The Big Bad Wolf Page 4

  “But they looked up when they heard a scream and saw Elizabeth Connolly. Two kidnappers, apparently pretty good at it. Man and a woman. They didn’t see our young lovers because they were in the back of a van.”

  “And they had their heads down?” I asked. “Otherwise occupied?”

  “That too. But when they did come up for air, they saw the man and woman, described as being in their thirties, well-dressed. They were already holding Mrs. Connolly. Took her down very fast. Threw her into the back of her own station wagon. Then they drove off in her car.”

  “Why didn’t the kids get out of the van to help?”

  Ciaccio shook her head. “They said that it happened very fast, and that they were scared. Seemed ‘unreal’ to them. I think they were also nervous about having it known they were playing around in the back of a van during school hours. They both attend a local prep school in Buckhead. They were skipping classes.”

  A team took her, I thought, and knew it was a big break for us. According to what I’d read on the ride down, no team had been spotted at any of the other abductions. A male and a female team? That was interesting. Strange and unexpected.

  “You want to answer a question for us now?” Detective Pedi asked.

  “If I can. Shoot.”

  He looked at his partner. I had a feeling that somewhere along the way Joshua and Irene might have spent some time in the backseat of a car, something about the way they looked at each other. “We’ve been hearing that this might have to do with the Sandra Friedlander case. Is that right? That one’s gone unsolved for, what, two years in D.C.?”

  I looked at the detective and shook my head. “Not to my knowledge,” I said. “You’re the first to bring up Sandra Friedlander.”

  Which wasn’t exactly the truth. Her name had been in confidential FBI reports I’d read on the ride down from D.C. Sandra Friedlander—and seven others.

  Chapter 14

  MY HEAD WAS BUZZING. In a bad way. I knew from my hurried reading of the case notes that there were more than 220 women currently listed as missing in the United States, and that at least seven of the disappearances had been linked by the Bureau to “white slave rings.” That was the nasty twist. White women in their twenties and thirties were in high demand in certain circles. The prices could get exorbitant—if the sales were to the Middle East or to Japan.

  Atlanta had been the hub of another kind of sex-slave scandal just a few years back. It had involved Asian and Mexican women smuggled into the U.S., then forced into prostitution in Georgia and the Carolinas. This case had another possible connection to Juanita, Mexico, where hundreds of women had disappeared in the past couple of years.

  My mind was flashing through these unpleasantries when I arrived at Judge Brendan Connolly’s home in the Tuxedo Park section of Buckhead, near the governor’s mansion. The Connolly place replicated an 1840s up-country Georgia plantation home and sat on about two acres. A Porsche Boxster was parked in the circular driveway. Everything looked perfect—in its place.

  The front door was opened by a young girl who was still in her school clothes. The patch on her jumper told me she attended Pace Academy. She introduced herself as Brigid Connolly, and I could see braces on her teeth. I had read about Brigid in the Bureau’s notes on the family. The foyer of the house was elegant, with an elaborate chandelier and a highly polished ash hardwood floor.

  I spotted two younger girls—just their heads—peeking out from a doorway off the main entryway, just past a couple of British watercolors. All three of the Connolly daughters were pretty. Brigid was twelve, Meredith was eleven, and Gwynne was six. According to my crib notes, the younger girls attended the Lovett School.

  “I’m Alex Cross, with the FBI,” I said to Brigid, who seemed tremendously self-assured for her age, especially during this crisis. “I think that your father is expecting me.”

  “My dad will be right down, sir,” she told me. Then she turned to her younger sisters and scolded, “You heard Daddy. Behave. Both of you.”

  “I won’t bite anybody,” I said to the girls, who were still peeking at me from down the hallway.

  Meredith turned bright red. “Oh, we’re sorry. This isn’t about you.”

  “I understand,” I said. Finally they smiled, and I saw that Meredith had braces too. Very cute girls, sweet.

  I heard a voice from above. “Agent Cross?” Agent? I wasn’t used to the sound of that yet.

  I looked up the front staircase as Judge Brendan Connolly made his way down. He had on a striped blue dress shirt, dark blue slacks, black driving loafers. He looked trim and in shape, but tired, as if he hadn’t slept in days. I knew from the FBI workup sheets that he was forty-four and had attended Georgia Tech and Vanderbilt Law School.

  “So which is it,” he asked, then forced a smile, “do you bite or not?”

  I shook his hand. “I only bite people who deserve it,” I said. “Alex Cross.”

  Brendan Connolly nodded toward a large library-den that I could see was crammed from floor to ceiling with books. There was also room for a baby grand piano. I noticed sheet music for some Billy Joel songs. In the corner of the room was a daybed—unmade.

  “After Agent Cross and I are done, I’ll make dinner,” he said to the girls. “I’ll try not to poison anybody tonight, but I’ll need your help, ladies.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” they chorused. They seemed to adore their father. He pulled the sliding oak doors, and the two of us were sealed inside.

  “This is so damn bad. So hard.” He let out a deep breath. “Trying to keep up a front for them. They’re the best girls in the world.” Judge Connolly gestured around the book-lined room. “This is Lizzie’s favorite place in the house. She plays the piano very well. So do the girls. We’re both bookaholics, but she especially loved reading in this room.”

  He sat in a club chair covered in rust-tone leather. “I appreciate that you came to Atlanta. I’ve heard you’re very good at difficult cases. How can I help you?” he asked.

  I sat across from him on a matching rust-tone-leather couch. On the wall behind him were photographs of the Parthenon, Chartres, the pyramids, and an honorary plaque from Chastain Horse Park. “There are a lot of people working to find Mrs. Connolly, and they’ll go down a lot of avenues. I’m not going to get into too many details about your family. The local detectives can go there.”

  “Thank you,” the judge said. “Those questions are devastating to answer right now. To go over and over. You can’t imagine.”

  I nodded. “Are you aware of any local men, or even women, who might have taken an inappropriate interest in your wife? A long-standing crush, a potential obsession? That’s the one private area I’d like to go into. Then, any little things that strike you as out of the ordinary. Did you notice anyone watching your wife? Are there any faces you’ve seen around more than normal lately? Delivery men? Federal Express or other services? Neighbors who are suspicious in any way? Work associates? Even friends who might have fantasized about Mrs. Connolly?”

  Brendan Connolly nodded. “I see what you’re getting at.”

  I looked him in the eye. “Have you and your wife had any fights lately?” I asked. “I need to know if you have. Then we can move on.”

  Wetness suddenly appeared in the corners of Brendan Connolly’s eyes. “I met Lizzie in Washington when she was with the Post and I was an associate at Tate Schilling, a law firm there. It was love at first sight. We almost never fought, hardly ever raised our voices. That’s still true. Agent Cross, I love my wife. So do her daughters. Please help us bring her home. You have to find Lizzie.”

  Chapter 15

  THE MODERN-DAY GODFATHER. A forty-seven-year-old Russian now living in America and known as the Wolf. Rumored to be fearless, hands-on, into everything from weapon sales, extortion, and drugs to legitimate businesses such as banking and venture capital. No one seemed to know his true identity, or his American name, or where he lived. Clever. Invisible. Safe from the FBI. And anybody els
e who might be looking for him.

  He had been in his twenties when he made the switch from the KGB to become one of the most ruthless cell leaders in Russian organized crime, the Red Mafiya. His namesake, the Siberian wolf, was a skillful hunter, but also relentlessly hunted. The Siberian was a fast runner and could overpower much heavier animals—but it was also hunted for its blood and bones. The human Wolf was also a hunter who was hunted—except that the police had no idea where to hunt.

  Invisible. By design. Actually, he was hiding in plain sight. On a balmy evening, the man called Wolf was throwing a huge party at his 20,000-square-foot house on the waterfront in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The occasion was the launch of his new men’s magazine, called Instinct, which would compete with Maxim and Stun.

  In Lauderdale, the Wolf was known as Ari Manning, a wealthy businessman originally from Tel Aviv. He had other names in other cities. Many names, many cities.

  He was passing through the den now, where about twenty of his guests were watching a football game on several TVs, including a 61-inch Runco. A couple of football fanatics were bent over a computer with a statistics database. On a nearby table was a bottle of Stolichnaya encased in a block of ice. The vodka in ice was the only real Russian touch that he allowed.

  At six-foot-two, this Wolf could carry 240 pounds and still move like a big and very powerful animal. He circulated among his guests, always smiling and joking, knowing that no one in the room understood why he smiled, not one of these so-called friends or business partners or social acquaintances had any idea who he was.

  They knew him as Ari, not as Pasha Sorokin, and definitely not as the Wolf. They had no clue about the pounds of illegal diamonds he bought from Sierra Leone, the tons of heroin from Asia, and weapons and even jets sold to the Colombians, or white women purchased by the Saudis and Japanese. In south Florida, he had a reputation for being a maverick both socially and in business. There were more than 150 guests tonight, but he’d ordered food and drink for twice that number. He had imported the chef from Le Cirque 2000 in New York, and also a sushi cook from San Francisco. His servers were dressed as cheerleaders and were topless, which he thought a cheeky joke, guaranteed to offend. The famous surprise dessert for the party was Sacher tortes flown in from Vienna. No wonder everybody loved Ari. Or hated him.

  He gave a playful hug to a former pro running back for the Miami Dolphins and talked to a lawyer who’d made tens of millions from the Florida tobacco settlement—exchanged stories about Governor Jeb Bush. Then he moved on through the crowd. There were so many ass-kissing social climbers and opportunists who came to his house to be seen among the right, and wrong, people: self-important, spoiled, selfish, and, worst of all, boring as tepid dishwater.

  He walked along the edge of an indoor swimming pool toward an outdoor pool more than twice the size. He chatted with his guests and made a generous pledge to a private-school charity. Not surprisingly, he was hit on by somebody’s wife. He had serious conversations with the owner of the most important hotel in the state, a Mercedes-dealing mogul, and the head of a conglomerate who was a hunting “buddy” of his.

  He despised all of these pretenders, especially the older used-to-bes. None of them had ever taken a real risk in their lives. Still, they had made millions, even billions, and they thought they were such hot shit.

  And then—he thought about Elizabeth Connolly for the first time in an hour or so. His sweet, very sexy Lizzie. She looked like Claudia Schiffer, and he fondly remembered the days when the image of the German model was on hundreds of billboards all over Moscow. He had lusted for Claudia—all Russian men had—and now he had her likeness in his possession.

  Why? Because he could. It was the philosophy that drove him and everything in his life.

  For that very reason, he was keeping her right here in his big house in Fort Lauderdale.

  Chapter 16

  LIZZIE CONNOLLY COULDN’T BELIEVE any of this awfulness was happening to her. It still didn’t seem possible. It wasn’t possible. And yet, here she was. A hostage!

  The house where she was being kept was full of people. Full! It sounded as if a party was going on. A party? How dare he?

  Was her insane captor that sure of himself? Was he so arrogant? So brazen? Was it possible? Of course it was. He’d boasted to her that he was a gangster, the king of gangsters, perhaps the greatest that ever lived. He had repulsive tattoos—on the back of his right hand, his shoulders, his back, around his right index finger, and also on his private parts, on his testicles and penis.

  Lizzie could definitely hear a party going on in the house. She could even make out conversations: small talk about an upcoming trip to Aspen; a rumored affair between a nanny and a local mother; the death of a child in a pool, a six-year-old like her Gwynne; football stories; a joke about two altar boys and a Siamese cat that she had already heard in Atlanta.

  Who the hell were these people? Where was she being held? Where am I, damn it?

  Lizzie was trying so hard not to go crazy, but it was almost impossible. All of these people, their inane talk.

  They were so close to where she was bound and tied and gagged and being held hostage by a madman, probably a killer.

  As Lizzie listened, tears finally began to run down her cheeks. Their voices, their closeness, their laughing, all just a few feet away from her.

  I’m here! I’m right here! Damn it, help me. Please help me.

  I’m right here!

  She was in darkness. Couldn’t see a thing.

  The people, the party, were on the other side of a thick wooden door. She was locked in a small room that was part closet; she’d been kept in here for days. Permitted bathroom breaks but not much else.

  Bound tightly by rope.

  Gagged with tape.

  So she couldn’t call out for help. Lizzie couldn’t scream—except inside her head.

  Please help me.

  Somebody, please!

  I’m here! I’m right here!

  I don’t want to die.

  Because that was the one thing he’d told her that was certain—he was going to kill her.

  Chapter 17

  BUT NO ONE COULD HEAR Lizzie Connolly. The party went on and got larger, noisier, more extravagant, vulgar. Eleven times during the night, stretch limousines dropped off well-heeled guests at the large waterfront house in Fort Lauderdale. Then the limos left. They would not be waiting for their passengers. No one noticed, at least no one let on.

  And no one paid any attention when these same guests left that night in cars they hadn’t arrived in. Very expensive cars, the finest in the world, all of them stolen.

  An NFL running back departed in a deep maroon Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible worth $363,000, “made to order,” from the paint to the wood, hide, trim, even the position of the intercrossed Rs in the cockpit.

  A white rap star drove off in an aqua blue Aston Martin Vanquish priced at $228,000, capable of zero to a hundred in under ten seconds.

  The most expensive of the cars was the American-made Saleen S7, with its gull-wing doors, the look of a shark, and 550 horsepower.

  All in all, eleven very expensive, very stolen automobiles were delivered to buyers at the house.

  A silver Pagani Zonda priced at $370,000. The engine of the Italian-made racer barked, howled, roared.

  A silver and orange-trimmed Spyker C8 Double 12 with 620 horsepower.

  A bronze Bentley Azure Mulliner convertible—yours for $376,000.

  A Ferrari 575 Maranello—$215,000.

  A Porsche GT2.

  Two Lamborghini Murcielagos—yellow gold—$270,000 apiece, named, like all Lamborghinis, after a famous bull.

  A Hummer H1—not as hot as the other cars, maybe, but nothing got in its way.

  The total value of the stolen cars was over three million; the sales came to a little under two.

  Which more than paid for the Sacher tortes flown all the way from Vienna.

  And besides, the Wolf was a fan
of fast, beautiful cars . . . of fast, beautiful everything.

  Chapter 18

  I FLEW BACK TO D.C. the next day and was home at six that night, finished with work for the day. At times like this, I almost felt that maybe I had my life back. Maybe I’d done the right thing by joining the Bureau. Maybe . . . As I climbed out of the ancient black Porsche, I saw Jannie on the front porch. She was practicing her violin, her “long bows.” She wanted to be the next Midori. The playing was impressive—to me, anyway. When Jannie wanted something, she went after it.

  “Who’s the beautiful young lady holding that Juzek so perfectly?” I called as I trudged up the lawn.

  Jannie glanced my way, said nothing, smiled knowingly, as if only she knew the secret. Nana and I were involved in her practices, which featured the Suzuki method of instruction. We modified the method slightly to include both of us. Parents were a part of practice, and it seemed to pay dividends. In the Suzuki way, great care was taken to avoid competition and its negative effects. Parents were told to listen to countless tapes and attend lessons. I had gone to many of the lessons myself. Nana covered the others. In that way, we assumed the dual role of “home teacher.”

  “That’s so beautiful. What a wonderful sound to come home to,” I told Jannie. Her smile was worth everything I’d gone through at work that day.

  She finally spoke. “To soothe the savage beast,” she said. Violin under one arm, bow held down, Jannie bowed, and then she began to play again.

  I sat on the porch steps and listened. Just the two of us, the setting sun, and the music. The beast was soothed.

  After she finished practice, we ate a light dinner, then hurried over to the Kennedy Center for one of the free programs in the Grand Foyer. Tonight it was “Liszt and Virtuosity.” But wait—there was more. Tomorrow night we planned to attack the new climbing wall at the Capital Y. Then, with Damon, it was a video game extravaganza featuring Eternal Darkness: Sanity’s Requiem and Warcraft III: Reign of Chaos.