Paying the Piper

by Simon Wood

  “Where are you?” Sheils asked.

  “Still in Oregon. I’m having dinner.”

  “How’d you get on with ‘BG’?”

  “Good. I’ve got twenty-nine males with the initials BG owning property within a two-hundred-mile radius of the Bay Area. Tomorrow, I start hitting the addresses. If you and the Fleetwoods want to do a little legwork, we can divide and conquer.”

  “Not an option. Things have changed in the last few hours.” Sheils paced a tight circle on the deck and filled Jones in on recent events.

  “Christ, man. You were shot. You should be at home.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

  “And you should be listening. Do you want me back there?”

  “No. I’ve got it covered. I want you to check out these addresses. The Piper will have to retreat somewhere. Besides, I might be able to narrow your search for you,” Sheils said and told him about Annabel.

  “That girl is screwed if she finds him.”

  “I know. I hate to say this, but I hope she finds him.” Sheils stopped pacing. “The Piper won’t have planned for this. I’m hoping he’ll get sloppy having to juggle the Fleetwood boys and Annabel.”

  “Amen to that. This is the kind of thing that’ll bring him down.”

  “By morning, I hope to have credit card activity.”

  “I’ll call you when I hit the road.”

  “Thanks, man,” Sheils said and hung up.

  The moment Sheils hung up, Scott slid back the glass kitchen door and joined him on the deck. He came over with his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. His shoulders were hunched against the cold.

  “I didn’t want to disturb your call.”

  “You could have. It was Jones. He’s narrowed his search to twenty-nine BGs in the area.”

  “That’s great,” Scott answered, but didn’t sound excited by the news. “Look, I wanted to talk to you about today.”

  Sheils held up a hand. “I’ve already told you, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I know, but I just wanted to say thanks.” Sheils tried to brush the gratitude away, but Scott kept at him. “I called you before you entered the building. You didn’t have to go in there. You took two bullets for my kids. No matter how many times I say thank you, it won’t be enough. So thank you.”

  Sheils searched for something to say, but all he found were John Wayne clichés. Instead, he said the only thing he could. “You’re welcome.”

  Scott held out his hand. Sheils took it and shook.

  “Now,” said Scott, “I know you don’t have a high opinion of me, and that’s fine. I don’t expect us to be buddies or anything when this is all over, but I want you to know that if you ever need anything from me, you just have to ask.”

  Sheils’s opinion of Scott had changed. He didn’t see Scott as a friend, but he didn’t view him as a lowlife anymore, either. After Scott had confessed that the Piper had been using him, Sheils found he understood Scott for once. The guy had thrown himself on a grenade for his family. Scott didn’t care what happened to him, as long as he got his boys home, safe and sound. Sheils couldn’t fault the nobility in that. He would do the same for his kids. It was the reason he went into the South Van Ness building alone, knowing full well the Piper had the drop on him. He represented every parent’s primal instinct to save their young. If he stopped the Piper, it might dissuade someone from thinking they could get away with similar crimes.

  “Thank you. I will. Now, let’s get out of the cold.”

  They hadn’t been back inside five minutes when the call came. Food was just arriving for the evening meal. Agents were picking over the delivery when the phone rang. It stilled everyone in the house.

  After his talk with Sheils, Scott’s mood had lightened. Things were still dark for his family, but he could see light breaking through. They’d almost caught the Piper today. By tomorrow, it could be over. They’d have the boys home for the weekend. He’d done the right thing cutting Sheils in when he had. Together, they were getting somewhere. But the sound of the ringing phone killed his mood. Even though he’d expected this call, he still dreaded it. He replaced his food on the pile and crossed the room.

  Jane caught up with him halfway. “It’s going to be okay.”

  They sat next to each other on the couch. Sheils stood on the opposite side of the coffee table, like he had on all the previous occasions. The scenario was all too familiar.

  “I expect this one to be messy,” Sheils said. “He’s rattled and he’s going to try to scare you to make you fall into line. Think beyond threats. We’re really onto him now.” Sheils turned to his technician. “We good?”

  The technician nodded, and Scott answered the phone.

  “Scott, you betrayed me, and to Sheils.” The Piper’s tone smoldered with contempt. “I’m insulted.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To tell you that the rules have changed.”

  Scott’s stomach fluttered. He tried to cling on to Sheils’s advice and think beyond the threats. They might be closing in on the Piper, but he only needed a moment to kill the twins.

  “How?”

  “Monday is off.”

  “No, you gave me until Monday. I can still find you by then.”

  The agents shot Scott and Sheils confused looks. From Brannon’s expression, he was piecing together the secrecy over the last twenty-four hours.

  “You can’t do this,” Scott said.

  “I can, Scott. You switched sides. You didn’t honor the agreement, so why should I?”

  “Please.”

  “Don’t demean yourself in front of all those bureau agents around you.”

  “What happens now?” Scott dreaded asking the question. Ignorance felt so much better.

  “I’m stepping up the schedule. It all happens tomorrow.”

  “I have to find you by tomorrow?”

  The Piper laughed. “No, we’re beyond that. Have the money ready. Tomorrow, we meet.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Only nine. Sheils had gotten lucky with the credit card. A credit check revealed Annabel had filled her car at a gas station in Vacaville. That gas station wasn’t on the doorstep of any of the twenty-nine BG-owned properties, but it did rule out twenty of them. Unless Annabel was taking some bizarre detour to prevent anyone from following her, then she was heading north and Jones was following her.

  He’d been on the road five hours, having checked out of the motel before dawn. He wouldn’t get to all nine properties before Scott had to leave with the ransom, but he estimated he’d get to at least four. He was batting close to .500 with those stats. He stood a good chance of nailing the Piper before Scott left the house.

  The credit card transaction gave him a good feeling, but it worried him too. There had been no other transactions since the gas station. No restaurants. No hotels. It looked as if Annabel had found her man.

  The signs for Red Bluff flashed by. He pulled off I-5 at the next off-ramp. There wasn’t time to conduct surveillance; he had to take a direct approach. He had his line of bullshit worked out to get him through the door.

  Barry Gordon’s farm was the nearest, in Red Bluff. Jones stopped short of the property. He removed his .38 revolver from the glove box and slipped it into his windbreaker pocket. He got out his cell, dialed Sheils, and got voice mail. He didn’t need to speak to him. He just needed Sheils to know where he’d visited. If the Piper got to him first, then Sheils would know who’d stopped him.

  “Let’s do this,” he said to himself and drove onto the property.

  The Gordon house was set back, and the land rose steeply so that the house couldn’t be seen from the road. It would make the perfect Piper hideout.

  Jones felt exposed as he pulled up in front of the ranch house. Low and flat, it looked as if it was peeking out from the ground.

  As he approached the house, he felt twitchy. It had been a decade since he’d retired, and he’d gotten used to not h
aving to walk into hot zones. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, keeping one hand on the gun.

  He scanned the field behind the house for animals. He didn’t see anything. That didn’t mean anything in and of itself. Ryan Rodgers remembered horses, but that was nine years ago. Things changed.

  The door to the house opened as Jones reached the stoop, and a man around sixty stepped out. The estimate had been that the Piper was in his thirties at the first kidnapping, add twenty years since then, and sixty was within range. He was tall and wiry. He had the height of the man pictured in Mike Redfern’s candid shot, but not the build. Jones’s tension ebbed, but not on the trigger.

  “Mornin’,” Jones called out.

  Barry Gordon raised a hand, and Jones knew he wasn’t the Piper. Gordon’s raised hand was riddled with arthritis, reducing it to a knotted ball. Those weren’t the hands of the man who’d pulled a trigger on a gun that had killed Mike Redfern. Jones released his grip on his revolver.

  “Can I help you?” the arthritic man asked.

  Jones had no intention of prolonging a foregone conclusion. He used a lost-traveler line and asked Gordon for directions. He pretended to listen to the directions Gordon gave. He had all he needed. He just needed confirmation before he crossed this man from his list.

  “You have a great place, Mister…?”

  “Barry Gordon.”

  Official. Strike Barry Gordon.

  “Thanks again, Mr. Gordon.”

  Jones returned to his car and got back to the road. Once on the move, he checked in with Sheils to let him know Barry Gordon wasn’t the Piper and that he was on his way to Brett Grafton’s place in Paradise.

  Jones arrived to find Grafton’s place unoccupied. He wouldn’t get a physical ID on Grafton, but he could look over the property. The house and a barn fit the bill, but considering the unkempt condition of the place, Grafton hadn’t visited in a long while. Jones’s tire tracks were the first to disturb the dirt drive in months. Jones jimmied the door to the house. The utilities had been disconnected, and the air inside was stale. The place smacked of an unwanted inheritance. Jones had seen enough. Grafton wasn’t the Piper.

  Ben Garrett came next. He ran an organically operated farm outside Oroville. He didn’t match the Piper’s build and was five years too young for Piper consideration. Jones used the lost-tourist act again to excuse himself, but not before he received a fifteen-minute recitation on the importance of organic farming.

  It had taken him two hours to get to Winters, where Brian Givens lived. Jones was tired, and he smiled when he stopped at the three-way stop at McKinley and Walnut. He just had to make this turn onto McKinley, drive for a couple of miles, and he was there. Retirement had robbed him of his stamina. The combination of sleep deprivation and hours cooped up behind the wheel of his car was getting to him. Ten years ago, this legwork wouldn’t have fazed him.

  This gig was proving a stark reminder to get his sorry ass off the couch and do something with his life before retirement eased him into an early grave. He owed Sheils one for the wakeup call. Things would change when he got back. He’d check into consulting gigs. There was more to be made working one day a week as a consultant than he ever did busting his hump for a week. Alternatively, he could go private. It was clichéd to become a private investigator, but if he angled it right, he could pick up work only when he wanted.

  Givens’s property loomed on Jones’s left, and he slowed to a crawl. He took in the lay of the land. It was a Craftsman two-story in good condition, perched on a gentle hill, with a tin-roofed barn a short walk from the house. Though he didn’t see any, it looked like the perfect place to keep horses. Before turning up the driveway, he left his now-customary voice mail with Sheils.

  When he pulled up behind a Ford F-150 and got out, a man came out from the barn. His lean build and height matched the man in Mike Redfern’s picture. At around fifty, he was in the right age group too.

  “Hi there,” Jones called out, walking toward the man. The barn door was open, and he tried to sneak a peek inside, but in the fading afternoon light, all he saw were shadows.

  The man wiped his hands on a rag and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. He closed the distance between Jones and himself swiftly.

  Jones put out his hand. “I’m Walter Jones.”

  The man eyed Jones with suspicion, but shook his hand. “Brian Givens. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I hope so,” Jones said with a smile. “Are you the property owner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. I’m from WJ Property Development, and I’m scouting for new sites. There’s a great demand for second homes in this area. San Franciscans want their getaway homes and don’t care how much they pay. I think your place has plenty of potential. Have you considered selling?”

  Givens put up his hand. “Not interested.”

  “I haven’t said how much I’m willing to offer.”

  Givens smiled. “Not much, considering that ten-year-old Century you’re driving.”

  Jones glanced back at the Buick, his retirement gift to himself. Yeah, Givens was right. It didn’t fit the image he was trying to portray.

  “That’s my scouting car. I can’t just turn up in my Mercedes. You see Mercedes, you think big bucks. That wouldn’t do me any favors when it comes to negotiating, now would it? Can we discuss terms?”

  Givens shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  Jones strode past Givens and leaned against a paddock fence. The spot let him look over the land and gave him a better angle on the inside of the barn. “You know you’re sitting on a gold mine here. There’s room for twenty luxury cabins.”

  Givens moved in next to Jones, blocking his view of the barn. “I’m not interested, and I’d like it if you left now.”

  “Mr. Givens, I’m willing to make you a very attractive offer.”

  Givens grabbed Jones’s bicep. “I said, I’d like you to leave now.”

  Jones raised his hands in surrender. Givens released his grip.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. My exuberance got the better of me. May I use your bathroom? Too much coffee.”

  “There’s a strip mall about two miles further up. Use theirs.”

  Givens shadowed Jones all the way to his car. He stood over Jones while he got into his Century and fired up the engine. Jones smiled and waved as he backed onto the street. Givens just nodded and kept his eyes on the car until Jones drove away.

  Jones drove only a few hundred yards before pulling over. He’d struck a nerve with Mr. Brian Givens. Did this guy have something to hide? He wasn’t leaving until he knew.

  The Piper watched Jones drive off and went inside the house. He didn’t believe for one second the man was a property developer. He rang as true as the Liberty Bell.

  He went into the living room and gripped the back of the sofa. They’d caught up with him. He slammed a fist into the sofa’s seat cushion.

  But how? Had Annabel lied to him? He didn’t think so. She was too crazy to sell him out, but she was also blind enough not to notice a tail on her. Either way, it was over for her. He had to leave. Now.

  He retrieved his pistol from the den. He yanked back on the slide, putting one in the chamber. He hurried through the house and stopped when he reached the door.

  Jones—who was he? He wasn’t a Fed. He was too old and out of shape for that. He might have been once, but not now.

  He had the same thought as he had the day before, when Annabel had arrived. If a tactical strike team sat in hiding a mile down the road, they would have stormed the house by now. Jones was alone. He was probably a PI hired by the Chos to find their daughter.

  He climbed the stairs and went into his bedroom. He looked out the window across his property. Jones’s Century sat parked a quarter mile up the road. He picked up a pair of binoculars and zeroed in on him. Jones got out of his car and looked back up the road at him, the watcher being observed by the watched.

&n
bsp; “Who are you really, Mr. Jones?” he murmured. “Shall we find out?”

  The Piper left the house. He locked the doors but left a window conveniently open for Jones to find. He didn’t bother locking up the barn. No doubt Jones wanted to see inside. The Piper would let him. He got into his F-150, drove to the street, and turned in the opposite direction from where Jones had parked.

  He drove to the market and picked up a few things. While he stood in line at the checkout, he stared at the wall clock. Jones would just be entering his property now. He wouldn’t have risked driving. He would have walked. The question was whether he’d enter the house or go straight for the barn. He guessed the barn. He’d find Annabel’s BMW, but it would take him time to find the floor hatch. It wouldn’t be enough time for him to raise the alarm.

  He paid and drove back home. He parked the F-150 short of the driveway and went the rest of the way on foot. He circled around the back of the house. A line of eucalyptuses provided nice cover for him to come onto his property unseen.

  The sound of an engine bursting to life from within the barn told the Piper Jones’s location. He rounded the rear of his house and dropped to his stomach as Jones reversed Annabel’s BMW out. Jones jumped from the car, leaving the engine running, and raced back inside. He moved with surprising agility.

  The Piper jumped to his feet and sprinted toward the barn. He took a wide arc to stay in Jones’s blind spot, should he look out. His footfalls made noise on the dirt track, but the BMW’s engine masked it. Jones was making it so easy for him.

  When he reached the barn, he stopped to listen. The barn wasn’t substantial; it was easy to hear inside. He peered through a gap in the siding.

  Jones flashed across his vision. He dropped to his knees and scraped at the ground. It didn’t take him long to find the hatch under the dirt and hay. Jones mumbled something the Piper couldn’t understand.

  This was the perfect time to move in. Jones was occupied. He could rush in and put a bullet in his head and the dumb bastard would never know what hit him, but he didn’t want to spoil his fun. Jones had worked so hard for his prize. He should at least see it, even if it were only for a moment.