Chapter Three

Della sat on Perry's couch, blankly watching as the police continued their sweep of the apartment. Sergeant Brice had departed for the crime lab with the locket, as well as fingerprints that had been dusted off the glasses. The others seemed about ready to wrap up their investigation of the room.

Lieutenant Tragg was still there, as was Mr. Burger. They had vanished into the bedroom to discuss something; Della was not sure what.

Paul was over in the corner, talking with one of his men over his phone. Della could only catch occasional snatches of the conversation over the sound of the police talking.

"No," Paul was saying, "I have no idea who the guy is, only that he's gotta be working with Trevor Bartlett. And we have to find them fast! There's no telling what kind of danger Perry's in right now."

Della stood, crossing to the bedroom door. Maybe she would be able to overhear what Tragg and Burger were saying. Under normal circumstances she would never eavesdrop, but this was hardly what could be called normal circumstances. She inched closer. The voices were muffled, but if she blocked out all other sounds she could hear enough to follow along with the conversation.

"Lieutenant," Mr. Burger was asking, "what are the chances that Perry is still alive?"

Della's heart caught in her throat.

Tragg sighed, wearily and sadly. "It's impossible to say," he said. "Bartlett's family and friends have been alarmed at the news that he's our primary suspect in this case, but they aren't surprised. His mother said that he was an aggressive, angry child—and that those traits only became worse, not better, as he grew older. She said she'll contact us if she hears from him."

"And no one had any clues at all on who his accomplice might be?" Burger wondered.

"Some of my men haven't checked in yet," Tragg said. "But so far, no."

There was a brief silence. "I'm worried about how Della will handle this, especially if Perry's dead."

"I am too," Tragg admitted. "This is a terrible blow for her, likely more than for anyone else. And time is of the absolute essence. Perry may very well still be alive now, but as you know, Mr. Burger, after the first twenty-four hours the chances of finding an abduction victim alive dramatically decrease. And after seventy-two hours those chances are almost nil."

Della turned away, unable to bear hearing more.

There had to be something she could do! She was most certainly not going to stand idly by and twiddle her thumbs while everyone else looked for Perry and the men who had taken him. But it was true; without a bit more information, how could she or anyone else hope to accomplish much of anything? They were pretty much stalled until word came in from someone already out talking to people—or until word came in from the crime lab about that locket.

She almost walked right into Paul coming from the opposite direction. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Oh . . . is there any news?" she demanded, hoping against hope.

"My man Pete Kelton thinks he might have something," Paul said. "But it's a slim might. The bartender at Bartlett's favorite dive told Pete that someone came in to talk with Bartlett a couple nights ago. They took a corner booth and acted like they could be making plans for something. Unfortunately, it was too dark in there for the guy's identity to really be seen."

"Pete must have seen something," Della persisted in desperate despair.

"He said maybe the guy was wearing a locket," Paul said. "He couldn't say for sure; he just thought he saw part of one around his neck a few times."

"And he never heard Bartlett say a name?" Della wondered.

"Well . . ." Paul sighed again. "That's another weird thing. The bartender swears that Bartlett called this guy Biff."

"Biff?" Della echoed. "That's a name you don't hear much any more."

"I know," Paul said. "It makes me think of some shady, tough dockhand with big biceps. And probably a dark moustache."

A faint smile passed over Della's features, but it was fleeting.

Paul hurried on, knowing it was not the time for humor. "So anyway, now my men are out looking for a random guy named Biff."

Della could not help but sigh in disconsolation. "It seems worse than looking for a needle in a haystack." She gripped her purse.

Paul nodded. "And Perry's life could depend on finding this needle," he finished.

Della glanced to the closed bedroom door, her mind filled with Tragg and Burger's grim conversation and Paul's latest twist. "That's right, Paul," she said, her voice far away. "And we can't fail him."

Paul looked at her for a long moment. Then, at last, he laid a strong hand on her shoulder. "We won't," he said.

xxxx

Perry had been left lying on his uninjured side on the floor when Bartlett had eased up on the torture and departed, locking the door behind him. For a long moment Perry stayed where he was, dazed and dizzy and breathing heavily from the pain of the assault. His right side was throbbing all the more now. And it felt like it had started bleeding again. Perry fumbled, reaching to place his hand over it.

In the process he bumped a long, slender rectangle in his pocket. Bartlett had not taken his cellphone? Surely he would not make such an oversight. For it to still be there, it must not be working properly.

His hand still lacking adequate coordination, Perry somehow managed to draw out the device. It fell to the floor, his shaking fingers unable to grasp it. He pulled it closer, flipping open the top. No Service flashed across the screen.

Of course, something like that would have to be wrong. And for it to be working and not have a signal was more maddening than if the battery were dead. Bartlett was probably having a good laugh over that.

Perry sighed in frustration. With the support of his left arm, he pushed himself back into a sitting position. What now? The window was inescapable. And the door was locked. Even if he could pick the lock and get out, Bartlett was likely nearby. But if Perry were prepared for an attack, maybe he would be able to fend it off this time.

He searched his pockets. He had not had anything with him that would help in opening a locked door. But somehow a lock-pick had been placed among his belongings.

A deep frown creased his features. Bartlett had given this to him. He was serious about wanting Perry to try to escape. That meant without a doubt that something sinister was planned.

Perry turned the metal object over in his hands. Maybe he would not even have the chance to get the door open before something would go wrong. On a hunch, he threw the lock-pick at the knob. The pick sizzled, bouncing off as it flew halfway across the room to thump on the carpet.

Yes, for the time being at least, he was trapped.

Had Della and Paul discovered yet that he was missing? It went without saying that they would be terribly worried. And they would likely peg Bartlett as a suspect. Bartlett would be expecting that.

So where was this place? Was it owned by Bartlett's mysterious friend? If so, how would anyone ever discover that he was here?

Somehow he had to escape. And right now, it looked like his only chance was to bide his time and then try to catch Bartlett off-guard the next time he came in. If Perry made it out the door he would also have to watch out for that accomplice. If he could overpower that character too, perhaps he would have at least a head start in his flight. Or perhaps Bartlett would have something else in mind, just in case that happened. He would not want to let Perry get away.

Nevertheless, Perry would have to cross that bridge when he came to it. While he was waiting for Bartlett to come in again, he would lie back down and try to conserve his strength. Both the blood loss and the repeated Taser shocks had left him weakened. He would need to have as much energy as possible to surprise Bartlett and make his getaway.

He eased himself down to the floor and closed his eyes. After a moment they popped open. Taking up his phone, he slipped it back into his pocket. There was no sense leaving it around where it could get stepped on. Once he arrived at a location where he could receive a signal, it would be a perfectly useful device.

With that task taken care of, he let his eyes close again.

xxxx

The district attorney's office was already active, despite it being the middle of the night. Thanks to Mr. Burger's call, investigators and assistant D.A.s alike had assembled and were now hurrying in and out as they worked on the case. By the time Mr. Burger arrived, the report from the crime lab had preceded him.

"Sir?"

He turned at the sound of deputy D.A. Chamberlain's voice. The other man was walking briskly towards him, his expression bewildered.

Mr. Burger frowned. "What is it?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"

"It's not very right, I'm afraid." Chamberlain held up a faxed piece of paper. "The locket from the crime scene was fingerprinted. There was only one print clear enough to make an identification."

"So what's the problem?" Burger shifted his briefcase's weight to his other hand. "Is the person not in the police files?"

"Oh, he's there," said Chamberlain. "The print was that of a Martin Bradshaw, a wanted hitman. The problem is that he was killed five months ago."

Burger stared. "What?"

Chamberlain nodded. "The police also sent a copy of the report filed when his body was discovered. There was no mistake about its identity."

Burger took the report, studying it quickly before handing it back. "Maybe Bartlett knew him and he had the locket for some reason," he suggested. "Then, during the struggle with Mr. Mason, he dropped it. Start checking into the possibility that they knew each other."

"I'll get right on it," Chamberlain promised.

"Good. Oh, and what about the glasses?"

"The fingerprints on the glasses were identified as those of Trevor Bartlett," Chamberlain said.

"Well, at least we know one person we're looking for," Burger sighed. "I'm guessing the police have issued a warrant for his arrest?"

"Yes," Chamberlain nodded.

"Let's hope he's caught soon." Burger's tone was dark.

He walked past Chamberlain, continuing down the hall to his office. Several workers brushed by him, excusing themselves as they went. Keyboards clattered, printers whirred, and fax machines beeped. It was hectic tonight, moreso than on some days.

This case was ridiculous. Perry was missing and likely hurt, taken by a disturbed nutcase. And a locket belonging to a dead hitman was their only clue. Chamberlain's assessment that something was not right was an understatement.

Entering his office, Hamilton sank down at his desk and leaned back in his chair with a groan. What now? Bartlett's family and friends would have to be contacted all over again to find out whether or not they were aware of Bartlett possibly having a connection with Martin Bradshaw.

And maybe it was not even Bartlett. Maybe it was his unknown accomplice who had been acquainted with Bradshaw.

Hamilton perked up. According to the faxed report on Bradshaw's death, there were two addresses on file for him—places he had used as hideouts. The neighbors at those locations should be questioned too; maybe they had seen something. And the hideouts themselves should be searched. It was a long shot, but it was possible that one of them could be where Bartlett had taken Perry.

He reached for the telephone. He would call Lieutenant Tragg and let him in on this idea. Then, while Tragg set about getting the search warrants, Hamilton would go on ahead, look the buildings over from the outside, and try to talk to the neighbors.

It was not the usual procedure. But he was angry and upset. He had told Della he would be investigating personally, and he had meant it.

Perry had gotten in over his head this time. And he hadn't even done anything to warrant such an attack. Sometimes he bent the law—which of course frustrated Hamilton to no end—or took dangerous chances. Yet in the case of Gladys Thorn, he had simply refused to represent her once the truth had come out about the vicious murders she had definitely committed. No more, no less. Both he and Hamilton felt that Bartlett should have let the matter alone after that. Instead, Bartlett had gone on this outrageous rampage.

Hamilton waited as the phone rang. Once, twice. . . .

Click. "Hello?"

Hamilton perked up. "Sergeant Brice? I'd like to speak with Lieutenant Tragg, please."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burger. The Lieutenant's out right now."

"Oh." Hamilton set down the pencil he had been toying with. "Does he have a new lead?"

"I don't think so. He said he was going to question Bartlett's family about Martin Bradshaw."

"What about getting search warrants for the two Bradshaw hideouts we have on record?" Hamilton asked.

"I'm in charge of that, sir," Brice told him. "Lieutenant Tragg had the thought that we should check them for clues." Or for Mr. Mason himself, the unspoken words concluded.

"Good. I'm going to go out ahead of you and inspect the buildings from outside. I'll let you know if there's any suspicious activity at either location."

There was a stretch of silence. "Are you sure that's wise, Mr. Burger?" Brice sounded stunned.

"I won't take any unnecessary chances, Sergeant," Hamilton told him.

". . . Alright," Brice said, still not sure what to make of this. "Goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye." Hamilton hung up and grabbed for his briefcase as he stood. He should leave before any more time passed.

He stopped short in astonishment when he opened his door. Della was standing in the corridor, poised to knock. Her eyes widened.

"Della, what are you doing here?" Hamilton exclaimed. "I thought Paul took you home."

She sighed. "I couldn't even try to sleep," she said. "I was too worried. Paul said there was nothing that could be done until morning. I suppose I came hoping that wasn't true, that I could find some kind of lead to follow up on." She looked at him with pleading eyes. "The night watchman recognized me and let me in."

Hamilton sighed too. "I was just going to investigate something," he said. "It might be nothing. On the other hand, it might help." He pulled the door shut behind him as he stepped into the hall.

Della hesitated, then moved to follow him. "Please tell me," she implored. "Perry's life is at stake. With more people helping, he might be found that much faster."

"Della, I've got my entire office working on this," Hamilton told her. "So have Paul and the police. We know it's urgent to find Perry. But that doesn't mean you should get mixed up in something this dangerous."

Della stopped walking when they reached the elevator. "Mr. Burger, it's Perry who's missing," she said. "That means I'm 'mixed up' in it from the start. I won't let anything happen to him, not if there's anything at all I can do to help him! He's always putting himself in danger for his clients, sometimes risking his life as well as his career. The least I can do is see that he's rescued now!"

Hamilton glanced back. He had not expected her outburst—even though, he supposed, it was not such a shock when he really thought about it. He knew how much Perry meant to her. Now, something in her forlorn eyes made him relent, against his better judgment.

". . . Come on," he said. "I'll tell you about it on the way."

Della broke into a smile, regarding him with gratitude. "Thank you," she said in earnest.

The elevator doors opened. Hamilton waited for Della to walk in before entering himself. "Just remember, there is a chance it could be dangerous," he cautioned. "Don't do anything foolish."

Della looked to him. "And why are you going without the police?" she countered.

He focused on the button panel. "What makes you think I am?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Della. "Just a hunch."

Hamilton hit the button and the doors closed. He stepped back with a resigned sigh.

"You win," he admitted. "I'm going without the police. But they know about it. And they'll be along soon."

Della nodded. "We're both worried about Perry," she said. "It's alright to say so."

At last Hamilton's expression softened. "Okay," he said. "We're both worried."

Della shifted, looking down at the elevator floor. "I heard you and Tragg talking in Perry's apartment," she said.

Hamilton started in shock. "You did?" he exclaimed. "I thought we shut the door!"

"You did," Della said. "I was so worried about what you were talking about that I listened in. Don't worry," she added with a melancholy smile. "It's not something I make a habit of. Under the circumstances I couldn't stop myself."

Hamilton sighed in resignation. "I'm sorry," he said. "We didn't want to cause you any more concern. But it was something we needed to talk about."

"I know," Della said. "And I know . . . it could be true," she finished with great difficulty. "I just can't bring myself to consider it."

". . . We didn't want to have to, either," Hamilton said after a pause. "Hopefully Perry really is alive and we can find him before he isn't."

Della gave a quiet nod. As the elevator reached the ground floor and the doors opened, she stepped out into the lobby. Hamilton followed her.

This was certainly a strange twist. She had never imagined that she and Mr. Burger would be investigating part of the case by themselves. He was about the last person she had expected to work with so closely. But here they were, going out a back door to Burger's car in the parking garage.

Hamilton stopped short as they reached it. He frowned darkly, noticing something that Della did not.

"What is it?" she asked.

He removed a slip of paper from under the windshield. "They're on to us," he said. "And they're not happy."

Della peered at the note while he read it. It had been typed in a disturbing font that resembled dripping blood. To add to the effect, it had been printed in red ink. A gasp left her lips.

Give up the search, District Attorney. Mr. Mason is with me and

will stay with me until he's dead. Then you can have him back.

Maybe.

It was signed Trevor Bartlett.