The Clockwork Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  Then Heather and Colin arrived and joined me at my old desk.

  I asked, “Did you talk to Chris?”

  “Yes, and he’s trying to get a flight out from St. Louis tonight. He’ll call me when he knows,” said Heather.

  “How’d he take the news?”

  “He’s scared, but he knows you’ll get Mama back safe.”

  My daughter rubbed my arm and that was almost enough to shatter my thin veneer of stoicism. Ash did the same thing to me when I was agitated. Gregg’s phone continued to ring and the room went silent with anticipation each time he snatched up the receiver. Then we’d relax when we saw that it wasn’t Kyle calling.

  Suddenly, the phone in front of me rang. Without thinking, I answered it, saying, “Robbery-Homicide, Inspector Lyon.”

  “Brad, it’s Danny. I’m calling on this line to keep Gregg’s clear.”

  “You’re apparently the only one that’s thought of that,” I replied as Gregg’s phone rang again.

  “Has he called?”

  “Not yet. Do you have anything?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe motive. I’m going through Lauren’s financial paperwork right now and, for starters, we don’t need to waste our time requesting a locate order on her credit cards. She can’t use them and she knows it.”

  “Why?”

  “Lauren has maxed every one of her cards to the limit, and then some.” I heard the rustle of paperwork in the background and then Aafedt continued, “From what I can see, she owes at least thirty grand on the plastic alone.”

  “Alone? There’s more?”

  “I think the cards are just the tip of the iceberg. It looks as if she mortgaged herself to the hilt to put that little monster of hers through Stanford. And she hasn’t been repaying the loans. There are so many ‘final notice’ letters here, I’m beginning to think the Day of Judgment is at hand.” Aafedt suddenly realized that it was the wrong joke at the wrong time, and quickly added, “Jeez, Brad, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Is there anything else?”

  “Yeah. There’s also a notice that her county property taxes are delinquent. Bottom line: It looks as if she was going to lose this house and soon.”

  “And you collected the coffee cups?”

  “It was the first thing we did and we’ve already rushed them to the lab. We’ll keep looking and I’ll call if we come up with anything else.”

  “Thanks, Danny.” I disconnected from the call and brought Gregg up-to-date on what Aafedt had discovered.

  Three o’clock passed, and then four o’clock came and went. I was becoming increasingly frightened that we weren’t going to hear from Kyle and knew that I wasn’t the only one feeling that way. Gregg was staring at the phone as if willing it to ring and Heather paced the office, while practicing karate punches. Meanwhile, Colin sat by the side of my desk and was disassembling and then reassembling his forty-five automatic. Then, at 4:13 P.M., Gregg’s phone rang.

  “Homicide Bureau, Inspector Mauel.” Gregg instantly reached over and pressed the button for the speakerphone so that we could all hear the call.

  “—and listen, stupid!” It was Kyle and I could clearly hear the sound of traffic in the background. He was outside and possibly driving.

  “Hello, Kyle.” Gregg almost sounded kindly.

  “I said, shut up! I’m doing the talking!” There was more fear in Kyle’s voice than menace. “Have you got Patrick?”

  “Right here on the desk in front of me. We’re ready to deal when you are.”

  “Then let me tell you how this is going to happen. First, if I even think I see a cop, the lady dies.”

  Heather’s jaw tightened and her hand drifted subconsciously to the pistol on her right hip. Meanwhile, I was replaying Kyle’s words in my head. There was something passive and almost ambiguous about how he’d phrased the threat. He didn’t say he’d kill Ash, only that she’d die. I couldn’t be certain, but perhaps that meant he wasn’t one-hundred-percent committed to the kidnapping.

  Gregg said, “I understand. We will stay out of the area.”

  “Next. I don’t want a cop delivering Patrick. Get someone else. Some regular person.”

  “Kyle, we can’t just grab some civilian and tell them they have to deliver a ransom to an armed kidnapper.”

  “Just do it!” Kyle snapped. “If you send a cop, I’ll go and you’ll never see that woman again.”

  This time the phrasing was even more vague. It was clear to me that Kyle was trying to intellectually distance himself from both the crime and his victim.

  “Okay. We’ll find someone,” Gregg said in a none-too-hopeful tone.

  “And don’t try to put any homing devices in Patrick. I know that robot from top to bottom and I’ll find it.”

  “We won’t do that. You made that very clear in your letter. May I ask you one thing?”

  “What?”

  “If we act in good faith and give you the robot, when do we get Ashleigh back?”

  There was a long pause before Kyle replied: “I guess you’ve just got to trust us on that. Monster Park. Jamestown Avenue entrance at the gate. Five o’clock.”

  Kyle hung up and then there was the hum of a dial tone. Monster Park was the current name of a fifty-year-old San Francisco landmark: Candlestick Park, a sports stadium that stood near the bay. Geographically, it was only about six miles south of the Hall of Justice, but with the rush hour traffic it could take a half hour or more to drive the distance.

  Gregg turned the speakerphone off as an investigator burst into the office.

  The detective said, “He was calling from a pay phone near the intersection of San Bruno Avenue and Mansell Street.”

  Gregg grimaced. “So, he’s already in the area. If we start moving units into the neighborhood, he’ll see it.”

  Colin snapped the magazine into his pistol. “And you’d better warn the Air Bureau to keep their choppers clear of the area.”

  “I volunteer to deliver the robot,” said Heather.

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Detective Lyon,” Gregg said gravely. “I said that we’d play the game according to Kyle’s rules and we will . . . for now.”

  “But—”

  I interrupted my daughter. “And even with the blue hair, you look way too much like your mom. Besides, I’m making the delivery.”

  Twenty-four

  Once Gregg got off the phone with the Air Bureau, he asked me, “You’re sure about this?”

  “Yeah, and not just because I’m feeling as if I have to redeem myself,” I said. “This may be our best shot at a peaceful resolution to this thing.”

  “How so?”

  “If you move beyond his bluster and listen to his actual words, you can hear that the kidnapping wasn’t Kyle’s idea.”

  “He’s definitely spooked,” said Gregg. “Maybe he’s discovered that killing people in real life isn’t as fun as in a video game.”

  “I don’t know.” Colin shook his head. “The little puke sounded pretty definite.”

  “That’s because you were listening to the sound instead of the message, son.” I pushed myself to my feet. “Think back on the words and expressions he used. They’re mushy. He’s mushy. Kyle is already mentally disassociating himself from the crime.”

  Heather’s eyes narrowed. “You’re right. He never referred to Mama by her name.”

  “Exactly. Kyle’s not even aware of it, but he’s trying to rationalize the kidnapping by depersonalizing your mom. But he won’t be able to do that if he has to talk to the kidnap victim’s loving husband.”

  “Then before we go . . .” Gregg took out his key ring and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. Opening the drawer, he pulled out a small semiautomatic pistol in a nylon ankle holster and offered it to me. “Just in case.”

  “I appreciate the thought, but an ankle holster? If this goes to hell, I don’t think Kyle is going to give me the time to sit down so I can get to my gun.”

  “The
n stick it in your jacket pocket.” Gregg still held the gun out.

  “There’s no point. I won’t use it. If Kyle dies, then so will Ash.”

  “Will you at least take a portable radio?”

  “Of course, but I’ll leave it in the van when I get out to give Kyle the bear.” I checked my watch. “The other thing I’m going to need is a black-and-white to give me a Code-Three escort at least part of the way. With the traffic, I’m going to have to use the breakdown lane on the freeway.”

  “And it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to have the CHP chase you to the rendezvous.” Gregg put the gun back into the drawer. Pulling his portable radio from its charger and handing it to me, he said, “I’ll grab a patrol car and notify the highway patrol that we’re going to be breaking some traffic laws.”

  Turning the radio on, I said, “I’ll stand by at the handicapped parking slots and follow you.”

  “Fine, but I want your promise that you’re going to be damn careful. I don’t want to be the one explaining to Ash how you got hurt.” Gregg slapped me on the shoulder.

  Heather grabbed the robot and we all trooped from the office. Once downstairs, I ignored the pain in my left shin and limped as fast as I could from the building and to the parking lot. I unlocked the doors when we were still fifteen yards from the van and Heather rushed ahead to put the robot on the passenger seat. Just before I climbed into the minivan, Colin shook my hand and my daughter gave me a tight hug. Then they sprinted toward the police parking lot and their unmarked car.

  Once I was behind the wheel and shut the door, I took a deep breath and was unprepared for what happened next. The atmosphere inside the vehicle was still slightly fragrant with the delicious smell of the gingerbread-scented lotion Ash had rubbed into her hands just before going into Lauren’s house. The aroma almost swept me away in a tsunami of anguish, fear, and guilt. However, I roughly reminded myself that this wasn’t the time or place for a self-pity party. I started the van, turned on the emergency flashers, and peered into the rearview mirror, waiting for Gregg to arrive.

  A few seconds later, a police cruiser came tearing around the corner of the parking lot. The car’s overhead emergency lights were flashing and the headlights were wigwagging. Then the car skidded to a stop as Gregg waited for me to back the van up and then pull in behind him. My old partner gave me a thumbs-up and then we pulled out onto Bryant Street.

  One of the very first things I discovered was that boxy minivans don’t corner well at high speeds. Nor are they particularly fast. What’s more, some drivers assumed that I was merely trying to take advantage of the path that Gregg was blazing and attempted to cut me off so that they could escape the gridlock by following the police car. Meanwhile, I was leaning on the van’s horn and giving my command of Anglo-Saxon expletives an aerobic workout.

  We finally worked our way through the city streets to the on-ramp to the 101 Freeway, where the commuter traffic in the southbound lanes was nearly immobile. Gregg made no effort to merge into the traffic. Sounding his car’s siren, he remained in the right-hand emergency lane and I had to jam the van’s accelerator to the floor to keep up with the cruiser. It was smooth sailing until we got to the Cesar Chavez Street off-ramp, where the traffic was so congested that our progress was reduced to little better than walking speed. I got as close as I could to the black-and-white’s back bumper as Gregg slowly forced his way through the solid mass of vehicles. The dashboard clock read 4:36 P.M.

  Four minutes later, a gap opened and we were soon rocketing down the emergency lane again, but I knew it was only a temporary respite from the gridlock. The interchange connecting the 101 Freeway and the Southern Embarcadero Freeway was just ahead and our speed was once more reduced to a crawl. Furthermore, we needed to make a lane change to the left so that we didn’t end up on the ramp that would take us southwest toward the other side of the San Francisco peninsula and away from the stadium.

  We tried to edge our way into the correct lane, but some middle-aged guy driving a BMW convertible actually closed his distance with the truck in front of him so that Gregg couldn’t make the merge. Gregg hit the siren, but the driver of the Beemer stared straight ahead, as if oblivious to the deafening electronic yelping.

  That’s when my old partner decided to use his patrol car as an icebreaker. Using the cruiser’s heavily reinforced front push-bumper, Gregg slowly edged up to the BMW and began carefully shoving it sideways toward the adjoining lane, where cars were swerving to avoid a low-speed collision. Meanwhile, the driver of the convertible was shaking his fist and, although I couldn’t hear him, I knew he was screaming. Once there was enough room for us to get into the correct lane, Gregg waved at the choleric driver and I followed the black-and-white through the newly created hole. The dashboard clock read 4:47 P.M.

  When we got south of the freeway interchange, Gregg turned off the police car’s siren and we resumed our high-speed journey in the breakdown lane. We passed a highway sign that said the Monster Stadium exit was only a mile and a half ahead and I heaved a tiny sigh of relief. It looked as if I was going to make it to the rendezvous in time.

  Gregg radioed, “Okay, partner, I’m going to continue south and do a turnaround at the next off-ramp. We’ll be standing by at McLaren Park.”

  I keyed the transmit button of the portable radio. “Copy that and I’m turning the radio off now. I don’t want to run the risk of our boy hearing it.”

  “Ten-four, and if we haven’t heard from you by seventeen-fifteen, we’re coming in like the Second Armored Division.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but negative. Kyle will probably be late, because he’s going to want to make absolutely sure we haven’t set up a trap. I’ll call when we’ve made the exchange”

  “I suppose you’re right. But if we haven’t heard from you in a half hour . . .”

  “You have my permission to charge. Been nice working with you again, partner,” I said, as I guided the minivan onto the off-ramp for Monster Stadium.

  “Same here and good luck,” said Gregg.

  I stopped for a red light at the end of the ramp and used the opportunity to turn off the portable radio and hide it under my car seat. The light turned green and I drove toward the stadium, passing a huge, flashing marquee-style sign that said the 49ers would be playing the St. Louis Rams there next Sunday. Turning onto Jamestown Avenue, I went down the road until I came to the parking attendant kiosks at the entrance of Monster Park. The tall chain-link fence gates were closed and locked. The van’s dashboard clock read 4:58 P.M.

  There was no one else there; however, I’d expected that. Knowing that Kyle was probably watching me at that very moment, I turned the engine off, grabbed Patrick and my cane, and got out of the minivan. Even though it was a sunny day, it was windy and almost unpleasantly cool.

  I checked my watch. The time was now 5:01 P.M. Just three minutes had passed since I’d arrived, but it felt much longer. I leaned against the side of the minivan to temporarily take some of the weight off my left leg. Then I checked my watch again. It was 5:02 P.M. Jamestown Avenue was empty and I was growing more nervous by the moment.

  In an effort to avoid slipping into panic mode, I forced myself to role-play the impending meeting with Kyle. My first inclination was to threaten the little scumbag and his mother with death if Ash received so much as a scratch. It would have been satisfying for me to see the fear in Kyle’s eyes, but I knew it was the wrong approach. I just wasn’t certain why.

  Then it struck me. Some of the recurring phrases that Kyle had used in the demand note and later on the telephone were the key. He repeatedly called other people stupid, told them to shut up, and had a pathetic thirst for telling the police that he was the boss. My guess was that Kyle was merely repeating what he’d heard from his mother throughout his life. In fact, Lauren was still telling him to shut up. She’d delivered the command to her son moments before murdering Uhlander.

  Remembering my own torturous childhood and the emotional w
reckage wrought by trying to reconcile the fact you were being bullied by someone who was supposed to love you, I felt a distant kinship with Kyle. That didn’t mean I was prepared to pardon his behavior, however. He was a grown man and it was well past time someone gently reminded him of that.

  It was 5:12 P.M. when I saw a car approaching from the same direction I’d come. As the vehicle got closer, I could see it was a pale green Toyota Prius, which had to be about the most ridiculous-looking and environmentally-friendly getaway car I’d ever seen. The car came to a stop about twenty yards away and Kyle glared at me through the windshield. I could tell he knew who I was and that he was trying to make a decision on whether he should abort the rendezvous. Meanwhile, I continued to lean against the minivan with Patrick in my arms, doing my best to keep a sad yet serene look on my face.

  Finally, Kyle put the car into park, but didn’t shut the engine off. When he got out of the Prius, I saw that he seemed to be dressed in the same clothes I’d briefly seen him wearing in the video shot on Saturday night. The other thing I noticed was the .45 automatic in his right hand.

  Kyle took a few steps toward me and pointed the big gun at me with a palsied grip. “You’re a cop! I ought to kill you right now!”

  “Since I know that you’re going to kill my wife, you’d be doing me a favor, Kyle.”

  “I told you that if you cooperated, she’d be all right.”

  “If it were up to you, I might believe that. But it isn’t, and I’ve already seen what your mother does to witnesses.” I glanced meaningfully at the robot.

  “What are you talking about?” Kyle took another couple of shuffle steps towards me, while keeping the pistol shakily pointed at my chest. Now that he was closer, I could see he was unshaven and that there were dark circles under his eyes.

  “Patrick recorded the gunfight. Even though you begged her not to, your mother killed that man in cold blood.”

  “We didn’t have a choice.” Kyle tried to sound bellicose, but I could see the horror in his eyes as he recalled the murder.