by George Fong
“We’re getting the hell out of here. Far, far away.” Cooper paused. “But first, I got something to show you.”
“Something or someone?”
Cooper laughed and wagged a finger in Youngblood’s face. “You were always the smart one, weren’t you?”
53
Thursday – 5:37 p.m.
Jack watched the back stairwell to the MoMo, nervously tapping his cheek with a fountain pen. He positioned the Camry across the street in the Perko’s parking lot for a better view. The front was covered by agents sitting in unmarked cars, patrolling on foot, swarming like bees. Instead of rushing in, the plan was to sit and wait for Cooper or Youngblood to show. If Cooper was already upstairs, capturing him would be easy but that didn’t help find Jessica Baker. Jack knew Cooper would rather let her die first than give her up. Jack’s best chance was something on the wire. A town. A street. Anything.
But the wire was quiet, muffled noises, nothing they could make out. Marquez finished her conversation on the cell and slid it into her jacket pocket.
“That was Sac PD. They sent Clayton Browning, our bouncer, upstairs to check it out.”
“Anything?”
Marquez shook her head. “Hasn’t reported back yet. They’re going to give it a couple more minutes.”
Jack had a bad feeling. “Why aren’t we hearing anything? Water running, a flushing toilet, anything.”
Marquez caught his eye. “Something’s not right.”
Jack shoved the pen into his shirt pocket and pulled on the car door handle. “Let’s go take a look.”
They made their way through the parking lot, neither attendant giving a second look. Jack grabbed the railing of the stairs and vaulted two at a time, pushing past a kid dressed in black leather sporting a glossy black Mohawk. A blonde, Christina Aguilera look-alike stumbled her way down the stairs in stilettos.
“Make a hole!” Marquez commanded.
The girl’s eyes grew wide and she raised her hands like she had to protect her perfect make-up from being smudged, heels clattering on the wooden stairs, a confused egret trying to balance on a rocking platform.
The entryway door was open, the inside dark. Streaks of light flashed from table lamps with colorful shades next to modern leather sofas. The Van Morrison band at the far end of the room was cranking it up, leading into “Blue Money,” women holding onto martini glasses, men with beer bottles. Jack filtered around the corner, taking the hallway toward the bathroom. It had been about ten minutes since Youngblood left the parking lot, too long for a quick piss. Jack felt his chest starting to thump. A crowd gathered around the bathroom. Jack rushed to the door and pushed. The door budged a crack, butting to a stop. Jack leaned down to get a look at what was blocking the door. Then he knew what had happened. His capture plan was unraveling.
“Fucker’s passed out drunk,” a customer yelled into Jack’s ear.
Jack turned toward the man and gently pushed him back. “Not this time.”
The man quick-stepped back down the hallway.
Jack leaned his body on the door and shoved hard. The door gave a few more inches, wide enough to wedge open and for him to squeeze through. Marquez was already on the radio, alerting the surveillance crew and requesting medical assistance. Multiple stab wounds in Clayton’s chest and neck, blood pooled beneath him. There was nothing Jack could do. The blood wasn’t spurting out, meaning his heart wasn’t pumping. He placed a hand on Clayton’s chest, felt no movement of breathing. Two fingers on his carotid artery, no pulse. Jack was a certified EMT, but even a blind man could tell Clayton Browning was dead.
“You think Eric did this?” Marquez asked.
“I don’t know. Could be Cooper and now he’s taken Eric hostage.”
“Or they both were in on it.”
Jack had already torn open Clayton’s shirt when the medics pushed through the door and took over the scene, going to work, intubating their patient and starting compressions. They drew an IV line on his right arm, hung a bag of saline. They pushed on the heart to pump fluids, even though there wasn’t much hope.
Jack stood back and allowed the medics to do their job. He punched the knob on a water faucet and stuck his hands under the stream. The sink filled with red. He grabbed a handful of paper towels that had been neatly stacked in a decorative woven basket, and wiped his hands dry.
Jack pulled out his hand radio.
“We have an officer down and the source is out of pocket. He may be alone or with Cooper. If you spot them, they are to be taken.” The words gave Jack the sense of failure. It was too late to surveill Cooper to locate Jessica Baker. Their suspect had killed a cop and they couldn’t risk his escape. Things had escalated too fast. And now they’d gone too far.
54
Thursday – 5:35 p.m.
“Where’re you guys going?”
A skinny teenager with long, stringy hair under a black ball cap with the word “Crew” stenciled in front stood holding a clipboard, sheets of wrinkled papers rustling at the end of a pencil-thin arm. Youngblood looked back at the kid, furrowed his brow, and turned away as if he never heard the question. Cooper was already pushing through the front door of Harlow’s, following closely behind two other roadies. He was carrying an empty box and wearing a pair of aviation sunglasses to conceal his face. Youngblood grabbed a box marked “Cables” and sandwiched himself into the crowd, hunching low.
They jogged across the street, following the flow of workers to a white Econoline van, whose doors were swung wide exposing stage equipment. Youngblood glanced around for any signs of surveillance, then back at Cooper, who jerked his head for Youngblood to follow. Past a row of metered vehicles, Cooper led them to a burgundy Lincoln Continental that looked like it had been seized from a Detroit drug dealer during the disco era.
Cooper pointed with his chin. “Get in.”
Youngblood tossed the box next to the Continental and slid into the front passenger’s seat.
Cooper pulled away slowly from the curb, taking his time, using his blinker, not wanting to risk getting pulled over for something as stupid as a traffic violation.
He headed straight for the freeway. Once there, his whole body seemed to relax.
“Where’d you get the wheels?” Youngblood asked.
Cooper peered into his rearview mirror, then adjusted it to the right. “Borrowed it from a friend.”
Youngblood leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “We had this conversation, remember? You don’t have any friends, Alvie. Besides me.”
Cooper shrugged but didn’t comment.
“Okay, so what the hell did you do to bring the heat directly onto you?”
“The girl.” Cooper shook his head but held his stare forward. “It was the girl.”
“We got to get rid of her.”
Cooper remained quiet.
“Did you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Where is she?”
Cooper smiled slightly and reached for the radio but Youngblood placed his hand on Cooper’s arm, stopping him.
“Where, Alvie?”
Again he glanced in his rearview. “She’s fine, Eric. She’s protected.” Cooper pointed skyward with a single finger and gave Youngblood a wink.
“Protected? What does that mean?”
“By God.”
“God don’t help guys like us.” Youngblood fell back in his seat. “Look, God or no God, you better decide on what you plan on doing with her and quick.”
Cooper nodded but kept silent.
“Well? Are we going to get her?”
Cooper opened his mouth but nothing came out. When he did speak, his words were smooth, calm. “Yeah, we’ll get her. First, I need to get my things.”
“You got . . . things? Don’t you think you should have taken care of that before now? Forget the things. Let’s get the girl and get the hell out of here!”
Cooper cruised with the flow of traffic in the middle lane, blending between ca
rs in case there were any cop cars trying to get an ID. He signaled to his right, slid over and jumped off at 12th Avenue. He slowed way down. The cars behind him started honking. He crawled the Continental to the main feeder road, turned left and got back on to the freeway.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Cooper glanced at Youngblood, then back at the rearview. “Making sure you’re clean.”
Youngblood shoved a finger toward his own chest. “I’m clean?”
“Okay . . . we’re clean.”
Youngblood pulled his arms tightly across his chest. “So tell me, Alvie, what do we do after we get the girl?”
Cooper’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. What do you plan on doing with her?”
Cooper face tightened as he bit down on his lower lip. “I can’t go back to prison.”
Youngblood understood what that meant. No body meant no case. But through his talks with Agent Paris, Youngblood also knew there was a string of murders already linked to Cooper. Whatever happened with the Baker girl, Cooper still had other issues to deal with if arrested. “You really raised a shitstorm since taking her.”
Cooper shrugged. “One thing at a time, Eric.” He checked his rearview mirror, then exited at 16th Street.
Youngblood checked his watch. Time was running out. Soon Agent Paris and his team of sharpshooters would find them. By then, Youngblood hoped to have Jessica Baker in his grasp. As for Cooper, Youngblood would do what he originally planned on doing. Everyone wins. He reached over and tapped Cooper on the arm. Cooper looked over, waiting for Youngblood to say something.
“Hey, you got a....” Youngblood made a gesture with his hand, mimicking a gun, which he pointed at Cooper’s face.
Cooper gave a quick nod, indicating to look in the back seat.
A red gym bag bounced in the center, unzipped. Youngblood reached inside, felt the smoothness of cold metal. He pulled out a Smith and Wesson Model 27, .357 Magnum. He cradled it in his hand, gauging the heft of the large frame weapon. “Kind of a big gun, don’t you think?”
“I get what I get. Besides, I don’t like guns.” He paused for a beat. “I knew you’d want one so I borrowed it.”
“Yeah, don’t tell me. The same friend you borrowed this car from?”
Cooper said nothing.
Youngblood shoved the gun in his waistband and pulled the nylon jacket shut. “Okay, Alvie. Get me the girl. I’ll take care of her. You get everything else arranged for us to get out of Dodge.”
“A shame, isn’t it? I still think she’d come with us.”
Youngblood thought Cooper was becoming delusional. “And when she says, ‘fuck off,’ what then?”
Cooper frowned. “Then we do what needs to be done.”
Youngblood nodded. He ran his hand over the cell phone Agent Paris gave him. He slid it from his waist and switched it off.
Cooper glanced his way. “What are you doing?”
Youngblood casually let the phone fall to the back seat floor. “Getting rid of my past.”
55
Thursday – 5:42 p.m.
There were more flashing red and blue lights in the area than at a Macy’s Day Parade. Road blocks were set up, stopping every car coming and going within a four-mile radius, and K-9 units were brought in. News crews swarmed the perimeter. The dogs sniffed the Malibu, the bathroom, and everyplace Eric Youngblood may have been, anything he might have touched. One of the K-9s took off in a sprint, the handler chasing close behind. The atmosphere during a kidnapping is already tense, add in the brutal killing of a police officer, and the whole scene stiffens tighter than cooling steel.
Jack sat in the passenger seat of the Camry, on the phone with Harrington as Marquez drove, cruising every block. The odds of spotting Youngblood or Cooper were slim, but they weren’t willing to give up.
Jack wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. “Talk to me, Jimmy.”
“Okay, first, your boy Youngblood turned off the phone. But, as you know, it doesn’t matter.”
Jack told Youngblood the phone was for safety, but what he failed to mention was that the phone also contained a GPS tracker, which worked whether the phone was on or off. An insurance policy.
“Where is he, Jimmy?”
“We got him moving down 16th Street, northbound.”
Jack cupped the mouthpiece and looked at Marquez. “Get over to 16th.”
The Camry took a sharp dive to the right, engine whining a higher pitch as Marquez stepped hard on the accelerator.
“Give me a cross street.”
“Okay,” Harrison growled, “the system shows him at 16th and R. No, Q. Wait, P. P Street. There’s gonna be some lag time so I suggest you get there as fast as you can.”
“How much lag?”
Harrington grew more frustrated, his words now a stutter. “Lag. Long. Go.”
That’s all he had to say. Jack shook two fingers toward the windshield and Marquez jammed her foot to the floor. The small Camry engine struggled to meet Marquez’s demand for more power.
Jack scoured the area, searching for anyone who resembled Youngblood as they punched through two red lights and a stop sign, drawing blaring horns and middle fingers. They slowed near John C. Fremont Park, the vicinity where Harrington directed them to look hardest.
“He’s got to be somewhere close,” Jack said.
The Camry was almost at a standstill with a long line of cars forming behind.
“Pull over.” There was a parking space to the right, the only space within a long row of vehicles. They got out and the gazed across to the park, studying the pedestrians. Jack spoke into his phone, “Where are they?”
“The signal is there. Must be stationary.”
“I don’t see him, Jimmy.”
“What about the cars?” Harrington suggested. “Check for vans.”
Jack hesitated. “You mean something that could conceal a body?”
Harrington paused for a beat. “It’s not out of the question.”
“Okay. If you see any change in the signal, call me.” He hung up and turned to Marquez. “You go that way,” Jack said, pointing south. “I’ll go there.”
Marquez nodded and took off in a jog, checking the parked cars along the row. Jack did the same in the opposite direction, peering into each but trying not to look too obvious. He passed a Pontiac Grand Prix, a Chevy Camaro, a few foreign cars, all void of any people. He was approaching P Street when he came across the last car in the row. The meter was signaling time had expired. He looked in. Empty. He picked up the phone one more time and called Harrington.
“Anything?” he asked even though he knew the answer.
“No, Jack. It’s there.”
“I don’t see it.”
“I’ve notified CTT. They’re coming out to help you.”
CTT stood for Cellular Tracking Team. Agents with boxfuls of gadgets attached to an antenna resembling a small version of an AWAC recon plane. The technicians can track a signal to within feet of their transmission.
Jack stared back into the empty car and something caught his attention. He looked harder. There, on the passenger seat, a black jacket with words embroidered on the back. Van the Man Band. Jack got Harrington back on the line. “Hold on, Jimmy, I think I’ve found our signal.”
56
Thursday – 5:51 p.m.
Cooper pushed the key into the lock and twisted the knob. With a nudge from his foot, the door creaked open. The house, one of the old Victorians remodeled back in the ’70s, looked like it had recently been vacated by a business. No furniture, boxes of correspondences abandoned in hallways and corners.
Cooper started up a dark flight of stairs to the right of the entry, Youngblood right behind him. The old wood creaked under the strain of their combined weight.
“Is she here?” Youngblood’s voice was filled with annoyance.
“No.” Cooper continued trudging up the stairs to the second floor without turning a
round. “Don’t worry, we’ll get her.”
“Let’s hurry up so we can get out of here.”
The two entered a small room at the top of the well. Two large suitcases sat beside a neatly made bed with a single pillow in a white pillowcase. Youngblood pointed at the suitcases with his chin.
“Those your things?”
Cooper nodded, then knelt down and shoved his hands under the bed.
“If you want, I’ll pull the car around and we can get that shit in the trunk.”
Cooper started tugging, pulling out a box filled with notebooks just like the ones he had when he lived with Youngblood.
“Where’d you get those?”
Cooper smiled as he sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, holding a handful of notebooks. “They’re mine. I kept them safe since my incarceration.”
Cooper stacked the books, straightening them into a neat square. He glanced back at Youngblood, eyes hooded. “I kept them so that I wouldn’t forget.”
Youngblood hesitated. “Forget what?”
“Them. Mona, Dorothy . . . Grace.”
Youngblood tried to hold steady but he could feel his hands start to shake. “Yeah, well, you didn’t have to kill them.”
Cooper tilted his head, like he didn’t get Youngblood’s response.
“What do you mean? I didn’t have a choice.”
Youngblood said nothing.
“The letter. I got the letter, Eric.” Cooper smiled, grabbed up a thick stack of papers and headed toward the stairs. “Help me carry these down, Eric.”
Youngblood grunted and then snapped up a box and followed Cooper out of the room.
It took less than five minutes for unmarked cop cars to flood the area, uniforms patrolling the perimeter. Jack didn’t want Cooper or Youngblood escaping but he still wanted to take one last shot at finding Jessica Baker. Let the plain clothes make a run at it first, then let the chips fall.