Woodroffe once more glanced sideways at Schaeffer.
‘You know Charles Ducane?’ Schaeffer asked.
Hartmann nodded. ‘Sure, Governor Charles Ducane, right?’
Schaeffer nodded. ‘The kidnap victim is Governor Ducane’s daughter, Catherine.’
‘Holy shit,’ Hartmann said.
‘Holy shit exactly,’ Schaeffer said.
Hartmann leaned forward and rested his forearms on the edge of the desk. He looked at Woodroffe and Schaeffer, and then he closed his eyes for a moment and sighed.
‘You understand I am not a trained negotiator?’ Hartmann said.
‘We understand that,’ Woodroffe said, ‘but we find ourselves in a situation of being able to turn to no-one but you. Believe me, if there was some way we could avoid involving you we would. This is a federal matter, and though you are by necessity in the employ of the federal government we also appreciate that this is not the sort of thing you are suited to.’
Hartmann frowned. ‘What, you think I can’t take a phone call?’
Schaeffer smiled, but there was nothing warm in his eyes. ‘No Mr Hartmann, we know you are perfectly capable of taking a phone call. What we mean is that you are an investigator for the Judiciary Subcommittee on Organized Crime, not a field agent with years of training in hostage negotiation.’
‘But you guys are, and you figure between us we can get the guy and save the girl?’
Schaeffer and Woodroffe were silent for a moment.
‘A flippant attitude does not befit proceedings such as these,’ Schaeffer said quietly.
Hartmann nodded. ‘Sorry,’ he said equally quietly, and wondered how long the call would be, how long he would have to stay afterwards, and whether there would be a late flight back to New York that night.
‘So, we do this this evening,’ Hartmann said.
‘Seven o’clock,’ Schaeffer said.
Hartmann glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got something over an hour to kill.’
‘You can study these,’ Woodroffe said, and rising from his chair he crossed the room to a small desk in the corner. He returned with a number of files and placed them in front of Hartmann.
‘All the details we have thus far, pictures of the murder victim, pictures of the girl, Forensics and Criminalistics reports, the usual things. Study these now, so when he calls you have some kind of idea of what we are dealing with here.’
Woodroffe stayed on his feet as he spoke, and then Schaeffer rose also.
‘We’ll leave you for a little while. Anything you need?’ Hartmann looked up. ‘An ashtray. And could someone get me a cup of coffee? Not some of this shit you get out of the machine, but like a real cup of coffee with cream?’
Schaeffer nodded. ‘We’ll see what we can do, Mr Hartmann.’
‘Thanks.’ Hartmann waited until they had left the room before he opened the first file and looked down into the trunk of a ’57 Mercury Cruiser with some beat-to-fuck dead guy inside.
It was the constellation that got him. Caught him like a fish on a hook. It meant nothing, at least nothing specific, but the mere fact that whoever had done this had taken the time to draw the constellation of Gemini on the vic’s back told Hartmann that here he was dealing with someone a little more sophisticated than the regular kind of thug. And then there was the heart. And then there was the simple fact that the girl who’d been kidnapped was Charles Ducane’s daughter. Perhaps it was then, seated in the plain office with the photos, the reports, the transcriptions of the two phone calls that had been made, the collective details of all that had occurred since the night of Wednesday 20 August in front of him, that Ray Hartmann believed he might not get away from this thing tonight.
And if not tonight, then when?
Why did this man wish to speak to him, to
And what of Tompkins Square Park at midday on Saturday?
Ray Hartmann sighed and closed his eyes. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his forehead against his steepled fingers, and behind his eyes he could see Carol’s face, the way she would look at him when he’d done something else to piss her off. And then there was Jess, the way she would greet him when he arrived home, her smile wide, her eyes bright, everything that ever meant anything to him all tied up in the lives of two people he couldn’t see…
He started when someone knocked on the door.
Ray Hartmann opened his eyes and lowered his hands.
The door opened, and Bill Woodroffe, same expression as before, stepped inside and nodded at Hartmann.
‘Ten minutes,’ he said, ‘We’re gonna take the call out here where we have other agents on additional lines.’
Hartmann rose from the chair, walked around the table and followed Woodroffe.
They passed down the corridor and took the second door on the right. The room looked like mission control at Houston: banks of computers, gray free-standing dividers separating dozens of desks one from another, floor-to- ceiling maps on three of the walls, endless rows of file cabinets, and in amongst this a good dozen Bureau men, all of them in white shirts and dark ties.
‘Hold up!’ Woodroffe shouted over the murmur of voices.
The room fell silent. Could have heard a pin drop.
‘This is Special Investigator Ray Hartmann from New York. He is part of the Judiciary Subcommittee on Organized Crime up there. This is the guy that’s gonna take the call.’
Woodroffe let his words sink in for a moment.
Hartmann felt a dozen pairs of eyes watching him.
‘So when the call comes we take it in three stages. Feshbach, Hackley and Levin are gonna take the first pick-up on line one, Landry, Weber and Duggan the second, finally Cassidy, Saxon and Benedict on line three. When all three teams have picked up, Mr Hartmann will take line four right here. If there is the slightest sound from anyone in the room when the call has been connected through the speakers they will take a two-week unpaid suspension. This is a young girl’s life we’re talking about, gentlemen, understood?’
There was a hushed series of acknowledgements across the room.
‘So that’s the game plan. Mr Kubis will trace the call and record it as per protocol. So take your seats, gentlemen, and wait it out.’
Woodroffe indicated that Hartmann should take a seat at the desk ahead of him. Hartmann did so. He glanced at the wall clock. Four minutes to seven. He could feel the tension in his throat and chest. His hands were moist, and beneath his hairline beads of sweat were breaking out. This was not what he had intended to be doing this evening.
At six-fifty-eight someone sneezed. Woodroffe ordered the man from the room.
The place was deathly quiet.
Hartmann could feel his heart thudding in his chest. He wanted to close his eyes for a moment, open them and find that all of this had vanished, that it had been nothing more than some strange non-sequitur dream. He did not dare close his eyes. He could not appear to be unsettled by this in any way. Like Woodroffe had so clearly stated, a young girl’s life was at risk.
Six-fifty-nine.
Hartmann glanced up at Woodroffe. Woodroffe looked back dispassionately. This was business, nothing more nor less than business. Hartmann’s presence would naturally be resented. He may have been bound by the same legal and judicial code of practice, but sure as shit he wasn’t family.
He looked back at the phone and willed it to ring. He wanted to know. He wanted to hear this man’s voice, to know instantly who it was, to turn to Woodroffe and tell them exactly where they would find him and how to rescue the girl…
He wanted to be back on a plane to New York knowing that he would see Carol and Jess next Saturday.
He inhaled.
The phone rang and Hartmann nearly left his skin.
