Dangerous Games (37 page)

“And who does that team include?”

“I haven’t made the assignments yet.”

“I’ve got a suggestion.”

“You don’t get to choose the personnel.”

“I’ll be a lot more cooperative if I get what I want.”

“And what is it you want?”

Tess knew. She spoke before Kolb could reply. “He wants me as an escort.”

Kolb winked at her. “You understand me. I like that in a woman.”

“If you think,” Michaelson began, “that I’m allowing Agent McCallum to accompany you alone—”

“Not alone. I just want her with me. She wants to be there, too. She loves the spotlight. Always has to be center stage. Don’t you, Tess?”

“I’m going,” Tess said. “Count on it.”

“And,” Michaelson added, “she’ll be accompanied by at least two other agents. And Mason from DWP.” To Tess he said, “You need somebody with you who’s got experience in those tunnels.”

“We don’t need any outside experts.” Kolb smiled. “I’ve acquired plenty of experience, believe me.”

Michaelson ignored him. He got up, signaling for Tess to follow. “We’ll be back with our agreement in writing ASAP, Mr. Kolb.”

“I’ll be here,” Kolb said placidly.

In the hall, Michaelson summoned Crandall and Larkin from the observation room and told them to get started on the UCLA staging ground.

“Sir,” Larkin said, “you mentioned backup in the tunnels. I’d like to volunteer.”

Crandall coughed. “So, uh, so would I.”

Michaelson nodded. “Fine. Establish a staging area at the ravine. I need to get on the DA’s back and expedite the paperwork.”

He and Larkin headed down the hall. Tess pulled Crandall aside. “You really want to go into the tunnels?” she asked him, keeping her voice low.

“‘Want to’ might be putting it a bit strongly.”

“There are other agents who can do this, Crandall. Agents who don’t get nervous in enclosed spaces.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“We can’t afford to have you slow us down.”

“I won’t. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Tess wasn’t sure she believed him. She had a feeling Crandall was trying to prove something. He’d told her how he’d failed at every business opportunity, how he attributed his placement in the Bureau to nepotism. Maybe this was his chance to be his own man. If so, she couldn’t take that chance away from him.

“All right, Rick,” she said gently.

“Tess…” He hesitated. “I’m sorry I said you weren’t a team player.”

The apology took her by surprise. “Actually, I think you were right.”

“You nailed the Rain Man. That’s all that matters.”

“No, it’s not all that matters. Following procedure matters, too.”

Crandall smiled. “I didn’t think you were a stickler for the rule book.”

“Maybe I’m learning to be.”

“In that case, you’d better remember to wear your ID tag. If Michaelson notices you don’t have it on, he’ll ream you for sure.”

He moved away down the hall, and Tess studied the front of her blouse. The tag was gone. Possibly it had fallen off, or…

Then she understood. “Oh,
hell
.”

40

Below Ground was still where Abby remembered it, near the corner of Vermont and Olympic. She parked her Civic at the curb and opened the glove compartment, taking out an envelope containing some info on Kolb—address, phone number, place of work—and a photo she’d snapped surreptitiously last year. It was the kind of stuff she always carried with her when working a case. Never knew when it might come in handy—like right now.

Her cell phone rang. She recognized the number on the caller ID screen. “Hey, Tess.”

“Did you steal my goddamn ID?”

“Your what?” she asked innocently.

On the other end of the line, she heard Tess suck in a quick, angry breath. “What are you up to, Abby?”

“Me? I’m relaxing at home, soaking my footsies.”

“Quit lying and tell me what’s going on.”

“Lying? That hurts, Tess. Really. Mistrust between friends is an ugly thing.”

“Abby, damn it—”

“Don’t you have bigger things to worry about than me? Saving Madeleine Grant’s life, for instance?”

There was a pause. When she spoke again, Tess sounded different. “So you know about that.”

“I have a way of finding things out. Guess you didn’t trust me enough to play it straight with me.”

“I felt it was better if you weren’t involved.”

Better for who?
Abby wondered.
Madeleine—or you?
But what she said was, “I assume it’s the same MO as Paula Weissman and Angela Morris.”

“Except for the ransom demand. Kolb’s release in exchange for her whereabouts. Now I suppose you’re going to say ‘I told you so.’”

“Because Kolb has a partner? And because said partner was scoping out Madeleine’s house? No, I’m not petty enough to bring that up.”

Tess sighed. “What I can’t figure out is, why Madeleine? Why not a random victim like the others?”

“Because Kolb hates Madeleine. He and his partner must have discussed it in advance. Kolb wanted to get her, one way or the other.”

“When you were in his apartment, did you see any signs of continuing interest in Madeleine?”

“No. But the apartment wasn’t where he kept his stash of goodies. Anyway, there could be another reason for their choosing Madeleine. With her, they have more leverage.”

“Leverage?”

“You have a relationship with her. A connection. That makes it personal for you.”

“They don’t know anything about that.”

“They might. Somehow.”

“If they did”—Tess’s voice was hollow—“then it’s my fault she was taken.”

“It’s Kolb’s fault,” Abby said firmly. “He’s calling the shots.”

“Well, he certainly is now. We made a deal with him to lead us to Madeleine. In exchange the DA won’t push for the death penalty.”

Abby gave this idea a moment of hard thought. “I don’t buy it. Kolb doesn’t want to rot in jail for life. It’s not a good outcome for him.”

“It’s the best he’s going to get.”

“The guy was a cop. He knows most people on death row in California die of old age. Capital punishment isn’t a credible threat.”

“It was credible enough to make him cooperate.”

“But not to give up his partner?”

“He claims he doesn’t know the partner’s name.”

“That has to be a lie. He’s too paranoid to work with somebody he hadn’t checked out.”

“We can revisit the subject with him later. Right now Madeleine is the priority.”

“He’s counting on you to think that way.”

“Well, what do you want us to do, Abby? Let her die?”

“Of course not. But you’re missing something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Something.”

“That’s very helpful. I’ll make a note of it.”

“You’re letting him control you, Tess. You’re giving him the power.”

Tess sighed. “Damn, you’re a pain in the ass. I want my ID back.”

“Haven’t got it,” Abby said cheerfully. “Cross my heart and hope to—”

The call was already over. Tess had clicked off.

“—die,” Abby finished.

She didn’t like what was happening in Westwood, but she couldn’t blame the feds for playing Kolb’s game. There wasn’t much time left. The rain, though still spotty, was coming down harder than before.

Envelope in hand, she went into Below Ground, descending the long stairwell into the gloom.

The bar was as grungy as ever. Whoever ran this dive was doing his part to relieve America’s dependence on foreign energy. She’d been in funhouses that were more brightly lit. Didn’t matter, though. She was used to getting around in shadowy places.

By now it was after nine o’clock, and Below Ground was doing a brisk business. The booths and corner tables were full, and there were only a handful of empty spots at the bar. She bellied up to one of them and got the bartender’s attention.

“What’ll it be?” he asked in a voice that couldn’t care less.

She didn’t wish to advertise her temporary status as a federal agent too loudly. She crooked a finger at him until he leaned close, then flashed Tess McCallum’s ID. “We need to talk,” she said quietly.

He gave her a complicated look that managed to convey contempt, resignation, and a smidgen of fear. “There’s an office back there, second door on the right. Give me a minute.”

She walked down the hallway, past a pay phone and unisex restroom, and found the office. He joined her almost immediately. In the interim he’d decided to play it tough. His arms were thrust out, fists planted on his hips. “What’s this about?”

She sat on his desk, swinging her legs, her body language an intentional counterpoint to his. “How long have you been on duty?”

“Since we opened at noon.”

“There were two men in here today. I doubt they sat at the bar. Probably in one of the booths, for privacy. One of them was this man. Look familiar?”

She handed him the photo of Kolb. He glanced at it. “No.”

He tried to give it back. She wouldn’t take it.

“Look a little harder. And if it helps jog your memory any, you might want to keep in mind that lying to a federal agent is a criminal offense.” Impersonating a federal agent was an even more serious offense, a fact she chose not to mention.

Reluctantly he studied the photo again. “Okay, I guess I remember this dude.”

“He was in here today?”

“Yeah.”

“What time?”

“Hell, I don’t know.”

“Take a stab at it.”

“Sometime in the afternoon. Lunch hour. One o’clock, one thirty.”

“See? You did know, after all. Who was he with?”

“The guy he’s always with. They always sit together.”

“You know the name of this other guy?”

“I don’t know anybody’s name. That’s kind of a company policy around here.”

“Fair enough. What can you tell me about this second man?”

“Not much. He’s not the type who stands out. I mean, we get some folks in here you definitely wouldn’t forget. He’s not one of them. He’s one of the clones.”

“Clones?”

“That’s what I call them. The business types. They all look the same in their jackets and ties. Can’t tell one from the other. I’ll bet their own mothers couldn’t tell them apart.”

“I find that doubtful. So this guy was wearing a business suit?”

“Jacket, button-down shirt—I don’t remember if he had a necktie or not.”

“He always dresses that way?”

“As far as I recall. Some of them come in on weekends looking totally different. Like they’re snakes that just shed their skin. They look so boring, and then they let their hair down and go wild.”

She thought of the stalkers she’d studied. “I know what you mean.”

“But this guy—if he has a wild side, he hides it. Even the music he listens to isn’t exactly balls-to-the-wall.”

“How do you know what music he likes?”

“We got a jukebox. He’s always pumping in his spare change. Same two songs, over and over, the only ones he likes.”

“And they are?”

“‘Summer Wind’ and ‘All the Way.’”

“Why those two in particular, do you think?”

“No mystery about it. They’re the only Sinatra tunes we’ve got.”

So the guy was a Rat Packer. It didn’t seem like a piece of information likely to narrow the list of suspects, especially since there was no list of suspects to begin with. The jukebox could be dusted for fingerprints, but the buttons probably picked up hundreds of prints in the course of each day.

She pressed the bartender for description. All she could get from him was that the man was between twenty-five and forty-five, dark hair, average build. “Like I said, a clone.”

He was probably telling the truth. She thanked him for his cooperation and told him other agents would be in touch. She left before he could request another look at her ID.

Outside, rain was sprinkling lightly. She thought she heard far-off thunder, but it might have been only the rumble of traffic.

She didn’t think the drainage system would be flooded yet, but it wouldn’t be long now. And her big lead hadn’t amounted to much. Kolb’s partner remained a mystery.

All she knew about him for sure was that he was a Sinatra fan.

41

A dozen agents assembled at the ravine on the UCLA campus in a drizzle of rain. Mason, the DWP engineer, checked the gate and found that the padlock was missing. “Somebody got it off somehow.”

“Take a look at this.” Larkin was aiming a flashlight at the ground a few yards from the drain entrance. “Tire marks.”

Michaelson wanted to know if the evidence could be salvaged from the rain. Tess didn’t think so. The slow drizzle was obliterating the tread marks even as they watched.

“Well, put a tarp over it or something,” Michaelson yelled at no one in particular.

Other agents hastened to comply. Crandall drove a Bureau car close to the drain entry point and turned on the high beams, illuminating the passageway. “It’ll help get us started, anyway,” he said.

Tess glanced at him. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

He gave her a look of peculiar intensity. “I’ve got a job to do.” His voice was tight.

She didn’t push it. Someone from the support staff was passing out knee-high rubber boots. Tess and the other members of the rescue party slipped them on over their shoes.

“Put these on, too.” Mason handed out heavy vinyl DWP jackets. “I had them sent over. They offer better protection against the cold than those flimsy FBI jackets of yours.”

Tess demurred. “It’s not that cold out.”

“It’s colder in there, thirty feet under. The drafty air and cold water can cause hypothermia. Put it on.”

“I’ll stick to my trench coat.”

“Wear this under your coat.”

“No, thanks.”

Mason shrugged, donning a jacket. “Your funeral.”

She supposed she seemed churlish in refusing the extra layer of warmth, but she didn’t want to hamper her movements if she had to reach for the service pistol in the reinforced pocket of her coat.

When they were ready, Kolb was hustled out of the Bureau car where he’d been held. “Give him boots,” Tess said. “No jacket.”

Kolb grinned. “You want me to freeze, Tess?”