held up that morning’s birthday partysnapshot of Gabrielle for Miller. Not even close.

“Daddy’s right over there, Jennifer.” Sydowski noddedto his left. “We’re going to take you to him in a minute. Meanwhile, why don’twe let you sit with Sonny, while we talk to your daddy, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sydowski and Miller started for the second cruiserwhere Jennifer’s father was being questioned.

“Say, you Sydowski, from Homicide?”

“Yup.”

A smile grew on Miller’s face. “The legend himself. Ithought I’d recognized you from the news.”

Turgeon stopped Sydowski before he got to the car.

“I don’t think he’s our boy, Walt.”

“Uh-huh. Well that’s not Gabrielle Nunn back there.”

Turgeon’s face was taut. “Mr. Corliss is not thrilledwith this attention. He’s pissed off.” Turgeon looked at a business card.“Thoren J. Croliss, executive with a downtown investment group.”

Sydowski saw Corliss several yards away, out ofearshot outside the police car leaning against its front right fender, armsfolded resolutely across his chest, ignoring the officer talking to him.Corliss was in his late thirties, early forties. Trim build, thick sandy hair,and a beard, tanned chiseled cheeks. Faded jeans and a navy Ralph Lauren poloshirt. Wayfarers hung from his neck. A man who was always in charge. A man whosealed deals on squash courts, knew his way around most foreign capitals. A guywho carried a phone with him everywhere. Likely called his lawyer already,Sydowski thought.

“He’s demanding to speak to somebody in charge.”Turgeon said.

“Oh, is that right?” Sydowski said.

“We ran his name and made some calls,” Miller said.“He’s clean. Checks out. Just picked up his seven-year-old daughter, Jennifer,from school and they’re on their way to the mother and son at their cottage atBel Marin. That’s their dog, too, a retriever. They fit the damn descriptioncirculated. We told him that. Told him the situation.”

Sydowski rubbed his chin, told Miller his people madethe right call, then nodded to the reporters.

“Marvin, anybody here talk to the press yet?”

“No. It’s your show.”

Sydowski turned to Turgeon. “You up to it, Linda?”

“What have you got in mind?”

“What have you got in mind?”

“Talk to those guys and set the record straight. Tellthem we stopped a subject matching the description in the Nunn kidnapping.Don’t give Corliss’s name or any details about the abduction. We’ll give themmore at the press conference later.”