Ridley Pearson - Cut and Run

He caught movement well down the fairway and slightly to his left, moving right to left. He lay on the damp grass.

A lone, dark figure-female, he thought, judging by her walk- moved quickly between two large white pools-sand traps, he realized. He rose up slightly onto his hands and, as he did so, caught sight of a massive roof, well out of bounds from the golf course. A barn.

He added this up. A woman, not using any flashlight, heading toward the barn. Nearing midnight… Eccentric at best. Secretive came to mind.

To check on sleeping children? he wondered.

Yet another car pulled up to the lodge, another passenger dropped off. That made five or six just in the past ten minutes.

Then, on the cart path, not thirty feet away, a man’s silhouette. Larson angled his face away from the man, to hide the white of his skin, while he simultaneously hid his hands beneath him. Larson froze.

Judging only by sound, Larson determined the man continued walking a few more yards. Larson braced for his own discovery, plotting a course toward the woods.

“Katie!” the man called out.

Larson saw that the woman in the distance stopped. She seemed to turn but then moved on, continuing down and out of sight, toward the barn.

“Shit.” The man seemed to give up. The soles of his shoes ground sand onto the cart path as he headed back toward the manor house at a brisk pace.

The substitute cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Larson rolled onto his hip to put it completely beneath him, compressed and silent.

The footsteps stopped. “Who’s there?” the man called out toward Larson. But his mobile chirped and he answered it. Over the device’s speakerphone a man announced, “The visitors have all arrived. Assignments, everyone.”

The man’s footfalls faded as he headed away from Larson and back toward the lodge.

Larson scrambled a good forty yards and into some woods. Well concealed, he withdrew the mobile, reading the text message sent from his own phone.

2 men in trees. Police?

He found the message in some ways welcome, but disturbing as well. If she was in the police van, shouldn’t she know if these were police or not?

Torn between the confusion of the message and his instincts that this woman he’d just seen would lead him to Penny, he crept to the edge of the woods and then hurried after her toward the barn.

Such a perfect place to hide a child, he thought. All little girls love horses, and a few errant noises from a barn would not attract attention. Wouldn’t surprise anybody.

“What have we got?” Rotem asked the long-haired detective who sat at the console in the back of the now-crowded Puget Sound Energy truck.

The civilian, Billy, operated the equipment. The long-haired plainclothes homicide dick, who had a wiseass disposition, mustache, and exotic-skinned, cream-colored cowboy boots, clearly considered himself in charge.

Rotem had his work cut out for him.

The man on the green nylon camp stool to Hampton’s left was the deputy Special Agent in Charge, a man by the name of Forsyth. He wore a business suit with a blue handkerchief in the breast pocket. The heels of his polished Oxfords showed a great deal of wear. Pronated. He had a fairly good attitude-unlike the detective-able to let Rotem tug the reins. The wheelman was an SPD officer whose name Rotem had missed. He occupied the driver’s seat on the other side of a blackout curtain that lay on Hampton’s back like a cloak. There were two opposing consoles of electronics. The men gathered around the four television monitors as if watching a Sunday game.

“Birds aloft,” Billy reported. “We’ve got two men in place with visual. They’re looking over the wall, down into the compound.”

“Can we put them on speaker?” asked Rotem.

With the flip of a few switches, everyone in the van could not only hear the spoken words of the two Emergency Response Team officers, both Seattle police, both twenty feet up trees overlooking the compound, but the fourth television monitor now carried fuzzy green-and-white still images returned from the electronic-assisted night-vision binoculars each man wore.

The officer described a quiet golf course with a main clubhouse beyond. Those in the van saw still images of two, possibly three, individuals off-loading a panel truck.

“It might be food,” an electronic voice reported.

“Copy that,” the other field officer said, agreeing.

Rotem double-checked his watch. A catering truck and five cars had entered the premises in the past fifteen minutes. The information they’d gotten on the meeting-the auction -appeared good. A small but necessary step forward.

The long-haired detective took a call on his mobile, stripping the headset away to allow himself to hear. He ended the call, turned to Rotem, and reported, “Plates on the third car come back a livery service with known OC ownership.”

Organized Crime . Looking better. What they were seeing fit what they’d been told: an exclusive compound; luxury cars and limos arriving. The fact that there might be one or more child hostages on-site was the one wild card on Rotem’s mind.

“We still need probable cause,” the long-haired detective said, “in order for my guys to go in. A license plate is not going to cut it.”

“Agreed,” said Forsyth. “Let’s work on that.” He looked over at Rotem as if he might pull a rabbit out of his hat.

“You’ve got a deputy inside,” the long-haired detective said. “Has anyone tried calling him?” This slight to Rotem and his operation did not go unnoticed.

“We have,” Hampton answered. Stubblefield groaned a complaint from the passenger seat on the other side of the blackout curtain. He was far too big to fit into the back with the others. “He’s not picking up.”

“His presence remains unconfirmed at this point,” Rotem said. He racked his brain for probable cause, even a suspicion that might entitle him to appeal to the AUSA for a phone warrant.

One of the two ERT operatives checked in.

The detective, a hand to his headphone, informed Rotem of the communication. “We got a set of high tension lines crossing the property,” he said.

“I’ve forgotten your name, Sergeant,” Rotem finally admitted.

He lifted an ear of the headset. “LaMoia,” he said. “No sweat.”

“What about these power lines?” Rotem asked.

“High-voltage overheads crossing the property. Might be for irrigating the course. Thing about tension lines… they’re well-hung.” A knowing smile curved under the mustache. “As in they’re strong enough to support an adult male-two adult males to be more precise.” He added, “My guys go in suspended from Skyjacks-motorized rubber-wheeled pulleys-so there’s a bit of a noise factor, hum of the motors and all, but it’s not much.”

“Skyjacks? You’ve done this before.”

“ERT learned the technique from Search and Rescue. The idea is to be able to move people between existing buildings at high altitude. Urban warfare. It’s Homeland Security shit. We’ve used it for some surveillance as well.”

The man’s tone implied not all was told. Rotem resented the tease. “I’m sure you’ll enlighten us, Sergeant. We’re somewhat pressed for time here.”

“You’ll have to go through the AUSA to get the paperwork, right? So maybe that will make it different for you guys. But we’ve had a ruling in Washington state that the airspace above private property is not the property’s. The catch here is that all power lines, and all equipment relating to the transmission of power, is the sole property of the power company, in this case, Puget Sound Energy. Get it? We don’t violate any rights by using those tension lines.”