James Grippando - The Abduction

The doors closed, and the elevator began its ascent.

Allison and Harley reached the surveillance post in less than twenty minutes. It did look like a vacant storefront, just as Harley had promised. The front windows were whitewashed and covered with signs that said, THIS SPACE FOR RENT. A padlocked security gate made the main entrance impassable. Harley brought her around to the rear entrance off the alley.

Inside, three thousand square feet of open retail space had been converted into a miniature operations center. Power cables snaked across the floor and dangled from the ceiling, each leading to a different piece of computer or electronic surveillance equipment. A dozen clocks hung on the wall. At least two dozen agents were stationed around the room, monitoring equipment, sipping coffee, or splicing wires. An entire wall of television screens made the joint look a little like a discount appliance warehouse.

Harley explained, “This was the advantage I was telling you about, Allison. The fact that the kidnapper told you in advance to meet at the Hyatt has given our technical agents time to set up. Each of those television screens will give us a different view of the hotel, inside and out. Some are connected to hotel’s regular surveillance cameras, some are fed by the additional cameras we installed today. So long as you’re in a public place, we’ll be watching you.”

“That makes me feel a little better.”

“Come on. Let’s get you wired up and into your disguise.” He led her to a back room. Two female agents were inside, one about Allison’s age, the other much younger. Harley made the introductions. “This is Agent Scofield,” he said of the older, “and Agent Parker. Scofield will suit you up with a Kevlar vest that should stop anything the kidnappers might fire at you. She’ll also hook you with a two-way radio so I can communicate with you.”

The younger one stepped forward with a wig in each hand and a voice filled with attitude. “And I’m the lucky female agent who gets to play the all-important role of hair stylist and makeup artist. Redhead or brunette?”

Allison lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret, though she knew the others could overhear. “If I have any authority at all as attorney general after this is over, I promise to get you off the makeup detail.”

“Thanks a lot,” she said.

Allison glanced at Harley. “Before we get started, can I have a minute to make one more phone call?”

“Sure,” he said as he led the other two agents out. “We’ll be right out here.”

Allison closed the door and dialed David Wilcox.

“I’m so sorry about Peter,” he said.

“Thank you. I didn’t realize you knew yet.”

“Everyone knows. No confirmation from anyone yet, but all the networks are reporting it. I’ve been calling all night, but you haven’t returned my calls.”

“Sorry. I haven’t been taking anyone’s calls.”

“I presume you want to cancel the party at the Renaissance. Doesn’t seem appropriate to be celebrating tonight.”

She paused, recalling the kidnapper’s instructions not to change a thing. “Don’t say anything about the party. Just leave everything as it is.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Just do as I say. I’ll explain later. I have to go now.” She hung up and looked through the rectangular window on the door. Harley was on the phone across the room. He hung up and came toward her. Allison let him in. His face was solemn as the door closed behind him.

“Got the lab results on that blood on Mitch O’Brien’s boat.”

“And?”

“Definitely his.”

“Any chance he lived through the attack?”

Harley shook his head. “From what I understand, there was blood all over. It wasn’t a clean hit, like a gunshot to the back of the head. Looks like the attacker may have tortured him, possibly trying to extract some information before killing him.”

“Like whether he’d recently slept with Allison Leahy?” she suggested.

“That would seem consistent with what Peter told you in the park.”

She looked away, speaking through the lump in her throat. “Peter did it, you suppose?”

“He wouldn’t be the first jealous husband to kill the man he thought was sleeping with his wife. But I think it’s more likely he hired someone to do it.”

“The same guy he hired to kidnap Kristen?”

“And to kidnap Emily,” said Harley. “I doubt your husband had more than one contact in this business. It’s not like you just look them up in the Yellow Pages.”

She sighed, thinking. “Peter had lots of different bodyguards over the years. They followed him like Secret Service on business trips to countries where Americans aren’t well thought of. He always used reputable corporate security firms. Mostly retired cops, former FBI. Still, I felt like some of these guys had acquaintances I wouldn’t want to meet.”

“That could easily be the way he found his hit man. But it wasn’t a hired gun who put these ideas in his head. This was Peter’s plan. His need to control you.”

She slumped in the desk chair, shaking her head in amazement. “Mitch O’Brien, the drunken stalker. Peter Tunnello, the jealous psychopath. Guess my taste in men could use a little work, huh?”

“Work is good. Just don’t give up on all of us.”

She looked up, finding comfort in his eyes. He didn’t look away.

“So what do you think?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“About what?”

She grabbed the wigs laying on the table, putting on the exaggerated and affected voice of a ditz. “Should I be a brunette,” she joked as she held out the red wig, “or a redhead?” she said, holding up the brown one.

He could see the pain behind her smile. Humor was certainly one way of dealing with a husband’s ultimate betrayal. “Surprise me,” he said, then left the room, burdened with the thought that today was only the second worst day of Allison’s life.

Brass chandeliers brightened the long majestic hallway of the St. George Hotel, the old granite landmark across the street from the Grand Hyatt. Antique oil paintings in gold-leaf frames brightened the silk-covered walls. Ninety of the grand old hotel’s five hundred rooms were on the second floor. As usual, all seven floors were filled to capacity.

Vincent Gambrelli walked with eyes dead ahead, his footsteps cushioned in the rich red carpeting. He dug into his coat pocket for his stack of room key-cards. Five altogether, for five different rooms. He’d rented them over the past two days, each time using a new name, a new disguise, and a different clerk at the reception desk. Four bags went to each room. They all contained the same thing. None, as yet, had been unpacked. They were waiting for him now in the respective rooms, all on the second floor, according to plan.

He stopped at Room 205 and removed the DO NOT DISTURB sign. He checked the hall. Seeing no one, he inserted the magnetic key-card and stepped inside.

The room was exactly the way he had left it twenty-four hours ago. A king-size bed, neatly made. Full-length draperies, drawn shut. Extra towels and linens on the couch. Four suitcases resting at the foot of the bed.

He knelt down beside the largest suitcase and unlocked it with his key. Inside were a dozen plastic jugs, exactly the way he had packed them. He removed one of the jugs, unscrewed the cap, and poured the contents onto the bed. It soaked the mattress. He put his nose to the wet spot and inhaled.

He smirked. Wood alcohol. Virtually odorless-but highly flammable.

He opened another jug, then another, dousing the couch, draperies, furniture, and finally the carpet. It took only a few minutes to soak the entire room. When he’d finished, the empty jugs and suitcases lay scattered on the floor. He unlocked the door, opened it slowly, and checked the hallway. No one. He stepped out and closed the door. He checked to make sure it was locked, then reattached the DO NOT DISTURB sign to the knob.