Текст книги "Taken"

Автор книги: Chris Jordan

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

19 queens for a day

There’s something about the highway, about getting the show on the road, that makes me feel almost optimistic. Maybe because I’m finally doing something, making decisions, taking action.

Today is the day, I’m thinking. The day I find my son. The day Tommy comes home.

Have to think like that or I’ll fall apart.

Ted used to joke about potholes on 295 that were big enough to swallow Hummers. And that was long before military vehicles became the new station wagons. As I’m discovering, the pothole thing hasn’t exactly improved over the years. On the approach to the Throgs Neck they have the look and feel of bomb craters, and once or twice my passenger’s head comes close to smacking the underside of the car roof. Not that he’s complaining. Nothing less than an exploding land mine would break his concentration on the coffee he’s been sipping since we got on the thruway heading south.

Earlier, explaining his sleep disorder, he’d mentioned “zoning out.” Apparently that means staring at the dashboard with unfocused eyes as his right hand robotically feeds a steady dose of Starbucks caffeine into his system. Several times I’ve attempted to initiate a conversation, but his response is limited to noncommittal grunts.

I’ve owned dogs that were more responsive to my queries.

Shane snaps out of it as we begin our descent from the bridge. Suddenly his eyes brighten, his posture changes, he’s back in my world. “Little nap,” he says, yawning happily. “I feel much better.”

“That was a nap?”

He shrugs. “My version. Not refreshing, exactly, but it helps.”

Traffic opens, I find the right lane, slotting us into the flow for the Cross Island. After we successfully negotiate our way onto the parkway, Shane suddenly announces, “I’ve been thinking about motivation.”

“Motivation?” I’m at a loss. Is he about to bring up the so-far unmentioned subject of his fee?

“There’s the money extorted from you,” he says. “Half a million bucks is plenty of motivation. But if they have that kind of access into bank software, it’s a good guess they could have drained your accounts without having to risk a child abduction. Not to mention killing a cop.”

“You just said ‘they,’” I say, interrupting. “So you really think I’m right? There’s more than just, um, Bruce?”

“I do,” he says. “An abduction that involves ransom or extortion almost invariably requires teamwork. I’m assuming Bruce is team leader.”

“Okay,” I say, keeping my eyes on the fleet of battle-scared cabs that have suddenly surrounded us. “Sorry for interrupting, you said something about motivation.”

“Yes. There’s a strong possibility this wasn’t just about the money.”

“And that’s good?” I ask hopefully.

He shoots me a wary look. “Can I be blunt?”

“Go ahead.”

“Once Bruce had the money, why not kill you? From his point of view, you’ve served your purpose. Why leave you alive and go to the trouble of planting evidence implicating you in a murder?”

“How about this?” I say vehemently. “Because he’s a sadistic monster. Because he’s a sick, sick son of a bitch.”

“No doubt,” Shane agrees. “But he’s a sick monster with a very specific and well-planned agenda. I’m assuming the whole thing of setting you up for a murder, making it look like you’re in a custody dispute, all of that is an elaborate diversion from his actual purpose. He’s creating a lot of light and smoke, making sure the major law enforcement agencies aren’t treating this as a straight-ahead child abduction. He’s got something else planned.”

“And taking Tommy is part of his plan?”

“Yes. He’s buying time. Which means, whatever he wants to accomplish, it isn’t over yet.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“Absolutely. Everything Bruce has done so far convinces me your son is still alive.”

A horrifying thought: Shane has been searching for a reason to believe that my son is alive.

“What about this woman who claims to be his birth mother?” I ask somewhat lamely. The air now definitely out of my optimistic balloon.

“We’ll know more by the end of the day,” Shane assures me. “But my experience is that birth mothers rarely kidnap children after so many years have elapsed without contact. Your son is what, eleven years old?”

“Eleven, yes.” I get a flash of his last birthday party—total chaos of screaming boy-monsters—and feel a lump forming in my throat.

“A distraught birth mother might change her mind and take drastic action after a few months. Possibly even a year or two,” Shane says, nodding to himself. “But after a decade? After that long, why not just go through the courts to establish shared custody, or visitation, or whatever? Why risk a felony conviction—a very serious felony conviction—when the child is going to be legally of age in two more years?”

“Legally of age? What are you talking about? In two years Tommy will only be thirteen.”

“Exactly,” Shane says. “And at age thirteen, most custodial judges will defer to the child. All things being equal, they’d let him make up his own mind regarding who has custody, or at least who he lives with. It’s actually a practical application of the law, because by the time they’re teenagers, unhappy kids run away, or find their way back to the parent of choice anyhow, no matter what the law or the social workers decree.”

The whole subject of a possible birth mother makes me feel very unsettled. Not quite skin crawling, but close. Reminds me of how relieved I’d been when Ted told me the parents were deceased, that we were adopting an orphaned child. Which also made me feel guilty, for benefiting from a tragedy. Guilt that was swept away by the flood of joy when I took the baby in my arms and felt his little heart beating. He’s afraid, too, I thought, and then, but I can fix that. And I did fix it, by a simple act of love. Proving to myself that I could mother a child not my own, and in that way make him as much a part of me as if he had been conceived with my own DNA.

Or so I thought at the time. The idea that his birth mother might be alive changes everything, throwing me back into a deep unease about my place in Tommy’s world. Unease somehow separate from my anxiety about his current well-being.

Every minute, every hour without my son makes me more uneasy, motherwise. Anxious not that my love for him will ever abate—no chance—but that he will no longer feel the same way about me. Knowing there may be another Tommy-mom in the world changes everything, doesn’t it?

“So how did you get into this crazy business?” I ask my passenger, if only to distract myself.

Shane studies me, as if unsure how much information should be shared with a client. “I was with the bureau,” he finally admits. “The FBI. After I took early retirement, I needed something to do.”

His hesitant tone makes it sound like he’s far from certain about his own motivation. Or at the very least unwilling to discuss it with me. But I’m not ready to let him off the hook. I glance over—one eye for the traffic, one for the passenger—and ask, “So this is what you did in the FBI? Located missing children?”

Shane rubs his chin, stroking his trim little beard and grimacing slightly. “No, no. At least not like what you see on TV,” he explains. “I was a special agent with an expertise in fingerprint identification. Really not so much the prints themselves, as our system for accessing prints and connecting them with perpetrators. Which means linking up with other systems, worldwide. Software stuff.”

“You were a computer geek?”

“Sort of. It’s not that simple. Because in addition to the prints, I also worked cases like the other agents. Mostly interviews, surveillance, wiretaps. Sometimes pure abduction cases. But I was never part of an official child recovery team.”

Clearly he wants to take the conversation elsewhere, but I decide to bear down. “So you take early retirement,” I say. “And then what, out of the blue you decide to set yourself up as a child recovery expert?”

A glance reveals that he’s wearing a slightly bemused expression. As if letting me know that an intrusion into his personal space will be tolerated just this one time. “Not exactly,” he says. “I just retired, period. Never to work a full-time job again, or so I thought. Fooled around going to sleep disorder clinics for a while, to make myself useful, you know? For research? That’s where it happened.”

“Where what happened?”

“Kid got snatched from the clinic day care. This technician, Darla, she brought her two-year-old to work, left her at the day care. And Darla’s sicko boyfriend, who was not the little girl’s father, took her. Had a pass, so he just picked the kid up and walked out with her.”

“And you helped Darla get her little girl back?”

Shane nods, studying the traffic, his hands, anything but make eye contact with me. “That’s what I did. The boyfriend was trying to ‘loan’ the little girl to another pedophile he met on the Internet. I found out where the handoff was going to take place and recovered the child.”

“What happened to the boyfriend?”

“He’s doing thirty years in Leavenworth.”

“Nice work, Mr. Shane.”

“Thank you.”

“So you recover the little girl, then you decide to make a habit of it?”

“More or less. Darla, she’s very religious, she said I’d found my true calling.”

“Is she still a girlfriend, Darla?”

The very idea makes Shane chuckle. “Darla? Hardly. Never was. Darla likes her men short, round and brown. I lose out in all three categories.”

“Guess you would at that. Mind answering one more question?”

“Won’t know until you ask it.”

“What are you charging me?”

His looks surprised or bemused, or possibly both. “Haven’t thought about setting a price,” he says. “We’ll see how it plays out.”

“You don’t have an hourly rate like lawyers?”

“Nope. My fee depends on what happens.”

I let that soak in, absorbing the implications. “You mean your fee depends on if you get the child back alive?”

“Among other things, yes,” he admits. “Is this our exit?”

He doesn’t even flinch when I lay into the horn and cut over to the lane for Grand Central. This much closer to the city, the parkway is jammed with honking, flatulent vehicles. We find ourselves trapped behind a smoke-belching freight truck, visibility pretty much zero. I’m worried about missing the exit onto Queens Boulevard, but Shane spots it before I do.

Twenty minutes later we’re in a day-rate parking garage a block from our destination. Haven’t been to this part of Queens in years, but it looks like business is booming, with folks hurrying along sidewalks that are as crowded, if not quite so wide, as Fifth Avenue.

After shutting off the rental car, I turn to Shane and say, “Ready?”

Shane clears his throat awkwardly. “I’ve been thinking maybe you should stay in the car, let me handle the lawyer.”

“No way,” I say, opening the door. “If this guy won’t tell us what we want to know, I’m going to get all medieval on him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tommy likes that expression. Now I know why.”

Shane grins. “It would probably be better if you don’t actually threaten his life.”

Somewhere deep in the garage, wheels are screeching. The sound is like a jagged fingernail inside my brain.

“We’ll see,” I tell him. “I’m not leaving his office without Teresa Alonzo’s number and address.”

The woman who claims to be Tommy’s birth mother. Oh yes, I do remember her name.

20 lawyers, guns and money

Enrico Vargas’s office is located in a seedy brick building that houses, among other enterprises, a video-rental outlet calling itself Entertainment Express, hiding behind a blocked-out, street-level window. Porno for sure. Shane shrugs, as if to say he expected no less: low-rent lawyer in low-rent location. Inside the foyer we stop to check out the listings for office suites, and find Vargas advertising himself as “Attorney to the People—Free Consultation,” which makes me expect to find a waiting room full of scamming whiplash clients.

The dingy hallway actually lifts my spirits. I’m thinking a cut-rate shyster hasn’t got the resources of, say, a midtown law firm. Which from my point of view is a good thing.

“What if he’s not in?” I ask, needing to fret about something. “What if he’s out staging a fender bender?”

“He’s in,” Shane assures me as we mount the stairs to the second floor. “I took the liberty of making an appointment.”

“And he agreed to see us?”

“He agreed to see a man who thinks he has a case against a local McDonald’s. Second-degree burns from hot fat on the French fries.”

“You lied to him?”

“I gave him a reason to be here,” Shane says with a grim smile.

Strange how my perceptions have changed. A few days ago the idea of a man lying for me would have been repugnant. Now it pleases me.

As it happens, Attorney Vargas does not occupy one of the euphemistically listed office suites. He simply has access to a so-called conference room, in reality a bare, beige-walled cubicle barely large enough to contain a battle-scared table and several heavy chairs. No waiting room, no gum-snapping receptionist and no shifty-eyed clients faking injuries from accidents that never happened. No windows, even. Just a briefcase, a tablet of yellow-lined paper, a cell phone and Enrico Vargas himself, slitting open his mail with a chromed letter opener.

Vargas, I must admit, is more impressive than I anticipated, given the modest surroundings. He’s a handsome, heavyset gentleman in his midthirties with an unruly mop of thick, dark hair, cheerful brown eyes that beam with intelligence and a very engaging smile that shows off his white and perfect teeth. His dark blue suit isn’t quite of Armani quality, but he wears it well, and it’s a far cry from the off-the-rack sacks favored by ambulance chasers, at least those I’ve seen depicted on television cop shows.

“Welcome, I think,” says Vargas, eyeing us with a kind of resignation, as if he’s used to deceitful clients, and reluctantly prepared for every eventuality. “I’m looking for a bandage, Mr. Shane. Don’t see a bandage. Burns require a bandage.”

“I’m a quick healer. May we sit?”

“Sure, sit.” He lays the letter opener carefully on the table, nudging it away with his plump pinkie finger, as if afraid it might bite like an ungrateful client. “Is this Mrs. Shane?” he asks, directing his high-beam smile at me. “Are you a quick healer, too?”

“My name is Katherine Bickford. Sound familiar?”

Takes a moment, but he recognizes my name.

“Aw shit,” he says, affecting to be terribly disappointed in us. “Either of you carrying a concealed weapon by any chance?”

“I am,” says Shane.

“You going to use it?”

“Not unless provoked. We’re just after a little information, Mr. Vargas. Nothing that should trouble you.”

“My friends call me Rico.”

“We’re not your friends.”

Vargas sighs, resigned to whatever trouble we’re bringing to him. “You never know. I’m quite lovable once you get to know me. First let me apologize for the humble surroundings,” he says, indicating the small and dreary room. “I pretty much live in the courthouse and work out of my briefcase, so why waste all that money on an office?”

“You’re a criminal lawyer,” Shane says, making it sound like an accusation.

“A good one, too,” Vargas says. “Mrs. Bickford, you find yourself in need of another attorney, keep me in mind. I’m licensed in Connecticut. Probably bill a whole lot less than whoever you’ve got now.”

The offer has me nonplussed—can he be serious? Shane sees me about to stammer and interjects, “Mrs. Bickford already has very adequate counsel, Mr. Vargas. As I’m sure you’re aware. We’re here to ask a few questions about the custody suit you filed on behalf of Teresa Alonzo.”

“Sorry,” Vargas says lightly. “No can do. Shane, are you a cop? I get this cop feel about you.”

“Licensed investigator,” Shane responds in the clipped, don’t-mess-with-me tone he hasn’t used since our initial contact on the phone.

“Investigator used to be a cop,” Vargas decides, continuing to study him the way a wary zoo attendant studies a caged tiger. “Not a beat cop, either. You’re more the cerebral type. Feds, was it?”

Shane shrugs, as if he doesn’t want to waste time trading guesses. “You can check me out later, Mr. Vargas. I’m sure you’ve got your sources. Right now the subject is you. How a guy who stands in the back of night court hoping for a Public Defender assignment gets himself involved in a kidnapping scheme.”

“Kidnapping?” Vargas looks like he’s suddenly developed intestinal distress. “You serious?”

“Let me guess,” Shane says, leaning his long arms on the table. His splayed-out hands no more than a few inches from the attorney’s plump, manicured fingers. “This lady calling herself Teresa Alonzo comes out of nowhere, drops a nice little fee in your briefcase. Says all you have to do is file the papers.”

“Whoa. Back up. You just said kidnapping,” Vargas says. “That’s a very ugly word. Please explain.”

“You’re part of a conspiracy, Mr. Vargas. That’s my explanation. Maybe you don’t know the details—maybe you didn’t want to know—but now the shit has hit the fan and you’re in it up to your size seventeen neck.”

Vargas touches his collar and sighs. “Go on,” he says. “Insult me all you want.”

“The custody suit you filed? It’s part of a kidnap/murder. Mrs. Bickford’s boy was snatched at a Little League game. She was held against her will. Her bank accounts were ransacked. A cop got killed. Her son is still missing. And there’s an excellent chance that the papers you filed are part of a conspiracy to divert the investigation for a few crucial days. When they get around to checking out Miss Alonzo and find out she’s no more the birth mother of Tommy Bickford than I am, you’ll be hung out to dry. All for what? Five hundred? A thousand? I bet the paperwork was already done, all it needed was your signature. A service you provide for certain clients. Clients with cash, I’m betting.”

I get the impression Rico Vargas isn’t listening very intently to Shane, not to the particulars. Something is clicking over in his nimble brain, calculations based on one or two of Shane’s details. If I’m not mistaken, the look in his eyes betrays worry, if not outright fear. “I think you should both leave now,” he announces. “I really can’t discuss these matters.”

“Give us Alonzo’s street address,” Shane demands, sounding very much like a police detective who won’t take no for an answer. “Give us her address, and we walk.”

Vargas shakes his head regretfully. Wanting us to think he’d really love to help, were it not for his deep moral conviction that he can’t betray a client. “No can do. I’d be breaking confidentiality. I’m afraid we have nothing further to discuss.”

“Give it up, Mr. Vargas,” Shane suggests, not bothering to disguise an air of barely restrained menace. “Any way you want. Write us a note. Walk out of the room and leave your briefcase behind. Say it in pig latin. Whatever method salves your conscience. But we’re not leaving without her address.”

Vargas sighs deeply, theatrically, and then has the nerve to look to me for support. “Please tell him, Mrs. Bickford. Threatening me will only get him in trouble.”

Something has been bubbling inside me for the last few minutes, a kind of outrage at the whole bantering conversation between the two men. How dare they quip and posture when the underlying subject of their conversation is my missing son!

“Tell him yourself, you son of a bitch!” I demand, waving the letter opener in front of the lawyer’s chubby, self-satisfied face. “That woman may have my son, do you understand! Tell us what we want to know, or so help me God I’ll poke your lying eyeballs right out of your head!”

Both men are shocked, but then, so am I. Who is this woman threatening a two-hundred-pound man with a sharp weapon? Has she lost her mind? I don’t even remember picking up the opener, so how did this happen?

The scary thing, the really scary thing, is that if I thought assaulting Vargas would get me back my son, I’d do it. Do it in a heartbeat.

Vargas has backed his chair against the wall, eyes clocking the waving blade of the letter opener. Ready to duck if I lunge.

“You’re a witness,” he tells Shane, pleading. “Your client has threatened to blind me.”

“It’s not exactly a switchblade, Rico.”

“Yeah? For your information people get killed with office implements all the time. I had a client once who murdered a guy with a tape dispenser.”

Shane shrugs calmly. “My advice, Rico? Take her very seriously. Think about it. How would you feel if it was your kid got snatched, and some fat shyster wouldn’t give up the name of a possible abductor?”

Something about Shane’s reasonable tone makes me lower the blade and toss it on the table, where it clatters like a cheap toy.

Vargas sighs in relief, then slyly retrieves the blade, slipping it into his briefcase.

“The address. I want to talk to this woman. I want to ask her about my son.”

Vargas stands up, as much to keep out of my range as to impose his size on the room. “I wish I could help, Mrs. Bickford. I really do. But I can’t.”

He’s about to add something else when his cell phone rings. He picks it up, flips it open with the dexterity of a man who lives and dies by phone connections. Raising a practiced finger to indicate that he simply has to take this call, and he knows we’ll understand. “Attorney Vargas,” he says, giving me an apologetic, just-be-a-minute smile. “Yeah, yeah,” he says into the phone. “Funny you should ask. No, of course not. Right here with me, yes.” He pauses, listening for a few beats, and his expression grows somber. “Uh-huh,” he says. “I suppose that’s a possibility.” Then he snaps the phone shut and stands up.

“I may have something for you after all,” he announces. “Wait right here. I have to return this call.”

“So return it here,” Shane suggests.

“Sorry, no, Mr. Fed. Has to be a secure location. Meaning I have to be able to talk freely without being overheard. I’m sure you understand.”

“We’ll come with you,” Shane suggests.

Vargas shakes his head, dislodging a thick lock of dark hair. “Not if you want any further information from me. That’s the deal. Five minutes.”

“Five?”

“Wait here. If you follow me, I can’t take the call.”

Shane glances at me and shrugs. “Five,” he says.

Vargas snags his briefcase, gives me a wink that implies my troubles will soon be over, and strides from the room, leaving the door ajar. He has that comfortable, fat man’s agility that suggests he’d be a good dancer, nimble and balanced and graceful. His feet pad down the hallway, seemingly in no particular hurry, and then he’s gone.