The Program

Chapter fourteen

Tim asked Dray to join him for his six o'clock drive to Hidden Hills. They tangled in traffic at Thousand Oaks, lurching along beside a glossy red Ferrari with an Angels flag snapping from the rear window. Tim worked his lip between his front teeth, and Dray watched the scenery inch by, letting him muse. Between Top 40 hits on 98.7, Ryan Seacrest bemoaned his dating life.

Though growing up with a despotic father, an expended mother, and four older brothers hadn't been a breeze through the express lane, Dray had a perception about family matters that far exceeded his own – one of the reasons he wanted her with him at the Hennings'. Plus, as a sheriff's deputy, she had a stronger handle on state law.

The Hennings' house, an enormous Spanish colonial with pantile roofing, abutted an equestrian arena. The solid-core oak door, buttressed by strips of hammered iron, opened to a vaulting foyer and a displeased man with the size and bearing of a WWF grappler.

"Help you?" His nose, flattened and asymmetrical, suggested a history guarding club doors or encountering hockey boards. Black hair shorn in a buzz cut didn't widen his casting options. The Mickey Mouse voice, so discordant given his build, tipped Tim that this was the spirited caller he'd hung up on earlier in the day. One of Will's men.

"Yes, Tim and Andrea Rackley here to see Will." Tim's proffered hand hung in the air for a moment before he withdrew it.

The man stepped back, letting them enter. He walked with a slight limp, a cocker spaniel materializing to scurry alongside him. His body language suggested he was not a dog person. Tim and Dray followed him across a wide stretch of ceramic tiles into an expansive kitchen area. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked an unrestrained lawn. Perched on two barstools pulled up to a granite-topped island, Will and Emma were finishing an early dinner. Though the meal seemed casual enough, Emma wore a conservative dress, stockings, and slingbacks. Perusing the Hollywood Reporter, Will foiled her in a velour jogging suit, royal blue with an embroidered F prominently displayed.

"Rooch Banner," Will said proudly, his game-show-host sweep of the arm acknowledging the low-grade butler. "Maybe you recognize him. He had a half season with the Rams."

Tim's apologetic shrug probably didn't help him with Rooch in the rapport department. Dray admired the photos adhered to the Sub-Zero -Will lying on his back flying the baby above him, the baby dressed as a sunflower for her first Halloween, a weary postpartum Emma snuggling the baby in a loaf of pink blanket.

Will drained a glass of vivid green liquid. To Dray's bemused stare, he said, "Blue-green algae. Antioxidants," then threw down his napkin and rose. Rooch set about clearing the plates as Will gestured them down a hall. They passed a palatial Pilates room and a home theater with rows of cushioned seats, finally descending into a sunken living room rimmed with couches and adorned with energetic one-sheets of films Will had produced.

Will sank down and patted the cushion. "C'mere, pooch."

The dog leapt up and curled under his arm. It yapped a few times, tail wagging. Emma snapped her fingers at it irritably.

Hurwitz, Gregg – Rackley 02 the Program (2004)

Will rose and headed for a bar in the corner. A framed picture showed Leah in high-school-graduation garb, a pair of boxers and a smiley-face T-shirt peeking out beneath the gown. She was flashing the peace sign and smiling at someone out of the photo's span. It would take a strong-willed kid to argue that outfit past Emma. Tim wondered whether Leah's unorthodox attire explained why the photo was consigned to the bar. His mind moved to the baby's pictures proudly displayed on the refrigerator.

Will dug into an ice bucket that Tim noted was kept packed. "Drink?"

"I'm fine."

"Vodka rocks," Dray said.

Will poured her an alcoholic's fill, which he matched in his own glass.

Emma took the opportunity to shoo the cocker spaniel from the couch. The dog took off, probably in search of Rooch, his reluctant playmate.

Will handed Dray her drink, then threw a glance at his Cartier. "Nice of you to make it."

Tim ignored the sarcasm. "No problem."

"Would it be rude of me to ask why your wife decided to tag along?"

"We want her brain on this. She's smarter than me."

A petite cry echoed down the tiled hall. Will and Emma tensed until the baby was soothed into silence by an unseen retainer. Mrs. Rooch?

Will sat back down on the couch. "Marco informed me you were reinstated. As I promised earlier, I'm happy to pay you an additional stipend on the side."

"Thanks, but I can't accept."

Will's eyebrows rose. He settled back with a faint grimace, regretting lost leverage or just upset at not getting his way. "Why don't you fill us in on your progress?"

Tim caught them up. Emma wept quietly for a few moments when he related the likelihood that Leah had moved into the cult home. Will let her cry on his chest as Tim finished.

"She needed more from me." Emma blew her nose into Will's handkerchief. "After her father died, I tried to be both parents -too indulgent, then too restrictive. For the past three months, I've replayed in my head everything we might have done differently. Sending her off to camp crying, and -"

"Emma," Will said gently, "you're making yourself crazy."

Because he would have preferred to address Leah's current position, Tim found Emma's self-flagellation to be wearing. It hit him that her reaction held up an unflattering mirror to his own manner of grieving.

Emma's exhale puffed out her cheeks. "I just wish I knew what could drive her to do something this foolish."

"We can address that once she's in our hands," Tim said. "Right now we need to focus on getting her back."

"How old is the baby?" Dray asked.

"Seven months."

Will said, "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

Dray looked at him squarely. "Mrs. Henning is speculating about Leah's motivations. Leah's interest in the cult would seem to have followed the baby's arrival."

Will threw a glance at Tim. "What's the plan from here?"

"I'm hoping this is Leah's cult, but I'm still going off guesswork at this point. If she's there, I'll see if I can isolate her and persuade her to come with me. If she's not, I'll pump the others for information, get some names and leads."

"You'll find out who the bastard leader is. Can't you go after him? Cut the head off the beast?"

"It's not the quickest route, and time is of the essence. Plus, I'm not tasked with going after the entire cult. Just with finding your daughter."

Crunching ice, Will seemed to wrestle with his appetite for revenge. Finally he said, "Just get her home so we can take things from there."

Tim thought of Rooch Banner, Will's impatient rustling, the well-scrubbed tile of the kitchen. Not the warmest home to return to.

"Kidnapping our own daughter," Emma said tearily. "What has this come to?"

"I'm not kidnapping her," Tim said. "I'm taking her into custody. Think of it as a covert arrest."

Dray's head cocked. "On what grounds?"

"Grand theft auto."

"Pretty thin for a federal arrest. Plus, then what? You gonna charge her? Out of the cult and into jail? Sounds like a brainchild hatched in our fine federal bureaucracy, all right."

"We don't have to charge her, Dray."

"So just arrest her on trumped-up charges and violate her rights."

Tim took a deep breath, letting the mood in the room settle. "I'm hoping to come across something stronger. Evidence of Leah's being in imminent danger" – at this, Emma emitted a choked little sob – "or a 5150, danger to self."

"You can't make that determination," Dray said. "What, are you gonna smuggle in a psychiatric-evaluation team under your trench coat?"

Emma studied her through bleary red eyes. "How about abuse charges?"

"Adult abuse isn't illegal."

"What do you mean?"

"There's no adult-abuse statute. If there was, we'd have to run out and arrest anyone who's ever tried S amp;M. Whatever Leah's doing, it sounds like it's consensual. We've got assault and battery, but those require a victim pressing charges, which doesn't sound likely in this case." Dray shot Tim a glance. "This isn't news to you – you know how shitty conviction rates are when battered women back down."

Will smacked his palm on his knee. "So what do you propose? We just leave her in this cult?"

"Yes. I understand you're frustrated that you can't persuade her to leave, but she's an adult. Just because you have money doesn't give you the right to use other means to remove her." Dray moved her focus to her husband. "Come on, Tim. Let's call it like it is. I shouldn't have to remind you all that nothing illegal has taken place here." She gestured at Will with her glass. "There's a reason you're not sending Roach -"

"Rooch."

"- to do your bidding. There's a reason Tannino's using a freelancer for the job, and there's a reason he's using my husband." She softened her voice. "You're making some moves to get your daughter safe. Christ, with what we've been through, I can certainly relate. I'm not a saint, I'm not a priss, and I'm not a DA. I'm just recommending we all stay very aware of the game we're playing here. If my husband extracts your daughter, his ass is the one on the line when the spin doctors scrub in."

"That's not going to happen. Whatever you do, you won't have any legal problems. That I can assure you."

Dray was on her feet. "With all due respect, Mr. Henning, you can't make that promise." She set her half-full glass on the bar and left the room.

Will chuckled. "No shrinking violet, that one."

"No, sir."

"So how about the P.O. box? You make any progress with the inspector?"

"Let's just say he gave new meaning to the term 'going postal.' "

Will's hearty laugh filled the room.

"I'd like to implement some small, sustainable disguise elements, on the off chance someone in the cult recognizes me from the news footage last year," Tim said. "We usually pull a professional from the movie studios, but with the time frame -"

Will brightened. "I'll have the hottest new makeup-and-hair guy in town at your house first thing tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock okay?" He killed his vodka, plunked the glass on a side table. "When all this is through, I'll get you some Lakers tickets. On the floor. Right by Jack." He waited for Tim to stand. "Rooch will see you out."

Rooch had materialized above the steps, one hand clasping the other at the wrist. Tim paused on his way out, then turned back to Will. "Give me your watch."

"Nice line reading. I'll call you when we start casting."

"The Service issues replicas. The guys I'm swimming with might know the difference."

Though Emma made a displeased face, Will slid the Cartier off his wrist and tossed it to Tim. "That's a thirty-thousand-dollar watch. Keep your eye on it."

"I'll be sure to."

Rooch didn't speak to Tim on the long walk out.

Dray was sitting in the passenger seat. She winked at him when he got in. "I don't know about these freelance gigs, Timothy. Your track record is for shit."

Tim pulled out and drove a few blocks. "You're right. What you said in there."

They passed out of the community under a wood arch proclaiming