bottle onto the front passenger seat. “If his accomplices come looking for him, they’ll find him acting drunk but never guess he’d been dragged off and treated with a tongue-loosening drug.”
“But he’ll remember himself.”
“No, he won’t,” Grover said with assurance as he gave Duane the Valium in his upper arm cavalierly, injecting it directly through his shirt. “Not only does Versed make one particularly talkative, it causes retrograde amnesia. He’ll be lucky to remember getting up this morning.”
“Very slick,” Warren said.
“Could you guys keep your eyes on this vehicle? I’d like to know if his accomplices do show up. I’d also like to get any license plates if it could be done without arousing any suspicions. I don’t want them to know we know they’ve been here.”
“Until when do you want us to watch it?”
“At least until two or three a.m., but I know that’s asking a lot. Yet I’d appreciate it, as long as you guys have the manpower and inclination to do it.”
“Not a problem,” Warren said. “Those bastards killed my cousin and have Laurie and Jack’s toddler. I’d stay up all night myself. We’ll be using the court until early evening. After that, I’ll have the guys who’d been scheduled for today, but weren’t used, watch tonight.”
“With the proviso they don’t let themselves be seen. This point is truly important. If kidnappers feel they are being watched or followed, they get very antsy, which invariably puts the victims in extreme jeopardy. If they start feeling the authorities are closing in, the kidnappers kill their victims and dispose of the bodies, never to be found.”
“Understood,” Warren said simply, and he did.
After leaving the neighborhood and before heading out to Whitestone, Grover and Colt drove down to Midtown to visit the home office. CRT occupied an entire floor on East 54th Street. It was usually a beehive of activity, but since it was a Saturday and since ten of the thirty-nine partners were currently away running ten active cases in eight countries, the place was mausoleum-like.
“Robert told me to say he would be in the lunchroom,” Beverly had said when Grover and Colt first appeared. The so-called lunchroom was a windowless affair more suited for storing cleaning supplies than for serving as a snack room. There were several vending machines and a space for the communal coffee machine. Robert was alone, nursing a coffee while working on his laptop.
“Did you have any luck?” Grover asked.
“Not a lot but some. First, I did have luck with the assessor’s office, which, I might add, was a great idea on your part. They had a rudimentary site plan and better floor plans, as the estate went through a major renovation and reassessment after the current owner bought it about a decade ago.”
“Are you using the word
“Literally. There’s over an acre, which is big for the area, with a pool, a tennis court, and a pier.”
“So it’s waterfront property?”
“Yes. It has four hundred feet of frontage on the East River. The house is almost ten thousand square feet, and pretty much covers the site except for the pool and tennis court. In my mind, that’s an estate.”
“I agree,” Grover said. “Let’s see the plans.”
Robert had printed out the plans from the assessor’s office on eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch paper. Colt kept the site plan but immediately handed the floor plan back. “Double the size of the copy. I might have to search for the child, and I need to know the house like the back of my hand.”
“I also have a street map of the town,” Robert said, handing that over as well before running off to enlarge the floor plans.
“Uh-oh,” Grover said after a brief look at the map. Robert had the location of the house marked with a red cross. “It’s on a dead-end street.”
“That’s not a problem,” Colt said. “We’ll approach from the water. We certainly don’t want to be hemmed in by a dead-end street.”
“Approach in what? You are not going to get me in the water again, no way.” About ten years previously, Colt had insisted on using scuba gear to approach another waterfront property in Cartagena, Colombia.
“We’ll rent something like a Zodiac and pull in under the pier. There has to be a marina out there in the area.”
“How did you do researching the owner?” Grover asked Robert when he came back with the blow-ups.
“Not good. It’s listed as being owned by a Panamanian financial company who pays the taxes and utilities. But when I tried researching the Panamanian company, I found it was owned by a Brazilian company, et cetera. You know the story.”
“Shell companies,” Grover said with a nod. “Another sign that this kidnapping involves organized crime.”
Colt checked his watch. “Grover, it’s after two! We have to get our butts out to Whitestone, especially now that we need to locate a boat. And I’m going to need time to put together an operational kit for tonight.”
“All right, let’s do it,” Grover said. “Robert, if you learn anything more about the house or its owner, give me a call on my mobile. This exercise has to go down tonight, so do what you can!”
“Will do,” Robert said.
“Also, Robert,” Colt said, “have you seen anybody from logistics this morning?” Logistics at CRT really meant one man. His name was Curt Cohen, and he was a master of the procurement and maintenance of just about anything in the world, particularly in the arena of electronics and weapons: anything and everything a risk management, ex-Special Forces agent would need to carry out his or her mission as a kidnap consultant.
“Curt himself was here this morning looking for something special for Roger Hagarty, who is in Mexico running a case.”
“How convenient,” Colt said happily. “Could you find him for me and have him call? I’m going to need some special things myself.”
“I’ll be happy to,” Robert said cheerfully.
“Let’s go,” Grover said, grabbing Colt’s upper arm and giving him a shove in the general direction of the elevators. “You’re the one’s been growling about the time.”
On this second trip to Queens, they chose to use the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. As Grover drove, Colt used the time to study the floor plans and commit them to memory.
“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding JJ,” Grover said, aware of what Colt was doing.
“I’m glad you are optimistic. But I don’t want to get in there and be figuratively stumbling around in the dark.”
“It’s always better to be safe than sorry—pardon the overused expression. But if the wife is so fond of the child, I’ll bet you the kid will be smack-dab in the middle of the master bedroom.”
As they emerged back into the daylight from the tunnel, Colt went back to the floor plans, but his cell phone interrupted him.
“It’s Curt,” his caller announced. “Robert said you were in need of some special equipment.”
“I need a gas-based dart pistol loaded with enough ketamine to stop an adult water buffalo in heat. One that has the green laser aiming devices. To be truthful, chances are I’ll be facing a couple of Dobermans.”
“Very funny,” Curt said, “but a humongous dose is not going to help. With ketamine darts, the animal doesn’t instantly fall over, even if I err on the high-dose side. That’s public folklore. The dog is going to stumble around for a few minutes and might still be dangerous. Keep that in mind.”
“So a dog might be able to chew on me for several minutes after I hit him with a ketamine-filled dart?”
“I’m afraid so. It can happen, unless you want to kill the dog.”
“Thanks for the good news. In addition to the dart pistol, I’m going to need my usual climbing kit with several fifty-foot lengths of rope. Also, one window anchor for a fast escape.”
“No problem. What else?”
“Some sort of an over-the-shoulder bag capable of supporting up to forty pounds.”
“How big?”
“About a yard long, twelve to fourteen inches high. Big enough to hold a one-and-a-half-year-old child. And, oh, yeah, an eyedropper.”
“What about any special weapons?”
“Give me something small and light but makes a lot of noise and I don’t have to aim.”
