Hate Crime (2 page)

On the other side of the street, Mike saw that a minicam reporter had spotted them and was recording the whole scene. Probably had one of those ultrapowerful spy mikes that can pick up conversations from miles away. Odds were this argument would be rehashed on the six o’clock news.

This case had been big news from the outset, from the moment one of the kidnappers grabbed eight-year-old Tommy Metzger outside his Tulsa private school. Mike had worked many a big case since he’d started with the force, but this one was something else again. The combination of the father’s prominence and wealth—in addition to teaching, he had penned a series of best-selling books— the cruelty of the snatch, captured on video by a parent coming out of a dance recital, and the photogenic qualities of the abductee, made this case an instant media sensation. All the national news agencies were carrying it; posters featuring Tommy’s face had blanketed the country. Every night, the evening newscasters updated the case—and if there was nothing to update, they reviewed what had gone before, usually rescreening the amateur video footage that had propelled the crime to the forefront. The initial snatch had been botched and the kidnappers had ended up killing the kid’s nanny, thus turning it into a homicide and bringing it into Mike’s bailiwick. It was the ransom—1.5 million in cold, hard cash—that had allowed the Feds to trace the kidnappers. A homing device sewn into the bag had led them to this apartment in the Tulsa suburbs. Their first approach had been subtle. Two agents disguised as UPS men knocked on the front door. Somehow, though, the kidnappers made them and started firing. Swift then moved in the troops, and ten minutes later the siege had begun. Everyone’s worst fear was that if the situation escalated, the kidnappers would become desperate and kill the kid.

If they hadn’t already.

Metzger’s anger was reaching a bitter crescendo. “Lady, you may not understand how influential I am in this community. I know people. Lots of powerful people. And if you don’t do something fast to save my boy, you’re gonna end up with your tit in a wringer!”

To Mike’s amazement, Special Agent Swift smiled. “Sir, I know you’re concerned about your son. I don’t blame you. But if you don’t stop interfering with my operation, I will be forced to have you removed from the premises. For your son’s safety. And yours.”

Mike almost whistled in admiration as the father stomped away, mother clinging close behind.

“Man,” Mike said, “you handled that brilliantly.”

Swift shrugged. “If handling kidnappers was as easy as handling parents, this would’ve been over a long time ago.”

“I would’ve been tempted to escort Metzger to the floor. With my fist.”

“Oh, he wasn’t really angry. He was riddled with guilt, venting on me as an avoidance mechanism. He and his wife are separated, you know. He’s moved in with some hot young number in Glenpool. Future trophy wife. Metzger hasn’t seen the kid in weeks.”

“Really?” In fact, Mike hadn’t known that.

“The mother is only marginally more attentive. My investigators tell me the one the kid was close to was the nanny.”

“And now she’s gone.”

“Yeah.” There was a slow release of air from between her lips. “And Tommy knows it, too, since he saw a bullet enter her neck.”

Mike winced.

“Metzger’s concerns about Tommy’s well-being are utterly reasonable, all things considered. The kidnappers intentionally chose the son—not the wife, not the girlfriend. They wanted the boy. And they’ve had him for more than a week.” Her voice faded. “And now they must be realizing they’re going to get caught—possibly killed—no matter what they do . . .”

Mike swore silently. His eyes returned to the fifth-story window and the dark shadows that flickered elusively across it. “Special Agent Swift, much as I hate to agree with Metzger, we’ve got to get that kid out of there. Soon.”

“I also agree, Major,” she said, following his gaze, “but I won’t do something stupid just to be doing something.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“Same as before. We watch and wait. Until our opportunity comes. Then we take it.”

Mike had almost given up hope that the situation could be resolved tonight. Darkness had fallen with no improvement, not in the hostage situation, and not in Mike’s soul. Just as the gloom of the day had mirrored his inner state before, so the darkness that now enveloped them seemed altogether appropriate. Swift had ordered all illumination kept to a bare minimum; the less reflective light bouncing around, the better the chance that one of her snipers might eventually get a clear shot. The kidnappers weren’t talking and weren’t budging. In short, the siege was going nowhere. Mike had even reluctantly called his friend Ben Kincaid with the unhappy news that he’d have to watch tonight’s
Xena
rerun alone. This standoff showed no signs of resolving itself anytime soon.

Until Agent Swift’s cell phone started playing the theme from
Dragnet
.

“So what’s the story?” Mike asked, after she clamped her Nokia shut.

“They’re offering to release the kid.”

Mike’s eyebrow rose. He did not smile.

“They want safe passage. An armored truck to get them to the airport, then a flight to New York that can refuel and continue on to the Netherlands.”

“The Netherlands,” Mike repeated. “Child porn capital of the universe.”

“They say they’ll leave Tommy somewhere safe and give us his location as soon as they’re out of the country.”

Neither of them spoke for a long while.

“You think they’ve already killed him?” Mike asked, finally.

“Not yet. I talked to him, just for a moment. But it’s obvious they plan to. They can’t let him identify them, especially now that it’s a murder case. They’ll take him in the truck, slash his throat, and dump him somewhere he won’t be discovered until they’re safely in Amsterdam.”

“What’d’you tell them?”

“That we’d do it, of course. Assistant Director Blanchard was hovering over my shoulder the whole time. My orders are to comply with their demands in every respect. To take no aggressive action.”

“Which means . . .”

“Yeah. But the Bureau won’t be to blame. If we marched in all Waco-style and it went bad, the press would crucify us.”

Mike let everything she was saying—and everything she was not saying—sink in. “So we’ve got? . . .”

She was staring at her watch. “Twenty-eight minutes.”

“Are you going to move in?”

“Blanchard says no.”

“If we let that kid get in the truck, he’s dead.”

“I know that.”

“Any chance your superiors would authorize a small incursion? Like maybe two people?”

“None.”

They looked at each other.

“You got a plan?” he said finally.

“Damn straight.”

Mike checked the magazine in his gun. Fully loaded. “Let’s go.”

Using the darkness to their advantage, Mike and Agent Swift crouched and ran to the apartment building, weaving a serpentine trail through the back alleys. They avoided the street lamps and stayed out of the view of the kidnappers’ sole window. Through the sniperscope, Mike had noticed there was a fire escape ladder that hung down the north wall of the complex. It was the only feasible approach. The kidnappers had decommissioned the elevators and were watching the stairs.

“I don’t know how we get into the room without being seen,” Swift whispered, as she followed him up the ladder.

“I was thinking we’d use you as a decoy. You are wearing Kevlar, right?”

“But seriously.”

Above them, Mike heard glass being shattered.

“Duck!”

All around them, shards of glass from a windowpane descended in a dangerous crystalline rainfall. But that was not the worst of their problems. A moment later, the glass was supplanted by bullets.

Mike leapt off the ladder onto the fourth-story landing and pressed up against the wall.

“Over here!” he shouted.

Another flurry of gunfire rang out. Swift rolled to the edge of the landing and took cover under the eaves. They stood shoulder to shoulder, craning their necks to see where the shots were coming from. A few moments later, the section of the fire escape stretching from the fourth to the fifth floor descended with an ear-shattering clang.

“Damnation,” Mike swore. “They removed the bolts.”

“So quickly?”

“Must’ve known we were coming. But how? It’s dark. We were quiet.”

“They might have night-vision specs. Maybe there are more of them than we realized.” She examined the ladder, now barely stretching beyond the ceiling level of the fourth floor. “Think you can reattach it?”

“From up there? Sure. From down here? No way.” Mike raised his hand and pointed. “See that window?”

She followed his finger to a point about five feet above them and to the left. “Looks like a hallway.”

“Whatever. It can’t be far from their room. We can crawl through the window, knock down the door, and find our kidnappers. And the boy.”

“How do we get the window open?”

“Since they’re onto us, I see no reason to be subtle.” He whipped out his trusty Sig Sauer and fired three rounds. The window shattered. “We’ve got to hurry.”

Swift was peering overhead. “That must be five feet, up to that window landing.”

Mike nodded. “I can make it.”

“And about thirty feet down.”

“And your point is?”

“Don’t miss.”

“Thanks, I won’t.” He sidestepped to the edge of the landing.

She grabbed his arm. “What about the gunfire?”

“I think I should try to avoid it.”

She tugged at his shirt. “No, I’ll go.”

“This was my crazy idea.”

“I’m lighter. I’m much more likely to make it.”

“There’s no way I’m letting—”

“Back off, Morelli. I’m in charge here.” She crouched down, ready to spring. “Give me a boost.”

“But I—”

“That’s an order, Major!”

There was no time to argue. Mike cupped his hands together. Swift inserted her right boot, grabbed the wall, and let him lift her up. She stepped onto his shoulders and jumped.

Mike grimaced as he saw her hands slap down on the jagged edge of the window. That had to hurt, but to her credit, she wasn’t complaining. She pulled herself through, then reemerged headfirst.

“No sign of them. Push up the ladder.”

Mike did as instructed. Swift hooked the edges over the top rail, and a moment later, they were both on the fifth floor. Mike raced down the hallway and kicked in the front door. “Police! Freeze!”

He crouched and swung into the room, gun extended, and did a quick sweep. He went off to the right toward the bedroom, while Swift moved into the kitchenette.

No one was there.

“All clear.”

“What about in the back?”

Together, they ran through the main living room and found another door in the rear. They could hear voices.

“FBI!” Swift barked. “Hands up! Nobody move!”

She kicked in the door and led the way. She took high left; he took low right.

The voices they had heard were coming from the television. Cartoon Network, if Mike wasn’t mistaken. There was no one there.

No one except Tommy Metzger.

Agent Swift ran to the boy’s side. “Don’t worry, son. We’re the police. We’re here to take you home.”

For the first time, the boy looked away from the television. He was holding a soda and a half-eaten Twinkie. “Go away!”

Swift blinked. “Don’t be afraid, Tommy. You’re safe now. Where did the bad men go?”

“They’re my friends! Leave them alone!”

Mike sighed heavily. He was disappointed, but not surprised. It had been eight days. Stockholm Syndrome was a foreseeable consequence. “I’ll finish securing the apartment.” It didn’t take long, given the size of the place. There were lots of traces of people—empty pizza boxes, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, even a toothbrush. But no people.

When he returned to the living room, Mike saw that Agent Swift had turned off the television, sending the boy into a rage. “You can’t tell me what to do! Where are my friends?”

The worst of it was Mike knew the boy’s reaction increased the likelihood that he had been molested. Unlike rapists, who committed sexual crimes out of anger or sadism, pedophiles typically had genuine feelings for their victims. Rather than forcing themselves, they tried to seduce their victims with presents and favors and promises of love. A boy like Tommy, who probably felt neglected by his own parents, was an easy mark. The pedophile had easily won his love and devotion, probably awakening erotic feelings in the boy for the first time. Tommy would be in therapy for a good long stretch, sorting out his confusion and guilt.

“Please don’t make me go home! Please!”

“I covered the apartment,” Mike said. “No sign of the kidnappers.”

Swift pulled out her walkie-talkie. “Sierra One. Do you have the perps in sight?”

“Negative. We have nothing.”

She tried all the other sniper stations. No one had seen anything.

“How can that be?” She gave the order to move in. Less than fifteen minutes later the FBI team had covered the entire building, most of which had already been evacuated. There were no traces of the criminals—or the ransom money. It was almost an hour before they located the inside door in the basement laundry room, which led to a subterranean passage from that basement to an adjacent one in the apartment complex on the opposite side of the block.

“Damn!” Swift said, banging her fist against the wall. “I can’t believe I let them get away!”

“It’s not your fault,” Mike said.

“The worst of it is, my perimeter snipers might’ve seen them leave an hour ago. But before we made our move, I pulled everyone in tight so they’d be sure to be caught after we flushed them out.”

“You did the best you could,” Mike said, trying to console her, when in truth he was just as disappointed as she was, if not more. He didn’t like to see anyone escape—but child snatchers? It made him sick to his stomach.

The parents had rushed to their boy, but Tommy didn’t want to be with them, and the Feds insisted on immediately beginning the painful process of debriefing him, trying to find out what little he remembered about his abductors and learning all the grisly details about his week in captivity. So far, Tommy was saying no physical abuse had occurred, but Mike knew the kid could just be keeping it all locked up inside. It might take several days, even weeks, before they learned the truth.