“This is Moran,” Colleen said. “He’s a retired homicide cop. He’s going to help us get your daughter back.”
Lieutenant Daniel Moran shook hands with Steve Cook in Steve’s construction zone living room, then pushed his thick glasses up his nose and stood back, feet slightly apart. Moran was a medium-size man in his sixties, with a dark mustache streaked with gray and a thick head of hair to match. Fine wrinkles etched his narrow face. But he looked good to Colleen. He’d been off the bottle for some time.
He shoved his hands in the pockets of a black jacket. Colleen saw the telltale heel of a pistol in a shoulder holster. He’d come prepared. Steve, for his part, was looking both weary and anxious, but coping, considering his daughter had been kidnapped. His heavy denim workpants and gray sweatshirt were powdered with white dust. Tools were scattered around the shell of a house. He’d been hammering wallboard when Colleen and Moran arrived. Couldn’t sleep, he said, so he might as well get something done. He was smoking a cigarette in rapid puffs, a hard grimace on his face.
Lynda was nowhere in sight. That fact provided Colleen with some relief.
It was eight a.m. Friday morning. At nine Steve was to take a call from the kidnappers at a pay phone by the snack bar at the Transbay Terminal.
Colleen, however, would go in his place.
“What’s the plan, Coll?” Steve asked, smoking.
Colleen handed Steve a paper grocery bag rolled up at the top. It contained ten bundles of cut-up newspaper banded with rubber bands to resemble the bulk of $20,000. “You take this, head down to Mission Street. Take a cab, or BART, or a bus. Get out at the Transbay Terminal. Quarter to nine, head to El Faro’s restaurant, wait for one of us to contact you. I’ll also have one more person nearby.” She would have liked more people, but this was the best she could do with the time pressure. “I’ll make my own way down to the Transbay Terminal with the cash, take the nine o’clock phone call by the snack bar inside the terminal. Moran will be nearby, keeping watch.” If anyone could be sly, it was Moran. “After that, a lot depends on the call. With any luck, they’ll let us talk to Melanie. We’ll take it from there. If one of us can’t make contact with you, I’ll leave a message on my answering service. I’ve authorized the service to give you an update.” Colleen eyed a gray gym bag sitting on the floor by the phone. “Is that the cash?”
“Yeah.” Steve blew a blast of smoke as he looked inside the paper sack. “And this is the decoy cash, I take it?”
“In case someone follows you.” Someone like Lynda, who Colleen didn’t quite trust. “It’ll look like you’re on your way to make the drop.”
“Are you sure about this, Coll? The kidnapper did say I was to make the call.”
“You’re too emotionally involved to deal with them. As a third party, I can be tougher, get away with more.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I heard the threat they made. But the kidnappers didn’t go through all this so they could walk away from the money. They’ll play along, up to a point.”
Moran spoke: “They’re not going to like it, Steve, but they’ll cooperate. For a while anyway.”
“By ‘cooperate’ you mean not kill my daughter, right?” Steve said.
“We have to assume they’re somewhat rational,” Colleen said.
“Somewhat.”
“And if they’re not,” she said, “it’s another ball of wax. One we’ll deal with, if it comes to that.”
Steve took a long drag on his cigarette, exhaled twin plumes of smoke through his nostrils. He shut his eyes for a moment. “Something that’s gone through my mind about a thousand times,” he said, tapping ash into the air, “is that Melanie is … ah … Christ, I can’t even bloody say it.”
Colleen knew what was going through Steve’s mind. She’d been in a similar spot once, with her own daughter. She went through a lesser nightmare now, every week or so, when she wondered how Pamela was holding up, living up at Moon Ranch with those religious lunatics.
“Melanie’s alive, Steve,” she said.
“You really believe that, Coll?”
Did she? She had to, for Steve’s sake. “I do. But we need to take control of the situation. And this is how. You can’t be in the middle of it. I can. We’ll have you nearby, in the event that meeting with the kidnappers and getting Melanie moves ahead.”
Steve looked at her, uncertain. “I hope you’re right.”
Moran interrupted. “The people who took your daughter will understand you have to have proof that Melanie’s alive before you pay them, Steve. They’re probably half expecting it. They’re anxious, too. Listen to Colleen. She’s got a handle on this.”
“All I want is my daughter back, safe and sound,” Steve said.
“And that’s what we’re going to make happen,” Colleen said. “And then we’re going to get those bastards.”
Colleen was going to get them, or him, or her, regardless.
She checked her watch. “Time to go.”
Steve reached down, picked up the gym bag, handed it to Colleen. Unzipping it, she peered inside. Ten bundles of rumpled twenties, various colors of rubber bands around them. Mob money, money Steve had borrowed. Another problem she’d worry about later. She zipped the bag back up. “It’s important to stay calm.”
“Easier said than done.”
“You’re handling it like a trooper.”
Then they heard a car pull in the driveway with a squeal. Neither Colleen nor Moran had parked in front of the house, for anonymity’s sake. They’d both arrived separately.
“Christ,” Steve said, sucking on the last of his cigarette. “That’s Lynda’s car. I told her to stay away.”
“If Lynda asks,” Colleen said to Steve, “tell her you’re going to take the phone call at Transbay Terminal. We don’t need her flying off the handle. If she asks about Moran, tell her he’s here to lend you the ransom money.”
“Right,” Steve said.
An engine shut off, a car door was flung open, and then slammed. And then the same angry heels that had stepped up the stairs last night repeated their journey to the front door. The key went into the lock and opened it.
There stood Lynda, wearing a gold Afghan coat. Her blond hair was swept over in a dramatic swoop and her face was armored with heavy makeup. Well put together considering her daughter had been kidnapped, Colleen thought. None of it managed to hide Lynda’s fury, though.
“I can see that I’m going to need my key back,” Steve said to her.
Lynda looked at Steve, Moran, Colleen. “What’s going on?”
Steve went over, shut the front door. “Nothing.”
“Don’t you nothing me.” She eyed the paper bag in Steve’s hand. “You going to make the drop?”
Steve’s eyes met briefly with Colleen’s.
“I am,” Steve said to Lynda.
Lynda squinted at Moran. “So who is this? Another dick scooping up a fee?”
“He’s lending me the cash,” Steve said, holding up the paper sack.
“Which you will pay back in seven days,” Moran said to Steve, playing along. “Plus interest.”
Lynda gave Moran a wary look and actually took a step back. Being connected to mob money scared most people, even her.
“Then what is she doing here?” Lynda shot Colleen a prison-yard stare.
“Helping me,” Steve said.
“Doing nothing. What a fucking vulture.”
Colleen ignored her.
“I’m paying her, Lynda,” Steve said. “I’m paying the ransom. It’s my decision, yeah? Now you best leave.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do, asshole.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Colleen said. “Steve needs to be at the drop by nine.”
Lynda spun on Colleen, jabbed a finger into her shoulder as she spoke. “Anything happens to my daughter, bitch, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
Colleen grabbed Lynda’s hand, moved it slowly to one side. “I know you’re going through hell, but don’t ever do that again. Now leave.”
Lynda glared, turned, stormed out, leaving the front door open, her heels smacking the stairs. Tires squealed as she pulled out of the driveway and took off.
Moran, Colleen, and Steve reconvened.
“Let’s do it,” Colleen said.
Moran left.
Steve and Colleen stood across from each other, holding their respective bags.
“This is the longest bloody morning of my life,” Steve said.
She squeezed his arm. “We’re going to get Melanie back.”
There was a pause.
“Good luck, Coll.”
“I never plan on luck,” she said, checking her watch. “You better get going.”
Steve nodded, rubbed his face, left his apartment, carrying the bag of fake newspaper money.
Colleen left through the back of the house with the gym bag of cash, by the long narrow kitchen that had not been torn down. Through an overgrown yard and wooden garage to an alley behind the house she exited on Capp Street, checked both directions. She headed down to 21st. On 21st, a white Jaguar XJ6 drove up, stopped in the middle of the street, and Alex, wearing sunglasses, leaned over, gave Colleen a little wave. The electric window rolled down.
“My husband’s out of town.” She raised her eyebrows. “Interested?”
Alex’s attempt to lighten the situation wasn’t lost on Colleen. She smiled, shook her head, got in the car.
She saw that Alex was outfitted for speed: a white tennis skirt and running shoes, along with a black denim jacket with the collar turned up. Diamond studded earrings brought the outfit to another level. Alex’s bare legs were firm and tanned.
“This is my first kidnapping,” Alex said, setting the Jag into gear. “I didn’t know if there might be running involved.”
“Well, if there is, every eye will be on you in that outfit.”
“Please don’t hate me because I’m gorgeous, Coll,” Alex said as she drove. “It’s not like I can help it.”
A smile found its way across Colleen’s face. “I don’t hate you.”
“Likewise,” Alex said, winking from behind a blue lens.
The car was silent inside for a while, apart from some cool jazz oozing out of multiple speakers. The ride was equally smooth as the luxury car softened the rough Mission streets.
“Try to park across the street from the terminal, Alex, and stay with the car. Just observe and report. Take photos. Nothing else. If the drop isn’t a success, I’ll find you, and we’ll secure the cash.” Colleen continued: “And if anything squirrely happens, I want you to simply take off.”
Alex turned right at a stop sign with an old THE VIETNAM WAR bumper sticker under the word STOP, turned left at the next block, then took a right on Mission, into busy SF morning traffic. A beer truck trundled along in front of her.
Alex cleared her throat. “Do you think … this girl Melanie … is still …?”
Alex’s sister had been brutally murdered in the late sixties when Alex was a teenager. Colleen had tracked down the killer. Alex was no stranger to family tragedy.
“I have to think she’s alive, Alex,” Colleen said. “But, honestly—I don’t know.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes.
“You have your camera ready?” Colleen asked.
Alex nodded at the back seat. Colleen turned to see a Polaroid camera on the beige leather seat.
Alex studied the rearview mirror. “I hope you catch those fuckers, Coll.”
“Ditto. But right now, I’ll settle for Melanie.”
Alex gave Colleen a knee squeeze as she drove. “Just don’t go getting yourself hurt and expecting me to make a fuss over you.”
“Yes,” Colleen said, pressing her hand over Alex’s. “I would hate that.”
Twenty minutes later, they passed the Steinway Piano Gallery.
“Pull over here,” Colleen said. “I’ll walk the last couple of blocks. I don’t want anyone seeing you.”
Alex did.
Colleen got out of the car, grabbed the gym bag, leaned down, and looked inside. Despite Alex’s sunglasses, her eyes were sharp.
“Thanks, Alex. It really means a lot.”
“Please be careful, Coll.”
“You, too.” Colleen shut the door with a soft thump and patted the roof twice.
She zipped up her brown bomber jacket. Slung the bag over her shoulder, walked the last couple of blocks until she got to the station. Buses pulled up. Office workers were pouring out of the Transbay Terminal. The kidnappers had picked an opportune time of day for the drop. Rush hour. Crowds of people to hide amongst. She took a right, past the Wagon Wheel Café, and the Fun Terminal where the inane ringing of pinball machines and video games wafted out into the gray morning. She caught a glimpse of Alex’s white Jag, parked on the far corner of Mission.
Inside the Transbay Terminal, hectic with commuters flooding into San Francisco, the low ceilings reverberated with noise. Colleen found the pay phone across from the snack bar. This was the place where Steve Cook was to take the call. A short man in a blue wind-breaker, with a thatch of mousy hair sticking out from under a Giants cap, was on the phone, his back to Colleen. Damn it. She checked her watch. Eight fifty-five. Five minutes to go. She went over to the diner, sat on one of red leather stools, set the gray gym bag with the $20,000 in it down by her feet, ordered a cup of coffee she didn’t want. No one was expecting her, as far as she knew. She lit up a Virginia Slim to create the illusion of relaxation and waited, scouring the bus station, looking for anyone suspicious in the morass of people. Voices, footsteps, and the clattering of handcarts echoed off the tiles and ceiling. Moran was out there, too, somewhere, watching.
Halfway through her cigarette, the short man in the windbreaker hung up the pay phone and left. She checked her watch. A couple of minutes before nine.
Colleen picked up the bag, went over to the phone, looked around. She saw Moran now, standing by a news kiosk not far from the snack bar, going through magazines on a rack. He looked over briefly. She returned an imperceptible nod.
She set the gym bag on top of the hanging phone books.
“I need to use the phone,” a man’s voice said.
She turned, cigarette in hand. Always a good impromptu weapon, if need be.
And saw a big swarthy guy, bordering on obese, with small eyes sunken in a pie-shaped face. He wore a grubby dark duffle coat, rumpled dungarees, and scuffed shoes. He needed a shave.
She couldn’t give up the phone. The kidnappers were about to call.
And maybe he was one of them.
“I’m waiting for a call,” Colleen said. “My daughter missed her bus from Portland.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait your turn.”
He squinted at her. Trying to figure her out? Was he expecting Steve? “When is she calling?” he said. “Your daughter?”
“Nine,” Colleen said, hooking her arm through the gym bag to secure it, “to let me know when she’s going to arrive. I won’t be long.”
He eyed the gym bag furtively.
That did it. Something wasn’t right.
“Thank you for your patience,” she said curtly.
He huffed, lumbered over to the café, sat on a stool, drummed his fingers on the countertop, watched. She looked for a bulge in his coat, but it was a big coat, and he was a big dude.
She made brief eye contact with Moran, leafing through Sports Illustrated, who looked at her questioningly. His eyes shifted to Duffle Coat, then back. She couldn’t really nod but she blinked. Moran got it, nodded back.
The phone rang.
This was it.
She took a drag on her cigarette, heartbeats rapping nicely, answered with a curt hello.
“Who’s this?” a metallic voice said. The sound whooshed in and out, masked by electronics.
She had to put one finger over her free ear to block an announcement being made that reverberated through the station. The big guy in the duffle coat was still perched on the stool, his hands now jammed into the pockets of his coat. Moran, at the magazine rack, kept his eye on him over the top of his magazine.
“Not who you think it is,” Colleen said.
“Where the hell is Steve?” the robot voice on the other end of the phone said.
“Steve couldn’t make it.” Colleen shifted the gym bag up on her shoulder.
“Why the fuck not?” Getting angry. Good. Maybe she could draw him out.
“Put Melanie on the phone,” she said.
“Just shut the fuck up and listen to me. Leave the money by the phone. Someone will contact Steve when we have your little package ready.”
Colleen turned, phone to her ear, eyed Duffle Coat by the snack bar. He was watching her, hands in his coat pockets, apprehensive. He caught her look. He was definitely here to pick up the cash. It made sense. He had expected Steve. Moran was still watching through the magazine rack.
“Let me speak to Melanie,” Colleen said.
“When we’re good and ready.”
We. Colleen took a deep breath through her nose. “If you think I’m leaving a bag of money here, without Melanie, you are seriously mistaken.”
“What do you fucking think this is, cunt? Do as you’re told. Put the fucking money down. Then walk away.”
She did her best to discern any kind of uniqueness out of the caller’s robotic voice. No luck. She took a puff on her cigarette, looked around casually for anyone else suspicious. No one, so far. Duffle Coat stood up, hands still in his coat pockets. Pretending not to stare at her. But getting antsy. He could tell it wasn’t going right.
Moran was watching.
“It’s been great chatting with you,” Colleen said. “Let’s do it again soon. You know who to call. But we need to see Melanie alive before anything happens.”
“You want to tell Steve you killed his daughter?” The caller swore, using a word she didn’t know. Having spent a decade in prison, she thought she knew them all. But, then again, the voice was altered, and the line wasn’t perfect, and the bus station was pandemonium. But it sounded something like “spite.”
“Melanie first,” she repeated, her heart hammering with the threat.
The caller hung up.
Damn!
Colleen looked over at the coffee shop.
Duffle Coat was standing, glaring at her. Moran was next to the magazine rack.
She stood where she was, bag in hand.
“Tell whoever it is you work for it’s no go,” she said. “Not until we see Melanie.”
His small eyes popped open as he put two and two together. His hand came up inside his coat, pointing something at Colleen. Her heart did a hundred-meter dash.
Moran came around from the magazine rack, his hand inside his jacket. Ready to pull a gun.
“That’ll be enough of that,” he said to Duffle Coat.
Duffle Coat spun, mouth falling open when he saw Moran.
“Get away from me,” Duffle Coat said, moving quickly for a big guy, putting distance between him and Moran. Colleen came at him, too, and he raised his hand inside his coat, pointed what had to be a gun into a crowd of commuters walking by. “One more step and someone gets it.” His arm was shaking, but his hard frown said he was determined.
Moran’s hand was under his arm, ready to draw.
“Just stay away from me!” Duffle Coat barked.
The three of them froze.
A standoff.
“What’s going on?” a woman passerby shrieked. “What’s he doing?”
A flurry of activity caused the crowd to heave around them. Voices picked up.
Duffle Coat backed away to the rear of the station, into the swarming crowd. Gone.
She couldn’t risk it.
Colleen said to Moran, “We can’t afford to get some innocent person killed. We’re not going to get Melanie this time.”
Moran nodded. “I’ll follow him, Hayes. You get that bag to a safe place.”
“Good luck,” she said.
Moran turned, picked up the pace, pushed back toward the rear of the terminal.
Shit!
Colleen hoped she hadn’t overplayed her hand. She hoped Melanie Cook was still alive. And stayed that way.
9:04 a.m. A lot could happen in four minutes.
She headed for the exit at the front of the terminal, bag in hand. She’d stow the cash in the trunk of Alex’s car, get hold of Steve, bring him up to date. The crowd was tightly packed, pressing for the doors. More commuters had poured into the station.
Frustrated wasn’t quite the word.
Colleen was just about to exit the front of the Transbay Terminal in a throng of people when someone came up behind her, quick, jabbed something hard in the small of her back.
Something a lot like a pistol. A bolt of panic shot up her spine.
“Stop right there,” a thin voice whispered. “Don’t turn around.” He sounded young. Like a punk. “Drop the fucking bag.”