Rules of Crime (2013) Page 5

  They were in Anderson’s office and the space was larger than the living room in her new house. The vaulted wood ceiling, high-end French doors, and Persian area rug made River think a hundred grand to a kidnapper probably wouldn’t devastate Anderson’s finances. She respected him for being willing to pay the ransom.

  The cell phone on Anderson’s desk beeped and they both jerked in surprise. Anderson grabbed it. “Another text.” He tapped the phone, then studied the message. “He wants the money now.”

  “What? It’s only one o’clock.” A surge of worry. “I thought we had two more hours.” River grabbed the device and read the message: Put the money in a plastic bag. Put the bag in a backpack. No tracking devices or she dies! Get in your car and start driving toward town. More instructions soon.

  Damn! She wasn’t ready. The pen register that would record all numbers and calls on Anderson’s phone was with the tech people, who weren’t here yet. Portland to Eugene was nearly a two-hour drive, even at eighty miles an hour.

  Live in the moment, River reminded herself. This is the new reality. She forced herself to look and sound calm. Inner peace would follow. “Let’s do what he says. Do you have the cash?”

  “Yes. But it wiped me out.”

  River didn’t have a response. She opened the French doors and said, “Time to move, Fouts.”

  As she turned back, Anderson announced, “I’ll get a backpack,” and rushed into the hall.

  River sat down on the couch, hit reply, and keyed in, I need more time. I don’t have all the money yet. She had to stall as long as she could. A standard crisis-negotiation tactic.

  Fouts rushed in, smelling like a cigarette butt. She showed him the ransom text rather than summarize.

  “We have to use a tracking device.” He handed the phone back to her.

  “Of course. I brought one with me. We’ll put it inside a bundle of cash in case the kidnapper transfers the money right away.”

  Anderson’s phone beeped in her hand. A new text: No more time. Get moving!

  River didn’t bother to respond. She opened her laptop and clicked open fonefinder.net. She keyed the kidnapper’s number into the search box and waited. It was a different Cricket phone. She’d done a similar search earlier with the number the perp used for the first contact. A call to the Cricket office revealed the service had been paid for in cash on Friday, then disconnected this morning, leaving her no way to trace the phone. The perp had obviously purchased several burner phones and was likely moving around, using different towers. They were dealing with someone smart and careful.

  Using her own cell phone, she called the manager at Cricket again while keeping an eye on Anderson’s device. “Agent River. I have another service that needs a ping immediately.” She read the number slowly.

  “This will take a minute. I’ll get back to you as soon as we have it.” The manager didn’t ask any unnecessary questions. She’d discussed the kidnapping with him earlier and he’d promised to be available to her all day.

  “I’m staying on the line until I get it.”

  “Okay. Excuse me for a second.”

  She heard talking in the background so she looked down at Anderson’s phone. No communication. She stood and began to pace.

  Anderson rushed into the room with a hiking backpack. “Will this work?”

  She nodded and touched her earpiece to indicate she was on the phone. “Agent Fouts will help you pack it.”

  Anderson set the backpack on his desk, grabbed one of the bank bags, and started pulling out bundled stacks of cash. River had never seen so much money, let alone handled so casually. Early in her FBI career, when she’d been Carl instead of Carla, she’d worked a few drug busts that netted cash, but the largest take had been thirty thousand.

  She watched Fouts place a palm-size tracker into the middle of a stack of hundreds and hoped he knew what he was doing.

  The Cricket manager came back on the phone. “We sent the signal, now we’re waiting for the bounce.”

  “Good. Can you find out if other phones were purchased at the same time as these two? And if they were, let’s ping those numbers as well.”

  “I’ll check.”

  River paced the room, which now felt smaller than she’d first thought. This was happening so fast. She’d never worked a ransom kidnapping before. What if she messed it up? Anxiety exploded in her chest, like little firecrackers going off, and she felt paralyzed. It was like being frozen in that moment right before your car plows into another one on an icy road. She took two long deep breaths and repeated her new mantra several times: I can only do my best and control my part in this. The thoughts calmed her and her body relaxed. She hadn’t experienced a prolonged episode of anxiety since her operation and she hoped the worst of it was in her past—shed like the false male exterior she’d worn for nearly forty years.

  She glanced over to see if anyone had noticed her bad moment. They were still bundling cash and stuffing it into the pack.

  The Cricket manager’s voice was suddenly in her ear. “We got a signal off a Sprint tower at 1810 Chambers.”

  “Thanks. Ping the number every five minutes and text me the tower locations.”

  She started to hang up, then remembered her other request. “Were there more phones bought with cash at the same time?”

  “Yes, but they were all separate transactions. So the others may not be connected to this crime. I can’t track them without a court order.”

  Damn. “I don’t have time for that. This is going down.”

  “I’ll do what I can with every number you get direct contact from.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Fouts was nearly finished packing the bag, so she called Jackson. “River here. We’ve had more contact. The money drop is happening now but we don’t know where yet. Be ready to move into place at a moment’s notice.”

  “I’m near downtown so I’ll just park and wait.”

  “Good. Call Schakowski and alert him as well. I’ll call Torres and Gilson. We’ll be on the nonrepeater channel.”

  “I thought we had until three.”

  “This guy is smart. He uses a new phone for each contact. And he’s not likely to tell us where to drop the money until the last minute.”

  “What about Daniel Talbot?” Jackson asked.

  “We haven’t located him yet. He doesn’t seem to be at home or at his office but we’re watching both.”

  “He could be our man.”

  “We’ll know soon.” River glanced over at Anderson and Fouts. They looked ready. “We’re taking off now.” She hung up, knowing Jackson wouldn’t care. They didn’t have time for polite formalities.

  “I’ll ride with Anderson again and keep low in case they’re watching. Fouts, follow in your own car.”

  Pulse pounding, a cell phone in each hand, she led the way out of the house. Despite feeling rushed, this wasn’t a worst-case scenario. The abductions she’d worked in Portland had involved children and she’d known the victims were likely being molested and/ or killed while she and her team scurried around, doing what little they could do. They had moved with great expediency to catch the predator, but with little hope of saving the victims. In this situation, a woman’s life was being bartered and they had a chance to save her. Getting it right was more important than catching the perp. The pressure was different from any she’d faced before.

  Outside, she ran to Anderson’s car and climbed into the backseat, where she’d have more room. She was glad he drove a luxury sedan instead of a Mini Cooper.

  Anderson started the car but didn’t put it in gear. Instead, he turned to face her. “Am I making a mistake paying the full ransom? Should we have filled the bottom of the pack with newspaper?”

  She weighed her answer carefully. “This kidnapper is greedy and smart and we may not catch him. But he’s probably not evil, and if you give him the money we’ll probably get your girlfriend back.”

  “I hope you’re right.” His voice
caught a little at the end.

  CHAPTER 8

  As they traveled down Willamette, a text came from the phone company manager: We lost the signal. Service disconnected. River had known it would happen but still felt disappointed. She didn’t share the information with Anderson. Why worry him?

  After a few minutes traveling downhill, the street curved sharply to the left and met up with Eugene’s flatland grid. Anderson asked, “Once I hit the downtown area, what should I do?”

  “Park and wait.”

  The instructions came five minutes later as they crossed Eighteenth: Drive toward 7th and take a right. It came from yet another number.

  She read the directions out loud for Anderson and those on the radio, then texted the Cricket manager: Ping 541.334.7281.

  As they waited at a four-way stop in the heart of downtown, she glanced out the window and saw a Ken Kesey statue in a small plaza. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest had always been her favorite movie, but she’d never read Kesey’s novels. Now that she lived in his hometown, she might have to.

  Anderson’s phone beeped again with another text: Leave the backpack under the sign on the bike path near where the two bridges meet.

  Bridges? That didn’t sound good. River had crossed Ferry Street Bridge many times but didn’t know Eugene well enough to visualize the drop spot. Into her mic, she said, “CR: Moving toward Ferry Street Bridge. The drop is near the path where the bridges meet.” They used their initials for a certain level of discretion, even though other law enforcement could hear them.

  Her agents copied back, then moments later, she heard from Jackson and Schak. She tapped Anderson’s shoulder. “Do you know where the sign near the bike path is?”

  “I think so. I bicycled through there with my daughter once.” He glanced back at her. “You’re not from Eugene?”

  “I’ve only been here a few months. I worked the Portland office before this.” After growing up in San Diego.

  Anderson started to ask another question but she cut him off. “I have to get people in place.”

  River instructed her team members to cover the four corners of the bridge.

  Jackson came back and said, “Someone needs to be on a bicycle. I’ll try to get one of our bike squad officers over there ASAP.”

  “Copy.” She liked his thinking and wished like hell they’d had more time.

  “DF: What about the river?” Fouts asked.

  “Can we get a team out there in a speed boat?”

  “Probably not in time,” Jackson said, “But I’ll call the sheriff’s office.”

  “Copy. Anyone have the eye?”

  The responses were negative. No one had spotted the perp. Another wave of anxiety rolled over her. Converging bike paths. The muddy river high on its banks. A crafty perp on the move. This might not go well. Whatever happens is meant to be.

  A text came in on her cell phone from the Cricket manager: T-Mobile tower at 3022 Gateway. The information surprised her. Why was the perp moving away from the drop spot? Unless there were two—one driving around sending texts, while the other got in place to pick up the money.

  Anderson turned off Seventh and circled under the ramp to the bridge. He looked over his shoulder. “I’m going to park at EWEB.”

  She knew it was the utility company but had never been in this exact area. It was rather bleak and bounded by the river, train tracks, and overpasses.

  She notified her team. “CR: Location is EWEB building. Target will soon deliver the package.” To Anderson, she said, “Where is the sign from here?”

  He pointed up the short incline to where Fourth Avenue met Coburg Road near the bridge.

  “Take the handicapped space up front. We need to be able to see as much as possible.” The universe would forgive her this once.

  Anderson parked, then leaned his head against the wheel, breathing shallowly.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes.” He sat up and turned to her. “What now?”

  “We wait until everyone is in place.”

  After a minute, another text came: Go! Or this is over and she loses a hand. Maybe a kidney.

  “Damn.” She looked around. Were they watching?

  “What is it?” Anderson’s face looked ashen and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  Was he about to have a heart attack? “You have to go now. Find the sign and leave the backpack. If someone approaches you or threatens you, lie on the ground and don’t move.” She hated having a civilian involved but they had no choice.

  She spoke into her mic. “CR: The package is on the way.”

  Anderson slung the pack over his shoulder and climbed out of the car.

  River rolled down her window, but stayed low. “It’s going to be fine. He’ll get the money and we’ll follow him to Renee. If we lose him, he’ll let her go anyway.” She did her best to sound confident.

  Anderson nodded and headed up the sidewalk, looking peculiar: an older man in a gray business suit with a red hiker’s backpack.

  River hoped Fouts and the others were moving into place. “Anyone have eyes on the bike-path sign?” She grabbed her binoculars from her briefcase and tried to spot it herself.

  Fouts responded. “DF: I’m moving down the path on the other side. Bought a bike from a homeless guy.”

  That cheered her up, but it was brief. Torres and Gilson checked in to say they weren’t yet in place at the other end of the bridge.

  “Jackson here. I’m on the bridge, but the wrong side and I can’t see the bench.”

  “The bastard picked the right spot.” River hated the location. Impossible to reach by car, but with varying elevations and bike paths converging under the bridge.

  “DF: On the bike path under the bridge and ready.”

  “Copy.” Nerves jumping, River got out of the car and watched Anderson through the binoculars. He strode up to the short stone wall like a man with a purpose and sat down. He slid the backpack off and set it under the sign. After thirty seconds he stood, stretched, and walked back toward her.

  “CR: Package is delivered.”

  The radio was silent as they all waited.

  Suddenly, a dark figure darted out from behind a bush. Black jeans, black hoodie, slim build. The man grabbed the backpack and ran down the path into the curve under the bridge.

  River’s pulse escalated. “CR to DF, he’s got the package and is coming your way.”

  “I’ve got eyes on him. He’s off the path and headed through the shrubs to the water.” Fouts sounded breathless. River heard the sound of metal slamming into concrete, then Fouts said, “I’ve lost visual.”

  Agent Torres’ voice cut in. “He’s under the bridge and I can’t see him either.”

  Fouts was back. “He’s in an inner tube and paddling with an oar.”

  Damn! The fool was on the river and she didn’t hear any boat motors coming their way.

  “Keep eyes on him.” River ran up the sidewalk, signaling Anderson that she was headed for the bridge.

  Fouts was in her ear. “He’s crossing the river as he floats downstream.”

  “Where’s he gonna come out? Let’s get uniforms on the other side.” Her voice was breathy from her run.

  “Valley River Center. Maybe,” Fouts said.

  Agent Torres cut in. “I’ve got him in sight.”

  “Can you tell where he’ll come out of the water?”

  “No. He’s not really in control.”

  A long minute of silence as her team watched the perp float away. River caught up to Jackson on the bridge and he pointed at the receding inner tube. “I wonder how far he’s going. The river is pretty wild this time of year.”

  She picked up the perp in her binoculars. “He’s gonna get away, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe not. Unless he’s got a bike or a driver waiting for him on the other side.”

  River accepted the new reality. “As long as he lets Renee go unharmed, I’ll consider this a success.”

  After a moment
, Jackson said, “Yes.”

  A minute later, the tube snagged on something below the surface and flipped over. The perp went under and disappeared into the green swirling water.

  CHAPTER 9

  Monday, January 9, 11:45 a.m.

  Evans popped in her earpiece, called the university’s campus police, and asked to speak to Margaret Pearl, their liaison. While she waited for Margaret to come on the line, she hustled down to the break room and put her chicken-vegetable soup in the microwave. She really wanted a cheeseburger, but she’d gained a pound over the holidays with her colleagues bringing in all those baked goods, so she was sticking to healthy lunches for a while.

  “Hi Lara. What can I do for you?”

  It was nice to hear someone use her first name. Everyone in the Violent Crimes Unit called each other by last names. “I have an assault victim named Lyla Murray. She’s in surgery and might not make it. I have to find out what happened to her. Do you have any reports that might help?”

  “Let me look.” A long pause. “What kind of assault?”

  “A vicious beating. And her assailant rubbed dirt and shit on her and dumped her naked at the ER.”

  Margaret groaned softly. “That doesn’t sound like domestic violence. I think they meant to degrade her.”

  “Have you heard of other incidents like this one?” Evans grabbed a paper towel and pulled her soup out of the microwave.

  “Not really. Lyla’s not mentioned in any of our incident reports either.”

  “What about a hazing? Her roommate mentioned a secret sorority Lyla was interested in.”

  “I’ve heard rumors about such clubs but this is the first mention of brutal violence.”

  “Do you have a name or location? Someone who might know more?”

  “As a police officer, I’m not exactly students’ first choice as a confidant.”

  “If you hear anything, let me know.”

  Evans took her soup to her desk and ate quickly, eager to get over to the victim’s apartment. She had to contact Lyla’s mother so she could make the three-hour drive from Grants Pass. Evans hoped Lyla would still be alive when her mother arrived. Leaving her bowl on her desk, she grabbed her shoulder bag and headed out.