Cure (47 page)
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Colt paused for a moment. In some respects the first step inside the house was the most nerve-racking. Using his computer earlier, he’d turned off the various wireless alarms in the house, although he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure he hadn’t turned them on instead. It depended what state the alarms had been in before Colt had interfered. Taking a breath, he stepped through the door.
Even before the alarm sounded, Colt could tell he’d tripped an infrared motion detector, because a red light blinked near the crown molding. Just as the alarm began to sound throughout the house, Colt hit his computer’s enter button. The alarm system was now off, but it had begun to sound.
Flattening himself against the wall, Colt strained to listen, holding his breath. He thought he heard distant voices, but then realized the voices were accompanied by music and that the noise was coming in through the open door and was the party on the other side of the cove. Then there was another deep, low rumbling sound that caused Colt to hold his breath again while he tried to identify it. It was a refrigerator compressor.
“Moving out,” Colt whispered into his radio after closing the door to the pool deck and donning his night-vision goggles.
“All clear,” came back in his earphone.
Colt moved quickly and catlike from the sun porch into the kitchen. Thanks to the night-vision equipment, he could see well enough to avoid obstacles. From studying the floor plans, he knew exactly how to get to the master bedroom suite, which was positioned directly over the first-floor kitchen, facing out over the water view.
Unfortunately, the back stairs were as old as the main part of the house, built in the 1920s, and not built particularly robustly. As Colt quickly mounted them, they let off a series of creaks and groans, enough to cause Colt to pause once he reached the second floor. Besides the Sub-Zero compressor, all he could hear was reassuring snoring coming from the master bedroom.
Colt remained motionless for a full minute. There was no change in the snoring, nor any additional sounds. He was about to advance toward the open master bedroom door when his earpiece crackled to life. “Houston, we have a problem”: Grover’s code that the mission might have to be aborted.
“Ten-four,” Colt responded, meaning he’d gotten the message but could not have a conversation.
“Intruder coming down right side of building. Must be a normal check. He is not hurrying. I have him clearly in sight. Will worry about his seeing dogs or me.”
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“Proceeding,” Colt responded. He then moved ahead, and reaching the door to the master bedroom, he carefully scanned progressively more and more of the room. The first thing he saw of interest was a crib. Moving on, he saw the bed.
It was king-size with a niche above its head containing a statue of the Virgin Mary clutching the Christ child. The niche was illuminated with a dimmed light to serve as a night-light. There were two people in the bed, presumably Louie Barbera and his wife. After another brief pause to make certain both people were asleep, Colt moved across the thick carpet to the crib and got his first look at JJ.
In the darkness and using his night-vision goggles, the boy’s hair color appeared greenish-gray rather than blond as it had been described, but his face was just as cherubic as reported. He was on his back with arms out to the side and fists next to his head.
“Past the tennis enclosure without problem,” Grover said. “Now lighting up a cigarette. So far, so good.”
Colt glanced back at the people in the bed less than ten feet away. Although the chances of them hearing anything at all were very low, he couldn’t help but be concerned, as close as he was. Yet he didn’t want to have to abort now, so he turned back to the child. Taking out the eyedropper he’d previously filled with the appropriate amount of Versed, he pulled off the syringe cap he’d used to cover the dropper. Reaching into the crib, he inserted the end of the dropper into the child’s mouth.
“Heading for the pool end of the building,” Grover said, hesitating. “Now continuing on. Thank goodness the pool lights are off. He seems satisfied all in order. He’s now walking down the left side toward the street side of the compound.”
Slowly Colt compressed the eyedropper bulb, pushing the solution of Versed into JJ’s mouth. Almost immediately JJ responded by reflexively sucking on the eyedropper. Yes, little guy, Colt said silently, knowing he was taking full advantage of JJ’s nursing reflex. Then, after ten seconds of making room in the shoulder bag, Colt lifted the child out of the crib and slipped him feetfirst into the bag. As expected and hoped, the child did not complain or make a sound.
Standing back up, Colt was about to hoist the bag up on his shoulder when Louie Barbera coughed loudly, waking himself and his wife in the process.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Barbera questioned.
“I’ll live,” Louie said. He pulled his legs from under the covers, sat up on the side of the bed, and put his feet on the floor.
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Colt froze except for his left hand, which silently pulled the veterinary gas-powered dart gun from its belt clip.
“Are you getting up?” Mrs. Barbera asked while settling herself back under the covers.
“For a moment,” Louie admitted.
“Check the boy. Make sure he’s covered.”
Grumbling something about the kid getting more attention than he did, Louie raised his bulk to an unsteady standing position, then launched himself toward the crib.
Amazed he’d not been seen, Colt took a step back as Louie lurched toward him.
He debated what to do. Should he just wait it out with the unlikely chance there would be no confrontation, or should he be proactive? The question was answered when Louie reached the crib, bent over, and stuck in his hand. Clearly he was confused, as his hand searched in progressively desperate sweeps around the crib’s interior and found nothing.
Colt shot him in his sizable ass with a ketamine dart.
“Shit!” Louie yelled as he stood up, yanking the dart out of his left buttock and trying to look at it in the darkness.
“What in heaven’s sake is the matter?” Mrs. Barbera demanded, as Louie’s scream had jolted her upright in bed.
“I got stuck with something.” Louie yelled with a mildly garbled voice. He extended the dart toward his wife despite there being no chance of her seeing it in the darkness. He then let go of the crib with the intention of walking over to her. He didn’t get far. After a few tottering steps, he fell over onto his side.
Frantically, Mrs. Barbera scrambled off the end of the bed in a swirl of chiffon. As she bent over her husband, Colt let loose with the third ketamine dart. The woman let out a scream that eclipsed her husband’s.
“Houston, we have another problem. Two men are approaching on the run on the right side of the house. Perhaps a silent alarm has been tripped.”
Colt hauled the bag’s strap over his shoulder and zipped the bag closed.
Thankfully, JJ had not made a sound.
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“Second dog has been discovered,” Grover said urgently in Colt’s ear. “Men with weapons drawn now running toward terrace. Do not try to leave same way you went in. Abort, abort!”
With his night-vision goggles still in place, Colt ran from the bedroom and into the dressing room, and from the dressing room out into the second-floor hallway. At the moment he reached the hallway, lights went on in the kitchen downstairs.
“Only one man went into house,” Grover said. “Second man on terrace standing guard.”
Colt ran down the second-floor hallway, entering a bedroom on the right. He locked the door behind him but knew it was a flimsy lock that would not slow a determined pursuer but for a second. “Exiting second-story bedroom right. Take out perp on terrace. Arrange boat for quick getaway. Have target.”
Dashing to the window, Colt took out the window anchor and extended its arms.
He reached the window and threw up the sash. He then raised the storm window. Grabbing a length of rope clipped to his side, he threw the bulk out the window before attaching the end to the anchor, which merely bridged the window opening. Putting the shoulder bag around to his front, he pushed it out the window and then stepped out himself with one leg, keeping tension on the rope attached to the anchor. Pulling out his other leg, he then rappelled down the side of the building.
Once on the ground, Colt unhooked the Uzi from his belt and started for the water side of the house. Passing the tennis enclosure, he could see the anesthetized dog. Reaching the edge of the house, he slowed, positioned the Uzi at his waist, ready to fire, then leaped out into the open. The ploy was not necessary. Grover had taken his suggestion. The perp was spread-eagle on the terrace with a clean hole mid-forehead—undoubtedly more work for their legal defense team if the hoodlums were crazy enough to call in the police.
In the open, Colt did not dally but rather ran down the steps from the pool level, across the small intervening patch of lawn and then the length of the pier.
Grover had the boat out in the clear. By the time Colt arrived the engine was running. Pulling the shoulder bag around in front of him, Colt jumped into the boat while Grover put the engine in gear and hit the throttle. Again, he purposefully left off the running lights.
Mildly out of breath, Colt unzipped the shoulder bag. JJ was nestled in against some towels, sleeping, like a baby totally unaware he’d changed hands again.
“You’ve been wonderfully cooperative,” Colt yelled to the child over the roar of 296
the outboard.
Looking back at the house, Colt saw a series of flashes. “Incoming fire,” he shouted to Grover, who instituted some evasive steering, but neither he nor Colt thought it necessary as far as they were out on the river. Their plan was to head north for the opposite shore until the black, low-lying boat was no longer visible from shore before turning east, the way they’d come.
It was a quarter to four a.m. when Colt pulled up to Laurie and Jack’s house.
The neighborhood was completely quiet, without a pedestrian or a dog in sight.
If it were not for the streetlights, it would have been totally black, as the moon had set. The house was dark as well, except for a single light recessed into the front door’s lintel.
Grover got out and opened the rear door. He leaned in, and after checking JJ, who was still sound asleep in the shoulder bag, he hefted the bag out of the vehicle. When Colt came around, he handed JJ to Colt. “You deserve the honors tonight. Compared with you, I was a mere spectator.”
“You had your moments,” Colt argued. “Taking out that first dog and the perp on the terrace was what made it possible.”
“You’re being too generous,” Grover said. “But thank you.”
They did not rush as they reached the stone steps and started up. Once at the front door, they positioned themselves with the bag containing JJ between them.
Grover leaned on the bell and kept it depressed for a full minute. After he let go, he descended back down the stairs and craned his neck, looking up. A single window was now illuminated. Grover climbed back up the stoop and positioned himself where he’d been earlier. Finally the door was pulled open and Jack and Laurie filled the doorway.
“Mr. Collins and Mr. Thomas,” Jack said, surprised and not surprised at the same time. “You are either awfully early or awfully late. What can we do for you?” He was not willing to guess.
“I believe we’ve found something that belongs to you,” Colt said. He lifted the shoulder bag, put it in Jack’s outstretched hands. Since the zipper was already open, he merely gently pulled apart the bag’s sides to reveal its angelic occupant.
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Reining in her hopes for fear of disappointment, Laurie let herself emerge from around Jack and peer into the bag. Although she squealed with unbridled delight, she momentarily was not willing to snatch out her child for fear that she was seeing a figment of her imagination. But her reluctance rapidly faded, and her confidence rapidly grew such that she reached into the bag, pulled out the sleeping toddler, and clutched him to her bosom.
Half laughing and half crying, Laurie bombarded Grover and Colt with a hundred questions while JJ continued his slumber in her arms.
“Tomorrow or the next day or the next will be time enough for your questions.
For now let us say that he had been treated extraordinarily well by a woman who apparently loved him dearly.”
With a huge smile on his face thanks to this sudden, happy turn of events, Jack asked the two kidnapping consultants if they’d like to come into the house. But Grover and Colt gracefully declined, saying that they had to return their equipment to CRT before rousing their legal defense team and paying a visit to the police. “We have to confess the sins we committed in rescuing JJ sooner rather than later, although we won’t be admitting to them all,” Grover said with a wink. “And thanks for allowing us the opportunity to get your son back.”
“You’re thanking us?” Jack questioned with disbelief.
EPILOGUE
APRIL 1, 2010
THURSDAY, 10:49 a.m.
NEW YORK CITY
D
etective Captain Lou Soldano surprised himself by finding a legal parking place on Laurie and Jack’s street just two doors away from their house. Both had taken an indefinite leave of absence from OCME after the trauma of John Junior’s short but emotionally traumatic kidnapping. Although Lou had not seen them face-to-face since that fateful Friday, he had spoken with them on the phone on several occasions, the last time being the previous evening when Lou had set up the current meeting for today. Until now, he had felt they needed their privacy.
After climbing the five steps to the stoop and ringing the bell, Lou checked his watch. It was now ten minutes before the onset of the raids, which were going to occur simultaneously at their three separate locations. The knowledge that they were about to take place gave Lou a great sense of satisfaction as well as 298
excitement. At the same time, he felt a bit badly about not participating, but since there was no way he could be at all three locations at once, he’d decided to be at none and celebrate their occurrence with Laurie, since she was most responsible for the raids taking place. It had been a combination of her intuition, doggedness, and investigative forensic intelligence that had made her see a homicide where others saw a natural death. She had been the one to connect the homicide to organized crime—specifically, the working relationship existing between the Mafia and the Japanese Yakuza.
The door opened, and Jack and Lou greeted each other warmly. “You don’t have to schedule a formal visit,” Jack admonished as they climbed the stairs. “You can always just drop in.”
“Under the circumstances, I thought it best to call,” Lou explained. “Kidnappings are rather unique emotional events, to say the least. How is everybody doing?”
“Everybody is doing fine, except for me,” Jack joked. “JJ seemed entirely normal as soon as he woke up from his anesthetic, and has been normal ever since, provided you believe the behavior of a normal one-and-a-half-year-old is normal.”
“I vaguely remember,” Lou said. Both his kids were out of college.
“The only problem is that Laurie continues to blame herself for the kidnapping episode, no matter what anyone says. And now she’s having this internal battle about whether she wants to be a full-time mom or a mom who also happens to be a world-class medical examiner. Please talk to her. I can’t, because I’m happy either way. I want her to do what she wants to do.”
They passed the kitchen and walked into the family room. Laurie got up from the couch and gave Lou a sustained hug, thanking him profusely for suggesting that they use Grover and Colt of CRT.
“It made all the difference in the world,” Laurie said, tears coming to her eyes and embarrassing Lou in the process.
“I just thought they could get JJ back faster,” Lou mumbled, trying to downplay his role in the affair.
“Faster!” Laurie blurted. “They got him back the very next day. It was like a miracle. If they’d not helped us, I’m convinced JJ would still be in the hands of the kidnappers.”
“No doubt,” Lou said. “Did Grover and Colt confirm to you why JJ was 299
snatched?”
“No, we only spoke to them once, and that was on Monday. They called briefly, just to check in on JJ. We haven’t spoken to them since, because they told us they were off on a case in Venezuela that very evening.”
“Just as they had guessed, the kidnapping was done as a late, desperate effort to deter you from working on the Satoshi Machita case. Any ransom demand was going to be mere icing on the cake. They were afraid of you, Laurie, not OCME in general, just you.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Laurie said.
“And it doesn’t speak very well for the rest of us at OCME,” Jack said, trying to inject an element of humor. Jack bent down and picked up JJ, who felt ignored by the grown-ups and was letting everyone know.
“It might seem hard to believe to you, Laurie,” Lou said, “but not to those in the NYPD, the FBI, CIA, and Secret Service. Your recent work with the Satoshi Machita case combined with JJ’s kidnapping resulted in the formation of the most efficient task force I’ve ever been part of. Since Sunday, this task force has accomplished months’ worth of highly successful investigation, such that . . .”
Lou paused to look at his watch. It was three minutes before eleven.
“Such that what?” Laurie questioned.
“This is super-secret,” Lou said, lowering his voice for effect, “but in two minutes at three locations, representatives of the four agencies I just mentioned will be raiding three private companies: iPS USA, headed by Benjamin Corey; Dominick’s Financial Services, headed by Vincent Dominick; and Pacific Rim Wealth Management, headed by Saboru Fukuda. All computers, storage devices, and documents will be confiscated, and all the principals will be arrested, including CEOs, CFOs, COOs. This is going to be a big deal. I can feel it in my bones. It’s going to have a big effect on Mob cooperation with the Japanese Yakuza, if it doesn’t sever it completely. It’ll seriously reduce the ballooning crystal meth problem here in the Big Apple. Thank you, Laurie. You are an asset to the city, so when you consider whether you want to be just a mom or a mom with a career, please keep in mind that you will be sorely missed if you choose the former.”
Laurie glared at Jack, feigning anger. “Have you been talking about me?”
“I always talk about you,” Jack confessed, holding up his hands in mock 300
surrender. “But I assure you I had zero input into Lou’s assessment.”
FBI Special Agent Gene Stackhouse had been selected as the overall leader of the task force comprising representatives of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Secret Service, and the New York City Police Department. He, like the other agents except for the group from the NYPD, was dressed in a dark blue uniform with black lettering indicating his agency. Most carried weapons, either Glocks or M15 rifles. The NYPD agents, all SWAT team members, were dressed in the usual black and carried a wider variety of firepower. Everyone wore helmets and bulletproof vests. Everyone had been fully briefed and were impatient for the word “go!”
Special Agent Stackhouse was particularly wired and ready to explode into the highly choreographed activity he’d planned the moment the second hand of his chronograph reached twelve. The start time was to be exactly eleven o’clock a.m. at all three sites to eliminate any chance of one company calling another to hide evidence.
“Masks on!” he yelled, as the second hand of his watch passed three. A small microphone clipped to his shoulder epaulet flap conveyed his voice to all nine unmarked vans: three at each location, with six people in each van, for a total of fifty-four law-enforcement officers.
Gene Stackhouse was in the passenger seat of the first van at his location, which was on the left side of Fifth Avenue just north of 57th Street. The two other vans were directly behind. When the second hand swept past the number eleven, he counted: “ten, nine, eight . . .” He unsnapped his holstered Glock pistol. “Four, three, two, one. Go!” All four doors of the three vans sprang open, shocking the various pedestrians on Fifth Avenue. The team dashed across the wide sidewalk, threw open the doors of the building where iPS USA was quartered, and swarmed the security desk. The guards were ordered not to communicate with any of the building’s tenants, particularly iPS USA.
“What’s going on?” one of the building security guards demanded, trying to sound authoritative. He’d been impressed and terrified at seeing the intruders’
firepower but relieved when he saw FBI, SECRET SERVICE, CIA, and NYPD on the backs of jackets.
“We are executing a number of warrants.” Stackhouse yelled, directing his men toward a waiting elevator. “Remain seated! No talking! No phoning!” Snapping his fingers toward a CIA agent, Stackhouse directed him to stay with the building’s security people to make sure the orders were followed.
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Once all the remaining agents were in the elevator, its doors closed and it shot up to the iPS USA floor. When it arrived, it was as if the elevator belched out the eager agents, who dashed past the shocked Clair Bourse and fanned out in the iPS USA office in predetermined directions. Clair would have screamed if she hadn’t been so immobilized by one of the initial agents running directly up to her, pointing his gun at her, and commanding, “Freeze!” The idea of the rapid, assault-like entrance was to deny anyone the opportunity to do anything at all to any evidence. Jacqueline, hearing the freeze command out in reception, had reached behind her to try to close the safe but had been specifically commanded not to do so by the two agents who had charged into her office.
Having studied the floor plan in advance, everyone knew exactly where to go.
Stackhouse and another FBI agent, Tony Gualario, had run directly to Benjamin Corey’s corner office. They caught the CEO and the CFO, Carl Harris, having a meeting.
As Stackhouse and Gualario swept into the room with their pistols drawn, Ben started to leap to his feet.
“Remain seated!” Stackhouse commanded. He leveled his gun at Ben, who immediately sank back into his leather desk chair. The same thing transpired with Gualario, who was aiming his weapon at Carl.
“Are you Benjamin Corey of five-ninety-one Edgewood Road in Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey?” Stackhouse demanded.
“I am,” Ben said with shock that quickly changed to fear. Suddenly he knew exactly what was happening.
“I am Special Agent Gene Stackhouse of the FBI. I am here to execute a number of warrants, including the search of iPS USA and seizure of all evidence pertaining to money laundering, wire fraud, mail fraud, conspiracy to defraud the U.S. government, and tax evasion. I also have a warrant for your arrest for violation of the same federal statutes.”
Stackhouse paused, cleared his throat, and pulled out a single sheet of paper from his pocket. “I have yet another warrant for your arrest, but I better read it, since I’ve never personally served such a warrant.” He cleared his throat again.
“Interpol arrest warrant: IP10067892431. Benjamin G. Corey of Five-ninety-one Edgewood Road, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, USA. Interpol requests the arrest and extradition from the USA to Japan of the above named individual, pursuant to treaty arrangements between the two countries to stand trial for first-degree murder on or about February twenty-eighth, 2010, in the Prefecture of Kyoto, 302
Japan.”
“What?” Ben demanded. “I never—”
“Hold up!” Stackhouse ordered. “Don’t say anything until I Mirandize you.”
“I found the missing lab books,” one of the FBI agents said, coming in through the connecting door from Jacqueline’s office and presenting them to Stackhouse.
“That’s great, George,” Stackhouse said, seeing the two blue books and recognizing George by his voice. “The Japanese government will be pleased. But let me finish up here reading the Miranda rights. If you want to do something else useful, call the other two teams and make sure their raids have gone down as planned.”
Stackhouse cleared his throat again. He’d taken out a three-by-five card, on which he’d written the Miranda rights, to be sure he got them right.
“I already know my Miranda rights,” Ben groused. He was incensed that the Japanese government would charge him with a crime that he’d gone out of his way to try to prevent.
“I still have to read them,” Stackhouse insisted, and he proceeded to do so, as did Tony with Carl.
After Ben and Carl had been handcuffed, George came back into Ben’s office.
“Both the other raids went flawlessly,” he said. “All the principals have been arrested, and a ton of evidence has been collected.”
“Perfect,” Stackhouse said. “Let’s get on with collecting all the evidence in this office. Remember! We’re to get everything: every computer, storage device, fax machine, and cell phone. Plus every document, letter, or memorandum. Let’s do it!”
APRIL 18, 2010
SUNDAY, 1:45 p.m.
NEW YORK CITY
H
ere he comes,” Laurie said, spotting Lou Soldano walking north on Columbus Avenue. Laurie, Jack, and JJ were sitting at an outside table at one of their favorite haunts, Espresso Et. Al., which was located just south of the Museum of Natural History. Actually, only Laurie and Jack were sitting, because JJ was, at the moment, sleeping in his reclined stroller. Thanks to the café’s location on the east side of the avenue, it was catching all the sunshine available on a beautiful, 303
warm spring day.
Laurie scraped back her metal chair and waved her hands above her head to get Lou’s attention. Lou waved back and adjusted his trajectory so as not to have to wade through the long line at the café’s main entrance. Instead, he simply stepped over the low chain stretched between potted plants that defined the café’s outdoor terrace.
After a quick hug with Laurie and a high five with Jack, Lou sat down in the chair saved for him. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed, with his hair brushed haphazardly and his eyelids still heavy with sleep. He had, however, taken the time to shave, and there was still a bit of shaving cream clinging to his right earlobe.