CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It wasn’t long before a white stretch limo pulled to a smooth stop at the curb where I’d been pacing ruts in the pavement at the entrance to the harbor. It had been long enough, however, for me to throw on some clean clothes, wash my face, run a comb over the lump I hoped was still hidden by my wind-tangled hair and throw my mind into overdrive. I didn’t wait for the driver to open the door, just climbed in and settled into the soft leather seats and closed the door behind me.

The driver eyed me in the rearview. I sat alone in the backseat.

“Mike Travis?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He rolled up the transparent screen between us without another word.

The car moved away from the curb and pushed through the late morning traffic on Ala Moana Boulevard toward Kalakaua and the seemingly endless stretch of high-rise hotels that lined Waikiki Beach. I shifted in my seat, adjusting the weight of the Beretta nine that was tucked into the back of my khakis and grating painfully against my newly acquired bruises. I looked out across the park where morning people biked and skated and jogged, taking special interest to identify the place where I’d received my beating. When I turned back, I noticed the driver in the rearview again, clearly eyeing me. I located the button on the armrest beside me, raised the solid privacy screen between us and mentally revisited the brief conversation I’d had with J.R. Lennox half an hour before.

“You’re certain it was an abduction,” I had asked.

“There’s a note, Mike.”

“A ransom demand?”

“Of a sort,” he said. “Listen, Mike, I need—”

“Have you called the cops, the FBI?”

There was a charged silence inside of which I sensed the depth of his fear.

“There aren’t going to be any cops,” J.R. said. “Dad and Hobart are both firm on that.”

I started to ask who Hobart was, but he cut me off. “I know you used to be a detective,” he said. “And I need your help. I want Randall back, and I want him back fast, unhurt.

“J.R., this really isn’t my area. I don’t know how much help I can be to you.”

Outside the car, I could hear the rumbling of traffic along the service road that bled off the main boulevard and out toward the highway. The sun bounced hard against the side of a passing delivery truck and into my eyes.

“I understand you recently got your brother out of a sticky situation. That’s the kind of person I need on my side. All I’m getting right now is advice from the company’s security people.”

I didn’t like his reference to my visit to LA, and didn’t know who his sources were, but they were damned well-informed about Valden and me. I didn’t like it, not even a little.

“You twisting my balls, J.R.?”

He sighed heavily.

“No, Mike,” he said. “I’m not. I’m against a wall here. My son’s been kidnapped and I want him back.”

“What’s wrong with the help you’ve already got? The Lennox family must have access to the best security talent in the world.”

“They work for my father,” he said. “I’m sure you know how that is.”

I did know how it was. And I kind of liked J.R., understood him, even felt a little sorry for him. Now his eight-year-old son was missing and he wanted whatever help I could give him to get his boy back.

He broke into my silence. “Listen, Mike,” he said. “I’ve read enough about these things to know that they’re sometimes inside jobs. The truth is I don’t know whom to trust, except somebody from the outside. Somebody who understands the family dynamic. Somebody like you.”

I hadn’t been trying to make him grovel.

“Okay, J.R.,” I said. “Enough.”

“You’ll help me?”

“I’ll do everything I can.”

“Tell me where you are,” he said, afraid I might change my mind. “I’ll send a car right away.”

The limo came to a stop underneath the portico at the Ala Moana Surf, one of the finest luxury hotels in Waikiki, where a bellman in a starched white uniform had my door open for me before I could even reach for the handle. I stepped out of the car, walked across a plush carpet embroidered with the hotel’s lion-and-shield logo, and into the hypercooled air of the lobby.

Inside, the decor was all exotic wood and potted palms, and looked more like my idea of the Bahamas than the South Pacific. Tanned country club types lounged in designer furniture, wearing aloha shirts and white cotton pants with creases you could shave with—card-carrying members of the touch-of-silver-at-the-temples set, who winked at one another and wore their Bally loafers with no socks. These were the people who snapped their fingers to get the attention of waiters, treated the housekeeping staff like furniture and stiffed valets and bellmen—people with no comprehension of the irony inherent in tropical-wear that bore the logos of fashion designers.

J.R. Lennox stood alone at the far end of the lobby, near the elevators.

“Mike,” he said, and offered me a damp handshake. “Thank you for coming.”

He took hold of my arm and pulled me farther into the recess of the lobby where he’d been awaiting me. His eyes seemed unfocused, but charged with the static electric energy of a man pushed too far too fast.

His expression changed once he saw me up close. “What happened to you?”

“An accident in the park. Forget it.”

He seemed to consider something, then his attention slid from my face and appeared to fade into the distance.

“One thing before we go up there, Mike,” he said. “My father doesn’t know I’ve called you. He doesn’t know you’re here.”

I looked out the window, squinted into the stark daylight of the courtyard. “What’re you telling me, J.R.?”

He followed my gaze briefly then turned away, blinking against the brilliant sparkles of glare that reflected off the fountain, gathering his thoughts into words.

“I don’t know exactly how to say this,” he said. “I’ve been up in that room for the last several hours listening to all this . . . strategy.” He turned his eyes back on me. “This is my son we’re talking about here. This isn’t some goddamned transaction. Everyone in there is a Lennox employee. I didn’t know what else to do. So I called you.”

“Who is involved so far?”

“Besides my father and me?” he said. “Ray Hobart, and one of Ray’s lieutenants.”

“Who is Hobart?”

J.R. rubbed his chin, closed his eyes for a moment. “Head of security for Lennox Biomedical.”

“A bodyguard?”

“No,” he said. “More like a private cop.”

“Former military, I assume. What does he do for the company?”

“He’s in charge of creating and implementing the security procedures for our offices and manufacturing plants. He sees to it that the senior executives are protected when they travel abroad.”

“That includes you, obviously. And your son.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Sounds to me like a conflict of interest.”

“I believe so, too,” J.R. nodded. “That’s why I need you here.”

“Does your father trust Hobart?”

“Completely.”

“I don’t get the impression that you feel the same way.”

“I used to,” he said. “Had no reason not to.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t know, Mike. I don’t know much of anything at the moment.”

A twinkle of laughter drifted across the lobby to us, a foursome of beautiful people waiting as the valet brought a rented Jaguar convertible up front; feral smiles, backslapping and air-kisses as one of the couples got into the car and pulled away.

“Let’s go on up,” I said, and J.R. seemed to pull his strength together, stood a little straighter.

We stepped into the empty elevator; heavy doors slid into place, closing us into a burlwood-and-polished-brass cocoon. I caught J.R. furtively assessing my injuries in the reflection again.

It was a long, quiet ride to the twenty-fifth floor.

“Who the hell is this?” the shaven-headed man at the door asked of both of us. His skull was the shape of a mortar shell and his shoulders nearly as wide as the doorway.

He attempted to deny my entry with a stiff arm and a smile that looked like it belonged on someone else’s face.

“Watch what happens if you lay hands on me,” I smiled in return. “You’ll be getting your nutrients through a straw.”

“That’s enough, Pollard,” J.R. said. “Let him through. He’s with me.”

The suite felt cramped, close and dim, despite its size. Oversized bay windows that ordinarily looked out onto Diamond Head and the white beach below were sealed shut and concealed behind a set of blackout curtains and heavy drapes. The only light in the room emanated from a pair of floor lamps glowing yellow at either end of a seating area that separated two master bedrooms. Something stale and bitter hung in the air.

Pollard closed the door and took up a position inside.

Phillip Lennox fixed his son with a cold stare, then turned toward the man who had first spoken to me. “He’s a friend of J.R.’s.” His intonation suggested that we should be tolerated in the same way one tolerates children who are seated at the grown-ups’ table.

To J.R.’s credit, he didn’t let either man back him down.

“Mike Travis,” I announced to the room in general. “Friend of the family.”

If I blinked, I would have missed it, but something passed between the men like a cold chill. Phillip Lennox stood and crossed the room, greeted me with a firm, quick handshake. This was a man who always moved fast, as if trying to stay in front of someone.

“Then you know that we’re dealing with a crisis here,” Lennox said, shooting another glance in J.R.’s direction.

“I’m here to do whatever I can to help get J.R.’s son back.”

The man who had been lurking silently beside Lennox decided to assert himself.

“The first thing you can do is stay the hell out of—”

“Ray Hobart,” Phillip Lennox interrupted him. “Shake hands with Mr. Travis.”

Hobart was a tall man, about my height, but he’d allowed a build that had probably once been described as athletic to go soft around the middle. He had lifeless prosthetic eyes that looked as though they had been glued onto his face. His dark hair was cropped short in military fashion, and he had the appearance of a man who had once been comfortable in third-world countries with a sniper’s scope pressed against the lenses of mirrored shades. He grunted something meant to pass as a greeting as he grasped my hand, and squeezed a little harder than necessary. I smiled and squeezed in return. Hobart’s expression said he didn’t much like my kind. I read that to include anyone without a military background, or who was not a part of the official Lennox inner circle.

“How long has Randall been missing?” I asked.

The room remained silent except for the hum of the air-conditioning. J.R. answered when no one else spoke.

“Since about seven o’clock this morning.”

“That’s five hours ago.”

“That’s correct,” Phillip Lennox said, “we’re aware of the time frame.” His voice was flat, so empty it seemed piped in from somewhere else.

I looked at Lennox and Hobart, then turned to J.R. I was an outsider, unwanted. That much was abundantly clear. The security man eyed me with the same expression as the senior Lennox had, and I knew I’d walked in at the middle of this movie. There was so much backstory buried here it would take the Jaws of Life to pry it all out.

“He was last seen at the beach,” J.R. added. “Randall was enrolled in an early bird kids’ program overseen by the hotel. The children are still on mainland time, so they tend to get up early in the morning.”

Hobart turned his back to all of us, peeled open a curtain and fixed his eyes on something far below. A triangle of golden light strayed across the carpet.

“They’re supposed to be supervised.” J.R.’s voice faded into an elongated stretch of nothing.

“You mentioned receiving a note,” I said.

J.R. looked to his father, and Hobart returned his attention to the conversation. He let the curtain fall back into place and restored the room to semidarkness.

“For Christ’s sake,” Hobart said. “Mr. Lennox, are you really going to—”

The older man cut him off again without turning his head. “Thank you, Ray.”

Ray Hobart shot me a look embroidered with the threat of violence, but I’d seen it so many times before—on the faces of bikers, gangbangers, and other self-appointed badasses—that it didn’t have the desired effect.

“We received an envelope, Mr. Travis,” the elder Lennox said. “It was delivered to the room by one of the bellmen at about eight thirty this morning.”

“Who brought it to the hotel?” I asked.

“One of those corporate document delivery outfits.”

“Was there a purchase order attached?”

Lennox showed me a patronizing smile. “One of Mr. Hobart’s people is looking into that as we speak.” His speech pattern and content carried not so much a tone as a viscosity.

“And what is the demand?”

There was another stillness, a silence so thick you could curl up and sleep on it.

“A statement from my father,” J.R. said, finally. “A general press release denouncing Congressman Bill Kelleher.”

“More specifically,” Lennox added, “denouncing my support of the congressman’s foreign trade bill.”

“What’s the deadline?” I asked.

Lennox pulled back the cuff of a long-sleeved cotton shirt, exposing a thin gold Patek Philippe. “Noon.”

I looked at my own watch, then to the faces of the three other men in the room. “That’s right now,” I said, alarmed that I was the only one who appeared to be alarmed. “I assume you’ve complied.”

Lennox shook his head as he gazed at the floor and gave me a chuckle of condescension. “No, Mr. Travis, I have not.”

“What are you not telling me?” I didn’t understand his calm, and my ears began to ring. “There’s something else?”

“You’re out of your league, son,” Hobart said. “We’ve got this.” He seemed so proud of himself I could practically see the jazz hands.

Lennox took control again. “What Mr. Hobart is trying to say is that in situations like this—cases of extortion, that is—we’ve found it wisest not to relent, not to negotiate. It only encourages the perpetrators to try it again.”

I shot a glance at J.R., coming to a full understanding as to why he’d called me in.

“This is your grandson, Mr. Lennox,” I said. “This isn’t that simple.”

“It’s a version of blackmail all the same,” he said. “The fact that it’s my grandson they’re holding, rather than some dirty photographs, is not germane. We have to look past the details and deal with the root of the situation. And the root of this situation is political.”

“I believe you’re underestimating,” I said. “You’ve already had two of your company’s buildings burned to the ground. I can only assume, under the circumstances, that these matters are all related. Are you prepared to pay with Randall’s life if you’re wrong?”

Phillip Lennox waved the idea away. Wrong didn’t seem like a concept he often considered in any context involving himself. “Don’t be melodramatic. We’ve dealt with this kind of situation before, and I think we know what we’re doing.”

“So, what are you doing?” I asked.

“For now,” Hobart said, “nothing.”

His statement was firm, final. This was clearly coming out of his operational playbook.

“I assume this was your call, Hobart.”

“It’s our standard protocol.”

“I had also assumed you had the intelligence of a colostomy bag,” I said. “But I may have overestimated.”

“When we do not respond or attempt to negotiate,” Phillip Lennox interrupted, “they’ll see that we’re playing hardball, too. They won’t want to take it any further. Not in the name of politics. It could easily backfire and defeat their purpose. They’re not going to kill the child—Randall—over this. They’ll either let him go, or demand money instead. If it comes to money, then we’ll get Randall back when we make the trade.”

The older man stood, looking like he was about to deliver a speech to his Board of Directors.

“But my political influence cannot, cannot be extorted,” Lennox said. “Imagine if I allowed it just this once. Our lives would never be the same again. We’d be under the threat of kidnap, blackmail, every manner of shakedown you can think of, for the rest of our lives, Mr. Travis. And my executives operating worldwide would become targets, as well.”

I had seen this dynamic before. When indignation turned to self-righteousness, you’d better batten down the fucking hatches. It was clear that this man had a moral code unique to himself. As if theft were not stealing if he admitted to it afterward.

“You are familiar with the adage about putting a frog in a pot of cold water and slowly heating the stove?” I said. “The water begins to boil before the frog is ever aware he’s being cooked. You know the story, right?”

Hobart took a step toward me. “Is that some sort of code we’re supposed to understand?”

“Dig the sand out of your ears,” I said. “I’m suggesting that you hold the goddamned press conference that the kidnappers are demanding, and once you get Randall back, you go public with the fact that it had all been a sham. An extorted statement. End of story.”

Lennox shook his head. “That’s exactly what I cannot do. I’d be admitting my—our—vulnerability to this sort of thing happening again. At the very least, my word wouldn’t be worth a thing, wouldn’t ever be fully believed again. People would always be waiting for the other shoe to drop. Trust me. We’ve got this under control, Mr. Travis.”

I looked at my wristwatch again, watching the seconds sweep by.

“Relax,” Hobart said. “What we do now is wait. I’ll have the boy back in time for dinner.”

J.R. had seated himself on the couch, his head hanging low between hunched shoulders, elbows resting on his knees. He put a hand across his mouth and squeezed, pressing the flesh of his face until his cheeks gathered up under his eyes. The futility of arguing with his father and Ray Hobart had left him deflated. I took a seat on the couch beside him.

I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling, willing myself to think of anything I could say that could alter the present course. We both knew that J.R. had brought me in to save this situation, but I still felt his disappointment as if he’d spray-painted me with it.

“Hobart,” I said. “You know from experience that a battle never goes according to plan. Never.”

I’d spent too much time on the streets not to hold the image of death clearly in my head. Real death, with real blood; real loss and real pain. Mine wasn’t experience born in a boardroom, or strategy sessions with the corporate legal team. Mine came from staring violence right in the goddamned face, looking it straight in its red, crazy-assed, drug-addled eyes. It was out there. Plenty of it. More than you ever wanted to believe. There were people to whom it meant less than zero to take a life. They could blow someone’s shit away with one hand and eat a double-cheese, extra tomato and onion, with the other.

Both Hobart and Phillip Lennox remained unmoved.

My mind went back to Randall, the only way I had ever seen him, a little eight-year-old boy in miniature Armani holding fast to his father’s hand. An only child in a very rich man’s world.

In the end, we did what Lennox and Hobart wanted. We waited.

As it turned out, we didn’t have to wait long.