“Nine hundred fifty-four dollars? Is too much.”
“But all you have to pay is four-seventy-seven. You put down just half the price up front, with a fifty percent balloon payment required only when and if you choose to take physical possession of the metal. In other words, you can lock in the total price right now, no matter how high the market eventually goes. See what I’m saying, Pavel? You just can’t lose.”
* * *
A Saturn coupe parked behind the blue Honda. San Diego P.D. and the sheriff’s department of Clark County, Nevada, were represented inside.
* * *
“For half price ... I get all the gold?”
“What you get is a half interest in your share, plus the guarantee of making an outright purchase at any time in the future. When you’re ready to take delivery, just pay another four-seventy-seven, and the gold will be delivered to your door by our bonded messenger.”
The bonded messenger, a slack-jawed kid draped over a folding chair and thumbing through a gore-movie magazine, glanced up briefly, registering some reference to himself, then resumed reading.
“And you keep gold for me until I want it?”
“Not us personally. The gold is stored in a Credit Suisse bank vault in Zurich, Switzerland, for maximum peace of mind. Even in an international crisis—and you know that’s always a possibility the way the world is going today—your investment will be safe and sound.”
“I see ...”
Jack knew he would reel this one in. He could sense it. He needed patience and confidence, nothing more.
The scam was a simple pyramid scheme. Some gold and silver bullion actually was stored in a Credit Suisse vault—Jack had documents to prove it—but not nearly enough to cover all the “certificates of ownership” purchased by CSGI’s clients. Buyers who wanted to make the balloon payment and take delivery of the metal were encouraged instead to “increase their leverage” by putting the money into a down payment on a new certificate.
Some especially gullible marks had gradually invested $50,000 or more in worthless paper titles to nonexistent metal. They couldn’t have made the balloon payments now if they’d wanted to. Their life savings were gone.
* * *
Detective Ashe of Phoenix P.D. parked in the strip-mall lot, outside the dry-cleaning establishment next to CSGI. He spoke four words into the transmitter on his Telex headset: “Unit Six in position.”
A second car joined Ashe’s Pontiac. It contained a Detective 2 and two D-l’s from LAPD’s Homicide Special Section and the assistant special-agent-in-charge of the FBI field office in Westwood.
The L.A. cops carried 9mm Berettas, and the assistant SAC, Patterson, used a .38 Smith. There had been some friendly discussion earlier about the relative merits of the two guns.
Nobody said anything now as the LAPD men checked their clips and Patterson inspected the Smith’s cylinder and speedloader.
* * *
“So what do you say, Pavel? Can I messenger over a contract for three troy ounces?”
“Well ... I do not know. I must talk it over with my wife.”
Jack snorted. “Your wife?” Incredulity raised the pitch of his voice. “You need to get permission from your wife?”
“Not permission. We always discuss money things. She is very good with money.”
“Yeah, you make it, and she spends it. So your old lady’s got you on an allowance, huh?”
Pavel was wounded. “Is no allowance.”
“Well, call it whatever you want. Sounds pretty sad, though—a working man from the old country, letting his better half walk all over him.”
“She does not—it is not like that—”
“Right, right. Look, I guess I was wrong about you, Pavel. You’re not serious about investing. Maybe it’s your wife I should have been talking to all along. Sorry to waste your time.”
“Wait.” A pause. “How much is silver now?”
He was still thinking about that twenty-five-percent profit he’d missed out on. Beautiful.
“Six-twenty-seven,” Jack said. “Up from five dollars even.”
“And ... gold?”
“Three hundred eighteen an ounce—and getting ready to take off.”
“Big increase?”
“We’re looking at a major run-up here, Pavel. Check the Times if you don’t believe me.”
“As much as twenty-five percent?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. This is one hot opportunity. Speaking of which, I’ve got other clients who need to know about this, so ...”
“I’ll do it.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and found life good.
* * *
The final car to swing into the parking lot was driven by Peter Lovejoy, with Tamara Moore at his side.
“Weather Central in position,” Lovejoy reported.
Moore licked her lips. “When do we take him?”
“In one minute.” He checked his watch, then spoke into his transmitter. “All units. Downpour at nine-forty-eight. Sixty seconds from now.”
For the first time Tamara could remember, Peter seemed to have forgotten his allergies.
* * *
“Glad to hear you say that, Pavel. You’re making a real smart move. Okay, I’ll have our bonded courier at your place of business within the hour. The contract explains everything. If you have any questions, call me. Let me give you my number and confirm your address …”
Thirty seconds later. Dance was off the phone and chuckling. Four hundred and seventy-five dollars—a nice round five hundred, with the five-percent “transaction fee” tacked on—easy money. But even that was hardly anything. It was the next call to Mr. Pavel Zykmund, and the next, and the next, that would bring in the real rewards.
Welcome to America, Pavel, old pal. And hold on to your wallet.
* * *
9:48.
“Go,” Lovejoy said, throwing open his car door.
Then he and Moore were sprinting toward the entrance of CSGI, the three L.A. cops and Assistant SAC Patterson right behind.
* * *
Jack sauntered up to the desk of one of his salesmen, a bright young guy named Ted Stuckleberry, who did business as Ted Stone. “Guess what, Ted-o? There’s life in the old man yet.”
Ted liked to hear Jack’s stories. “Never doubted it, boss. Give me the gory details.”
“No big thing, really. I just closed some pussy-whipped Lower Slobenia garage mechanic for five Ben Franklins.”
“First sale of the day. You ...” Ted’s voice trailed off as he looked past Jack, through the blinds. “Hey. What the fuck?"
Jack turned. Stared.
Half a dozen dark-suited figures were crossing the parking lot at a run.
They had guns.
His blood chilled.
“Jesus,” he hissed.
A hundred times since moving into this office, he had shaped and reshaped an escape scenario in his mind. That thinking galvanized him now.
He ducked away from the window and spun toward the far corner of the room.
6
The front door was unlocked. Lovejoy flung it wide and entered, his Smith sweeping the four salesmen at their desks and the messenger with a lurid magazine in his lap.
“Freeze, FBI!” Lovejoy shouted as his colleagues fanned out, covering the room. “Put your hands up!”
Moore was scanning the faces and frowning hard. “Where’s Dance? Where’s Dance?”
“Where’s your fucking boss?” Patterson yelled at the salesmen.
One of them showed an insolent smile. “Haven’t seen him.”
Lovejoy talked into his Telex headset. “Outside posts, stay alert. Jack isn’t home.”
As he completed the transmission, the two Dallas detectives charged in from the rear.
“Any way he could’ve gotten past you?” Lovejoy demanded.
“No chance,” the first cop said. “Nothing back there but a toilet and a closet, and we checked them both.”
“Peter.” Moore pointed at the far corner. A door under a red Exit sign. It had been shut hastily, but the latch had not caught. As they watched, the door drifted slowly ajar, revealing a staircase: metal treads and railings.
“Shit.” Lovejoy had studied blueprints of the strip-mall complex. The staircase led to a second-floor storage room. Dance must be up there already.
Dead end, though. The room was windowless. There were no exits. Still, he could make a stand. If he had a weapon, he could fire on the arrest team from the top of the stairs. Everyone was wearing vests, but the Kevlar offered no protection to the head and limbs.
An assault was no good, then. This was a job for somebody with a bullhorn.
Moore was thinking the same thing. “Think he’s gone barricade?”
“It, uh, it appears ...” Lovejoy tried to control the breathless shaking of his voice. “It appears we’ll have to play it that way.” He turned to Patterson. “Better get SWAT in here. We’ll need a negotiator and containment. In the meantime, LAPD can evacuate the building. That is ... if you think that’s the best option.”
Patterson nodded. “It’s our only option.” He hurried off to give the orders.
“This isn’t a disaster, Peter.” Moore patted his shoulder. “He’s ours. Either he gives himself up, or SWAT takes him out.”
“In all probability.” Lovejoy sighed. “But in this instance the probabilities may not apply.”
* * *
Jack had never expected to face arrest again. The precious-metals scam was too subtle, almost borderline legal, not the kind of thing the authorities would come down on.
They had, though. They meant to put him out of business. That was the reason for the bust. It had to be. The law couldn’t have found out about his other activities. He’d handled the murders with meticulous care, leaving no clues. There was no chance he could have been linked to even one of the homicides.
No, it was only a fraud charge. But that was bad enough. It could put him in jail.
He had sworn he would never go back. And because he’d meant it, he had taken precautions to ensure that he could extricate himself even from a tricky situation like this.
Alone in the low-ceilinged storage room with the door locked, Jack groped along the side wall till he found a vertical crack in the whitewashed plasterboard. He pushed at the edges of the crack. A three-foot-square section of the wall yielded to the gentle pressure of his fingertips, loosening, and tipped free.
Jack slipped through the gap, then replaced the panel, taking care to wedge it precisely back into position. He was in another storeroom, above the temporary-employment agency next door to CSGI. The room was crowded with empty cartons that had once contained word processing equipment and telephone gear.
Behind one of the cartons, months ago, he had hidden a large plastic bag. It was still there, thank God.
Inside was an olive green jumpsuit with a homemade insignia stitched onto the chest. The suit was a reasonably close facsimile of the outfits worn by the exterminators who visited the complex on an irregular basis, spraying for cockroaches and ants.
Jack slipped into the costume, easily donning it over his suit. He rummaged in the bag and produced a matching green cap, then a spray gun with a long nozzle and a bulky canister.
Carrying the tool, he eased open the storeroom door and peered down the stairwell. Empty.
Quickly he descended. He could hear the commanding tones of an authoritative voice from the offices outside. A cop.
He caught the word “evacuate.”
Despite himself, despite everything, Jack smiled. He had known they would do that. Once they believed he was holed up in a locked room, the next step was to clear out the building.
He waited until sounds of confusion, of hurried footsteps and mingled voices, bled through the hollow door to the stairwell. Then he took a breath of courage and emerged into the office.
For a few precious seconds nobody saw him. The trainees and job applicants were shutting off their computers and gathering up their personal items, the supervisors doing the same as they told everyone to hurry up, get moving, come on. From the rear of the building half a dozen other employees were herded forward by two plainclothes cops with stern faces.
Jack shuffled through the room and blundered into the crowd, mumbling in Spanish. He knew enough of the language to get by.
“Move along, folks,” one of the cops snapped, then saw Jack and frowned. “Where’d he come from?”
Jack kept his head low, the bill of his cap covering much of his face. He gestured as if confused, a steady stream of Spanish flowing from him like a derelict’s vapid muttering.
“He’s one of the bug people,” a helpful employee said. “You know, Rid-a-Pest.”
“Didn’t know they came on Thursdays,” someone else put in, but the words were lost in the babble of voices.
“Policia,” the second cop said to him, flashing his badge. “Siga. Siga todo derecho.” Walk straight ahead.
Jack stumbled in a half circle. The cop shoved him.
“Dese prisa!” Hurry up!
Nodding his head mechanically, Jack got into step with the rest of the crowd.
The scene outside was a circus. Employees, cops, and curious passersby milled everywhere. Jack made his way through the throng of people, not looking back.
A black SWAT war wagon screamed into the mall as he reached the sidewalk. Overhead, an aerial-surveillance unit chopped the air with its rotor.
He kept walking, heading west, putting distance between himself and the territory that would be the focus of the aerial observer’s scrutiny.
After three blocks he veered onto a side street, then entered an alley. He discarded the spray gun and cap, stripped off the uniform, smoothed his jacket and pants. He was a businessman again, in a blue Brooks Brothers suit.
He breathed deeply, then exhaled. Again. Again. Gradually his heartbeat returned to nearly normal.
Three blocks farther west, an RTD bus groaned to a stop, collecting passengers. Jack joined the line.
He looked eastward as he boarded. The helicopter was a gnat in the distance, still buzzing the arrest site, glinting silver in the sun.
* * *
It was standard procedure for SWAT snipers, politely called containment officers, to station themselves as close as possible to the barricaded suspect without giving their presence away.
Two of them were deployed in the stairwell, flanking the negotiator, who used a bullhorn to address the closed door at the top of the stairs. There was no phone in the storeroom and no window through which a field phone could be tossed. The suspect would have to shout through the door when he was ready to talk. So far he hadn’t made a peep.
In the boiler room of Consolidated Silver & Gold, a technician on a ladder was holding a stethoscope to the ceiling, listening for footsteps upstairs. He’d heard none.
Another technician, accompanied by two SWAT commandos with shotguns, entered the storeroom above the employment agency. The storeroom shared a common wall with the room in which the suspect was holed up. The technician quietly attached an electronic eavesdropping device to the wall, then slipped on headphones.
No sounds at all. The equipment was sufficiently sensitive to pick up a person’s breathing in close quarters. There ought to be something.
Frowning, he removed the device and moved a few feet down the wall. The two snipers covered him. The thin plasterboard offered no protection against a gun on the other side. If the suspect heard someone moving there, he might open fire. A bullet would punch through the layers of felt and gypsum like a knife through paper.
The technician started to reattach the bug, pressing the suction pads into place. Then he paused.
The wall had moved.
No, not the whole wall. Only a piece of it. A loose section.
His flashlight beam revealed a movable panel, three feet square.
Patterson, Lovejoy, Moore, and the SWAT commander were in the store
room ninety seconds later. They looked at the secret panel, still in place, and spoke in whispers.
“He slipped out that way,” Moore said.
Patterson shook his head. “Then where is he? We checked downstairs.”
Lovejoy spoke up. “He could have blended in somehow with the civilians we evacuated.”
“Impossible,” Patterson hissed. “Every member of the task force was looking for him.”
“It’s conceivable he changed clothes, disguised himself.” Lovejoy shrugged, a heavy, hopeless gesture, then added with a faint note of optimism, “Unless he’s still inside.”
“Want us to go in?” the commander asked.
Lovejoy looked at Patterson. The assistant SAC called it. “Go in.”
Instructions were relayed via radio headsets. The negotiator cleared out of the stairwell. The two snipers stationed there moved quickly up the stairs.
In the adjacent storage room, the other two containment officers covered the panel, ready to fire if it moved.
At the top of the stairs, the first sniper shot the storeroom door open, and then he and his partner were inside, scanning the dark, windowless chamber.
Empty.
Nothing to see, not even cartons of junk.
They flicked on the overhead light. White walls and cheap short-nap carpet.
Lovejoy and the others waited tensely in the parking lot, outside the kill zone.
There was still a possibility Dance was in there. Maybe he’d given up, shot himself. Maybe he was dead.
Please, Jesus, let him be dead.
Lovejoy realized he was praying. Catholicism had a way of coming back to you at times like this.
Over his earphone, the SWAT commander’s voice; “We’re in.”
“And?”
“He’s flown.”
Moore slumped her shoulders. Patterson pulled off his headset and swore.
“Understood,” Lovejoy said.
He turned to the assistant SAC and spoke rapidly, squeezing all emotion out of his voice.
“There’s a chance he’s still in the vicinity. Better have LAPD broadcast an alert and deploy any unit they can spare to cruise the area. West L.A. Division can stake out his apartment building in case he’s stupid enough to return. His girlfriend works at Bullock’s in Westwood. It would be advisable to take her into protective custody and squeeze her for anything she knows.”
Deadly Pursuit Page 5