She was silent.
“Please,” I begged.
“Okay, sure,” she relented. “No harm in it, I suppose. Now tell me about Frank.”
I looked up and saw the cruiser that had been in front of Bea’s house pulling into the gas station.
“Oh, hell. Look, I’ve got to go. Watch the news tonight — Las Piernas is holding a press conference about Frank. Or turn on an all-news radio station in about twenty minutes. It will explain who has him, and you’ll probably be able to figure out why I want to meet with you.”
“What’s going on?”
“Cassidy sent the locals looking for me. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
I hung up just as the patrolman spotted me. He pulled up, rolled down his window, and said, “Ready to go home now?”
“If I’m not, what happens?”
“I follow you all over town.”
I got into Bea’s car and drove back.
Cassidy was sitting on the swing, arms folded, long legs outstretched. When I pulled into the driveway, he stood up and went into the house. By the time I got inside he was asking Bea to turn on the radio. He didn’t look at me. When he took a seat in the living room, he stared at the radio as if it were a television. Bea and Greg kept exchanging anxious glances.
“Can I get you anything, Detective Cassidy?” Bea asked.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he said, his eyes never leaving the radio.
“Cassidy—” I began.
“Oh, please don’t bother, Irene. You come up with some cock’n bull story about how you ran out of here because you had a sudden hankerin’ for a NeHi strawberry soda, you’ll just end up insulting my intelligence.”
Before I could reply, the news announcer on the radio said, “Our top story this half hour: A Las Piernas homicide detective has been taken hostage, apparently by Hocus, the anarchist group that is blamed for recent terrorist acts in that city. We now go live to a press conference in Las Piernas, where police are expected to give further details….”
A statement was read by a public information officer. He was joined at the podium by Frank’s boss, Lieutenant Carlson. Carlson did not speak. The statement was just as Cassidy had predicted it would be: Frank Harriman had been missing since the previous afternoon, was now believed to be the hostage of the group calling itself Hocus; Neukirk and Ryan were wanted for questioning; anyone with any information on their whereabouts or the disappearance of Detective Harriman should call the LPPD.
Once the statement was read, a barrage of questions were shouted from the reporters. All but one of the questions were answered with, “We have no further comment at this time.” The one exception was, “Do you believe Frank Harriman is still alive?”
The answer was, “We remain optimistic.”
The conference was ended. The on-scene reporter, obviously reading from a release, described Samuel Ryan as being twenty-two years old, five eleven, muscular build, with reddish brown hair and brown eyes. Bret Neukirk was twenty-one, six feet tall, slender, dark brown hair and eyes. He described Frank in this same, spare way. It seemed unlikely that anyone would recognize any of them from these descriptions.
The anchorman recapped the information in a sentence, then cut to a commercial for a roofing company.
The phone started ringing. Each time, I thought it might be Hocus, but the callers were friends of Bea Harriman. By the sixth call, her own nerves worn thin, she turned over the task of answering the phone to Cassidy, who again and again said politely that Mrs. Harriman appreciated the concern but needed to keep the phone line free.
Pete and Rachel arrived with an overnight bag — and a package for Cassidy. I was surprised to see Pete — but realized quickly why Rachel hadn’t left him behind. He hadn’t shaved, his eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders were drooping, his gait was tired and slow. He had the look of a man who had been holding long, unpleasant conversations with himself.
“Pete Baird,” Cassidy said from behind me. “Dang, I’m glad to see you. I really could use your help.”
“Sure, Cassidy,” Pete said, straightening. “Anything you need.”
Cassidy clapped a hand on Pete’s shoulder and walked him back to his makeshift office.
Rachel stared after them. “Amazing.”
“What?”
“It took Tom Cassidy less than two seconds to figure out exactly what Pete needed.”
“What was that?”
“Something to do.”
I suddenly realized that if Hocus hadn’t decided I could find their enemy, I would have been in the same position Pete had been in over the last several hours. Waiting. Only waiting.
Bea began to lobby Rachel to stay overnight. “I’ve got three extra bedrooms here,” she said. “Two are spoken for, so you might as well grab the last one.”
Before long, Bea was feeding them at the kitchen table, convincing Cassidy and Greg to join them for dessert. I eased out of the gathering and went back to the bedroom Bea had set aside for me. The room held good memories for me; Frank had proposed to me there. I set the alarm for ten-thirty P.M. and went to sleep.
