Cut and Run (14 page)

She felt exposed and vulnerable. Both government agents and the Romeros could be looking for her. A day ago—just twenty-four hours earlier—she'd been rebuilding, planning, comfortable in her life here. Now, when it mattered most, she not only couldn't find Penny, but she'd driven her daughter to run away.

She reached the Children's Hospital basement by a circuitous route known only to employees. Through a series of color-coded hallways, corridors, and underground passages, she passed through the central Baines building, heading north and finally into the subterranean infrastructure of Children's, past laundry, food services, and maintenance.

She suppressed the urge to hurry, holding herself back for the sake of appearances. Reaching a clot of uniforms and scrubs that blocked the entry to daycare, she battled against her own guilt-ridden pessimism and did not ask what had happened. Instead she listened, gleaning bits and pieces.
An intruder. Wanting an address. No children hurt
. Awash with relief, she nonetheless coughed up a murmur of a mother's anguish that mixed awkwardly with despondency and a sense of reprieve.

From behind her a uniformed cop approached, trapping her between the group and her only easy exit.

Then, a voice: “Alice?”

She turned to see Phyllis's astonished face peering around a door frame. Alice quickly reached the distraught woman, passing shoulder to shoulder with the cop, who barely looked at her.

“Penny?”

“We didn't see her today . . .” Phyllis said. “A man . . . an awful man, Alice . . .”

“She wasn't here? Didn't come here?”

“Today? No. Listen . . . I'm so sorry . . .” Phyllis broke into tears, and not for the first time judging by the look of her.

Alice welcomed this news of her daughter, even though it meant Penny remained missing. “This man?”

“A policeman, or dressed like one. We wouldn't have let him in . . . wouldn't have opened the door . . .” Phyllis met eyes with Alice, hers bloodshot and tear-filled as she said, “We told him where you live.”

Alice backed up and slowly walked away, not wanting to bring attention to herself. She thought her heart must have stopped completely for the pain in her chest, but the pulse-pounding whine in her ears kept her moving.

“Hey, lady!” a deep male voice shouted from behind. “You! Lady!”

She headed left, then right, then right again, and then broke into a run. She would never allow them to catch her in these corridors.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Penny?”

The girl turned around immediately, confirming her identity.

Paolo stood tall, enabling her to take in the police uniform. “I'm Officer Rodriguez.”

The little girl—
she's a pretty little thing
—backed away from the apartment house's buzzer board and into a corner. “I'm not allowed to talk to strangers . . .” she said. “I'll scream if you come closer.”

And well trained
. . .

“And well you should, young lady,” he said, “
if
I was a stranger.” He took another step closer. By the look of her, she didn't have a way into the apartment building, standing by the buzzer board as she had been. It suggested Mama wasn't home. He decided to play that card. “But I'm not a stranger. I'm a policeman assigned to find you and take you to your mother. Doesn't that sound like a good idea?” Her head tilted curiously, like a dog's. “She's at the hospital. Baines Jewish.” Penny seemed to accept this explanation, concern worrying her small brow. Using the information gleaned from the wallets, he exploited that concern. “Ms. Gillespie—from the daycare center—has had a small accident. Your mother is anxious to get you over there and see her.”

“What happened?” The girl's curiosity won out. Paolo extended his hand toward her, again reminded of a wary street dog. “We'll take the bus,” he said. “Did you know policemen ride the bus? We'll go find your mom.”

Already planning ahead, he realized he would soon need to rent or steal a car—but both options presented serious risks.

Her eyes softened slightly, though she remained cautious.

“Or . . .” he said, “if you want to stay here—if you promise to stay
right here
—I could head back and tell her I'd found you, and that you were okay, but that you wouldn't come with me . . .”

He turned his back on her, knowing well what she'd do.

“Wait!” she called out when he'd taken but two steps.

Thrust, parry
.

He heard the patter of her small feet, dried the sweat from his hand on the uniform's shirt, and extended it for her to hold.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Trill Hampton affected the deadbeat, too-cool-to-get-excited
deputy marshal role whenever possible. So when Hampton interrupted Larson's call in an animated voice, Larson immediately took note.

“Good timing!” Hampton said. “We just got a tac alert from Homeland that an air marshal may have IDed a guy with a bow tie scar on his forearm. Someone actually reads the alerts we put out there, if you can believe that. If it's our cutter, he was seen on a morning flight, NWA, from Minneapolis to St. Louis. Flying under the name Rodriguez.”

“It's why I called,” Larson said. “It
is
him: the guy who did Benny; I'd put money on it. And my best guess is I'm only a few minutes behind him. A half hour, at most,” Larson explained. He weaved his Explorer through traffic. “I was calling in for backup.”

“Gimme your ten-twenty,” Hampton said.

“It's a Jefferson Square address.” Larson recited the exact street and number.

“Me and Stubby have made some progress on Markowitz. We'll catch you up. We're probably ten minutes behind you. We'll stay on com.”

For Larson, the air marshal's spotting the tattoo connected the passenger to the Romeros. Homeland Security could now interface with the Bureau and perhaps even Interpol to track the suspect's travel, his true identity, his route, his finances; everything that could be generated and gathered.

Larson ran two red lights, narrowly avoiding a collision as he raced through the second intersection, a not-so-subtle reminder for him not to lose focus.

By the time he reached the apartment complex off Jefferson Square, he first heard and then spotted a squad car a block behind him and closing fast, siren blazing. Larson pulled over and hurried out of the Explorer. The sirens grew steadily louder and more shrill. With his third kick, he dislodged the door from the jamb and he shouldered his way through. The siren wound down—they'd reached the curb.

Larson had not seen a listing for any Stevenson or Stevens on the buzzer board. But 202 had held a blank card, and it won Larson's attention. He sprinted for the
EXIT
sign and the stairs he knew he'd find behind it, avoiding the slower elevator and hoping the cops might sucker into it.

He had his weapon out and at the ready by the time he nudged open the door to the second-floor hallway. The corridor was empty and quiet. He worked his way past one apartment—204—and reversed directions. 203 . . . 202 . . .

He braced himself. Hope might be dead, murdered only moments before; or the cutter might be inside the apartment with her, prepared to use her as a hostage, the sirens having alerted him; it might be empty; it might be lit on fire.

He placed his ear to the cool door. The gun's grip warmed in his hand.

Silence
.

A trickle of sweat escaped down his face. A syncopated, jolting rhythm occupied the space below his rib cage.

Into the mix he now added the sound of hurried footsteps as the cops followed up the stairs.

Larson reeled back and drove his heel into the door. With the second blow, it tore open, banging against the interior wall and rebounding.

“PUT DOWN THE WEAPON!” a male voice screeched from behind him.

“Federal officer!” Larson roared as he charged into 202. He wasn't waiting around to share a moment with the two patrolmen.

Larson hurried from one interior door to the next, his weapon held in both hands at the ready. A loft apartment with an open floor plan, the wood planks creaked with his every step.

“PUT THE WEAPON DOWN! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!” shouted one of the cops from behind him in the doorway.

If Larson failed to answer, he knew the man would enter without further warning and might shoot him out of a bad case of nerves. Nonetheless, Larson headed down a narrow hallway, now facing two closed doors to his left, and two to his right.
Bedrooms and closets
, he thought.

“U.S. marshal,” Larson called back, intentionally engaging them even though it would reveal his position to anyone else inside. “You're interfering with a federal fugitive apprehension. Stay where you are and guard the door.”

“Not happening, buddy. I'm coming inside, and if that gun is not on the floor . . .”

“It's not!” Larson called out as he moved down the dimly lit hallway. He reached for the doorknob of the first door.

“Drop it!”

Very close behind him now.

The tension in the cop's voice cut like a knife blade. Larson shot a glance back there, far enough to see the toe of a polished shoe.

He shouldered his way through the door and swept his weapon corner to corner, beads of sweat now trickling down from his temples and armpits.

A little girl's room
. Larson felt a pang of dread. A jolt of connection. Stuffed animals. A low bookshelf crammed with thin, colorful books.

The cop was suddenly right there behind him. Larson could
feel
him.

He chose his words carefully. “Listen, Officer . . . we have one more room to clear. The apartment isn't safe until we clear that room.”

“Drop the weapon.”

“Guard your backside . . . Don't get yourself killed out of stupidity.”

A second cop now entered the apartment, calling out now for his partner.

“Guard the door!” Larson shouted. “The suspect is considered armed and dangerous. He may have two hostages: a woman and a child.”

“What the fuck is going on here?” the cop behind him asked.

Larson squatted and gently placed his weapon on the floor. These guys were too green and uptight for him to take any more chances.

Larson ordered, “Whatever you do, clear that room behind you, Officer.
Now!
” He turned slowly, to reveal his credential wallet hanging from his coat pocket.

“Fed . . . er . . . al off . . . i . . . cer . . .” Larson repeated syllabically. “Clear that fucking room, and both closets, before somebody throws shots!”

The banter increased between the two cops. The one guarding Larson collected his weapon and required him to kneel with his hands behind his head. His partner abandoned the front door and cleared the remaining room and closets.

A minute later, weapons drawn, the two carefully followed Larson out into the hallway.

Then he heard a woman's voice. A familiar voice.

“You?” She was panting from having run the stairs.

He saw her first in a dreamlike blur—a rush of memories, love, lust, and confusion overtaking him. His only thought:
It can't be.
But it was. She was. Right there. Not twenty feet away.

Six years compressed into that singular moment as they met eyes.

And he froze.

“Where's my daughter?”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Larson and Alice climbed into his parked Explorer.
This was their first moment alone together after an hour of negotiations that had included Scott Rotem in Washington, D.C., the Missouri-based U.S. Attorney, SLPD, and the regional office of WITSEC. Justice, represented here by FATF, had won custody. She was Larson's.

She displayed a reticence in closing the car door, and he wondered if he should read anything into that.

After an awkward few seconds of silence, they turned to face each other. He saw a mother's anguish on her face and real-

ized this was neither the place nor the time to express what he was feeling—joy, exhilaration, a sense of completion—but as usual, his mouth betrayed him.

“It's incredibly good to see you again.”

The shock that registered on her face told him he'd gone too far. But then her expression warmed, however briefly.

“We'll find her,” he said.

“You don't know that.”

“I don't mean this,” he said, sweeping his hand to include everything outside the windshield—the lights, the uniforms, the huddled discussions. “I mean you and I. We'll find her.”

She fought back tears and won. “I appreciate the sentiment, Lars, I really do. But we both know that when Debbie dropped him off—” She might have managed to get the sentence out, but she couldn't complete the thought, couldn't allow herself the image of Penny at the door unable to get inside.

She'd held up unbelievably well over the past hour—perhaps her months with WITSEC had conditioned her. At some point she would need to release what she now bravely contained. But not now. She was either numb, or far stronger than he'd imagined.

She said, “I'd hoped for a happier reunion.” That would be all she would offer him for now, and they both knew it. It was enough.

“Yeah.”

The Explorer had a view across a corner of the park to the entrance to her apartment building. A dozen uniformed police and two detectives continued to comb the neighborhood, conducting interviews in an attempt to locate Penny. The one report they had, confusing as it was to some, put a young girl matching Penny's description with a policeman boarding a city bus. The eyewitness put the policeman's uniform as blue, but Larson was betting black. He and the others knew who was wearing this uniform, since the same disguise had been used at the hospital.
Rodriguez.