by Lisa Gardner
“You mean hostages,” Jillian murmured.
“We like this residential park.” The lieutenant tapped the green square on the map. “Direct street access that can be easily monitored. We close off all the side roads, of course, and shut down the park to the general public. The park itself is an open, green space, meaning it’s easy to monitor with few places to hide—”
“You mean in case the College Hill Rapist is setting up an ambush,” Jillian said.
This time, the lieutenant paused long enough to give her a stern look. Apparently, in the state police officer’s world, civilians were to be seen, not heard. Well, that explained Griffin. “We can also position snipers on rooftops here, here and here,” the lieutenant continued curtly. “In other words, we will have a bead on David Price at all times during the three hours.”
“If you shoot him, what happens to our daughter?” Tom asked.
“Given the situation, our snipers will have to radio for permission to use deadly force.”
“What does that mean?” Laurie asked.
“It means we understand Price holds valuable information and we’ll do our best to conduct the operation accordingly.”
Jillian spoke up. “But under some circumstances, you would authorize use of deadly force.”
“We’re professionals,” Lieutenant Morelli said firmly. “We know what we’re doing.”
Jillian, Tom, Laurie and Libby exchanged glances. They thought they knew what that meant. The snipers wouldn’t kill David Price if he still appeared controllable. But if it looked like he was getting away . . . If the state police had to weigh the life of one woman against a convicted serial killer who would definitely return to his murderous ways should he ever get free . . .
“The state marshals will be in charge of transferring Price from the ACI to the park.” Lieutenant Morelli resumed speaking. “Transporting prisoners is their job and they know it best. Given the extreme situation, we will provide police escort and we will follow a predetermined, secured route. Upon arrival at the park, the state marshals will turn Price over to two state detectives for the duration of the meeting.”
“He’ll be in street clothes?” Laurie asked.
“Price’s lawyer will deliver clothes for the visit by four this afternoon. We will thoroughly inspect the articles of clothing, of course, as well as conduct a full search of David Price.”
“His wrists and ankles will be shackled?” Tom asked.
“Absolutely. His ankles will be bound. His cuffed hands will be secured to his waist with a chain. His mobility will be extremely limited, I assure you. Now then, I want to talk about Molly—”
“I don’t want him to touch her!” Laurie cried.
“We plan on keeping them ten feet apart at all times.”
“How about the length of the park,” Tom growled.
“We may increase that distance at our discretion,” the lieutenant replied.
“In other words, if David is acting hinky . . .” Jillian murmured.
“We won’t let Molly anywhere near him,” the lieutenant finished for her.
Tom sighed heavily. His big shoulders sagged, his face was haggard. It was obvious he hated the idea of what was to come, and it was obvious he felt he had no other choice.
“Now,” Morelli said briskly. “About Molly’s escort—”
“We’ll take her!” Tom said instantly, head popping up.
“We would prefer that you didn’t—”
“Hell, no! Not an option. This is our daughter . . . granddaughter we’re talking about. Molly needs us, she depends upon us. We will be there at her side every step of the way.”
“Mr. Pesaturo, we understand your concern. But this is a potentially volatile situation. We feel it would be best to minimize the number of civilians involved and maximize the number of experienced professionals.”
“Too bad. I’m her father. I’m not leaving her side.”
“Mr. Pesaturo, it would be my honor to escort Molly—”
“I’m her father!”
“And I have two daughters of my own!” Lieutenant Morelli’s voice finally rose angrily. She caught the emotion, leveled her tone. “Mr. Pesaturo, we don’t know what Price’s true intentions are. We suspect, however, that they involve a great deal more than simply saying hi to his long-lost daughter. If he springs something, what are you going to do?”
“Kill the bastard.” Tom saw her look and hastily added, “In self-defense, of course.”
“And what about Meg?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” His shoulders sagged again. Meg had been missing nearly six hours now. Six long, uncertain, fearful hours. Tom whispered, “What would you do?”
“I don’t know,” the lieutenant answered gently. “I suspect none of us will know what to do until the moment it is asked of us. But the point is, there may be split-second decisions that need to be made, and as someone experienced in these matters, I’m better equipped to make them.”
“This is ridiculous.” Laurie again. “We’re doing exactly what he wants.”
Lieutenant Morelli didn’t say anything.
“Isn’t there something else you can do? Some way you can force him to tell you where Meg is? To give us the rapist’s name?”
“He’s in prison for life,” Morelli said. “That’s already the maximum penalty this state allows.”
“But prisons do have punishments,” Jillian spoke up. “Protocols, procedures for when prisoners get out of line.”
“Inmates can be LFI—locked and fed in, meaning they must remain in their cells even during mealtimes. It’s ACI’s version of solitary, except the inmate remains in his original cell. Or, in cases where an inmate routinely disrupts prison life, he can be reassigned to Super Max, where inmates are confined to their cells twenty-three hours a day. In other words, they lose all the perks still offered in Old Max.”
“Then threaten him with reassignment!” Tom boomed. “Tell Price you’re going to send him to this Super Max place.”
“Sergeant Griffin already did. Price didn’t care.” Morelli leaned forward. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Pesaturo. If we had more time, we could try some different tactics, place Price in Super Max and see if the pressure got to him. But I suspect Price knows that. That’s why he’s given us an aggressive timetable. That’s why we have only a matter of hours. If we don’t do what he wants, something could happen to Meg, or something could happen to another innocent young girl. Yes, what we’re doing is not ideal. But we’re going to do it with the best of our abilities. I’d like to escort your granddaughter, Mr. Pesaturo. I promise you I will do my best to keep her safe.”
“What will Sergeant Griffin be doing?” Jillian asked.
Morelli gave her a wary glance. “The sergeant is pursuing another avenue of the investigation.”
“I would think you would want him at the scene,” Jillian pressed, giving the lieutenant a steely glance of her own. “Isn’t he the one who knows David Price the best?”
“Sergeant Griffin feels he has a good lead. We thought it was best to let him pursue it.”
“Does he think he knows where Meg is?” Laurie spoke up hopefully.
The lieutenant didn’t say anything, and then Jillian got it. “Griffin thinks he might be able to identify the real perpetrator,” she said slowly. “He’s trying to find the College Hill Rapist, without David Price.”
“We are doing everything in our power to avoid granting David Price’s request,” the lieutenant said.
“Oh, thank God,” Laurie said. Sitting next to Jillian, Libby tapped her finger.
“But,” the lieutenant reminded them firmly, “the meeting Price is demanding may still happen. We need to be prepared. I would like permission to escort your granddaughter—”
“No!”
“Mr. Pesaturo—”
“No,” he said again. Tom looked at his wife, then took her hand. Together, they turned toward the state lieutenant. “We’ve raised Molly as our d
aughter. She needs us now. We’ll do this together. As a family.”
“And if Price tries something?”
“Then we’ll see how good your snipers are, won’t we, Lieutenant?”
Four P.M. Griffin, Fitz and Waters finally found the Korporate Klean world headquarters. In other words, a decrepit old warehouse in south Providence, amid a bunch of even more decrepit old buildings. Apparently cleaning companies didn’t make as much money as, say, sperm banks.
The front doors were locked. Griffin started punching buttons on the mounted intercom system while Waters gazed up at the security camera. It took four or five rings before a scratchy female voice crackled through the box.
“What?”
“We’re looking for Korporate Klean,” Griffin said.
“Why?”
“We’re dirty and we need a good scrubbing, why do you think?”
“You cops?”
“Worse,” Griffin announced. “We’re IRS.”
That did the trick. The doors instantly buzzed open. A bunch of ex-cons would have nothing but disdain for law enforcement. Everyone, on the other hand, fears the IRS.
Up on the fifth floor, the office “suite” of Korporate Klean was a pleasant surprise compared to the rest of the building. Sure, the gray carpet was threadbare, the bone-colored walls boring, but the place was spic-and-span. Even smelled like ammonia and Pine-Sol. This must be where the recruits practiced their new trade.
The three detectives came to an empty front desk in the tiny entryway, gazed down a long narrow hallway behind it and waited impatiently for someone to appear. Griffin’s leg was starting to jiggle again. He clasped his hands behind his back so no one would see them shake. When he glanced back up, Waters was staring at him, so maybe he wasn’t fooling anyone after all.
Four-oh-three P.M. Not much time. Christ . . .
A door down the hall finally opened. A girl with jet-black hair walked out, wearing way too many piercings and not nearly enough clothes.
“May I help you?” she asked, and gave them a very direct glance for someone half-naked in front of three men.
“We’re looking for the owner of Korporate Klean.”
“May I ask what this is regarding?”
“Taxes.”
“IRS agents don’t make house calls.”
“How would you know?” Griffin gave up on the staring contest. He flashed his ID. “This is official business. Find the owner. Now.”
The girl raised a silver-studded brow, gave them a dismissive look just so they’d know that they hadn’t scared her, and then retreated down the hall.
Griffin’s other leg got a tremor. He paced around the room while Waters and Fitz watched.
Another minute, a long, interminable minute. One of so many minutes, ticking, ticking, ticking. Didn’t anyone understand the urgency of time?
The girl finally returned. Mr. Sal Green would see them now. The last doorway on the left. Try not to break anything on their way there.
Too late. They stormed down the hall, stormed into the room and arrived as a definite physical presence.
“Officers.” An older, trimly built man in faded jeans and a graying ponytail greeted them as they burst into the office. He belatedly rose to his feet, then waved his hand vaguely at the two empty chairs.
“Sergeant,” Griffin corrected him sharply.
Green wasn’t impressed. He shrugged, then commented, “I’d say I’m surprised by your visit, but of course I’m not. What happened this time, gentlemen? A paper clip is missing from someone’s lobby, and you’re here to follow up with your favorite scapegoats?”
“The state police doesn’t get involved in missing paper clips.”
“Oh, you’re right, you’re right. So one of my crews was speeding instead. You know, it really is safe to hand them the ticket. Not all ex-cons bite.”
Griffin’s blood pressure jumped another fifty points. He turned to Waters, who got the hint.
“We need a name,” Waters said.
“No kidding.”
“We need to know who works the sperm bank up in Pawtucket and we need a record of their date-of-hire.”
“Then I would need a subpoena.”
“Then you’re going to need a cast,” Griffin growled.
“Oooh, good cop, bad cop.” Green turned to Fitz. “What are you, the comedic sidekick?”
Fitz said, “I’m the corroborative witness who’ll testify that the first two didn’t really hurt you.”
“Oh spare me.” Green sat back down behind his desk. “Look, I run a good company, with good guys. You people run screaming through my personnel records once a month, and you haven’t found anything yet. Whatever it is this time, get a subpoena. If you finally have proof someone in my employ has done bad, then you shouldn’t have any trouble getting a judge to agree.”
“We don’t have time,” Waters said tightly.
“And I don’t have a million dollars. Welcome to life.”
Griffin had had enough. He planted his hands on the desk, leaned in until his face was inches from Green’s and held the man’s stare. “It involves the College Hill Rapist, got it? Have you been watching the news? Do you understand what we’re talking about?”
Green finally paused. He looked away from Griffin, then frowned. “My guys work at night—”
“Not every night.”
“I vet them myself. We have no one with a history of sex crimes. The women on my crews would object—or hurt him.”
“This guy was never convicted.”
“Then how do you know he’s one of mine? Look, Sergeant, I’m just a beleaguered small-business owner, and you’re not making a very good case.”
“We have our reasons. We have compelling reasons—”
“Then tell them to a judge,” Green interrupted firmly. He picked up his phone, as if to signal that he was done.
Griffin slammed the phone back down. “If another girl is hurt—”
“Then you know where to find me, don’t you, Sergeant?”
“You son of a bitch,” Fitz snarled.
Green shot him a look, too. He was angry now and it showed in his face. “Gentlemen, it’s called due process. You’re the police, you ought to know about it. Now if I were you, I’d find a judge. Because it’s getting late, and frankly I plan on going home at five.”
Griffin almost went for him then. Blood pressure so high. Ringing so loud in his ears. Waters touched his arm. He reined himself back in. Breathe deep, count to ten. Count to twenty. Man was an asshole. The world was filled with them.
“We’ll be back,” Griffin said.
“You and Schwarzenegger,” Mr. Green said dryly and picked up his phone.
They exited the building fast. Four thirty-two and counting. “We need a judge, a friendly judge,” Griffin growled. “I’m out of the loop.”
“I know one,” Waters said immediately.
“Okay, you and I will get the warrant. You”—Griffin turned to Fitz—“watch the building. I don’t want to come all the way back with paper just to find Mr. Bleeding Heart gone.”
“Oooh, me and all the ex-cons. I can hardly wait.”
“Neither can they. Come on, Waters. Let’s roll.”
Fitz went back inside the building. Waters and Griffin climbed into Waters’s car. The sky was still light, dusk three hours away. But it would come, and it would come quick, and Price would be out of prison, walking toward his five-year-old daughter. While some young college student walked out of the student union, headed for her apartment.
And Meg? And Jillian? And Carol?
Griffin had failed his wife once. He had failed ten helpless children. He had failed himself. He was supposedly older and wiser now. He didn’t want to fail again.
“Are you going to make it?” Waters asked tightly.
“I’m holding it together.”
“Just barely.”
“See?” Griffin said lightly. “I’ve made progress.”
Four forty-six.
A corrections officer stopped outside the solitary-confinement cell where David Price had been temporarily placed.
“Hands,” the guard said.
“You’re going to shackle me already? Wow, you guys really aren’t leaving anything to chance.”
“Hands,” the guard repeated.
David shrugged. He knew the drill. He stuck his hands through the slit in the cell door. The corrections officer slapped on the cuffs. David withdrew his shackled wrists, and his cell door was finally opened. The guard pulled him out by the shoulder and led him over to Processing.
“Can I stop by my cell?” David asked.
“Why?”
“I like that toilet better. You know, it’s hard to relax in a new cell.”
“Eat more fiber,” the guard told him and pulled him down the hall. At the end was a room where three more guards waited. One saw him coming and snapped on a pair of gloves.
“Full cavity search?” David arched a brow. “Why this is just my lucky day.”
The guard regarded him stonily. David shrugged.
“Oh, the price of freedom.” He went into the room, where his favorite shirt and pants were stacked on the table. The clothes had probably already been searched. Now it was his turn.
David turned away from the stack of clothing, trying not to smile too brightly.
“Free at last,” he murmured as he raised his hands above his head, “free at last. O Lord Almighty, free at last.”
Five P.M.
David Price bent over.
Griffin and Waters pleaded their case before a judge.
Fitz stared at a half-dressed receptionist.
Tawnya fed a crying, fussy Eddie, Jr.
Meg swayed from side to side.
Carol’s right hand started to twitch.
And Jillian sat in the Pesaturo home, thinking of Meg, thinking of Carol, thinking of her sister, thinking of Sylvia Blaire and then thinking of David Price’s game plan. Something was wrong here, she thought, then rubbed her temples as she tried desperately, quickly, to think of what.