Stealth

a Buddy Steel short story by Michael Brandman

STEALTH
Cautious, surreptitious, and furtive action.
-- Dictionary.com

ONE

SUNDAY

It's never good news when the phone rings at six o'clock on a Sunday morning.

I rolled over and picked up the call. "This better be good."

"It's alarming, Buddy!" Sheriff Burton Steel, Sr. exclaimed.

"What are you doing up at this hour?"

"I just got the call."

"What call?"

"Tracy Silver never came home last night."

"Ned and Jennie's daughter?"

"Yes."

"Fill me in."

"School's out. She's home for the summer. She went to meet a bunch of friends at Scooter's. According to one of them, she left the club at around midnight. Hasn't been heard from since."

"She leave with someone?"

"Alone."

"Inebriated?"

"Not according to her friends."

"Is it possible she visited someone? A boy friend? A girl friend?"

"Anything's possible, but in this case, unlikely."

"Because?"

"She was scheduled to go fishing with her father this morning."

"What do you propose to do?"

"It's too soon for the family to file a Missing Person's report. But because it's them, I want us to investigate."

"Define 'us'.

"You."

"You want me to investigate Tracy's disappearance?" "Exactly."

#

By way of introduction, I'm Burton Steel, Jr. Son of the duly elected Sheriff of San Remo County, California, currently serving his third term.

I don't much like being called Burton. Or, as was the case in my youth, 'Junior." So now I'm known as Buddy.

My father and I share a somewhat thorny relationship. Perhaps it's just the usual father/son insanity, but we've always been constrained by an overriding tension that envelopes us like a thick fog.

He's an institution, highly decorated and heavily starched.

Our interactions were further complicated when he was diagnosed with ALS, Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, otherwise known as Lou Gehrig's disease.

At his request, and in the interest of coming to grips with our stressed dynamic, I left my cherished employment as a Los Angeles County homicide detective to return home and become my father's Deputy. To have his back, as he put it.

Our proximity has helped reduce the tension. Together we're exploring ways in which to mutually address his incipient mortality.

Lately, he's been participating in the trial of an experimental medical protocol that, in his case, has succeeded in slowing the progress of his fatal illness.

His energy has improved. He's feeling better.

But despite that, he's decided to take early retirement. Although he hasn't made his decision public, he's determined to name me his temporary successor and a candidate for the office in a special election he's planning to ask the District Attorney to sanction.

A decision, by the way, not on my wavelength. I have no interest in becoming the Sheriff of San Remo County.

Nor do I wish to run for Governor of California, which my father loudly proclaims I'd win "in a landslide."

A fresh source of tension between us.

But enough about that.

As I pulled myself together on this particular Sunday morning, I knew I'd encounter a shit storm of heartache from Ned and Jennie Silver, long-time friends and supporters of my father.

TWO

The Silvers live in the San Remo foothills among a surfeit of other local elites in a gated community noted for the architectural grandeur of its oversized houses, all of them situated on vast properties.

I pulled my Wrangler onto their circular driveway.

Jennie Silver had the door open before I could ring the bell. "Oh, Buddy. Thank you for coming. We're at our wits end."

She clung to me for several moments, then ushered me inside to meet a disheveled Ned Silver in their showplace kitchen, who pointed me to a table laden with breakfast pastries and a large carafe of freshly brewed coffee.

Both Silvers are lawyers, in their mid to late fifties, an attractive couple, accomplished and affluent, denizens of the fabled California life-style, upper-crusters, charmed and charming.

I waived off a pastry but welcomed the coffee. "Tell me what you know."

"This is so unlike Tracy," Jennie offered.

"None of the Scooter's crowd has any idea where she might have gone," Ned said. "She's not answering her cell phone. She's not returning e-mails or texts."

"And you've checked with her other friends?"

"No one knows anything. She and Ned were supposed to go fishing this morning. They'd been planning it for weeks."

"And you're sure she didn't spend the night with someone?"

"Did you hear what Jennie just said, Buddy?"

"There's no need to be testy, Ned," Jennie said. "Buddy's here to help."

We all sat quietly for a moment.

"I'll want a list of everyone she was with last night. And I'll also want information regarding any other friends or associates she has here in San Remo. Get it to me as soon as possible. In the meantime, I'll start the search."

"Where? How?"

I stood. "Often times, in cases of abduction, the offender leaves footprints. We'll hunt for some."

"Abduction?" Ned exclaimed.

"We can't rule it out."

"My God," Jennie gasped.

#

Several members of the department crowded into my office, none of them overjoyed at having been summoned so early on a Sunday.

I had rousted Captain Marsha Russo, who, although not without a fair amount of grumbling, rounded up the Deputies I had requested.

Al Striar, Dave Balding, Mickey Alpert, Johnny Kennerly, and Marsha, were seated around my small conference table that was brimming with an ample supply of coffee and donuts.

"We've got a missing person," I told them. "Exacerbated by the fact that the missing person is the daughter of one of the county's most prominent families. Friends of the Sheriff."

I read aloud from a hastily assembled report. "Tracy Silver. Caucasian female. Twenty one years of age. Student at Tulane University. Home for summer holiday. Last seen yesterday evening. Shortly before midnight. At Scooter's Bar & Grill."

I looked up and added, "The Sheriff has instructed us to look into her disappearance. ASAP."

Al Striar raised his hand. "I know Scooter's. I live not far from there."

"Good. You can help organize the hunt."

"Meaning?"

"I want a thorough search of the immediate neighborhood. Door to door. In the hope someone may have seen or heard anything that might put us on track to discover what went down with Ms. Silver. And also to make certain she's not being held captive nearby.

"I know from my days at L.A.P.D. that the general rule of thumb in abductions is to scour the neighborhood. Often times the captive is being held there."

"Since Al is familiar with it, I want him to lead the charge. Everyone in bulletproof vests, please. Work in pairs. Marsha and I will take up a command post at Scooter's. We'll canvas the hospitals, the morgue, and the Coroner's office. Questions?"

No one had any.

"Let's find this girl."

THREE

"Is it possible she went off of her own accord?" L.A.P.D. Captain Riley Murphy inquired.

As young patrol officers, Riley and I had been partners. Like me, she was the child of a law enforcement professional. Her father was the Police Chief of Deschutes County, Oregon, located in the city of Bend, where Riley grew up. Now she headed the Abduction Unit and was considered a rising star by the L.A.P.D. High Command.

"Nearly all missing persons are found or return voluntarily within forty-eight to seventy-two hours," she said. "The primary reasons for voluntary disappearance include mental illness, depression, substance abuse, credit problems, abusive relationships, or marital discord. Are any of these issues associated with Tracy Silver?"

"Not likely. She seemed pretty well-hinged."

"You never know, Buddy."

"We're turning up blanks, Riley. What do you advise?"

"Because your old man's involved, I'd have to say the FBI."

"You think?"

"If you continue turning up blanks, absolutely."

#

The hunt for Tracy Silver yielded nothing. Nobody saw anything. Nobody knew anything. And according to the investigating teams, nothing or no one in the neighborhood was deemed suspicious. A search of public grounds and a local park also drew blanks.

Marsha and I folded our command post, having pushed zeroes ourselves. No hospitals, no morgue, and no Coroner's office held anyone who fit Tracy's description.

I returned to the Silver home to further question Ned and Jennie.

"She was an honors student at Tulane," Jennie ventured. "It's highly unlikely she was on drugs. Surely we'd have noticed if she was. But given her history and her frame of mind, there's no reason to suspect she had any kind of dependency."

"Is there a boy friend?"

Jennie lowered her voice. "No boy friend."

"I need some assistance," I told them. "I'm planning to consult with both the L.A.P.D. and the FBI."

"Is there reason to believe either will be helpful?"

"Each has a division devoted to child abduction."

"But she's not a child," Ned said.

"No, but they can both do the kind of local and nationwide postings that are beyond our capabilities."

"What if she's being held captive?"

"It's possible, but if so, it's odd you haven't received a ransom request."

"What if she's a sex prisoner?"

"Let's not go there just yet, Ned. Let me widen the investigation and see how things develop."

"What if she's dead?" Jennie sobbed.

"Let's not go there either."

I took my leave of the Silvers. Their despondency was contageous.

And it would surely infect my father, further straining what was already a shortened fuse.

When I got back to the station, I found Marsha Russo waiting impatiently. "Do you know Jeremy Hogan?"

"The lawyer?"

"Yes."

"I know of him."

"Well you're about to know a whole lot more. His wife claims he's vanished."

FOUR

According to Annette Hogan, her husband left for his run at exactly the same time he did every morning. Except this morning, he never returned.

"I'm worried sick," Mrs. Hogan moaned. "I keep calling his cell phone but it goes directly to voice mail. I can't imagine what's happened."

"Did you trace his steps?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did you try to find him? On his regular route?"

"No. Should I have?"

A slender forty-something, she was still in her bathrobe, worn over bed clothes. She was clearly distressed, confused, and disoriented.

We were still standing in the foyer, never having moved from the door. "Could you replicate his run?"

"You mean the trail he took?"

"Yes."

"I think so."

"You think so?"

"I mean he takes the same route every morning. He's a person of habit, so I don't imagine he deviated much from it."

"Would you show it to me?"

"I'm not dressed."

"Would it be possible for you to get dressed and then show it to me?"

She suddenly looked alarmed. "Oh, dear. What a dope you must think I am. Of course I can show it to you. Would you mind waiting here while I change?"

"Not at all."

She stared at me for several moments, then bolted up the stairs.

I called Marsha Russo on my cell phone. "This is as peculiar as Tracy Silver. Send the troops. We need to repeat the drill."

"I'll check the hospitals and the morgue."

"Thanks, Marsha. You won't find him, though. And the neighborhood search won't turn up anything either."

"Why do you say that?"

"My gut. Something's rotten in Denmark."

"Screw Denmark. It stinks enough here in San Remo."

#

I was right about drawing blanks. No one saw nor heard anything unusual.

As was the case with Tracy Silver, Jeremy Hogan seemingly vanished into thin air. No images on street cameras. No ransom demands. No body. No apparent motive.

I stopped by my father's house in search of wise counsel.

I was greeted at the door by his wife, my step-mother and verbal sparring partner, the estimable Mayor of Freedom township, Regina Goodnow.

Following a brief embrace and a hurried pair of air kisses, she got right to it. "Do you know anything more, Buddy?"

"I wish I did."

"I'm worried people will start taking notice?"

"I'm sure you can handle it, Regina."

"I'm at a loss, Buddy."

"As are we all."

"I wouldn't know what to say."

"Say it's under investigation."

"I think I'll need more than that."

"Wing it, Regina. It's what you do best."

"I'm not certain I take that as a compliment, Buddy."

"You always handle the media masterfully. It's your trademark."

"You think?"

"I know."

After chewing on that for several moments, she pointed to the rear of the house. "He's waiting for you on the porch. Try not to rile him up too much."

I stared at her for several moments, then left her standing there and moved hurriedly to the screened-in back porch, my father's favorite spot, a place we both associated with my late mother, who also cherished it.

The afternoon sun darted through the Live Oak and blue Jacaranda branches creating a mosaic of light and shadow.

The Sheriff was seated at the table, a pitcher of icy water in front of him. I sat. He poured me a glass. I gulped down a large swallow.

"She grilled you?"

"Regina?"

He nodded.

"What did you tell her?"

"I'm clueless."

"No trace of him?"

"Of either of them."

"How is that possible?"

"You're asking me?"

"I don't like the sound of this, Buddy. Lives are at stake here."

"Perhaps you might like to take over the investigation yourself?"

"Don't mouth wise with me."

"I came here for advice. Not castigation."

The old man withdrew inside himself for several moments. "It's anathema to me, Buddy. I don't know what to advise."

"I've been in touch with Riley Murphy. L.A.P.D. Abduction unit. She's as puzzled as we are."

"You might want to think bigger than the L.A.P.D."

"Such as?"

"The FBI."

"That's what Riley advised."

"If this thing doesn't resolve soon, or God forbid it escalates, I have to believe the Feebs are your best bet."

FIVE

MONDAY

"Perhaps there's a connection between them," Jordyn Yates speculated.

An attorney herself, she and I were also an item. The two of us, notorious commitment-deniers, had uncharacteristically rented an apartment together in Oxnard, half-way between Los Angeles and Freedom Township, a place where we could spend time developing our burgeoning relationship.

She was currently in New York on business and we were finishing an early morning phone conversation.

"That's an idea," I said. "Although I can't imagine a twenty year old college student connected to a middle-aged lawyer."

"What is it you always say? 'You never know.'"

"I suppose it's possible. Maybe he had a case of the Hollywood May/December syndrome."

"Funny," she said, after a brief silence.

"What is?"

"You and me."

"Funny how?"

"Us. We're such an odd couple. Not that we're personally odd. It's our relationship that's odd."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We're two of the least likely people to enter a committed relationship. Yet here I am in New York and I can hardly wait to get back home."

"Friday night in Oxnard?"

"You better get yourself some rest before then, big fella."

"Why's that?"

"Because you sure won't get any once I'm there."

#

Annette Hogan suggested I speak with her husband's assistant, who confirmed she knew of the law firm at which the Silvers practiced, but wasn't aware of any connection between them and Jeremy Hogan.

Nothing but dead ends.

Or were they?

Two upscale members of the Freedom Township community vanish without a trace. Within hours of each other. No one seems to have witnessed the events. No exterior cameras photographed them. No ransom demands had been made for either of them.

Is it likely these events were in any way connected? What if they weren't kidnapped?

Was it so outlandish to imagine Jeremy Hogan and Tracy Silver running off together?

Sharing a furtive romance that led to them slinking off with each other?

Without posing such a bizarre thesis to either the Silvers or Annette Hogan, I inquired as to whether they had experienced any unusual banking, credit card or securities- related activity since the disappearances.

Both families confirmed there had been no such activity.

The day went by without further developments and no contact by any alleged kidnappers.

I was totally baffled and seriously concerned about the fate that might have befallen both Tracy Silver and Jeremy Hogan. I lay awake imagining what more I could be doing.

When I hit the office on Tuesday morning, it was Marsha Russo who brought me up to speed.

Philip Connell, a legal assistant at a prominent San Remo law firm, had failed to show up for work.

A bachelor, he lived alone. A quickly arranged search of his apartment revealed no visible clues.

"Same drill?" Marsha Russo asked.

"With likely the same results. Get a forensics team in there before anyone mucks up the apartment."

"What are you thinking, Buddy?"

"That I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

SIX

TUESDAY

Stymied, I arranged a meeting between senior management officials of the three law firms that were connected to the disappeared trio.

We were seated at the conference table in my office.

In attendance were Harold Greene, the managing director of Greene & Browne, the firm where Jeremy Hogan practiced, a gnarled looking sixty-something, dressed for the golf course; Leonora Feiertag, a handsome woman of a certain age, a senior partner at the office employing Philip Connell; and David Chapman, the buttoned-down Chief Financial Officer of Ned and Jennie Silver's firm.

Sheriff's Deputies Marsha Russo and Al Striar were also present.

"Thank you all for being here," I said. "What we have is an unusual confluence of unexplained events and I'm searching for any possible connection that might exist between the vanished trio and your firms.

"The only thing we know for certain is each victim was in some way associated with one of your firms. Can you think of any circumstance that might have brought them together?"

Leonora Feiertag spoke up. "When you first inquired about a possible connection, I gave it a fair amount of thought. 'What would constitute a connection?' I asked myself. It wouldn't necessarily be restricted only to a professional circumstance. It could be anything, really."

"Anything meaning?"

"It could relate to outside circumstances. Something as trite as unknowingly going to the same gym. Or the same doctor. Driving the same make of car. Hell, members of their respective families might even be acquainted. How on earth would we know?"

"I agree it's a conundrum. But these possibilities need to be questioned."

"And how do you propose we do that?" David Chapman inquired.

"Damned if I know." "That's very helpful," Harold Greene said.

His condescension caught my attention and raised my hackles. "Lawyers are generally regarded as members of a resourceful and creative profession. As such, I'm asking if, perhaps, even while you're waiting to tee off, you might recall a heretofore unexplored connection between these three inhabitants of your respective universes."

He stared daggers at me.

I ignored him. "I'm not expecting a miracle. Just the result of some serious consideration of this potentially life-threatening situation."

#

"And you really believe that bozo is going to come up with some kind of answer?" My father shook his head. "He's a lawyer. Hell, they're all lawyers. What do you expect?"

"I know. I know. But I'm dangling out here with damned few options."

"Well this one promises to go potty."

"You know something, Dad? You're not being in the least bit helpful."

We were back on his porch. The afternoon was thick with the portent of rain.

As was the case with pretty much everyone I contacted regarding this situation, he was more cynical than optimistic. "It's time to call in the cavalry."

"By cavalry, I'm assuming you mean the FBI."

"Give that man a cigar."

#

Special Agent Paul DeSavino was the FBI liaison to the Los Angeles Police Department and as such, was involved in a great many local cases that required Federal assistance.

We'd met during my time in L.A. and had remained friends. He picked up my call straight away.

"And that's all you've got," he jibed when I brought him up to speed.

"So far."

After a lengthy silence, he said, "Let me do some research. Then we'll talk some more."

"You and I?"

"And Roger Berry."

"Roger Berry being?"

"One of my dweebs."

"Because?"

"Apart from being a social misfit, he's an outstanding researcher."

"And we'll talk with him when?"

"I'll start him right away. I'm hoping to have something soon.

"Soon being?"

"Lunch time."

"Lunch time when?"

"Tomorrow."

"You think he'll have information by lunch time tomorrow?"

"He's the best there is."

"And you want to dial us all into a lunch time phone call?"

"No."

"Then exactly what is it you have in mind?"

"Philippe's."

"The French Dip place?"

"Yeah."

"You think I'm going to drive all the way to Los Angeles for a meeting with you and one of your twits only to find he's got nothing and you're totally distracted by a sandwich?"

"He's a first class researcher. He's sure to have something by then. Plus, it's an excellent sandwich."

"I knew this was a mistake."

"You want my involvement in this mishigas?"

"Yes." "Then gas up, baby. And bring a bib."

SEVEN

WEDNESDAY

I was right about the distraction.

We met at two o'clock, at the tail end of the lunch rush as the crowd was thinning out.

Philippe's had just entered its one hundred and thirteenth year in business, and was an acknowledged Los Angeles landmark.

Diners lined up in front of glass counters overflowing with roasted meats, cheeses, home made soups and chili, plus multiple sides and salads. Expert staffers swiftly filled orders and everyone ate communally at oversized tables.

DeSavino had happily scored a much desired window table. He proudly displayed his double dip beef sandwich, served au jus on a French roll, accompanied by sides of potato salad and cole slaw.

Roger Berry, DeSavino's dweeb, was an uncomfortable- looking, pencil-thin thirty-something, dressed in a tight- fitting blue checked suit. His wavy black hair was cut short. His narrow, wide-eyed face was dominated by a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses, through which he carefully avoided eye-contact.

While DeSavino joyfully attacked his French dip, Berry chowed down on Philippe's beans-added chili. I nibbled a chicken Caesar salad.

"Talk to the man," DeSavino instructed Roger Berry.

Berry looked at me, then quickly looked away. "There's a connection."

"Meaning?"

"I was able to access the case histories of all three law firms and although it's unlikely the three people who vanished were associated with these firms when the cases in question occurred, there's definitely a connection between the firms."

He took a hurried bite of chili and apparently mis-swallowed because he erupted in a bout of frenzied coughing, all the while struggling not to spew.

DeSavino grinned at me.

When he finally re-gained his composure, Berry went on. "It was several years ago. In early two thousand eleven or twelve. At a time in L.A. when the cartels were challenging the Sicilian Mafia for dominance in the drug trafficking rackets. When suspected gang members were being arrested in significant numbers, hurriedly tried for their alleged crimes, and swiftly deported.

"The Bureau was then paying particular attention to one Antonio Corso, an emigre from Guatamala, a prime member of the gang world hierarchy.

"At various times in his criminal past, Corso had been arrested and charged with murder. In each case, there was never enough evidence to convict him.

"Over time, he was prosecuted by two Attorneys General, each of whom turns out to have once been associated with one of the three law firms in question. And he was adjudicated by a Judge who was also a former member of one of those firms."

"Tell me about the Attorneys General?"

"Each practiced at one of the firms, and both subsequently ran for election as A.G. Not at the same time, of course. They both ran on a 'Clean Up The Gangs' platform. One of them served a single term. The other, two.

"And the Judge?"

"Appointed to the bench by the then Governor. Died a couple of years back."

"I'm guessing he, too, had practiced in one of the firms."

"She."

"The Judge was a woman?"

"She was."

"Go on."

"Despite the failure to convict, each of the Attorneys

General had strongly recommended extradition for Antonio Corso."

"And the Judge?"

"She was the enforcer. The one who ordered it."

"Where did Corso wind up?"

"Guatamala City. Once there, the FBI no longer tracked him."

"So it's possible he might have come back here."

"I wouldn't know."

"But it's possible?"

"That's not my table. I wouldn't want to speculate."

We both turned turned to Paul DeSavino, who had finally finished his French Dip and was currently working on an errant strand of beef with a plastic toothpick. "Antonio Corso still has family here," he muttered. "The research makes mention of a daughter who died in some kind of freak accident after he'd been deported. Maybe that brought him back. Who knows?"

"So?"

"It's possible he or one of his family members is grinding his axe."

"Which means?"

"Wreaking vengeance."

"Involving?"

"The three people who disappeared."

#

"So, what do we do?" I asked.

DeSavino and I were sitting in my Wrangler in Philippe's parking lot.

"Good question."

"For how much that lunch cost me, you better have a good answer."

"It's tricky."

"How?"

"Let's say Antonio Corso is here. In Los Angeles.

But un-traceable. Let's also say we locate some of his family. What we need is a family member who will lead us to Antonio. What we don't need are any missteps. Tracking him through a family member will be tricky. "If we were to tip our hand, and Corso was to learn we've made him for the three disappearances and are hunting him, he'll make sure we never find him. Or them. He's no stranger here. He's got high level connections."

"So what do you propose?"

"We'll have to work from the inside out. Locate him one way or another without raising his suspicions."

"How?"

"Normally I'd deploy a small investigative team. But in this case, I'm not completely certain."

"Because?"

"The extradition is old news. Times have changed. Key operatives, too. We first need to get tabs on the Corso family. Who and where any of them might be. Once we learn that, then we can run surveillance on which of them might unwittingly lead us to Antonio."

"What can I do?"

"You were a pretty good detective when you were in L.A."

"So?"

"Start detecting."

EIGHT

The new L.A.P.D. Headquarters building, a post-modern concrete and glass monstrosity, located downtown at the corners of East First and South Main Streets, opened to conflicting reviews in 2009, replacing the legendary Parker Center.

I dropped in to see my old partner, Riley Murphy, whose seventh floor office overlooks the Frank Gehry- designed Disney Concert Hall, itself an architectural wonder, all metal curves and angles, standing in stark contrast to the boxy, sharp-edged headquarters edifice.

"I need to draw a bead on Antonio Corso's family," I said once we were seated.

"Good luck with that."

"It's possible Corso's here in L.A. And if so, he may be responsible for the three disappearances."

"What does DeSavino advise?"

"That I start detecting."

"Sounds like him."

"Is there any chance the L.A.P.D. might do some detecting also? And interface with Paul? Help uncover any intel or motive that might lead to Corso? We've got three victims out there who must surely need help."

"I'll give it my best shot, Buddy."

#

There was even more unsettling news awaiting my return to San Remo.

"They're calling it arson," Marsha Russo said as she planted herself on one of the visitor's chairs in front of my desk. "The fire at the Greene and Browne law firm, although now under control, did a considerable amount of damage. According to founding partner Harold Greene, the office is an 'unholy mess.'"

Housed in a turn of the century Craftsman bungalow, in an upscale commercial neighborhood of Freedom Township, the back side of the building suffered the heaviest damage. The kitchen area and its adjoining rooms/offices were pretty much decimated.

"We're damned lucky we digitized our files," Greene had lamented to Marsha.

"You think there's a connection?" I asked her.

"Who knows. But we don't see too much arson around here. And that it happened to one of the law firms in question isn't a good sign. You taught us not to believe in coincidences."

"You're thinking Antonio Corso?"

"Or his family."

#

I hastened to contact Chanho Pineda, my friend and frequent teammate from my basketball-playing youth, currently a member of the Governor's Community Relations Advisory Council, in charge of spearheading the statewide effort to curtail gang and cartel activities.

"This isn't a good time, Buddy," he said when he picked up my call.

"It never is."

"What do you need?"

"Info."

"You've got ten minutes."

"Antonio Corso."

"Really? That guy? I haven't heard anything about him in ages."

"I need information."

"What kind?"

"Where did he live? Does he have family? And if so, where might they be now?"

"Wow. Antonio Corso. He wasn't such a good guy,

Buddy. As I recall, he was from somewhere in South America. Honduras, maybe? Guatamala?"

"Guatamala."

"Yeah. Guatamala. He was lethal. A loner. A mean-spirited gun for hire. Cold blooded killer. Once this guy came on the scene, he caught everyone's attention. I shudder to think of the ways in which he executed his contracts. No pun intended.

"They never nailed him, though. Couldn't make anything stick. As I remember, some judge ordered his extradition. They couldn't get him out of the country fast enough. "

"And his family?"

"I think they were living in South Central. Somewhere in one of the projects. A wife and a couple of kids, if memory serves. I can't imagine they're still there."

"Can you find out?"

"You want me to ask about Corso's family?"

"Yeah."

"Have you gone daft? I'd raise every eyebrow in the state if I started inquiring about this guy."

"I've got three innocent people who may have been kidnapped by him. Or by a member of his family. They're very much in harm's way, Chanho. I'm drawing blanks and I'm desperate for any information that might lead me to them. Find me a Corso. Any Corso. Please."

"It's such a pleasure being your friend, Buddy. Only for you would I do this."

NINE

THURSDAY

"And if Chano succeeds?" I asked FBI Special Agent, Paul DeSavino.

We were at Echo Park Lake, on a sun-drenched SoCal afternoon. Sitting on a bench overlooking a small inlet, nibbling ice cream sandwiches, watching little kids play with toy boats.

And big kids surreptitiously swapping dollars for narcotics.

"You mean if he leads us to Corso?"

"Him or one of his relatives."

"Stealth," DeSavino commented as he picked a piece of chocolate cookie off of his shirt.

"As in, keep an eye on whomever and hope he'll lead you to the captives?"

"Something like that, yes."

"You're talking Hostage Rescue Team."

He nodded. "Sooner or later. You believe Corso's going to turn up, don't you?"

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because Chanho sort of let that cat out of the bag."

"How so?"

"By indicating that any inquiries regarding him would raise a whole bunch of eyebrows."

"Meaning?"

"Corso's still very much a person of interest to the gangs. And as such, his whereabouts or the whereabouts of his family has to be known to them."

"The reason why any untoward interest would be noticeable."

"My money says Chano's going to drop a clue and then beg off."

"What kind of clue?"

"Likely a complicated one. A back door opening onto a family member. One that can't be traced to him."

"Corso's that valuable?"

"He's unique. A cold blooded killer for hire who delivers. No one's going to rat him out. He's prime."

"Hence the Hostage Rescue Team." "Exactly."

#

The H.R.T. is an FBI tactical unit, formed to establish a full-time federal law enforcement team capable of swiftly responding to major terrorist incidents throughout the United States.

Rapid deployment, the element of surprise, extensive tactics training and thorough planning are all part of H.R.T. protocols.

Having been privileged to work alongside H.R.T. operatives during my time with the L.A.P.D., I knew that successfully tracking down the Corsos would be more likely to swiftly occur were they involved.

It came as no surprise when Chanho Pineda informed me that Antonio Corso's son was still in Los Angeles. Also that he had a record.

L.A.P.D. research provided additional information. Now in his twenties, Reynoldo Corso was a petty thief who somehow managed to get himself apprehended while shoplifting an iPhone from an Apple store and as a result, spent nine months in a County lockup.

The Tracy Silver disappearance occurred four days after Reynoldo got out of jail. A coincidence?

Chanho had provided a cryptic description of the young man's whereabouts. He identified a flower shop in the Boyle Heights area and mentioned there were apartments above it.

"That's all I know, Buddy," he rasped. "Please don't involve me any further."

"Don't worry."

"What, me worry?" He said and hung up.

TEN

I informed Special Agent DeSavino of Chanho's enigmatic information and asked if he might fire up one of the H.R.T. units in an effort to locate Reynaldo Corso.

I heard back from him a few hours later.

He confirmed the younger Corso was indeed living in a tiny studio apartment above the flower shop in Boyle Heights. He had been spotted entering the building. His photo matched the one the L.A.P.D. had on file.

An H.R.T. unit was preparing to trail him twenty-four seven in the hope he would lead them to his father. Or short of that, to the whereabouts of the missing threesome.

"The team should be in place shortly," DeSavino said. "If Corso's involved, and the captives are all still alive, we'll suss them out."

"And Corso's old man?"

"Let's assume he's here. If so, he's bound to show his face. If he isn't, and young Corso makes no contact with the captives, then it's a dead end."

"So, what do we do?"

"Sit tight and let our guys keep watch. If something's going to happen, it's going to happen soon."

#

The Hostage Rescue Team set up the surveillance of Reynaldo Corso within hours and it wasn't long before DeSavino phoned me.

"He's on the move," he announced. "Our guys spotted him getting into an ancient Chevy Suburban that was parked near his building. They followed him to a local Ralphs market and when he went inside, they attached a tracking device to the underside of the Suburban."

"And?"

"Our boy came out of the Ralphs brandishing two oversized shopping bags and placed them in the back seat. Now he's on the I 15 heading north."

"Toward?"

"I'll let you know as soon as I know."

#

The drive from Boyle Heights on the I 15 usually takes about an hour and a half. Paul DeSavino phoned back in less than an hour to announce Reynaldo Corso had exited at Victorville.

He went on to say his team had decided to lay back because Corso was cruising the outer reaches of the city and were they to follow, he would surely notice. The tracking device would keep them abreast of his whereabouts.

Victorville is located at the southernmost edge of the Mojave Desert, a high-point way-station adjacent to the Freeway, approximately a third of the distance from Los Angeles to Las Vegas.

By the time I arrived, the HRT had made contact with Victorville Police Department Chief, Danny Exum, who had been sworn to secrecy regarding their operation.

After all proper introductions, we settled into Exum's office to study a series of comprehensive maps of the northeastern corner of the city, the region wherein Reynaldo Corso was currently ensconsed.

Unlike downtown Victorville, the area where Corso had decamped was largely undeveloped. There were very few houses. The streets were unpaved and riddled with debris and tumbleweeds, victims of the blustery winds that regularly swept through the surrounding mountain ranges.

Mid-twentieth century land speculation was at the root of the construction of the few houses that exist there. But the unforgiving high-land weather hindered developers and frightened potential residents, so in time, most of the hearty few who settled there had fled.

"Them homes ain't been lived in for some time," Captain Exum exclaimed. "To tell you the truth, I had no idea anyone was even out there."

"Sure looks as if our boy is there," I said. "Likely accompanied by the three captives."

"The living conditions there can't be any too pleasant."

"Because?"

"No water. No power," Exum said.

"We'll need to develop a plan of attack," HRT group leader, FBI Agent Andy Jeffries, commented.

Agent Jeffries, or A.J., as he liked to be called, had been captaining HRT activities for a number of years. He was formidable, large and powerful, intense and capable. He had pulled together a compact team of skillful and experienced operatives.

"We've done this dance before," he said as he and his team began exploring their options. "Best we hit them during the night. They'll never see us coming."

ELEVEN

It was approximately two a.m. when we set out.

There were seven of us, four HRT operatives, plus Andy Jeffries, Paul DeSavino, and me.

While the Feebs expressed confidence in our plan of attack, I was queasy. We were entering unfamiliar territory, manned by an unpredictably vicious player holding innocent captives whose lives were of little or no value to him. A single mistake could result in disaster.

We set up camp a couple of miles from the target, behind the collapsed remains of a deserted gas station.

Jeffries and DeSavino arrived in a Hyundai SUV, the others in a Chevy dual-axle pickup truck outfitted with assault ladders should they be needed, plus a hastily assembled bundle of additional weaponry and devices.

I drove my ancient Wrangler.

We all wore riot gear, including night-vision goggles and bulletproof vests. We had pistols and two of the HRT operatives carried Remington M40 sniper rifles.

We hiked the two miles up a slight hill toward the deteriorated house where Corso was holed up, a Mid-century Modern, adapted from the popular post-war prairie style homes, a then contemporary architectural style designed to attract suburban discontents who sought a more rural way of life.

As we learned from Sheriff Exum, the real-estate project had failed and those few pilot houses still standing had been long abandoned.

We passed a turn in the road at the crest of the hill, and suddenly found ourselves confronted by a four pack of feral looking coyotes, standing in a line, staring at us menacingly.

We stared back.

A Mexican standoff.

From my youthful experiences with coyotes in San Remo County, I knew to be wary of them. Any attack by a gang of coyotes could be fatal.

But I also knew they were uncertain regarding humans and in some circumstances, could be scared off by them.

My first impulse was to warn the team that any loud noises or the use of weaponry against the coyotes might have repercussions regarding the safety of the hostages.

From the depths of my normally uncertain memory, I dredged up a recollection of how to haze coyotes. Ways in which to frighten them.

I instructed my companions to surreptitiously pick up stones from the unpaved roadway and at my signal, hurl them at the animals.

I took a step toward the coyotes, who eyed me warily.

Then I jumped in the air and started frantically waving my arms above my head, which was the signal to began throwing the stones.

At first the animals stood frozen, uncertain as to what we were doing. Then, amid a hailstorm of stones and rocks, they fled.

We stayed as we were, all eyes focused on the house, hoping our activity had gone un-noticed.

After several minutes, we relaxed and with a sigh of relief, set about actualizing our plan.

Reynaldo Corso's Chevy Suburban was parked in front. A.J. hastened to disable it by flattening the two front and the left rear tires. Any attempt to escape in it would be severely hampered by the now unbalaced chasis. He also removed the tracking device he had earlier placed beneath it.

As we moved closer to the house, I glanced into the doorless garage and spotted a Harley-Davidson Sportster motorcyle. Which served to further inform our plan.

We stationed two members of the team on opposite sides of the roadway leading to the house, each camouflaged by indigenous brush, each brandishing a sniper rifle.

The other two operatives covered the front and back doors of the house.

With A.J. in the lead, he, Paul DeSavino and I crept through a southside patio that stood adjacent to what was once a combination living/sun room, through French doors that had been glass-paneled but which now stood barren and ajar.

With the help of our night vision goggles, we inched through the sun room and up three creaky steps into a dining area that opened onto a kitchen.

The house was a mess. The floors were littered with chunks of compacted dirt and rubble, all buried under layers of accumulated dust, surrounded by discarded items of foul-smelling garbage.

There was no furniture nor appliances of any kind. Most of the glass in the windows had been smashed.

The bedrooms splayed out beyond the kitchen, accessible by a winding hallway that moseyed north.

Wary of making any untoward noise that might give us away, A.J. signaled for Paul and me to stay put in the kitchen while he explored the hallway alone.

It was when he opened the door to the first of the bedrooms that gunfire erupted. A rifle burst shattered the silence and blew A.J. off of his feet, slamming him into the hallway wall, where he slid heavily to the floor.

I unholstered my Colt, darted toward him and planted myself beside the open door.

A.J. took stock of his circumstance. The bullet-proof vest had surely saved his life, but he was staggered by the velocity of the soft point cartridge that struck him. He struggled to his feet and then vaulted to the far side of the door frame.

Suddenly a young man appeared in the doorway and turned, rifle on his shoulder. Spotting A.J. standing there alarmed him.

Without warning, I jumped him and slammed the butt of my Colt into the back of the young man's head.

He collapsed like a ton of bricks.

"You okay?" I asked A.J.

"Better than him." He said pointing to the downed assailant. A.J. kicked the rifle back toward the kitchen. "I'll cover him," he said. "You go check the other rooms."

I nodded and headed swiftly down the hall.

When I attempted to gently open the door of the adjacent room, I found it locked.

Not willing to shoot the lock and risk unintended gunshot damage to anyone inside, I took several steps backward, then leapt at the door, smashing into it shoulder first, splintering the already weakened wood paneling and forcing the door open.

Inside, secured to the far wall by chains and pulleys, was a middle-aged man, who gaped at me through red-rimmed eyes.

"Jeremy?" I queried.

He mumbled something unintelligible.

I realized he was gagged and quickly tore the gag away.

He then fainted, his body sagging but held up by his shackles. His head lolled forward.

When his eyes flickered open, I lifted his head. "Stay calm. You're safe. FBI rescue team is here."

Then I stepped into the hallway and called out to Paul

DeSavino. "Hogan's in this room. I'm still hunting for Connell and Tracy."

I edged myself further down the hall and stopped in front of the next room. This time the door was unlocked. I opened it only to find the room empty.

I moved on and when I attempted to open the door to the adjacent room, it was locked.

Again I became a physical battering ram, and once inside, I encountered Philip Connell, gagged and secured to the wall, like Hogan.

I hurriedly removed his gag. "Mr. Connell?"

He nodded.

I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see A.J. step tentatively into the room. "He okay?"

"Seems to be. Hogan?"

"Paulie's with him."

"You okay?"

He nodded.

"Good. You deal with Connell. I'll find Tracy."

The final room, probably the master bedroom, was at the end of the hall. When I tested the doorknob, it opened.

I hesitated a moment, then stepped inside, where I faced a bound and gagged Tracy Silver, held tight against a venal-looking creature whose chief characteristic was the venomous malevolence radiating from his shadowy, reptilian eyes.

"Senor Corso," I said. "Buenos dias."

He sat on a straight-backed chair, his left arm wrapped around Tracy, clutching her close to him. In his right hand was an Arabic Jambiya dagger, one with a carved cutting edge that he held against Tracy's neck.

"Who in the fuck are you," he bellowed, eying me up and down.

Tracy gazed at me and for a brief second, I detected recognition in her eyes.
"I'm your Get out of jail free card," I responded.

"Don't misjudge me."

"What the fuck does that mean," he snarled, his aura a haze of unfathomable cunning and evil.

"We have an extremely narrow window before reality here changes. There's an FBI swat team on its way. If we act immediately, you and your son can get out of here unscathed."

"How?"

"You free the girl, I free your boy, and then the two of you scram."

"Just like that?"

"I saw the Harley in the garage. You and Reynaldo get on it and split. The girl stays with me."

"And you'd simply let me go? Do you really think I'm gullible enough to buy that line of crap?"

"Listen, Antonio... if we do this quickly, before the Feebs get here, you have an excellent chance of getting away. These mountain passes will make it hard for anyone to follow you.

"But if you lag and the swat team arrives..." I shrugged. "...your circumstance changes. Hear me. I don't give a shit what happens to you. I want the girl. You want to get out of here. Let's make a deal."

He considered my proposal for several moments, his shadowy eyes fixed on me.

"Where's Reynaldo?"

"Bring Reynaldo," I shouted to Paul DeSavino with a degree of urgency.

Within moments, he appeared with the young man in tow.

"Stand the troops down," I said. "We're heading for the garage. Antonio here has agreed to swap Tracy for Reynaldo. I've promised them safe passage."

"Got it," Paulie said.

"Tracy's life is at stake here, Paulie," I said, mostly for effect.

DeSavino nodded, placed Reynaldo in my charge and headed off.

The boy was still woozy from the blow to his head. I held him at gunpoint.

"The garage," I said to Antonio Corso. "You lead. We follow. When we reach the bike, that's when we make the swap."

"Get rid of the gun."

"Not until we're there. Then I throw it away and you toss the knife."

With Antonio still holding the dagger to Tracy's throat, and me hugging Reynaldo to my side at gunpoint, we made our way to the garage.

The big Harley-Davidson Sportster stood in the center of the doorless space.

Antonio gave it the once over and glared at me. "The gun," he snarled.

"The girl," I said.

"Let Reynaldo get on the bike. Once he's on, you toss the gun and I let her go."

"And I should trust you because?"

"It's the only way she gets out alive."

I shrugged and released Reynaldo, who made a beeline for the bike, jumped on and fired it up.

Antonio edged Tracy toward the Harley and with the dagger still at her neck, he climbed aboard.

"The gun," he hollered.

I stared at him for a moment, then tossed the Colt toward the back of the garage.

Antonio shoved Tracy away from the bike and wrapped his arms around Reynaldo's waist.

The young man immediately inched the Harley outside, and with the engine roaring, the two of them, father and son, sped off into the night.

Within seconds, Tracy was in my arms, trembling and sobbing, but free.

TWELVE

We could hear the Sportster race along the gravelly dirt road, heading toward the mountains.

As it approached the open roadway, the spirited Harley's six speed engine roared anew, which is approximately when it all went south.

In the darkness, as we planned, Reynaldo was unable to see the thick black spike strip that stretched across the road.

As told to us later by the Hostage Rescue Team operatives who were stationed there, once the speeding Harley encountered the strip, its tires shredded and ripped off of their casings. The bike lost balance, teetered wildly, then toppled over, skidding on its side at high velocity, dragging the two Corsos with it, slamming headfirst into a spate of rocks, grit, and Acacia bushes.

Reynaldo Corso was wearing a helmet. His father wasn't. Both were violently propelled head first into a mass of thick Acacia thorns.

Reynaldo's helmet protected him.

Antonio's bare head, however, was defenseless against the wicked shrubs. Sharply pointed thorns penetrated his face and his neck, rupturing his carotid artery, killing him instantly.

In later hearings, Reynaldo told investigators that his father had been deported so speedily that he lost his capital.

Then his daughter died in Los Angeles during his forced return to Guatamala.

Broke and powerless, he slipped back into the U.S. so as to amass a new stake and seek revenge against those who had engineered his exit.

His plan was to commit two additional kidnappings, followed by a demand for a heavy ransom.

Grief was as much fuel for Antonio as was greed.

#

Jeremy Hogan, Philip Connell, and Tracy Silver were swiftly transported to the Victor Valley Global Medical Center for evaluation. We notified their families and once cleared by the medical staff, FBI helicopters hastened them home.

A.J.'s HRT team packed up and dispersed. Their involvement would be held secret.

As per Special Agent DeSavino's instruction, Sheriff Exum denied any knowledge of the incident. He shunned the media and held no press briefings.

DeSavino hitched a ride with me back to L.A.

We stopped at an en route Denny's for breakfast. The sight of the unearthly amount of food he ordered and was currently attacking caused me to lose whatever appetite I might have had.

"For the life of me, I can't even begin to imagine how you can down so much crap."

"I don't remember seeking your opinion," DeSavino said between bites of a Belgian waffle.

After several moments, I asked, "So what are you thinking?"

"That iHop waffles are better."

"Paulie..."

"I'm thinking we did good."

"And?"

"Now we go mum. If we were to start tooting our own horns and raising celebratory fists, we'd run the risk of waking the sleeping giant."

"Meaning?"

"This Corso guy. The dead guy. Very enigmatic character. Gang connected. High-end operative. It's possible the cartel mucky-mucks might choose to take our little escapade personally. Particularly if we were to rub their noses in it. They might well seek revenge."

"For Corso's death?"

"It's possible."

"Hence the silent treatment."

"We've got nothing to gain by crowing. You can be damn sure the cartels already suspect us. But if we shut the fuck up, they won't have certainty. Which will confuse them. And in all likelihood, eliminate the prospect of their taking action. What I'm getting at, Buddy, is silence is golden. Let sleeping dogs lie."

"Sounds reasonable."

"It does, doesn't it?" he muttered between bites of French Toast.

"So what do you do next?"

"I order some fresh coffee."

I flashed him my best dead-eyed stare.

He shrugged and grinned. "I go home."

"And?"

"Cling to the hope you won't ever call me again."

THIRTEEN

A WEEK LATER

Dinner was at the Sheriff's house. In attendance were my father, step-mother, the three Silvers... Ned, Jennie and Tracy... plus me.

Over hors d'oeuvres and drinks, the old man paid homage to me and the rescue operation, while at the same time, taking a victory lap for having advised me to enlist the assistance of the FBI in the first place.

I smiled.

The dinner was prepared and served by a local caterer. We started with a designer salad, moved on to grilled filet mignon, twice-baked potatoes, and roasted Brussels sprouts, all followed by a sour cream cheesecake pie.

Sated, we retired to the living room for brandy and chocolate covered cherries.

The mood was warily joyful. Ned and Jennie were greatly relieved, but the tension and heartache had exacted their toll. They were subdued and emotionally exhausted.

They repeatedly expressed their gratitude for my having engineered Tracy's escape.

And with a nod to my old man, I repeatedly reminded them I didn't act alone.

The talk soon shifted to politics which was when I motioned to Tracy, who accompanied me into my father's den.

Once settled in a pair of weathered leather armchairs, our glasses refreshed, I asked, "How are you doing?" "Good. I'm doing good."

When I smiled, she went on. "Jennie got me immediately into the care of Dr. Margot Winchester. Harvard trained psychiatrist. Trauma specialist. I've been seeing her daily and she's helped enormously."

"And?"

"I was lucky."

"How so?"

"Antonio never laid a hand on me. He protected me from Reynaldo, who never stopped leering at me."

"Did Reynaldo threaten you?"

"Only by innuendo. He was beleaguered by his father.

Scared of him. He rarely spoke. He always did exactly as Antonio instructed.

"Antonio confided in me as to how freighted he was with all his heavy duty psychological baggage. We talked about it. We did a lot of talking."

"And?"

"He got booted out of the country in an unexpected hurry. No sooner had the Judge rendered her verdict than he was on a plane. Never had time to say goodbye to his family. Then his teen-aged daughter was killed by a hit and run driver, which devastated him.

"So he made his way back into the country, and on the day Reynaldo was released from prison, he gathered him in and with his son by his side, he masterminded the whole kidnapping thing.

"I had left the club and was walking to my car when from out of nowhere, the two of them attacked me. Antonio later told me it was chloroform that knocked me out. I guess it was the same with the others.

"But I got lucky. Dr. Winchester says it was my resemblance to Antonio's daughter that protected me.

"I never said this to Ned or Jennie, but I have to admit I felt a little sorry for him."

"For Antonio?"

"Yes."

"He was a stone cold killer. A truly bad guy."

"I know. But he told me all about growing up impoverished in Guatamala. Legitimacy was never an option for him. Circumstances dictated the direction of his life. I feel sad for him."

"You're a very fortunate young lady, Tracy."

"Tell me about it."

#

I left early.

Tired.

Relieved.

Happy for the quiet.

Mulling what I learned from Tracy.

She had opened my eyes to the plight of young Reynaldo Corso.

Proving once again there are two sides to every story.

Not everything is cut and dried.

Black or white.

Good or bad.

In my mind's eye, I experienced anew the malevolence I saw reflected in Antonio Corso's glare.

Regardless of the circumstances of his upbringing, or his ability to sway Tracy's opinion of him, he was unforgiveably deplorable. His fate was well deserved.

But he left behind unfinished business.

He had been an unwitting role model for his damaged son, whose own life was now hanging by a judicial thread.

I considered Tracy's description of him.

Then questioned myself as to the possibility that Reynaldo's life might be salvageable.

What if he deserved a shot at rehabilitation?

He had been his father's pawn.

Dutifully obedient.

Serving the old man's will.

Fathers and sons.

A life-altering dynamic.

A dynamic with which I'm more than familiar.

As I lay sleeplessly on my bed, I found myself sympathetic to Reynaldo's plight.

And I vowed that, at the very least, I'd make certain he'd have competent legal representation.

My thoughts turned to the Silvers... Ned and Jennie.

Lawyers.

Litigators.

With skin in this game.

Members of a highly regarded firm.

Who owed me.

Which they told me repeatedly during dinner.

Irony?

Fate?

Who knows?

But I'm certain the Silvers and their firm in no way anticipate what I now have in mind for them.

Content, my eyelids grew heavy. Thoughts of the upcoming weekend with Jordyn Yates elbowed all others aside. Finally I slept.