Indian laurel trees lining the sidewalk below. Abstract paintings hung on the walls. Chrome appliances were arrayed in a tidy kitchen-toaster, waffle iron, electric grill, coffeemaker-looking like a line of demo models in a store display. Only the coffeemaker appeared to have been used.
“Hard to believe anybody lives here,” Cellini said.
Walsh had been thinking the same thing. The place had the blandness, the absence of personality, that he associated with motel rooms and other way stations.
Tanner and the other two uniformed cops had already checked out the rest of the condo. “All clear,” Tanner reported.
“We’ll have to call in SID,” Cellini said. “Maybe they can find some clue to where he took her.”
“Maybe.” Walsh was thinking hard. “Get Boyle in here.”
The detective entered the kitchen a moment later, hands spread in mock apology. “What’d I do now?”
“You called Nolan to set up the interview, right?”
“Sure.”
“Called his home number?”
“Only number I had.”
“But he couldn’t have been here. Not if he was with her.”
Cellini saw where Walsh was going. “You think he had the call forwarded?”
“That’s possible, right?”
“Absolutely. The phone company offers residential call forwarding for a monthly fee. Once you’ve signed up for the service, you can activate it anytime by entering a two-digit code on the keypad.”
“Let’s find his phone bills,” Tanner said.
Adam Nolan was as meticulous in his record keeping as in the other aspects of his domestic life. The bills were in a folder labeled “telephone” in a file cabinet in the den.
“Last month he paid three dollars and twenty-three cents for call forwarding,” Tanner said.
Walsh studied the bill. “No way to know the number he’s forwarding the calls to?”
“Probably his cell phone,” Cellini said. “That’s how it usually works. You want your calls forwarded to your mobile number.”
Tanner leafed through the folder and found Nolan’s cellular phone bills. “Here’s his account number. We can find out if there was any activity on his cell account when Detective Boyle made the call.”
“If there was,” Cellini said, “it’ll give us the cell phone tower that transmitted the signal. The tower closest to Nolan’s location at the time.”
Tanner nodded. “And if he was with C.J. when he took the call-”
“Then we’ll have some idea where he’s hidden her,” Cellini finished. “Trouble is, the cell site will narrow down the search area only so much. We could still be looking at an area anywhere from a couple square blocks to several square miles.”
“There’s another problem,” Walsh said. “We’ll need a court order to pull Nolan’s records. It’s not as straightforward as getting permission to enter his residence. It takes time.”
Cellini frowned. “There might be a better way. Those Baltimore feds we’ve been working with-they’re in the computer crime squad, right?”
“I think so, yeah. So what?”
“You know how they say it takes a thief to catch one? That’s true of cybercrime too. To catch a hacker, you’ve got to be a hacker.”
Walsh took this in.
“Rawls isn’t going to like it,” he said softly. “He won’t like it at all.”
50
“You want to know why I married you, C.J.?”
The question, bizarrely irrelevant, echoed through the crawl space. She didn’t answer.
“Want to hear what really turned me on about you? It was the fear in you. The fear you’re always fighting, always denying, always overcompensating for. I could sense it. And I liked it.”
I was never afraid of you, she thought fiercely. And I’m still not.
She expected him to say more, but instead she heard the BMW’s engine rev up, then a crunch of tires on gravel.
What was the plan? Did he intend to ram through the crawl space? It made no sense.
She tightened her grip on the hammer and waited.
The car pulled away, then maneuvered briefly before easing toward the crawl space again. This time the motor noise sounded different, and she caught a glimmer of red light from outside.
The engine resumed idling as the car shifted into park.
“I told you why I married you.” Adam’s voice was startling like a slap. “Now you want to know a bigger secret? Why do you suppose you married me?”
I thought it was love, she answered inwardly.
He surprised her by responding as if she’d spoken aloud. “It wasn’t love, not really. It was need.” He made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a chuckle. “You need protection. You thought if you could just feel safe enough, the fear would go away.”
She wanted to deny this, at least to herself, but she knew it was true.
“You weren’t aware of that, were you?” Adam taunted.
Yes, she had been-but she’d never known that he’d been aware of it also. She had thought better of him than that. Now she saw that he’d been on the prowl right from the start. Like a predatory animal he had sniffed out her fear and vulnerability, tasting the scent and relishing it.
“You didn’t feel strong enough to face your fears alone,” he was saying. “And when you arrived in LA, you were alone-all alone-for the first time in your life.”
No, not quite the first time. She remembered that other night when she had huddled in a dark crawl space.
“You were alone and scared,” he went on, “and you latched on to the first nice guy you met, the first guy who treated you with respect.”
It was true-even if the respect had been an illusion, even if the nice guy had turned out to be a control freak and a cheat and, now, a psychopath. She shut her eyes, wishing he would stop talking and just go away.
“You think you’re so independent, so self-reliant. It’s all bullshit. You’re weak, too weak to face the future by yourself. I’m the only one who sees it. That nickname your cop friends gave you-what a joke. You’re no killer, C.J.” Another grunt of laughter. “But I am.”
She opened her mouth to tell him she was glad not to be a killer and she hated that damn nickname-but what came out was a cough, hoarse and racking.
It was hard to breathe. The air in here… the air…
Then she knew what he’d been doing with the car. He had turned it around-the red light had been the glow of brake lights-and backed it up against the crawl space. Now, as the engine idled, the tail pipes were pumping fumes into this narrow, airless place.
He meant to asphyxiate her. Or more likely, drive her out into the open where he could finish her with his own hands.
She shrank away, retreating into the deeper recesses where the fumes had not yet penetrated.
A stopgap measure only. Before long, carbon monoxide would fill the entire passageway.
I have the hammer, she thought desperately. I can crawl out, take him by surprise…
It was hopeless. Half-asphyxiated, she would be unable even to defend herself, much less to attack.
He had outplayed her. He had won. Unless the security system really was monitored by an outside agency. If it was, the police might be on their way, or if not the police, then a private security patrol-the rent-a-cops she and her colleagues in uniform always looked down on. She wouldn’t cast aspersions on them now, if they came. If anybody came.
