Lying in wait

26

Professional courtesy to say nothing of good manners dictated that I call Sue Danielson and invite her to come along on my proposed search-and-rescue operation with Puget Sound Helicopters. When she learned that Seattle P.D. wouldn't be paying the freight, she suggested the possibility of calling on the deep-pocket expense account of our friends from Wiesenthal.

My response to that suggestion was instant and negative. "Are you kidding? Absolutely not."

"So who's paying for it, then?"

"I am."

"The whole thing?"

There was a big difference between Sue Danielson's economic reality and my own. I didn't want to rub her nose in it. "It's not that big a deal," I said.

"Seven thousand dollars would be a big deal for me," she returned. "The bottom line is typical territorial homicide dick, isn't it? You'd rather foot the whole bill yourself instead of sharing the glory with somebody else."

Responsibility for Else and the others was what was driving me, not territorial imperative. I couldn't see trying to explain that to Sue Danielson, not right then.

"I'm sharing with you, aren't I?" I volleyed back. "Now cut the lecture, Sue. Are you coming or not?"

"Coming," she answered. "I'll meet you down at the department in twenty minutes."

"That's what you think," I said. "Have you been listening to the news?"

"You woke me up, remember?"

"There's been a bad wreck on I-Five near the Ship Canal Bridge. Whatever you do, don't try coming down the freeway."

"I never drive the freeway," she responded. "And if your car was in the same condition as mine is, you wouldn't either."

After further discussion, we agreed to meet at the Puget Sound Helicopter operations center at Boeing Field. That way, in case Sue did get tied up in traffic, I could go ahead and start the ball rolling without her.

It was dark but edging toward watery, overcast daylight as I wandered around the King County Airport at Boeing Field. It took two passes before I finally located the office, tucked in behind a massive, vine-covered wall. The person behind the reception desk was a young man wearing a white shirt and striped tie.

"Oh, Detective Beaumont," he said. "I'm Roger Hammersmith, Paul's assistant. Paul's still in the air. Would you care for a cup of coffee while you wait?"

At ten past seven, Hammersmith ushered me into a comfortable conference room. Settling in to wait, I noticed that the most striking piece of art was a framed print of a grinning groom carrying his wedding-gown-clad bride toward a waiting helicopter. The picture gave me cause to count my blessings. At least my daughter, Kelly, and my son-in law, Jeremy, hadn't required that kind of three-ring circus.

Hammersmith brought in two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for me. Armed with a stack of charts, he set about gathering the necessary information. "How long ago did this missing vessel clear the locks?" he asked.

"Between ten and eleven."

"How fast can they travel?"

"I'd guess eight to ten knots."

It was refreshing to deal with someone who took what I had to say at face value without segueing into a debate about whether or not J. P. Beaumont was off his rocker. Roger Hammersmith simply wanted to get the job done in the most expeditious fashion possible. When I told him that bit of news-about how long One Day at a Time had been under way-he sighed and pursed his lips.

"By the time we get our guys in the air-eight-thirty or so at the soonest-that boat could be all the way out to Neah Bay and Cape Flattery. Is it likely the skipper will head for the open seas?"

I nodded. "That's what I think."

"Why?"

I couldn't very well say, "Because he has a load of gold bullion on board and he's making a run for it." What I actually said was, "Alan Torvoldsen is a commercial fisherman. He's been at sea all his life. He's more at home there than he is on land."

"What kind of boat is it?"

"A T-class lighter."

"Fully fueled?"

"Most likely," I answered.

Commercial fishermen usually top off their tanks when they settle up with their crews at the end of a fishing trip. The boat expenses are paid before the crew can figure their take. Aside from the settlement question, filling the tank helps prevent condensation over the cold winter months.

"How far do you think they can go without refueling?" Hammersmith asked.

I remember hanging around Fishermen's Terminal in the spring when the fleet was getting ready to go out. "I don't know for sure, but most commercial boats have tanks that hold a lot of fuel. Worst-case scenario, I suppose they could go a long way-maybe even as far as the Panama Canal-without refueling."

Hammersmith raised one eyebrow. "When they hit open water, you think they might head south, then?"

Once again, I couldn't very well tell him all my reasons for thinking so, not without giving away too much. "Maybe," I answered.

"Are they loaded with food and water?"

"Again, I couldn't say for sure," I answered, "but I doubt Alan Torvoldsen would be dumb enough to set out without adequate stores of food and water."

Shaking his head, Hammersmith excused himself and disappeared into another part of the building. His absence gave me time to think some bad thoughts about how easy it would be for someone to dispose of hostages once One Day at a Time hit that great expanse of blue water known as the Pacific Ocean. Bodies tossed overboard would disappear without a trace. Even if they washed up on land, months might pass before they were discovered on the deserted stretches of Washington's wintertime shore.

I was lost in thought when a recently showered and still wet-haired Sue Danielson blew into the conference room. "So what's the word?" she asked. "What's happening?"

"Not much," I answered. "But at least we're starting to work on the problem."

Roger Hammersmith returned moments later. After a brief introduction to Sue, he sat down to plot strategy.

"I've talked it over with the operations chief up in Everett. He and I agree with you that it's doubtful they'd head for the south end of Puget Sound. Sure, there are plenty of places to hide temporarily, but not forever. If they are trying for the open ocean, as you seem to believe, then they have a couple of choices, especially if they don't want to be seen.

"For one thing, they might head north, dodge between Camano Island and Whidbey, or maybe duck through the Swinomish Channel. The other alternative, especially considering how much lead they've had, is to not worry about being seen in the shipping channels and just make a run for Cape Flattery."

"So what do we do?" I asked.

"We've come up with two separate tactics. Fortunately, we have enough aircraft and pilots at our disposal to execute both plans at once. The first one is based on the assumption that they're putting the pedal to the metal and making a run for it. We counter that maneuver by plotting the most direct route from here through the Strait of Juan de Fuca. We send helicopters out beyond the far end of where they could possibly be by now, going full steam. We have the pilots work their way back to base by doing a track line search."

"And the second one?"

"That scenario assumes that they're going to try to duck into someplace reasonably unobtrusive and wait for the heat to die down some before they head for open water. At this time of year, when most of the tourists are back home for the winter, they might reasonably expect to disappear for days at a time, either up around the San Juans or across the border in Canadian waters.

"But dodging around like that uses up a lot more time than straight-line navigation, where they'd be more likely to stick to the easiest, most tried-and-true courses. That means we'd end up doing a much broader-based grid-pattern search closer to home."

I nodded, another thought occurring to me. "What about calling the Coast Guard Vessel Traffic Center to help with the search?"

Hammersmith shook his head. "I thought about that, too, but I think it's a bad idea," he answered. "If they're operating in the shipping lanes, it would be simple for someone to spot them, call in, and report the sighting. But if whoever's piloting that boat is maintaining any kind of radio contact-which he should be-then, as soon as we call VTC into it, the bad guy knows it, too. What happens to the hostages then? This way, we spot them first, but then we have time enough to marshal our forces before they realize we know where they are."

"Wouldn't they hear the radio contacts to and from the helicopters?"

"We operate on different frequencies," he answered, then looked at me. "What do you think?" he asked.

"When do we start?" I returned.

Hammersmith glanced at his watch. "Our students fly out of Paine Field up in Everett. We have a bunch of Japanese students who are here learning how to fly helicopters. They're due to report in at eight o'clock sharp. We should be able to have the whole bunch airborne by eight-thirty. This will give them some good practice." He looked at me and grinned. "And help the company make payroll besides."

He stoop up. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go plot out the flight plans we'll distribute at the preflight briefing."

As soon as Roger Hammersmith left the room, Sue Danielson turned to me. "What's going to happen?" she asked.

"You heard him. Grid-pattern searches until we find them."

Sue shook her head impatiently. "Finding them is a foregone conclusion," she said. "What I want to know is what's going to happen once we do."

I hadn't wanted to think that far ahead. The worst part about hostage situations is that they're so dangerous. Sure, SWAT teams take out the hostage-takers, but all too often, hostages die as well.

Longtime cops take the position that black humor is better than no humor, so I tried to shrug off Sue's very important question. "I thought I'd have one of the choppers land me on the deck of the boat, maybe swing me in on a rope. I could come out of a crouch with both guns blazing like they used to do on Sea Hunt, that old Lloyd Bridges series on TV."

Sue was not amused. "Who's Lloyd Bridges?" she asked. "Any relation to Jeff Bridges?"

"Forget it," I growled. "I can't even talk to you. You're too damn young."

"I get the picture," she answered. "It sounds like the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral, only on a boat. What about a hostage-negotiation team?"

"Right," I said. "And while we're at it, let's have an emergency-response team as well. That's the problem with law enforcement these days. Everybody's a specialist. Whatever happened to general-practitioner cops?"

"I think we should call for reinforcements," she said. "General-practitioner cops went the way of the dodo bird."

The way she said it made it sound as though she considered me right up there on the endangered-species list myself. After that we both lapsed into a sullen silence.

Of course, I knew Sue was right. That's why her saying it irked me so. Young men become police officers because they're idealistic as hell-because they want to ride white horses, save the universe from the forces of evil, and rescue damsels in distress. I suppose these days, young women join up for much the same reasons. They want to make a difference, and they want to do it themselves.

I'm not a remote-control kind of guy. I want to have my own hands on the knobs-my own finger on the trigger, if it comes down to that. Tracking down bad guys and then having to tell somebody else to go get 'em doesn't quite square with my view of myself-of who I am and what I'm all about.

Hammersmith strolled back into the room. "They're about ready for the meeting. I'm going to conference-call it because we've got some guys down here and some up in Everett. I'll be back as soon as the last aircraft is off the ground."

He turned and started away again. "Wait a minute," I called after him. "What about us?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't we go up in one, too?"

I guess some of those old Sea Hunt images were still flickering in the back of my imagination.

"Detective Beaumont," Roger Hammersmith explained patiently, "I thought I made it clear. You guys are command and control." He said it slowly, as though speaking to a wayward child; as though he never expected to have to clarify such a basic concept.

"You and Ms. Danielson stay here until we have a sighting from one of the Robinson helicopters. They're tiny. Cute. They can fly two men, but they can cover a lot more ground if they only have one person on board. Once the pilots find something, that's when Paul will take you two up in one of the big turbines. Then it will be up to you to figure out what to do next."

"I see," I said. "When will Paul be here?"

"The Department of Transportation has finally hauled the semi off the bridge. Traffic is beginning to move. He should be here within the next half hour or so."

Once again Hammersmith left the room. When I looked over at Sue Danielson, she drummed her fingers on the table and said nothing. She didn't have to. It was my operation, and she was forcing me to call the shots and do the right thing.

For a time, we sat in silence, waiting and drinking coffee. And after the coffee-incredibly awful swill that must have been made weeks earlier-I paced the floor with my guts at a full boil, wrestled with my indecision, and longed for the physical comfort of an antacid chalk-pill.

Every minute that passed brought us closer to the showdown, the moment when we would find them. It would have been easier to know what to do if we could have predicted in advance exactly where and when we'd find them. Where and when the inevitable confrontation would take place.

Despite my general-practitioner lamentation, I knew damn good and well that not all jurisdictions had trained hostage negotiators available. And even if they had, all such trained individuals are not necessarily created equal. Regardless of whose team was designated to do the job, it might take time-precious time-to assemble team members on a rainy November Sunday morning.

Finally, at ten o'clock, I decided to take my best shot and called Captain Lawrence Powell at home. I was glad he answered the phone himself. I wouldn't have wanted to try explaining the whole tangled web to Mrs. Powell, only to have to explain it again to her husband a few minutes later.

"Not you, Detective Beaumont," Captain Powell said into the phone, as soon as I identified myself. "Whenever you call me at home, it usually means trouble. What's going on?"

Unlike my relationship with Major Gray, with Captain Larry Powell I have a long history of working together. It's been stormy on occasion, but we do have a reasonable understanding of how the other guy thinks and where he stands. Captain Powell listened to every word I said without once interrupting.

"Let me get this straight," he said when I finished. "You're there at Boeing Field right now, waiting for one of the chopper pilots to spot the boat. When they do, you want me to have a Seattle P.D. hostage negotiation team assembled at the airport ready to go, but you don't know where they'll be going?"

"That's right."

"Jurisdictional lines be damned?" he demanded.

"That's true, too," I conceded, "but we have letters of mutual aid with most of the other jurisdictions in Washington State, don't we?"

"One would hope," Powell answered thoughtfully, "although whether or not those Memorandums of Agreement are all in order-properly signed, witnessed, and on file in the right office-is another question entirely."

"It's always easier to step on toes first and say you're sorry later," I advised him, speaking with the benefit of my lifelong history of bending, if not actually breaking, the rules. "If we try going for permission in advance, we may end up stuck in some petty jurisdictional squabble when what we need is the ability to take immediate action."

Powell thought about that for a few moments and evidently came to the same conclusion. "All right," he said. "I'll go to work on this and see what I can do. You realize, of course, that I'm going to have to run this by the brass?"

Talking to brass has never been high on my list of skills. If it were, I wouldn't still be a detective after all these years. Just his saying it made the possibility of a successful outcome sound like a hopeless pipe dream.

"All right," I said.

"What about an Emergency Response Team?" he added. "Do you think we'd better haul those guys along as well?"

"With our necks already out that far, why not?" I returned. "If those guys can shoot from a moving helicopter and knock someone off a moving boat, I say let's bring 'em along."

"Helicopter," Powell repeated. "That reminds me. You told me you're planning to pay for the initial search part of this operation, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"From what you've told me, that may or may not be necessary. We've worked with Paul Brendle before. Is he around there somewhere?"

Paul had arrived only moments earlier. He had waved to me through the glass-paned walls of the conference room while I was on the phone with Captain Powell.

"I believe he's out in the hangar area. If you'll wait a minute, I'll go get him."

Paul came in from outside to take the call. Here it comes, I thought, as he took the phone. This is when I'm going to get my ass chewed. But Paul Brendle was smiling broadly at me when he finished the conversation with Larry Powell.

"That captain of yours sounds like an all-right guy. He says he's trying to get permission to send out two specialty teams. If it works, one of them will bring along the city's signed requisition to use the helicopters. Two separate requisitions, if necessary. He did say, though, that if you and your partner-" he nodded toward Sue Danielson-"intend to go up in a helicopter prior to the arrival of that official requisition form, then the two of you will have to buy your own tickets."

Suddenly, my heart felt fully five pounds lighter. "No problem," I said cheerfully. "That's no problem at all."