The 6th Target - James Patterson [60]
And that was a bad thing.
We sat in Captain Jimenez’s office while FBI agent David Stanford briefed us. Stanford was a blue-eyed man with a graying ponytail who’d been working undercover on another case before being pulled into this one.
I took a flyer from the stack on the captain’s desk, studied Charlie Ray’s perfectly round eyes, baby teeth, and short-cropped dark curls.
Would his body be found weeks or months from now in a dump, or in a shallow grave, or washed up on the beach after a storm?
When the meeting broke up, I called Macklin and filled him in. And then Agent Stanford gave me and Conklin a lift to the airport. As we took the freeway exit, Stanford suggested we stop for a drink at the Marriott LAX before our flight. He wanted to hear everything we knew about Madison Tyler and her abduction.
Speaking for myself, I was ready for a drink. Possibly two.
The Latitude 33 lounge had a full bar and restaurant. Over beer and peanuts, we discussed Madison, then Stanford told us about a hideous child-abduction case he’d worked months before.
A ten-year-old girl had been snatched off the street as she walked home from school. She’d been found twenty-four hours later, raped and strangled, left on the altar of a church, her hands folded as if in prayer. The killer still hadn’t been found.
“How often do these kidnappings end in a rescue?” I asked.
“The majority of the time, child abductions are done by family members. In those cases, the child is usually returned unharmed. When the kidnapper is a stranger, the recovery rate is about fifty-fifty.” Stanford’s voice was strained as he said, “Call it passion or maybe obsession, but I believe that the more child predators I can take down, the safer the world is for my three kids.”
Chapter 83
“HOW ABOUT KEEPING ME COMPANY over dinner?” Stanford suggested.
Our waiter brought menus to the table, and as the eight o’clock flight to SFO had just departed without us, we took Stanford up on his offer.
The agent ordered a bottle of pinot grigio, and Conklin and I filled him in on what we knew about Paola Ricci’s abduction and murder.
“Honestly, we’re stuck,” I told Stanford. “Our dead ends are turning up even more dead ends. We’re in about the fifth generation of dead ends.”
Our steaks arrived, and Stanford ordered another bottle of wine. And for the first time that long day, I finally relaxed, glad for the company and the chance to brainstorm while listening to the country-and-western music floating in from the live band in the lounge.
I was also becoming aware of Conklin’s long legs next to mine under the table, his brown suede jacket brushing up against my arm, the now familiar cadence of his voice, and the wine slipping smoothly down my throat as the evening flowed into night.
At around 9:15, Dave Stanford picked up the tab, told us that he’d keep us posted after the Rays’ phone records were dumped and that he’d alert us of anything that could help us with the Ricci/Tyler case.
We’d missed another flight back to San Francisco, and as Rich and I said good-bye to Stanford, we prepared ourselves for an hour’s wait outside the United Airlines gate.
We were almost out the door when the band kicked up something from the Kenny Chesney collection, and the girl singer began exhorting the patrons into a line dance.
The bar crowd was made up of smashed young road warriors and airline personnel, and they started getting into the dance — a new spin on the Electric Slide.
Rich smiled and said, “You wanna get stupid out there?” and I grinned back, saying, “Sure. Why the heck not?”
I followed Rich’s lead onto the dance floor and into a good time, hustling to the music, bumping into giddy strangers, and best of all laughing.
It had been a while since I’d doubled over with belly laughs, and it felt great.
When the song ended, the crooner unhooked the mic from the stand, licked her lips, and sang along