Dangerous Games (26 page)

Letting himself out, he returned to the lobby, where the postman was dropping off today’s mail. On impulse he went up to the postman and smiled. “Wish I’d known you were here. I got somebody else’s mail yesterday. Utility bill for Hollister in number twenty-two.”

The guy frowned. “Twenty-two? That shouldn’t have been delivered here at all. I’ve got a forwarding order on that address.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. I’ve knocked on her door a few times, and she’s never there.”

“Forwarding order’s been in effect for months. If you give me the envelope, I’ll have it sent on.”

“Okay, next time I see you. Wouldn’t want the lady to be late paying the electric company.” With a cheerful nod, Kolb left the lobby and returned to his car.

She’d nearly fooled him.

But he was on to her now.

23

Tess found Deputy DA Snelling in his office in the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center in downtown LA. He was eating a sandwich at his desk. His secretary had gone to lunch, allowing Tess to walk in unannounced.

“Mr. Snelling?”

“Who are you?” he asked through a mouthful of tuna fish. She told him. He swallowed what he was chewing and smiled. “The famous Agent McCallum. The woman who saved our fair city.”

She hadn’t gotten much of the hero treatment since her car ride with Crandall, and she found she almost enjoyed it now. It was a nice change of pace from her pariah status.

“Don’t believe everything you read,” she said glibly.

His smile vanished. “I don’t.” He took another bite of tuna fish. “It’s all bullshit. Like that girl in the Iraq war.”

“What?”

“You know, that girl soldier, the one who was a POW for a few days. She gets a parade, TV movie, book deal.” He slugged down a huge gulp of soda from a Styrofoam cup. “Meanwhile there are guys coming home without body parts. No parade for them. No movies, no books.”

She took a seat across from the desk. “And why is that?”

“Because the media wants its heroes young and pretty. John Wayne is old news. GI Jane is a fresh angle.”

“So I’m GI Jane?”

He shrugged. “You were. For a couple weeks, anyway. I don’t know what you are now.”

I’m a pissed-off federal agent
, Tess wanted to say, but didn’t. “I need information.”

“Fire away.” He dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin.

“You arranged a plea bargain last year with a police officer named William Kolb. I’ve already spoken to Detective Goddard about it. I got the distinct impression there was something unusual about how the case was handled.”

“Wasn’t how it was handled that was unusual. It was the case itself.”

“Meaning?”

He finished off his sandwich in two more bites, washing it down with soda. “Goddard didn’t tell you, I gather.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Good. He’s not supposed to.”

“How about you? Are you going to give me the runaround, too?”

“Not me. I can talk. Goddard can’t.”

“Why all the secrecy? The case seemed straightforward to me.”

“That’s the problem.” He wadded up his napkin and tossed it into a wastebasket. “It was too straightforward. Too neat and clean.”

“Are you saying it was some kind of setup?”

“I don’t want to use that particular term. Let’s say there may have been some funny business going on.”

“You don’t think Kolb was harassing Madeleine Grant?”

“Oh, he was stalking her, all right. The e-mails and the digital pics we found on his PC were all the proof we needed. What made things a little tricky was the other evidence.”

“The kidnapping gear?”

He nodded. “And how it was found. The fire in the apartment, and the stuff lying out in plain sight. Awfully convenient. Even so, we wouldn’t have questioned it, if not for the lock on the door.”

“What about the lock?”

“There were obvious signs of tampering. Scratch marks on the metal. Somebody picked the lock. And the forensic guys said it had been done recently.”

Tess knew who had picked the lock. She said nothing.

“The lock is what got us thinking. Then we took a closer look at the phone call that reported the fire. Anonymous. Made from a cell phone. A phone we couldn’t trace. Nobody in the building admitted making it. So who did? You see what I’m getting at?”

Tess saw exactly what Snelling was getting at. “I think so,” she said cautiously.

“To cap it all off, there’s the fact that the kidnapping equipment was just sitting out in the open, as if somebody wanted it to be found. Kolb, of course, denies he ever bought the stuff. That’s to be expected. But what if he’s telling the truth? What if somebody else bought all that crap and planted it?”

This possibility caught Tess’s attention. “You don’t think the kidnapping gear was really his?”

“Well…there are questions about that.”

“What sort of questions?”

“We canvassed the apartment building. A maintenance man remembered seeing a woman get into the elevator on the morning of the fire. She was carrying a bag. A large, bulky bag full of stuff. Later the maintenance guy saw the same woman leave the building. She was still carrying the bag—but it was empty.”

“When was this?”

“She left not long before the engine company arrived.”

Tess kept her voice even. “Did you get a description of the woman?”

“Nothing helpful. She had on a cap—like a baseball cap—and sunglasses. That’s about it.”

Tess thought of the diner last night, Abby playing pinball with her hair tucked under a baseball cap. “She couldn’t have been a tenant?”

“The maintenance guy knows all the tenants. This was somebody else. So the question is, what was in the bag? The physical evidence? Evidence that ended up in Kolb’s apartment?”

“Is that what you think?”

“Not necessarily. Kolb
was
stalking Madeleine Grant. He
had
threatened to kidnap her. He may have bought the gear himself. The mystery woman might be unrelated to the case. Frankly, I didn’t know what the hell was going on. What I did know is that a defense attorney would have a field day with what we found. Juries—LA juries in particular—love conspiracy theories. I think the case of a certain ex-football player proved that.”

Tess nodded.

“And make no mistake about it,” Snelling added, “if the jury was convinced the kidnapping equipment had been planted, then the whole case goes out the window. There’s no way we could convince them that the stuff on the computer was genuine if the other items were a plant. It would’ve been all or nothing. Under those circumstances, Kolb would’ve walked.”

“So how did you handle it?”

“We kept quiet about the problems with the physical evidence. We let Kolb’s attorney—somebody on retainer from the Police Protective League—believe we were going to use the kidnapping paraphernalia to push for the maximum on the stalking charge. In this state, a stalking case is usually a wobbler. It can be prosecuted as a felony or a misdemeanor at the DA’s discretion. We indicated that the evidence of intent to kidnap made this case a felony. We used the kidnapping angle as leverage to force Kolb to plead guilty and accept a one-year sentence. Maximum sentence is three years, so it was a good deal for him—or so he thought.”

“When actually, if he hadn’t plea bargained…”

“We couldn’t have used the kidnapping gear as evidence, and Kolb might’ve bargained down to a monetary fine and time served.”

“Which is why you don’t want anyone talking about the case to outsiders.”

“It’s a sensitive matter. The media would have a field day with it if the full story got out. So we’re keeping it close to the vest. Can you blame us?”

She knew there was more involved than worries about the media. The DA’s office should have shared its evidence and suspicions with Kolb’s attorney. To withhold salient facts was ethically questionable, at the very least.

There was no point in mentioning any of this. All she said was, “No. I don’t blame you.”

Snelling nodded. “Now let me ask
you
a question. They brought you in to work on the storm-tunnel case. Am I supposed to think Kolb is looking good for that?”

“They’ve got me running down a lot of long shots,” she said as casually as possible.

He studied her. “I’m not sure I buy that. You don’t bring in a living legend, or whatever the hell you are, just to run down weak leads.”

“You do if you brought in the living legend only as a publicity stunt in the first place.”

His expression cleared. This made sense to him. It fit perfectly with his view of the world. What was worse, it was true—which meant that maybe his worldview wasn’t as distant from reality as Tess liked to think.

“Right,” he said. “I get it. That’s smart thinking on somebody’s part.”

“Yeah, the Bureau is full of smart people.”

“Well, anyway, Kolb’s an asshole, and he deserves what he got, but I don’t think he’s the million-dollar man you folks are looking for. He hasn’t got the sophistication to pull off a stunt like that. He’s not dumb, but he’s no criminal mastermind, either.”

“Maybe the man we’re looking for isn’t a mastermind. Maybe he’s just been planning this for a long time.”

“Like, say, ten months in prison with nothing else to do?”

“You never know.”

Snelling picked a piece of tuna fish off his desk and ate it. “You’re right about that. In this business, you learn you can never really figure anybody out.”

“I’m beginning to realize that,” Tess said. But it wasn’t Kolb she was thinking of. “One more thing, Mr. Snelling. On a gut level, do you think the stuff in Kolb’s apartment
was
a plant?”

He seemed pleased by the question. Probably he wasn’t asked about his gut feelings very often.

“Just between you, me, and the wallpaper,” he said slowly, “I think it was. I think the mystery woman in the hat and sunglasses carried the kidnapping gear into the building. She picked the lock on Kolb’s door and put the items in his apartment, then started the fire.”

“Any idea who would do that?”

A shrug. “Madeleine Grant has money. Money buys a lot of things.”

“Yes,” Tess said, “it certainly does.”

She left the office, thinking hard. Now she knew why Detective Goddard had disregarded Madeleine’s tip. The police and the DA’s office had already concluded that Madeleine had tried to incriminate Kolb last year. Any new suspicions she voiced would have been seen as part of her continuing campaign to put Kolb in jail.

That didn’t mean Madeleine’s tip deserved to be dismissed. It simply meant she had no credibility with the authorities in LA. She was seen as someone who’d gamed the system. She wouldn’t be trusted again.

With a flicker of guilt Tess remembered her own fling with circumventing the rules—the bumper beeper she’d planted on Kolb’s car. Yes, she’d avoided the paperwork, the bureaucracy, the red tape. But there was a reason for those things. A little reason, easily forgotten, called the Bill of Rights. Securing the tracker to the Oldsmobile had given her a thrill, but it was an illicit thrill, the shivery frisson of breaking the law. She had no court order, no authorization for what she’d done. She’d followed her own instincts, heedless of any social restraints. And she wasn’t proud of it.

She probably seemed awfully stuffy to Abby Sinclair. And it was true that she cut a less than imposing figure, seated at her desk in Denver, reviewing forms and initialing documents. But the forms and documents weren’t wastepaper. They were the government’s way of upholding its end of the social contract. They were the leash that held the state’s police power in check.

Men like Kolb were dangerous. But someone like Abby could be dangerous, too. And the worst part was, Abby didn’t know it—or didn’t care.

Tess waited until she was out of the building, then took out her cell phone and placed a call.

“Hello?” Abby’s voice, cheerful as always.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Like Ross Perot, I’m all ears.”

“I meant, in person.”

“You’re in luck. My schedule for this afternoon is wide open. This evening is a different story. I’ll be seeing our mutual friend then.”

It took Tess a moment to realize the mutual friend was William Kolb. “You have a date with him?”

“Nothing that obvious—or that definite. But he’ll be seeing more of me. He can count on that.”

“In the meantime, we need to get together.”

“The Boiler Room?” Abby asked.

Tess hesitated. “You don’t think it’ll seem…suspicious if we go there again today?”

“It wouldn’t have seemed suspicious even if we’d shown up twice in one night.”

“You said—”

“I was just messing with your head. You were so skittish about this whole undercover gig.”

Tess set her jaw. “I’m glad you found it amusing.”

“You feds are a hoot. You take yourselves so seriously.”

She didn’t trust herself to answer. “The Boiler Room at two P.M.?”

“Be there or be square.”

Tess pocketed the phone. Abby could have her fun—for now.

She wouldn’t be having fun much longer.

24

Tess found Abby in a corner booth at the Boiler Room. She took the seat across the table and nodded hello, wondering how to begin.

Abby was studying her behind a pair of sunglasses that hid her eyes. “You look a little uptight. More than usual, if that’s possible. You need a humor transfusion, stat.”

“I’m not in the mood for humor.”

“That’s just when you need it most. Okay, a rabbi, a priest, and a minister walk into a bar. The bartender looks at them and says, ‘What is this, a joke?’”

Abby grinned. Tess gave her no response.

“Wow,” Abby said, “tough room.”

“I didn’t come here for casual conversation.”

“No, you came here for a progress report. And I do have some—progress, that is—to report. I think Kolb has a partner.”

Tess didn’t want to hear it. “Abby—”

“Hold on. This is too good to wait. I got a call from Madeleine. Somebody was scoping out her house from the bushes. Drove over there, but he was gone. But his shoe prints are the wrong size for Kolb, so I’m figuring he’s Kolb’s buddy—the one who handled the overseas bank transfers. Maybe the brains of the whole operation.”