Chapter Six

The address where the hitmen had met Trevor Bartlett was, for once, a decent locale. As Mr. Burger drove up to the modern, well-kept house and parked, he and Della regarded it in both surprise and satisfaction.

"This looks like the nicest place we've been to all night," Hamilton said.

"There shouldn't be any missing floors here," Della agreed in relief. She started to get out of the car. "Do you think Perry could be inside?"

"I don't know." Hamilton exited as well and walked around to the passenger side. Behind them, Lieutenant Tragg was departing his own vehicle. Hamilton glanced to him, then back to Della. "I don't want to give you false hope."

Della nodded, managing a melancholy smile. "I know."

Her expression sobered. "Do you think Paul and Pete are alright?" She shook her head. "It was such a shock when Paul told me what they'd found."

"They should be alright until Sergeant Nichols gets there," Hamilton answered. "It sounded like they were the only ones in the house." He frowned. "But it is strange. They don't even have any idea whose body it is."

Overhearing, Lieutenant Tragg regarded them in exasperation. "Della, you, Perry, and Paul are magnets for that kind of trouble," he said.

"Well, nevermind that," Della said. She nodded at the house. "What is this place? Who lives here?"

"Headquarters has been trying to locate information on it since you and Mr. Burger gave the address to those officers," Tragg said. "They've been having a bit of trouble." He started moseying up the driveway.

Hamilton and Della followed. "What do you mean?" Hamilton frowned. "What kind of trouble?"

"No one's sure who owns it," Tragg said. "The owner's name seems to be a fake. And the house doesn't appear to be lived in full-time. Instead, the neighbors see people passing in and out on varying days and weeks."

"And there aren't any clues at all?" Della exclaimed.

"There's some suspicion that the house is owned and used by members of the Altec Corporation," Tragg said. "The name the buyer used was in some ways an anagram of the company name. And the descriptions of some of the people the neighbors have seen match the descriptions of some of the high-ranking officers at Altec."

"But why would they do something like this?" Burger frowned. "What would be the point?"

"Perhaps they just want a place to come meet in secret or even to simply relax for a while," Tragg said. "On the other hand, they could be using it for a less than legal purpose."

"Such as holding Perry hostage," Della said quietly.

"Could be," Tragg said, noncommittal.

They reached the porch and Tragg knocked. Inside, most of the lights were on.

"I can't imagine what connection Bartlett would have with Altec," Burger said, stepping back to look up at the over-hanging roof.

"I can't either," Tragg said. "However, when the hitmen were searched, each of them was found to be carrying a strange doohickey. It was flashing green. They said it was a signal sent by satellite to instruct them when to attack and when to back off. It had turned red when they decided to follow you.

"Anyway, the point is that the strange devices are from Altec. They have the company name stamped on them."

Della blinked in surprised confusion. "Does that really mean anything?" she said. "Can't anyone buy them from Altec?"

"No, actually," Tragg said. "They're prototypes. The final product hasn't been released yet."

"So the only person who could distribute them would be someone with connections to the company," Burger concluded.

"Or a thief," Tragg said. "But it would take a lot of skill to break into the building where they store the prototypes. And there was no report of such a robbery. We've tried contacting the top-ranking officials about this, but most of them claim they don't know anything. Three others weren't at home. We're going to pay them another visit in a while."

He glowered at the door. "No one's coming."

"They're running up their electric bill if they're not home," Burger remarked.

Tragg knocked again. "Police! Open up!" he barked. When there was still no answer he walked around to peer through the nearest window. "Nothing," he reported in disgust. "Maybe they don't care about their electric bill."

"Aren't we going to go in?" Della protested. "What if Perry's in there?"

"We're going in," Tragg said. "See, it's a good thing you agreed to let me come along." He briefly flashed the search warrant that he had returned to headquarters to obtain before they had come here. Then, drawing his gun in case of emergency, he prepared to kick in the double-doors.

"Do you need some help with that, Lieutenant?" Burger asked, eying the heavy doors.

Tragg did as well. "That might be a good idea," he mused. "Alright, Mr. Burger. Let's give it a go."

While Della watched, the two men lashed out at the doors, sending them flying open. Tragg hurried in first, gun held high. When no one appeared, Mr. Burger wandered in as well. Della trailed after him.

"It's well-furnished," Burger commented, glancing around at the expensive leather sofas and chairs and high-quality lamps.

Della was tense as they passed through the living room and into the kitchen to its side. Was Perry here somewhere? She wanted to call to him, but the possibility that she might just alert his captors stayed her tongue. The last thing she wanted was to get him into further danger.

"The house is ready for guests, but it's not well-stocked for anyone living here full-time," Tragg commented. He opened the fridge, revealing nothing other than a sack of take-out. "Wouldn't you say?"

Burger peered at the fridge's contents. "That doesn't have a receipt with identification stapled to it, does it?" he wondered.

Tragg took out the bag and examined it from all angles. "Well, what do you know," he mused. "It just so happens that it does." His eyes narrowed, his easy-going manner fading and turning to displeasure. "Trevor Bartlett. And the receipt is dated earlier this night."

Della stared. "Then Perry must be here!" she cried.

Tragg frowned, carrying the sack with him as he closed the fridge. "I'm going to call for backup before we go any further," he said. "For all we know, we've walked right into a trap." He headed into the living room and towards the front door, trusting that they were following him.

Della hurried to the doorway to look after him. Then, turning, she studied the hallway beyond the living room.

Perry was so close. He had to be in one of those rooms! Why would Bartlett stay here, storing take-out for himself in the fridge, if he was not holding Perry prisoner?

"You're not planning to go sneaking off somewhere, are you?"

She jumped a mile. She had thought Mr. Burger had been investigating the kitchen cupboards. Instead he had come up behind her.

"Tragg will be back in a minute," he said. "Then we can keep going. But he's right—we don't know what we're getting into here. Bartlett might even want us around. And if he does, you can be sure it's not for any good reason."

Della turned away from the doorframe, facing him. For a brief moment she looked into his eyes, seeing the genuine concern. Averting her gaze, she walked past him, over near the table. "There's no telling what's happening to Perry right now," she said.

"It's not going to help him if you get hurt," he replied. "Let's go outside and wait for the Lieutenant."

Before either of them could make a move, Tragg re-entered the house. "I thought you two were right behind me," he frowned in accusation.

"I'm sorry, Tragg," Mr. Burger apologized. "Apparently Miss Street had some ideas about exploring on her own."

Della regarded both him and Tragg with thinly veiled displeasure. "You would have been investigating by yourself if I hadn't come along, Mr. Burger," she said.

Mr. Burger looked to Tragg, then up at the ceiling, with a definite Give me strength! air. "It's just for your own protection," he said as he looked back to Della. "Besides, I don't want to think about what Mr. Mason might do to me if I let anything happen to you."

That at last prompted a smile from Della. "Alright," she said. "I should be perfectly safe with two escorts. Are we ready to keep looking?"

Mr. Burger nodded, but then glanced to Tragg. "What about the backup?"

"They'll be here as soon as possible," Tragg said. "Meanwhile, I suppose we can resume the search while we're waiting. But both of you stay right with me!" He gave them a stern glare. "You're worse than headstrong kids wanting to strike out on their own."

Della regarded him in amusement. When he went past, intent on taking the lead, she gave Hamilton a sidelong glance. "That's the first time I've been compared to a headstrong kid," she said, a smile on her lips.

"Same here," Hamilton said.

Della extended her arm. "Shall we?"

Shaking his head, a bit amused as well, Hamilton took her arm and they set out after Tragg. Exasperated, the police lieutenant rolled his eyes.

xxxx

By the time Sergeant Nichols arrived at Barlow Travis's house, Paul and Pete had picked their way over the chaotic rooms in search of other people or evidence as to what exactly had happened. They were just making their way back into the living room when Nichols walked in through the open door.

"What's the situation?" Nichols greeted.

"There's no one else in the house," Paul said. "And we're not sure who the murder victim is, except for one thing."

Pete nodded. "She looks like she could be the same girl from the locket that was found in Mr. Mason's apartment."

Nichols stared. "I wasn't told that by Lieutenant Tragg," he said.

"We didn't realize it until after we called him," Paul said. "He probably would've shown up himself if he'd known."

"You're right," Nichols said. "Okay, we'll get to work here. You two can go."

Pete was all too relieved to be out of the room. Paul, on the other hand, was tense and frustrated.

"Maybe she could have told us something, if we'd only known where to find her!" he exclaimed. "Now she's dead; another potential lead down the drain."

"Maybe she'll still be able to tell us something, once they've ID'ed her," Pete said.

"I hope so, for Perry's sake," Paul sighed.

Pete looked down, sobered into silence. At last he said, "There's no sense in us staying here any longer. And nothing more will be known for a while. Maybe we should call it a night."

"You can go home," Paul immediately said. "You've got a family and your wife's probably up worrying. I'll drop you off. Then I think I'll go on to that place where the hitmen said Bartlett paid them off. Tragg and the others should be there by now."

Pete hesitated, but then nodded. "Alright," he consented. "But call me if there's any new developments, no matter what time it is. You know I'll come right out."

Paul nodded too. "Right. Come on." He headed down the steps towards his car.

Pete followed close behind. Above them, the moon slipped behind some fast-moving clouds, darkening the night.

That was about how this case felt right now—fast-moving and dark, without a solution in sight.

xxxx

The door to the security room burst open before Perry's prisoner could finish telling him about disarming the electric force field. Both of them whirled, Perry in surprise, the prisoner not so much. Trevor Bartlett strolled into the room, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"Congratulations, Mr. Mason," he said. "You got this far. Now, how do you think I managed to escape that locked room?"

"I wouldn't know," said Perry, his voice cold. A quick glance at the monitor showed him that Bartlett was still in the room, having decided to sit on the floor.

He looked back to his nemesis. "Obviously you recorded yourself in the room at an earlier time and put that tape into the security camera so I wouldn't see you getting out. You planned that I would end up in the security room at some point."

"Bravo," Bartlett said. "But that was really a cheap trick. I expected you to figure that one out."

"So what happens now?" Perry retorted.

"Now, I hold a gun on you and order you to release my pal." Bartlett drew out a .38 caliber weapon and pointed it at Perry, who glared.

"I could just as easily raise my weapon to you and we'd be in a Mexican standoff," Perry said.

"Except you already admitted to my associate that you don't want to kill him," Bartlett returned. "I'm sure you feel the same way about me." He indicated a small, rectangular device on his belt. "I know you're already familiar with these. I can reactivate the signal and sic my men on your friends again before you could do anything about it."

Perry glowered at the object. What he would really like to do would be to break it. But it was too big a chance. If he tried to shoot it, he might miss and shoot Bartlett instead. And he did want Bartlett alive to stand trial.

"If I release your friend, what happens then?" Perry asked. "I have no assurance that you won't send out that signal anyway."

"That's right, you don't," Bartlett said. "And you have every reason to think I will. But if you don't release him, there's a one hundred percent chance I'll do it. If you let him go, that percentage will drop."

Perry looked at him, eyes narrowed. "You want to torment me before you kill me," he said. "And you've already determined that the most effective way to go about it is to target people I know. You'll get around to it eventually no matter what I do now."

"That's smart, Mr. Mason," Bartlett said. "You're right. As long as you're my prisoner, they're all in danger. In fact, even if you escape they'll still be in danger, just as long as this device can send signals via our satellite."

"Then disarming it would solve that problem," Perry said. "All I would have to do would be to shoot it off your belt."

"If you can," Bartlett said. "And don't forget the pieces would fly everywhere, just like shrapnel. I could be fatally struck by one of them even if by some miracle you actually hit the transmitter instead of me."

Perry clutched the gun, his knuckles white. "Don't tempt me," he said.

Finally he pushed his prisoner away from him. "Alright, you have what you want," he told Bartlett, watching the bearded man stumble forward from the shove. "Now what?" Assuming the chances of the deadly signal being sent would indeed decrease, if only for the time being, he stood a better chance of getting what he wanted if he waited. He still needed to learn how to disengage the force field.

Bartlett smirked. "Now," he said, "we're going to play another little game."

"No more of your games!" Perry rumbled.

Bartlett ignored him. "Remember what I mentioned about attacking your friends one by one?" he said. "When I activated the signal before, everyone was alerted. But I can also fine-tune the transmitter so it only sends to one or two other devices at a time. Even if all of my targets are together, I can separate them and have them picked off individually." Before Perry could do a thing, Bartlett stabbed a button on top of the transmitter.

Perry's eyes widened in sheer horror and anger. "Who are you going after?" he demanded, taking a step forward.

"I honestly don't know, Mr. Mason," Bartlett said. "Several friends of yours are in the same place right now. So when my man breaks them up and takes out one of them, there's an equal chance of it being any of them."

Perry was outraged. He moved to lunge and seize Bartlett, but the younger man anticipated him. "Uh uh." He held the gun at the console. "If you come any closer, or try to turn off the signal the same way you did before, I'll shatter the disarming button. That will alert every one of my men again. And it will mean that my device is truly the only way to stop any of them. Take your choice, Mr. Mason. Will you lose one friend now, or all of them?"

Perry froze, faced with the unthinkable choice. His heart raced wildly. Who would be the target? Della? Paul? Hamilton? Tragg? Someone else? Any way he looked at it, it was horrible.

At last he spoke. "Even if any one person is targeted, there's no guarantee they won't live," he said. "They might outsmart your man."

"Let's see, shall we?" Bartlett sneered. "We'll just wait for the answering signal that will mean someone's gone down." He crossed the room to the console and sat down in the nearest chair. "You're welcome to join me."

Perry remained standing, desperately seeking a solution that remained elusive.

xxxx

Tragg, Della, and Mr. Burger had managed to cover the ground floor of the house and were moving up to the second floor when the lights abruptly extinguished themselves, plunging the manor into darkness. Confusion erupted.

"What's going on?" Della exclaimed. "Has there been a blackout?"

"Someone might have thrown the switch in the fusebox," Tragg said. "Just a minute and I'll get my flashlight."

"If this was done on purpose, someone knows we're here," Mr. Burger remarked. He felt his way along the wall, seeking the others.

Instead the wall flipped open, sending him sprawling onto the other side. It clicked shut noiselessly, leaving him stranded in his new location.

Dazed, he started to push himself upright. "What happened?" he muttered. Fumbling in his pocket for a flashlight, he located it and switched it on.

The room on the other side of the panel was well furnished, just like the rest of the house. But it was as though he had been deposited into the past. The style of the furniture, as well as the wall-to-wall rug, was that of the Victorian era. Kerosene lamps had been placed on tables, while others were suspended on the walls. They were out; the only illumination came from the moon beaming into the room. An old black-and-white photograph, resembling the style of the 1930s, was positioned on top of a desk under the window.

Hamilton crossed the room, curious and bewildered. As he lifted the photograph he stared in disbelief. "This is . . ." It was unmistakably a clear version of the picture in the locket from Perry's apartment. The enigmatic brunette smiled at the camera with knowing yet mysterious eyes.

In the corner was an inscription. He stepped closer to the window, adjusting the picture to catch the glow from the moon.

Darling—

A true light never goes out.

—Marlene

He frowned. What did that mean? It didn't make the slightest sense to him. But this item was evidence, and with Tragg's warrant they had a right to take it for the case. He slipped it, frame and all, into his briefcase.

A sound from behind sent him whirling, on guard. A dark silhouette was emerging from the corner of the room, lunging towards him. Hamilton met him, grabbing his attacker's wrists as he held his ground, struggling to throw the other man back. Physical fights were not a part of his job description. This sort of grappling was not something he was used to.

With a final shove he sent the figure flying backwards, stumbling on the old carpet. Before the stranger could recover, and before Hamilton could so much as go for his flashlight again, something hard struck him on the head once, then twice.

The district attorney gasped in pain and surprise as he sank to the floor.