The Price of Malice Page 25

  “Right,” she said evenly. “So I gathered.” She was beginning to wonder if the long drive down here hadn’t been a total waste of time.

  He laughed. “Shit. ’Course you do. Well, I’m not too sure what you know and what you don’t, right? So, better too much info than not enough.”

  He pulled up to the curb, killed the engine, and—for a man of his bulk—swung easily out of the car.

  “I gave it the once-over at the time,” he continued, heading toward the docks. “But, to be honest, I wasn’t too confident. Still, I took pictures, did sketches, all the rest. You know—the routine. And then I hit pay dirt.”

  “Right,” she said absentmindedly, admiring the traffic in midharbor—boats large and small churning through the water, bent on the commerce of the sea. Unlike what she knew of farmers in their fields, which had always struck her as a fundamental and straightforward relationship, fishermen and the sea remained elusive and slightly menacing. Her own experience with the water, whenever she went out swimming, was to wonder about what might be lurking in the deep, weighing her value as a meal. To think of people in flimsy boats, atop a vast and restless ocean, dropping lines into that same water in the hopes of catching the very same creatures, made her happy she worked on dry land.

  They reached The Silva Lining, aboard which Wilkinson hopped with an easy familiarity, paying no attention to Cathy’s more cautious approach.

  He stood in mid-deck and waved a hand about. “I asked Steve Silva to leave things as they were, so this is pretty much how I found it. It’s not like I had to preserve a chain of custody or anything, but I figured you’d like to see it for yourself.”

  Cathy was still wondering why she was here, much less in need of an all-but-preserved, unsecured crime scene. She nodded vaguely, looking around and observing the mess. It did look like a toss job.

  Wilkinson crossed to the wheelhouse and pointed at a couple of gouged holes in its wooden casing. “After you guys picked up Beale, grabbed his gun, and circulated its IBIS data, I compared that with what I dug out of the wood here a couple of days ago. They matched.”

  Cathy scowled and joined him to study the two large cavities, her interest suddenly sharpened. IBIS was the Integrated Ballistics Identification System—a federal database shared by hundreds of departments nationwide. “You found a bullet matching Beale’s gun?”

  “Two of them. It was dumb luck, to be honest. A few waves rocked the boat while I was poking around; I reached out to steady myself, and put my hand right on a thin patch of wood that was screwed in place and painted over, but it made no sense where it was. It was weird—at least I thought it was—so I took it off, and voilà.”

  He grinned. “The place was a mess anyhow; I figured there couldn’t be any harm adding a little damage with a penknife, right? But here’s the real punch line: The lab told me they got blood on them. Wanna bet that goes back to one of the Silvas?”

  Cathy smiled, utterly forgiving him for not telling her any of this on the phone. “I do,” she answered him.

  He then reached into his pocket and extracted an envelope. “That’s not all,” he continued. “The Silvas’ apartment was dumped here in town, just like this. Lyn got curious, grilled her baby brother, and did a little digging on her own. She found an old barometer Steve removed after they got the boat back from Beale.” He tapped the wheelhouse wall closer to the instrument panel. “Used to be attached here, screwed in place, but it was busted and didn’t work anymore—purely sentimental now—but a great place to hide something small, which is what she thinks her dad did, maybe as insurance, maybe to hold back for more money.”

  He opened the envelope and showed her an evidence baggy, containing the small and shiny object Lyn had found. “Don’t know what it is yet, but it fits a computer, and I’m thinking it’s what got the Silvas knocked off. Between it and the bullets, maybe you or whoever runs all the way with this case can crack Beale wide open.”

  Cathy looked at Wilkinson with newfound respect. From the near bumpkin she’d thought she was meeting fifteen minutes earlier, she now saw one of the rare, true team players—who’d bothered to do his homework, and then think of any other agencies who might be interested in what he’d found.

  She slapped him on his burly shoulder. “Damn, Brian. You’ve done some nice work here.” She considered for a moment his concluding words, and added, “But I’m hoping we won’t have to stop with Beale. Let me tell you about a guy named Dick Brandhorst. You ever hear of him?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The four of them shared a car, parking in the staging area, out of sight from the trailer. From there, they walked up a side street—Sam on crutches—to where Ron Klesczewski had positioned his converted ambulance command post.

  Ron was inside, keeping in the air-conditioning and keeping out all the people milling around, who were either waiting to be assigned or just sharing the excitement. Cops, like firefighters, are as prone to gawking as they are to being useful.

  “Hey Joe,” Ron said as Gunther alone entered the already cramped space.

  “Hey yourself,” Joe answered him, nodding to the other man there, a young patrolman he knew only by sight, who was sporting a pair of headphones and manning a laptop computer. “What’s the situation?”

  “From what we know, the trailer’s empty except for Nick and his sister.” He pointed to the other man. “Bill’s about to set up a phone link to the inside, so I can start talking with Nick, assuming he picks up. Then we’ll move to a throw phone, as usual, so we can better control communications—again, assuming he plays along. Basically, we’re just getting started.”

  Joe sat on the edge of a bench seat. “Where’s Mom?”

  “She was the only other one inside when we got here. From what I could get out of her, the three of them were fighting all night about everything that’s been happening, and it finally came to a head when Nick took a swipe at Karen with a knife. That’s what got her to call 911, and why she’s now at the hospital.”

  “She badly hurt?”

  Ron shook his head. “He didn’t actually make contact, but I think it pushed her over the edge. She’s pretty hysterical. When our first units got here, she came running out, and Nick was seen at the door with the knife at Becky’s throat. At that point, we pulled back.”

  “Any sign of Dan Kravitz or his daughter? She’s Nicky’s girlfriend, sort of.”

  “We’re trying to locate them. Neighbors told us they might have moved out, what with all hell breaking loose, but so far, that’s just a rumor.”

  Joe wondered if Sally Kravitz’s departure might have played a small role in triggering Nicky. He’d been to so many family blowups, he knew what fragile ties sometimes kept everything in check. And Nicky was obviously a special case, anyhow.

  He got back up and put his hand on the door handle. “I’ll get out of your hair while you set things up, unless you need me for anything. I better find a spot for Sammie, too—she insisted on tagging along, crutches and all.”

  Ron laughed. “Surprise, surprise. Send her in here. Can’t beat the temperature, and since she’s the only one who’s been inside the place, maybe she can help me out.”

  “Will do,” Joe told him, and opened the door to leave.

  Outside, of course, Sammie was nowhere to be found. Willy was leaning against a trailer, in the shade.

  He didn’t wait for Joe’s question. He merely jerked his thumb down the way and said, “She couldn’t help herself.”

  The command post was located on a parallel street to the Put-nams’ address, nearby but out of sight, shielded by a row of neighboring trailers. Joe followed Willy’s direction and soon found Sammie crouching awkwardly behind some bushes, directly across the dirt lane from where she’d first met young Richard.

  “Jesus, Sam,” he muttered, crawling up beside her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? This isn’t our scene, and you just got out of the hospital.”

  But she wasn’t listening. She poin
ted at the trailer instead. “Look, behind the latticework around the foundation. Just as I thought.”

  “What?” Joe asked, squinting to see what she was showing him.

  “It’s Richard. He’s still in his hideout.” She waved discreetly, barely sticking her hand through the leaves before her.

  Joe watched carefully and saw a slight pale movement behind the crisscrossed slats.

  “Shit. I better tell Ron.”

  But Sam laid her hand on his arm. “Hang on. Someone should be with him.”

  He squeezed her hand to draw her attention. “Sam,” he said, his face inches from hers, “you are not to act on this. You have a broken leg. You shouldn’t even be here. You get impulsive, you screw it up for everyone, including your little pal over there. Do you hear me?”

  Unlike with Willy, he knew such an approach would work with her.

  “Yes,” she said simply, adding, “but you should know that I already communicated with him—as much as I could—and he’s refusing to come out.”

  He pulled out his radio and switched it over to the tactical frequency he knew Ron was using. “Ron? It’s Joe.”

  “Go ahead,” Ron’s voice said seconds later.

  “You get a report yet from your people on movement under the trailer?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “That’s Richard—the youngest member of the clan. Sam’s behind the bushes across the street, making eye contact with him. The kid’s refusing to leave.”

  “Okay.” The word was drawn out, Ron waiting for more.

  “Sam won’t be attempting to get under there with him, but it might be a good idea if somebody does.”

  “You volunteering?”

  “If you recommend it. Otherwise, no.”

  “What’s the access point?”

  Sam took the radio from Joe’s hand and answered, “Straight shot—the slats open like a door facing the street.”

  After a brief pause, Ron responded, “Okay. Get back to the CP, Joe, and get fitted with a vest, helmet, and the rest, and let me know when you’re ready to go. Meantime, I’ll put together a diversion.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Joe was back beside Sammie. In the meantime, Nick had picked up the phone inside the trailer, and had agreed to a throw phone being deposited at the front door.

  That was Joe’s promised diversion. As Nick was presumably being distracted by this delivery—and therefore facing south—Joe slipped free of the bushes, scurried across the dusty street, eased the latticework open, and crawled under the trailer to where young Richard was waiting.

  Joe held his finger to his lips and whispered, “Hey, Richard, how’re you doin’?”

  Richard whispered back, “Are my brother and sister going to be okay?”

  “I hope so,” he answered him. “But you can help that happen.”

  “How?”

  “You can get out of here with me, to someplace safer.”

  Richard shook his head emphatically.

  Joe switched gears. “Then you’ve got to tell me what you know about them and the layout above us. The point here is to make sure everybody comes out of this safe and sound. You understand?”

  The boy studied him carefully, especially after Joe took off his Kevlar helmet and laid it aside.

  “Are you the man from last night, in the hospital?”

  “Yes. Joe. Did you and Sam have a good talk after I left?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know why I couldn’t let her come over here, don’t you?”

  “The leg?”

  “You got it. She’s supposed to be resting at home right now, except that none of us wanted you guys to be left hanging. What happened, anyhow?”

  Richard stared at the ground. “Big fight. Mostly about Wayne.”

  “What about him?”

  “I think Nicky did something bad to him.”

  Joe settled down cross-legged opposite him. “What did he say, Richard?”

  Richard was still looking at the ground, and now began to poke his finger at the old rug they were sharing, exploring the holes into the dirt beneath. He didn’t look up as he spoke. “Maybe he hurt him a lot, ’cause of something Wayne did to Becky. I couldn’t really figure it out, ’cause I think he did something to Mom, too, but Mom said he didn’t.”

  “What did Becky say?” Joe asked, still whispering.

  “She couldn’t make up her mind—it was like one way and then the other. That got Nicky really mad. I couldn’t tell if she liked Wayne or hated him. But I do know Nicky surprised them together.”

  Joe nodded. “Okay, let’s not talk about it anymore. Time we did something to help, instead. First off, how many people are up there?” He pointed above.

  Richard looked surprised. “Nicky and Becky.”

  “Anybody else expected back in the next hour or so, that you know?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “How ’bout guns? Any of those around?”

  “Mom’s got one under her bed.”

  “Loaded?”

  “I guess so. She says it is when she tells us not to mess with it.”

  Great, thought Joe—that sounded like an accident waiting to happen. “Does Nick know about it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think he might use it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Upstairs, they both heard the distinctive sound of the throw phone’s ringing, interrupted by someone picking it up.

  “How do Nick and your sister get along?” Joe asked suddenly.

  “Fine, I guess. They’re both a little weird.”

  “But do you think he might actually hurt her?”

  The answer was equivocal. “I don’t think so.”

  Joe rolled onto his back a moment and studied what he could see of the flooring overhead, finally reaching for his flashlight to better study its details.

  “What’re you looking at?” Richard wanted to know, his voice still very low.

  “Just wondering how I can take a peek up there, see what’s going on.”

  “You could use my door,” he suggested simply.

  Joe straightened and stared at him, feeling foolish. He’d just assumed Richard used the front entrance and then ducked under. “I sure could,” he conceded. “Where is it?”

  The boy pointed farther down the length of the trailer. “It’s a trapdoor, over there.”

  “You push it down, or up?”

  “It opens up, into the hallway near the bathroom.”

  “So, it’s on hinges,” Joe half mused aloud. “Which way do you see when your head’s sticking through it?”

  Richard pointed toward the street.

  “Meaning I could see Nicky talking on the special phone right now, if I did that?”

  “Right.”

  Overhead, Nick was speaking, his voice too muffled to be understood. Joe knew Ron was running through the standard hostage negotiator’s protocol, establishing rapport—a sometimes long and subtle process.

  “Wait here,” Joe told his companion, and awkwardly but silently crawled back into the gloom, searching for the trapdoor.

  He found it easily enough, positioned himself on his knees, and—with his forehead just touching the surface of the door—placed both palms flat against it and pushed very gently, hoping it wouldn’t stick and thus pop open under pressure.

  It didn’t. No doubt due to Richard using it so regularly, it rose almost immediately, without a sound, and allowed Joe the thinnest of cracks, through which he could see the same quasi-living-room area where Sam had interviewed Karen Putnam.

  This time, however, Nicky King was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, the throw phone in one hand and a large knife in the other. Next to him, sulking on the couch, Becky sat with her arms hugging her legs.

  Joe dropped back down, pulled out his radio, screwed its earpiece into place, and keyed the mike.

  “Ron?”

  Sammie answered, “He’s on the phone, boss, talking with Nick.
What’ve you got?”

  “Access to the central hallway from below. Richard showed me the trapdoor he uses to get in and out. I just took a peek and saw Nick on the phone.”

  “Becky okay?”

  “She’s fine. She may not even be in real danger, except that Nicky is holding a knife. We need a diversion of some kind—somehow to either get him walking in my direction or looking so hard out the window that I can climb in and sneak up behind him.”

  Sammie sounded doubtful. “How big is that trapdoor?”

  Joe smiled. “I’ll forget you asked that, but it ain’t huge. I’d prefer the first option.”

  “Roger that,” she said. “I’ll call you right back.”

  Joe returned to where Richard was staring through the latticework. In every direction, cops could be seen, tucked behind shelters of all types, dressed in black BDUs and helmets. It was like being on the wrong end of a war movie.

  Joe slipped his hand over the boy’s shoulder. “I talked to Sam just now. We’re putting a plan together to end this peacefully.”

  Richard pointed outside. “They don’t look like they heard it.”

  “They only do what they’re told,” Joe tried reassuring him. “Right now, they’re supposed to sit tight and look scary. They doing a good job?”

  Richard nodded silently. Above them, Nicky’s muffled voice continued as Ron kept him occupied. So far, it had been a near textbook recipe of time-tested procedure mixed with serendipitous opportunities, like the discovery of the trapdoor.

  Ten minutes later, Sam’s voice came over Joe’s earpiece.

  “Joe?”

  He keyed the mike and spoke softly. “Right here.”

  “You better get in position. We’re about to head him down your way.”

  “Give me one full minute and then go,” he told her. “Don’t bother trying to get me on the radio. I’ll have my hands full.”

  “Got it.”

  He told Richard to stay put again, and resumed his post under the trapdoor. Unbeknownst to him, one of the Special Response Team stepped out into the street and, in full view of the trailer’s living-room window, gestured to two others to run down to the unit’s far end, presumably to attempt an entry from the back.