The Big Bad Wolf Read online

  I got back on the phone with Coulter. “The Baltimore police are out of sight,” I told him. “I want you to come out, Dennis. Do it now. Before they get a chance to think about what just happened.”

  He didn’t answer at first, then said, “I’m looking around. All it takes is one sniper with a nightscope.”

  I knew he was right. Didn’t matter. We had one chance.

  “Come on out with your hostages,” I told him. “I’ll meet you on the front steps myself.”

  He didn’t say anything more, and I was pretty sure I’d lost him. I focused on the front door of the house and tried not to think about people dying here. C’mon, Coulter. Use your head. This is the best deal you’re going to get.

  He finally spoke again. “You sure about this? Because I’m not. I think you might be crazy.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “All right, I’m coming out,” he said. Then he added, “This is on you.”

  I turned to Mahoney. “Let’s get a protective vest on him as soon as he hits the porch. Surround him with our guys. No Baltimore PD anywhere near him no matter what they say. Can we do that?”

  “Brass balls.” Mahoney grinned. “Let’s do it—try, anyway.”

  “Let me bring you out, Dennis. It’s safer that way,” I said into the cell. “I’m coming to you now.”

  But Coulter had his own plan. Jesus, he was already on his front porch. He had both hands raised high over his head. Clearly unarmed. Vulnerable as hell.

  I was afraid I’d hear shots and he’d go down in a heap. I started to run forward.

  Then half a dozen HRT guys were all over him, shielding Coulter from harm. They rushed him to a waiting van.

  “We got him inside the truck. Subject is safe,” I heard the report from HRT. “We’re getting him the hell out of here.”

  I turned back toward the house. What about the family? Where were they?

  Had he made up his story? Oh, Christ, what had Dennis Coulter done?

  Then I saw the family walking single file out of the house. It was an incredible scene. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

  An old man in a white shirt, black trousers, and suspenders. An elderly woman in a blowing pink dress and high heels. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Two small girls in white party dresses. A couple of middle-aged women holding hands. Three males in their twenties, each of them with their hands up. A woman with two little babies.

  Several of the adults were carrying cardboard boxes.

  I figured I knew what was in them. Yeah, I knew. The records, the proof, the evidence.

  Detective Dennis Coulter had been telling the truth after all. His family had believed him. They had just saved his life.

  I felt Ned Mahoney pat my back hard. “Nice job. Really good job.”

  I laughed and said, “For an FNG. That was a test, wasn’t it?”

  “I really couldn’t say. But if it was, you aced it.”

  Chapter 9

  A TEST? Jesus. Is that why I was sent to Baltimore? I hoped to hell not.

  I got home late that night, too late. I was glad that no one would be up to see me, especially Nana. I couldn’t handle one of her soul-piercing disapproving looks right now. I needed a beer and then I wanted to go to bed. Sleep if I could.

  I slipped quietly inside the house, not wanting to wake anyone. Not a sound except for the tiniest electric hum that came from somewhere. I was planning to call Jamilla as soon as I got upstairs. I was missing her like the plague. Rosie the cat slid by and rubbed against my leg. “Hello, Red,” I whispered. “I did good today.”

  Then I heard a cry.

  I hurried up the front stairs toward Little Alex’s room. He was up and working himself into a good wail. I didn’t want Nana or one of the other kids to have to get up and tend to him. Besides, I hadn’t seen my boy since early that morning and I wanted to give him a snuggle. I missed his little face.

  When I peeked into his room he was sitting up, and he seemed surprised to see it was me. Then he smiled and clapped his hands. Oh, boy! Daddy’s on the case. Daddy’s the biggest sucker in the house.

  “What are you doing up, Pup? It’s late,” I said.

  Alex’s bed is a low-riser that I made myself. There are protective bars on either side to keep him from falling out.

  I slid in beside him. “Move over and give your daddy some room,” I whispered, and kissed the top of his head. I don’t ever remember my father kissing me, so I kiss Alex every chance I get. The same goes for Damon and Jannie, no matter how much they complain as they get older and less wise.

  “I’m tired, little man,” I said as I stretched out. “How about you? Tough day, Puppy?”

  I retrieved his bottle from a space between the mattress and the guard bars. He started to drink, and then he moved in close to me. He grabbed his stuffed cow, Moo, and he fell back to sleep in minutes.

  So nice. Magical. That sweet baby smell I love. His soft breathing—baby’s breath.

  The two of us had a nice sleep-over that night.

  Chapter 10

  THE COUPLE WAS HIDING out for a few days in New York City. Lower Manhattan. It was so easy to get lost there, to disappear off the map. And New York was one city where they could get whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it. The Couple wanted rough sex. For starters, anyway.

  They had stayed out of reach of their employer for more than thirty-six hours. Their contact man, Sterling, finally got through to them on the cell phone in a room at the Chelsea Hotel on West Twenty-third Street. Outside the window was a sign: HOTEL CHELSEA in an L shape. The vertical HOTEL was in white, the horizontal CHELSEA in red. It was a famous New York City icon.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for a day and a half,” Sterling said. “Don’t ever turn off your cell on me. Consider this a last warning.”

  The woman, Zoya, yawned and gave the phone the finger. With her free hand, she popped a CD, East Eats West, into the player. Rock music kicked in hard and loud. “We were busy, darling. We’re still busy. What the hell do you want? You have more money for us? Money talks.”

  “Turn down the music, please. Please. Somebody has an itch. He’s very rich. There’s a lot of money involved.”

  “Like I said, darling, we’re busy right now. Otherwise occupied. Out to lunch. How big an itch is it?”

  “Same as last time. A very big itch. He’s a personal friend of the Wolf.”

  Zoya flinched at the mention of the Wolf. “Give me details, specifics. Don’t waste our time.”

  “We’ll do it like we always do, darling. A piece of the puzzle at a time. How soon can you be on the road? How about thirty minutes?”

  “We have something to wrap up here. Let’s say four hours. This need that somebody has, this itch—what kind of itch is it?”

  “One unit, female. And not too far from New York. I’ll give you directions first. Then specifics on the unit. You have four hours.”

  Zoya looked at her partner, who was lounging in an armchair. Slava was idly fingering a pecker leash as he listened to her talking. He was gazing out the window at a sweet shop, a tailor shop, a one-hour photo. Typical NYC view.

  “We’ll do the job,” said Zoya. “Tell Wolf we’ll get his friend what he needs. No problem whatsoever.” Then she hung up on Sterling. Because she could.

  She shrugged at her partner. Then Zoya looked across the hotel room to a queen-size bed with a steel decorative headboard. A young blond man was lying there. He was naked and gagged, handcuffed to vertical rods spaced about a foot apart on the bed.

  “You’re in luck,” Zoya said to the blond. “Only four more hours to play, baby. Only four more hours.”

  Then Slava spoke. “You’ll wish it was less. You ever heard of a Russian word—zamochit? No. I’ll show you zamochit. Four hours’ worth. I learned it from the Wolf. Now you learn from me. Zamochit. It means to break all the bones in your body.”

  Zoya winked at the boy. “Four hours. Zamochit. You’ll take the next f
ew hours with you through eternity. Never forget it, darling.”

  Chapter 11

  WHEN I WOKE IN THE MORNING, Little Alex was sleeping peacefully beside me, his head on my chest. I couldn’t resist sneaking another kiss. And another. Then, as I lay there next to my boy, I found myself thinking about Detective Dennis Coulter and his family. I had been moved emotionally when they came out of that house together. The family had saved Coulter’s life, and I was a sucker for family stuff.

  I had been asked to stop at the Hoover Building, always referred to as “the Bureau,” before I drove down to Quantico. The director wanted to see me about what had happened in Baltimore. I had no idea what to expect, but I was anxious about the visit. Maybe I should have skipped Nana’s coffee that morning.

  Almost anybody who has seen it would agree that the Hoover Building is a strange and supernaturally ugly structure. It takes up an entire block between Pennsylvania Avenue, Ninth, Tenth, and E Streets. The nicest thing I could say about it is that it’s “fortresslike.” Inside, it’s even worse. The Bureau is library quiet and warehouse grim. The long halls glow in medicinal white.

  As soon as I stepped onto the director’s floor, I was met by his executive assistant, a very efficient man named Tony Woods, whom I liked quite a bit already.

  “How is he this morning, Tony?” I asked.

  “He likes what happened down in Baltimore,” Tony answered. “His Highness is in a pretty good mood. For a change.”

  “Was Baltimore a test?” I asked, not sure how far I could go with the assistant.

  “Oh, it was your final exam. But remember, everything’s a test.”

  I was led into the director’s relatively small conference room. Burns was already sitting there waiting for me. He raised a glass of orange juice in mock salute. “Here he is!” He smiled. “I’m making sure that everybody knows you did a bang-up job in Bal’more. Just the way I wanted to see you start out.”

  “Nobody got shot,” I said.

  “You got the job done, Alex. HRT was very impressed. So was I.”

  I sat down and poured myself coffee. I knew it was “help yourself” and no formalities with Burns. “You’re spreading the word . . . because you have such big plans for me?” I asked.

  Burns laughed in his usual conspiratorial way. “Absolutely, Alex. I want you to take my job.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “No, thank you.” I sipped the coffee, which was dark brown, a little bitter, but delicious—almost as good as Nana Mama’s. Well, maybe half as good as the best in Washington. “You care to share any of your more immediate plans with me?” I asked.

  Burns laughed again. He was in a good mood this morning. “I just want the Bureau to operate simply and effectively, that’s all. It’s the way it was when I ran the New York office. I’ll tell you what I don’t believe in: bureaucrats, and cowboys. There are too many of both in the Bureau. Especially the former. I want street smarts on the street, Alex. Or maybe I just want smarts. You took a chance yesterday, only you probably didn’t see it that way. There were no politics for you—just the right way to get the job done.”

  “What if it hadn’t worked?” I asked as I set my coffee down on a coaster emblazoned with the Bureau’s emblem.

  “Well, hell, then you wouldn’t be here now and we wouldn’t be talking like this. Seriously, though, there’s one thing I want to caution you about. It may seem obvious to you, but it’s a lot worse than you imagine. You can’t always tell the good guys from the bad ones in the Bureau. No one can. I’ve tried, and it’s almost impossible.”

  I thought about what he was implying—part of which was that Burns already knew that one of my weaknesses was to look for the good in people. I understood it was a weakness sometimes, but I wouldn’t change, or maybe I couldn’t change.

  “Are you a good guy?” I asked him.

  “Of course I am,” Burns said with a wholesome grin that could have landed him a starring role on The West Wing. “You can trust me, Alex. Always. Absolutely. Just like you trusted Kyle Craig a few years back.”

  Jesus, he was giving me the shivers. Or maybe the director was just trying to get me to see the world his way: Trust no one. Go to the head of the class.

  Chapter 12

  AT A LITTLE PAST ELEVEN, I was on my way down to Quantico. Even after my “final” in Baltimore, I still had a class on “Stress Management and Law Enforcement.” I already knew the operative statistic: FBI agents were five times more likely to kill themselves than to be killed in the line of duty.

  A Billy Collins poem was floating through my brain as I drove: “Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep a Gun in the House.” Nice concept, good poem, bad omen.

  The cell rang and I heard the voice of Tony Woods from the director’s office. There had been a change of plans. Woods gave me orders from the director to go straight to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. A plane was waiting for me.

  Jesus! I was on another case already; I’d been ordered to skip school again. Things were happening faster than even I had expected, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

  “Does Senior Agent Nooney know that I’m the director’s one-man flying squad?” I asked Woods. Tell me that he does. I don’t need more trouble down at Quantico.

  “We’ll let him know posthaste where you’re going,” Woods promised. “I’ll take care of it personally. Go to Atlanta, and keep us posted on what you find down there. You’ll be briefed on the plane. It’s a kidnapping case.” But that was all Tony Woods would tell me on the phone.

  For the most part, the Bureau flies out of Reagan Washington National. I boarded a Cessna Citation Ultra, tan, with no identifying markings. The Cessna sat eight, but I was the only passenger.

  “You must be important,” the pilot said before we took off.

  “I’m not important. Believe me, I’m nobody.”

  The pilot just laughed. “Buckle up, then, nobody.”

  It was perfectly clear that a call from the director’s office had preceded me. Here I was, being treated like a senior agent. The director’s troubleshooter?

  Another agent jumped aboard just before we took off. He sat down across the aisle from me and introduced himself as Wyatt Walsh, from D.C. Was he part of the director’s “flying team” too? Maybe my partner?

  “What happened in Atlanta?” I asked. “What’s so important, or unimportant, that it requires our services?”

  “Nobody told you?” He seemed surprised that I didn’t know the details.

  “I got a call from the director’s office less than half an hour ago. I was told to come here. They said I’d be briefed on the plane.”

  Walsh slapped two volumes of case notes on my lap. “There’s been a kidnapping in the Buckhead section of Atlanta. Woman in her thirties. White woman, well-to-do. She’s the wife of a judge, which makes it federal. More important, she isn’t the first.”

  Chapter 13

  EVERYTHING WAS SUDDENLY in a hurry-up mode. After we landed I was driven in a van to the Phipps Plaza shopping center in Buckhead.

  As we pulled into the lot off Peachtree, it was obvious to me that something was very wrong there. We passed the anchor stores: Saks Fifth Avenue and Lord & Taylor. They were nearly empty. Agent Walsh told me that the victim, Mrs. Elizabeth Connolly, had been abducted in the underground parking lot near another large store called Parisian.

  The entire parking area was a crime scene, but particularly Level 3, where Mrs. Connolly had been grabbed. Each level of the garage was marked with a purple-and-gold scroll design, but now crime-scene tape was draped over the scrolls. The Bureau’s Evidence Response Team was there. The incredible amount of activity indicated that the local police agencies were taking this extremely seriously. Walsh’s words were floating in my head: She isn’t the first.

  It struck me as a little ironic, but I was more comfortable talking to the local police than to agents from the Bureau’s field office. I walked over and spoke to two detectives, Pedi and
Ciaccio, from the Atlanta PD.

  “I’ll try to stay out of your way,” I said to them, then added, “I used to be Washington PD.”

  “Sold out, huh?” Ciaccio said, and she sniffed out a laugh. It was supposed to be a joke, but it had enough truth in it to sting. Her eyes had a light frost in them.

  Pedi spoke up. He looked about ten years older than his partner. Both were attractive. “Why’s the FBI interested in this case?”

  I told them only as much as I thought I should, not everything. “There have been other abductions, or at least disappearances, that resemble this one. White women, suburban locales. We’re here checking into possible connections. And, of course, this is a judge’s wife.”

  Pedi asked, “Are we talking about past disappearances in the Atlanta metro area?”

  I shook my head. “No, not to my knowledge. The other disappearances are in Texas, Massachusetts, Florida, Arkansas.”

  “Ransoms involved?” Pedi followed up.

  “In one Texas case, yes. Otherwise no money has been asked for. None of the women have been found so far.”

  “Only white women?” Detective Ciaccio asked as she took a few notes.

  “As far as we know, yes. And all of them fairly well-to-do. But no ransoms. And none of what I’m telling you gets to the press.” I looked around the parking garage. “What do we have so far? Help me out a little.”

  Ciaccio looked at Pedi. “Joshua?” she asked.

  Pedi shrugged. “All right, Irene.”

  “We do have something. There were a couple of kids in one of the parked cars when the abduction went down. They didn’t witness the first part of the crime.”

  “They were otherwise occupied,” said Joshua Pedi.