Fragmented (29 page)

55

Thursday –
5:42 p.m.

There were
more flashing red and blue lights in the area than at a Macy’s Day Parade. Road blocks were set up, stopping every car coming and going within a four-mile radius, and K-9 units were brought in. News crews swarmed the perimeter. The dogs sniffed the
Malibu
, the bathroom, and everyplace Eric Youngblood may have been, anything he might have touched. One of the K-9s took off in a sprint, the handler chasing close behind. The atmosphere during a kidnapping is already tense, add in the brutal killing of a police officer, and the whole scene stiffens tighter than cooling steel.

Jack sat in the passenger seat of the Camry, on the phone with Harrington as Marquez drove, cruising every block. The odds of spotting Youngblood or Cooper were slim, but they weren’t willing to give up.

Jack wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. “Talk to me, Jimmy.”

“Okay, first, your boy Youngblood turned off the phone. But, as you know, it doesn’t matter.”

Jack told Youngblood the phone was for safety, but what he failed to mention was that the phone also contained a GPS tracker, which worked whether the phone was on or off. An insurance policy.

“Where is he, Jimmy?”

“We got him moving down
16
^th
Street
, northbound.”

Jack cupped the mouthpiece and looked at Marquez. “Get over to 16
^th
.”

The Camry took a sharp dive to the right, engine whining a higher pitch as Marquez stepped hard on the accelerator.

“Give me a cross street.”

“Okay,”
Harrison
growled, “the system shows him at 16
^th
and R. No, Q. Wait,
P. P Street
. There’s gonna be some lag time so I suggest you get there as fast as you can.”

“How much lag?”

Harrington grew more frustrated, his words now a stutter. “Lag. Long. Go.”

That’s all he had to say. Jack shook two fingers toward the windshield and Marquez jammed her foot to the floor. The small Camry engine struggled to meet Marquez’s demand for more power.

Jack scoured the area, searching for anyone who resembled Youngblood as they punched through two red lights and a stop sign, drawing blaring horns and middle fingers. They slowed near
John
C.
Fremont
Park
, the vicinity where Harrington directed them to look hardest.

“He’s got to be somewhere close,” Jack said.

The Camry was almost at a standstill with a long line of cars forming behind.

“Pull over.” There was a parking space to the right, the only space within a long row of vehicles. They got out and the gazed across to the park, studying the pedestrians. Jack spoke into his phone, “Where are they?”

“The signal is there. Must be stationary.”

“I don’t see him, Jimmy.”

“What about the cars?” Harrington suggested. “Check for vans.”

Jack hesitated. “You mean something that could conceal a body?”

Harrington paused for a beat. “It’s not out of the question.”

“Okay. If you see any change in the signal, call me.” He hung up and turned to Marquez. “You go that way,” Jack said, pointing south. “I’ll go there.”

Marquez nodded and took off in a jog, checking the parked cars along the row. Jack did the same in the opposite direction, peering into each but trying not to look too obvious. He passed a Pontiac Grand Prix, a Chevy Camaro, a few foreign cars, all void of any people. He was approaching
P Street
when he came across the last car in the row. The meter was signaling time had expired. He looked in. Empty. He picked up the phone one more time and called Harrington.

“Anything?” he asked even though he knew the answer.

“No, Jack. It’s there.”

“I don’t see it.”

“I’ve notified CTT. They’re coming out to help you.”

CTT stood for Cellular Tracking Team. Agents with boxfuls of gadgets attached to an antenna resembling a small version of an AWAC recon plane. The technicians can track a signal to within feet of their transmission.

56

Thursday –
5:51 p.m.

Cooper pushed
the key into the lock and twisted the knob. With a nudge from his foot, the door creaked open. The house, one of the old Victorians remodeled back in the ’70s, looked like it had recently been vacated by a business. No furniture, boxes of correspondences abandoned in hallways and corners.

Cooper started up a dark flight of stairs to the right of the entry, Youngblood right behind him. The old wood creaked under the strain of their combined weight.

“Is she here?” Youngblood’s voice was filled with annoyance
.

“No.” Cooper continued trudging up the stairs to the second floor without turning around. “Don’t worry, we’ll get her.”

“Let’s hurry up so we can get out of here.”

The two entered a small room at the top of the well. Two large suitcases sat beside a neatly made bed with a single pillow in a white pillowcase. Youngblood pointed at the suitcases with his chin.

“Those your things?”

Cooper nodded, then knelt down and shoved his hands under the bed.

“If you want, I’ll pull the car around and we can get that shit in the trunk.”

Cooper started tugging, pulling out a box filled with notebooks just like the ones he had when he lived with Youngblood.

“Where’d you get those?”

Cooper smiled as he sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, holding a handful of notebooks. “They’re mine. I kept them safe since my incarceration.”

Cooper stacked the books, straightening them into a neat square. He glanced back at Youngblood, eyes hooded. “I kept them so that I wouldn’t forget.”

Youngblood hesitated. “Forget what?”

“Them. Mona, Dorothy . . . Grace.”

Youngblood tried to hold steady but he could feel his hands start to shake. “Yeah, well, you didn’t have to kill them.”

Cooper tilted his head, like he didn’t get Youngblood’s response.

“What do you mean? I didn’t have a choice.”

Youngblood said nothing.

“The letter. I got the letter, Eric.” Cooper smiled, grabbed up a thick stack of papers and headed toward the stairs. “Help me carry these down, Eric.”

Youngblood grunted and then snapped up a box and followed Cooper out of the room.

It took less than five minutes for unmarked cop cars to flood the area, uniforms patrolling the perimeter. Jack didn’t want Cooper or Youngblood escaping but he still wanted to take one last shot at finding Jessica Baker. Let the plain clothes make a run at it first, then let the chips fall.

His phone rang. Colfax.

“Where you at, Mark?” Jack asked.

“Not too far away. Couple of blocks north. I’m with one of my
Chico
detectives. We’ll scope out around here.”

“Okay. I got a vehicle here with a Van the Man Band jacket inside. I’m guessing it’s how they got in and out of
Harlow
’s.”

Colfax told Jack he would be making his way south. After the call, Jack glanced over at Marquez.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Jack opened his mouth but it took a moment to find the right words. “Things have turned to shit and I got a bad feeling they’re about to get worse.”

Colfax hung up the phone as he stepped from his car. His partner, Detective Bernard “Bean” Conrad, exited the passenger side and moved toward a row of thin two-story structures. He hooked two fingers in Colfax’s direction.

“I heard you mention that Van Morrison cover band.” Bean pointed toward a row of buildings. “I saw two guys heading up the stairs of this old Victorian. One of them was wearing that band’s windbreaker.”

“I’ll go around back,” Colfax said. “You check out the front. And radio the address to dispatch. Have them find out what they can on the place.”

Bean nodded and broke toward the front of the building. Colfax peeled off down a perpendicular street, heading for an alleyway, searching for a back way into the house without being spotted. He turned left and lost sight of Bean. Colfax made the sign of the cross, a nervous habit. He wasn’t particularly religious, barely went to church except for the occasional wedding, maybe a Christmas service, something his wife made him do. Whatever the reason, Colfax wanted to make sure that if there was a higher power, it would be on his side today.

Creeping along a side street lined with garbage cans and skinny trees, Colfax looked up at the Victorian and saw an open window, no blinds. He stood still for a moment, watching, listening for any noise. A second later, a man walked past. Youngblood. He was sure of it
.

Colfax pulled out his phone and called Bean. The phone rang three times before going to voicemail.

He hung up the phone and clenched his teeth. The right thing was to call for back-up, but part of him just wanted to kick in the goddamn door.

57

Thursday –
5:59 p.m.

Bean stood
at the bottom of the stairs leading to the porch landing of the Victorian. He peaked in the window next to the front door. A good cop, Bean had just left a DEA task force. Drug cases are heavy in informant development and surveillances. Sneaking a peek at an old home for movement was routine. Bean pulled a pack of cigarettes, shook out a smoke, and placed it to his lips. He struck a match and cupped his hands. Bean had just turned to take another peek when he saw something move on the second floor. He looked left, then right, tossing the smoke to the ground and pulling his firearm. He leaned a hand on the door, giving it a slight nudge. It pushed open easily. Bean held steady, checking the interior stairs. He could hear voices. Bean carefully made his way into the living room, which was bare, shelves empty, dust balls crowding the corners. It was clear no one lived here.

At the bottom of the stairs, he listened, trying to make out the voices above, what they were saying. Footsteps, something being dragged across the floor. He glanced at his watch. Time was precious. Bean checked to make sure he had an extra mag. He tiptoed up the steps. A single squeak could give him away.

Bean kept his focus on the open entryway to his left where the voices emanated. He could see the bay window through the door but still couldn’t see the people talking. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, the conversation stopped. The quiet made Bean uneasy. He stood still. Then someone spoke. A whisper but he understood what was said. His eyes bulged. The words.

Get the girl, now.

“Freeze! Get your hands up where I can see them!”

Cooper was caught off guard, his hands filled with notebooks and binders. Stopped dead in his tracks, he looked like he was weighing his options.

“I said get your hands up!”

Cooper flung the notebooks at his face, and Bean swung an arm to knock them away, trying to keep his gun level at his target. An immense force slammed into his body from the side, and Bean fell backwards, stumbling against the wall, his right foot giving way. He slipped off the landing and onto the stairs, tumbling with the weight of his body, the hardwood of each step assailing his ribs and head until he crashed in a heap at the bottom. His eyes opened to see the front door, and then he turned his head to see Cooper flying down the stairs. Bean squeezed his right hand, searching for his gun. It was empty. He struggled to push himself up but he couldn’t feel his legs, his head swimming, body feeling like it was filled with electricity. Then Cooper was standing over him.

A voice came from behind Cooper. “Who the hell is he?”

The man came into view. Their missing source, Youngblood. He had a surprised look on his face. Cooper bent down and picked up Bean’s service weapon. He checked the gun to see if there was a bullet seated in the chamber. Then he pointed it at Bean’s heart
.

“You don’t want to shoot me. There’s a lot of us just outside.” Bean turned his head toward the door.

Cooper glanced at the open door, then back to Bean.

“No, I don’t believe you.”

“What are you going to do?” Youngblood asked.

“Like you said, Eric, I’m going to fix the past.”

Cooper pulled the trigger. A loud bang followed by the sound of spent brass casing clanging against the railing and then dancing across the floor.

Misty red drizzled down the wall.

Then there was silence.

Colfax pulled his gun from its holster and sprinted back to the front of the house, grabbing his hand radio.

“Dispatch, this is Nora 31. Shots fired. In need of assistance immediately.”

The dispatcher responded, shutting down all radio traffic and sending every unit available.

Colfax made it to the bottom of the outside stairs. In a single fluid motion he bolted to the half open door and kicked it in, his weapon drawn forward, front sights guiding his direction. Bean was lying at the bottom of the steps, upside down as if he had fallen from the top. Eyes open, neck contorted. His shirt soaked in blood.

Colfax bent down on one knee and checked for breathing sounds. Nothing. He felt his carotid. No pulse. Colfax tore open Beans’ shirt and saw the gaping hole through his chest.

Pointing his weapon up the stairwell, Colfax jumped up and took two stairs at a time. Before the top landing, he heard a noise below, around the back. Footsteps, running, the sound of a door being kicked open. Colfax rushed down. A fence gate was pushed wide. Over the radio, Colfax heard Jack’s voice.

“Mark, we’re a block out.”

Colfax grabbed his mic. “They killed Bean. They ran into an alleyway. Fifteen seconds ago. I’m going after them.”

Sirens wailed in the background.

“Be careful, Mark,” Jack’s voice crackled over the radio. “We’re coming up behind you.”

                                     
         
*

Youngblood had an awkward time trying to keep pace with C
ooper, trying to run while wiping the sprayed blood from his eyes. Every time he looked up, Cooper, who had gathered up his precious notebooks before fleeing the house, had taken a turn down another alleyway. Why these journals were so important mystified Youngblood. The FBI already knew he had kidnapped Jessica Baker, and they had the evidence to charge him with the kidnapping and death of Grace Holloway. He was an escaped convict. What secrets mattered now?

Cars streaked past in both directions on paved city streets. Cooper skidded to a stop, glanced each way, then dashed across the road. He waved an arm, beckoning Youngblood to join him in an alleyway sandwiched between two tall brick buildings. Youngblood breathed deeply and gave chase. A car slammed on its breaks, the driver laying a heavy hand on the horn. Youngblood didn’t bother to slow, just stuck out an arm like a halfback juking a tackle and kept running.

The alleyway dark, sun descending beyond city skyline. Youngblood saw Cooper tugging on a large padlock across a metal latch. He yanked hard and tore the lock open.

“Come on!” Cooper waved Youngblood into the lower level of the brick building. They entered a dark room, the air stale from the summer heat. Cooper tugged Youngblood forward as the door slammed shut.

Youngblood waited for Cooper to flip on the lights but instead he walked down a black hallway. Youngblood could barely see, eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness. Cooper appeared to move in a blur. They turned into a room on their left. This time, Cooper hit a switch and a light flickered overhead.

“What are we doing?” Youngblood asked.

“We hole up here until the heat cools.”

Youngblood tried to hold steady but his whole body was trembling. “No good, Alvie. I say we take care of the girl and get out of
here.”

“You fire off a gun in here and the whole world’s gonna come running.”

Youngblood paused for a moment, digesting what Cooper had just said. “She’s . . . here?”

Cooper stared at Youngblood, and their eyes locked, a few seconds of silence that felt like an eternity. Cooper just smiled.

Youngblood had enough. He reached behind his back and drew the Smith and Wesson Magnum. He pointed it at Cooper’s head.