False Witness (10 page)

“You mind telling me why?”

“You don't wanna know.”

Next, Clark called the company that had posted bail for Johnny Chin and told them he had Chin in custody. “I need the money wired into my account immediately,” Clark said.

“We'll pay you at his next court appearance, Mr. Shealy. That's the way it works.”

“I need an advance.”

“We're a bonding company, not a bank.”

Clark demanded to talk with Mr. Russo, the owner of the company. Clark explained to Russo that he had blown out Chin's kneecap. “If I turn him over to the authorities, it could be trouble,” Clark explained. “Lots of questions about reasonable force, how much Chin resisted—you know the routine.

“If I just let him go, it would take care of a big headache for me,” Clark continued, “though you might stand to lose one and a half million if somebody else doesn't pick him up.”

By the end of the phone call, Russo Bonding Company had agreed to wire half the bounty—seventy-five thousand—as a refundable deposit for capturing Chin. Clark still wasn't close to a million, but he had quickly accumulated enough money to at least entice Hargrove into a meeting. Even if Harry the banker didn't come through with the three hundred thousand Clark had requested, Clark would have enough money to get his foot in the door. Brute force or a loaded Glock should do the rest.

In the passenger seat, Chin's breathing had become more irregular and strained. He gagged a few times and fell silent. Clark immediately pulled over, checked for a pulse, and removed Chin's gag. The hit man was alive and breathing, but he was out cold.

Clark pulled back onto the highway and drove like a madman, powering the Caddy through turns and around Vegas traffic. With one eye on the road, Clark reached over and programmed the GPS system for the nearest hospital.

He would dump his captive off at the emergency room exit, flash a badge, explain that Chin had violated his bond, and tell the hospital security guard to keep an eye on Chin until the feds arrived. Clark would immediately call Magdalena and tell her there had been a change in plans. She could pick Chin up at the hospital. But Clark wouldn't stick around to meet with her—rescuing Jessica would be a one-man show once again. The feds would only mess things up, panic Huang Xu, and maybe get Jessica killed.

Clark couldn't afford to get bogged down in hours of questioning and mind-numbing federal procedures right now. He had turned to the feds as a last resort. But with the call from Hargrove, everything had changed. Kumari was in the backseat of Hargrove's car less than forty-five minutes away.

When he called, Hargrove had demanded that Clark wire a million into Hargrove's account before they met. But Clark had calmly refused. “You don't get a penny until I confirm that it's Kumari,” he said. “Standard operating procedure.”

Reluctantly, Hargrove agreed. He selected the turf—a paved parking lot across the street from the Green Valley Ranch Casino, an upscale resort in Henderson.

Time still ticked by unmercifully fast, but Clark suddenly felt energized. This wasn't the caffeine-laced fear he had been living on for the last twenty-four hours; it was something more substantial now. Adrenaline. And a twinge of hope. He wasn't in control—far from it—but he had drawn a few aces.

Yet he still needed a few more. His stopwatch read 24:47:36. And the minutes continued to disappear, as if on fire.

17

Waiting was never Clark's strong suit. But now, with every second potentially meaning the difference between torture or release for Jessica, he was going insane. He sat in the driver's seat of the Cadillac, engine running, his loaded gun next to him. His leg bounced with nervous energy.

He was parked in the lot across the street from the Green Valley Ranch Casino, just as Hargrove had instructed. From the northwest corner of the lot, he could still see the city of Las Vegas, its skyline barely visible on the hazy horizon. It was a desolate corner—no other cars parked this far away from the resort. Clark had backed the Escalade into an outside spot next to the green plastic fence that bordered the parking lot, separating it from construction taking place on the adjacent dirt site. On the far side of that site, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards or so from Clark's vehicle, construction workers were pouring concrete.

Clark looked out over the black asphalt, the heat scorching its surface. He kept his eyes peeled for Hargrove. He called the man four times in ten minutes, listening to the same frustrating message every time. A generic female voice, repeating the number Clark had dialed, instructed him to leave a message at the tone.

The fourth time he cursed loudly and demanded that Hargrove call him back. “You're ten minutes late, and I don't
have
ten minutes! Pick up the phone!” He punched the End button and felt the frustration pounding in his temples. Hargrove had no idea how precious each second had become. The cost of Jessica's life could be measured now in hours, even minutes. Running late could result in her torture—the marring of her perfect features. Yet here he sat. Helpless. Frustrated. Furious.

In the fifty-five minutes since speaking to Hargrove, Clark had gone from elated to something just short of despondent. Even if Hargrove did have Professor Kumari, there were still a thousand unanswered questions. What would Hargrove do when he learned that Clark had only a few hundred thousand dollars rather than the million he had promised? And even if Clark gained custody of Kumari, how would he work the prisoner exchange to ensure Jessica's safety? He was, after all, dealing with the mob. And finally, if all of those issues could be solved, what would keep the mob from killing Jessica and Clark when they least expected it? Or keep the feds and local authorities from prosecuting Clark for what he'd already done?

He had a bad premonition about the next twelve hours. This was not going to end well. How could it? There were simply too many things that could still go wrong.

One step at a time,
Clark reminded himself. His predicament was too complicated for a master plan. In some respects, he had already made more progress in twenty-four hours than he ever dreamed possible. Maybe somebody up there was looking out for him. Maybe somebody up there owed Jessica a favor.

The phone rang. Hargrove's number.

“It's about time.”

“I'm pulling into the lot now, the white Explorer.”

Clark waited a few seconds until the vehicle came into view. “I see you.”

Hargrove backed into a spot about three rows away, toward the middle of the parking lot, facing Clark and the black Cadillac. The sun ricocheted off the Explorer's front windshield, turning the glass into a mirror.

“There's no warrant outstanding for Kumari,” Hargrove said on the phone. “I checked.”

“It's all legit,” Clark answered. He tried to sound relaxed. Hargrove hadn't raised this issue earlier, and Clark couldn't afford to let him panic now. “He's an illegal. The Indian government wants him back, and they're willing to pay.” Clark carefully slid the Glock into his shoulder holster, hidden by the khaki sports coat he had put on once he arrived at the lot.

“A million dollars to extradite an illegal? Don't play games with me.” Hargrove paused, and Clark tried to size him up just from the voice. He sounded young. Insecure. Articulate but tense. “I'm about two seconds from pulling out of here and taking Kumari with me,” Hargrove continued. “But first, I'll give you one more chance to level with me.”

“All right,” Clark said reassuringly. His stomach had balled into a tense knot. He stepped slowly out of the Caddy, phone to his ear. “But it's sensitive. I can't talk about it on the phone.”

“Not one more step!”

Clark froze. He hadn't even closed his door yet. “I just want to see Kumari. I'll bring my checkbook.”

“Take off your sports coat and shirt,” Hargrove snapped, “and put them in the vehicle.”

Keeping his eyes glued on the Explorer, Clark placed the cell phone on the hood of the Caddy and hit the Speaker button. He glanced quickly around the parking lot and then removed his sports coat, exposing his shoulder holster and the Glock.

“The gun, too,” Hargrove said.

Clark placed holster and gun inside the vehicle and took off his short-sleeved oxford shirt. “A Kevlar vest?” Hargrove sniffed arrogantly. “You planning on going into battle?”

Silently, Clark removed the vest and threw it into the vehicle.

“Now the socks and boots. And roll the pants up to the knees.”

Clark complied once again, placing his boots and socks in the car. The black pavement scorched the soles of his feet.

“Turn your pockets inside out.”

“This is ridiculous,” Clark said, emptying his pockets.

“Now, close the door and turn around once so I can see your back.”

“I've got another cell phone in the car that I've got to bring with me,” Clark said loud enough to be picked up by his phone sitting on the hood. “Somebody's kidnapped my wife, and they use that phone to call me.”

There was silence for a moment as if Hargrove was trying to make up his mind. “Okay. Get the other phone. Then close the door and do a three-sixty.”

Clark complied, hooking the kidnapper's cell phone on his belt as he picked up his own. He shifted from one foot to the next, heel to toe. He turned completely around. He stood in the shadow from the Escalade, but the pavement still felt like a bed of hot coals.

“Step into my office,” Hargrove said and hung up the phone.

18

Dennis Hargrove looked more like a stockbroker than a bounty hunter. He had wavy black hair, moussed and slicked back, matched by long sideburns that tapered into thin lines, meeting at the chin. He had a slender nose and sharp brown eyes that radiated nervous energy. Thin, bronze, and midthirties, Hargrove gave the impression of a guy who worked the casinos all night and spent his days at the pool or in the gym or maybe a little of both.

He wouldn't have seemed nearly as intimidating without the gun he had leveled at Clark's midsection.

“You roughed him up pretty good,” Clark said, nodding toward the man in the backseat. In real life, Kumari looked more thin and frail than he appeared in the photos. He had a flat face with worry lines that spiderwebbed away from the eyes, others etched deep into his forehead. He sported a three-day stubble and his left eye had a large gash above the eyebrow, while the eye itself had turned a nasty shade of purple and was nearly swollen shut. There was a smaller bruise on his right cheek, and he had a swollen lip. Hargrove had taped the old man's ankles and wrists, wrenching his arms behind his back. To Clark, the professor looked like a malnourished POW.

“Thought he might know martial arts, so I didn't take any chances.”

“Yeah, he looks real dangerous,” Clark said.

“You said alive. Check his pulse if you want.”

Clark studied Hargrove for a beat, confirming Clark's earlier assessment. Hargrove seemed scared—insecure, yet still resolute. Nervous. Trigger-happy. The worst kind. “Why don't you put that gun down so we can talk?” Clark asked.

Hargrove handed Clark a sheet of paper. “Money talks,” he said. “Here're the wiring instructions.”

Not so fast.
“Where'd you find him?” Clark asked.

Hargrove hesitated as if deciding whether answering the question might reveal too much. “I'm a niche player for several Vegas bond enforcers. I have connections with the folks who manufacture false IDs. Mr. Kumari here apparently decided to become Charan Jadhav. Once we found that out, the rest was easy.”

Clark noticed a nervous twitch in Hargrove's right eye. He had probably never been this close to a million bucks before. “What bail bondsman are you working with?” Clark asked.

Hargrove flinched like a junior high student caught cheating. “I'm on my own.”

In other words, for a million bucks, I'm cutting out my partner.

“You licensed?” Clark asked.

“Enough questions. Call the bank.” Hargrove inched the gun closer to Clark's gut.

“I can wire a quarter of a million right now,” Clark explained matter-of-factly. He made it sound like buying a loaf of bread. “But I'll need to personally go in and handle the rest.”

“What does that mean?” Hargrove's face clouded over, his eyes narrow. “You don't have the money?”

“I've got it. I just need to liquidate a few stocks.”

“You should have done that before you made the offer.” Hargrove put both hands on the gun and waved it toward the car door. “Get out.”

Clark swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Hargrove was strung tight as a piano wire—the high notes—and Clark didn't want to set him off. “I need to tell you a few things first.” He nodded toward Kumari. “Can we step outside and talk?”

“He doesn't speak English.”

“How do you know?”

“I pistol-whipped him. He begged me to stop in some other language. Must have been Hindi or something.”

Without waiting for permission, Clark launched into an abbreviated explanation of everything that had happened since his visit to Dr. Silvoso's plastic surgery office. Even as Clark recited the facts, they seemed surreal, and Clark found himself getting emotional as he talked about what he had done to get Jessica back. He left out irrelevant details, like his torture of Johnny Chin, and he embellished a few of the financial particulars to make it sound like he could come up with a million bucks in no time. But otherwise, it was an accurate and painful portrayal of how desperate Clark had become. At first, he intentionally dramatized it a little—selling his point. But by the end, the raw emotions had surfaced, and Clark couldn't even finish.

There was a long silence as Hargrove considered his options. “Give me the phone,” he said.

Puzzled, Clark handed over his cell phone.