Chapter 2
"I said, stop it!" Hardcastle's bellow brought an eerie silence to the group. The well-meaning hands that had been trying to hustle him to some sort of safety were stilled. The jumble of placating words that had been meant to reassure were halted. They had been badly missing their mark, anyway.
He scanned their faces. All worried, to be sure, but it was a professional concern. Criminals shouldn't be able to go on a shooting rampage and kidnap an innocent civilian right in front of the District Attorney's office; it offended them. They were interested in protecting the 'victim', no matter who it might've been. None of them was concerned with Mark. He swiveled slowly, surveying the area, looking for the one who would understand. Then he felt the hand on his arm.
"Frank." His eyes met the detective's and he saw his own fear mirrored there.
"We're doing what we can," Harper said, knowing baseless reassurance was not what Hardcastle needed to hear.
"I need a car."
"I know," Harper replied with a nod. "C'mon." When Hardcastle looked at him quizzically, he continued, "You can't very well go alone, not after this. I'm gonna be your shadow for a while." He managed a grin. "Besides, it's a police vehicle."
Hardcastle couldn't force a grin, but he didn't argue, which Harper considered a success. The lieutenant began to steer the judge toward a side parking lot where their car would be waiting. They had almost cleared the gathered crowd when suddenly Dean Thompson was before them.
"Judge."
"What is it?" Hardcastle snapped.
"I can hold on to the files for now, and we can get together later to discuss your testimony." Thompson was reaching out to take the files, completely unprepared for the single word response.
"No."
"What?"
"I'm sure you heard me, Counselor. I said, no."
Even Harper was surprised. "It would be safer, Milt."
The judge faced his friend. "I might need them."
"Milt " the sadness in the detective's tone was unmistakable. "You can't--"
"Don't tell me I can't, Frank. These are my personal records, and I'm under no legal obligation to surrender them." He turned back to Thompson. "We'll talk about your case when I get McCormick back."
"I can subpoena them," Thompson threatened.
"You can try," Hardcastle countered. He stared at the D.A. for several long seconds before issuing one final statement. "But I promise you this: I am not an enemy you want to make."
Harper caught up with him a couple of minutes later, waiting impatiently by the only unattended double-parked vehicle in the lot.
"I assume this is the one?" the judge asked as the lieutenant came around the corner.
"Yeah." Harper unlocked the passenger door. "You know, you really shouldn't threaten a District Attorney," he admonished as he rounded the car. He slid in behind the wheel, then looked over at Hardcastle, ignoring the anger on the jurist's face. "I'm serious, Milt. I think I smoothed it over for now, but you cannot be going at him like that. Like him or not, he does represent the entire office, you know, and that's an enemy you don't want to make. Forget long term implications here; you might need their help in this situation."
"Do you think you can drive and lecture me at the same time?"
The detective chuckled slightly as he started the engine, then pulled the car out of the lot, but he sobered quickly. "We've only had one sighting of the car, Milt. It was headed southbound on the 405, but by the time the northbound unit got turned around to follow, it was gone. That was around Century, or maybe El Segundo. We think they probably dropped off the freeway right around there, when they realized they'd been spotted."
"You don't think they're headin' for the airport?" Hardcastle asked, a new panic on his face.
"I don't think so," Harper reassured him quickly. "There's no way this isn't about Tilton, and there's just no reason for him to take Mark out of town. Whether he wants to use him to make a trade or- - " the lieutenant broke off abruptly.
"Or to make an example," the judge grated out.
Harper didn't try to argue the possibility. "Whatever his plan, it doesn't make sense for him to leave town. But, of course, we've alerted airport security, just in case. If Tilton, Mark, or that car, show up out there, we'll know about it. In the meantime, we've stepped up patrols in the area and I've sent some guys around to rattle Tilton's cage a little. We're gonna visit some of his favorite goons, too. We'll find out what there is to know. So, do you want to stick with the car, or do you want to join in the cage rattling?"
"McCormick's in the car," Hardcastle said simply.
Harper nodded, and steered the car toward the 405.
They drove in silence for a while, then the judge asked, "Who do you think was in the car?"
"I'm not sure," the lieutenant replied sullenly. "We've got a unit on its way over to your place to check things out there. You know," he continued quietly, "I hand-picked the guys for that detail myself; I think they're on the level. But if they are..." he trailed off, not wanting to think about what might be waiting out in Malibu.
"Yeah." Hardcastle knew only too well what Tilton was capable of.
They lapsed back into silence, broken a moment later by the squawk of the radio calling for Harper's attention. He grabbed the microphone. "Yeah, Harper."
"Unit 349 has been located," the tinny voice responded. "Unit 217 is holding, in La Fresa, intersection of Artesia and Crenshaw."
Harper whipped the car in the right direction and punched the accelerator. "Have they requested an ambulance or. . ." he glanced quickly over at the judge, "any other services?"
"They have requested the coroner's unit, Lieutenant," the dispatcher replied, and Harper heard Hardcastle's sharp intake of breath. "Officers on scene report one unidentified male body."
"Unidentified?" Harper repeated.
"Yes, sir. They report it definitely is not the missing kidnap victim."
Harper heard the judge let out the breath he'd been holding, and he felt a moment of relief, but it was short-lived. Thank God the body wasn't Mark, but the young man was still missing, and he had been separated from the only possible link to his location that they'd had. He focused on procedure. "Dispatch a crime lab team to the location, as well as two other patrols. I want a sweep for witnesses; five mile radius. I'm on my way now; ETA fifteen minutes."
Pointing the car in the right direction, Harper cast a look at Hardcastle. "It's a place to start," he said softly. It was difficult to reassure someone who knew far too much.
"Yeah, sure," the judge agreed, without conviction. He turned to stare out at the passing traffic. "Either that, or the end of the road."
00000
Lieutenant Harper was listening to a second report from the officer on site. It had only taken about forty-five seconds of the first one to make clear that there really wasn't much to report, so why he was being subjected to this re-hashing was something of a mystery. Besides, his true attention was focused across the parking lot where Hardcastle—having already been admonished several times—was doing his best to stay out of the way but still hear everything that was going on. In other circumstances, the lieutenant might have been amused to watch the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle put in his place by young lab techs and street cops, but the helplessness showing on the face of his friend took away any possible humor. He dismissed the officer with a curt, "Carry on," and crossed the lot to the judge.
"There's blood on the back seat, Frank," Hardcastle whispered almost frantically as the officer approached. Only twenty minutes earlier they had learned of the deaths of the officers who had been stationed at his home. Counting the guy in the trunk of the stolen car, that was three dead this morning alone. It was clear that the men who took McCormick would not hesitate to kill, and the news had only heightened the judge's fear for his young friend.
Harper nodded. "I know, but not much. He was clobbered pretty bad when they grabbed him, Milt; we all saw it. There's no reason to think it's anything more than that. If they just wanted to kill him, they could've done it at the D.A.'s office, or, at the very least, we would've found him here with the car. It wouldn't be much of an example if they didn't leave him behind. It's looking more like they intend to keep him around a while." He knew that wasn't the most encouraging idea, but it was better than the alternative.
The judge nodded slowly, knowing the detective was correct, but finding no comfort in the knowledge. He felt his hands clenching around the manila envelope he still carried, clinging to it like some kind of lifeline. Which, he supposed, it might actually be. "Maybe we should go see Tilton now," he suggested in a low tone.
Harper took a moment to examine his friend closely. The tension radiated from every tightened muscle in his body, and the helpless expression that had been growing over the last hour and a half was backed by a fury deeper than he had ever seen in those blue eyes. Maybe this wasn't the best time to let him talk to the prime suspect in McCormick's kidnapping. "Maybe we should head back to Gull's Way," he finally replied.
"Why?" Hardcastle demanded. "So you can keep me safely under wraps? That lunatic has McCormick, and I intend to do something about it."
Certainly, keeping Hardcastle contained was one upside of going back to the estate, but Harper had no intention of admitting it. Instead, he stuck with the more practical benefits. "Since we agree that Tilton is going to try and use Mark for leverage, it only makes sense that he's gonna need to contact you, Milt. You should be home to take that call."
"Why wait for him to call?" the jurist pressed. "Let's just go on over there, and I'll talk to him in person."
Harper reached out to restrain him as Hardcastle began a determined stomp back toward the car. "Milt. It's not like he's gonna have Mark sitting in his den having tea. The man probably wouldn't even talk to you. And, besides . . ."
"Besides what?" Hardcastle snapped when the detective's words trailed off.
"You're not in good shape, Milt. You shouldn't let him see you like this," Harper said quietly. "You can't give him that kind of power."
Hardcastle glared at the detective for several long seconds, but then his shoulders slumped as he seemed to lose some of his determination. "Okay," he agreed, "I'll go back home and wait for his call. And I'll get myself together. But, Frank?" he paused, almost afraid to say the words, even to Harper. He breathed deeply. "What if he already has the power?"
00000
Mark McCormick concentrated on concentrating. Realistically, though, he didn't expect to learn much in his present condition. Hands and feet bound, shoved onto the back floorboard of a speeding car, with a cloth sack over his head, his powers of observation were a bit hampered. Still, he could listen, and that had to be worth something. Right now, though, there wasn't much to hear.
When he'd first come to in the back of the police cruiser, there had been a lot of frantic conversation, mainly centered around whether or not Hardcastle had been hurt in their attack. His heart had skipped a beat as he held his breath and waited to hear the story.
"The boss didn't want him hurt," one voice had loudly accused.
"And I'm tellin' ya," a second voice had responded just as loudly, "I just scared him, is all."
And though his head had been fuzzy and his jaw ached like hell, McCormick had felt only relief at hearing the words.
The three men in the car had continued their conversation for several minutes before the one in the backseat had noticed their captive was awake. McCormick didn't even have time to register the gun that came crashing down against the side of his head, sending him back into darkness.
When he had awakened the second time, he had been trussed into his current position. He wasn't sure, but he thought they had changed cars. And, the infrequent but tense conversation in the car seemed to be only between two men. The third voice—the guy who had not hurt Hardcastle with his shooting—seemed to be the one missing, and McCormick wondered briefly just what the penalty would be for shooting at someone "the boss" didn't want hurt.
From what he'd heard about Tilton—and who else could be behind this?—McCormick figured punishment had been meted out quickly and unfairly. He tried working up some sympathy for the missing goon, but he was having a hard time getting past the idea that the guy had been shooting at the judge.
So, unable to generate any real concern for the guy's probable early demise, he went back to his concentration. But the occasional "turn here" being muttered in the front seat really wasn't all that helpful.
He listened hard.
There was traffic, but not a lot. Only a few cars had passed them in the half hour or so that he'd been awake, so he could rule out the major freeways. Really, he could rule out most of the major surface streets, too; there just weren't all that many streets in LA without traffic this time of day. So maybe they already had him well out of town. Just how long had he been unconscious, anyway? And that's when it occurred to him that—even with all his concentrating—he really had no damned idea exactly what was going on, and it wasn't likely he was going to figure it out.
McCormick pressed his lips together roughly to keep from cursing in frustration. All things considered, he wasn't sure he was ready for the others to know he was awake just yet. But he managed to take some comfort from the fact that he was awake, as well as the fact that they were trying to keep him from learning his location. Behavior like that indicated they might actually plan on keeping him alive.
As he turned his attention to trying to loosen the ropes binding his hands, McCormick followed his thoughts through to their logical conclusion. He was nothing to these guys, so if they intended to let him live, it was because of Hardcastle. They must want something from the judge. What that something was, however, was where he was getting stumped. Logically, it would seem that they would want to stop the judge from testifying. But . . . if that was all they wanted, why not just kill him when they had the opportunity?Why stage the kidnapping only to—presumably—force Hardcastle into refusing to testify? No, McCormick thought that was far too complicated. Whatever Tilton wanted, it went beyond keeping Hardcastle off the witness stand. And I'm the leverage, McCormick thought bitterly. He focused all his effort onto the ropes. Mark knew from experience that the judge had a long list of things he considered "wrong", ranging from improper to absolutely unthinkable. His fear was that the list might get a lot shorter while he was being held captive. He did not intend to be the cause of that.
McCormick felt the car slow into another turn, but it did not resume speed after straightening. After another few moments, he felt the car pull to a stop. Dammit! I'm not ready. He hadn't made nearly enough progress on his hands, which, of course, meant his feet were still bound tightly. He was in no condition to stage an escape. He felt air move through the car as the two front doors were opened, then felt sunlight as his own door was opened. Then hands reached in and grabbed him under the armpits, roughly dragging him from the car. He decided there was little to be gained by further silence.
"Hey, if you guys could untie me, this would be a lot easier on all of us." His head banged against the door as the hands holding him suddenly released their grip.
"He's awake!" a startled voice said.
"Pick 'im up," the second voice ordered. "You didn't expect him to be out forever, did ya?"
McCormick felt himself grabbed again, and he was tugged completely out of the car. Then he felt the two guys on either side of him, grabbing his arms, and pulling him along, his feet dragging the ground. "Ow! Hey, seriously; at least untie my feet and let me walk."
"Shut up." The directive was followed with a quick slap to the back of the head. McCormick shut up, and simply let himself be dragged wherever they were taking him.
He heard a door open, and then he felt the sunlight disappear again as he was pulled into a building. "Don't guess you'd want to tell me what this is all about?" he inquired, as he was shoved down into a chair. "And, for the record, I wouldn't mind getting this hood off my head. It's kinda hot in here." He felt another hand connect with his head. "Guess not," he muttered.
Then there were more ropes, and McCormick felt himself being bound to the chair. These guys were nothing if not thorough. He tried another conversation starter. "I think you might have the wrong guy, you know. I don't know who you think I am, or what you think I can do for you, but, trust me, I'm nobody. Why don't you just let me take off outta here, and we'll forget all this ever happened?"
He didn't really expect an answer, so he wasn't surprised by the silence, but then he heard a door slam, and as he listened to the room, it was clear he had been left alone.
"Well, that's just great," he mumbled, and returned his attention to trying to free his hands.
