"Yes."
"Here's the first twist: Jack recognized the kidnapper's voice. Twist number two: the kidnapper is his son, Alex, known to his friends as Crazy Alex."
Are you with Alex?
"Damnit, Bo," pleaded Lorna. "Why do you have to be so crude?"
Warren's voice was resonant with apology. "Well, I'm sorry, but I was just trying to give Joe here a feel for what we're up against. I think the nickname is a good indicator of his character at times, Lorna. I'm not trying to drag your son's name through the mud, even though he is a convicted felon, a longtime mental patient and now, apparently, a kidnapper again."
"An accused felon. He wasn't convicted," Lorna said tiredly.
"A kidnapper again?" I asked.
"He took Savannah from the family home when she was three years old," said Warren.
"He was thirteen, Bo," hissed Lorna. "They ran away."
"Get on with it, Warren," snapped Blazak. He was leaning his head back against the couch, looking into the distant recesses of his living room ceiling. "You're wasting everybody's time again."
"All right, Jack, sure. So, Jack and Lorna didn't want to endanger Savannah any more than she was already. And, understandably, they didn't want to endanger their son, even though he's threatened to murder his own sister if he doesn't get a pot-load of money. Jack and Lorna confer. Jack and Lorna agonize. Really agonize. They decide to pray to God in heaven for guidance. They go to the Reverend Daniel Alter and they tell him what's happened. He leads them in a series of prayers and scriptural readings that lasts almost half an hour. When they've finished praying to the Lord for help, Jack and Lorna both believe that paying Alex for Savannah’s safe return and getting help for Alex—rather than a prison term—is the Christian thing to do. The Reverend Alter agrees."
Warren leaned back and sighed. "I think you can fill in from there,’’ he said.
"Reverend Alter volunteered your services for the ransom drop cause your line is security."
"Exactly."
"But something went wrong with the Wednesday exchange or none of us would be sitting here right now."
"Obviously. Enter Will Trona. The Reverend Daniel had asked him help find Savannah and Alex, because of your father's connections throughout the county. Your father called Jack on Wednesday morning saying that he'd talked to Alex and seen Savannah. He wouldn't say word about where they were or how he found them. Will said that Alex now wanted one million dollars to let his sister go. Will said that he would collect that money, and when he'd collected it, he would gather up Savannah and bring her to us. This was all supposed to happen Wednesday night, Jack's money was given to Will, as planned. Not as planned, your father was murdered and Savannah vanished."
I tried to match Warren's story with what I had seen and heard. It seemed about right to me. But it surprised me in an empty way to learn that Will had known Savannah's whereabouts on Wednesday morning, but never bothered to tell me. Never even told me he was looking for a kidnapped girl. He'd left me in the dark before—for my own good, he always said later. But it hurt because Will's night business was supposed to be my business too.
"I understand," I said. "When Savannah's name hit the news yesterday, you figured it was time to call in the police and FBI, go public and try to get her back before Alex could find her again."
"Good," said Warren. "So you can see our troubles now."
"Yes, sir. The first trouble is, that was two nights ago and Savannah still missing. The second is, Mr. and Mrs. Blazak still love their son. You convinced the FBI that a full-scale, highly publicized manhunt for Alex would lead him to either suicide or a breakdown. And may or may not get Savannah back. Steve Marchant indulged you for a few days, but they haven't found either of them, so they're about to plaster Alex's face and name all over the news, just like Savannah's were. That means an arrest on a federal kidnapping charge, not therapy for his disorders."
"That's it," said Warren. "Marchant says they'll hold off on launching a public manhunt for Alex until Monday. Three days. And that brings us to you. Because we're hoping that since you found her once, you can find her twice."
"I thought so."
"Well, you're a bright kid," said Warren with a smile. He chuckled.
"Joe," said Jack, leaning forward now, his voice soft. "We need a few other things from you."
"What things, sir?"
"We need to know everything that happened that night. Anything Will might have said. Anything you saw or heard about my daughter. Everything you told the Anaheim PD, the Orange County Sheriff's, the FBI, the media—I want to hear it again, from you. I'm going to tape record the whole story. Every last detail, Joe. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
Bo Warren stood and took a step toward me. Until then, he'd sounded like a colonel briefing the press, now he spoke like a general giving orders.
"Joe, we've got a crack hypnotherapiest—works without drugs—who can put you in a state so deep you can remember details of your own birth. She's scheduled to be here in one hour and fifteen minutes. Before that, we want one hour with you, to hear your account, hear everything you remember. Then we need one hour from you, under hypnosis. We think you know how to find Savannah, because you and your father found her. Whether you know you know how, or not. We're asking you to help the girl. Help us. Help yourself. One million dollars if you can find her, Joe. Or if you can lead us to her. Either way. You might already hold the key in that good brain of yours. A million dollars is not a bad paycheck for lying on the couch in the Blazaks' den, just remembering that night."
I looked at them one at a time. Warren stood about eight feet away from me, to the side of the coffee table, eyes fixed on my face. Jack’s hands were locked behind his head, elbows out, and he was staring at
Lorna stared at me too. Then she did something that astonished me.
She shook her head. It was slight and it was fast. But I saw it and it was clear. She was looking right at me.
She did it once more, and looked down.
"Agreed, then," Warren said.
"Terrific," said Blazak. "Let's get started."
"What's your answer, Mr. Trona?" Lorna asked. The glaze in her was gone. I saw her jaw muscle move under the skin.
"No, for now. But I'll think about it."
In the silence I heard the kyew, kyew, kyew of a hawk outside. I heard the air conditioner sigh on.
"Uh, Joe?" said Warren. "You just listened to two parents telling about the kidnapping of their daughter. By their own son. You saw daughter briefly, on Wednesday, two nights ago. You know now that was in the hands of a rather dangerous young psychopath, brother or not. May well be back in those hands, for all we know. And you're going to sit there after hearing all this, and tell us you won't help?"
"I'll look for her. I'll bring her to you if I find her. I won't tell everything I know about that night."
"Why not, soldier?"
Warren took two steps toward me, which put me in range of his boots.
"Because," I said, "something else happened that night. Something I care about, even if none of you do."
"We care about Will," Warren snapped. "If that's what you mean
"That's what I mean. And Will Trona is none of your business."
"Look, sonofabitch—whatever happened that involves this man’s daughter is definitely his business. Help us, help yourself.
"I gathered my hat and stood, watching Warren, then turned to the Blazaks. "Thank you for having me into your home. I'll do what I can to find Savannah. She seems like a wonderful girl."
Jack was staring at me. Lorna was staring at her husband. Warren was suddenly out of my field of vision, then directly in front of me. "Hey, meatface, hold it just one second—"
"Don't," I said.
But he grabbed my upper arm, hard. A strong man. I took his wrist in both hands, drop-spun and threw him over my shoulder like you would an ax. He landed flat on his back but very hard on the carpet and I heard the wind huff
out of him. He turned over gasping, gnashing his mouth into the cream-colored wool.
"Oh, my God!" cried Lorna.
"Head of Security, my ass," said Jack.
"I'm sorry, and I'll pay for spot cleaning," I offered.
Lorna walked away. Jack stood and looked at Warren.
I picked up my hat and looked down at Warren, too. I shouldn't have been surprised by his shoulder rig but I was. Something about a five million dollar house and an automatic handgun don't go together, like finding a fly in your whipped cream.
He was still fighting for a good breath when I turned out of earshot and into the entry room on my way out.
Lorna Blazak held open the door for me with one hand, held out a business card to me with the other. I took it and read it.
Alex Jackson Blazak
Weapons Rare and Collectible War Memorabilia
Appointment Only (949) 555-2993
On the other side was an address, written in a woman's elegant longhand.
"Alex might have held her there. It's kind of a secret, because, well . . . Alex isn't a licensed dealer. Maybe something there can lead you to her. Jack doesn't know this place, neither do the police. I tried to get in but it was locked."
For the second time that morning, she had astounded me. "Why you protecting him?"
"Because if you find him first, he's got a chance, and so does my daughter."
"I'll arrest him."
"I hope so. Jack is so absolutely furious. I'm afraid for everyone."
"Anything else I should know, Mrs. Blazak?"
"I love my children. Go."
I thanked her and she shut the huge door behind me.
Driving out of the hills I thought this was a beautiful place. Tan hills and blue water and mansions.
I wondered why Savannah Blazak hadn't made it home. I wondered if Alex had caught up with her before she could get to the cops, or to some responsible adult. I wondered why Lorna was protecting someone who had threatened to send her daughter's head home in a freezer-pack.
And I wondered for the hundredth time how Will had found Savannah. How did he know where to look? Why had he kept me out of it?
Savannah gets kidnapped on Monday morning. Her parents tell no one but their spiritual advisor and his security man.
By Wednesday morning Will Trona has solved the mystery, found girl, arranged to get her back home safely. That night, ten minutes after he tries to claim her, he's dead.
When I went through the marble archway there was a video crew shooting some footage, maybe something about Miguel Domingo, the sixteen year-old Guatemalan with the machete. But like Jaime Medina, I doubted if the media would pay that much attention to the story. The camera crew was probably just a promotional segment for Pelican Point development, where one million dollars gets you nothing. The guard was vibing them as hard as he could, but they were on a public street.
CHAPTER FIVE
I walked up the stairs to the FBI Orange County Investigative Resident
Agency. The public entrance door was heavily fortified with bulletproof glass and mesh and a video camera was trained on the entryway. In the lobby I walked past the Wall of Martyrs—photo-plaques of FBI personnel who'd lost their lives in the line of duty.
Steve Marchant led me into the FBI War Room, set up for Savannah. Impressive: ten agents, six computers, a phone bank with recording and listening equipment, a big radio console. There was a handwritten timeline on a twenty-foot sheet of butcher paper tacked to the wall, so you could see at a glance what had happened. Pictures of Savannah and Alex Blazak hung above it.
Some of the agents turned and looked at me, others stayed at their tasks.
"I wanted to give you a look at this before we talked," said Marchant. "Joe, we've got up to two hundred agents ready to roll when this thing breaks. We hate kidnappings, and we use every resource we've got to make them go our way."
He took me to a small conference room. There were a tape recorder and a video camera set up and ready to go.
"Make yourself comfortable, Joe. We're going to go through Wednesday night in detail. Coffee?"
"No thank you."
"How's your memory?"
"Very good."
Marchant sat down across from me and tested the tape recorder, said the case number, date and time, my name, and asked me if I ^ here of my own free will, volunteering information. I said I was, and Mirandized me anyway.
"Let's get started. Okay, Joe, tell me about Wednesday night."
Two hours and two tapes later I'd gone through a lot of what I remember Marchant was particularly interested in Will's conversations in the Will's relationship with Savannah, and my talk with Jack Blazak earlier the morning. He made notes on a computer-generated sheet that may have been a phone company readout, or may not have been. He played his information very close to the chest—I learned nothing I didn't know already; The Feds are famous for being closed and tight when they want to.
For my part, I said nothing about Lorna Blazak's card, and Alex’s "business" address. And nothing about Will's words to Jennifer Avila, or the money he'd passed to her, or about Mary Ann being blue that night. I'd been entrusted with those things and I didn't feel right about offering them to a man I barely knew.
After Marchant turned off the tape and video recorders, he sat back looked at me. "What do you think of the father, Jack?"
"Intense. Distraught."
He nodded. "And Lorna?"
"Dazed."
"Yeah. If they contact you again, I want to know, immediately."
I agreed.
"At the tennis courts, when you dropped off the ransom cash—did get a look at the players?"
"Doubles on one court—an older foursome. The other court were two teenagers, male, pretty good players, hitting hard."
"Those young men pay any attention to you?"
"None that I noticed."
"Joe—your mother and father have a good relationship?"
"I think it was strong. They loved each other and faced things together."
"You have any reason to think Will was sexually involved with Savannah?"
"None. He loved women, sir, not girls."
He made a note, then closed his book. "Joe, we'll be using sheriff's department personnel on this. Local PD's too, if we need them. I want you to know we're here to help, not to take the glory."
"I understand."
"But I'm going to get that girl back safely. Nothing is going to keep me from doing that. I'll do what it takes."
"It sounds like you're warning me, but I'm not sure what about."
Marchant stood and smiled. He's a tall man, but he stoops a little, like he's trying to hide it. "What I'm saying is, I appreciate your help. I'm on your side. All two hundred of us are on your side. Birch wants to run the homicide. That's fine by us. He's a little . . . protective sometimes. But I want you to know we'll help you out any way we can."
Half an hour later I was telling Rick Birch everything I'd told Marchant. But nothing more. Nothing about my mother, Will's lover, his anxious mood. Maybe I was trying to salvage some scrap of his privacy. Maybe I was trying to honor our pact of doing night business together, even though Will had flagrantly left me out of the darkest night business of his life.
By the time he finished asking me questions, I felt like I'd told my story to every person in Orange County law enforcement.
"Alex Blazak?" said Sammy Nguyen with an innocent look. "Why would I know Alex Blazak?" "You're both in the gun business."
"I'm out of that now. But my business was legitimate. He'd sell machine guns to little kids if he could make money. He's got a sword that Hitler gave to Goering, first belonged to Napoleon, worth about a million three."
"How well do you know him?"
He eyed me, slipping on his glasses. "Joe, what are you doing here?’’ You're off work for a while. Bereavement, deputy-involved shooting, that."
"Tell me about Alex."
"Nice hat, Joe. Hides pa
rt of your face."
"Come on, Sammy. Help out."
It was early afternoon and Mod J was going through its daily drowsy time. About an hour after lunch the inmates run out of venom and energy, and they'll shut up for a while, take naps, maybe read. By three o'clock they'll be stirring again.
Sammy was lying on his cot, staring up at his picture of Bernadette.
"They call him Crazy Alex because he's crazy. Crazy people annoy me, Joe. Bad for business."
"If you wanted to find him, where would you look?"
He looked over at me, as if the idea interested him.
"I saw the news last night. His sister gets kidnapped, and you can’t find him?”
"Correct."
"Then maybe he kidnapped her."
Some of the inmates put things together quickly. Takes one to know one.
"I doubt it. He skipped on a deal." I thought I could draw him out talk of his competition.
"Who's the buyer?"
"None of your business."
"Probably some rich man who lives by the beach. Wants pink nunchuks to tickle his boyfriend. That's the kind of business Crazy Alex does best.”
"It was small-caliber handguns, brand-new, numbers etched off."
Sammy considered this. Maybe he was in on something like it himself. Maybe he'd like to get in on this one.
"How can I find him, Sammy?"
"You ask me for information about a former business associate and I still don't have a rat trap."
"Try this."
I pulled a rat trap out of my coat pocket and held it out to Sammy through the bars. It was the kind that uses an adhesive to trap the animal, which then dies because it can't move. I got it from the supply desk, one of just a handful we've managed to keep on hand. He hopped off the cot and came over.
"This isn't the kind I need. I need the old-fashioned kind that breaks their necks."
"You didn't specify. These are the only kind allowed in a cell."
He cast his dark eyes on me. Measuring. Figuring.
"I talked to some people, you know, on the phone, but I couldn't find out anything about that girl. You probably got what you needed from that press conference yesterday."
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