Like most men, Tom Cochrane was a creature of habit. He always shaved the right side of his face first. He always bought his newspaper at the newsstand on South Main. He always drove the same route to work. And he always parked his car on the right hand side of the rear alley behind the SO building.
He was opening the door of his Chevy when he heard his name called and turned to see Joe Apodaca coming out of the building through the same door he had himself just used. At the same moment, Olin McKittrick’s silver-gray BMW slid smoothly into the alley and came to a stop behind his car.
“Something wrong, Joe?” he said.
Apodaca shook his head. “Olin wants a word, Tom,” he said. “Hold on a second, okay?”
He waited as McKittrick got out of his car. The district attorney looked edgy and Cochrane wondered why.
“Olin?” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“Got something to show you,” McKittrick said, opening the passenger door.
Cochrane frowned. Something wrong here, he thought. He looked around quickly. Apodaca sensed his tension and drew his gun. Cochrane stared at him.
“What the hell is this, Joe?” he said.
Apodaca held out his left hand. “Just give me your piece, Tom,” he said. “By the book.”
With Apodaca in front of him and McKittrick behind, Cochrane was whipsawed. He let out his breath in a long exhalation, then reached inside his jacket and brought out the Glock between forefinger and thumb – ‘by the book’ – and handed it to the sheriff.
“What is this, Joe?” he said.
“Child safety,” Apodaca replied, and used the Glock to point at the passenger seat. “Get in.”
Cochrane slid into the car and Apodaca got in back with him, the gun resting negligently on the seat behind Cochrane’s right ear.
“How are Kate and Tom, by the way?” McKittrick asked.
Cochrane frowned. “Why you asking?” he rasped.
“All in good time,” McKittrick said.
He started the car and slid out of the alley. Twelve minutes later he pulled the BMW silently to a stop outside Cochrane’s house. McKittrick took a pair of Tasco 8 x 32mm binoculars from the glove compartment and handed them to Cochrane.
“What is this?” Cochrane said.
“Take a look,” McKittrick said, pointing with his chin. “Upstairs, window on the right.”
The front bedroom had a big picture window. They’d installed it just a year ago, to let more light in. As Cochrane focused the binoculars the curtains parted, and he saw his wife Josie at the window; her face was pale and tense. Then Kate appeared, then Tom, rubbing his eyes as if he had been crying. Behind them, Cochrane could make out the figure of a big man with blond hair. He had what looked like an Uzi in his hands. The muzzle was almost touching Kate’s head. Cold fingers clutched Cochrane’s heart.
“Who is that? What’s he doing up there?”
McKittrick smiled. “His name is Gerzen, Tom. Does that mean anything to you? Carl Gerzen?”
Cochrane tried to hide his reaction, but McKittrick saw it in his eyes.
“Wonderful thing, the imagination,” he said. “Now, do you clearly understand what’s going on here?”
Cochrane nodded. “What … what do you want?” he said hollowly.
“I want you to make a telephone call,” McKittrick told him. “Just one. I’ll tell you what to say. Do it, and nothing bad will happen. Give me trouble …”
He tapped the car phone.
“Kids disappear, Tom,” Apodaca added silkily. “Every year, thousands of them. A lot of them end up in ... bad places. I think you know the kind of places I’m talking about, don’t you, Tom? You wouldn’t want anything like that to happen to those two lovely kids, would you?”
“You bastards,” Cochrane seethed. “You dirty bastards.”
“Save your breath,” McKittrick said harshly. “You’re going to need it to talk to the Feebs.”