Silent Joe

Chapter Four

Six A.M. and the sun was just rising over the hills of south Newport Beach. My car idled beneath the towering marble archway that marked the entry to the Pelican Point development. A gate guard took my name, plates, badge and driver’s license numbers. He stared at my face like he could handle it any time. The gate swung open and I drove in.

Ten days ago, Newport PD had shot a sixteen-year-old boy dead just outside this gate. Twelve shots, nine hits, dead-on-scene. The guy was armed with a machete and a sharpened screwdriver, screaming in Spanish. His name was Miguel Domingo. Jaime Medina’s HACF was up in arms about the incident, demanding an investigation. He’d talked about it with Will that night, in fact. The shooting was the second violent death of an undocumented Guatemalan worker in a month. A week before the shooting, a young domestic worker, Luria Bias, was struck and killed by a car as she “wandered” onto a street close to her Fullerton apartment. It was ruled an accident. The woman in the Suburban that killed her got out and tried to help.

Driving into a place like Pelican Point, you saw the beauty and the wealth and had to admit the dizzying unfairness of things, the way some people lived in mansions by the beach and others got shot at the gates or run over by sport utility vehicles. Some guy trying to take his share, using a screwdriver and a machete. A lady trying to make it by cleaning other people’s houses.

New asphalt on the old hills. Mansions, palaces, estates — some finished, some not. Georgian, Tudor, Tuscan, Roman, Frank Lloyd Wrightish, postmodern glass and concrete. Gray sky with a seagull in it. Tan hillsides and a battalion of yellow Cat D-9s ready to scrape new pads off the horizon. Never too early to take out a hilltop.

The next gate had its own little gatehouse beside it, but no guard. A security camera followed my face to a stop. The intercom was easy to reach. I pushed the ringer and waited. Two gates per household, SOP in the Newport hills now.

“Yes.”

“Joe Trona for the Blazaks.”

“Come on in, Joe.”

The Blazaks had gone Greco-Roman: a reflecting pool out front lined with olive trees, then an expanse of white marble steps leading to a columned portico and two immense, windowless front doors. The house was white marble, rectangular and flat-roofed. Bougainvillea and ocotillo spread upward along one side, casting shadows and bright purple bracts against the pale marble walls. Statuary, a nice little plot of grape vines with their arms out on wires and reaching for sun, a small stand of orange trees with dark waxy leaves and bright fruit.

I parked beside a polished red-and-white ’63 split-window Corvette with plates that said “BoWar.” The garage behind it was open, and stocked with a Silver Cloud, a Lexus SUV and a Jaguar with the dealer’s ad still in the license-plate frame.

Jack Blazak came down the front steps to meet me. He shook my hand with conviction. Wavy dark hair, light brown eyes, thick and compact.

“Thanks for coming.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“Lorna and Bo are inside.”

His voice was gruff and he delivered his words in a fast bark, like he was saving time.

The entry room was spacious, with a high ceiling dome capped by a skylight. I took off my hat. White walls, the day’s early sunlight rushing down, more white marble underfoot. Blazak’s face looked pale as the walls.

He led me into a living room that was all glass on the western side, with a view of the hills and the ocean below.

Lorna Blazak sat at one end of a big leather couch, a guy I’d never seen before at the other end.

“Oh, Mr. Trona,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

She offered her hand, which was bony and cold. Her eyes were dull and an air of exhaustion came off her.

“And meet Bo Warren — he’s new head of security for the Chapel of Light.”

Warren was already standing. He was a short, wiry man with a buzzed scalp and blue eyes under sharp, dubious brows. Camel blazer, black golf shirt buttoned up, duty boots polished into the fifth dimension. His handshake was brief and punishing and his eyes stayed right on mine.

BoWar, I thought.

“Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Joe Trona.”

He didn’t say anything, so Lorna took up the pause.

“Joe, anything to drink?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

Jack sat down on the couch and motioned me into a chair across from them. There was a glass coffee table between us. It was shaped like a coastline, and the craftsman had etched waves along curved edges of the glass. I sat and put my hat on the waves.

“First things first, Joe,” Blazak said. “We’re grateful that you located our daughter. We thank you. We’re beyond grateful that she’s alive. We called you here to tell you a few things, get you straightened out and up to speed.”

Again, his words were fast and his tone aggressive, a man used to being listened to.

I nodded. “I don’t want to be crooked and slow, sir.”

Warren snickered. Jack looked at me blankly, then turned to his wife.

“Jack’s blunt these days, Mr. Trona,” said Lorna. “He hasn’t slept more than two hours a night since Savannah was taken. Neither have I. Forgive us both if we’re kind of... short.”

“I understand.”

“Help,” said Jack. “A little help is all we’re after.” Silence then, until Jack looked across at Warren. “You take it from here, Bo.”

Warren moved to the edge of the sofa like he was ready to spring.

“Glad to,” he said. “Joe, sometime between nine and eleven hundred hours on Monday, June eleven, Savannah Blazak was kidnapped.”

Semper fi, I thought. ’Nam. His voice was much deeper and louder than you expected, like he had a speaker inside him.

“Jack was at work. Lorna was out. Marcie, that’s the head maid here, was doing some light cleaning and keeping an eye on Savannah. Savannah was allegedly playing in her bedroom. When Marcie went to check on her at ten fifty-five, Savannah wasn’t in her room. Marcie called and walked the house — no girl. Called and walked the grounds — no girl. She called the neighbors, who have a girl about Savannah’s age, nobody home. At eleven ten she called Jack at work, then — on Jack’s orders — nine one one. After that, she called Mrs. Blazak on her cell phone. Jack made it home in seventeen minutes. Newport PD was already on scene.”

Warren stared at me, eyes blue and hard. “With me?”

I nodded.

“Then, in brief: the cops get here making a lot of noise, glance at the girl’s room—”

“Call her Savannah, Bo. Not the girl.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Blazak. Savannah. They look in Savannah’s room. Question Marcie. Question Jack. Take the report, say they think Savannah will show up unharmed. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they say, a missing juvenile shows up unharmed. They probably wanted to chew out Marcie for using nine one one for a non-emergency, but Jack Blazak’s daughter was the subject of the call.”

“Stick to the facts, Bo,” said Blazak. “You’re a gopher, not a prophet.”

Warren’s smile appeared and vanished, on then off, like a turn signal. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, sir. Okay. Now, Joe, about three hours after the maid called the cops, the Blazaks got a call here at home. The caller muffled his voice somehow — a cloth or towel or something. He said he had Savannah. He let her say ‘Hello, Mom and Dad’ to prove it. Affirmative, it was Savannah. Then he demanded half a million cash dollars for her safe release. He gave Jack and Lorna forty-six hours to pay the ransom. If they didn’t pay it he’d kill Savannah. If they contacted the authorities about this, he’d kill Savannah. He said he would contact them before noon Wednesday. This was Monday, two o’clock, remember.”

“Yes.”

“Here’s the first twist: Jack recognized the kidnapper’s voice. Twist number two: the kidnapper is his son, Alex, known to his friends as Crazy Alex.”

Are you with Alex?

“Damnit, Bo,” pleaded Lorna. “Why do you have to be so crude?”

Warren’s voice was resonant with apology. “Well, I’m sorry, but I was just trying to give Joe here a feel for what we’re up against. I think the nickname is a good indicator of his character at times, Lorna. I’m not trying to drag your son’s name through the mud, even though he is a convicted felon, a longtime mental patient and now, apparently, a kidnapper again.”

“An accused felon. He wasn’t convicted,” Lorna said tiredly.

“A kidnapper again?” I asked.

“He took Savannah from the family home when she was three years old,” said Warren.

“He was thirteen, Bo,” hissed Lorna. “They ran away.”

“Get on with it, Warren,” snapped Blazak. He was leaning his head back against the couch, looking into the distant recesses of his living room ceiling. “You’re wasting everybody’s time again.”

“All right, Jack, sure. So, Jack and Lorna didn’t want to endanger Savannah any more than she was already. And, understandably, they didn’t want to endanger their son, even though he’s threatened to murder his own sister if he doesn’t get a pot-load of money. Jack and Lorna confer. Jack and Lorna agonize. Really agonize. They decide to pray to God in heaven for guidance. They go to the Reverend Daniel Alter and they tell him what’s happened. He leads them in a series of prayers and scriptural readings that lasts almost half an hour. When they’ve finished praying to the Lord for help, Jack and Lorna both believe that paying Alex for Savannah’s safe return and getting help for Alex — rather than a prison term — is the Christian thing to do. The Reverend Alter agrees.”

Warren leaned back and sighed. “I think you can fill in from there,” he said.

“Reverend Alter volunteered your services for the ransom drop, because your line is security.”

“Exactly.”

“But something went wrong with the Wednesday exchange or none of us would be sitting here right now.”

“Obviously. Enter Will Trona. The Reverend Daniel had asked him to help find Savannah and Alex, because of your father’s connections throughout the county. Your father called Jack on Wednesday morning, saying that he’d talked to Alex and seen Savannah. He wouldn’t say one word about where they were or how he found them. Will said that Alex now wanted one million dollars to let his sister go. Will said that he would collect that money, and when he’d collected it, he would gather up Savannah and bring her to us. This was all supposed to happen Wednesday night. Jack’s money was given to Will, as planned. Not as planned, your father was murdered and Savannah vanished.”

I tried to match Warren’s story with what I had seen and heard. It seemed about right to me. But it surprised me in an empty way to learn that Will had known Savannah’s whereabouts on Wednesday morning, but never bothered to tell me. Never even told me he was looking for a kidnapped girl. He’d left me in the dark before — for my own good, he always said later. But it hurt because Will’s night business was supposed to be my business too.

“I understand,” I said. “When Savannah’s name hit the news yesterday, you figured it was time to call in the police and FBI, go public and try to get her back before Alex could find her again.”

“Good,” said Warren. “So you can see our troubles now.”

“Yes, sir. The first trouble is, that was two nights ago and Savannah is still missing. The second is, Mr. and Mrs. Blazak still love their son. You convinced the FBI that a full-scale, highly publicized manhunt for Alex would lead him to either suicide or a breakdown. And may or may not get Savannah back. Steve Marchant indulged you for a few days, but they haven’t found either of them, so they’re about to plaster Alex’s face and name all over the news, just like Savannah’s were. That means an arrest on a federal kidnapping charge, not therapy for his disorders.”

“That’s it,” said Warren. “Marchant says they’ll hold off on launching a public manhunt for Alex until Monday. Three days. And that brings us to you. Because we’re hoping that since you found her once, you can find her twice.”

“I thought so.”

“Well, you’re a bright kid,” said Warren with a smile. He chuckled.

“Joe,” said Jack, leaning forward now, his voice soft. “We need a few other things from you.”

“What things, sir?”

“We need to know everything that happened that night. Anything Will might have said. Anything you saw or heard about my daughter. Everything you told the Anaheim PD, the Orange County Sheriff’s, the FBI, the media — I want to hear it again, from you. I’m going to tape record the whole story. Every last detail, Joe. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

Bo Warren stood and took a step toward me. Until then, he’d sounded like a colonel briefing the press, now he spoke like a general giving orders.

“Joe, we’ve got a crack hypnotherapist — works without drugs — who can put you in a state so deep you can remember details of your own birth. She’s scheduled to be here in one hour and fifteen minutes. Before that, we want one hour with you, to hear your account, hear everything you remember. Then we need one hour from you, under hypnosis. We think you know how to find Savannah, because you and your father found her. Whether you know you know how, or not. We’re asking you to help the girl. Help us. Help yourself. One million dollars if you can find her, Joe. Or if you can lead us to her. Either way. You might already hold the key in that good brain of yours. A million dollars is not a bad paycheck for lying on the couch in the Blazaks’ den, just remembering that night.”

I looked at them one at a time. Warren stood about eight feet away from me, to the side of the coffee table, eyes fixed on my face. Jack’s hands were locked behind his head, elbows out, and he was staring at me.

Lorna stared at me too. Then she did something that astonished me.

She shook her head. It was slight and it was fast. But I saw it and it was clear. She was looking right at me.

She did it once more, and looked down.

“Agreed, then,” Warren said.

“Terrific,” said Blazak. “Let’s get started.”

“What’s your answer, Mr. Trona?” Lorna asked. The glaze in her eyes was gone. I saw her jaw muscle move under the skin.

“No, for now. But I’ll think about it.”

In the silence I heard the kyew, kyew, kyew of a hawk outside. I heard the air conditioner sigh on.

“Uh, Joe?” said Warren. “You just listened to two parents telling you about the kidnapping of their daughter. By their own son. You saw that daughter briefly, on Wednesday, two nights ago. You know now that she was in the hands of a rather dangerous young psychopath, brother or not. May well be back in those hands, for all we know. And you’re going to sit there after hearing all this, and tell us you won’t help?”

“I’ll look for her. I’ll bring her to you if I find her. I won’t tell you everything I know about that night.”

“Why not, soldier?”

Warren took two steps toward me, which put me in range of his boots.

“Because,” I said, “something else happened that night. Something I care about, even if none of you do.”

“We care about Will,” Warren snapped. “If that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean. And Will Trona is none of your business.”

“Look, sonofabitch — whatever happened that involves this man’s daughter is definitely his business. Help us, help yourself.”

I gathered my hat and stood, watching Warren, then turned to the Blazaks. “Thank you for having me into your home. I’ll do what I can to find Savannah. She seems like a wonderful girl.”

Jack was staring at me. Lorna was staring at her husband. Warren was suddenly out of my field of vision, then directly in front of me. “Hey, meatface, hold it just one second—”

“Don’t,” I said.

But he grabbed my upper arm, hard. A strong man. I took his wrist in both hands, drop-spun and threw him over my shoulder like you would an ax. He landed flat on his back but very hard on the carpet and I heard the wind huff out of him. He turned over gasping, gnashing his mouth into the cream-colored wool.

“Oh, my God!” cried Lorna.

“Head of Security, my ass,” said Jack.

“I’m sorry, and I’ll pay for spot cleaning,” I offered.

Lorna walked away. Jack stood and looked at Warren.

I picked up my hat and looked down at Warren, too. I shouldn’t have been surprised by his shoulder rig but I was. Something about a five million dollar house and an automatic handgun don’t go together, like finding a fly in your whipped cream.

He was still fighting for a good breath when I turned out of earshot and into the entry room on my way out.

Lorna Blazak held open the door for me with one hand, held out a business card to me with the other. I took it and read it.

On the other side was an address, written in a woman’s elegant long-hand.

“Alex might have held her there. It’s kind of a secret, because, well... Alex isn’t a licensed dealer. Maybe something there can lead you to her. Jack doesn’t know this place, neither do the police. I tried to get in, but it was locked.”

For the second time that morning, she had astounded me. “Why are you protecting him?”

“Because if you find him first, he’s got a chance, and so does my daughter.”

“I’ll arrest him.”

“I hope so. Jack is so absolutely furious. I’m afraid for everyone.”

“Anything else I should know, Mrs. Blazak?”

“I love my children. Go.”

I thanked her and she shut the huge door behind me.

Driving out of the hills I thought this was a beautiful place. Tan hills and blue water and mansions.

I wondered why Savannah Blazak hadn’t made it home. I wondered if Alex had caught up with her before she could get to the cops, or to some responsible adult. I wondered why Lorna was protecting someone who had threatened to send her daughter’s head home in a freezer-pack.

And I wondered for the hundredth time how Will had found Savannah. How did he know where to look? Why had he kept me out of it?

Savannah gets kidnapped on Monday morning. Her parents tell no one but their spiritual advisor and his security man.

By Wednesday morning Will Trona has solved the mystery, found the girl, arranged to get her back home safely. That night, ten minutes after he tries to claim her, he’s dead.

When I went through the marble archway there was a video crew shooting some footage, maybe something about Miguel Domingo, the sixteen-year-old Guatemalan with the machete. But like Jaime Medina, I doubted if the media would pay that much attention to the story. The camera crew was probably just a promotional segment for Pelican Point development, where one million dollars gets you nothing.

The guard was vibing them as hard as he could, but they were on a public street.