Hocus

9

THERE IS A PLACE ALONG the stair steps leading to utter exhaustion that is something like being not quite drunk enough. On the night Frank was taken by Hocus, I had reached that point by the time I pulled into the driveway. I automatically left room for Frank’s car. Cassidy’s car pulled up instead, snapping me out of my musings about Hocus and Frank’s sister and back to the present. I had driven home on autopilot and at some point forgotten Cassidy was following me.

I was muzzy-headed, emotionally drained. My thoughts began to trip over one another. Cassidy. Thomas Cassidy. Right. And he was walking up to the car door, probably because I was just sitting there. Maybe I was putting off going back into the house. An empty driveway is one thing, an empty bed another.

He waited for me to step out, closed the car door for me. We walked in silence to the front door. When I opened it, I saw that Jack and Deke and Dunk were waiting for me in the hall.

“Rachel went home to Pete,” Jack said, then to Cassidy, “Your partner is asleep in the guest room.”

Cassidy went off to rouse Freeman. I rubbed the dogs’ ears, accepted their hovering attention. I told Jack what had happened at the paper.

“Anything I can do?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Rachel angry with me?”

He smiled a little. “No, I think she’s quite proud of you.”

“That’s a relief.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been great, Jack, but you’re probably almost as tired as I am. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”

“You’ll call me if…” He hesitated, looking as though he’d decided against finishing the question.

“If anything changes. Yes, of course.” I thanked him again and watched him try to recover his let’s-be-brave face as he said good night to Cassidy and a tousled Henry Freeman.

I noticed that Freeman had set up a reel-to-reel tape recorder and headphones and other equipment on the kitchen counter near the phone.

Following my glance, Cassidy said, “Remember, it’s not unusual for the takers to wait a couple of days before making contact.” He repeated his instructions on what to do if Hocus called, most of which were ploys to keep them talking. As soon as possible I should try to hand the call off to Cassidy. Until then I was to stall and not give a definite yes or no answer to any demands.

“You guys don’t have those gizmos that instantly identify the caller?” I asked.

“No. At some point in the near future, we’ll be able to do that, but the phone company hasn’t installed that kind of equipment in this area yet. Our own computer system can identify the caller and location for calls, but there isn’t any way to make it available at a residence yet.”

Not wanting to think about what this delay in technology might cost Frank, I told them I was going to try to sleep — it wasn’t true, but I needed time to myself. Freeman was already half-asleep when I said good night.

Cody and the dogs followed me into the bedroom. I closed the door behind me. I stood there, leaning my back against it. I thought about calling Frank’s mother and sister. It was six in the morning. I’d wait another hour, I decided.

Tired as I was, I still could not make myself lie down in that empty bed. I took Frank’s pillow from the bed and moved to the one chair in our bedroom, a wooden rocker. Clutching his pillow to my chest, I breathed in his scent, stared at the bed. Cody, less sentimental, curled up on my pillow; the dogs vied for the position closest to my feet. Dunk won.

I thought of all the times I had watched Frank as he slept, listened to the sound of his snoring. I wondered if he was sleeping now or suffering in some unnameable way. Was he dead — or worse, wishing for death? I was in the wrong damn job. Like doctors, cops, and coroners, reporters know a little too much about the kinds of things people are capable of doing to one another.

I started staring at the clock, wondering if I should ever call Frank’s mother and sister, whether I would be cruel enough to bring them with me into hell.

I buried my face in the pillow.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I awakened with a lurch that nearly threw me from the chair. The dogs scrambled to their feet.

The phone was ringing. In the next second Cassidy was pounding on the bedroom door, calling my name. I stumbled out of the chair in a panic. “It’s open!” I called toward the door, and snatched up the phone.

“Hello,” I half shouted into the receiver. Cassidy entered the room quietly.

There was silence on the other end of the line, then a dial tone.

I hung up. I didn’t try to hide my disappointment.

“Too short,” I heard Freeman call from the other room.

“Make sure our friends caught that, Hank. Tell them to be ready for the next one.”

I looked at the alarm clock. Seven in the morning. The sun was up. I had probably managed to get about forty minutes of sleep. I was so tired, my head felt too heavy for my neck. I realized I was still holding Frank’s pillow. I heard Freeman talking to someone else on a cellular phone. I looked up at Cassidy.

“If it’s Hocus, they’ll call back,” he said.

“You don’t know that!” I said angrily, but no sooner were the words out of my mouth than the phone rang again.

Cassidy smiled.

I took a breath, picked up the phone. I tried but couldn’t keep my voice steady when I said, “Hello?”

“Irene Kelly?” a young man’s voice said. The connection was slightly distorted, as if he were holding the phone too far away from his mouth. I heard noise in the background, the sound of cars going by.

“Yes,” I said.

“This is Hocus,” he said. “Sorry to do this to you on your day off, but you should go into work.”

“I’ve already—”

“We want to talk to you about your husband,” the voice continued, “but it’s important that you are certain we aren’t bluffing.”

“I know that you—”

“We’ll call you back in three hours.”

“Wait — I’ve already been down to the paper. I know you aren’t bluffing. I’ve seen the car.”

He didn’t respond, but the background noise told me he hadn’t hung up.

“I’ve seen the car,” I went on, giving Cassidy a panicked look. He gave me a thumbs-up sign, motioned me to continue. “I’ve seen it,” I stumbled on. “I saw the car — Frank’s car. I know you brought it back from Riverside. I just happened to go into the paper last night. You know, sometimes I have to follow up on a story. I went in last night. I saw the car and what was in the trunk….” I swallowed hard. “Oh, and I read the message on the mirror. I know you’re serious. I don’t doubt you in the least.”

No reply.

“Can I talk to Frank?”

Nothing. Still, he didn’t hang up.

“I’d just like to hear his voice,” I said. “Will you let me talk to him?”

Nothing other than the sound of a highway.

“Are you still there?” I asked.

Freeman walked in from the other room, holding a cellular phone. “They’ve got it,” he whispered to Cassidy, then left the room.

“Are you still there?” I asked again. “Please, let me talk to Frank. Just to know… well, you understand why.”

Freeman came in again, handed a note to Cassidy.

“If you won’t let me talk to him, would you please just say something?”

I waited, but there was no reply.

“Frank’s cousin is going to be out here from Texas,” I said, trying to remember the script I had gone over with Cassidy. “He’s due in today. They’ve planned this visit for weeks. He’s going to be worried when Frank isn’t here. Couldn’t I just talk to Frank for a moment, so that I could tell his cousin that he’s alive?”

I heard the sound of tires screeching on pavement in the background and, not long after, the squawk of a police radio and a dispatcher’s voice.

The police? My panic increased tenfold. If they caught this man, if they didn’t just follow him—

“Ms. Kelly?” a voice said. A different male voice.

“Yes?”

“Las Piernas Police. Would you please put Detective Cassidy on?”

“What have you done with the man who called?” I asked.

“He’s not here, ma’am. Please, just let me speak to—”

I handed the phone over before he could finish.

I waited impatiently while Cassidy talked to him. I couldn’t make out anything from Cassidy’s half of the conversation.

“What happened?” I asked as soon as Cassidy hung up.

“What you heard was a tape being played on a cheap little tape recorder. Phone booth is here in town — gas station near an industrial park. Nobody around this time on a Saturday morning, but of course we’ll be checking that out. Caller made sure you were answering the first time, then called back and pushed the play button.”

“That whole time — no one was there?”

“Probably not. We’ll dust everything for prints, look for witnesses.”

“You won’t find anything.”

“Let’s not make any predictions one way or the other, all right?”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m going to listen to Hank’s tape,” he said.

I hesitated, then followed him into the living room. Freeman, whose head made him look as if he were being paid by the cowlick, sat hunched over a recorder. “In spite of being second generation and all the other problems, it’s very clear,” he said. He played it for us. I listened to myself pleading and cringed.

Cassidy looked at his watch. “Should be getting another call at about ten o’clock.”

“What do we do until then?” I asked.

“Why don’t you try to get a little sleep?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Try.”

“The effort will keep me awake. Besides, I need to call his family.”

The phone rang before he could respond, and once again I leapt to answer it while Freeman scrambled to monitor the call.

“Kelly?”

“Hold on, John.”

I looked over to Cassidy. He motioned to Freeman to turn off the recorder. Freeman hit the button and pulled off his headset.

“You coming in?” John asked.

“No. It’s my day off, remember?”

“I know, but I thought you might want to talk to us before you talk to the competition.”

“Jesus, how do you come up with this crap? Can you just stop thinking about the front page for a minute or two?”

“I’m not trying to upset you, Irene,” he coaxed. “I like Frank, you know I do—”

“Don’t”

“What?”

“It’s been a long damned night, John. I have no — absolutely no — tolerance for bullshit right now. I’ve got to get off the phone. For all I know, a busy signal could cost Frank his life. By the way, the line is tapped.”

“You let the cops put a—”

“Yes.”

“What if one of your sources calls?”

“Not many have this number. I’ll tell them not to talk on this line.”

“Oh, that will be just great!”

“I can’t talk about it now—”

“Listen, you find some other way to call me. Get a cell phone, something — we need to talk.”

“Good-bye, John.”

Cassidy watched me for a moment, then said, “Perhaps we should discuss—”

Before he could say more, the phone rang again. Once again Freeman scrambled to get the headphones on and the tape in motion.

“Irene?”

“Hello, Mark,” I said in resignation. “Don’t say anything yet.”

Once again Cassidy drew a hand across his neck. Freeman turned off the machine and reluctantly removed his headphones.

“Okay,” I said.

“Got a minute to talk?” he asked.

“Did John just tell you to call?”

“I would have called anyway. Will you talk to me?”

Cassidy and Freeman were standing within a few feet of the phone, making no attempt to hide the fact that they were listening to my half of the conversation. “Are you asking me as a friend or are you writing an article?” I asked.

“Both, I guess.”

“I don’t know, Mark. It’s not really a good time—”

“Look, I’m sorry. I asked John to put somebody else on it, but he won’t. I would have waited, but it’s only a matter of hours before you have other media on the way over there.”

“Other media? Here?” I should have thought of it, but nothing was coming to me as quickly as usual.

“So far, we’re the only paper that knows what happened last night, because nobody else monitors the scanners down here.”

“The police used land lines for anything sensitive,” I said.

“Even so, before long, someone in that bomb squad is going to talk to radio or television, and you’re going to have microphones in your face.”

Mark was saying something about how easy it would be for another reporter to find out where we lived, but I was only half listening. I kept thinking of Frank’s mother and sister learning about him from a television or radio broadcast or, worse, being approached for an interview. (“Mrs. Harriman, do you believe there is any hope that your son is still alive? How do you feel at a time like this?”) Thought about the number of times I’d seen a television crew broadcast the movements of a SWAT team as they took position in a hostage situation. “I can’t talk now,” I said to Mark, my self-control slipping. “I’ll call you later.”

I hung up. Cassidy and Freeman were watching me; I could see they wanted to ask me questions about Mark’s call. “Forget it,” I said.

Cassidy told Freeman to call Bredloe and ask for help with media control.

That wasn’t the answer, either, as far as I was concerned. “I’d rather make my own decisions about whether or not I’ll talk to the media,” I said.

“I can see why you feel that way,” Cassidy said. “And no one is trying to keep you from telling your story at some point down the road. But one of the key elements in any successful hostage negotiation is control of what gets out through the media. Hocus is going to watch television, listen to the radio, read the paper.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Think about the kinds of things this group has done so far. While we may never find anything rational behind all this, they seem to be anarchists of a sort. We’ve got two of them in the pokey, and they seem happy to become martyrs. Don’t you think they’re on a mission?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Hard to tell.”

He looked at me as if I were just being stubborn, which I now admit I was. At the time, I was feeling leaned upon, and stubborn seemed like a good response.

“Look at their possible motivations,” he persisted. “You think someone takes a cop for the ransom money?”

“No. I think they want their friends back out of jail.”

“Maybe as an immediate goal. But if these folks are making trouble for political reasons, they may be looking for a little airtime. Sometimes the members of these groups are willing to die for their cause — as far as they’re concerned, it will be worth it if y’all will help to make them famous.”

“If you’re about to hint that I’d be willing to let Frank join them on their ride to glory in exchange for a byline, stop now.”

“No, ma’am. Not at all. I’ll try to make myself clear. I’m telling you that if you want to write about it later, I’m all for it. No one is trying to prevent that. But for now, let us handle it, okay?”

I wasn’t sure it was in my nature to make that kind of promise. “You don’t know that Hocus is like other groups. Other groups would have published a list of demands. You don’t even know what they want.”

“I have a feeling, Irene, that they plan to tell us very soon. Now, I know you want to cooperate with the press. That’s only natural, given your line of work. At some point, you’ll be able to talk to anyone you want to talk to. I want that to be because Frank is home safe, not because we did something that got him killed.”

He was waiting for a reply.

I couldn’t give him one. I excused myself and made another small escape. I went into the bathroom and washed my face with cold water. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Something in that unmerciful glass image fully awakened me.

It was the thought of all the tense and weary faces I had seen over my years as a reporter. I was starting to get that look in my eyes, the one I had seen in theirs. I’d interviewed lots of them.

If you’re a reporter, and the victim in your crime story is dead or missing or otherwise unavailable, you do your level best to talk to somebody who gives a damn about that victim. If you fail to do so, nobody gives a damn about your story. So you look for the relatives, the lovers, the best friends. They’ll have your story for you. The cops just have what passes for facts.

Facts aren’t enough for your readers. Readers want to see that sentence, the one that makes your editor say something like, “Great quote from the widow.” No matter how gentle or respectful you are when you’re with the people you interview, the truth is, you’re after their hearts.

A few of the people you talk to don’t have the look. But if the loved one is missing, if there’s no body yet — after a while, they almost always do. I’ve seen it many times — on the face of a father whose daughter had not come home after working a night shift at a college radio station; the face of a wife whose spouse had not returned from a sailing trip; the face of a mother whose son had become separated from the other hikers on a forest trail. It’s not just the worry and fatigue that wears them down. It’s the helplessness. Knowing that something awful may be happening to someone they love and they can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Screw that,” I said to the woman in the mirror.

I had some phone calls to make.

10

“SO, HOW DID HIS MOM TAKE IT?” Rachel asked me.

Pete and Rachel had arrived not long after he got word that Hocus had called. He wasn’t looking so hot.

“Not well,” I answered. “ ‘Hysterics’ is too mild a term for it.”

“Understandable, I suppose.”

“I called his sister first. Have you met Cassie?”

Rachel shook her head.

“Hmm. You’d like her. She was upset, but she took it better than his mom did. She offered to tell her mom, but that didn’t seem right to me. I didn’t want Bea to think I would tell Cassie and not her. Cassie went over there, though, so Bea has some company. I stayed on the phone with Bea until Cassie got there.”

Cassie didn’t live far from Frank’s mother, and the conversation with Bea Harriman probably didn’t last more than twenty minutes. Although Bea Harriman had stoically borne the worries of a cop’s wife throughout her marriage to Frank’s dad, as a cop’s mother she felt no similar need to confine her emotions. Healthier for her, I’m sure, but it had been a long twenty minutes for me.

I looked over at Pete. He was sitting on the couch, hunched forward over his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He was staring at the floor. Every few minutes he looked at his watch. “You’ve met Frank’s mom, right, Pete?”

“What?”

That was how he had answered my last three questions. I asked the question again, as I had the others. It was like listening to a radio that was losing a signal — I had to tune him in again before he could reply.

“Sure,” he said. “Yeah, sure, I’ve met his mom.” His eyes widened suddenly. “You told her yet?”

Rachel swore under her breath, but I simply repeated the gist of the conversation he had been too preoccupied to listen to.

“I shoulda thought of calling her,” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” Rachel said testily. She held out a hand and began counting off his regrets on her fingers. “You should have known something was hinky when Ross left a message asking for Frank. You should’ve gone out to Riverside with Frank. You should have checked up on him earlier. You should have told Carlson and the rest of the assholes in Homicide to quit riding Frank—”

“That’s right, goddammit!” he snapped. He stood up and walked toward the sliding glass doors, then abruptly turned away. I knew what had happened just then — it had happened to me earlier. He had looked through those glass doors and had seen Frank’s garden. His fists were clenched now, and he looked like he wanted to punch something. Seeing him pace toward the kitchen, Henry Freeman stood up and made a hasty retreat to the guest room. Cassidy, who had just showered and changed clothes, was leaning up against the counter that separates the kitchen and the living room, drinking a cup of coffee. He didn’t flinch as Pete approached.

In a voice that barely reached above a whisper, Cassidy asked, “You get any sleep at all last night, Pete?”

Pete stopped pacing, unclenched his fists.

“I didn’t think so,” Cassidy said. “Why don’t we take a stroll down to the end of the block? I haven’t even seen the water yet. I could use some fresh air.”

Pete looked at his watch. “They might call….”

“I doubt it. I think they’ll be right on time.”

Pete seemed to consider the offer, then said, “I can’t. They might call.”

“Let’s just go out front, then, sit on the steps for a while.”

Pete looked over to Rachel. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll run out and get you if the phone rings.”

When they had gone outside, Rachel said, “I shouldn’t have lost my temper with him. This is so hard on him.”

“I know.”

“Sorry. Not any easier on you.”

“Pete learn anything more out in Riverside?” I asked, wanting to change the subject.

“A little. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Cassidy, because I don’t want to get Pete in trouble. It’s not much, anyway. The Riverside PD was canvassing the neighborhood, trying to locate anyone who might have seen anything, but it’s a pretty isolated area. There’s a business park and a railway nearby, but not many houses.”

“Do they have any idea when this happened? How long Frank has been with these people?”

She shrugged. “Hard to say. They know roughly what time Frank probably arrived at the house — figuring the time he left here, allowing for traffic, and so on. And they can estimate the time of Dana Ross’s death. No one saw the car arrive at the Express, so that leaves a big gap between Ross’s death and the time it would take for Hocus to bring the car to Las Piernas. And no one knows if Frank was still in Riverside when Ross was shot.”

“No one saw anything?”

“If they did, they aren’t saying a word. Like I said, it’s an isolated area. Riverside PD is doing all they can. You know Pete — he wouldn’t have come home if he thought he could pester them into doing more. Several freight trains passed by during the day, and Riverside is even trying to contact the crews, just in case anyone happened to see or hear anything.” She paused, then added, “They found a .38 slug in the porch railing; the bullet that killed Ross was the same caliber.”

“Frank’s gun.”

“Maybe — but even if it is, that doesn’t mean Frank was the shooter,” she said quickly. “And he wouldn’t just hand over his weapon. Like I told you last night, there were signs of a struggle — he probably fought them.”

I covered my face with my hands, as if that act could block images of what “signs of a struggle” might really mean; the words had not registered in the same way the first time.

“There was blood,” she said. “I mean, other than the victim’s.”

I pulled my hands away and looked at her.

“On the porch and in the house,” she said. “Could be Frank’s.”

I groaned. “Oh, Jesus.” I thought of the trunk of the car. If that was Frank’s blood… and there was more in the house….

“How much blood?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“How much blood?”

Still she hesitated.

“Rachel, if our situations were reversed—”

“Pete thought it could have come from a good-sized cut or gash.”

As we grew closer to the time for Hocus’s call, conversation died off. I started pacing. Rachel seemed to be staring out into the backyard, but I think she was keeping an eye on Pete. Although she wasn’t touching him, she would look at him every time he moved. Pete sat staring at his wristwatch, his expression tight and strained. Henry Freeman kept checking the connections on his computer. Cassidy had positioned himself between Pete and the phone and was reading from a file folder — this one filled with old clippings about Hocus. He was wearing an earphone for a remote extension that Freeman had hooked up. Cody was on the mantel — he barely managed to keep most of his twenty pounds on it. His attempt to appear to be sound asleep was spoiled by the twitching of his tail. The dogs lay near me, heads on paws, brows raised in worried watch.

Ten o’clock. Silence, except for Pete murmuring, “C’mon, c’mon….”

The first ring brought everyone — man, woman, and beast — to their feet. Pete started to move closer to the phone, but Rachel blocked his way. Cassidy said, “You gave me your word, Baird.” Pete sat down.

I clasped the receiver, nearly unable to restrain myself from answering until Henry nodded. I picked it up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Irene Kelly,” a voice said. A young man’s voice, not the same as the one on the tape recording. “Give our regards to Detective Cassidy, too, please. There, that saves you having to resort to any silly business — what would it have been, a brother from Texas?” Before I could answer, he went on. “I suppose Detective Baird is there, also?”

“I want to talk to Frank.”

“Of course you do. But we haven’t got much time. In fact, let me call you right back.”

There was a click and a dial tone.

Henry Freeman made a call on a cellular phone.

His face registered disappointment “Not long enough,” he said to Cassidy.

“Tell them to stay on the line, we’re expecting another call,” Cassidy said. He turned to me. “Hank is in contact with the folks who are working with the phone company to trace the call. Notice anything different about this last call?”

“It wasn’t a tape recording this time,” I said. “The caller replied directly to what I said. I couldn’t hear any background noise this time, and the voice was much clearer.” My hands were shaking.

“What did they say?” Pete asked, frantic.

“Hang in there, Baird. I’ll go over it with you in just a sec. You all set up, Hank?” Cassidy asked.

Freeman nodded just as the phone rang again.

“Ms. Kelly? Sorry.” The same man’s voice. “This should work a little better. Cassidy will try to trace all of these calls, of course, so you and I will have very brief conversations.”

“You know my name, what’s yours?”

“We’ll get to introductions later. Now, listen carefully. I’ll be speaking rapidly, but you’ll undoubtedly have a tape to work from. First, you must learn how we met Detective Harriman. We met him where you met him. Drive out to your former employer’s offices there. Go to the library. Talk to Brandon North. He’s expecting you to arrive at one-thirty.”

“But it takes three hours—”

“Yes, and that’s if traffic isn’t bad. Mr. North isn’t usually there on Saturdays, so he might not wait around. You’d better get going. And don’t make Mr. North wait, because that forces us to wait. I’m sure you understand that Detective Harriman’s health depends upon your willingness to follow instructions in a timely manner.”

“Wait—”

“Oh, we can’t wait too long. But you want to talk to him, don’t you?”

“Yes—”

“We’ll call back.”

He hung up again.

“Hank?” Cassidy asked.

“No, sir.”

This time the silence began to stretch out longer.

“After we get this next call, I’ll let you listen to the tape, Pete,” Cassidy said. “Irene, did you—”

The phone rang again.

“Irene?”

“Frank! Oh, Jesus—”

“You sound scared. Don’t worry, I’m okay,” he said, his speech thick and slow. “God, I had the best dream about you.” He started laughing. “I’d better not tell.”

Laughing? “Frank?”

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?”

“God, no, Frank—”

“So where are you?”

“Where am I? Frank, are you—”

The call was disconnected.

“No!” I cried out.

The phone rang again.

“He’s fine,” the young man’s voice came on again. I could hear Frank saying, “Hey, I wanna talk to her.”

“He doesn’t sound fine. His speech was slurred. What have you done to him?”

“Versed. Just a small dose, a little something to take the edge off. You give it to someone, and later they tend not to remember what happened to them while they were on it. Thought we’d use it this time instead of the morphine.”

“Instead of morphine? Why was—”

“He’ll be fast asleep in a few minutes. We’ll take care of him, Ms. Kelly. As long as you cooperate, of course.”

“What is it you want?”

“Let’s just take this one step at a time. Meanwhile, I assure you, we sincerely hope we won’t be required to cause Detective Harriman any further injury.”

“Further injury?”

“Not to worry. We’re taking good care of him. He’s our hero, after all.”

“Your hero?”

“Henry Freeman has probably made some progress by now, so we’ll say good-bye.”

“Henry Freeman hasn’t got a clue where you are. Let me talk to Frank again, I have to tell him—”

A click.

Henry, still on the cellular phone, looked at Cassidy and shook his head.

Pete started shouting questions.

“Play the tape for them, Hank,” Cassidy said.

We all listened together. Freeman had made a very clear recording. This time around I was prepared for Frank’s laughter, so it affected me differently. He was alive. He could speak to me, he could laugh. He was alive. I felt tears of relief welling up. I needed more sleep, I told myself, and made another grab at a slender thread of self-control.

Focus on the immediate problem. Think about what they said. I glanced at Cassidy. He was studying me. “What’s Versed?” I asked.

Freeman opened a black nylon packet and pulled out a compact disc, then slid it into his computer. He typed something, then said, “Schedule Four drug.”

“It’s a product that’s subject to the Controlled Substances Act of 1970,” Cassidy translated. “Morphine is Schedule Two, the category for drugs with high potential for abuse; they may lead to severe dependence. Schedule Four has a low potential for abuse.”

“What are you reading from, Detective Freeman?” I asked.

He looked up. “The PDR — Physician’s Desk Reference — I’ve got it on CD.”

“What else does it say about Versed, Hank?” Cassidy asked, then added quickly, “Just the basics.”

“Short-acting benzodiazepine CNS depressant,” Freeman went on. “Sedates three to five minutes after IV injection, fifteen minutes after IM.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Pete asked.

“It’s a central nervous system depressant,” Cassidy said, and began reading over Freeman’s shoulder. “Looks like they’ve been around hospital drug supplies — had access to them or stolen from them. Hank, let’s make sure we get calls going on that. This isn’t something that’s popular out on the streets. My guess is, Frank’s hooked up to an intravenous feeding device; I’d assume that means his hands aren’t free, or they’d have to worry that he could take it out. IM means ‘intramuscular’ — a needle injection.”

“A shot?” Pete asked.

“Yes. Versed has to be given as a shot or through an IV. Isn’t available in pill form. Sounds like they started him out on morphine, but gave him this for the phone call. It’s something like Valium. When you first give someone a dose of it, he may be giddy and talkative.”

“You’re saying Frank was high,” Rachel said.

“Absolutely. They’re clearly sedating him,” Cassidy said.

“Is he in danger from these drugs?” I asked.

Cassidy paused, then said, “Any sedative can be dangerous, especially if the person administering it doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m guessing these people know something about medicine, because they’ve chosen to use a drug that isn’t commonly on the street, and knew its effects.”

Pete put an arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Irene. I’m so damned sorry.”

“Not your fault, Pete. No one is blaming you but yourself. I want to talk to you more about that later, but right now I’ve got to get out to Bakersfield.”

“That’s what he was asking you to do? To go to Bakersfield?”

“Yes.”

“You used to work for the library there?” Hank asked, regarding me with new respect.

“No, the newspaper. The Californian. He means the library at the newspaper — newspapers used to call that part of the paper ‘the morgue.’ Among other things, it’s where you find back issues, file photos, stuff like that. Brandon North has worked there for a long time. We haven’t talked to each other for a couple of years now, but we used to keep in touch. I’m sure he’ll help if he can.”

“Hank,” Cassidy said, “start making calls to the other CIT members. Let them know where things stand — start by giving Captain Bredloe a call.”

Hank nodded.

“CIT?” I asked

Cassidy turned back to me. “Critical Incident Team. I’ll give you the rundown on it later — for now, think about the voices on the calls. Anything recognizable? Maybe someone who used to work with you in Bakersfield?”

I shook my head. “No. Too young. Everyone I worked with would be older. I haven’t worked there since I first graduated from college.”

“What can we do to help, Irene?” Rachel asked before Pete or Cassidy could ask another question.

“Call Bea and Cassie and Jack, let them know he’s alive.” Alive. I held on to the word. “I’m going to take a quick shower and change clothes. I’ve got to get on the road.”

“I’ll drive,” Cassidy said.

“I don’t know if they’ll—”

“Don’t go alone,” Pete said. “It could be a trap. Maybe they want to take you as a hostage, too.”

“They know I’m involved,” Cassidy said. “They don’t seem especially concerned about it. I’m sure my ego will recover eventually, but in the meantime, I’m thinking that Pete’s absolutely right — you shouldn’t go alone. Besides, I’d follow you out there anyway. No reason to take two cars. And I think it’d be easier to get my frail little old granny to climb Mount Everest than it would be to get that old car of yours over the Tejon Pass.”

“I hope your granny has fewer miles on her,” I said, and heard Pete laugh for the first time all day. I started to leave the room. I stopped and looked back at Cassidy. He was grinning. “Okay, you can drive me out there. Can you make a strong cup of coffee?”

“If we put my coffee in the tank of that Karmann Ghia, it just might make it over the pass after all.”

“Thermos is in the cabinet over the refrigerator,” I said. “I’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”

“And they say Texans lie,” he said, but I was on my way to prove him wrong.

11

I DIDN’T DRINK ANY of Cassidy’s java-flavored rocket fuel until the trip was more than halfway over, after I awoke with a start while we were somewhere on I-5 between Castaic and Pyramid Lakes. At his suggestion I held off on the coffee before that, sleeping from Torrance to the Tehachapis. I had argued with him at first, insisting on trying to stay awake, but he does, after all, earn part of his living by negotiating, and he won that round. I’m still not sure how it happened.

My awakening was abrupt, but to a pleasant view. The previous winter’s rains had been heavy, so the mountainsides were softly covered in a hundred shades of green. Cassidy had turned off his air conditioner — a wise precaution on the steep grades leading up to the pass — and his window was rolled down. I rolled mine down, too. The air was cool and clean, the sky a deep, dark blue. L.A. was out of sight, out of mind.

I stretched, took in the scenery, and shook off the dream that had awakened me. Cassidy glanced over at me. I was startled to see him looking worried. Mr. Calm, worried? In the next moment I knew what had happened.

I uncapped the thermos, avoiding his eyes. Inhaled the aroma of the coffee, poured it, praying he wasn’t glancing at my hands. “What was it this time?” I asked. “Just talking, or did I yell and scream?”

“You didn’t scream,” he said. Calm again.

“Oh, so just yelling, then. Well! Not bad under the circumstances.”

“No need to be embarrassed,” he said.

“Who’s embarrassed?” I took a sip of the coffee. Strong. Very strong.

“You are. But you needn’t be. Fact of the matter is, I’d forgotten your history.”

“My history,” I said flatly. Held both hands around the cup, held it up close to my lips, felt the steam warm my face. “Now, that’s a term used for patients and parolees, isn’t it? People who can’t be trusted to behave themselves. ‘Subject has a history of — ’ ”

“Is that what you think I’m implying?”

I didn’t answer.

“By ‘your history,’ ” he said, “I was simply referring to what has happened to you in the past. The fact that you were once held captive.”

“I had forgotten that you’d have access to that information. No photos, of course. Did they do a pretty good job of describing it in the police files? The bruises, the dislocated shoulder?”

“More than that,” he said quietly.

“Oh, yes,” I said, looking out the window. “More than that.”

“You have any permanent physical problems?”

I shook my head, not caring if he could see my response.

“Your physical recovery isn’t what’s remarkable, you know.”

“Let’s just drop it, okay?”

“You’re doing very well. Most people—”

“How well I’m doing isn’t what’s really important right now,” I said. “Do you want any of this coffee?”

“Every hostage has dreams.”

“Thank you, Dr. Freud. Mine are of large bananas, snakes, tunnels, and pomegranates. What do you suppose it all means?”

He smiled but didn’t reply.

The silence stretched out. “Sorry,” I said after a while. “I just don’t like to talk about it.”

“I didn’t get the information from a department file,” he said, as if I had invited him to take up where he left off. “Frank talked to me after you came home.”

“What?”

“Oh, not very directly, ’least not at first. Stopped by my desk one day, started asking about posttraumatic syndrome in hostages. What was typical, how long did it last, and such.”

I just stared at him in disbelief.

“Frank’s a quiet man,” he went on. “I didn’t figure it was too easy on him to bring the subject up. I knew you had been home for a few days. Everyone else was patting him on the back, saying how glad they were that you had been found alive. He was glad, too, but he looked tired.”

“Exhausted,” I said. “We were both exhausted. For weeks afterward, I rarely slept through a night.”

“And now?”

“Better. Much better, for the most part. I wouldn’t leave the house at first.”

He waited.

“It takes more to trigger a nightmare,” I said, giving in. “Some things still bother me — I still can’t stand to be in confined spaces for very long. Sometimes, I’ll think, Oh, it’s all behind me, and then I’ll find myself standing in line in a grocery store, and someone is saying, ‘Lady? Lady? Are you okay?’ because I’ve let my mind wander, and it’s wandered to that time, and I’m remembering.”

“But it isn’t like a memory.”

“No. It’s as if I’m there.”

“You think about being hurt?”

“No, not usually. If I’m thinking about myself, I think about being scared, afraid of what would come next. Other times….”

“Other times?” he prompted.

“I killed someone,” I said. “I think about him. About ending his life.”

“What happened?”

“I thought you said Frank talked to you.”

“You tell me.”

I almost balked again, but there he was, relaxed as ever, and I wanted to shake his complacency. At first, that’s what I wanted. But by the time we were over the Tejon Pass and looking down into the San Joaquin Valley, I had confided in him to a degree that I had confided in few others. Usually, recalling those events is an invitation to a certain amount of emotional upheaval, and I found myself wondering not only why I had spoken so freely, but also why I felt relieved rather than devastated. I began to realize that in some way Cassidy’s quiet calm had been extended to me, and I had grabbed on to it. It had slowed my reactions, protected me from all the emotions usually so easily aroused when I thought of the time of my captivity.

Cassidy was silent, but there was no uneasiness in it.

He stopped at a gas station in Grapevine even though he still had half a tank, paying an extortionist’s price for a few gallons of regular while I went into the rest room and washed my face.

When I came out he had pulled the car away from the pumps and parked it on the side of the station. He was leaning against the car, arms folded, watching the other customers. The wind was gusty, and I had to use both hands to hold my skirt down as I crossed the pavement. When I had dressed that morning I had considered wearing jeans, but when I’d remembered that he was wearing a suit, I’d decided to wear work clothes. I didn’t know who else might be hanging around at the Californian on a Saturday, but it would be best not to attract too much attention. Now, walking awkwardly to the car, I wished I had remembered about the wind and worn slacks. Cassidy saw me and grinned before he turned to open the passenger door for me.

“You doing okay?” he asked once we were both inside. He hadn’t put the key in the ignition yet.

“Yes,” I said, self-conscious again.

“Thanks for talking to me about it,” he said, starting the car.

“I surprised myself,” I admitted. “Frank and Jack are the only other people who’ve heard the whole story. Unless Frank already told you most of this?”

“No,” he said. “No, he hasn’t. He really didn’t give me too many particulars.”

“Are you friends?”

“With Frank?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, not exactly. We’re friendly, but not close. I do like Frank. Probably because he is one of two people in the whole damned department who never thought it would be a hilarious and original joke to call me ‘Hopalong.’ ”

“Who’s the other one?”

“Me.”

I laughed. “I’d think the two of you would get along well.”

“We do get along. We just don’t usually end up handling the same cases. Once or twice he’s caught one of the ones that didn’t turn out the way I had hoped.”

“What does that mean?”

“The CIT — our team — gets called out to negotiate all sorts of critical incidents — suicide threats, kidnappings, hostage takings, and barricade situations — bank robberies, domestic violence, you name it. Much as I’d like to say we’re one hundred percent successful, we’re not. Over the years, Frank’s caught a couple of cases where someone threatening suicide went ahead and did it before I could talk them out of it. Had a domestic barricade situation go bad last year.”

“The one where the man was holding his wife and three kids at gunpoint?”

“Yes.”

“But you got the kids out.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t say anything more.

“I think I remember the story — something about one of the wife’s relatives?”

“Her brother. The brother was with an intelligence negotiator, giving us information on the husband and weapons he might have, and so forth.”

“What’s an intelligence negotiator?”

“Part of the team — person who gathers as much information as possible on the suspect and anything else relevant to the situation. Ideally, there’s a separate, secured area where this person interviews anyone who has information that may be of some use.”

“And this time there wasn’t?”

“There was, but the intelligence officer got distracted when the kids were released. While the officer was trying to talk to the kids about the situation in the house, the brother decided to play the hero. Snuck off and tried to break through the perimeter we had set up, but didn’t make it. We caught him. All the same, there was scuffling and he started shouting. Husband heard the noise and decided we were sending the SWAT team in. He just lost it. Shot her, shot himself.”

I stared out the window for a moment. “How old are you, Cassidy?”

“I’m forty-two.” He smiled. “Now you know why I’m gray headed — sure as hell ain’t the years.”

Now I know why you understand people who have nightmares, I thought, but didn’t say it.

“I probably shouldn’t be talking to you about failures,” he said after a minute. “I don’t suppose I’ve inspired your confidence.”

“You’re wrong.” I looked over at him. “You know what? I think you know you’re wrong. I think one of the first things you learn about anyone is how to inspire his or her confidence.”

He laughed. “Hell, Irene, sometimes I really do just talk.”

“Sure, Cassidy. Sure.”

After miles of hills and mountain grades, we came to the highways that cross the southern end of the San Joaquin Valley, which are flat and waste no time with curves. They practically beg for speed. We took the Highway 99 turnoff and flew past exits for Mettler and Pumpkin Center and Weed Patch. Tumbleweeds skipped across the highway.

“Lordy,” Cassidy said, “if it weren’t for the palm trees lining that road over there, I’d be afraid I’d died and gone to Amarillo to pay for my sins.”

“I like it out here,” I told him. “Makes me think of my grandmother’s farm in Kansas. Look — there’s a windmill.” I pointed to one that stood just east of the road. “She had one like that.”

“Excited over a windmill, are you? Things must be slow in the Las Piernas newsroom.”

I ignored that. “You can see for miles. Crops are growing. There are cattle and—”

“You see a couple of cows and a pumpkin patch, and you get all romantic about it, thinking of your grandma. I see backbreaking work. I moved from our family farm to Austin just so I could keep the bottom of my boots clean.”

“Did it work?”

“Nope. Got into law enforcement and I’ve been stepping in somebody else’s BS every day since.”

“At least you’ll enjoy the music out here. Bakersfield bills itself as the C and W capital of California.”

He grimaced. “Did I ever tell you how I came to live on the West Coast?”

What the hell. “No, Cassidy, even though I’ve known you for about a dozen hours now, I’m afraid you’ve never told me.”

“Well, I was in Texas, and I had my radio on. All I could tune in was Jesus men and country-western music. So I started driving, trying to get to where I could hear something different. Next thing I knew, I was in California.”

I laughed. “And I suppose you had to go to work in Las Piernas just so you could earn gas money to get back home.”

“Oh, no. Once I learned I could live some place that had something else on the radio, I never wanted to leave.”

“We’d better keep the radio off here, then, and plan on amusing ourselves with conversation.”

“A cinch.”

“Cassidy?”

“Hmm.”

“I’ve been to Texas — including Austin. I’d swear I heard all kinds of music there.”

He just grinned.

“Take a right on Truxtun,” I told him. “There are some lettered streets after that — A, B, C, and so on. But when you get to H, the next street is Eye — E-y-e.”

“I like that,” he said. “Somebody had a sense of humor right from the start.”

“Turn left on Eye. The paper’s at Eye and Seventeenth Street.”

Built in the 1920s, 1707 Eye Street is a handsome brick edifice. Tall, elaborate columns with composite capitals adorn the front of the building; a turret graces the upper right corner, a balcony the other.

“ ‘Bakersfield, Californian. Established 1866,’ ” Cassidy read aloud.

“Bakersfield was a town of cowboys, miners, and railroad workers then,” I said.

“So what’s changed?”

I smiled. “Oil, for one thing. The business of agriculture, for another. You ought to give the place a chance, Cassidy.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t mean to offend,” he said.

We stepped out of the car. I looked at my watch. One twenty-five. “You made good time. We’ve got five minutes to spare.”

He shrugged, as if to say this was to be expected. “When did you work here?” he asked.

“Right after college,” I said. “I interned at the Express, but my first full-time, paying job on a newspaper was here at the Californian.”

“Do me a favor,” he said. “Don’t let your friend know I’m with the police.”

Whatever feelings of goodwill I might have been building toward Cassidy were demolished with that request. “Forget it. Brandon is doing me a big favor by letting me into the building. I don’t work for this paper now, remember? He’s an old friend or I’d be locked out. I’m not lying to him. You’ll have to wait downstairs for me.”

I rang the night bell before Cassidy could say more, and a young security guard immediately let us in through the polished brass doors, which were locked on weekends, then went back to his desk to answer a phone. I saw a balding man of medium height waiting just inside the entry. He grinned as we walked in and extended a hand.

“Irene! God, it’s great to see you again!”

“Good to see you, too, Brandon,” I said, shaking hands.

He looked back at Cassidy. “Are you the fellow who called to set this up?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Cassidy replied. “I’m just Ms. Kelly’s ride.”

Brandon laughed. “What is this, Irene? You have all the men at the Express ready to satisfy your every whim?”

“If only you knew what a disgusting thought that is, Brandon,” I said. “No, this is Detective Thomas Cassidy of the Las Piernas Police Department.”

I saw Cassidy look up at the room’s high ceiling. Fairly certain he wasn’t suddenly interested in the patterns on the painted wood beams, I felt smug satisfaction at seeing his armor crack.

“Police?” Brandon was saying. “I’m sorry, but I can’t—”

“Detective Cassidy will be waiting right here.”

Cassidy, damn him, just smiled.

“Oh, well—”

“Mr. North,” Cassidy said in confiding tones, too soft for the security guard to overhear, “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions before you take the ungrateful Ms. Kelly on back to the library?”

Brandon seemed totally confused.

“Cassidy,” I warned, my irritation growing.

“I’m out of my jurisdiction, of course,” he said. “I could drive on over to the Bakersfield Police Department, which my own department has already contacted. I used my cell phone and spoke to someone there on the drive up here — Ms. Kelly was asleep, so she’s unaware that we’ve obtained their full cooperation.”

“Cassidy,” I tried again.

“They’d probably be happy to send someone over to question you, Mr. North,” he continued, “but then you’d have at least three people connected to law enforcement agencies walking around in your newspaper offices. Might attract attention.”

“Three?” Brandon asked.

“Ms. Kelly’s husband works with me.”

“Husband?” Brandon looked at me in surprise.

“You married a cop?”

Hearing Brandon’s exclamation, the security guard looked our way.

“Yes,” I said. “Look, Brandon, let’s step outside for a minute, okay?”

Five minutes later a sheen of perspiration had broken out on Brandon’s forehead.

“God, what a mess! Irene, if you had told me what was going on here, I would have understood. You must be worried sick.” He paused, then said, “Oh, Jesus — you’re saying I talked to a kidnapper!”

“Can you describe the voice of the man who called you on the phone?” Cassidy asked.

“A young man. I don’t know why I say that, but — he just sounded young.” He started pacing. He glanced at Cassidy, then said, “No accent. I mean, none that I could hear. Seemed well educated.”

“When did he call?” Cassidy asked.

“Yesterday. Just before I went home. About three-thirty. Said he was an intern working with Irene, that she had asked him to call. Told me she needed to look through the old files — something on microfilm — wondered would I help her out. I said, ‘Sure, tell me what it is and I’ll make a copy and fax it to her.’ He said she wanted to see me personally and she’d be up in Bakersfield today anyway. If I’d meet her at one-thirty, she’d look it up and then we could go out for a cup of coffee afterward. He got my fax number and said he’d send a list of the things she needed to see.” He turned to me. “Why do you think he told you to come to the paper, Irene?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t had a lot of time to think about it. I suppose I might have written a story that will have something to do with this. Some similar case, maybe. I was on the crime beat when I worked here.”

“Did he send the list?” Cassidy asked.

“Yes, a fax was waiting for me when I came in.”

“Recall anything else about him?”

“Oh, yeah. He was very friendly. He sounded polite. He said Irene had told him all about me and my family. That’s why I didn’t even question his connection to her. He knew I was married. Knew I had five kids. Even knew their names—” He grew pale. “My God! You don’t think he’d harm my family?”

“I don’t think that’s likely at all, but here,” Cassidy said, pulling out his cellular phone. “Why don’t you check on them? Go ahead, call them.”

Brandon looked at him with gratitude and quickly punched in a series of numbers. He bit his lower lip while the call went through, then said, “Honey? Oh, thank God. Thank God. Listen, something’s come up. I can’t talk about it right now, but please take the kids and go over to my dad’s house, okay?” He paused. “No, right now, okay? Yeah, I’m fine. This is urgent…. Yes. On a cellular phone…. No — listen, just do this for me, okay? Right now…. No, Dad’sfine. I’m fine, too. Just go, okay?… Yes…. Thankyou…. Yes. I love you, too. Bye.”

He looked like he was ready to cry.

“Use it again,” Cassidy offered. “Let your dad know he’s about to have a passel of kids over there.”

“Thank you,” Brandon said. He dialed again. “Dad? I need your help…. No, not money. Just listen, okay? I’m worried about Louise and the kids. They’re coming over to your place…. Yes, I know what A1 broke the last time he was there. I’ll pay for anything they break, Dad. Listen. Please…. Oh, for crying out loud!”

He looked up at Cassidy. “He hung up!”

Cassidy took the phone and pressed the redial button.

“Mr. North? Good afternoon, sir. This is Detective Thomas Cassidy of the Las Piernas Police Department. We have reason to believe that there is a possibility — just a slim possibility — that your grandchildren may be in danger. I’m on an unsecured line here, so I can’t go into details, but we asked your son to think of someone who could defend his wife and children until police protection could be arranged. He named you, sir. Your son will probably be calling you to let you know more about all of this, but I wanted to make sure you were up to the job…. Well, sir, he seems to believe you are capable, but I would hate to see an elderly gentleman placed in a position of…. Well, I’m sure you do know how to use a shotgun…. Why, no, that’s not very old at all. But you also need to be willing, sir. Sometimes people are not as kind to their kin as you’d expect them to be…. Well, no wonder he’s so certain of your help, then. As I said, he’ll probably be calling, so I won’t tie up the line. Thank you, sir…. Good day to you, too, sir — and please be very careful with that gun around the children, now…. Yes, that’s a wise precaution. Good-bye.”

He hung up, pressed redial one more time, and handed the phone back to Brandon, who was now looking at him like he was Moses come to take him to the Promised Land. I had known for some minutes that Cassidy was going to get into the library at the Californian. Now I was wondering if Brandon would remember to include me.

We went back into the building and headed up to the third floor. At first I thought Brandon was taking us into the newsroom, but he saw my confusion and said, “The library moved since you worked here. It’s right next to the newsroom now.” We entered a long, narrow room. Painted white and filled with sunlight from the large windows along one wall, it was a more pleasant research environment than our windowless tomb at the Express. A long row of putty-colored file cabinets — or, rather, pairs of file cabinets placed back to back — took up most of the room. Newspapers and long, gray metal boxes were stacked on top of the cabinets. Brandon walked to his desk, which was at the far end of the library.

“Let’s see, now. Where did I put that fax?” He began shuffling through a pile of papers.

An interior set of windows ran along part of the wall that partitioned the library from the newsroom. I looked through them, wondering if I would see any familiar faces on the other side. But it was Saturday afternoon, and there wasn’t much activity. The few reporters who were in the room were busy at their desks, not interested in looking at the library. I didn’t recognize any of them.

“Feeling nostalgic?” I heard a voice drawl behind me.

“No,” I lied, and kept staring through the glass. A moment later Cassidy walked away. I was glad. He had managed to stick to me like a burr on a foxtail, and I was tired of it. I didn’t want him intruding on this particular ground. We all have our sacred places, and I couldn’t help it if this part of Bakersfield was one of mine. I had learned to be a reporter at this paper. My college instructors might have taught me how to close my hands around the tools of the trade, but this was where I really learned to use them. I paid my dues here, in this city, in this newsroom. Both had changed, but that didn’t matter. Looking through that window, I saw the newsroom not as it was, but as it had been not so long ago.

When I first came to Bakersfield, manual typewriters were giving way to electrics, and a few hotshots had portable computers — although what passed for a portable computer then was a far cry from the notebook computers of today. A newsroom sounded different then. It was a noisy place, filled with the clatter of typewriters and the grinding rasp of carriage returns; the chunk-chunk-chunk of the Teletype; bells — real bells, ringing bells on everything — typewriters, Teletypes, and even telephones. Voices.

I thought of a young rookie cop I used to meet for breakfast at a nearby coffee shop at the end of our night shifts.

“I found it!” Brandon said. Then, noticing where I was standing, he asked, “You want to go into the newsroom, for old times’ sake?”

“No, thanks, Brandon. Not with a cop in tow.” I said it to irritate Cassidy, but it was really for old times’ sake that I refused to enter that changed world, with its muted keyboards and paperless monitors and silent wire services.

Brandon handed the fax to me. Cassidy moved closer, read over my shoulder.

Beneath a phony version of the Express’s letterhead, a fax purporting to be from me to Brandon listed four dates, all from one year.

June 18

June 19

September 23

October 26

“Mean anything to you, Irene?” Cassidy asked.

“Not offhand. But these aren’t my stories. This was the year after I left the paper.”

“Let’s pull the microfilm,” Brandon said.

We followed him out into the hallway and entered to a nearby room, where there were microfilm storage cabinets, each with a padlocked locking bar down the front.

“Why do you lock them up?” Cassidy asked.

“This collection contains every issue of the paper since 1866, except for one missing year. That one walked out of here one day before we started locking the cabinets.”

He used a key to unlock one padlock and pulled two boxes from a file. He locked the cabinet again, and we followed him back into the library. He motioned for me to take a seat at the microfilm reader and handed me the June spool. I began loading it onto the reader.

“What’s in these files?” Cassidy asked, gesturing to the cabinets.

“Clippings from the more recent years,” Brandon said. “Filed by subject.”

“You don’t have them on computer?”

“Not yet. By the end of the year, reporters will be able to retrieve files that way.”

As they talked, I used the fast-forward control on the reader, stopping here and there to scan dates, until I finally came to June 18. I had bypassed the front page and had to back up on the slower speed.

“A Monday,” I said, wondering how much of the paper I would need to read before something jumped out at me. For a panicked moment I wondered if there was any point at all in being in Bakersfield that afternoon. Perhaps this was a wild-goose chase, perhaps Hocus had only wanted me to leave the house, to be out of town for a number of hours….

But then the first page rolled slowly into view, and I knew I was looking at the story I was supposed to see. I knew it from the moment I saw the photograph beneath the headline:

FATHER’S DAY TRAGEDY:

TWO BAKERSFIELD MEN SLAIN WHILE SONS WATCH

It was the kind of photograph every photojournalist dreams of taking. Two women, their faces tearstained, mouths contorted in grief, arms outstretched, crouched slightly as they hurried toward two young boys. The boys’ faces were scraped and bruised but without expression, their eyes empty — too empty for their nine or ten years. One boy cradled his right arm, which was in a splint, as he leaned his head on a uniformed policeman’s shoulder. The other boy held on to the policeman with both arms. The policeman knelt on one knee, his arms around the boys, looking up at the women with anguished eyes.

I knew the officer’s name before I read the caption.

Some years after the photo was taken, I married him.

12

EVA RYAN AND FRANCINE NEUKIRK, whose husbands were found murdered Sunday, are reunited with their sons, who police believe were made to witness the slayings. Officer Frank Harriman of the Bakersfield Police Department holds the boys, Samuel Ryan and Bret Neukirk.’ ”

I took a deep breath and began reading the story itself:

A father-son fishing trip ended in tragedy this weekend, when two Bakersfield men were brutally slain while their nine-year-old sons were forced to look on in helpless horror. Police say Dr. Gene Ryan and Julian Neukirk, both 35, died in the basement of an abandoned warehouse, their throats slashed by an unknown assailant. Both men also suffered multiple stab wounds and bore marks indicating they had struggled with their assailant. No motive has been established for the killings.

Acting on an anonymous tip about a warehouse break-in, Officer Frank Harriman arrived at the scene to find the two boys, Samuel Ryan and Bret Neukirk, chained to a wall in a basement storage area, approximately seven feet from their fathers’ bodies. The Ryan boy suffered a fractured right arm; both boys received other minor injuries. Blood spatter patterns indicated the boys were in the room when their fathers were attacked. Police say the boys are severely traumatized and thus far have been unable to provide any information about the crime.

Ryan, an emergency room physician, had been looking forward to a week-long fishing trip with the boys and Neukirk, who owns a trucking business. Both men grew up in the area and have been friends since childhood.

“They loved one another like brothers,” said one family friend, who asked not to be identified. “Bret and Sam are just as close to one another as their fathers were.”

The article went on to say that the police were asking any members of the public who might have information about the case to please contact them immediately.

“On the phone this morning, remember?” I said, looking up at Cassidy. “ ‘He’s our hero.’ Which one do you think I talked to, Samuel Ryan or Bret Neukirk?”

“I’ll run a check on those names,” Cassidy said. “Mind if we make a couple of copies of this, Mr. North?”

“Not at all,” Brandon said.

“I can just print them out from here,” I said.

“I vaguely remember this case,” Brandon said. “I may even have some photos of the boys on file. I think one of the photographers won an award for that photo.”

While Cassidy made a call asking for research on Neukirk and Ryan, I focused the machine as sharply as I could, made two copies of the article, then moved the microfilm to a related story.

The long front-page article included four portraits, the fathers and sons: SILENT WITNESSES: FRIENDS MOURN FATHERS, EXPRESS CONCERN FOR SONS. I skimmed the article, which talked about Gene and Julian’s long friendship and how deeply they were mourned.

It also claimed neither of the two boys had spoken a single word to anyone since their rescue. According to the reporter — for this story, a man — the boys seemed extremely frightened of male strangers. With the killer or killers still at large, and the motive for the killings unknown, police were guarding the two households closely. So far, the boys had allowed only one officer anywhere near them — Frank Harriman.

There was a sidebar to the articles. Police were now looking for a brown Volkswagen van that had been seen by several witnesses in the warehouse parking lot over the weekend.

I printed this set of stories, then rolled the film forward to the next issue. Cassidy was looking over my shoulder again. A banner headline jumped out at us: BODY OF RYAN-NEUKIRK KILLER FOUND.

“Hmm. That didn’t take long,” Cassidy said, moving closer.

“What does it say?” Brandon asked, his view blocked by Cassidy’s large frame.

“ ‘An alert highway patrol officer discovered the body of Christopher Powell, twenty-eight, a man who is now believed to have murdered Dr. Gene Ryan and Julian Neukirk,’ ” I read aloud. “ ‘Early Monday, while patrolling Highway 178 between Bakersfield and Lake Isabella, Officer Cecilia Parker….’ ”

“What’s wrong?” Cassidy asked.

“ ‘Cecilia Parker,’ ” I forged on, “ ‘noticed a van matching the description of the one sought by police in connection with the murders. Parker, who is based in Bakersfield, knew of the Ryan-Neukirk case and immediately became suspicious when she saw the van parked on a gravel turnout on a ledge above the Kern River. At first believing the vehicle to be abandoned, on closer examination of the area, Parker spotted Powell’s body lying in some brush between the ledge and the river. Powell, who may have stopped at the turnout on his way back to his home near the lake, is thought to have misjudged the edge in the darkness and fallen to his death.

“ ‘Police said evidence implicating Powell in the Ryan-Neukirk murders had been found, but declined to be any more specific about the nature of the evidence. Sources close to the department say bloodstains not consistent with Powell’s own wounds were found on his clothing, and keys that fit locks at the warehouse were on his key ring.

“ ‘Equally damning was the silent identification given by the only witnesses to the brutal murders — Ryan’s and Neukirk’s young sons. Each boy was independently shown a number of photos and asked if he saw the murderer among them. Both boys pointed out Powell’s photo.

“ ‘Although Powell had previous arrests for assault and battery, as well as drug possession, he had never been convicted of any charges.’ ”

There was a photo of Powell, a mug shot taken during one of his quick visits to the city jail, back in the days when he was breathing. He had one of those fierce expressions that hardcases sometimes adopt for mug shots; he had chosen the one that says, “I call Satan on his private line.” He could have been practicing for a Charles Manson look-alike contest. He would have won, if he had been willing to dye his stringy blond hair a few shades darker.

I printed this article, too, then browsed forward. The articles about the Ryan-Neukirk murders grew smaller and began to appear only on inside pages. There was an interview with Powell’s mother, who proclaimed her son could not have done all those terrible things they said he did. “Those were just little boys telling lies, like little boys will,” she was quoted as saying.

But the other articles revealed that the police had a rather conclusive array of evidence against Powell, from his footprints being found in the blood on the warehouse floor to the victims’ skin and hair under his nails. The van was dismantled, and a knife with the victims’ blood and Powell’s fingerprints was found hidden behind a wooden panel. Even without the boys’ identification of him, it seemed clear that Powell had been the murderer.

The motive was not so easily established. Police and hospital records showed that Ryan had treated Powell in the emergency room a year or so earlier. Powell had been brought to the hospital by police after sustaining injuries while resisting arrest. (The charges, which were not specified by the police, were later dropped.) Powell had never complained to anyone about Ryan’s treatment of his injuries. No one knew why he would attack both men and their sons or even Ryan alone — but Ryan was the only one of the four who had ever met Powell. The stories disappeared entirely by the beginning of July.

I began to rewind the reel. As Brandon went to look for photographs, I leaned back in the chair and put my fingertips over my eyelids, trying to stave off images.

“Feeling sympathy for them?” Cassidy asked.

“Naturally I am. Nothing like this should ever happen to anybody.”

I opened my eyes again just as Brandon brought over a pair of photographs. “We don’t hang on to all our old photos here, the way some papers do,” he said. “But I found these two. You’re lucky they weren’t tossed out.” He handed them to me. “There were several copies of that first one in the files. I think it’s the one that won the award.”

It was the one of Frank holding the boys. The photo in the paper had been cropped down from this one, but this print, with more definition than the microfilm could offer, was even more moving.

Brandon handed the second one to me. It showed the boys dressed neatly for school, their arms around each other’s shoulders, their faces serious. There was another quality there, one that took a little longer to see. It was in the fierceness with which they held on to one another, in the wariness in their large, dark eyes.

They were scared.

Cassidy took the photos and studied them as I loaded the second reel of microfilm. I moved the film forward to September 23.

There was nothing on the front page. I went slowly through the pages that followed, but it wasn’t until I reached the features section that I came across the photograph Brandon had just shown us. WHEN CHILDREN TAKE A VOW OF SILENCE, the headline read. The caption on the photo said, “This week, Bret Neukirk and Sam Ryan return to school after a summer of silence. Speech therapist Regina Szal hopes to help them find their voices.”

The article was on elective mutism, a communicative disorder in which a person who is physically capable of speaking refuses to do so. Szal, who was quoted extensively, said that elective mutism should not be confused with shyness. Some elective mutes speak in certain environments, such as the home, or with certain people, such as a parent or sibling. “Twins sometimes refuse to speak to others for a period of time during early childhood,” she said. “They’ve been known to develop secret languages, shared only between themselves. But later — often when they begin to go to school — they form new friendships, establish separate identities. While they may continue to use their secret language between themselves, they will begin to talk to others.”

Then, after recapping the stories from June, the article focused on Bret Neukirk’s and Samuel Ryan’s mutism. Some had expected the boys to begin to talk once they knew Powell was dead. Instead the boys had developed a secret language — including words, manual signs, and written symbols. The language was used only when they were with one another; they continued to be silent when others were present. The complexity of their system of communication was a sign of the boys’ intelligence, Szal said.

Szal also said that this type of elective mutism, the result of extreme emotional trauma, required more complex treatment. Counselors, parents, teachers, and speech therapists must work together. “Usually, with a case rooted in trauma, we would be working with an individual child,” she said. “In this case, there are two children who, in many ways, consider themselves to be brothers. They’ve grown up together. Their fathers, though not related, were very close, and their mothers are the best of friends. The boys are the same age and survived a horrific experience together.” Asked how the problem should be approached, Szal said, “Gently and patiently. Bret and Samuel are frightened, as anyone would be. We need to help them to feel safe again. Perhaps then they will speak to us.”

Looking at the date of the final article, I expected it would be some type of progress report on Szal’s efforts. I was wrong.

SLAIN DOCTOR INVOLVED IN DRUG TRAFFICKING, the headline read. Before I could read the first paragraph, Hocus sent another fax.

13

HE HAD BEEN IN A CAR ACCIDENT, he decided, struggling to understand his circumstances. His mind seemed not his own; this one seemed slow and easily distracted.

Something was wrong, and his head hurt. Those two sensations kept returning, although at first he seemed to be able to will them away. Now the sensations were more persistent.

He awakened only gradually, but mindful that he must do so quietly this time. Why did he need to be quiet?

Something is wrong, that’s why.

What’s wrong?

He couldn’t remember. This is what it’s like to be stupid, he thought, frustrated.

Recent memory was difficult to hold on to. The car accident memory was an older one, but it helped him to explain the baffling world he was in now.

He was in a hospital bed, with curtains drawn around him. There were muffled voices on the other side. He was wearing a hospital gown. His head throbbed. He tried to reach to touch it and panicked. His wrists were restrained. His ankles, too.

Why?

They were the soft but immovable restraints used in hospitals and psych wards.

Had he gone crazy? Hurt someone? An image came to him, an image of hurting a magician. He could make no sense of it. Another dreamlike memory crossed his mind, of a rolling dive and furniture breaking. Maybe he was crazy after all.

Crazy and stupid. Christ, both? Why couldn’t it be one or the other?

He was distracted by a tenderness in his left hand. He saw a bandage on it and focused his attention on the back of the hand, which had been pierced by — and still held — an intravenous device, capped off. He tried to remember what it was called and couldn’t. There was no tubing now, but….

He was waking up and continued to study the hand. No IV bottle or tubing now, but, yes, there had been one before. He remembered it, remembered that he had awakened and had spoken, and they’d come over with an IV bottle. They’d told him to calm down.

Calm down? While lying here restrained, nearly bare assed, wondering what the hell they were feeding through his veins? Wondering if his slowing breaths were his last?

Calm down?

Yes, it was good that he had been quiet when he awakened this time. At least, he hoped he had been.

Within a few minutes, his memories of the journey to Riverside, the trap, the struggle with his attackers, all became clearer. He remembered dreams, too, but not much more. One thing he knew for a certainty. This was no hospital.

He heard the voices coming closer to the curtain and closed his eyes. Hoped that he would be able to only pretend to be asleep, because genuine sleep seemed so ready to claim him again.

Irene said he snored sometimes. Should he pretend to snore?

No. He didn’t know what his own snoring sounded like.

The clatter of the curtain rings being pulled back along the rod grated as if they were running along his spine.

“See? Still asleep. You can’t predict this to the minute. He could be asleep for another hour or more.”

“But he has a head injury — what if the drugs are bad for him?”

“If you weren’t so squeamish, you could have seen the wound I stitched up. It’s not a very severe injury.”

“Don’t even talk about it. Please!”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Anyway, the head injury might be making him a little more sleepy. A mild concussion. If he doesn’t wake on his own after a while, we’ll wake him up, okay? I know you’re anxious to talk to him, but he needs to rest. And it will be easier on him if he wakes on his own.”

“Can’t we untie him? It reminds me of… you know.”

“We’ll untie him later,” the other said soothingly. “He’s strong and he thinks we’re strangers. We’ve always known he could be dangerous. Remember what happened in Riverside.”

“I remember,” his friend said, his voice almost a whisper.

The magician, Frank thought. That one’s the magician.

“Are you losing your resolve?” the other asked.

“No,” the magician said. Firm. Without hesitation.

“Good,” the other said. “Don’t become too attached to him.”

They closed the curtains again. Hearing their voices drift away, he finally dared to try to move a little. Moving might help him stay awake.

He wished for many things, big (his escape) and small (that someone would scratch the place that itched on the back of his head). He was not one to despair, yet he was so giddy with relief over deceiving them, he soon realized that he must do exactly what they asked him to do the last time he had awakened: calm down.

14

“NEXT CONTACT AT FIVE O’CLOCK at Bea Harriman’s home,” the fax read. “She’s expecting you.”

“Your mother-in-law?” Cassidy asked as I looked at my watch. It was just after three.

“Yes.”

“Where does she live?”

“Here in Bakersfield.” I gave him the address.

“Brandon, could I use your phone?”

Brandon seemed distracted, but he nodded. Cassidy, in the meantime, started using his cellular phone to call his team back in Las Piernas.

I called Bea Harriman, worried. I could hear several voices in the background, but she said, “Oh, Irene, I’m so glad you’re here in town. Your friend at the paper said you’d be here around five. Are you staying overnight?”

“I’m not sure, Bea. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t mind having company on such short notice.”

“No, no, not at all. Some family friends have stopped by, and Cassie and Mike are over. We should be together.”

“Did my — uh, friend mention that Detective Thomas Cassidy is with me?”

“No,” she said, drawing the word out in a sound of uncertainty but recovering quickly. “It’s good that you have someone protecting you, though. By all means, bring him along.”

As I hung up, I glanced over at Brandon. He was starting to sweat again. Receiving the fax had sent him back into a panic. “Look,” he said, “maybe you shouldn’t be here. Letting you come here, I might have put other people in danger, too. You should go.”

“Brandon—”

“Please! Please just copy the last article and go!”

I looked to Cassidy for help. He was pretending fascination with the index tabs on the front of a file cabinet.

Staying out of it. Fine.

I went back to the microfilm reader, made the copies, rewound the spool. I shut down the machine and took the boxes of film to Brandon. He was seated at his desk, his hands shaking as he tidied papers. He didn’t look up at me.

“Thanks for letting us in here, Brandon,” I said. “And thanks for coming down here on a Saturday and all. Sorry for the trouble. You’re a true friend. When Frank is back home safe and sound, I’ll bring him by to thank you personally.”

“I’d like that,” he said, still not meeting my eyes. “Good luck, Irene.”

When we were back in his car, Cassidy said, “You were mighty gracious to him, considering he was giving you the bum’s rush.”

“No, I wasn’t. He’s up there feeling guilty.”

He grinned and opened the palm of his hand, pretended to write a note to himself. “Lady has a mean streak.”

“Keep that in mind.”

“Where to next?”

I wasn’t quite ready to face Bea, and she wasn’t expecting me until five. “A late lunch?”

“Sounds great.”

The coffee shop was just around the corner from the paper. We were the only customers, having arrived during those hours between lunch and dinner when sugar packets are replenished and ketchup bottles are refilled.

Cassidy ordered the biggest burger they offered, complete with salad and fries. Although it had been a long time since I had eaten, I didn’t have an appetite. I ordered a bowl of chicken soup and left it at that.

I handed Cassidy a copy of the last article and read my own copy while we waited.

According to the article, which quoted only unnamed “sources close to the investigation,” new discoveries had been made in the Ryan-Neukirk case. Dr. Gene Ryan had an addiction — not to drugs, but to gambling.

According to the sources, Ryan often flew to Las Vegas in his private plane but engaged in illegal gambling with local bookies as well. The arrest of one of the locals, coupled with several major drug busts, ultimately led to the new revelations about Ryan.

With Ryan’s addiction came gambling debts. Big ones. The doctor was making good money, but not good enough to keep up with his losing streaks. He also felt pressure to keep up appearances — in addition to the plane, the Ryans had a large home in an upscale neighborhood, a pair of Mercedes, country club memberships, and other costly trappings.

Ryan sought out investments that could give him quick turnaround and high yields — as well as a guarantee that the IRS wouldn’t hear of any profits. Nothing legitimate fit the bill.

Police now linked him to previously unsolved cases of hospital drug thefts, thefts that probably led to Ryan’s involvement with his killer — Christopher Powell.

Powell, it had been learned, had been introduced to Gene Ryan several months before their emergency room encounter. Powell was connected to an as-yet-unidentified supplier, a man who needed help transporting drugs. Ryan and his plane were hired, and soon the doctor was able to pay off his gambling debts. In true addict style, though, Ryan returned to the tables, gambling even more recklessly.

Indications were that Ryan had been active in a large-scale drug transportation operation not long before his death. Neukirk and his trucking business may have been involved as well, although that remained unclear.

The waitress served Cassidy’s salad. “What do you make of these reading assignments they gave you?” he asked once she had walked away.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Assuming Hocus includes Bret Neukirk and Samuel Ryan, I guess this lets us know some of their personal history. But why not just ask the Californian to fax the articles to me? Why have us drive all the way out here? They can’t be seeking revenge — the killer is long dead. And how are the other members of Hocus involved — the ones who are in jail? For all I’ve learned about these two today, I can’t understand why they would take Frank hostage. What do they want?”

“That’s what we have to try to get a handle on,” he said, “and as soon as possible. I keep hoping they’ll state some demands — that would give us a starting point. They haven’t even asked us to release their friends.”

“And they’ve let us know their names.”

“Right. No attempt to stay anonymous — unless this has been some sort of snipe hunt.”

“If they just wanted to get me out of town, they could have told me to go to any number of other cities. Nothing else they’ve done makes much sense to me — at least, not yet. But Bakersfield fits. Frank has a history here.”

“So do you.”

“Yes.” I looked around the coffee shop. “We used to come here. New reporters often get the police beat. That’s how I met Frank — he was a rookie, I was a green reporter. He had late shifts, so did I. His training officer was an old guy they used to call ‘the Bear.’ Bear Bradshaw. I don’t even remember what his real name was. Big guy — guess that’s how he got his nickname. Anyway, Bear was one of the few cops I had managed to coax into talking to me. Bear loved to tease Frank. Constantly giving him a hard time.”

“In what way?”

I smiled. “You must have been a rookie once. Maybe every TO tries to find out if the rookie has the sense of humor it will take to survive the job.”

“Sense of humor and thick hide. You need them both.”

“So you live with a little hazing. But to make matters worse in Frank’s case, his dad was a cop on the same force. Frank had grown up around these guys. So they went out of their way to try to rile him.”

“A chance to get to Frank and his old man at the same time?”

“Right. One time, Bear stuffed a plastic bag full of flour down into the driver’s seat of the cruiser — between the bottom and back of the seat. You know how those seats are — made of leather, so every time you sit down on them, air squeezes out. So the seat acted like a bellows, and every time Frank sat down it blew a little flour out.”

Cassidy smiled. “I take it they were wearing dark uniforms?”

“Exactly. So Frank ended up with a nice white stripe on his behind. Bear kept asking him who the hell he was trying to signal with it. At first, Frank couldn’t figure out what had happened. He’d brush the seat off, brush his pants off, sit down, and it would start all over again. The bag was tucked down deep enough that it wasn’t easy to see. One of the other cops took pity on him and showed him what was happening. Bear liked to brag that it was the last time anybody else had to figure something out for Frank.”

“Frank get back at him?”

“Oh, yes. Later on, of course. Not while Bear was still his TO. But I was with Frank the day he bought the crickets.”

“Crickets?”

“You can buy them at a pet store. People feed them to pet lizards. This group of crickets had more of a fighting chance at survival. They were liberated from their container inside Bear’s cruiser. Old Bear learned it was harder than hell to capture all the little suckers. They found their way into all sorts of nooks and crannies. And bred. They sang to Bear for a long time. The other guys learned what happened, and for months, they would see Bear walking down the hall and stop and cock their heads and say, ‘Hey, Bear! Do you hear a cricket in here?’ Drove him nuts.”

Cassidy laughed. “So you met Frank through Bear?”

“Yes. At first Frank was so quiet, I thought he was one of those guys who had vowed never to talk to a reporter. Bear was choosy about who he talked to, but once he decided you were okay, he was quite the conversationalist. Frank would sit there absolutely silent; first two nights he was around me, he didn’t say a word. Lots of looks across the table, though, so I decided he was shy, not hostile. Third night, Bear turned to him every couple of minutes and said, ‘Shut up, Harriman.’ Frank got the hint.”

The waitress brought our meals. Her arrival at the table snapped me out of my nostalgia and back into the present.

I wondered how long it had been since Frank had been given anything to eat.

Cassidy dug into his meal, but I pushed aside my bowl of soup. He paused and said, “You aren’t going on a hunger strike on me, are you?”

“I can’t eat. It was a stupid idea to come here.”

“Why? Because it made you think of Frank?”

I didn’t reply.

“You would have been thinking about him anyway. Come on, eat something — you can’t get by on two hours of sleep and an empty belly.”

“How about you? You must be exhausted.”

“I’m used to this. Besides, I’ll catch up a little later on today. And I’m eating.”

“I’m not—”

“You’ll think more clearly if you take care of yourself. I can’t do this alone. You’ve got to work with me, Irene.”

I picked up the spoon again, then said, “We never finished our earlier conversation about the media.”

He frowned, apparently puzzled that I didn’t consider that issue all settled.

“You’ve got to work with me, too, Cassidy.”

He made a noncommittal sort of sound.

“You’re going to want the public to be watching for these guys, right?” I asked.

He hesitated, then said, “Yes, I suppose the department will want to have some sort of press conference soon. We do try to coordinate things with the media. Ask your buddy Mark Baker — I’ve dealt with him before. The CIT doesn’t have a history of causing problems for the press. But the department isn’t going to give out every detail all at once. That just isn’t smart, Irene.”

“Do you really believe I’d do anything to further endanger Frank?” I asked tightly.

“Not intentionally, no. You have to understand — under ideal circumstances, even if you weren’t a reporter, you wouldn’t be this involved. To have a family member this involved is bad enough; to have a reporter is… well, never mind. I’m not going to list all of the aspects of this situation that make me unhappy.”

“Unhappy. Yes, well, I don’t think I’ll give you my list, either.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Belatedly I realized his usual calm had briefly slipped away from him — by the time I recognized it, he was firmly back in control of himself. And more withdrawn.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly. “What exactly do you want?”

“To bargain.”

One corner of his mouth quirked up, but he said, “Let’s hear what you have to say.”

“The Express gets everything first.”

He shook his head. “The department can’t get away with that,” he said. “And it’s not safe.”

“Not safe?”

“For Frank. Put yourself in your competitor’s shoes. The LPPD is denying you access to information that they are spoon-feeding to the Express. What do you do?”

“I try to find the information on my own. And, to be honest, I’m going to be angry with the LPPD.”

“Exactly.”

“I see where this is going. You don’t play fair with me, I don’t feel obliged to obey your rules.”

“Right again.”

“Okay, but the problem is, I have to have something to sweeten the offer I’m going to make to the Express.”

“You’re going to make an offer to your own newspaper?”

“Yes. An exclusive, in exchange for staying off my back.”

“An exclusive. Hmm. On what aspects of this situation?”

“I think you can guess.”

“Your personal point of view as the wife of a hostage.”

I swallowed hard, feeling as though I had just read my own price tag and found myself “marked down.”

“It’s a story someone else might benefit from,” he said. A mind reader.

“Yeah, sure. The marketing department at the Express, for one.”

“Well….”

“That won’t be enough for them, and I know it. So I’ll want to write about the CIT, too.”

“I’m not sure I’d care to have every barricaded suspect sittin’ there with a good idea of what’s coming next, thanks to a story in the Express.”

“Doesn’t have to work that way. We can make it specific to this case. I imagine each case is different to some degree, anyway.”

“When would this exclusive run?”

“Not until after I write it. Which will be when everything is… over,” I said, not liking some of the implications of that word.

“You’ll live with our media restrictions until then?” he asked.

I hesitated.

“This isn’t bargaining,” he said, “unless we each give a little.”

“It isn’t bargaining if I only end up with exactly what I would have had before we bargained. Or less.”

“Beyond the exclusive, what could you offer the Express?”

I mulled this over. “Riverside.”

“That’s the Riverside PD’s call, not ours.”

“Listen, with Mark Baker’s sources in your department, the Express probably has more details about what went on there than I do.”

“Maybe so.” Cassidy hesitated, then said, “Just so you know, I never did believe Frank leaked that story last week.”

“That puts you in a group that’s just about the same size as the one that didn’t like the Hopalong joke.”

“No, larger than that, although it might not have felt that way to Frank. Frank’s problems with Lieutenant Carlson aren’t exactly a secret, you know. Give the others some credit for figuring out that some of the crap Frank got about that story was just political.”

I looked away. “That all seems so ridiculously petty now.”

“Yeah, I suppose it does.”

We ate in silence for a moment. I should say Cassidy ate while I stirred my soup.

“Let’s go back to what you want us to do for your newspaper,” he said.

“If Mark doesn’t know about the Riverside connection yet, let me at least tell them they need to look around out there.”

“No problem.”

“Second, let them publish any photos we can find of Neukirk and Ryan, any that show what they look like today. Ask for the public’s help in learning their whereabouts. Maybe someone saw them driving to Frank’s Volvo, or saw them after they left the parking lot of the Express. Maybe someone has seen them out shopping for groceries. You never know. This could end up helping you.”

“We will most likely be handing the photos out in a press conference anyway — this evening, if I don’t miss my guess.”

“Okay, but let me give the Express just a little more. The other media will assume that the Express is going to have some advantage with the great good fortune of having a reporter on the inside.”

“All hell is going to break loose out here, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “They’ll catch wind of this any time now anyway. Brandon’s probably calling an editor at the Californian while we sit here. But we still don’t know what Hocus wants, and I’m not likely to tell anyone other than the Express — unless it’s to Frank’s benefit to do so.”

“Why, Ms. Kelly, you surprise me.”

He didn’t look so surprised. “Do you have any problem with what I’ve proposed?”

He shook his head. “No, not really.”

I realized what I had been sensing in him for the last few moments. “You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you? You’re asking yourself how I could be thinking of writing a story about my own husband’s abduction.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Well, I don’t want to write about it. I wish I could just leave the reporting to somebody else. I wish I could believe for a minute that all of the media coverage will only be helpful, that none of my colleagues will do anything that will bring harm to Frank. But that’s not the way it works.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“John Walters won’t give up. I’ve worked with the man for years. He didn’t get to where he is today by backing down. He’ll be after me every ten minutes if I don’t beat him to the punch. I don’t need that distraction. I need to stay focused on Frank. The only way I can buy a little breathing room is to make John an offer.”

After a moment he said, “Ever hear of the Hickman case?”

I shook my head.

“Took place in L.A. in the late 1920s. One of California’s most notorious kidnapping cases, up until Patty Hearst was taken. Hickman abducted a banker’s daughter, Marian Parker. When he collected the ransom from the banker, Hickman was in a car, and Marian — she was twelve — seemed to be asleep on the seat next to him. Hickman told the girl’s father that he was just going to drive down the street a ways, and then he’d release the girl. He did. But when Marian’s father unwrapped the blanket she was in, he discovered she was dead, and that Hickman had amputated her legs.”

“This is not the kind of story I need to hear right now.”

“I’ve already told you that we don’t always have happy endings in this kind of situation — you need to accept that anything can happen. But that’s not my point. There’s more to the story.”

“Please—”

“Needless to say, there was a great hue and cry, and when Hickman was arrested in Oregon and brought back to Los Angeles, thousands of angry citizens were waiting at the train. For one week at a vaudeville stage in L.A., you could pay to hear the Oregon detectives tell the story of Hickman’s arrest. Every paper in the country sent a reporter to cover the trial.

“But one writer who was asked to cover the trial didn’t accept the invitation. Will Rogers. He wrote a letter to the New York Times. He said he wanted to die claiming only one distinction — that of being the only writer to refuse newspaper offers to cover the Hickman trial. He thought each town ought to be ashamed of the crimes that were committed there. Instead, he said, ‘Every town tries to make their murder the biggest one of the year….’ ”

I looked away from him, then said, “Yeah? Well, I can’t do rope tricks worth a shit, either.”

He laughed. “I don’t know many myself.”

I stirred my soup again. “Tell me what’s being done — I’m not asking this as a reporter, I’m asking as Frank’s wife.”

“What’s being done? You mean, aside from what you and I are doing?”

“Yes.”

“There are several teams involved in this case, some specialized, some doing basic police work — basic, but essential. You only see me and Hank, but there are dozens of other folks working on it. For example, some are working on pinning down Hocus’s location, trying to figure out where they may be keeping Frank.”

“You haven’t been able to trace the calls. How can they be found?”

“They’ve got an injured person with them — Frank, or maybe a member of Hocus. We should know more about the bloodwork soon. In any case, we’re checking hospitals and clinics. We’ve got some time frames to study — the amount of time that passed from the last time anyone saw Frank until we found the car back in Las Piernas, and so on. We know they’ve been active in Riverside and Las Piernas, so we’ll keep looking for someone who might have seen them in one place or another, maybe sold them something — the tape recorder they left in the phone booth, the tape itself, anything like that.”

“Where would they get the morphine?”

“We aren’t assuming they’ve been truthful when they’ve told us that morphine is what they’re using to sedate him — but we’ve got people checking into every report of stolen Versed and morphine in Southern California. There’s another angle we’re working on — maybe someone saw a couple of fellows who had a ‘drunken’ friend with them. A man as big as Frank isn’t easy to cart around. He’s six four, right?”

“Yes. Do you know the heights of all the LPPD detectives?”

“No, ma’am. Starting about ten minutes after the captain handed the case to me, whenever I’ve had a chance, I’ve been reading about your husband. Certain questions arose, and even before you were asked to come out here to Bakersfield, it looked like Frank was a specifically chosen target, not just a man who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Because the informant was his, right?”

“Right. Dana Ross. So whatever we learn about Frank helps us to know more about why he was taken. Now, given what we’ve just read, we have more to go on, even if their motives aren’t very clear. We’ll be able to look these two up in DMV files and other records, and — as you guessed we would want to do — circulate their photos. We’ll have all sorts of folks studying their histories, profiling them, helping us to anticipate how they may react in various circumstances, and so on.”

“I can see the advantages of knowing who they are,” I said, “but if we don’t know where they are—”

“Knowing who they are will help us with that. We can look at their past patterns. People have habits. We won’t stop there. The lab guys in Riverside and Las Piernas are going to be turning the car and the Riverside house inside out — soil samples, fiber evidence, all kinds of things.”

“That still might make a pretty large circle.”

“But a circle all the same. We’ll keep tightening it as we go along. We have two people in custody, and we are going to be leaning on them as hard and as long as the law allows. We have psychologists with specialized backgrounds in criminal behavior looking at their profiles, too. We’ve got people working on building the criminal cases we will bring against Hocus — talking to people who knew the late Mr. Ross, to try to find out who asked him to lure Frank out to Riverside. Maybe Ross talked to someone about his deal with Hocus. And so on.”

“What about the police in Bakersfield?”

“We’ve had total cooperation from them. They’ve been very helpful — Frank was with this department for more years than he’s been with ours. They are just as concerned as we are. They’ve already got research going on the Ryan-Neukirk case. They will be working on setting up a trace on the call to your mother-in-law’s house. The newspaper is a little trickier, but the Bakersfield police will try to subpoena phone company records for Brandon North’s phone and fax machine for the calls from Hocus.”

After a moment he said, “I should also mention that the department may send more people out here, including another negotiator.”

“Why?”

“Relief, for one thing; I may need to catch a little sleep somewhere along the way. Perspective, for another — no one should do this job alone. But also because there are those who think I’ve already allowed you to be too active in this case.”

I didn’t want to think about dealing with anyone other than Cassidy as a negotiator. He had irritated me at times, but he was starting to grow on me. “I don’t want to work with anyone else,” I said.

“I’m flattered. But it may not be your decision.”

Conversation dropped off again after that. Cassidy seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, and I was glad for the silence. I tried to go over what I had learned from the articles in the Californian.

I took my notebook out of my purse. It was opened to a set of notes I had made while working on two political stories the day before — a millennium or two ago, it seemed now. How mundane the notes were. A quote from a member of the city council on the redhot issue of permit-only parking for a residential area near a nightclub in his district. A series of questions I planned to ask a restaurant owner who wanted to expand his beachfront patio dining area — over the objections of his neighbors.

This is what you spent your time working on, I told myself, while he was being captured. While Frank bled in the trunk of the car. While someone shot him full of morphine.

Where are you?

I called to Frank from that place within myself where fear and hope were wrestling one another, each fighting dirty. I was willing to become a firm believer in psychic phenomena or a more devout Catholic or whatever it was that God might want in exchange for some timely miracle. (“Cassidy, I’ve just had a vision. He’s in the cellar of a small farmhouse with purple curtains on the kitchen windows. Wait, I also see — yes — they grow okra there.”) I’ve known for a couple of decades that God is not really into these kinds of bargains. I doubted even Cassidy could strike the deal. I didn’t really expect an answer, but I silently called to Frank anyway.

I turned to a clean page in my notebook and began writing, using a private form of shorthand I had been taught by O’Connor, my late mentor at the Express. To anyone else the notes wouldn’t mean much as written, but I could read them as quickly as my native tongue. Samuel and Bret weren’t the only ones who had developed a secret language.

Roughly translated, mine read:

Hocus:

Motives — Anarchists? Political? Revenge?

Computer expertise — Hacked into several different systems. Common thread in any?

Medical expertise — Used morphine, Versed. Robbery of hospital pharmacy?

Lang and Colson — Any Bakersfield connections?

Woman seen at Lang’s house — Any real connection to Hocus? Is she now with Bret and Samuel?

Contact:

Mothers — still in Bakersfield?

Regina Szal — speech therapist

Another name occurred to me, but Cassidy said it before I could write it down.

“Who’s Cecilia Parker?” he asked.

“I’ve never met her,” I said, not looking up from my notebook.

He waited a moment. I could hear the amusement in his voice when he said, “Okay. But you know who she is.”

I looked him right in the eye and said, “Frank’s exfiancée. She still lives around here, and, yes, we should probably try to talk to her.”

I half expected him to laugh, but he didn’t. If anything, he seemed to regret pressing me.

“I’m going to call Jack and Pete. They’ll be worried,” I said, and reached for my purse.

“Lunch is on me,” he said. “First time I ever bought a woman a teaspoon of soup.”

I made the call, did my best to reassure Pete. A hopeless task. Jack, on the other hand, did his best to encourage me, so I guess everything evened out. Cassidy used the pay phone to make a few reports, then let me drive to Bea Harriman’s place while he made other calls on his cell phone. Almost all of the calls were requests for current addresses and background information on the people I had on my own list.

“So why did Neukirk and Ryan let us know who they are?” I asked.

“If that’s who they are, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve been a little publicity mad all along, I’d say. They’re big on drama. They’re leading up to something. With luck, we’ll know soon.”

I hadn’t been to Bea Harriman’s home very often, but I remembered the way. I did the driving, while Cassidy tried to coach me in preparation for the call. He would play the role of the caller, I would try to respond in a way that kept him talking and would also gradually allow me to hand off the call to a hostage negotiator.

“Your work as a reporter will help you in one way,” he said. “You’re used to asking open-ended questions, ones that encourage longer responses. Same thing with silences; you know to let them stretch. But you won’t find it easy to stay calm if they start making threats against your husband — and that’s very common at first. That’s one reason we prefer not to let family members be involved. Your fear for Frank is likely to heighten the tension, which we are trying to lower. More than anything, you’ve got to try to stay calm, no matter what’s said or threatened. And remember — if you keep dwelling on the subject of Frank’s well-being, your concern for him may only make him seem more valuable as a hostage. We want to know his condition, but we don’t want to focus the conversation on him.”

I tried to set aside my fears, to imagine myself behaving just as I should when the time came. I tried not to contemplate the price of failure.

“I’ll be right there with you,” Cassidy said, watching me. “You won’t be alone.”

I made the turn onto Bea Harriman’s street. The house was a Craftsman, built in the late 1920s on a large lot. It was painted white, as if it intended to provide a canvas for the flowers blooming all around it in a wide spectrum of colors — blues, reds, oranges, yellows, purples, and lush green foliage. The big wooden swing on the front porch was still and empty.

Lots of cars were parked in front of the house, so I had to park a few houses down the street. Cassidy took the keys and opened the trunk of the car, which had a number of hard-shell and soft cases of varying sizes in it. He pulled one out; it was a silver-colored hard-shell case, about the size of a briefcase.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Cassette recorder for the call,” he said. “Not as fancy as the reel-to-reel Hank was using at your place, but easier to hook up. If we end up being here for a while, I’ll bring in the fax and computer and other equipment. But for now, this will do.”

Birds sang as we walked to the house, and I tried to listen to them rather than to the worst of my thoughts.

“Now, that swing makes me think of summer nights back home,” Cassidy said as we approached.

At that moment the front door opened, and Bea Harriman walked out. An attractive, dark-haired woman accompanied her. The woman had her arm around Bea’s shoulder, and their heads were bent together in a tête-à-tête. They looked up at us and straightened suddenly. As Cassidy and I came closer, the stranger didn’t spare more than a quick glance toward him — but her eyes raked over me. Sizing me up, I realized.

I knew in that instant who she was.

Somewhere in the mess of words that was Bea Harriman’s stumbling introduction, she confirmed that I could no longer say I had never met Cecilia Parker.

15

“ANY FURTHER WORD ON FRANK?” Cecilia asked without preamble, continuing to stare at me.

“Nothing new,” Cassidy said before I could answer. I had been dreading trying to come up with some social nicety if she had said, “So glad to meet you,” and now, oddly, I was miffed that she hadn’t.

“And you are?” Cecilia said to him, apparently irritated that she had to make eye contact with anyone else.

“Detective Tom Cassidy, Las Piernas Police Department,” he said easily. “Now, this has been an extremely difficult day for Mrs. Harriman,” he continued, and when Cecilia’s eyes slewed to Bea, he put a firm hand on my shoulder. “Oh, for everyone, but especially Mrs. Frank Harriman. So I’ll just take her on in while you two say your good-byes.”

Bea floundered only for a second. Her own initial reaction to Frank’s kidnapping having passed, she snapped into a role in which she excelled — taking care of someone else in a crisis. I could see her home in on me like a smart bomb. “Thanks for coming by, Cecilia,” she said, and turned and started to lead the way in.

“Excuse me,” I said, halting the parade. Cassidy loosened his grip, and I straightened my spine as I turned back to Cecilia.

She was still standing on the sidewalk, tight-lipped and unmoving.

“Do you really have to leave now?” I asked.

Her eyes widened (long-lashed, beautiful, big brown eyes — damn them). She relaxed out of her combat stance, though, and said, “Yes. I’m sorry, I can’t stay.”

“Will you be at home later?”

Openly puzzled, she said, “Yes.”

“Mind if I call you?”

She almost asked, “Why?” I saw the word begin to form on her lips, but she stopped herself and said, “Of course not. Bea has my number.”

She turned and walked away. When I looked back at Cassidy, he appeared to be amused. Bea was holding open the screen door. With as much dignity as I could muster, I walked between them and into the house.

I was met by Mike O’Brien, Frank’s brother-in-law, who simply said, “Oh, Irene,” and pulled me into a big, comforting hug; I felt tears well up. When Frank’s sister, Cassie, joined us, it was nearly too much. I might have broken down in their embrace had I not heard a gruff voice say, “Here, now, don’t smother the girl.”

When I saw the man who spoke those words, I smiled. I hadn’t seen him in years, and he was a little thinner and a little grayer, but I knew him right away. “You’re looking good, Bear.”

Bea introduced Cassidy to the others, her introduction of Bear Bradshaw reminding me that his first name was Gregory. Cassie said, “Cassie is short for Kathryn — perhaps with the two of us in the same house, Detective Cassidy, it would be easier to call me Kathyrn.”

“Heck, no,” Bear Bradshaw said. “We’ll just call this guy Hopalong.”

Bea and Bear enjoyed it, but the rest of us just looked at Cassidy in sympathy. He didn’t seem in the least bothered by it. “You could all just call me Tom,” he said.

“Actually, I prefer Kathryn,” my sister-in-law said. “Only the family and certain untrainable old coots insist on calling me by my childhood name.”

“You never told me—” I began.

“I never told you, because you’re part of the family,” she said with a quick reproachful glance at her mother. “Now, would either of you like some hot coffee?”

We both said yes, and she went off to the kitchen to make a fresh pot. Cassidy asked Bea if he could talk to her alone for a moment.

I glanced at my watch. Eighteen minutes before five o’clock. I moved closer to the phone, which was near Bear Bradshaw, on a table full of knickknacks. Bea was a big believer in knickknacks.

“I wondered if you were going to come over here and say hello to me,” Bradshaw said. “I’ve just had knee surgery, or I’d get up and greet you properly.”

“Sorry, Bear. I hadn’t noticed the cane. Are you doing okay?”

“Fine, I’ll be fine. Just need to baby it a little while it heals. It’s a typical cop’s problem, I guess. Getting in and out of the car all day is hard on the knees, they tell me. But never mind my puny little problems. How are you holding up?”

“My problems are puny, too. Frank’s the one to worry over.”

“Frank? No, the boy will be all right. I keep telling Bea, Frank has a good head on his shoulders. Just like his dad did. But Frank’s even smarter than Brian was. He’ll be okay.”

I didn’t bother arguing with him, because every word was said as if he wanted to reassure himself.

“You go back a long way with the Harrimans, don’t you, Bear?” Mike asked.

“You betcha. Brian was one of my best friends. After my first wife left me, Brian always included me in his family’s holiday get-togethers — you know, so I wouldn’t be alone.”

“You remarried?” I asked.

“Yes, I guess we have a lot of catching up to do. I’m a widower now. My second wife died about a year ago. But I hear my matchmaking finally paid off.”

“Your matchmaking?” Mike asked.

Bradshaw grinned at me. “With you and Frank, Irene. Remember?”

“Well, I guess you did get Frank to start talking to me.”

He laughed. “Oh, that was priceless! He’s always been quiet, but not the tongue-tied type, you know? But when he saw you — oh, God! First night, I kept waiting for him to say something, but not a word until we got back in the car. Then he’s grilling me. Wanted to know all about you. Now, I’ve known the boy since he was born. I’d never seen him act like that before. So I made a little wager with Cookie. Couple of times there, I thought I’d lost my money.”

“You bet that Frank and I would get married?”

“Yes, I did! Cookie said the boy would never marry a reporter, that the boy knew better than that. And damned if the SOB didn’t run around behind my back and load Frank up with a lot of crap about how cops and reporters should never fraternize, and so on. Well, it’s true, but you two were the exception, and Cookie has just never learned that there are exceptions in life.”

I looked at my watch. Five minutes to go.

“Sorry, guess I’m boring you.”

“Oh, no, Bear! Not at all. The call. I’m just worried about the call.”

“What call?” Mike asked.

“Hocus — the ones who have Frank. They told me they’d call me here at five.”

Bradshaw lost all color in his face. For an awful moment I thought he was going to pass out. Mike rushed over to him, but just as suddenly the Bear seemed to pull himself together. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, still shaken. “Damn, you don’t need that, Irene…. Bea — I’ve got to talk to Bea….” He began to lever himself up from the chair.

Over Bradshaw’s growling protests, Mike helped him to his feet, but before he could move forward, Bea and Cassidy came back into the room. Voices rose together. Cassidy calling my name; Bea saying, “Oh, Greg!” and Bradshaw saying, “Here, now,” as he reached out to her with his free hand; Mike trying to respond to his wife’s, “What’s wrong?” as she came into the room carrying coffee.

The phone rang. We reacted in the way a man walking through the desert alone reacts when he hears a rattle. We all stood stock still, silent.

It rang again, and Cassidy said, “Irene, come with me. The rest of you stay out here.”

I followed him as he all but ran to one of the bedrooms, where he had set up the recorder and a telephone headset that would allow him to listen in. Between us were two pads of paper and pens for scribbling notes.

On the third ring, as Cassidy nodded and turned on the recorder, I picked up the phone.

“What happened, Ms. Kelly?” the voice on the other end teased. “Did Detective Cassidy run out of tape cassettes?”

“You know I’m at my mother-in-law’s house,” I answered. Speak slowly, I reminded myself, trying to follow Cassidy’s instructions. “There are other people here. I didn’t know how private you wanted this conversation to be.”

I scribbled a note to Cassidy: “Different caller.”

Cassidy nodded.

“Oh, there is no privacy for people in our position,” the caller said.

“Your position?”

“Hocus is quite famous now. We’re almost as famous now as we were when we were little. Our fathers’ murders bought us our first fifteen minutes of fame.”

Show empathy.“You survived a horrible ordeal then. People wanted to know more about you.”

“Good! You did your homework. We’re very pleased.”

“Am I speaking to Samuel or Bret?”

“Samuel, at the moment. Our fathers enjoyed stories about the Old West. Bret is named for Bret Harte. I’m named for Samuel Clemens. Detective Cassidy, you do know Samuel Clemens was the man who wrote as Mark Twain, don’t you?”

Cassidy pulled the small microphone on the headset down to his mouth. “Well, Samuel, contrary to Yankee propaganda, there are a few literate folks living south of the Mason-Dixon line.”

Samuel Ryan laughed; a false, nervous laugh. “What a wit, Thomas! You don’t mind if I call you Thomas, do you?”

“Not at all. Tom would be better. You prefer Samuel or Sam?”

“Samuel, please. And Ms. Kelly, would it seem disrespectful if I addressed you as Irene?”

“I’d prefer it to Ms. Kelly.”

“Fine. We really think the two of you are well suited for the task we have in mind. Tom is a virtual tower of equanimity. You are so lucky to have him along for the ride, aren’t you, Irene?”

“Forgive me if I say I’d rather not be on the ride in the first place.”

Cassidy shot me a warning look, but Samuel laughed again.

“Well, I’d love to sit here and chat,” Samuel said, “but that would lead to Detective Harriman being even more uncomfortable than he is now.”

“Uncomfortable?” Cassidy asked.

“The drugs, the restraints. Being without his own clothes. And of course, as the drugs wear off, there is pain.”

My eyes widened. Cassidy held up a hand, motioning me not to talk, obviously aware that I couldn’t speak with anything resembling composure. But in the same tone of voice in which anyone else might have said, “Read the funny papers yet?” Cassidy said, “Last time, Bret did mention that Frank was injured.”

“You didn’t expect him to come along peacefully, did you?” Samuel said defensively. “It’s his own fault. He fought us, and he got hurt. But he has received medical attention.”

“He has?”

“Yes. I stitched up his head myself.”

Visions of infections and fevers and insane medical experiments tumbled through my mind, while the silence stretched. Cassidy had warned me not to be afraid of those silences, but I had not anticipated the course my imagination would take while we waited.

Yet it was Cassidy who broke this silence as he drawled, “You a medical man, Samuel?”

“You’ve probably already got a whole team of people working on my history and credentials,” Samuel said, “so let’s not waste Detective Harriman’s time. I’ve been on this call far too long. Bret will be quite upset with me. Everything else you need to know is waiting at a copy shop near Cal State Bakersfield.” He gave an address on Stockdale Highway, then added, “It’s a twenty-four-hour place. Ask for your fax and mail.”

“Can you give us directions, Samuel?” Cassidy asked. “Irene hasn’t been here for a while, and she’s already managed to get us lost twice.”

“Not my problem. You found your way eventually, didn’t you?” he said. “Now, on to business. The reports in the Californian are fairly accurate. Wrong in a few places, though. For example, you know that a young officer — our very own Officer Harriman — rescued us from a warehouse. Now here’s the problem: How did Officer Harriman know to go to that particular warehouse?”

“I’m not sure I understand, Samuel,” Cassidy said.

“Who told Officer Harriman to go to the warehouse?”

“A dispatcher,” I answered.

“Yes, but who told the dispatcher about the warehouse?”

“According to the article, an anonymous tipster,” I said.

“Ah! That’s where the article is wrong. Not the fault of the reporter. That’s what the dispatcher told him.”

“You believe the dispatcher lied?”

“Maybe. But I think it’s far more likely that she knew — well, knew but didn’t know — the caller.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t understand.”

Silence.

“Knew but didn’t know,” I finally repeated. “Didn’t recognize the voice?”

“Exactly.”

“Whose voice was it?” Cassidy asked.

“More fun if you guess,” Samuel said.

Don’t make this into a game! I wanted to shout, but Cassidy simply said, “All right. Was it a relative?”

“No.”

“Someone she worked with,” I said, trying to follow Cassidy’s lead.

“Getting warmer,” Samuel enthused.

“A cop,” I guessed.

“Yes! I knew you could do this job, Irene.”

“This job?”

“You’ll have until Tuesday.”

“I’ll have until Tuesday to do what?”

“Why, to find that cop.”

“Which cop? What’s his name?” I asked, feeling panic closing in.

“Irene, if we knew that, we wouldn’t have needed to go to so much bother. That’s why we need you.”

“You know the caller was a cop?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“What do you mean? How can you be certain?”

Cassidy pushed a note toward me: “Slow down.”

“We were there, remember?” Samuel said. “But that isn’t much of an explanation, is it? No, you’ll need more details if you’re going to give us his name by Tuesday. Well, read the fax. Now, this really has gone on too long.”

“Wait! Why Tuesday?”

“No special reason,” he said. “But we can’t be expected to take care of Detective Harriman forever.”

“You’ve started all of this over a weekend,” Cassidy said, his tone of voice much more level than mine. “Of course that presents some difficulties.”

“Nothing insurmountable.”

“Folks go out of town on weekends. Offices are closed. And this all goes back a ways.”

“Years,” Samuel said bitterly.

“Yes. You’ve waited a long time to learn this officer’s identity. What difference would a few more days make?”

Silence.

We waited.

“Perhaps we will be flexible, Tom. Perhaps not. You’ll just have to see how we feel on Tuesday.”

“I just figured you’d want her to be sure she had identified the right man.”

“How would you know what we want, Tom?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Cassidy asked, but we could already hear the drone of the dial tone.