by Tom Clancy
Megan directed her response at Erickson.
“If I’m to contact Mr. Gordian, I need to know generally what brings you here,” she said.
The older cop sat very still. His eyes showing a flicker of compromise before the flat resistance dropped back over them.
“We need some information about his daughter,” he said.
Megan concealed her disappointment. It was only when she braced for the question she needed to ask that her control almost faltered.
“Has anything happened to Julia?”
Erickson took a breath, released it. Megan saw his foot move up and down over his knee.
“We have to get in touch with Roger Gordian,” he repeated again, clinging to his laconic manner.
Megan waited before she answered. Her office was silent. The double-pane glass of its windows completely deadened the lash of wind and rain against them, somehow increasing her awareness of the dark splotches of moisture on Erickson’s coat.
“So far we’ve been talking through a wall,” she said. “It’s difficult to come together that way. How about we step around it and see if it works any better?”
Brewer shook his head angrily, almost rising off his chair. “We don’t have to do anything or step anywhere. We are conducting a police investigation, and you should be aware you’re on the brink of obstructing—”
Erickson got his partner’s attention with a tap on the knee, held up a preemptive hand. He looked embarrassed.
“Consider us as having stepped,” he said.
Megan kept her eyes off Brewer’s flushed face as he settled back in his chair. Compounding his belittlement would serve no useful purpose.
“I realize that whatever has brought you here must be very serious,” she told Erickson. “And you can rest assured I’m ready to help you reach Mr. Gordian and anyone else who has to be contacted. If there’s bad news to be broken, however, I intend to be the person who does it. As a second in this company and a close family friend. But I obviously can’t until you tell me what this is about.”
Erickson sat there looking at Megan another moment, shrugged, and uncrossed his legs.
Then he leaned forward and told her.
* * *
“Still ain’t heard nothing from Africa?” Thibodeau said.
“Not yet,” Megan said. “Pete’s on his way to tell Gord right now.”
“Seems like it’s taking a while,” Ricci said.
“When I spoke to him, he was outside the city. It’s night in Gabon, and I don’t think there are any passable roads through the jungle. He’s flying back to Port-Gentil in one of our helicopters.”
“What was the problem reaching Gordian yourself?”
Megan looked at Ricci across the small conference table. “He’s staying as a guest at a local Sedco executive’s home to avoid the bugs in the hotel walls, and they’re behind closed doors having a late consultation about that affair on the oil platform. Hughie Bennett and his entire court are in attendance, and I don’t want the boss to hear this news over the phone under those circumstances.” She paused. “Better Pete tells him in person. He should be there any time.”
Ricci did not answer. His glassy calm eyes gave no clue to what he might be thinking or feeling. Megan saw her reflection in them and could not keep her own nerves from becoming exposed. That was unlike her, and she resented him for it — how much more of herself might be revealed on the mirror’s surface?
She sipped from the glass of water beside her to relieve her parched throat.
“I don’t know, Rollie,” she said. “My mind is everywhere at once. I know I’ll pull it together, but for now I just can’t center.”
Thibodeau nodded grimly.
“Soup to soup,” he said. “Be a Creole saying I heard a lot growing up. Ain’t no food for the pot tonight, we find something to put in it tomorrow.”
She gave him a thin smile. “I’ll try to remember that one.”
“Oui.”
Megan was quiet a moment. With the detectives in her office, she had called Nimec to break the news about Julia, then phoned Ashley Gordian’s sister’s house in Los Angeles, gotten the answering machine and left an urgent message for Ashley to get in touch. After that she had summoned Ricci and Thibodeau down here into one of UpLink SanJo’s underground safe rooms — a spare rectangular enclosure that was little more than the conference table and four windowless, two-foot-thick concrete walls webbed with an array of interstitial countersurveillance systems.
It hadn’t taken her long to share what she knew, and none of it was encouraging. Julia Gordian was gone from the animal shelter where she did volunteer work a number of days a week. The woman whose husband operated the shelter had been shot dead along with her infant daughter, their home a crime scene Erickson had described as beyond horrible.
“This Rob Howell,” Ricci said now. His eyes went to Megan as he spoke. “Those cops figure he’s clean?”
“He’s under no suspicion of having been involved,” she said. “His co-workers saw him arrive at the hotel Sunday morning, then rush back home — he’d forgotten a bookkeeping file of some sort. His cell phone LUDs show the calls that were placed from his car to his house and the greyhound rescue center. He uses FastTrack for his bridge tolls, and account deductions were recorded both ways at the plaza lanes off Highway One into San Gregario. He also bought gas with a credit card on his return trip. In both cases the systems show when those expenses were paid and back up his story.”
“Don’t tell us nothing about what he did before he left his place,” Thibodeau said. “Or after he got back.”
Ricci looked at him, then shook his head.
“You consider travel distances, average road speeds, and the time Howell’s call to the police was logged, it narrows things far as opportunity,” he said. “My guess is the operation was planned for when he wouldn’t be around. Pro all the way. The phone lines disconnected at their feeder pole, more than a single type of weapon used. There were fresh tire tracks showing several vehicles at the center and at the utility station near the pole.” His eyes returned to Megan. “Is Howell available? In case we need some information from him.”
“I don’t know.” She took another drink of water. Her tongue and throat continued to feel as if they were lined with sandpaper. “I suppose I should have thought to ask—”
“You done your’n fine,” said Thibodeau. “Those detectives gave you enough to think about. Ain’t likely they would’ve been generous with that information anyway.”
Ricci kept looking neutrally at Megan.
“You told me the cops found blood at the animal shelter.”
“Yes, I did.”
“That it might be Julia’s.”
“Yes.”
“What makes them think she’s not a third murder victim?”
Megan stabbed a look at him, her shoulders rising a little.
“Let’s not try to be too delicate.”
“I was asking a question.”
“About the boss’s daughter. And my good friend.”
“I have to know what there is to know,” Ricci said. “You don’t like my way of phrasing things, I’m sorry.”
But he did not sound apologetic. Megan’s posture remained very straight, her eyes green fire in a face pale with strain.
“There was blood at the shelter,” she said. “And, yes… it’s believed to be Julia’s. But Erickson suggested that whatever took place in there seems of a different nature from the violence that occurred at the house.”
“Any concrete reasons?”
“He wasn’t about to submit an itemized evidence list to me, and I didn’t press my luck. We could profit from a good relationship with him if he doesn’t shy away.”
Ricci studied her a moment.
“You find out what line those cops are working, or decide that was out of bounds, too?” he said.
In her anger, Megan could have balled her hands into fists until the knuckles were white, dug her fing
ernails into her palms. She held her composure and folded them on the table instead.
“Nobody broke into Julia’s SUV. There was nothing stolen from the shelter, or the house where the mother and baby were killed. Nothing to indicate robbery was a motive,” she told him. “I heard a lot of words from Erickson about processing the crime scene, looking at the evidence, reconstructing what happened without assumptions. But you were a police detective. Do you actually believe they would come right out and tell me they think Julia Gordian was abducted? Right now Julia’s status is a question. She’s a phantom. A ‘whereabouts unknown.’ I don’t even know that we’ve reached the time period when she can be officially declared a missing person.”
“Doesn’t effect what we do, except maybe giving us the chance to get a jump on the feebs,” Ricci said. “Once this gets ticketed a kidnapping they’ll be all over it.”
“I can’t see how that’s bad,” Megan said. “It’s not us against them. They have resources. Expertise in the field—”
“And we know how their main office loves sharing intelligence,” Ricci said.
He was quiet and still. The silence was like a knot bunched in tightly around his thoughts.
“Won’t get us anywhere to sit here talking,” he said at length. “I’m heading out to the scene while it’s warm. Before it gets too worked over.”
Megan wanted to catch Thibodeau’s eye but knew Ricci would not miss the slightest glance. She chose to wait, and Rollie didn’t disappoint her.
“No sense you going alone,” he told Ricci. “Better you and me get a look at things together.”
“I can handle it myself.”
“That ain’t the matter. We got to figure the local police won’t be thrilled by our visit. Be tougher for ’em to shake off two of us than one.”
Megan was quick to move in.
“Rollie’s right,” she said. “He should go, too. I’ll make some calls and pull whatever strings I can from here.”
Ricci regarded her closely. “That a suggestion or an order?”
“It’s how I want it,” she said.
Ricci kept his eyes on her a moment longer and then shifted them to Thibodeau.
“She can give you directions to the shelter,” he said, and stood. “I’ll wait down the hall.”
Thibodeau caught up to him as he was holding his palm to the biometric scanner to bring an elevator for the garage level. He looked to be sure Megan was still back in the safe room before putting a hand on Ricci’s arm.
“Keep talkin’ to me like I’m some junior rover, it’ll get settled between us in good course,” he said in a low voice. “But what you said about the boss’s girl being killed… you don’t want to give touch to that around Megan. Don’t want to go near it.”
“You think it’s something we should rule out?”
“I think we all got experience enough to know the could-be’s, and Meg sees things clearer than anybody you ever gonna meet. But ain’t no cause for you adding to her pain.”
Ricci shrugged.
“Fine,” he said. “Next time we meet on the subject I’ll be sure to raise the possibility the boss’s daughter took off on a cruise to nowhere.”
Thibodeau brushed his gaze over Ricci’s face.
“Take a look in the mirror some day,” he said. “You going to see one cruel son of a bitch.”
Ricci stood there a second or two without a word. Then the elevator dinged its arrival.
“Sure enough,” he said, and turned to enter the car, leaving Thibodeau to follow him through its open doors.
* * *
There were two Sonoma police cruisers parked across the foot of the drive as Ricci’s VW Jetta approached in the falling rain. Pulled abreast of each other, the black-and-whites faced in opposite directions and had sawhorses erected on either side of them.
About thirty feet west of the blockade, Thibodeau nodded toward the right shoulder of the road.
“We might want to stop here, stroll on over to them,” he said, ending a silence that had lasted for their entire ride to the rescue center. “Be less apt to get their backs up.”
Ricci said nothing in response, but whipped the car onto the puddled shoulder.
They got out and continued toward the drive on foot, raindrops rattling hard against their umbrellas.
The cops exited their cruisers in dark waterproof ponchos, walking around from either side as officers will do when strangers come toward them, cautiously, neither trying to hide nor be too conspicuous about the readiness of their draw hands, but keeping them just near enough to their holsters to exert a subtle, nonprovocational psychic weight.
Ricci took note of their guarded stances with an evaluative eye. He had met unknown persons the same way on hundreds of occasions in his decade with the Boston force.
The first cop came forward carefully.
“Gentlemen.” A little nod. Calm, polite tone. “What can we do for you?”
Ricci told him their names, flashing his Sword insignia card in its display case.
“We’re UpLink private security,” he said. “You might’ve heard of us.”
The uniform checked the identification. He nodded.
“Sure,” he said. “Good things. I once checked out job opportunities on your Web site. There are some tough prereqs just to snag an interview.”
Ricci did not comment.
“Our boss’s daughter,” he said. “She’s your missing person.”
The cop gave another nod. He had dropped his show-room face.
“Julia Gordian,” he said. “This is a damn bad one.”
“We need to take a look around the C.S.”
The cop paused a moment. He wore his cap under the hood of the poncho and its bill shed droplets of water as he shook his head.
“Not possible,” he said. “The area’s been secured.”
Ricci stared at him.
“We drove all the way from SanJo,” he said. “Make an exception.”
Thibodeau tried to moderate Ricci’s harshness.
“We understand you got physical evidence needs to be protected and want to feel comfortable,” Thibodeau said. “And we won’t give it no nevermind if somebody from your department sticks with us, make sure we don’t disturb nothing.”
The cop gave him a curious glance. “Louisiana?” he said.
“And proud of it,” Thibodeau said. “Didn’t think anybody could hear no accent.”
A grin.
“Went down for Mardi Gras once. Beats the hell out of me how you people can take eating that spicy food.”
“Secret’s to line the gut with moonshine.”
The cop’s grin enlarged a bit.
“Look, I really wish I could do something to help, but we have rules about restricting access to unauthorized parties.”
Thibodeau made his pitch. “No special considerations for fellas you hear such great things about?”
“None I have any pull to give. You’d need to arrange for special clearance.”
Ricci briefly let his glance range over the cop’s shoulder. A crime scene van and other police vehicles stood farther uphill. Small clusters of technical services and investigative personnel were everywhere. He noticed a plainclothesman in a raincoat moving between them on the drive. He was hatless, carried no umbrella, and had both hands in the pockets of his coat.
He turned his attention back to the uniform.
“Who’s the scene coordinator?”
“That would be Detective Erickson—”
Ricci cut him short. “Then stop wasting our time and call him over.”
The cop managed not to look flustered. But his partners were drifting slowly over from outside their patrol cars.
“Unless there’s some urgent reason, my orders are to see the investigation isn’t interrupted,” he said after about ten seconds. Rain bounced off the front of his cap. “I think the best way for you to proceed is leave your contact information so I can pass it up the line.”
Ricci stared at him with cold intensity, ignoring the other three uniforms.
“The detective in charge,” he said. “Call him over.”
His expression no longer friendly, the cop looked about to react to the outright challenge.
Then a new voice: “You two Ricci and Thibodeau?”
Ricci turned and saw the man in the raincoat hurrying around from behind the crosswise-parked cars. His blond hair was wet.
“Erickson,” Ricci said.
The detective moved his head up and down, then flicked a glance at the uniforms. They backed off and returned to their black-and-whites.
“Megan Breen just called on my cell,” he said. “She told me you were coming, explained you’d like to view the scene.”
Ricci nodded.
“She’s been very cooperative,” Erickson said. “There are certain restrictions on where you can and can’t go. You guys agree to abide by them, I’ll try to return the favor.”
Thibodeau didn’t hesitate for an instant.
“Be appreciated,” he said.
Erickson nodded.
“Follow me,” he said, and then turned to walk back up the drive.
They followed.
* * *
An eight-month stint in Antarctica had raised Megan Breen’s command of her patience to a sublime level, and she had done everything she could to keep herself occupied while awaiting word from Africa and Ashley’s callback. Whatever else was happening, she had a company to manage, as she’d had an ice station to run amid a wide spectrum of crises brought on by both man and nature throughout the polar winter. Her waking nightmare had begun today with two small-city detectives arriving out of the blue to deliver the most unexpected and shocking of messages. The tense, rapidly called huddle with Ricci and Thibodeau had followed without segue in Megan’s numbed mind. But the constant reminders that it was still a day at the office were among the nightmare’s most surreal components. There were matters she needed to track in every area of operation. Routine decisions to make, clusters of problems to address, requests to grant, deny, or put on hold. Many of them were duties she would have normally considered headaches but counted as blessings right now in her attempts to stay busy. She did not expect to give better than partial attention to anything in front of her, nor stop her fears about Julia from obtruding on her thoughts. Still, Megan could only believe that being partially diverted, maintaining even the flimsiest semblance of normalcy, was preferable to giving in to the sense of helpless, useless, agonizing despair that would be the sure and terrible alternative.