First Offense, page 13
She turned to look up at him. “My husband told me he’d be safe over in Afghanistan. That things had quieted down. And now he’s missing. I know you’re just trying to be helpful, but words won’t bring either of them back to me.”
Tommy understood her despair. Much as he wanted to soothe her, he knew his words were hollow. Frankie had been missing for five days. With stranger abductions, that was a lifetime. After twenty-four hours, the chance of finding the child became less and less likely.
They sat together in silence. Almost two hours later, Metzger entered their room sporting a wide grin. “They cracked it. Their e-mails had been encrypted using a public key, with a private key needed to decode it. They were routed through servers that bounced from India to Russia to Iceland, of all places. John gave us his private key, and with that our guys figured out Mark’s private key. We’ve traced it to Mark Hollander, in Atlanta. We have a team headed over there now, but they’ll sit on the house and watch first. We’re leaving now to go there.”
Tommy stood up. “I’d like to go with you.”
Metzger shook his head. “This is a risky operation. You’re a civilian now. Stay here, and I’ll keep you updated.”
“I won’t get in your way. I’ll sit in the car.”
Metzger hesitated, then finally said, “No cowboy stunts. You do exactly what I say.”
“Deal.” Tommy turned to Jessica. “We’re going to bring Frankie back to you. I promise.”
Mark entered the darkened room and switched on the light bulb. “Rise and shine, my little ones.”
Frankie had been awake for hours, barely able to catch any sleep on the corner of the mattress he’d taken for himself.
“Good news, boy. I found someone to take you. You’ll be out of here by tonight.”
Frankie shuddered. His time was running out.
When Mark left the room, Daisy said, “You have to try to escape. When he takes you out to the car.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“You have to think of a way. If you see any chance at all, you gotta take it.”
“He has a gun.”
“I’d rather be dead than be his slave forever. You don’t know what it’s like.”
Frankie was quiet. So far, no one had touched him. Still, his heart had been racing ever since he’d been thrown in this room. What would happen to him after he was turned over to this other man? He’d heard stories. Would he be chained up like Daisy? He’d hoped against hope that somehow his mother would rescue him. Or Bobby. But no one had come. Maybe Daisy was right. He had to rescue himself.
“You’re my only hope.” Daisy’s voice was soft, her tone pleading. “If you don’t get free, and tell people where I am, then I’ll die here.”
“Will you go home, then?”
Daisy took a while to answer. “Maybe. Maybe my parents will be glad I’m back. Maybe they’ll realize they missed me. So you have to try. Please.”
Frankie knew she was right. He had to get out. Somehow find a way.
Metzger’s car pulled up down the block from the yellow ranch home just before eight p.m. Greco sat next to him in the front passenger seat, Tommy in the rear. As soon as they parked, a beefy man with a gray-flecked goatee walked up to the car. Metzger rolled down his window, and the man held out his hand.
“You Metzger?” he asked as they shook.
“I am.”
“I’m Detective Paul Diamond. We’ve been staking out his house since you called. No one’s gone in or out. And since no lights came on after it got dark, we suspect he’s not there.”
“Let’s give it more time. He could be out picking up another kid. He drove to Greensboro to get Frankie Bishop.”
Diamond returned to his car, while Tommy and the feds remained in theirs, chatting quietly. Almost two hours later, a car pulled into the driveway, the garage door opened, and the car drove in.
“Stay put,” Metzger said to Tommy as he and Greco quietly exited the car. Several houses down, four more plainclothes police, Diamond among them, left another car. All had their guns drawn.
Two of Diamond’s men soundlessly moved to the rear of the house, Diamond and another to each side. The FBI agents knocked loudly on the door and announced, “FBI. Open up!”
Metzger heard some rustling inside, but the door remained closed. He knocked once more, then turned to the men and nodded. As he reached out to check if the door was unlocked, it suddenly opened a crack. Two shots rang out, one of them catching Greco in the center of his chest. He fell to the ground. Metzger pulled him away as the door slammed shut again.
“You okay?”
Greco nodded, then stood up. “Just took the wind out of me.”
“Don’t ever complain to me again about wearing your vest.”
Diamond rounded the corner. “I just called for backup.”
“Good. But I’m not sure we can wait. If the boy is inside, I think we need to move quickly.” Metzger called for one of the two men stationed in the back to come around front. “Is there a back door?”
The detective nodded.
“I’ll draw him out here. You and your partner break in through the back.”
As the two men ran around to the rear, Metzger walked up to the front door, staying on the hinged side. He banged on the door once more, and again, Hollander opened it slightly and began shooting wildly. Metzger returned fire.
When he stopped to reload, there was only silence inside. Moments later, the front door opened, and Sam Porter, one of Diamond’s men, stood on the other side. “He’s not on this level,” the detective said. “Emilio’s checking out upstairs.”
Metzger and Greco entered the house, Diamond right behind. They heard the sound of footsteps above them, then a voice calling out, “Clear.” Seconds later, the detective came downstairs, shaking his head. “He’s not up there.”
“There’s a basement,” Porter said, nodding toward an open hallway door.
Metzger switched on the light over the stairs, then led the way down, the others following. There were three closed doors along the tight hallway. He opened the first door, waited a beat, then with his gun in hand, swept his flashlight over the room. Only a double bed. No headboard, no carpeting, no other furniture in the room. Just a bed. A small casement window caked with dust looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. He shook his head and backed out.
Greco stood by the second door, Diamond by the third. Metzger headed to Greco, then opened the door and once again waited a beat before sweeping his flashlight into the space. A small bathroom. Sink and toilet, with a stall shower. No window. Finally, Metzger opened the third door. A bare bulb hanging from the center of the room illuminated a man standing in the corner with a gun pointed at the head of a painfully thin girl. Her arms were handcuffed to a chain attached to the wall.
“Take one step inside, and she’s dead,” the man said.
Metzger stayed rooted in the doorway, giving him only a partial view inside the room. “You Hollander?” Metzger asked.
“You know I am.”
Without looking away from him, Metzger hitched his shoulders slightly, a signal for Greco to call in a hostage-negotiation team. “Don’t make this hard on yourself. You know there’s no out for you.”
Hollander laughed, the sound reverberating off the walls of the barren room. “Good try. You’re not going to let me kill Daisy.”
There was one casement window in the room. It, too, looked permanently shut. But if Metzger could get Hollander to move a few steps toward him, the marksmen would have a clear shot through the window. He needed to keep Hollander talking long enough for the hostage team, with their marksmen, to get to the house.
“Where’s the boy?”
“What boy?”
“Don’t play coy. We know you have Frankie Bishop.”
“Not anymore. He’s gone.”
“Where?”
“Let me walk, and I’ll tell you.”
“That’s not going to happen. Tell us where Frankie is, and it’ll go easier on you.”
“You don’t let me walk, it ain’t going to go easy for the boy.” He pushed the gun right up against Daisy’s head. “Or for her.”
As Metzger kept Hollander talking, Greco slipped back up the stairs with Diamond and called for a hostage team. Fifteen minutes later, they arrived and immediately began their examination outside the premises. When they reached the window to the basement room where Hollander was holed up, they crouched down on their stomachs, ten feet away so as not to be observed.
“Are you certain you can do it through the glass? Without harming the girl?” Greco asked the sharpshooter.
“If Hollander moves into sight. I’ve done it before.”
“Can you shoot the gun out of Hollander’s hand without killing him?”
“I’m trained to shoot to kill.”
“It’s not just the Bishop boy. Hollander could lead us to others who’ve come through his system.”
“I’ll try. Just get him to move toward the window.”
“Let your negotiator try to talk him down first.” Greco turned to the negotiator, Sergeant Egton, and gave him Hollander’s cell-phone number. Burke dialed it, and it was picked up four rings later.
“Yeah?”
“Is this Mark Hollander?”
“You the negotiator?”
“I am, Mr. Hollander. We’d like to get you out of there safely, with no one hurt.”
“Get me a free pass, and the girl won’t get hurt. I’ll even tell you who has the boy.”
“So, Frankie Bishop is alive?”
“For now.”
As Egton spoke, the marksman lined up his shot through the window, ready to shoot if Hollander moved into his sight and the negotiator gave the go-ahead.
“How would I know you’re telling the truth about the boy? If I let you go, you could tell me anything. Why don’t you send the girl out as a show of good faith?”
“Hah. Soon as I do that, I’m dead. No, after I’m away from you goons, I’ll phone the station and tell you where the kid is.”
“Let me talk to some people, and I’ll get back to you.”
Egton hung up and turned to Greco. “I know you came here because of Bishop, but there’s a child in there right now with a gun to her head. And a man who is probably very nervous. Are you willing to let him walk?”
Greco shook his head.
“Then we’ve got to take him out.”
Greco slipped back down to the basement and motioned to Metzger that time was running out.
“They’re trying to work something out for you,” Metzger called in to Hollander. “But I need to speak to the girl first, make sure she’s all right.”
“Go ahead. Talk to her.”
“I need to see her. Move her closer to me.”
“No fucking way.”
“This is your only chance to get out of here. They’re working on it now. But you need to bring the girl closer to me, or let me come in the room. Otherwise, there’s no deal.”
Metzger heard some rustling, then Hollander stepped into view, one arm around the girl’s neck, the other pointing a gun to her head. “Go ahead, ask your questions.”
Metzger had just begun to say the girl’s name when a loud bang and the sound of shattered glass broke the silence of the night.
As soon as Hollander dropped the gun and let out a howl of pain, Metzger rushed him and brought him down to the floor. Hollander’s hand was too bloody to handcuff, but two other policeman rushed to his side and held him down. Metzger stood and looked at the girl, now awash in tears.
“Your name is Daisy?”
She whispered, “Yes.”
“What’s your last name, Daisy?”
“Malone.”
“We’re going to get you out of here.” Metzger turned to Hollander, who was still groaning in pain. “Where’s the key to unlock her?”
“Fuck you.”
Metzger moved closer to him and positioned his foot right over the injured hand. “You have one chance to tell me where it is before I stomp on this.”
Quickly, Hollander answered. “It’s in my left pocket.” One of the cops fished it out and handed it to Metzger. He unlocked Daisy’s shackles.
“It’s okay, dear. You’re safe now.”
The soft cries became sobs. Metzger dropped down next to her and wrapped his arms around her bony shoulders. When her cries subsided, he asked, “Do you know what happened to Frankie Bishop?”
Daisy nodded. “Mark took him away this afternoon.”
The only thing on Frankie’s mind as the car sped down the highway was that he needed to escape. He stole a glance at the heavyset man driving. He had a coarse, dark-brown beard, and his dark eyes were mere slits in his puffed-up face. Mark had headed northeast on Route 85, then about ten minutes after they passed the sign for Spartanburg, he had exited the highway, then driven down some country roads. After several turns, he’d pulled onto a dirt road and stopped. The air was still and silent. Nothing was around them but acres of farmland. They waited what seemed like forever for this man to take Frankie away, and during that time, not one car passed them. As soon as the handoff car drove up and the man exited, Frankie knew he’d never escape. The man was huge—well over six feet. He had to weigh at least 250 pounds. Frankie’s dad was six one and weighed 190 pounds, and this guy was bigger.
The man had walked over to Mark, looked Frankie up and down, then said, “He’ll do.” He’d bound Frankie’s limbs in duct tape, then picked him up like he was a bag of cotton balls and plopped him in the passenger seat of his big SUV. Its tinted windows were so dark, no one could see inside. Frankie watched out the window as the man peeled money out of his billfold and into Mark’s hands.
They’d been driving for hours—first continuing north on Route 85, then north on Route 77—and the man hadn’t said a word to him, not even his name. The radio was turned on loud, and the man hummed along to the country-music songs. Frankie had started to drift off to sleep when a change of direction startled him awake. They were leaving the highway. At the end of the exit ramp, the man pulled into a brightly lit gas station, then turned to Frankie, put his finger to his lips, and said, “Not one word.”
He got out of the car, punched some buttons, then began pumping gas. Frankie looked at the convenience store, fifty feet away from the car. Maybe he could tell the man he had to use the restroom? No, he realized. The man would stay right by his side.
He looked down at his hands once more, and the memory of a news show slowly returned to him. His mother had been watching, and he’d stopped as he’d passed by on his way to the kitchen for a snack. The woman was demonstrating how to get free when your hands were tightly wrapped with tape. Raise your hands high over your head, then swing them down hard onto your knee, she’d said. Could it be that simple?
He looked out the window. The man was on the other side of the car, facing the pump. Frankie lifted up his bound hands, then swung fast down to his legs and gasped when the tape broke. He bent down to unwrap his legs, but he couldn’t free an edge to lift off. He tried lifting his legs up to his mouth, to bite into the tape, but couldn’t get them high enough. He opened the glove box and felt around for something sharp, but found nothing. He opened the storage container between the front seats, and there he saw it: a screwdriver. Quickly, he took it out and began punching holes in the tape around his legs until he was able to get his small fingers in an opening, and then tear it apart. His legs were free.
The man was still at the pump. He had one chance. The man’s legs were long, but Frankie was fast. With one swift movement, he opened the door, then sped toward the store. The man heard the noise, then bolted after him, but Frankie got to the door first.
“I’ve been kidnapped!” he screamed as he ran behind the counter and pointed to his abductor as he followed Frankie inside. “That man!”
The store clerk didn’t look much older than Bobby, with the same dark skin and tall, muscled build. He reached under the counter and pulled out a pistol, then pointed it at the man. “Stop right there.”
The man stopped, then smiled. “My son likes to make up stories. What’s he told you?”
“Enough that you’re not coming near him.”
“Frankie just doesn’t like being away from his mother. But we share custody, and this is my time with him.”
“Tell that to the police.”
The man took a step toward Frankie.
“I have no problem shooting you. Come any closer, and that’s what I’ll do. And by the way, I’ve already tripped my silent alarm.”
With that, the big man turned and left the store, then got into his car and drove away. The distant sound of police sirens grew louder.
CHAPTER
23
Jessica was in her hotel room when her cell phone rang. Tommy had called her an hour earlier and given her the bad news: Frankie was already gone when they’d reached the predator’s house. She’d spent the hour crying nonstop. She felt alone and helpless—incapable of coming up with any ideas to get Frankie back. She kept asking herself what Alex would do. Her husband was always calm in crises, always able to think clearly and come up with a plan. But he was gone now. And she had no plan. I need you, Alex. I need you here, she kept thinking as her tears ran down her cheeks. Tell me what to do.
She jumped off the bed at the first ring and grabbed the phone, expecting another update from Tommy, or maybe a call from Bobby.
“Mommy?” the soft voice on the other end said.
For a moment, Jessica thought she must have fallen asleep and was dreaming she’d answered the phone.
“Mommy, it’s me.”
“Frankie? Oh, Frankie, where are you?” she asked through her sobs.
“I’m okay, Mommy. I’m at a police station. Are you mad at me?”
“Oh, my sweet baby, of course not. Are you really okay? Nobody hurt you?”
“I’m really okay.”
Jessica thought she might burst from happiness. Her son was safe. The knots that had tied up her body from head to toe instantly dissipated, and she realized she’d gone from tears to a great big grin. “Where’s the police station?”
