Set the Fire
Part Seven
Carmine Redondo's House – 8pm
David looked at the two men across the desk through a blood-red mist of anger. There was something, a primal part of him, which wanted to tear them into tiny pieces. None of his rage was visible, of course, he was far too well-trained for that. His demeanour was cool and politely detached – he'd modelled himself on the best. David tried not to think too hard about his boss; where he was, what these bastards had done to him. He was grimly realistic, like Megan, and pretty sure Don was dead.
Maybe he'd been in this game too long? Yeah right, he was still in his late twenties. He was getting far too cynical, too jaded. Too aware of man's inhumanity to man.
It was hard enough dealing with Granger right now. His partner reminded him of Tigger. The energetic and bouncing tiger of of A A Milne and Winnie the Poo fame. He was filled with an unflagging optimism, that somehow, Don was still alive. David wished he could buy into it, he really did, but the blood in the parking lot haunted him. Optimism was all very well – but hope was just a four-letter word.
David sighed inaudibly and studied Carmine Redondo. The man stared calmly back at him with a malicious gleam in his eyes. What was it Don had called him?
One hundred per cent slime.
David read the confirmation on Redondo's face and absolutely agreed. The bastard was enjoying this and he'd clearly been expecting their call. The man was sat behind his desk like a fleshy overweight spider, so by the simple laws of deduction, did that make him and Colby the flies? David had a sudden, disconcerting vision, of Redondo spinning a web. The man had concocted a lethal trap and Don was caught up in the middle of it.
Except that Don was almost certainly dead.
As some sort of lucky coincidence would have it, Redondo had been ensconced with his lawyer when they arrived – so-called going over the trial transcripts from the previous day in court. Of course he was, David thought, cynically. The man didn't miss a trick. They'd probably spent the whole day together. It was the perfect alibi.
"Can you confirm whether you've left this house at any point during the day?"
David kept his voice even and impassive. He already knew the answer to the question because of the surveillance tapes. The only real point of this interview was to rattle Redondo's cage. To let him know they were looking for Don; that they knew what had probably happened. David wanted to see the bastard squirm. For Redondo to realise they were onto him. He was going to pay big time for killing Don, no way was he getting away with it. They would worry this thing like a dog with a bone. They were never going to let it alone.
'Not ever,' thought David, fiercely. He looked Redondo straight in the eye and a silent message relayed between them. No matter how powerful or clever he thought he was, the meaning was plain to see.
Redondo smiled back at him, laconically. "Take a look at the tapes, Agent Sinclair. You can verify my words with your surveillance operatives. I'm sure they'll be happy to tell you. I've hardly moved from this office. I've been here in the house all day."
David continued to stare him out, recognising this for what it was. The man was on a fishing expedition, but he wouldn't get any joy here. He was not about to confirm or deny Redondo's assertion of surveillance. "Are there any physical witnesses who can corroborate this?"
"What's this all about, Agent Sinclair?" The lawyer muscled in aggressively. "As you know, we're currently in the middle of a court case. In the interests of mutual cooperation, Mister Redondo has agreed to see you, but he's not obliged to answer any of your questions. None of this goes on the record."
Redondo waved his hand airily. He looked like he was having fun.
"It's all right, I'll answer the question." He paused and smiled directly at David. "After all, I've got nothing left to hide."
The red mist had descended again and a vein jumped in David's forehead. 'Nothing left to hide . . .' the inference was clear. Nothing left, now he'd hidden Don.
It took Colby a second longer, and then he shifted forward in sudden anger. "Just what do you mean by that, Redondo? Care to fill us in on the blanks? What did you have to hide before, and where the hell is it now?"
Redondo laughed out loud with amusement and looked across at his lawyer. "These 'gentlemen,' appear to be rather upset. I think they might have mislaid something."
"That does it - where is he?" Colby leaned aggressively over the desk, his muscles bunching under his jacket. "You do know that killing a law enforcement office is punishable by the death penalty? At the very least, life imprisonment, or a mandatory thirty years behind bars. And make no mistake, Redondo, this one's not going away."
"That's enough," the lawyer got to his feet. "Consider this conversation terminated. In answer to your earlier question, my client has been here all day long. A fact which I, myself, can confirm, along with plenty of other witness's. If you want corroboration of this, I suggest you take a look at your own surveillance tapes." He looked across at them challengingly, as if daring them to make a denial. "Mister Redondo's spoken with you out of courtesy, but he won't be responding to any more of your wild accusations or threats. If you came here to charge him with something, then do it. You'd better hope you have a damned good case."
Job done. It was time to go. David got to his feet. The cards had been laid on the table, and this conversation was indeed over. David put a hand on Colby's shoulder as they moved across the room. He could feel the other agent's pent-up anger radiating through the fabric of his suit. He sympathised completely. It was hard to keep his own feelings in check. To suppress a primal urge to leap over the desk and beat the truth out of Redondo.
Over the course of his FBI service, he'd worked under several different team leaders. They'd run the whole gamut of abilities, from total jackass, to really quite excellent. He was in no doubt where Don Eppes featured on the Sinclair Scale of one to ten. The man was first-rate at what he did. A most exceptional boss. Don was smart and intuitive. He had authority without keeping his distance. More then this, David liked and admired him. He felt honoured to call him friend.
"You forgot to mention witness tampering." Might as well throw in a parting shot. "Add another twenty years on top, if physical force was used." He turned at the door, still deceptively meek, as he paraphrased Redondo's flippancy. "You see, it's really pissed us off to mislay this particular something, and we're not gonna let up searching until we find out where it is." He allowed his voice to drop lower still, with an edge as sharp as a knife. "It means a hell of a lot to us, so you'd better hope we find it real soon. Safe and well, and all in one piece. Or whoever took it will wish they'd never been born."
Present Time
Cold. There was no escaping it. It gnawed right through to his bones. His head ached and his muscles had no strength in them. 'Why didn't anyone come?'
The night seemed alive with moving shapes – shifting with curling shadows. Their contours were obscure and confusing, were they rocks or worse, were they ghosts? He wondered if they meant him any harm. Too bad for him, if they did. He wasn't going anywhere. It was getting hard to lift his little finger. He'd always prided himself on his physical condition, but a two year old could take him right now.
Don let himself drift through a nightmarish world populated with faces and memories. His vision was dark-edged and wavering, even the moon was less bright. He leaned his head back against the iron-hard ground and shut his eyes against the pin-wheel of sky. Relief – it gave him a little relief. It made him nauseaus to keep them open. His stomach lurched and dipped like a matchwood boat tossed out to sea by a storm.
Pain was his constant companion. It pounded away at his skull. But Don didn't mind the pain so much – at least it meant he was alive.
The freezing night was his bitterest enemy. He would never be warm again. There was even ice in the pit of his belly. Everywhere, dimness and cold. No good. This was so not good. He must be dangerously close to hypothermia. If the bullet in his head didn't kill him, what were the odds on him surviving through the night?
If he could just think a little more clearly. If he could even move somewhere more sheltered.
Futile. Don knew it was futile. He still couldn't lift his head. Someone, please come and help me.
There was no one apart from the waiting shadows. He called weakly, but nobody came. Instinct told him, just as before, there was no-one for miles around. Try. He had to give it one more try. He couldn't just give up and die here. He had to do it for dad's sake. For Charlie. How could he leave them alone?
Come on, Eppes, you can't give up on them. You're the strong one. You have to make it.
Don inched a shaky hand under his hip and endeavoured to push himself forward. He could feel blood pounding like a drum in his heart, but it didn't seem to reach as far as his head. There was a jagged explosion behind his eyes, a searing sensation of agony. The pain hurt like a bitch, it was so severe, that for a moment he spun straight down to hell. A pulse-rate beat in his temples, and he lay like a stranded starfish. He gave a half-sob and his head rolled backwards. Any further attempt at moving abandoned.
Dear God, Don experienced a moment of pure despair. He was worse. He was going to die.
"Hold on." The voice sounded strangely like Charlie's, but it came from inside his own head. "Just hold on, Don, we're coming to find you. Promise you'll hang on a little longer."
"Charlie?"
He spoke the name out loud, but the frailness of his voice merely mocked him. There was nothing, and no one to hear him call out, but the impassive stars overhead. Don wanted to promise, he really did, but he hated to break his word to Charlie.
The earth pitched and rolled beneath him. The sky was like a vortex above. Don clung on desperately, for all he was worth, but the shadowy ghosts crept ever closer. In his fevered imagination, he knew they were coming for him. They were mocking him, waiting for him. It was simply a question of time. There wasn't any hurry to claim him, and no one to stop them when they did. They were creeping – creeping closer. Leering at him from behind the rocks. Don knew it was inevitable. There was no escaping their intent.
He was totally at their mercy.
They had the rest of the long, cold night.
FBI Offices – Present Time (1am)
Charlie woke-up with an abrupt jerk. His heart was racing in terror. He'd been dreaming in very odd fragments, all of them about Don. He shivered and looked around him, but he was still alone in the bullpen. For some reason, the room temperature seemed to have dropped, and he was suddenly freezing cold.
How could he have fallen asleep? Charlie wrapped his arms around his chest in a futile effort to keep warm. Don was lost, relying on him, and what had he done? He'd taken a nap.
Cold. Why did he feel so cold? Charlie couldn't understand it. Maybe he was suffering from some kind of psychological shock. Under the circumstances, it was not all that unlikely. And when was the last time he'd eaten? He hadn't touched a single mouthful of dad's forlorn plate of sandwiches. His last meal must have been breakfast. It was too many hours ago. No wonder he felt like a block of ice - his blood sugar had to be pretty low.
Don. Oh, God, Don.
Charlie knew he was capable of sailing through life missing out on the interpersonal nuances. With his head up high in the cerebral clouds, he sometimes missed things right under his nose. But not this time. Not in this case. Not when it involved his brother. Right now, it was more than crystal clear that nearly everyone assumed Don was dead.
The signs were pretty obvious all around him. He could read them in the sympathetic faces. The hushed voices out in the main offices which lowered every time he walked by. People were being very kind, but their glances never quite met his eyes. It was hard to misinterpret Colby's desperate optimism. Harder still, ignoring Megan's carefully masked grief. Charlie was suddenly, horribly frightened. It was patent they all thought Don had died.
If they were working on the assumption he was already dead, then Don needed Charlie all the more. He needed someone to fight for him, to keep the faith he was still out there. Charlie believed in the obdurate, Don Eppes streak, which was such an intrinsic part of his character. The streak which might just beat the odds and keep his brother alive. It was nothing to do with mystical feelings or any kind of psychic phenomena. It was simply to do with Don himself and Charlie's faith in his inherent strength.
Charlie looked down at the open files in front of him. He needed to get back to work. Thinking kept him blessedly focused and the numbers helped clear his head. Don always used to tease him that the math was like cerebral valium. That Charlie would reach for the chalkboard when most men would reach for a beer. The memory made him falter. The forensics report had made bitter reading. The list of facts was impartially blunt. He was thankful to Megan for steering dad away from the bullpen while he digested the gist of the account.
Whoever had snatched Don, had first tried to drug him, but his brother had fought back hard.
Way to go, big brother, but maybe you shouldn't have. When you foiled that idea, they were forced to hurt you instead.
He shouldn't have expected anything else. He might have known Don wouldn't go down without a fight. Not Don, his big tough brother, who had battled against adversity all his life. Years ago, when they were children, Charlie'd always thought Don was invincible. His brother was a local hero, the sporting star of the school. No one had messed with the great Don Eppes, not if they valued their reputation.
But not now. Oh, no, not any more.
Those naïve perceptions had altered. Now he really understood what Don did for a living, they'd collapsed like a house of cards. Charlie had seen the dangers, and calculated all the probabilities. He knew the hazards Don faced as a result of his job, to make the world a safer place to live in. His brother was still a hero, but he certainly wasn't invincible. In-fact, he was frighteningly fragile, and always, terrifyingly, at risk.
Where is he? Is he hurt, is he frightened? Does he even know we're looking for him yet?
Charlie frowned and pushed his emotions away. He had to try and stay objective. He was no use to Don if he caved in now, if he sought refuge back in his bubble. He forced himself to picture the scene in the basement using the forensics evidence. It didn't take much visualisation; the facts pretty much spoke for themselves. Don had stepped out of the elevator and walked across to his SUV. His assailants were already waiting for him which confirmed they must have access to his movements. When Don reached the car, they jumped him. It looked like one of them had grabbed him from behind. A choke hold, Charlie reasoned, to immobilise him and cut off his air.
They'd planned the attack to be quick and easy. To inject Don and take him alive. The syringe had contained a hefty mixture of ketamine and GHB ( hydroxybutyric acid) enough to render a man of Don's size and weight, unconscious for approximately two hours. His brother would have vanished off the face of the earth and no one would have been any the wiser.
Charlie got to his feet, and approached the white board. He scribbled down some quick calculations. The timing was all very interesting. It could help narrow down the radius and confine their field of search. It was clear they'd hoped to keep Don unconscious for the whole of their intended journey. It made a kind of horrible sense. They'd obviously wanted him alive. Charlie shivered, he couldn't help it. The math valium wasn't helping. Judging by what Megan had told him, and the crime file he'd just finished reading, when Redondo or one of his henchmen actually pulled the trigger, the message would be hammered home in triplicate. He was vicious enough to want Don awake.
Charlie moved across to the map of LA and drew a red circle upon it. His mind was now safely in its element as he worked out a simple equation. The average speed of a Ford Econoline, travelling through a reasonably, built-up area. They would have stuck carefully to the speed limit to avoid drawing any attention. A two hour maximum timeline before reaching their destination. The information provided a geographical radius originating from the parking lot. It wasn't much, but it was a beginning. An actuality they could start working from.
Don had foiled all their careful planning by choosing to fight back. Trust Don to do things the hard way, it was the only way his brother knew how. Charlie closed his eyes again and picked-up the thread where he'd left off. He needed to picture what had happened. However painful or difficult it might be, he had to get inside Don's head. He forced himself to envisage his brother struggling for life in a choke-hold. Don had probably used his elbow to get out of it, which would explain Mister O Rhesus positive's broken nose. At this point, the attacker must have dropped the syringe which had rolled away under Don's car.
It was only now things became hazy. Only now, Charlie battled for control. Don would have tried to draw his Glock. Fear, he sensed fear and desperation. But a second man must have taken him down when he was weak and still short of air. Charlie didn't know what they'd done to him, but somehow, Don had lost his gun.
Blood - A Rhesus positive blood.
It was Charlie's struggle as much as Don's. He felt as though he were drowning. The forensics report seemed to haunt him. His brother . . . it was all about Don. The sticky pool of blood on the ground. The words of the reporting CSA: 'A blood splatter pattern, consistent with the high velocity impact of a single gunshot fired at close range into human tissue. No evidence of exit wound splatter. No available ballistics evidence to confirm the calibre of weapon fired.'
There was only one possible conclusion. They had shot him. They had shot Don.
Charlie clung onto the side of Don's desk. It gave him some meagre comfort. It was as though he could feel his brother's presence, encouraging him, and cheering him on. The shooting down in the parking lot had changed the whole dimension of the case. It had now become a kidnap, and possible murder, with evidence that could be traced back to Redondo. Charlie stared down at the type-written words. He suddenly felt very sick. It was clear Redondo had originally planned things so nothing could be pieced back to him. In his arrogance, the man had undoubtedly believed he could get away with hurting Don. Well, Charlie intended to show him that nothing was set in stone.
Set in stone. Charlie's brow crinkled, thoughtfully. He spoke the words out loud. "Nothing is ever set in stone. Dear God, not unless it's cement!"
"Charlie?" Megan stood in the doorway, her eyebrows arched in concern. "Did you look at the report, are you okay?"
"Cement," Charlie shook his head at her and gestured towards the folder. "In the report on Redondo's assets and holdings, it says he owns land in the San Fernando Valley?"
"That's right," she nodded, slowly. "In Ventura County to be precise, on the edge of the Simi Valley. He has interests in the mineral and aggregates business. On the face of things, entirely legitimate."
"To be specific, he has part ownership in two quarries out there," Charlie flipped the Redondo file open again, his fingers trembling slightly with excitement. "Both of which supply cement grade limestone to the aggregates industry, for use in construction and road-building." He looked at her impatiently, waiting for some sort of realisation. "Calcites and calcium carbonates – the basic constituents of limestone."
"The dust on the shoe and tire prints." Megan understood. "It could still be a coincidence. We'd find traces of both those minerals on every building site in Los Angeles."
"But - "
"Megan," David interrupted them as he strode into the bullpen. "LAPD just rang in to report a double homicide. Both men shot in the head, execution style, bodies dumped in a burning Ford Econoline."
"Our perps?"
"Looks like it. The reason LAPD rang us – one of them was in possession of Don's badge."
TBC
