The Soul Collectors (2 page)

Darby had a captive audience. She saw the grins and nods from the other men seated around her, leaning forward to listen to her every word.

‘Lucky you that conversation got leaked to the media,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, no one would’ve believed that shit.’

‘I’m assuming you have a point here.’

‘Got some friends at Boston PD.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Word is you released that recording to the press.’

Darby shook her head and chuckled softly. Amazing. The cops she met now didn’t care about Chadzynski being exposed for the corrupt and cunning bitch she was; how the woman had, over the course of her career, orchestrated the murders and disappearances of several dozen state cops, federal agents, Boston patrolmen, undercover detectives and eyewitnesses. With a phone call, she had removed from the earth anyone who had tried to expose Frank Sullivan’s horrific methods. Thomas ‘Big Red’ McCormick had been one of her victims. Yet the only thing every cop wanted to know was whether she had been the one who had leaked the Chadzynski tape to the media.

‘Wasn’t me,’ Darby said. Technically, that
was
true. Coop had been the one who had released it to the press. She had only forwarded him a copy.

Manny Rameriz leaned in closer. She could smell his stale cigarette breath.

‘You’ll have to forgive me for asking this, but me and the boys here are wondering if you’re recording this conversation right now?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think I should pat you down just to make sure. Nobody here wants to be on the news. You know how reporters can slice and dice things to make you look bad.’

Darby smiled. ‘Touch me and you’ll be picking your broken fingers out of your ass.’

Manny seemed to be seriously considering making a move. He opened his mouth, about to speak, when a wail of sirens cut him off. The APC had picked up a police escort – several of them, judging by the multiple sirens.

The big white guy standing at the end shouted into the phone: ‘Tell him we’re on our way, ETA ten minutes.’

The gruff and raspy voice belonged to the man she had spoken to earlier. Gary Trent slammed the phone back against his cradle, walked down the APC and took a seat across from her.

2

‘That was the command post,’ Trent shouted over the sirens. ‘CP said the subject is threatening to start killing the hostages.’

Darby leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees. ‘How many?’

‘Four. He’s got them tied up in this bedroom right here.’ He turned slightly to point to a whiteboard showing a layout of the house. ‘He’s drawn down the shades on all the top-floor windows, so there’s no way we can get a clear shot.’

‘You already got a sniper in position?’

Trent nodded. ‘He’s on the roof across the street. It’s the only place offering a clear view of the bedroom. Spotter’s using a thermal-imaging scope, so we can make out their heat signatures pretty clearly. One hostage appears to be tied to a chair; the other three are on the floor. At the moment, everyone’s alive, but this guy’s getting edgy, threatening to kill them. I’m hoping he’ll hold off until you get in there and talk to him.’

‘I’m not a hostage negotiator.’

Trent flapped a hand. ‘I know that. But you know the family. Mark and Judith Rizzo.’

The name triggered a flood of memories and mental snapshots. There was one that stood out from the others: that overcast morning she’d spent in the couple’s kitchen of their Brookline home, a place where the greatest threat to kids was getting hit by a car. The previous day, on a late October afternoon with the sky beginning to grow dark, their youngest child, their ten-year-old son, Charlie, told his mother he was going down the street to visit a neighbourhood friend. The mother told him to be careful and to ride his bike on the sidewalk, not on the main street, and returned to making dinner. Charlie hopped on his blue Huffy and vanished.

In her mind’s eye Darby could see Mark Rizzo, a man with thick, bushy black hair and olive skin, sitting at the kitchen table next to his wife, Judith, a curvy, pale-skinned Irish Catholic eleven years his senior; could see the parents staring down at a mess of photographs sprawled across the blood-red tablecloth, both unwilling to touch them, terrified that by picking one to run on the TV and in the newspapers they’d seal their son behind it, imprison him someplace where they’d never see or hear from him again.

And they never did
, Darby thought, returning her attention to Trent. The APC was driving fast now, the engine’s low, deep rumbling vibrating through the metal bench and climbing through her limbs. The air, much warmer than before, reeked of gun oil.

Trent shouted, ‘The kid disappeared over a decade ago, right?’

‘Twelve years,’ Darby shouted back. Charlie Rizzo’s abduction had been her first field case.

‘You ever find his body?’

Darby shook her head, a part of her still thinking back to that morning in the Rizzos’ kitchen. Standing behind the parents were Charlie’s older sisters, blue-eyed curly blonde twins named Abigail and Heather, tall for their age and wearing tight Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirts stretched over curvy frames still holding baby fat. Abigail, the one with the Cindy Crawford type of beauty mark near her lip, swiped a shaky hand over her wet and bloodshot eyes and then reached over her father’s big shoulder.

This one
, Abigail said, picking up a photo of a gap-toothed kid with dark black hair and olive skin, his rolls noticeable under the white
Star Wars
T-shirt with Darth Vader.
This one’s the most recent picture of Charlie.

Trent shouted, ‘When was the last time you spoke to the parents?’

‘Back when they were living in Massachusetts – in Brookline. Must’ve been … maybe two years or so after Charlie vanished. They came to ask me about some private investigator who offered to help them. The father was thinking of cashing in some of his retirement account to pay for it and wanted to know if I knew this guy, what I thought. I told them to save their money.’

‘They hire him?’

Darby nodded. ‘Nothing came of it. No new leads. I think they hired another guy who specialized in missing kids, but I don’t know for sure. When did they move to New Hampshire?’

‘When their girls got accepted to UNH. They’re finishing up their final year. They’re living at home, not at the college. After what happened to the boy, I guess the parents wanted the girls to stick close so they could keep an eye on ’em.’

‘You need a hostage negotiator.’

‘Already got one. Guy named Billy Lee. He’s already made contact.’

‘So why am I here?’

‘Person holding the family hostage, he’s demanding to speak to you – won’t speak to anyone
but
you.’

‘What’s his name, do we know?’

Trent nodded. ‘Guy’s saying he’s their kid – their son, Charlie Rizzo.’

3

Darby stared at Trent. Stared at him for what seemed like a long time.

‘You heard me right,’ Trent shouted. ‘Guy said he can prove it too.’

‘How?’

‘He won’t say. This guy – let’s just call him Charlie, keep it simple – Charlie says he won’t speak to anyone but you. Said that if we can get you to come up here and talk to him, alone, face to face, he’ll release the hostages. I’m not buying it. He’s already shot someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t know the vic’s name; he didn’t have any ID on him. He’s a white male, bald, somewhere in his fifties. Charlie shot this guy in the back. Twice. Ambulance arrived at the house before we did and found the vic lying in shrubs. Last report is this guy’s still alive but unconscious. He lost a lot of blood.’

‘How do you know Charlie shot him?’

‘He called 911 and told the operator.’

‘
Charlie
made the call?’

Trent nodded. ‘He identified himself by name to the dispatcher, then told the woman about the shooting and dumping the body out the window – told her
exactly
where it was lying. Then he said he’s holding the Rizzo family hostage and – get this – the son of a bitch
requested
a SWAT team. Said he wouldn’t release a single hostage unless a SWAT team was brought to the house along with some sort of bulletproof vehicle. Oh, and the body dumped in the shrubs? He told the dispatcher it was a gift. For you.’

Darby shifted in her seat. ‘Those were his exact words?’

Trent nodded, checking his watch.

‘He say why he asked for me?’

‘No. You have any ideas?’

She shook her head. ‘Has he asked for any other demands besides wanting to talk to me?’

‘No, just you.’

Darby took a moment to digest this. Not for one second did she believe Charlie Rizzo was alive and waiting for her at this house; but
someone
had summoned her, and this person’s actions and choice of words were unsettling, to say the least.

Trent shouted, ‘I talked with your former SWAT instructor.’

‘Haug.’

Trent nodded. ‘He gave you nothing but high praise. Said you’re one of the best shooters he’s ever seen, that you know how to handle yourself in close-quarter combat. He called you Rambo with tits.’

That sounds like something Haug would say
, Darby thought, grinning. The man was without a filter. Haug called it like he saw it and didn’t give two shits about political correctness. He had no shades of grey in him. You always knew where you stood with him. She wished there were more people like him in her professional life.

Trent said, ‘He also told me you’ve had some experience in hostage situations.’

She had, but her first one hadn’t ended well. She had tried negotiating with a frightened thirteen-year-old named Sean Sheppard. The boy had somehow managed to smuggle a revolver into his hospital room. Instead of surrendering the firearm, he shot himself in the head.

Darby didn’t see any need to inform Trent about this. The news about Sean Sheppard, along with her paid suspension following the murder of the Boston police commissioner, had been plastered all over the New England papers and TV for several weeks. Even if Trent hadn’t read about it, Haug would have told him.

The sirens stopped wailing. A voice crackled over the wall-mounted speakers: ‘ETA, three minutes.’

Trent said, ‘I’m going to have you go in alone, but we’ll mike you so we can hear, and you’ll be able to hear either me or the hostage negotiator with this.’

He handed her a small wireless earpiece. She doubted Charlie would notice it. If he did, he wouldn’t care, as he had been the one who had requested a SWAT team. Odd.

No, not odd
, an inner voice cautioned.
It’s bizarre, like he’s already got some endgame in place
.

‘As for gear,’ Trent said, ‘I’ve got you a full assault suit. What size are you?’

She told him. She didn’t need boots; she was already wearing the extra pair she kept at home.

Trent stood up in order to grab her gear. Darby fitted the earpiece into her right ear – it went in smooth and easy – then reached into her duffel bag and removed a pair of Hatch protective arm sleeves. The thin layer of Kevlar would protect her arms, wrists and hands (but not her fingers) from biting and sharp object like knives and razors.

Trent came back holding a tactical vest. ‘I already installed a mike on it,’ he said, taking the seat opposite her. ‘In case you’re asked to take off the vest – and it has happened, believe me – I want to place a second mike on you, someplace where he’s not likely to look. Or touch.’

‘You got the mike on you?’

Trent opened his hand. Resting in the centre of his rough, callused palm was a tiny wireless mike around the size of a pencil eraser. She knew the perfect place for it.

Darby pulled off her long-sleeve T-shirt, catching Trent’s look of surprise. She didn’t feel embarrassed. She had been the only female cadet during her SWAT training and hadn’t asked Haug for any special treatment, sleeping and eating with the boys, even sharing the single locker room – albeit on a separate row to allow her some semblance of privacy.

Trent’s gaze lingered on her bra for a moment. Then he realized what he was doing, forced his attention to the ceiling and pretended to be studying the turret. Some of the other men examined their weapons or checked their tactical equipment while she went to work clipping the mike to the centre of her black lacy but padded bra.

The Manny Ramirez-looking officer to her right had no problem staring down her cleavage.

‘They’re a 34C,’ Darby said. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Very,’ he replied. ‘Nice abs too.’

‘Thank you.’ She looked at Trent and pointed to the mike hidden in the centre of her bra. ‘How much juice does this thing have?’

‘Battery’s got two, maybe three hours. Same with the one in your vest.’ Trent looked down the row, to the short SWAT officer holding the padded end of a headset against one ear.

‘Loud and clear,’ he told Trent.

From the duffel bag she removed a nylon sheath holding a tactical knife with an eight-inch blade. She strapped it underneath her left forearm, resting the handle, with its dual-pronged grips for quick and easy removal, near her wrist. She put her T-shirt back on and rolled the baggy cotton sleeve over the knife. Perfect. Charlie wouldn’t see the knife, but he’d find it if he patted her down.

Trent had good taste in equipment. He had given her a Blackhawk Tactical Float Vest. Good Kevlar protection and multiple side pouches with ALICE clips. One side pouch held three empty slots for extra ammo. The bigger one contained a brand-new gas mask, a top-of-the-line model with a wide transparent polycarbonate visor and a military-grade filter positioned on the right side so it wouldn’t interfere with her vision. The mouthpiece also had the new voice-amplifying system.

‘Where’d you get the funds for all this equipment?’ she asked, dipping into the duffel bag again for the tactical pouch holding her sidearm. ‘You guys hit the lottery?’

‘In a macabre way, yes, we did,’ Trent said. ‘After 9/11, the state got a massive influx of cash to upgrade all our gear and weapons, and there was enough money left over to buy the Bear.’ He tapped the wall of the APC. ‘What are you packing? Looks like a SIG Sauer.’