Silent Joe

by T. Jefferson Parker

  I agreed.

  "And the tape we talked about—I'm trusting you to return it to me along with my daughter."

  "That's the deal, sir."

  "You think that's the deal, Trona. But you don't know Alex. It's almost guaranteed, he'll try to rob us somehow."

  "I'll make sure he doesn't."

  He looked at me doubtfully. "You're alone on this—no Bureau or sheriffs?"

  "That's right."

  "No friends along to help?"

  "I'll handle it."

  Blazak stared at me, then stepped back. "What do you want? Why are you doing this?"

  "For Will. And your daughter."

  "There's a hundred grand in it for you, if everything goes like it's supposed to."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "That doesn't impress you?"

  "No."

  "Do you even want it?"

  I had to think about that, even though I had no intention of returning his daughter to him. "I'd like a hundred thousand dollars."

  He smiled. Like I'd seen the light, or agreed with him on some crucial point. The thing about people who love money is they think everybody loves money. It makes a big blind spot.

  "No tape, no deal," he said. "Savannah and the tape. Remember that."

  Driving out Laguna Canyon with two million dollars in my trunk, I did

  remember it. I kept the cell phone on the seat beside me, waiting for call that would let me finish what Will had failed to.

  The War Room was buzzing: Marchant and twelve other agents, Birch Ouderkirk and Sheriff Dwight Vale, and the captain of the sheriff's team.

  Marchant put the two million into a beat-up black duffel bag that was fitted with an electronic tracking system in the handles. He put another small transmitter between the bills in one stack.

  "You can't even see our ace," he said. "It's hidden in the lining, infrared emitter. It makes a heat signature we can see from the air—either fixed wing or helo. Wherever this duffel goes, we can track it. It'll show up like a firefly."

  Sheriff Vale is a tall, heavy man, and his nickname in the department is the Bull. He made the calls for our end, but everybody in the room knew that the Bureau's word was going to be final.

  Marchant and Vale had already arranged for two "CPS social worker’’ to accompany me. They would be sheriff's homicide detective Irene Collier, and a Santa Ana PD detective named Cheryl Redd. Collier was fortyish and stout; Redd was slightly built, mid-fifties with long gray-black hair. When she put on her reading glasses and held her hair back behind head, she looked harmless enough.

  "Call me Church Lady," she said with a wicked little smile. "But watch out for the Sig."

  Marchant nodded. "Joe, when Alex calls to set the drop, tell him you want to bring along two female social workers. Tell him you need them there to get Savannah into protective custody—otherwise, she goes back to her father and mother."

  They fixed me up with a second cell phone to communicate with War Room, and a van that would hold anything you wanted it to, just case Alex Blazak was trusting enough to let me drive the vehicle of choice. I even got a new set of body armor, the expensive Spectral Point Blank model designed for heavy hits and lots of them.

  "Not bad for a Deputy-One," said Birch. "I didn't get this kind of opportunity until I was thirty."

  "All right," said Marchant. "Nervous time. Start waiting and stay ready."

  He walked me to the secure lot, where we locked the duffel bag in the trunk of my Mustang.

  We ate lunch as a group in the courthouse cafeteria—Marchant, Birch and Ouderkirk, Irene Collier and Cheryl Redd. The special agent and the four detectives seemed loose and comfortable with each other and nobody asked me anything about my life or my face or Will or Thor. It was just us, doing a job. It was similar to sitting in the staff dining room, eating lunch with the other deputies in Men's Central. A team. People on your side. Family. But it meant more to me now. It was like sitting in my future. I thought of Will and the terrible beauty of the world he'd guided me into.

  Twenty years of that, then get yourself into politics or business, Joe. You already got more name recognition than I ever had. Acid Baby. Jesus—play the cards they give you. Acid Baby for President. That's got a nice ring, doesn't it?

  When lunch was over, Birch took me aside. "I hit Pearlita pretty hard this morning. The tape, the DrugFire match with the twenty-two she had. I threw in some witnesses who were sure it was her behind that nurse's mask. Anyway, she's willing to deal. She says she can finger Gaylen for Will's murder if we can let her walk. I told her we didn't do things like that in the real world. I told her we could start with a little light trading— like who was with Bo Warren the night he talked to Gaylen at Bamboo 33. She says she knows, and she'll trade the name for a reduced charge. I talked to Phil Dent, who's usually willing to play ball. We'll see."

  It was 1:35 P.M. NO call from Alex.

  I loitered in the homicide pen. I loitered at Men's Central. I fell asleep, briefly, with my head leaning against the table in the call room. I worked out in the jail gym, which is "green only," no civilians, and nicely air conditioned. The gym is partially a memorial to one of our fallen deputies—Brad Riches—a young guy who was gunned down by a robber with an automatic weapon when he parked at a convenience store. One wall is a painting of Brad's prowl car, with some brass littered on the floor in front of it. On the opposite wall is another painting of four deputies drawing down. The barrels of their arms open big at you. You can see the bad guys reflected in their glasses. A banner painted over the entry door says:

  The power of the wolf is in the pack; the power of the pack is in wolf.

  I worked out extra hard, thinking of Riches and the pack and John Gaylen. What were the chances that he'd appear again at the drop? What were the chances that whoever wanted Will dead would like to have me dead, too, and try again what had worked so well once? Little chance, I knew, but I couldn't help but be afraid of the symmetry, the repetition, opportunity.

  Already 3:43 P.M. NO call.

  I walked over to the courthouse and watched some of Dr. Chapin Fortnell's trial. When I went into the courtroom he was staring down, apparently at the defense table. He turned around and looked at me sleepily as I sat. An assistant DA was examining one of Fortnell's victims—a man twenty-one now, but a boy of twelve when Fortnell had first fondled him.

  And where were you, specifically, when this first fondling took place?

  In his office. In Newport Beach.

  His consultation room? Where he practiced his family psychotherapy on young boys and girls?

  Objection, Your Honor! Compound, for one thing. And this witness isn't versed in the specifics of the ages of Dr. Fortnell's—

  Sustained. Proceed, Mr. Evans.

  It made me think of an incident that happened when I was eleven. I joined the Boy's Club in Tustin and used to ride to the beach with two of the Boy's Club employees and a bunch of other kids. One day in the public restrooms at 15th Street, I had just completed my business when a short, stocky older man with sunglasses and long red hair blocked my way from the stainless steel toilet and asked me if I knew what sex was. I said, no, sir, I don't. I looked away and tried to get past him. I can still remember the damp stink of that restroom, the wet grit underfoot, the filthy latrine and puddles of who-knew-what on the concrete floor. Trying to walk past that man, with my face down, I saw his bare feet moving into my path and felt his big hard hand on my arm. I was five years into my martial arts training by then, a green belt in three different styles. I chopped his outstretched arm with my free hand, then raked his eye. That made him let go, so I raked his other eye. As he stood there covering his eyes in the gritty stink of the restroom I caught his left kneecap with a snap kick and he collapsed with a scream. I ran to the lifeguard stand, but when I got there I couldn't bring myself to tell him what happened. I just couldn't get the words to come. There was shame even in that, even in just being touched and propositioned. The lifeguard was
talking to some girls, so he wasn't hugely interested in me anyhow. I remember getting my Duck Feet on and swimming out into the cold, powerful waves. I was learning to bodysurf and I caught wave after wave until I was exhausted and purified. I never went into that bathroom again without my skin tightening across my back, and my face burning hot with fear.

  When I left, Dr. Fortnell was still looking down at the table.

  At five o'clock I went to my car and listened to June's show. Her guests were a construction worker and an eighty-two-year-old woman. The worker had pulled the woman from a car that was underwater. The woman had pushed the accelerator rather than the brake, rammed her car through a carport and a wrought-iron fence and landed in the community swimming pool. Nobody hurt, not even the woman. She said she felt the hand of God on her arm just as she was about to drown.

  Talk about a baptism.

  I went home at seven. Still no call. I ate my TV dinners with the two million dollars under the table. I talked to June on my house line, briefly. I told her that things were fine and that something would happen soon, sweet whisper of a voice was so beautiful to me I wanted to reach into mouthpiece with two fingers and draw it out. Wave it through the air. Listen to it laugh. Drop it into my mouth and swallow it. I could taste and her: salt, flowers, milk.

  Alex Blazak called at 9:37. "Take the package to the Newport Pavilion Drive the Mustang. There's a pay phone north of the entrance. Occupy at ten-ten sharp. If I like what I see, we'll talk again."

  "I'm bringing two women from Child Protective Services. It's the only way they'll intake Savannah tonight."

  "You can bring the Pope if you want. You won't see me." He hung up. I realized that Alex Blazak was a fool, and that he was in way over his head.

  I dialed the dedicated line for the War Room and got Marchant. I him what had just happened.

  "We're rolling by helo. Collier and Redd will be near that phone booth before ten. Over and out."

  I made it to the phone booth at 10:05. Taken. A husky young man in white shorts and a red muscle T-shirt was talking loudly. I set the duffel bag the ground, tapped on his shoulder and badged him. He frowned and his hand over the phone. I explained what I needed. He raised the phone back to his mouth and kept talking to me.

  "All yours, Joe," he said. "I'm Larson. Collier and Redd are sitting the window of that bar, watching. I'll be around."

  He nodded, nodded again, then slammed the phone and walked off. It rang at 10:10.

  "Where are your friends?"

  "In the bar."

  "The waterfront must be crawling with them."

  "Two social workers. That was the deal."

  "Get on the next ferry across to Balboa Island. Stand at the starboard. When you get off, wait at the phone booth on the right. Go now. It's leaving."

  I hung up, waved to Collier and Redd and made for the landing. The last of three cars was being waved into place. The bow attendants were chocking the tires on the front car. I stepped on with the bag over my shoulder. Collier and Redd followed me onboard. Collier had on jeans and an old cardigan, carried a big purse. Redd wore a long dowdy skirt and shapeless sweater and tennis shoes; her hair was pulled back into a bun. I could see the amplifier in her ear and the tiny speaker angled up her chin. Marchant's dedicated line, I thought: Redd is calling in our plays. Pedestrians lined the sides of the ferry boat around us—tourists in bright colors, couples snuggled close against the cool night breeze, kids with skateboards and bikes.

  I led the way through them, excusing myself as I worked to the front right corner of the vessel. I looked back on the Fun Zone Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round and set the duffel at my feet. Collier and Redd stood on either side of me.

  The ferry engine groaned. I could feel the deep vibration in my legs as we moved away from the landing and made for open water. A ketch moved along under power toward the channel. A couple of teenagers in a rental skiff buzzed past in front of us, fishing rods wobbling in the lights of the Pavilion. Across the harbor I could see Balboa Island. A young attendant in khaki shorts and a floral print shirt took my dollar for the three of us and gave me back a quarter.

  The ferry pilot pulled the boat to port, working against the current. I could see the other landing and it looked like we'd miss it on this course. The ketch disappeared into the darkness, its shield-shaped stern slowly vanishing. A Zodiac puttered alongside us, thirty yards out.

  My cell phone rang.

  "Get it ready."

  I lifted the bag with one arm and balanced it on the railing. I sensed Collier and Redd steadying themselves while I looked out at the black water. The Zodiac fell back but moved in closer to the ferry.

  "I'm behind you. I'm coming alongside and you're throwing it in. Don't move yet."

  "Where is she?"

  "You'll know when I get my money. If you or those cops with you want to take me out, just remember this: Savannah's got enough oxygen for about two hours. You kill me, you kill her. Absolutely a done deal. Get it ready, scarface. When I say drop it, drop it. Keep the phone up. Up!"

  I looked at Redd and shook my head. "He's got her stashed without much air. Hold your fire."

  The Zodiac came up swiftly then, outboard buzzing. I could see man in it, dark clothing, a baseball cap on backwards, half-turned to work the rudder. Ten yards. Twenty feet. Then he was just six feet off the side, inching along toward me. I muscled up the bag in one hand and waited the Zodiac to get under it. I couldn't see Alex Blazak very well, but first thing I thought of when his face came under the running lights was his father: compact, tense, explosive.

  He smiled up at me. "Drop it!"

  I dropped it. The duffel landed on the water with a smack. The Zodiac lurched forward and I saw Alex Blazak sweep a long gaff through one handle and bring it up close. He leaned over, dunked it twice, then hauled it in with two hands. Looking up at me, he nodded and smiled again.

  The Zodiac turned like a spooked deer and glided into the darkness with a scream of engine and a cloud of exhaust.

  I watched it blend into the night, heading down the channel toward harbor entrance.

  The wake wobbled and widened on the bay. The engine whine grew fainter and the wake lines settled into the black water. I wondered if he got the electronic transmitters too wet to work, and if the IR emitters could survive that dunking.

  I still had the phone to my ear.

  "Trona, I'll call you again when I'm where I want to be. Call off dogs and Savannah will be okay. So long, dipshit."

  I signaled Redd to cut out and speed-dialed Marchant on my second phone. I told him that Blazak had the money and was heading west in the harbor, toward the channel that led to the sea. "He's got Savannah without much air, sir. He's going to call us when he feels safe."

  "Larson's still getting signal from the duffel. So far, so good. We've got three unmarked units heading down the peninsula now. Two more on Balboa Island. They're running parallel to the harbor. The Harbor Patrol is moving in. I'm calling in the helos, too. We're going to take him down. Hold for me, Joe."

  I could hear him talking to someone else, but couldn't make out the words. Then he was back.

  "Yeah, yeah, okay, Joe—Harbor Patrol's working the south half, between the ferry landings and the channel. No visual on the Zodiac yet. Take the next ferry back the way you came. Wait by your car, all three of you."

  "Copy, sir. Take him alive. You've got to take him alive."

  The helicopters roared in from the dark and I could see the searchlights of the Harbor Patrol boat to the south. My heart was beating fast and steady and every light on the water seemed to hold some promise before it broke up in the chop of the bay.

  "You did your part, Joe," said Collier. She steadied my arm. "Now Alex has to do his."

  We stood against my car. I felt foolish, doing nothing, standing there like a tourist.

  Five minutes. Ten.

  Marchant called at 11:05. "Joe, go ahead and proceed south on the peninsula, down Balboa Boulevard. Harbo
r Patrol's got a visual now and the signal is loud and clear. Subject has pulled up at a private dock, looks like he's tied off on a pier at K Street. If something breaks, we might need you there."

  "Don't kill him."

  "We're staying cool. You stay cool. Over and out."

  I drove slowly down the peninsula, past the big homes and the bungalows and the palms and the bougainvillea. The traffic was thick. We passed K Street and I tried to see everything without looking eager. I leaned my head back a little, like Will used to do, with my eyelids relaxed while eyes did their work.

  Three NBPD cruisers were parked to our left. Two sheriff's department radio cars lurked on L Street. I made out three more unmarked sheriff cars and two that were probably Marchant's.

  I could see both helicopters hovering out over the water, their search lights crossing in the sky. Tourists started pulling over to watch.

  The boulevard ended down by the channel, so I looped around and started back. One of the unmarked cars was parked near the jetty. Another one passed us going back toward K Street.

  I wondered. Twenty minutes and still on the water?

  Past K Street again. Nothing. I called Marchant.

  "Is he still docked?"

  "Harbor Patrol's making the approach right now. Joe, get your workers and get over to the beach there at K Street. Stay on the line. Over.''

  "We're there."

  I shot down K Street and parked right in front of the sand.

  "Sir, what about Blazak?"

  "No visual on Blazak yet."

  "He ditched the boat and the duffel," I said. "I'd bet on it, sir."

  "Joe, hold for me."

  I could hear him talking on another line. Then he was back.

  "Joe, I'm on with the patrol skipper. They've closed but they can’t see Blazak. They've got the night-vision stuff and the visibility is pretty good. They can see the Zodiac. They can even see what might be a duffel bag thrown across one of the benches. But no Blazak. Joe, SWAT's still minutes out, so I'm sending you three in for a look at that boat. Let Redd lead it. She's experienced. Watch it. Over and out."