Friday – 6:30 p.m. – Major Case Squad
The Detectives in the squad room jumped and turned heads, startled by the outburst of expletives coming from Captain Deakins' office.
Inside the office, Deakins slammed the receiver down. "God damn it!"
He strode from behind his desk to his open office door. All eyes in the squad room were already upon him as he announced, "All right, everybody, listen up! The stake out that Goren, Eames and Morris were on went bad. They were abducted at gunpoint about forty-five minutes ago; two black vans with Rhode Island plates. Detectives Friedland and White from the Task Force already put out an A.P.B. and called in the boys from the lab…"
"What about witnesses?" one of the Detectives asked, interrupting Deakins. "What happened to their backup? I thought the Feds were runnin' the show."
Deakins' face grew dimmer as he answered, "The Feds were in on it."
The roomful of Detectives looked at each other with astonishment and then back at Deakins. Disbelief and anger at the betrayal were written all over their faces.
Deakins continued, "Everybody just drop whatever you were doing. We're all workin' on this until we get 'em back. There'll be a briefing at 9 p.m."
7:10 p.m.
Friedland and White were still at Lewis' garage, watching the lab guys finish up. They had dusted the metal cases for prints and had come up with six different sets. They also lifted a print from the breaker bar that the big guy had used to knock out Bobby.
Watching as a lab technician bagged the cigarette butt he had found on the floor, Lewis said, "That's the cigarette he burned Bobby with."
The Tech shot a sickened look at Lewis, then at Greg and Marc. "We should be able to get DNA from the filter."
In the meantime, a crew from Narcotics had arrived and was inspecting the cases left in Lewis' office. Three of them were packed with plastic bags containing cocaine; the fourth held approximately one and a half million dollars in cash. Ultimately, it was up to the man in charge of The Mayor's Task Force to make the call on how things would be handled:
Option 1: Tracking devices could be installed in the cases and arrests made when they reached their final destination, which the cops were sure, would be Carmine DeMarco;
Option 2: Confiscate the drugs, refill the cases with fake packets, mark all the bills, install tracking devices and, once again, follow them straight to DeMarco;
(or, since the cops didn't know what time Masucci's men were supposed to pick up the "delivery")
Option 3: Operate under the assumption that the Masucci's were watching. After all, there were Police vehicles all over the block and officers and lab techs streaming in and out of the garage. Under this option, the drugs and money would be confiscated and Lewis would be taken into protective custody. This raised the danger of infuriating DeMarco, thereby raising the danger to the hostages, but it was the only option: Lewis was a civilian citizen and had to be protected. The fate of Alex, Bobby and Dave would be left to the combined efforts of the Task Force, the "clean" F.B.I. agents and their buddies at Major Case.
7:30 p.m.
Alex and Dave sat on the floor of the van. They had guessed, correctly, that they had been driving for more than an hour, but had no idea in which direction, only assuming because of the license plates they'd seen, that it was north—back to Rhode Island.
They had rubbed their heads against each other's shoulder and had worked the blindfolds off, discovering that there were two small moon windows towards the rear, on either side of the van, that had been covered with black window tinting. The back doors were solid; no windows. The wire mesh divider between the cab and cargo compartments had been blocked off with a piece of plywood.
Alex and Dave inched closer to the cab, pressing their ears against the wood in an attempt to see if they could overhear any conversation between the men. With all the road noise, it was difficult to hear, but every now and then they'd catch a few words. They each concentrated, trying to detect any distinctive scents, but there were none.
Simultaneously at 7:30 p.m.
Bobby's ride was much shorter. He had arrived at his destination, still unconscious, by 6:35 p.m. The van pulled into the warehouse and his limp body was dragged to the place he now was. They had removed his handcuffs and, instead, bound his wrists in front of him with heavy gauge wire, wrapped around and around in a tight "figure eight." They had removed his shoes, socks, jeans, underwear and had torn the tee-shirt from his body. He laid naked, on the cold, wet cement floor. The now-coagulated blood from his head wound was matted in his hair and streaks of dried blood stained his face and neck.
The men had only two more instructions to complete, in order to receive their $250,000.00 fee: (1) to torture Detective Goren for forty-eight hours; and (2) to kill him and make sure the body, or what's left of it, would never be found.
Those were Mr. DeMarco's explicit instructions.
The men in the room had every intention of giving DeMarco every penny's worth.
8:05 p.m.
The cab had been quiet for the past half-hour, although Alex and Dave still strained to hear.
"We're in deep shit here," Dave said, stating the obvious.
"Gee, ya' think?" Alex answered sarcastically, trying to sound tough, rather than letting her worry and fear for Bobby and themselves be evident.
Dave realized the stupidity of his statement but attributed it to "nerves."
"I wonder how Bobby is?" he asked. "I wonder if the second van is in front of us or behind us. Maybe when we get to wherever we're going, they'll put us together and we'll be able to take care of him," he suggested, trying to give Alex hope.
"I wouldn't count on it, Dave…" Alex warned. "I think they're…"
Alex was cut off by the sudden swaying of the van, causing her to crash into Dave. Then yelling came from the cab. They both pressed their ears against the wood and listened.
"…what are you? A friggin' idiot? That's all we need is some friggin' cop stoppin' us 'cause we're on the goddamn parkway with a commercial…."
The next sound Alex and Dave heard was music to their ears: Screaming Police sirens.
"We could've caught a lucky break here, Dave," Alex said with excitement. "Be prepared," she said, as she scooted on her butt from the forward part of the cabin towards the rear doors.
Dave followed suit.
"We've gotta' warn this cop," Dave said, as they felt the van slow down and pull towards the right. "These guys have a lot to lose –they may not wanna' go easy."
Alex nodded in concurrence but added, "Not yet, though. He's at a crucial point of a motor vehicle stop. If we start kicking these doors and makin' a lot of noise, he'll be distracted…we can't afford to have him take his eyes off these guys for a second."
They next heard the cop's command over the loudspeaker: "Driver! Turn off the ignition and slowly place both hands out the window!"
The cop had apparently called for back-up, because a second set of sirens approached and they hear tires screech to a halt.
"Passenger! Slowly exit the vehicle with your hands locked behind your head. Walk backwards towards my voice. Okay, stop right there and get down on your knees…now down on your stomach…now cross your ankles."
The officer who had made the stop kept his weapon pointed at the cab, while his back-up cuffed the passenger and sat him in the back of his car.
Next, it was the driver's turn, and once Alex and Dave overheard that he was safely in custody, they began kicking at the back doors of the van and alternately yelling, "NYPD…let us out!"
8:25 p.m.
Bobby fought hard to open his eyes. His head was pounding. He was cold. He felt concrete and gravel…or something gritty, down the entire length of his body. "Am I naked?" he asked himself, still too groggy for it to all make sense. It took him a few minutes to remember the events leading up to this point. He continued to try to force his eyelids open –and they would, for a fleeting second at a time. Each time, he'd inventory what he saw through his blurry vision: "brick walls…a light bulb…just hanging on wires…something shiny…people…I can't see their faces…the smell…damp…"
He heard voices, but he couldn't make out what they were saying.
"Eames?"
He wasn't sure if he said it aloud. He again passed out.
8:30 p.m.
Deakins jumped when his phone rang. He dreaded a phone call that would bring bad news. He took a deep breath and answered.
"Deakins."
"Captain, Dave and I are all right."
"Alex!" he shouted. "Where are you? What about Bobby?"
"We're on I-95 in Connecticut. Cops pulled the van over on a moving violation. They arrested the two guys that took Dave and me, but they say they didn't see another black van traveling near us. I don't know where Bobby is. They're arranging for a ride back for us."
"That's good, Alex."
"How's Lewis?" she asked.
"He's okay. The Task Force put him in protective custody. The delivery was three case loads of cocaine and over a million bucks cash."
"Our ride's here Cap – gotta' go."
"Okay."
"Captain," her voice quivered, but she choked back the tears. "Bobby's hurt….he…"
"I know Alex, Lewis told us….but don't worry…the whole squad's working on it…we'll get him back," he assured.
Alex nodded and tried to manage a smile, even though Deakins couldn't see it. She appreciated his encouraging words. "See ya' soon."
She handed the cell phone back to Trooper Kelly and joined Dave in the back seat of the Crown Vic that had been sent to take them home.
Trooper Kelly walked over to Trooper Martin's back up vehicle. "Lucky break for those two, huh?" he smiled.
"I'll say," he smiled and shook his head.
Martin smiled back. "I smell a Commendation."
Kelly laughed. "See ya' back at H.Q."
(In the meantime, Deakins broke the good news to the Squad. It seemed to lighten the mood just a bit, but there was still Bobby to worry about).
8:45 p.m.
A jolting kick to his side roused Bobby from his unconsciousness. He tried to roll away from the direction it came from, but felt another kick to his lower back, by his kidney. Next, he felt hot, calloused, sweaty hands grabbing at his upper arms, hoisting him up to a standing position. He couldn't stand under his own power; his legs were weak and shaking. He was still forcing his eyes to focus as they stood him on a cinder block and raised his arms, catching his wire-bound wrists in the shiny steel hook that hung from the beam above.
His adrenaline must've started pumping, because he was becoming more alert by the second. Alert enough to realize that the horrible thoughts that swirled through his head during his unconsciousness weren't nightmares…they were memories…vivid memories.
It all made sense now…all the pieces were fitting together…and he derived a calmness and degree of satisfaction that he could still solve puzzles…right down to the end. He knew he was going to die.
He knew because he remembered the bricks, the bare light bulb, the shiny hook from which he was now suspended….the dirty little white dog. He almost laughed when he remembered a pregnant Eames' face as he sniffed the filthy Bichon puppy. But most of all he remembered the smell: the dampness of mildew…and coffee.
He was right in his own back yard. Not even ten miles away from One PP. He was in Brooklyn.
He was in Dan Feist's killing room.
END Chapter Fourteen