Dangerous Games

by Prescott, Michael

  The apology took her by surprise. “Actually, I think you were right.”

  “You nailed the Rain Man. That’s all that matters.”

  “No, it’s not all that matters. Following procedure matters, too.”

  Crandall smiled. “I didn’t think you were a stickler for the rule book.”

  “Maybe I’m learning to be.”

  “In that case, you’d better remember to wear your ID tag. If Michaelson notices you don’t have it on, he’ll ream you for sure.”

  He moved away down the hall, and Tess studied the front of her blouse. The tag was gone. Possibly it had fallen off, or…

  Then she understood. “Oh, hell.”

  40

  Below Ground was still where Abby remembered it, near the corner of Vermont and Olympic. She parked her Civic at the curb and opened the glove compartment, taking out an envelope containing some info on Kolb—address, phone number, place of work—and a photo she’d snapped surreptitiously last year. It was the kind of stuff she always carried with her when working a case. Never knew when it might come in handy—like right now.

  Her cell phone rang. She recognized the number on the caller ID screen. “Hey, Tess.”

  “Did you steal my goddamn ID?”

  “Your what?” she asked innocently.

  On the other end of the line, she heard Tess suck in a quick, angry breath. “What are you up to, Abby?”

  “Me? I’m relaxing at home, soaking my footsies.”

  “Quit lying and tell me what’s going on.”

  “Lying? That hurts, Tess. Really. Mistrust between friends is an ugly thing.”

  “Abby, damn it—”

  “Don’t you have bigger things to worry about than me? Saving Madeleine Grant’s life, for instance?”

  There was a pause. When she spoke again, Tess sounded different. “So you know about that.”

  “I have a way of finding things out. Guess you didn’t trust me enough to play it straight with me.”

  “I felt it was better if you weren’t involved.”

  Better for who? Abby wondered. Madeleine—or you? But what she said was, “I assume it’s the same MO as Paula Weissman and Angela Morris.”

  “Except for the ransom demand. Kolb’s release in exchange for her whereabouts. Now I suppose you’re going to say ‘I told you so.’”

  “Because Kolb has a partner? And because said partner was scoping out Madeleine’s house? No, I’m not petty enough to bring that up.”

  Tess sighed. “What I can’t figure out is, why Madeleine? Why not a random victim like the others?”

  “Because Kolb hates Madeleine. He and his partner must have discussed it in advance. Kolb wanted to get her, one way or the other.”

  “When you were in his apartment, did you see any signs of continuing interest in Madeleine?”

  “No. But the apartment wasn’t where he kept his stash of goodies. Anyway, there could be another reason for their choosing Madeleine. With her, they have more leverage.”

  “Leverage?”

  “You have a relationship with her. A connection. That makes it personal for you.”

  “They don’t know anything about that.”

  “They might. Somehow.”

  “If they did”—Tess’s voice was hollow—“then it’s my fault she was taken.”

  “It’s Kolb’s fault,” Abby said firmly. “He’s calling the shots.”

  “Well, he certainly is now. We made a deal with him to lead us to Madeleine. In exchange the DA won’t push for the death penalty.”

  Abby gave this idea a moment of hard thought. “I don’t buy it. Kolb doesn’t want to rot in jail for life. It’s not a good outcome for him.”

  “It’s the best he’s going to get.”

  “The guy was a cop. He knows most people on death row in California die of old age. Capital punishment isn’t a credible threat.”

  “It was credible enough to make him cooperate.”

  “But not to give up his partner?”

  “He claims he doesn’t know the partner’s name.”

  “That has to be a lie. He’s too paranoid to work with somebody he hadn’t checked out.”

  “We can revisit the subject with him later. Right now Madeleine is the priority.”

  “He’s counting on you to think that way.”

  “Well, what do you want us to do, Abby? Let her die?”

  “Of course not. But you’re missing something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Something.”

  “That’s very helpful. I’ll make a note of it.”

  “You’re letting him control you, Tess. You’re giving him the power.”

  Tess sighed. “Damn, you’re a pain in the ass. I want my ID back.”

  “Haven’t got it,” Abby said cheerfully. “Cross my heart and hope to—”

  The call was already over. Tess had clicked off.

  “—die,” Abby finished.

  She didn’t like what was happening in Westwood, but she couldn’t blame the feds for playing Kolb’s game. There wasn’t much time left. The rain, though still spotty, was coming down harder than before.

  Envelope in hand, she went into Below Ground, descending the long stairwell into the gloom.

  The bar was as grungy as ever. Whoever ran this dive was doing his part to relieve America’s dependence on foreign energy. She’d been in funhouses that were more brightly lit. Didn’t matter, though. She was used to getting around in shadowy places.

  By now it was after nine o’clock, and Below Ground was doing a brisk business. The booths and corner tables were full, and there were only a handful of empty spots at the bar. She bellied up to one of them and got the bartender’s attention.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked in a voice that couldn’t care less.

  She didn’t wish to advertise her temporary status as a federal agent too loudly. She crooked a finger at him until he leaned close, then flashed Tess McCallum’s ID. “We need to talk,” she said quietly.

  He gave her a complicated look that managed to convey contempt, resignation, and a smidgen of fear. “There’s an office back there, second door on the right. Give me a minute.”

  She walked down the hallway, past a pay phone and unisex restroom, and found the office. He joined her almost immediately. In the interim he’d decided to play it tough. His arms were thrust out, fists planted on his hips. “What’s this about?”

  She sat on his desk, swinging her legs, her body language an intentional counterpoint to his. “How long have you been on duty?”

  “Since we opened at noon.”

  “There were two men in here today. I doubt they sat at the bar. Probably in one of the booths, for privacy. One of them was this man. Look familiar?”

  She handed him the photo of Kolb. He glanced at it. “No.”

  He tried to give it back. She wouldn’t take it.

  “Look a little harder. And if it helps jog your memory any, you might want to keep in mind that lying to a federal agent is a criminal offense.” Impersonating a federal agent was an even more serious offense, a fact she chose not to mention.

  Reluctantly he studied the photo again. “Okay, I guess I remember this dude.”

  “He was in here today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What time?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “Take a stab at it.”

  “Sometime in the afternoon. Lunch hour. One o’clock, one thirty.”

  “See? You did know, after all. Who was he with?”

  “The guy he’s always with. They always sit together.”

  “You know the name of this other guy?”

  “I don’t know anybody’s name. That’s kind of a company policy around here.”

  “Fair enough. What can you tell me about this second man?”

  “Not much. He’s not the type who stands out. I mean, we get some folks in here you definitely wouldn’t forget. He’s not one of them.
He’s one of the clones.”

  “Clones?”

  “That’s what I call them. The business types. They all look the same in their jackets and ties. Can’t tell one from the other. I’ll bet their own mothers couldn’t tell them apart.”

  “I find that doubtful. So this guy was wearing a business suit?”

  “Jacket, button-down shirt—I don’t remember if he had a necktie or not.”

  “He always dresses that way?”

  “As far as I recall. Some of them come in on weekends looking totally different. Like they’re snakes that just shed their skin. They look so boring, and then they let their hair down and go wild.”

  She thought of the stalkers she’d studied. “I know what you mean.”

  “But this guy—if he has a wild side, he hides it. Even the music he listens to isn’t exactly balls-to-the-wall.”

  “How do you know what music he likes?”

  “We got a jukebox. He’s always pumping in his spare change. Same two songs, over and over, the only ones he likes.”

  “And they are?”

  “‘Summer Wind’ and ‘All the Way.’”

  “Why those two in particular, do you think?”

  “No mystery about it. They’re the only Sinatra tunes we’ve got.”

  So the guy was a Rat Packer. It didn’t seem like a piece of information likely to narrow the list of suspects, especially since there was no list of suspects to begin with. The jukebox could be dusted for fingerprints, but the buttons probably picked up hundreds of prints in the course of each day.

  She pressed the bartender for description. All she could get from him was that the man was between twenty-five and forty-five, dark hair, average build. “Like I said, a clone.”

  He was probably telling the truth. She thanked him for his cooperation and told him other agents would be in touch. She left before he could request another look at her ID.

  Outside, rain was sprinkling lightly. She thought she heard far-off thunder, but it might have been only the rumble of traffic.

  She didn’t think the drainage system would be flooded yet, but it wouldn’t be long now. And her big lead hadn’t amounted to much. Kolb’s partner remained a mystery.

  All she knew about him for sure was that he was a Sinatra fan.

  41

  A dozen agents assembled at the ravine on the UCLA campus in a drizzle of rain. Mason, the DWP engineer, checked the gate and found that the padlock was missing. “Somebody got it off somehow.”

  “Take a look at this.” Larkin was aiming a flashlight at the ground a few yards from the drain entrance. “Tire marks.”

  Michaelson wanted to know if the evidence could be salvaged from the rain. Tess didn’t think so. The slow drizzle was obliterating the tread marks even as they watched.

  “Well, put a tarp over it or something,” Michaelson yelled at no one in particular.

  Other agents hastened to comply. Crandall drove a Bureau car close to the drain entry point and turned on the high beams, illuminating the passageway. “It’ll help get us started, anyway,” he said.

  Tess glanced at him. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  He gave her a look of peculiar intensity. “I’ve got a job to do.” His voice was tight.

  She didn’t push it. Someone from the support staff was passing out knee-high rubber boots. Tess and the other members of the rescue party slipped them on over their shoes.

  “Put these on, too.” Mason handed out heavy vinyl DWP jackets. “I had them sent over. They offer better protection against the cold than those flimsy FBI jackets of yours.”

  Tess demurred. “It’s not that cold out.”

  “It’s colder in there, thirty feet under. The drafty air and cold water can cause hypothermia. Put it on.”

  “I’ll stick to my trench coat.”

  “Wear this under your coat.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Mason shrugged, donning a jacket. “Your funeral.”

  She supposed she seemed churlish in refusing the extra layer of warmth, but she didn’t want to hamper her movements if she had to reach for the service pistol in the reinforced pocket of her coat.

  When they were ready, Kolb was hustled out of the Bureau car where he’d been held. “Give him boots,” Tess said. “No jacket.”

  Kolb grinned. “You want me to freeze, Tess?”

  “I don’t want you wearing a heavy jacket. I want to be able to see your hands.”

  He held them up, manacled at the wrists. “Get a good look.”

  Michaelson was on his cell phone, speaking softly and urgently. When he clicked off, he gestured to Tess. She joined him, away from the others.

  “Abby Hollister has disappeared,” he said. His jaw was working as he ground his teeth.

  “I thought we knew that already.”

  “We knew she left the field office. Now she’s disappeared entirely. I sent three agents to her address. They got the landlord to open up. He says she’s hardly ever there. The apartment is furnished, but there’s no sign of recent occupancy. And there was a break-in, but no obvious theft or damage.”

  “So?”

  “So it doesn’t make sense. Then they ran a credit check and found her paper trail goes back only so far. You know what that suggests?”

  “Phony ID.”

  “Phony ID, phony apartment, an unreported B-and-E—something is not right with this woman. I think she’s a ghost, like Kolb said.”

  “And what do you want me to do about it?”

  “Kolb also said she was working with you.”

  “We’re not going over that again, are we?”

  “This is your last chance to come clean.”

  “I’ve got nothing to come clean about,” she said staunchly.

  Michaelson glared at her. “When I find Hollister, I’ll learn what you’ve been up to. If it turns out you’ve been pursuing your own agenda, I’ll have your ass.”

  She forced a smile. “My ass? I don’t think so. I’m way out of your league.”

  “Keep it up, McCallum. I’m on the case. I’ve caught the scent.”

  “Well, I guess that’s why they call you the Nose.”

  He went pale. “Who calls me that?”

  “Everybody. Didn’t you know?” She walked away, hoping Abby was as good at disappearing as she claimed.

  Crandall and Larkin, both wearing DWP jackets, met her at the tunnel entrance. “I guess we’re ready,” Larkin said. “Unless you want to wait for LAPD. They’re sending a SWAT team, but it could take another ten minutes.”

  The rain was picking up. “We don’t have another ten minutes,” Tess said. “Anyway, more people will only slow us down.”

  “Then I guess”—Crandall coughed—“I guess we go in.”

  She gave him a hard look, testing his resolve. He glanced away and said nothing.

  “All right,” she said with a clap of her hands. “Mason and I lead the way. Kolb’s in the middle. Crandall and Larkin take up the rear.”

  “Will your cell phones work down there?” Michaelson asked Mason.

  “Not necessarily. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. You can’t count on it.”

  “How about the radios?” The feds were carrying Bureau-issued Handy-Talkies clipped to their belts.

  “Same answer.”

  “If we need help,” Tess said, “we’ll find a way to get the message out. Everybody have a flashlight?”

  “Not me.” That was Kolb.

  “You don’t get one. You won’t be going off on your own.”

  “Tess, I’m beginning to think you don’t like me.”

  She turned her back on him and spoke to Michaelson. “My cell will be on. If the weather deteriorates rapidly, call and let me know.”

  “If I can get through,” Michaelson said.

  “Right.” She said a silent prayer that the worst of the rain would hold off a little longer. “Okay—let’s go.”

  42

  Abby was a block away from B
elow Ground when she saw a lighted sign against the starless sky. A storage yard.

  She thought of the padlock key. Although Kolb could have rented storage space anywhere in the city, most likely he would choose a familiar neighborhood. The area near his apartment would be too obvious. But who would ever think to look here?

  It was a long shot, but what the hell. All she had so far was a generic description of a businessman who liked Ol’ Blue Eyes.

  She pulled up to the gate, which was locked and could be opened only by entering an access code into a keypad. A sign claimed there was a storage manager on duty twenty-four hours a day.

  She honked her horn approximately a million times until the guy showed up, trotting out of the shadows between the sheds. “What’s the problem?” he shouted from behind the gate.

  Abby lowered her window and showed him the FBI tag. “I’m Special Agent McCallum of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I have a few questions for you.”

  This guy, unlike the cop outside Kolb’s apartment and the bartender at Below Ground, actually tried taking a close look at her ID, but since he had to peer through the gate in the dark, he wasn’t able to see that the photo failed to match the bearer.

  Abby didn’t want him looking for long. “You going to open up or what?”

  “Okay, okay, give me a minute.”

  He punched in a code on his side of the fence. The gate rolled open, and Abby pulled into the lot. She thrust Kolb’s photo out the window, where it was immediately speckled by raindrops. “Do you rent a storage unit to this man?”

  “I don’t know every guy who rents here.”

  “Do you know this guy?”

  The storage manager took the photo and held it under the cone of illumination from a security light mounted on the fence. “Yeah, I’ve seen him around.”

  “You know his name?”

  “If you’re so interested in him, shouldn’t you know his name?”

  “We have a feeling”—she used the plural to remind him that she represented the greater power of the Bureau—“this individual didn’t use his real name.”

  “I don’t know it off the top of my head. Lemme look at the registry. When I see it on the list, I’ll remember.”