Trouble in Paradise

Sixty-Four

Molly Crane was alone at the desk when the call came in. She automatically registered the phone number that flashed up on the caller ID screen.

“Chief Stone, please,” a woman’s voice said.

“He’s not here,” Molly said. “This is Sergeant Crane. May I help you?”

“Where is he?”

“Official business,” Molly said. “May I have your name, please?”

“Tell Chief Stone that if he ever wants to see his sweetheart alive, he’ll make sure that nothing happens to Jimmy Macklin.”

“And what sweetheart might that be?” Molly said.

As she talked, she was punching up the phone number index on the computer.

“Abby Taylor,” the voice said. “Anything happens to Jimmy Macklin, she dies.”

“Would you like to make some sort of a deal?” Molly said.

“You let Jimmy go. I let Abby go.”

The phone number came up on the screen. The woman was calling from Abby’s phone. That was pretty brazen.

“May I speak with Abby, please?”

“And don’t try to find me. I see a cop, and I’ll kill her anyway.”

“How do I know she’s all right?” Molly said.

The woman didn’t answer and the connection broke.

“Shit,” Molly said aloud.

Was she really staying right in Abby’s house? She called the mobile operations truck at the bridge. No answer. She shook her head once, then left the switchboard, went to her locker, and slipped into a bullet-proof vest. Then she went next door to the fire station.

Buzz Morrow was the only fireman there. Everyone else was at the explosion site.

“I’m leaving the station,” she said. “Can you cover the switchboard?”

“I’m supposed to stand by here,” Buzz said.

“You got no trucks,” Molly said. “What happens if someone does report a fire? You run out and pee on it?”

“Good point,” Buzz said. “Where you going?”

She didn’t answer him. She left the fire station at a half run and went to the parking lot behind the station. There were no squad cars. She stopped at her own car, a Honda Accord, took out her service pistol and racked a 9-mm cartridge up into the chamber. She let the hammer back down, put the pistol back in its holster, took a deep breath, and got in her car. She had no siren, but the town was nearly deserted and she was able to go very fast through the empty streets. She went past Abby’s street slowly and looked down it. Nothing unusual. No car in front of Abby’s house. She turned the corner on the next street and circled the block slowly, staying off Abby’s street. Nothing unusual. She saw a dark green Mercedes sedan near the corner. But Mercedes sedans were not unusual in Paradise. She parked on the street behind and a little bit downhill from Abby’s house. Her breath was shallow and coming very fast. When she shut off the engine, she tried to slow down, relax the stomach muscles, breathe in deeply. She let her shoulders sag and closed her eyes for a minute.

Okay, okay. You’re a cop, just like the other guys. You always knew you might have to do this. The fucking truth is, though, you always thought you’d be doing this with a couple of the guys.

She shook her head as if to clear it and got out of her car. She locked it and put the keys in the pocket of her uniform pants. Her pistol belt felt heavy. She hitched it higher. There was a radio on her belt and a can of Mace and some handcuffs and two extra magazines for her service pistol. The loop for the flashlight was empty. She didn’t have a come along. Or a night stick. She had a short leather sap in her right-hand back pocket. From the trunk of her Honda, she took the jack handle and carried it in her left hand.

Okay, she thought again. Okay.

She walked quietly through the neatly trimmed yard of a narrow white clapboard little house with a gambrel roof, stopped at the garage, and looked carefully into Abby’s backyard. She wished she’d changed her clothes. She felt as obvious as a nudist in her uniform. The house was silent. There was no sign of life. The window shades upstairs were drawn. The caller could have removed Abby, right after she called. But it would be dangerous to try and kidnap someone in a crowded neighborhood in the middle of the day. Of course it was also dangerous to stay in the victim’s house. But most people weren’t conscious of caller ID. And the caller would assume that holding a hostage would protect her. And maybe the caller thought it was the place so obvious that no one would look there. Or maybe the caller was stupid. Or desperate. Or maybe it was a hoax. Abby could be at work, entirely unaware. Molly should have called her office. But she didn’t know where Abby worked, and there was no one to ask, and everything was moving too fast and here she was looking at Abby’s backyard.

The house was built on a small slope so that it stood high on its foundation in the back. There was a door to the cellar and a window on either side of the door. There was no cover between her and the house. But it was only about twenty feet. There’s no way to sneak, Molly thought. If I’m the perp, I’m walking around the house looking out windows, keeping an eye out for the cops. If I’m right, I got three chances in four that she’s looking out the wrong window. I either make it or I don’t. It’s the best I can do. This was where normally you radioed for backup. Today there was no backup. She took in as much air as she could and blew it out and sprinted for the back of the house. No one shot her. Nothing happened. She crouched against the high foundation in relative safety. She was pretty sure she couldn’t be seen from the house.

Crawling to stay out of sight, she went past the cellar window and tried the cellar door. Locked. She looked up at the cellar window. The one on the left was locked; she could see the latch. The one on the right had no latch. She reached over and pushed up on one of the mullions. The window didn’t move. She took the flat end of the tire iron and slipped it under the bottom of the window and pried up. The window went up without much noise. Molly dropped the tire iron and waited. No sound. No movement. She slid as close to the edge of the window as she could and peered around it. There was a laundry room. The laundry room door was closed. No one was in the laundry room. Molly stood and boosted the window wide open and climbed through. She stood in the laundry room and listened. The house was quiet. But then she heard footsteps on the floor above. She stood motionless. The footsteps moved away. She strained to hear them and realized as she listened that she had been right. It sounded like someone walking from one room to another, looking out the windows.

Crouching next to the washer and dryer, Molly took off her shoes and socks. It made her pants too long, and she rolled the cuffs up over her calves. Then she straightened and took out the gun. She’d never fired it at anyone. She was a good shot on the range. She opened the laundry room door. It was dimmer in the rest of the cellar. The cellar stairs ran up from the front, the oil burner to the right. She could see the electrical board on the wall to her left. Barefooted and silent she went across the cellar and up the stairs. Policy was never to cock the piece until you were going to shoot. Standing on the top cellar stair, struggling to take in enough oxygen to keep up with her heart rate, Molly looked at the service pistol for a moment and then carefully pulled the hammer back. Fuck policy! She put her hand on the knob and listened again. She heard the footsteps get closer, moving slowly. Then they went past the door and faded into another room. Molly opened the door and stepped through in a crouch, the pistol aimed in the direction of the footsteps.

Bright. She was in a front hall. There were glass lights on either side of the front door, and sunshine streamed through the glass. Dust moats danced in the light. She saw no one. She stayed where she was frozen in her crouch, holding the gun with both hands, her finger on the trigger. Not policy either. Then she heard movement in the next room. She moved toward it silently, almost without volition, feeling nothing now, not even fear, her concentration so focused ahead of her that nothing else registered. In the living room, looking out the window, was a well-built blond woman in a black sweatsuit and white sneakers, carrying a black shoulder bag. Molly took two soundless barefoot steps into the room, and the woman became aware of her. She half turned, fumbling at her shoulder bag.

Molly said, “Freeze. Police.” She stepped forward and got a handful of the woman’s hair and pressed the muzzle of her service pistol into the woman’s neck and slammed her against the wall face first.

“Don’t move a fucking muscle,” Molly said.

She hated how choked her voice sounded. The woman stayed where Molly had put her.

“What’s your name?” Molly said.

“Faye.”

“Okay, Faye. Let the purse slide off your shoulder.”

Faye did as Molly told her and the purse fell to the floor. With her left foot Molly kicked it away.

“Now lace your hands behind your head,” Molly said.

She moved the gun back enough so the woman could move her hands up. When the woman’s fingers were laced, Molly got a good grip on the interlaced little fingers. Then she holstered her weapon, still cocked, and took her handcuffs off her belt and handcuffed Faye’s hands behind her. Then she stepped away, took her service pistol out of the holster again. She didn’t lower the hammer. She didn’t know if Faye was alone.

“Where’s Abby, Faye?” Molly said.

With her face still pressed against the wall, Faye answered, “Upstairs.”

“She all right?” Molly said.

“Yes.”

“Let’s you and me go take a look, Faye. You first.”

They went slowly up the stairs to where Abby was handcuffed to the bed. There were tears, Molly noticed, running down Faye’s face.