Tanner was primary through the bedroom door. Just across the threshold, he and Chang came together, back to back, and surveyed the darkness, then advanced with shoulders touching, pistols lowered in the search position.
They checked out the blind spot behind the bed and the dangerous unknown of the walk-in closet, then the bathroom with its stall shower.
Nothing.
“Clear,” Tanner breathed.
He flicked on his flashlight to be sure.
The video image flared briefly as a bright light came on inside the room. Then the camera lens adjusted to the new conditions, and the two figures in the bedroom were clearly visible.
“Cops,” Cellini said.
Walsh nodded. “Sheriff’s deputies.”
“Hold on.” Cellini leaned close to the screen, her nose nearly touching the glass, and stared at the officer whose flashlight had lit up the room. “I know him.”
“Who is he?”
“Let me think. Works out of East LA. Met him at a couple of crime scenes. Kind of a jerk. Thinks he’s God’s gift. Name is Donner… no, Danner… Tanner, that’s him. Deputy Tanner.”
Walsh grabbed a phone from the nearest desk and dialed the Sheriff’s Department.
The bedroom was clean, but the rest of the house remained unknown territory.
Tanner switched off his flash, and then it was back into the slot, down the hallway, hugging one wall to minimize exposure in the kill zone.
His gaze was focused far ahead, and he missed the object Chang indicated with a snap of his fingers.
On the floor lay a kitchen knife, dropped by someone in the hall.
There had been a struggle here.
Tanner had been trained to take nothing for granted, and he stuck with his training now. He and Chang methodically explored the rest of the house, using covert entry techniques for every room and closet and corner.
But it was a waste of time. Tanner knew it with a sick certainty deep in his gut.
C.J. was gone.
When the house had been thoroughly cleared, he dialed up the volume on his radio and heard the dispatcher repeating his call number with a note of urgency. He answered.
“Someone’s waiting for you on tac one,” the dispatcher said, meaning tactical frequency one, a radio channel used for semiprivate conversations.
“Who?”
“Detective Morris Walsh, LAPD.”
Tanner traded a glance with Chang. “I’ll meet him on tac one.”
He switched over to the specified frequency and heard a gruff voice demanding, “Deputy Tanner, are you there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give me your exact location.”
“Sir?”
“ Do it!”
Tanner recited the street address.
“That’s well within city limits, Deputy. What are you doing there?”
“I was concerned for the safety of a, uh, friend.”
“So you broke into her house and searched her bedroom?”
Tanner blinked. “How the hell…?” He remembered courtesy. “I mean, what makes you think we’re inside the house?”
“Because I saw you and your partner. You’re on the Internet.”
“We’re what?”
“I’ll explain later. I assume you didn’t find the lady?”
“No, but the rear door was open, and there was a kitchen knife discarded on the hall floor.”
Silence for a moment, and then Walsh said in a softer voice, “You think there was an abduction?”
“Yes, sir.”
A sigh fluttered over the cheap speaker. “So do I. Goddamn it, I knew we’d be too late.”
“Sir, can I ask-”
“Not until I get there. I’ll be at your location in ten minutes. Meantime, don’t touch anything. One more thing, Deputy. What’s the woman’s name?”
“C.J. Osborn. You know her?”
“Why in Christ’s name should I know her?”
“Because she’s one of yours, Detective. She’s LAPD. She works patrol out of Newton.”
Another silence, longer this time.
“No, Deputy,” Walsh said, “I don’t think I’ve met her. I hope I get the chance.”
28
This time there was no confusion. C.J. swam out of unconsciousness into waking reality, and instantly she remembered the surprise attack in the hallway, the phone call from Tanner, and above all Adam’s voice.
She was still blindfolded, and he had gagged her again with the rubber throttle. He had propped her in a sitting position, her back against something hard and straight. A wall? No, a post.
The floor was stiff and cold. Concrete. Not part of her bungalow. Not Adam’s condo. Someplace else.
She had been relocated while she slept. She might be anywhere now. A basement, maybe. No, she felt cold air-fresh air, outdoors air-moving across her face. There must be windows or other openings. She listened for sounds of traffic from outside, music, jet planes, but heard nothing.
Carefully, afraid to move too much and betray the fact that she was awake, she tested her wrists and found that they were still bound behind her back. Her ankles too-taped together, her legs curled under her. Her head had slumped forward while unconscious, and she did not raise it, not yet.
She wondered why she had not fallen prone on the floor. When she drew in a deep abdominal breath, swelling her belly, she had her answer. A cord had been tied around her waist, securing her to the post.
Footsteps on the concrete floor.
He was close, perhaps six feet away. Moving toward her, then away.
She prayed he didn’t know she had revived. Every minute that she maintained the pretense of unconsciousness was a reprieve from whatever fate he had in mind for her.
Not that there was much mystery about it. He’d told her himself, hadn’t he?
Till death do us part.
The footsteps continued circling, now joined by a new sound, hard and regular. It took her a moment to understand that what she heard was the beat of her heart in her ears.
The sound of her own pulse frightened her. Each beat was like the tick of a clock, announcing that her time was limited and fast running out. She almost wished he would just go ahead and do it-whatever it was he meant to do-do it and get it over with and spare her the ordeal of waiting.
