saw Nolan return to work. Then maybe send someone from West LA Division to talk to Nolan’s neighbors His desk phone rang. He picked it up. “Walsh.”
“Morrie?” It was Donna Cellini, breathless and tense. “We’ve got a suspect.”
He sat up straight. “You serious?”
“No, I’m joking around. Of course I’m serious. Look, I can’t go into it now. We’re setting up a command post in Hacienda Heights. Corner of Hacienda Boulevard and Newton Street.”
He’d expected her to say Reseda, where William Bowden lived. Hacienda Heights was in the opposite direction, an unincorporated district in the southeast corner of LA County. “That’s Sheriff’s jurisdiction,” Walsh said.
“Right. They’re handling it, and we’re along for the ride. Get over here fast.”
“I’m on my way.”
Walsh hung up and glanced at Adam Nolan across the desk. “Sorry, Mr. Nolan. I need to get moving.”
“What is it? Did something happen?”
“I can’t talk about it now.”
“Do you know where C.J. is?”
“I’m not sure what we know. We have your phone number. Go home and wait. When there’s news, you’ll be the first to hear it.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t tell you anything. Look, you said you wanted us to make progress. So don’t stand in our way. Let us do our jobs.”
Nolan hesitated, then stood up. “Just get her back, all right?”
Walsh wanted to say something reassuring, but there was no time. “We’ll do everything we can.”
35
The interview had gone as well as could have been expected. Even so, Adam was troubled.
He gripped the steering wheel of his BMW and sped east on the San Bernardino Freeway, cruising past the barrio neighborhoods of City Terrace and Monterey Park. He had to remind himself to stay within the speed limit; he couldn’t afford to be pulled over by a highway patrol car. It was difficult to keep his speed under sixty-five when every instinct demanded that he race back to C.J., take care of things, do it, do it now.
Damn. He really was rattled, wasn’t he?
It wasn’t Detective Walsh’s line of questioning that had him on edge. He had prepared himself for the predictable inquiries about his relationship with his ex-wife, his feelings toward her, his whereabouts throughout the afternoon and evening. He had gone to considerable pains to ensure that his answers would be satisfactory.
Take his meeting with C.J. this afternoon. He had wanted to be seen with her, seen by her fellow officers in the Newton police station, so that when her disappearance was discovered some of them would be quick to think of him. He had wanted to be called in and interrogated. What better way to establish an alibi during the crucial hours of her absence than to let the police do it for him?
They had dialed his home telephone number and he had answered. Ergo, he must have been at home. It was the simple, natural assumption to make. It was also false-hadn’t these people heard of call forwarding? A readily available, very convenient service, one that more criminals ought to take advantage of.
Criminals. Yes, that was what he was now. Breaking and entering, kidnapping, and soon… homicide. A hell of a change of pace for a guy whose worst crime prior to tonight had been running the occasional stop sign.
Well, too late for doubts now. He was in this thing, and he had to see it through.
Anyway, Walsh and his pals would never realize that the call had been forwarded to Adam’s cell phone, that he hadn’t been home when he answered. They would never even look in that direction, not when they already had a much more plausible suspect in their sights.
There had been a second purpose behind his visit to the police station. If anyone inquired further, the desk officer at Newton Station and the waitress at the coffee shop would both report that he and C.J. had smiled together, laughed a little, and seemed comfortable with each other. He doubted the investigation would ever get that far, but if it did, he wanted their testimony in the record.
Besides, it had been a kick to play with C.J.’s head.
He wondered what she was thinking right now. He didn’t know-one of the things that had always irked him about their marriage was that he’d never been quite sure what she was thinking. She had a mind of her own, did C.J.
But one thing was certain. Tonight he figured in her thoughts. She might have pushed him out of her mind and out of her life, but he had come back, all right. Back with a vengeance.
“Nobody fucks with me,” he muttered, repeating the words that had become his credo, his mantra. “Nobody makes me their bitch.”
He caught himself pressing down on the accelerator and lifted his foot to reduce his speed. Outside his windows, the city of El Monte flashed past in a blur of lights under a moonless sky.
So, yes, he’d been prepared for that part of the interview. Walsh’s other questions had posed no difficulties either. After leaving C.J. at the coffee shop, he really had driven back to the office, working until six.
After that, however, his narrative had parted company with the truth. He had not driven to Brentwood, had not fixed a meal and watched Field of Dreams -although he had been careful to check the TV listings to see what was on.
No one could prove he hadn’t been home. His condo building featured individual enclosed garages; it was impossible for a neighbor to know whether or not a tenant’s car was parked inside. The units were soundproofed, and the rules of the condo board regarding noise were strict. No one ever heard anyone else’s TV or stereo.
Instead of heading to Brentwood, he had driven east, into C.J.’s neighborhood, parking in the alley behind her house-the house they had once shared-shortly after six. In the early January darkness he had changed out of his suit into chinos and a windbreaker, donning gloves and rubber boots that fitted easily over his shoes. The boots were two sizes too large-deliberately so. If he left any shoe prints, he wanted them to be different from his own.
He stowed his provisions in the windbreaker’s copious zippered pockets. A vial of chloroform he’d ordered from a chemical supplies firm, using a phony name and a post office box, and paying with a money order made out to cash. A ski mask, which he slipped over his head before entering the house-he knew that the bedroom was under constant surveillance, and he didn’t want his face to be caught on video. A Walther 9mm, which he had bought at a gun show in San Diego County, a private transaction conducted with the utmost discretion and without the use of any names.
He’d never had any intention of using the gun. Even so, he felt it necessary to carry one. C.J. kept an off- duty firearm in her purse. He couldn’t afford to be at a disadvantage.
Entering the house was simplicity itself. He still owned a spare set of keys, and C.J., trusting soul, had not changed the locks.
Somehow she must have heard him anyway, or maybe she’d seen his flashlight when he entered her backyard. He took cover inside the bedroom, crouching low and hoping he was out of camera range, as she came down the hall. When she checked out the laundry room, he left the bedroom and positioned himself outside the doorway, squatting low, invisible in the dark.
The phone call from her cop friend-boyfriend? Did it matter?-took him by surprise, but he handled the situation well enough. Once she was fully unconscious, gagged and taped and blindfolded, he’d carried her into the alley and put her in the trunk of his car, wrapping her in a blanket to prevent the transfer of hairs or fibers.
Of course, he’d known she would be missed before long. When she didn’t show up for her community service program, inquiries would be made. A patrol unit would visit her house, where the cops would find obvious evidence of her abduction-the knife she had dropped, the back door unlocked and ajar.
He had left those clues intentionally. He wanted the police to know it had been a kidnapping. He wanted them to search the house-something they might not have done if he had snatched her from another location.
