He listened back. Then he answered with badge number, case number, and type of emergency. Several minutes passed. Then he nodded. “Yes, connect me directly, please.”
Thaddeus could hear the phone ringing through the handset. It buzzed several times and then, when it seemed like no one would answer, a voice said, “Hello? Mofford residence.”
“This is Lieutenant Koeller with LVPD. I need to speak with Hans Mofford. It’s urgent police business.”
“He’s not here right now.” Thaddeus heard the voice, young, probably female.
“Who are you?”
“The babysitter.”
“Where is Mister Mofford?”
“He and his wife went out to dinner and then a movie.”
“What movie were they going to see?”
“I don’t know.”
“What movie theater do they usually go to?”
“North Vegas Ten Cineplex.”
“Let me give you my phone number. Write this down. He must call me the minute you hear from him. Am I making myself clear, young lady?”
“Yes.”
The police officer gave her his cell number and said goodbye.
“All right,” he said to Thaddeus, “let’s go.”
They ran Code 3, lights flashing, siren screaming, and cars parted like a knife through warm butter. Eighteen minutes later they were pulling into the North Vegas Mall.
“Around back,” Thaddeus said. “We come here.”
The squad car sped around to the back, pulled up to the curb, and the lieutenant and Thaddeus ran for the box office.
The officer explained the situation, the cashier made an announcement to all theaters, and they waited.
Katy called his cell. “Not now, honey, we’re running down some help here.”
She said to please call her the instant he could. He said he definitely would.
A mid-thirtyish, sleepy-looking man hurried from the center theater doors across the lobby where they were waiting. “I’m Hans Mofford.”
“Good,” said the police officer. “You’re wanted at your office. Come with us,” and he grasped the man by the elbow and began steering him toward the door. “Do you need to leave your keys with the cashier?”
“No, Maline has her own set. But can’t I tell her where I went?”
“The young lady at the cash register will do that. Right, miss?”
The girl nodded that yes, she would give Maline the message.
They were back in the car and speeding across town, lights flashing and siren wailing, slowing at intersections, crossing carefully, then accelerating and parting the seas once again. On the ride over, Thaddeus explained the situation to Branch Manager Mofford.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you tonight if you’re talking equities.”
“Why not?” Thaddeus asked. He really wanted to shake the guy, but managed to restrain himself. “Why can’t you help me tonight?”
“Those equities, to liquidate them means we’ll have to sell them on the open market. And the markets don’t open until tomorrow morning.”
“That might be too late,” said Lieutenant Koeller.
“You’ve got to do something tonight,” Thaddeus said.
“I can call my regional manager. He might have some ideas.”
“Good thinking. Let’s try that.”
They tore inside the office, which was downtown in a high-rise, sixth floor, above a bank and a complex of small shops and Starbucks. The place was of course quiet, as were the downstairs stores, all shuttered and locked.
Once inside, Mister Mofford took them to his office and had them take a seat while he began making calls.
Then the dialing started.
* * *
Bat couldn’t remember anything about the license plate. The cops were grilling him, Katy was making frantic calls to hospitals and ER rooms, and Maria Consuelo was accompanying the police while they continued to canvass the neighborhood. Katy returned upstairs several times, usually to hold Sarai’s crib blanket and smell it. She cried softly as she hugged the blanket, trying to imagine only good things happening to their little girl.
55
Ragman opened the van’s sliding door and carried a box of items into the abandoned office. He had placed Sarai on the floor in the dark room, and she was crying again. “Up, up!” she howled, begging to be taken up off the floor. She didn’t know this man, didn’t know where she was, missed her mommy and daddy, had a wet diaper, and it was long past dinner time.
The man placed the camping lantern on the top of the cupboards that ran around the room, and hit the switch. A low, blue light entered the room like a waist-high umbrella of illumination. Which scared the little girl even more.
Ragman ignored her. He removed the switchblade from a side pocket and sliced open a package of beef jerky. It was pepper-flavored and tart, but it would have to do. For tonight, at least.
He bit off a piece and spit it into his hand. He waved it at the little girl, as one encouraging a dog to come close by. She only stared blankly at him, lip quivering as she caught her breath. “Come and get it,” he said. “You better damn well eat, because this is it tonight.”
She looked at him and flung herself backwards and began flailing against the floor and emitting piercing shrieks. He slowly shook his head. “If you were mine, first I’d do, I’d reach in there and cut those vocal cords. Stop the damn caterwauling.”
She continued, oblivious. He turned and scootched himself up onto the cupboards. He watched her cry and flail about on the floor. Then it occurred to him. He could always go out and sleep in the van. Behind the bucket seats. “You’re about to spend a long night alone,” he warned her, “if you don’t stop this dumb shit.”
Nothing helped, nothing mattered, and so he took the lantern and found his way outside to the dark van. He left the office door open and wondered if she might wander off during the night. It wouldn’t trouble him if she did.
Slamming the doors to the van and hunkering down behind the seats, he was instantly gratified to learn how quiet it was with her inside the office, him outside in the van. “Finally,” he said, and propped his head back against the seats. Through the side windows he could see a huge rectangle of the nighttime desert sky. Stars winked and satellites moved. Jetliner lights circled overhead, making ready to set down at McCarran. Soon he was tired, and sleepy. He lay down prone on the floor and closed his eyes. He just could hear her wails. This just might work, he thought, I just might get in an hour or two of sleep tonight.
He violently came awake thirty minutes later. He was having a vision of slicing her throat open, the little girl’s. He stumbled out of the van and went into the office. He heard nothing, so he returned to the van and found the lantern. Flipping the switch, he retraced his steps back to the doorway and peered inside. She was balled up, her head against the dusty cement, her legs drawn up to abdomen, sucking her thumb and staring at nothing. Eyes open, thumb sucking, and that’s the way he left her until four hours later when he had to urinate and walked around to the end of the van. He peed all over the right rear tire and then checked back inside the office. The thumb was still inserted in the mouth but the eyes were closed. She appeared to have cried herself to sleep. Just for the slightest instant he actually felt a twinge of tenderness toward the little girl. He found a blanket in the van and folded it in half. He moved her onto the blanket and pulled the flap up over her torso. She didn’t stir.
He checked his watch. 2:43. Almost time to call in. He waited another ten minutes inside the van. Then he selected one of the throwaway phones and dialed the number.
“Ragman,” said the voice. “You got her?”
“I got her right here.”
“Keep her alive. He’s sent me over a hundred million so far, and counting.”
Ragman said nothing.
The voice spoke again, irritated. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
“I want her alive. Got that?”
“That isn’t what I said. I don’t need a kiddie murder mob of cops coming after me. Not to mention the father. That son of a bitch is crazy.”
“Keep her alive. Check.”
“I better read in the papers where they got her back, you want the second million.”
“Keep her alive. Check.”
“Man, are you just dumb or only stupid?”
No answer. Ragman clicked off the phone.
Keep her alive. Check.
He would think about it tomorrow. For now, she meant nothing to him, he would abandon her tomorrow, and that would be that. Maybe they would find her. But there would be too much heat to contact them and give her location. Only a fool would call them.
And he was anything but a fool.
56
Fidelity Investments had a heart. A huge one.
The regional vice president was finally located, and he listened in as the branch manager, Thaddeus, and Lieutenant Koeller explained the situation. His name was Reynolds and he seemed very sympathetic as Thaddeus pled his case.
“So you need it liquidated tonight, bottom line?” said Reynolds.
“Yes,” said the branch manager. “There’s nothing in the manual of operations about that. It’s your call.”
“Here’s what we can do. Mister Murfee, you can post the equities, and the REITS against the sale of the equities, and Fidelity will make one hundred twenty-five million available to you tonight. Mister Mofford will wire the money as necessary. Is that going to work?”
Tears came into Thaddeus’ eyes. “I really don’t know how to thank you.”
“What time will the money be available?” asked Mofford.
Reynolds returned moments later from his computer monitor. “Give it thirty minutes. We’ll override the account and show availability by then. Have Mister Murfee sign the usual 2800 Series of indentures and we’ll post those into his account as well. Then you’re good to go.”
“Thank you,” said Thaddeus.
“Good work, sir,” said Lieutenant Koeller.
“Thank God,” said Mofford. “We’ll wait thirty then wire. Got it.”
“Right,” said Reynolds. “And hold on. He’s got about two hundred fifty million in REITS. We can take those down in the morning, turn them into cash, and you can transfer out another two fifty million immediately after. Does this conclude our business?”
“Honest to God,” said Thaddeus. “Put me on your website as one grateful customer.”
“We’re here to help, Mister Murfee. Is there anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” said Mofford. “But if you could stick around your phone for a while in case I need to make a callback.”
“Sure. We’re in for the night, so I’ll be here.”
Thanks were again given and the threesome concluded the call. Mofford looked at Thaddeus, who was ashen but breathing again. Lieutenant Koeller wanted to know if there was any coffee. It was going to be a long night and he needed the jolt, he said. Mofford told him there was a Keurig in the kitchen, help himself. Thaddeus said he would like one too and Koeller said he’d get it. Mofford and Thaddeus talked obliquely after that, skirting the story around the little girl’s disappearance. Katy called once on Thaddeus’ cell and he updated her. Bat was still with the police and Maria had just returned from talking to neighbors along the block. One elderly woman had noticed a van around seven o’clock, parked in front of the Murfee’s, but she couldn’t remember the color or anything about the driver. Then she had seen it drive away, watched its taillights flash at the corner, then make a left, toward the freeway. That was the sum and substance of her knowledge.
Thirty minutes later the wire transfer went through without a hitch.
“Are we done here?” asked Koeller.
“We are,” said Thaddeus. “But Mister Mofford, I really don’t know how to thank you enough.”
“Hey,” said the branch manager, “I’ve got two little ones myself. I don’t know what I’d do, in your shoes, but I’d definitely need a hand from someone too. Glad to oblige.”
They said their goodbyes at the front door and left Mofford to close down the computer system.
“Home?” asked Koeller.
“Home,” said Thaddeus. He was exhausted. He had wired every conceivable last liquid dollar to the Grand Cayman number. It was just a matter of time now. Her fate was in the hands of unknown people and he could only wait to see what tomorrow brought. He said a silent prayer as they ran at normal speeds back to his house. He didn’t know what effect prayer had, but he was willing to give it a try. Any action was better than none, and prayer was all he had left.
* * *
Around midnight he couldn’t stand it anymore.
He went inside the office and picked the little girl up, blanket and all. He carried her to the van and put her in the back cargo area, where it was much warmer. He sat, smoking in the dark, and listening to her breathe. She must be hungry, he thought. He almost called for additional instructions but decided against it. He would decide at first light about the girl; there was nothing else to do now but get through the night. For the longest time the sociopath considered his actions, but by nature couldn’t attribute any fault to himself. The introspection abruptly ended when the little girl coughed and turned over. He sat up and made sure she was covered.
An hour later he carried her back inside the office. He found a cardboard box, flattened it, and laid her down. With the blanket he tucked her in and watched her for several minutes. Finally, he shook his head and went back to the van. It turned right over and he spun it around, back the way he had come. He would be in L.A. before evening. As he pulled away he waved out the window.
It was the least he could do.
And the most he could do.
57
Saturday morning dawned clear and sunny. By nine a.m. it was hot in the desert, and chicken hawks were circling lazily in the sky, the sunlight dancing off their outstretched wings as they watched the ground for the next meal. Thermals bore them higher and higher then fell away, dissipating, and the birds glided further and further in concentric circles, seeking out the next updraft. It was going to be a scorcher and the birds meant to dine early and then seek out their shady shelter for the morning.
The boys assembled in Scout’s garage and the father explained to them—again—each step to take before turning the prop. When he demonstrated for them, the engine immediately coughed and buzzed to life. The boys looked at each other. So what was he doing that they had evidently missed?
They loaded everything back on the Kawasaki and hit the starter. Minutes later they were off, headed for the desert and their first launch of the sailplane. It was hot; they were sweating heavily when they reached the city limits of North Las Vegas, but they were determined this time.
“Damn thing better fly!” Rodney shouted in Scout’s ear as they turned onto the dirt road.
“It will. Dad showed me how it works.”
“Well, just be sure you do exactly what he said.”
“What do you think I am, stupid?”
“Hey, I’m just saying. Scuzz.”
“Scuzz yourself.”
Rodney reached up and flicked the driver’s ear. His head shot forward and he emitted a loud curse. Rodney laughed so hard he nearly fell off the speeding scooter. It was going to be a grand day.
They roared down onto the long plain, stretching miles in a north-south direction, and parked the scooter approximately where they had made their first efforts yesterday. Scout lowered the kickstand and Rodney removed the wings from the rear bungees and went after the fuselage up front. Scout meanwhile grabbed the tackle box out of the cargo unit and off they went to a flat spot, clear of cactus and underbrush, where they would try again.
“It’s not like we’re the Wright brothers,” said Rodney, as Scout made the preparations.
“What�
��s that supposed to mean?”
“No reporters around, taking our picture for posterity.”
“Dumb, Rods, dumb.”
“Someday there will be reporters. And we’ll be in the papers. ‘Boys Take Flight and Win Aviation Merit Badges’ they’ll say—something like that.”
“In our dreams.”
Scout connected the twelve-volt battery to the engine’s tiny glow plug. He wound the second wire and tightened the lid on the fuel. No accidents. Then all was ready.
He cranked the prop and on the first 360 it caught. The prop buzzed to life, spun hard, and sprayed a light dusting over the boys’ hands and arms as they made last-second corrections to the plane: positioning the aileron in an UP position so the plane would increase altitude each second it was aloft, and giving the rudder a quarter turn to the right so that plane would fly in long circles, but not quite enough to cause it to stay in one place. They needed three miles and, of course, this was all guesswork and best estimates, but they were doing what they knew to make it work.
Finally, Scout stood with the whining plane in his right hand and released it. The plane shot skyward and began climbing.
“Holy shit,” cried Rodney. “Look at that mother climb!”
“Unbelievable,” said Scout. “We did it!”
“Quick, let’s follow on the scooter.”
Rodney was right, the plane was beginning to distance itself from the boys. It was flying southwest and its engine whine was diminishing in volume. They ran for the scooter, jammed the tackle box and supplies in the cargo box, and gave chase.
“How much fuel did you put in?” Rodney shouted into Scout’s ear as they chased after the plane.
“Full. I filled it all the way.”
“That should be good for about seven minutes,” said Rodney. “By that time we won’t even be able to see it anymore.”
Attorney at Large (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 26