The 18th Abduction Read online

  Claire said, “The victim stretched away from the person who was biting her. See how the marks are off center? Even if we had the subject’s bite impression, unless there was an obvious dental anomaly, like severely crooked teeth, the chances are small that a mold of the attacker’s mouth would match the impressions on the victim’s neck.”

  “Therefore…,” I said.

  “Therefore, Sergeant Girlfriend, I’d write the bite off as inconclusive.”

  Jacobi muttered, “Bummer,” but Claire wasn’t done.

  “And then there’s this,” she said. “It’s either divine inspiration or maybe Carly whispering over my shoulder, ‘Hey, Doc, take another look.’”

  Claire ducked under her desk and reappeared holding a sealed manila envelope she’d taken from the one-cubic-foot square refrigerator she kept in her office.

  “Clapper called last night,” she said. “We got DNA from Petrović’s water bottle. Then, when Petrović signed a release for his personal property when he was cut loose from the jail, he placed his sweaty paw down on it to sign his name. Richie, I believe it was you who secured the paper with Petrović’s DNA. Inspector, please take a bow.”

  My partner smiled and I fist-bumped his shoulder.

  Claire resumed, saying, “The DNA samples from the bottle and the release form are a perfect match to this.”

  She opened the sealed manila envelope, reached in, took out a small glassine envelope, and held it up so we could see the evidence sandwiched between two glass microscope slides.

  Diano peered over Jacobi’s head. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Claire smiled like an angel and showed the glassine envelope around so that we all could take a look at the sliver of evidence that just might blow the monster up.

  Our esteemed medical examiner said, “I recovered this pubic hair from Carly Myers’s vaginal vault. It’s a 100 percent match to Slobodan Petrović and no other.”

  Chapter 112

  I was so proud of Claire.

  We had evidence, we had probable cause. We had him. I beamed as we gave her a wholehearted round of applause.

  She tucked the evidence back into the cooler, curtsied playfully, and said, “Thanks, everyone. I’ve got to go. I’m in the middle of someone.”

  The rest of us cleared out, and Conklin, Joe, and I went to the FBI field office with Steinmetz, where we spent the rest of that Friday working out the plan.

  First, Steinmetz put in a call to FBI director L. Martin Roberts. He was well regarded, with movie-star looks and some kind of political future. When Roberts was on speakerphone, Steinmetz introduced us, and Conklin and I itemized the evidence: the hanged women, their wounds from throwing stars, and the photo of Petrović in Djoba in a forested killing field, surrounded by hanged bodies and with a throwing star in his hand.

  And we told Roberts about our latest findings: that we’d rescued two bound-and-gagged victims from a subfloor inside Petrović’s club.

  I said, “One of the victims, a schoolteacher by the name of Susan Jones, made a statement that Petrović had raped her and bragged of killing Carly Myers, and she was the last person to see Adele Saran.”

  I finished with Claire’s matching Petrović DNA evidence.

  The FBI director said, “How fast can you turn all that into a memo?”

  By the time the sun touched the horizon, Roberts had our memo and had reassigned the task force that had been watchdogging Petrović to a transport detail. Steinmetz contacted the CIA, which connected with the powers that be in Bosnia. Green lights all the way. Steinmetz printed out Petrović’s signed deportation order.

  I wanted to jump up and hug everyone, but I resisted the impulse.

  Steinmetz seemed pretty pleased himself. He looked at all of us and said, “The game’s in play. It’s all over but the shouting.”

  It was an old line but a great one. Still, as we all knew, there was much to be done before anyone started shouting.

  Petrović didn’t know that he was breathing his last free air, and we didn’t want to risk any ironic accidents, so we had to work fast.

  When the meeting broke up, Cappy and Chi picked up Marko Vladic at Skin, where he was going over the damage to the stage with a contractor. Despite the fit Vladic threw about his so-called immunity, he was arrested for kidnapping, rape, and accessory to murder. He was brought to the Hall and slow-walked through booking so that he couldn’t tip off his boss.

  Steinmetz, Joe, Conklin, and I blocked out plans A and B to grab Petrović. We diagrammed manpower deployment and made calls.

  And then we moved out.

  Chapter 113

  After leaving Steinmetz, our task force plus reinforcements formed a tight surveillance detail around Tony’s Place for Steak.

  California Street and surrounding blocks were lined with unmarked vehicles, and two undercover teams were inside the restaurant having a leisurely meal, with mikes and eyes wide open.

  Operatives outside Petrović’s house on Fell gave us a heads-up, and not long afterward a taxi pulled up to Tony’s Place. Petrović got out, paid the driver, and entered his restaurant through the front door.

  On Joe’s command, Jacobi, Conklin, and I stormed the front entrance. Joe and Diano kicked in the back door and came through the kitchen.

  I took a mental snapshot. Three-quarters of the tables were full. Petrović was chatting with a customer near the front when he heard dishes crashing in the back. He turned, saw Joe, turned again toward the front door, and saw me and Conklin cutting past the maître d’ and bearing down on him.

  The dinner crowd reacted; a table flipped, with squealing diners hitting the floor as we advanced on Petrović with guns drawn. The four undercovers were on their feet, badges and weapons in hand.

  I saw realization dawn in Petrović’s eyes. He knew he didn’t have a prayer of getting out of his restaurant on his terms. I ordered him to put his hands on his head and drop to his knees.

  He did it, saying, “I’m not armed.”

  Diano frisked him from chest to ankles and nodded to let us know that in fact Petrović didn’t have a weapon.

  Conklin walked up behind him and slapped on the cuffs, while I said, “Mr. Petrović, you’re under arrest for kidnapping, aggravated assault, rape, and murder.”

  I read him his rights and asked him if he understood.

  He didn’t reply.

  “Did you hear me? Do you understand your rights?”

  “I heard you.”

  Conklin and Diano hoisted Petrović to his feet and moved him toward the front door. He squirmed and resisted, asking, “Where are you taking me?”

  I was happy to tell him.

  “SFO international airport, Mr. Petrović. Your connecting flight to Sarajevo leaves at nine.”

  He struggled as he was marched out the front door and under the awning to the curb, wrenching his body around as he was forced into the CIA’s armored SUV.

  He protested, “You can’t deport me. I’ve done nothing.”

  I answered him with my face six inches from his: “We have nothing but testimony from eyewitnesses and physical evidence that you raped Carly Myers.”

  “How many times do I have to say, I don’t know this woman.”

  Conklin said, “You were sloppy. Or hasty, Mr. P. You left physical evidence inside your victim. We’ve got you by the short hair.”

  Chapter 114

  We couldn’t just go home after the takedown.

  The team that brought down Slobodan Petrović stood out in the darkening street, adrenaline pumping, watching the taillights dwindle as the CIA’s armored Land Rover took the monster away. We were high on success but still unresolved. Until Petrović was off US soil, the shouting would have to wait.

  Jacobi said, “I’m starving. Anyone else?”

  He led us back into the restaurant and had waiters push three tables together at the middle of the room. The waitstaff looked freaked out, but they complied, and after all of the Feds and cops took seats, t
hey brought menus.

  One of the waiters leaned down to talk to me. He was young, in his early twenties, the name Christopher engraved on the tag on his jacket.

  Christopher asked, “Is Mr. Branko coming back?”

  “No. Probably not.”

  “Mr. Vladic didn’t come in today. Is he in trouble, too?”

  “I can’t say,” I told the waiter.

  “What’s going to happen to the restaurant? To us?”

  I told him that I didn’t know.

  He said, “They’re going to jail, huh? No loss. They’re both scumbags.”

  “They are. But we’re good for the bill,” I told him.

  “If not, what am I gonna do? Call the cops?”

  He winked, added, “Don’t worry about it,” then attended to Jacobi, who said, “What’s good here?”

  We all laughed, ordered steak and wine and side dishes, and before the food came, Jacobi called the mayor. He gave him a breakdown of the events, then set the phone down in the middle of the table so we could hear the mayor in a rare happy moment.

  “I’ll hold a press conference tomorrow,” said the mayor. “The city is grateful to every one of you.”

  Rich called Cindy and told her to get out to the airport and track down the next outbound flight to Sarajevo. A moment later Joe got an email from the lab.

  Joe showed me his phone. Clapper had written that Vladic’s Escalade had paint clinging to the broken headlight socket that matched the Tesla Anna had been driving the day she was abducted.

  I said to Joe, “If Vladic is indicted for kidnapping, he’ll be deported, right? I swear if he confesses to killing Denny Lopez, I’ll throw him a farewell party with champagne and a live DJ.”

  Joe pulled me close and we grinned at each other. He said, “Not getting ahead of ourselves, are we, Blondie?”

  “I can wish, can’t I?”

  Meanwhile, in real time, a dozen toasts were made with Tony’s wine: to Claire, to the cops who’d located the Jag and the Escalade, and to the fire and rescue workers who’d saved Anna and Susan. Glasses were raised to Joe and Diano, Conklin and me, for leading the charge and bringing it all home.

  No one was left out.

  Steinmetz clinked his glass with a spoon and announced that working with the SFPD had been an honor and a pleasure. Jacobi returned the favor.

  Conklin’s phone rang, and after he kissed it, he told us the good news.

  “Cindy watched Petrović board the plane under guard. She says she kept her eyes on it until it broke the sound barrier.”

  Cindy was indomitable.

  And after Rich made the announcement, the shouting commenced.

  Petrović was gone.

  From all that we knew about his recent past and his wartime history, it was a dead cert that Petrović’s sentence would be reinstated and that he’d spend the rest of his life in a cement box of a cell inside a maximum-security prison.

  We whooped and yelled and hugged people sitting next to us, even those we hadn’t known before tonight. I texted Yuki and Claire, and they both arrived at Tony’s in time for coffee and chocolate pie.

  It was a wonderful, unforgettable finale to our hard and dangerous work.

  We’d done it. Case closed.

  We couldn’t have known it then, but five years later, when we seldom thought about him at all, Slobodan Petrović would appeal his sentence at the International Criminal Court in The Hague.

  He’d worked a deal once before.

  It would be unbearable, unjust, if he did it again.

  Epilogue

  Chapter 115

  Joe and I stood with Anna outside the International Criminal Court in The Hague, the building’s glass walls shielding us from the slashing rain.

  Three years before, Anna had moved to Spokane to get away from the searing memories of her time in San Francisco. Although we’d been in touch, we hadn’t seen her since.

  Anna looked older now and more vulnerable. She was wearing a hooded raincoat, but the hood couldn’t hide the tears in her eyes. When we hugged, I felt her shivering.

  I was afraid for her. Soon she would be testifying to the tribunal, telling them about Petrović’s crimes against her and her family in Djoba. She couldn’t tell them about San Francisco, but I knew full well how much she’d suffered when Petrović brutalized her yet again.

  I couldn’t imagine how she’d gathered the courage to confront Petrović now.

  Joe gripped her shoulders and said, “We’re with you, Anna.”

  “I know. I’m glad.”

  The doors to the courthouse slid open, and the crowd of reporters and survivors and onlookers rushed through the entrance into the main hall like a pack of wet dogs.

  Ushers directed us, sending witnesses to the main courtroom, and spectators and the press to the gallery, an elevated viewing room separated from the courtroom by a wall of bulletproof glass. When we entered the observation room, I saw rows of theater-style seats rising toward the rear of the room, giving a high-bleachers view down on the court proceedings.

  Joe and I sat in the fifth tier, where we had a full view of the courtroom. It was the size of a college lecture hall, high ceilinged and austere. The judges’ wood-paneled benches were centered on the wall opposite the glass barrier. Similar paneled benches, one for the defense, the other for the prosecution, were at right angles to the judges’ benches.

  As we watched, Anna and her attorneys entered the main chamber. Anna had shed her coat. She was wearing a subtle plaid suit with a white blouse, and her chestnut hair was cut to shoulder length. There was no sign of the tears or the tremors I’d seen just a few minutes before. As I watched, she pulled her hair back behind her ears, plainly showing the burn scar on her face.

  I clapped on my headphones and listened to the court officer’s speech regarding the proceedings and the rules of decorum. He spoke in English, but his speech was translated into any of six official languages at the touch of a switch.

  He called the court to order, and we were asked to rise.

  A hundred people in the gallery and another fifty in the courtroom got to their feet as the judges arrived through a side door. Nine men and women, wearing dark-blue robes with royal-blue trim and stiff white jabots at their throats, took their seats at the benches.

  The principal judge, Alain Bouchard, took the elevated seat at the center of the back row. He had black skin and white hair and looked to be in his late fifties. I’d read about him: he was a criminal court judge in his home country of Belgium, with a background in criminal defense.

  Bouchard exchanged a few whispered words with his colleagues, then spoke to the bailiff, saying, “Please bring in the prisoner.”

  Chapter 116

  I thought I was prepared to see him, but when the side door opened and Slobodan Petrović was escorted by guards into the courtroom, I felt sick.

  Tunnel vision, light-headedness, dropping-through-the-floor sick.

  Joe gripped my arm. “You okay?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m fine.”

  I wasn’t fine. I was enraged.

  When I looked at Petrović, I saw his gun pointed at my face. I had other images in my mind, ones I’d absorbed from hearing Susan’s tearful rendering of rapes and beatings. I thought about meeting Anna that first time when she was semiconscious in the ICU. And I would never, ever forget the mutilated bodies of Carly Myers and Adele Saran.

  Petrović had done all of that and much more. And he hadn’t paid for any of it.

  I’d relied on the ICC to return Petrović to his cement-block sarcophagus. My mind had rested on that image of him, a cockroach in a block of concrete.

  Seeing him on his feet, well dressed, put a new picture in my head. I saw the clever, undefeated military officer who might have found another loophole. By the end of the day, he might get released for time served.

  Petrović smiled at the judges as he passed the benches, before taking his place in the dock.

  Joe took my hand, and toge
ther we stared at the master killer who had once been our focused obsession. Petrović looked much as he had when we’d seen him last. Yes, his hair was grayer, and he’d lost weight. But he still looked like Tony Branko in a good blue suit, a white shirt with a tie.

  There was a buzz in the gallery, exclamations in many languages, muffled sobs, and his name, a sound like clearing one’s throat. Petrović.

  I’d researched the trials of Serbian war criminals before coming to The Hague. I knew that over the last four months this court had heard appeals from seven previously convicted former top-level officers of the wartime Serbian Army, all of whom had been betrayed by Petrović.

  Six of the seven appeals had been rejected. One sentence had been reduced, owing to an error made at trial.

  Today was Slobodan Petrović’s turn.

  I looked at him standing in the dock, his face radiant with confidence. I quickly switched my eyes across the room to Anna Sotovina. She looked resolute.

  I thought that Petrović and Anna were evenly matched.

  Judge Bouchard spoke, saying, “Slobodan Petrović, you were formerly a colonel in the army of Republika Srpska. When you were tried, you were found guilty of killing, and ordering your troops to kill, over fifteen hundred civilians—men, women, and children—in Djoba, Bosnia. In addition, it was proven that prisoners were tortured and raped before execution. Afterward they were buried in mass graves.”

  “Your Honor—” Petrović said.

  Bouchard cut him off. “I will let you know when it is your turn to speak.”

  Judge Bouchard summarized Petrović’s testimony against his superiors, and his reward, a commuted sentence, and the terms of his release.

  Bouchard’s face was inexpressive when he said, “Because you violated the agreement, Mr. Petrović, your sentence was reinstated and justice was done.

  “But you are appealing your sentence, requesting that the charges against you be dropped and that you be released immediately. Beyond your stated facts that you don’t feel safe in prison, you did not state a reason for why you should be acquitted.