Paying The Piper (24 page)

“I know the car was last seen heading west, but what makes you think the Piper will return to the city?”

“He sent someone to collect the ransom from the Caltrain station.”

The news hit Friedkin hard. The Piper had gotten too cute for his own good, and the balance was tipping to Sheils. The Piper’s options would be narrowing, just the way they had with Nicholas Rooker’s kidnapping. If the Piper was smart, he’d do what he’d done eight years ago—cut and run, leaving bodies behind.

A knock came at the door and a man entered Sheils’s office holding a thin stack of printouts. “I thought you’d want to see the digital rendering we got out of Reagan as soon as it was ready.”

Sheils took the printouts and studied the face. He looked up at Friedkin after a minute. “Did you get a good look at the guy in the car?”

“Just a partial profile.”

Sheils slid a printout across the desk. Friedkin picked up the picture. It was a headshot, in color and fairly lifelike. The face looking back at him drove a fist into his gut. He recognized the reconstructed face. The hair color
was wrong—dark when it should have been blond. He’d probably worn a wig to disguise his identity, but the wig failed to disguise the face. Friedkin knew it well. It was Alex Hammond, his AWOL investigator.

“Do you recognize him?” Sheils said.

“No. I’ve never seen him before.”

“W
hen is someone going to talk to
us?” Scott asked Guerra.

“Soon. Just let us do our jobs. Relax.”

Relax. What a joke. He and Jane had been cooped up in the windowless room since returning from Vallejo. For the last hour, Guerra had been babysitting them. Dunham had poked his head through the door now and again to make sure things were okay, but things weren’t. A suspect was being detained in this very building. They’d been told he wasn’t the Piper. They learned these two facts on the ride back with Sheils. Since then, nothing.

“Would you like more coffee?”

“No. I’ve drunk so much I need the bathroom,” Scott said.

He got to his feet. Guerra stood with him.

“I don’t need company.”

Guerra backed down, raising her hands and moving back. “You know the way.”

She held open the door and watched him stride down the corridor toward the restroom. When he reached it, he glanced back. Guerra had returned to the boardroom. He doubled back in the direction of Sheils’s office.

Dunham came out of the copy room and expressed his dismay at seeing Scott wandering the building unescorted.

“Save it,” Scott barked. “You blew your chance to explain. Now
I want the boss.”

“Mr. Fleetwood, please return to the boardroom,” Dunham said.

“When I’ve got an answer.”

Dunham nipped at Scott’s heels all the way to Sheils’s office. Scott didn’t bother with knocking; he just barged in. The office was empty.

“Dammit.”

Sheils appeared from behind them. “What’s going on?”

“That’s what I want to know. We’re going crazy in that room.”

“I apologize, but things are happening very quickly. Good things. C’mon, let’s return to Jane, and I’ll explain.”

Sheils and Dunham escorted Scott back to the boardroom. Sheils eyed Guerra with disappointment, but it was momentary. He took a seat at the table, and Scott returned to his seat next to Jane.

“Agents Dunham, Jessup, and Guerra picked up a man who attempted to collect the ransom from the Caltrain luggage locker,” Sheils said. “The Piper paid him to collect the backpack and bring it to him.”

Scott didn’t like how this sounded. It hadn’t made sense why the Piper wanted him to put the money in the locker and leave it. The locker would be staked out when he came to collect the ransom. It was stupid, unless…

“This guy was a sacrificial lamb,” Scott said. “The Piper knew you’d bust whoever came for the ransom. This was a test to see if I’d play by the rules. He knows I sold him out.”

“Not necessarily,” Sheils said. “Remember the accident we passed on I-Eighty?”

Scott nodded.

“John Friedkin followed us to Vallejo. He chased after a man watching us at the crime scene.”

“Watching us?” Jane asked.

“Yes, it looks as if the Piper had the
Vallejo factory staked out to see what happened.”

Scott wondered how long the Piper had been watching. Had he seen him break down when he found the photograph of Sammy and Peter? He couldn’t imagine the Piper missing that dose of pure misery.

“What I’m hoping is the Piper doesn’t know his bagman was picked up and he believes you fear him enough to tell us about the factory, but not the location of the money,” Sheils said to Scott.

“That’s a big what-if,” Scott said.

“What does this have to do with John Friedkin?’ Jane said.

“He pursued the Piper and got a license plate before getting into a wreck,” Sheils said. “Unfortunately, the car’s a rental, but we’ll know who rented the car in a couple of hours.”

“So you still don’t know who the Piper is,” Scott said. He’d been hoping for better news than what Sheils had given up.

“No, but I know what he looks like.” Sheils slid a computerized image of a man across the table. “The bagman described him.”

Scott held the image. At last, he was face-to-face with the kidnapper of his children. The man looked younger than Scott had expected.

Jane examined the picture. An involuntary whimper escaped her lips. Scott leaned over to hug her.

“Do you recognize him?” Sheils asked.

Both Scott and Jane shook their heads.

“We have a man without a name,” Scott said. “What now?”

“I’m releasing the bagman to go through with his exchange.”

“You have nothing to fear. At no time will you be out of sight of an agent,” Sheils said. “Smile, Baz. You’re working with the good guys now.”

Reagan found it hard to smile, all things
considered. He’d only agreed to turn on the Piper to ensure he didn’t get any splash-back when they charged the kidnapper. He’d convinced Sheils he was an unwitting party in the Piper’s plans, but he was still an accessory to a bunch of felony raps. Prison or the Piper? He couldn’t decide which was more dangerous. He tried not to think about it.

Two of the agents who’d busted him replaced the ransom in the backpack he’d taken from the locker with wads of paper. The two million bucks was elsewhere. Shame. He’d never seen that much cash. It occurred to him that he’d been a multimillionaire for about three seconds. That would be something to tell his grandkids—as long as the Piper didn’t slice his balls off.

He was still in the interview room. The room felt small and tight. Prison would kill him. God knew how many hours he’d have to spend cooped up in a cell. No, he’d take his chances with the Piper.

“Do I get a wire or something?” Reagan asked.

“Not necessary. We’ve got you covered,” Sheils said. “Besides, I don’t want to tip the Piper off if he frisks you.”

It felt decidedly sketchy. It didn’t matter how much these guys played nice and told him not to worry. He was risking his ass.

The agents packed the last of the dummy cash into the pack, zippered it up, and helped him put it on. The load felt good, familiar after ten years as a cycle messenger.

They took him down to the parking lot and drove him out to where he’d left his bike a couple of blocks from the Caltrain station.

“You know what to do,” Sheils said. “Just do as you would have done if we hadn’t caught you. Don’t think about us. Don’t look for us. You might not see us, but we’re there. Just focus on the job the Piper paid you to do. Okay?”

Reagan perched himself on his saddle, jammed a foot onto the pedal, and locked it in place. “Yeah. Sure. Solid.”

Sheils clamped a hand on the
crossbar. “Don’t even think about riding off. I’ll find you and mail you to the hall of justice.”

“Never crossed my mind.”

Sheils removed his hand. “Make sure it doesn’t.”

Reagan cycled away before the Feds could issue any more threats. He threaded his way down to the Embarcadero. He ignored a red light and turned left toward Fisherman’s Wharf.

It felt good to be on his bike again. The night air cut through his clothes straight to his skin, invigorating him. To the east, a faint glow rose up from the horizon. This was why he rode a bike—for moments like this—and he’d nearly thrown it all away for two hundred bucks. He couldn’t believe he’d been dumb enough to take a job to collect a bag from a locker. He was lucky it turned out to be the Piper. The guy could have been a terrorist, and he could have turned himself into an unwitting suicide bomber.

He seemed to be the only soul on the road. If Sheils’s guys were out there, he didn’t see them.

He reached the end of the Embarcadero and cut along the sidewalks to get to Fort Mason and the location for the exchange. He cycled up to where McDowell met Battery, the agreed rendezvous point.

He dismounted and leaned his bike up against a tree. The Piper was nowhere to be seen. He scanned his surroundings but saw no one. No Feds. No kidnapper. The ride had warmed him up, but the wait chilled him.

“C’mon, where are you?” he murmured.

The Piper failed to answer his plea then or an hour later. The fucker wasn’t coming. It was a washout, but he had no way of telling the Feds. They should have wired him for sound. No one ever listened to him.

An SFPD cruiser crept up the private road toward him.

He groaned. Not more cops. He could do without explaining himself.

The cruiser stopped in front of
him. Two of San Francisco’s finest took up the front seats. The window came down on the passenger side.

“We’re FBI, Baz. Agent Sheils says it’s over. He’s a no-show. You’ve done your part.”

The curse on his shoulders lifted. He was Piper-and-cop-free.

“Now point toward the city,” the Fed said. “We have to make this look convincing in case the Piper’s watching.”

Reagan pointed at the Transamerica Building. The Feds dressed as cops got out of the cruiser and made a loud fuss. He was loitering. Did he want to go downtown? He played his part, pretending to be misunderstood. The Feds patted him down, put his bike in the trunk, and bundled him into the back of the cruiser.

They drove him to his studio on the edge of Japantown. He got them to drop him off two blocks short. He didn’t want his neighbors getting the wrong idea.

He climbed the stairs all the way to the fourth floor with his bike slung over his shoulder, then let himself into his apartment. The moment he closed the door, he smelled aftershave. He didn’t wear any. His hand went to the light switch next to the door, but he hesitated. He didn’t want to see his visitor.

“Do we have to sit in the dark?” the voice said.

He flicked on the light. The same man who’d offered him the two hundred bucks at the Mechanics’ Memorial sat on his sofa bed. His dark hair was now blond. An automatic rested on his lap, his fingers loosely curled around the weapon.

“Where have you been, honey?” the man asked in a mocking tone. “I expected you home hours ago.”

Reagan wheeled his bike into the kitchenette and stepped into the small living room. He tried to keep the desperate sound from his voice, but failed.

“I got tied up. I’ve been waiting for you for hours at Fort Mason like you asked, but you didn’t show.”

The man raised the gun to silence
him. “Where’s the backpack?”

Reagan felt the curse fall back on his shoulders. The Feds had taken it from him at Fort Mason.

“You haven’t peeked inside, have you?”

“No, no, no,” he said, fumbling for an answer. “I took it back to the locker. Returned it. I guessed you’d get back in touch with me.”

“That was thoughtful of you.”

Reagan shrugged. “You know, I try.”

“I’m sure you do.” The man’s words slipped out on a thin layer of oil, sounding smooth and convincing. “Cops got in your way, did they? FBI, to be exact.”

“What? FBI? No. What makes you think that?”

The man aimed the gun straight at him, cutting Reagan’s babble short.

“Please don’t insult my intelligence,” he said with restrained anger. “I am a professional. I take precautions, and you’re one of them. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Lie to me, and I’ll know.”

Reagan wasn’t in any doubt of that. This guy knew the FBI had busted him. He knew everything.

“Did the FBI pick you up?”

Sorry, G-man, it’s time for me to swap sides again
, he thought.

“Yeah, the Feds picked me up. They have the money.”

“Thank you,” the man said and shot Reagan in the face.

F
riedkin pulled up in front of Alex
Hammond’s home in Daly City. The house sat silent and dark pressed up against its neighbors, the neighborhood quiet now at four in the morning. Friedkin liked to think Alex was asleep inside too, with no connection to the Piper and the kidnapping of Sammy and Peter Fleetwood, but he knew it was fantasy. So what did he hope to find here? Sammy and Peter? He didn’t really know. He just hoped to find an explanation.

He slipped out from behind the wheel of his Mercedes. After Sheils had released him, he’d caught a cab to Rebecca’s. He apologized for wrecking her car, and after giving him some grief, she’d handed him his keys back. He crossed the street, went up to Alex’s window, and peered inside. He saw and heard nothing.

He ducked down the narrow side yard to the rear of the house. The yard was overgrown. A gas barbecue sat knee-deep in the grass and a garden hose disappeared into the dense thatch. Friedkin couldn’t count the number of times he’d been here before, and Alex’s house was always immaculate. Alex prided himself on his yard, his family, and his home.

That had been until the trial separation. Kerry had moved out a couple of months ago, taking Jack with her. Friedkin didn’t know the details, and he should have. Not
because he was Alex’s boss, but because the man was his friend. When he saw the dropoff in Alex’s work and the change in his demeanor, he should have asked questions instead of firing him.

He tried the back door. Locked. He eyed the houses on either side of him. Nothing stirred. He counted his blessings that neither neighbor owned a dog while he brought out his picks and worked the lock.

Even if Alex’s life was going down the tubes, it didn’t explain why he was in Vallejo watching the FBI work a crime scene. Alex wasn’t the Piper, so what was he doing there? That one question created a drift of other equally difficult questions. How did he know to be in Vallejo at the exact same time as Scott Fleetwood? Was he working for someone else? Friedkin didn’t like where his thoughts were taking him. The lock clicked and he was in.

The kitchen stank. He snapped on his flashlight and shone it over the countertops. Rancid takeout containers sat in piles. The top of a delivery slip taped to a pizza box had yesterday’s date on it. Alex would be back.

He went into the living room. His flashlight beam swept over papers covering the dining table. He flicked on the light switch and groaned. Photographs of the Fleetwood family were pinned to the walls. One wall featured individual shots of Scott, Jane, Sammy, and Peter. A sheet of paper with their names hung above their respective candid photos. A character profile hung below their shots. It consisted of a bullet-point list of information written at different times in different inks. Their habits. Their likes. Their dislikes. What in the hell was this?

Four files sat on the dining table with the names
Scott
,
Jane
,
Sammy
, and
Peter
written on each cover. Inside, he found daily logs dating back months detailing the Fleetwoods’ movements. Friedkin struggled to believe his friend had any involvement with the Piper, but the wealth of evidence before him was impossible to ignore.

How had this happened? How had he let this
happen? He flicked off the lights.

He returned to the kitchen and checked the answering machine. The new-message light blinked, and he pressed play.

The machine’s mechanical voice time-stamped the first message a week ago last Tuesday.

“Alex, it’s Kerry. Why aren’t you returning my calls? I know you’re going through a tough time right now. I’m not trying to punish you. Call me. Please.”

The second message came three days later, again from Kerry.

“Alex, please call. I’m worried. You missed our appointment. I understand if you don’t want to see me, but don’t shut Jack out. Please call, just let me know you’re doing okay.”

Kerry’s third message came yesterday. Concern filled her previous two messages. Fear contaminated the last one.

“Alex, I came by the house today. You’ve changed the locks. No one has heard from you in days. I called your office. They said they let you go. What’s going on? Call me, even if it’s just to say I’m a rotten bitch. It’ll tell me you’re alive.” Kerry ended her call with a sob.

Friedkin wiped his hand across his mouth. His friend was in serious trouble. He felt very old and very tired.

His cell phone rang in his pocket. Alex’s name appeared on the display.

“Why are you in my house, John?” Alex asked.

Friedkin went to the kitchen window. He didn’t see Alex. “What makes you think I’m in your house?”

“Your car’s parked out front.”

Friedkin cursed his stupidity.

Alex continued. “If I were to enter my home to find you there, skulking in the dark, I would be within my rights to shoot you, thinking you were an intruder—which you are.”

Friedkin took the threat seriously. “If you were to shoot me, you’d be shooting a friend.”

“Friends don’t break into friends’ houses in the middle of the
night, John.”

“It was with the best of intentions. Kerry and I are worried about you.”

“Have you two been talking behind my back?”

“No. I just know she’s worried.”

He cut through the house back to the kitchen. He pocketed the flashlight and tugged out a paring knife from a knife block. There were bigger knifes, but they were unwieldy in a fight. The paring knife came as close to a street weapon as he could get.

“Why were you watching the FBI in Vallejo, Alex?”

“I was working.”

The house wasn’t a safe place. It was going to be Friedkin’s tomb if he didn’t get out. He opened the back door, then sped through the house and unlocked the front door. He cracked the door an inch. If he needed to escape through the front door, just a quick tug and he was out.

“Are you the Piper?”

Alex exploded into laughter. “No, I’m not the Piper. Damn, John, I thought you were better than this.”

Friedkin moved to a point midway between the front and rear door. No matter which door Alex entered, he had a head start.

“I’m in your living room, Alex. What am I supposed to think? You know if I take this to the FBI, they’ll come after you.”

“But you won’t. You’ve got the reputation of the agency to consider.”

“Reputations can be rebuilt.”

“Friendships can’t.”

Alex was right. The reason he’d lied when Sheils showed him Alex’s composite was out of friendship. He wanted his friend to explain himself and have a chance to give himself up if he’d had any part in the Fleetwood kidnappings.

“Maybe our friendship isn’t supposed to last.”

“Maybe,” Alex said with
resignation. “I’m hanging up now. I have an intruder to stop.”

This was it. Alex was coming for him. His breathing quickened as he listened hard for footsteps. Front or rear? Front or rear? Which way would Alex come? The front door shifted a fraction and Friedkin bolted for the rear. He hurtled through the kitchen and out the back door. He charged down the side yard for the front. He wanted to turn the tables and trap Alex in the house.

He rounded the front of the house, expecting to see Alex bursting inside, but Alex wasn’t there. He slowed and approached the door with caution. The wind had nudged the door. Not Alex.

He looked up and down the street for Alex or his car. Neither was anywhere to be seen.