Treatment Unit.”
“Hospital?”
“Hospital’s upstairs, above the dining hall. No, Treatment Unit’s solitary confinement. Segregation. The Hole.” Taylor stopped in front of C-156. “Best you stay out of there, MacNally. Trust me on that one.” The officer leaned back and faced another guard, who was standing a hundred or so feet away, at the end of the cell block. “Rack ’em, 156!”
A moment later, the officer pulled out keys and appeared to be accessing what MacNally assumed was some sort of control box. The man reached inside and after a series of arm gyrations-he pulled down, then up, then grabbed something else-a click sounded above the barred door for C-156. A loud clunk echoed, followed by the gate in front of him sliding to the right.
“In,” Taylor said. “Morning gong’s at 6:33. At 6:50, second gong goes off. Stand right here, by your bars, fully dressed, facing out. At the whistle, the lieutenants and cellhouse guards do a standing count. Next whistle’s at seven sharp. That’s when you’ll be turned out to the dining hall for chow. Rest of the daily schedule’s in your book. Page four and five. Oh-and pay attention to the diagram on page eight.”
MacNally stepped into the confining, five-by-nine foot chamber. “Diagram? Of what?”
“Your cell. Everything’s got a place. Towel, jacket, toilet paper, books, calendar, soap. Shows you where everything’s got to go.”
“You’re joking, right?”
Taylor’s face thinned, his jaw muscles flexing. “No. I’m not.” He turned to his colleague and yelled to the far end of the cell block. “Rack ’em!”
More clicks…a solid metallic crunch…and then the door slid closed in front of MacNally. A lonely, bone-jarring slam echoed through the cellhouse.
Taylor’s shoes crunched quietly on the polished cement floor as he walked away. MacNally watched the officer’s shadow disappear, a chill shuddering through his body.
Despite its reputation among cons, MacNally could not imagine how Alcatraz could be worse than Leavenworth. But he had a feeling he was going to soon find out.
Vail handed the note to Price, then pulled out her BlackBerry. “That text-who was it from? The one that said he’s tied up.”
Burden looked at his phone. “Robert. Why am I not understanding what’s going on-”
“I’m calling Friedberg,” Vail said. I have a feeling I know exactly what’s going on, and it ain’t good. “Call your department, get every fucking cop mobilized in the city looking for his car. And see if they can get a fix on his cell signal.”
Seconds later, Vail gave up. “Went right to voicemail.”
Burden hung up, then began pacing. “All right, let’s clear our heads. Think this through. He was stopping at Verizon on the way in, to see about those text messages Scheer got.” He looked over at the reporter, who was standing a few paces from Allman, beyond the crime scene tape.
“We know what’s going on,” Vail said. “Our UNSUB’s got Friedberg.”
“Let me get this straight,” Carondolet said. “The killer’s got an SFPD Inspector?”
“You got it,” Dixon said. To Burden: “Call Verizon and see if he made it there, and if he did, what time he left.”
Burden pulled out his phone and made the call.
A text hit Vail’s BlackBerry. She still had the device in her palm when it began vibrating. She rotated her hand and read the message. “Son of a bitch.”
“What?” Dixon asked.
Vail showed her the display.
lotsa bodies werent motivation enuf
need one of ur own on the line
want to know what this is all about
pay attention u have ten mins
think history
ur answers in the place where
violence and sleep come under watchful eyes
Burden ended his call abruptly and joined the huddle. His brow hardened. “What the hell does it mean?”
“You’re the puzzle guy.”
“Sudoku,” Burden said. “Numbers. Not goddamn riddles.”
Dixon stepped to the left and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Clay! Bring your colleague over here. Now.”
“What are you doing?” Vail asked.
“We’ve got two guys fifty feet away who ply their trade using words,” Dixon said. “And they also happen to know the city inside and out. Got nothing to lose by using their brain power. Friedberg’s life’s on the line-do we really care what the press knows?”
“Worry about it later,” Burden said.
“Exactly.”
“You’re bringing two reporters into the crime scene?” Carondolet said. “Are you crazy?”
Allman and Scheer slipped under the tape and ran through the parking lot.
“What’s going on?” Allman asked as he approached.
“Let’s also see if we can get a fix on those texts,” Vail said. “One was from Friedberg’s but the other was from a different handset. I’ll send you the number. See what they can do with it. Every carrier’s different, but even if they can’t localize it better than a few miles, we’ll at least know if he’s in the city.”
“Got it,” Burden said. He started to make the call.
“So here’s the deal,” Vail said to Allman and Scheer as she played with her BlackBerry keypad to send the phone number to Burden. “Killer’s got Inspector Friedberg. He just used Friedberg’s phone-and then what I’m guessing is a disposable-to send us messages.”
Scheer and Allman both reached for their pads.
“Fuck the story,” Burden said, rotating the phone away from his mouth. “We need your help. He sent us a riddle.”
“Is this on or off the record?” Scheer asked.
Carondolet shook his head “I can’t believe you’re involving these guys.”
“Don’t make us sorry we brought you over here,” Dixon said to
