“FBI spokesperson Rosalind Dent confirmed the failure of authorities to recover the girl.” The screen cut to Rosie Dent standing in a wooded area. “The kidnapper claimed to have a high-power rifle trained on the duffel bag and threatened to shoot if the money was not transferred. The FBI advised the Lamberth family to wait on the money transfer but the family decided not to take that risk.” The dark areas had deepened under the FBI agent’s eyes since Forte had seen her that morning.
The screen cut back to the anchorperson. “Freida Lamberth, mother of the kidnapped girl and widow of Tyson Lamberth, has been hospitalized and treated with sedatives after hearing the news.” The news moved on to other things.
Forte realized he was on his feet as he watched the news report. He didn’t remember getting up from the padded booth where his soft drink sat on the table. He picked up the drink and drained it, then walked back out into the vast space of the waiting area. He walked all the way over to the wall of 30-foot windows that overlooked a runway.
Hallee’s gone. The kidnapper’s gone. The money’s gone.
And here I am looking up at the sky in Chicago.
Chapter 29
Monday, 11 p.m.
The house looked lonely without any cars in the driveway or policemen patrolling the wall. Then again, Forte thought, with Freida Lamberth resting in the hospital there was no one left at home for anyone to guard.
He just hoped they had not changed the code on the security systems. There were two alarm systems to worry about, one at the gate and one to get into the house itself.
Forte had parked his van a quarter-mile away and had spent a half hour jogging through the Garden District in a bright blue windsuit. He had passed the Lamberth house a half-dozen times from different directions, scrutinizing every angle of the house for signs of movement. He had seen no movement in or around the house.
The seventh time he approached the house, he slowed as he neared the security gate at the driveway. He scanned the street. No other runners or dog-walkers or cyclists were out. He stopped at the gate. Quickly he punched in the security code from memory. He stopped with his hand on the gate handle. Clack, whirrr. The gate swung open.
Forte stepped through quickly and hit the Close button on the control panel inside. The gate reversed direction and clicked shut. Forte stepped into the shadows next to the gate and quickly peeled off the windsuit. Underneath he was dressed in urban night camouflage, a mottled design of grays that blended with the shadows. His only weapon was his nine millimeter automatic. He was traveling light.
He crouched in the shrubbery along the wall and kept perfectly still as he watched the house for five minutes. When he was certain there was no one moving about in the house, he darted to the side door entrance. Quickly, he punched in the code on the alarm panel next to the door.
The red light next to “Armed” blinked off. He was safe.
He opened the door and went in.
Forte armed the security system again, then stood next to the door for a moment and listened for any movement. Satisfied, he took out a small but powerful flashlight and began a walk-through of the house. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for. But he would know when he found it. Besides, he had learned long ago that when there was a problem to be solved and there seemed to be no solution, just find the tiniest thread and start tugging on it. Sometimes the whole ball of yarn would come unraveled.
The kitchen was orderly. No food or dishes had been left out. He imagined the dark-haired woman in her starched white outfit, the one who had brought the cop and him coffee, keeping busy washing cups and saucers while the household drifted in suspense waiting for Hallee’s release.
He had been in dozens of homes as they waited for news, desperately hoping beyond hope for good news.
He was not much for the waiting part.
His preference for action rather than contemplation had seemed rash to some of his commanding officers. It had always been both a strong point and a weak point for him. His evaluations during SEALs training always included phrases such as “candidate borders on impatience at times during a mission” and “candidate comes close to relying more on his intuition than thoughtful planning in missions.”
He remembered being discouraged when a commanding officer first shared those negative comments with him in a regularly scheduled review. After the meeting, however, the officer had read some other comments to him, off the record. “Candidate consistently proves to achieve higher success rates in the completion of mission objectives than any other man in his group. His decision-making skills in combat and his reflexes have made his strike team the most effective the training center has seen in years.”
Over the years, he had accepted his skills and had learned to recognize when they were an asset or a liability. He had gradually reached the point where he was not hesitant to depend on others whose abilities complemented his.
Tonight, however, this was a one-man job.
He walked down the short hallway next to the kitchen to the first floor study where the computer had been. It was still on the desk, powered off. Forte shone his flashlight over the cables behind the computer box, looking for any detection device or alarms around the computer. Seeing none, he pushed the power button and listened to the hum of the power supply fan and the clickity-click of the computer’s hard drive as it booted up.
When the operating system finished loading, he quickly double-clicked through several folders. He scanned the contents of the Temporary folder then navigated to the Temporary Internet Files folder, which indicated web sites the computer user had visited on the Internet. Most of the web sites listed seemed to fit into four categories: medical research, grade school education, fashion trends, and sailing. Nothing jumped out at him
He clicked the X button and closed the window, then opened the e-mail program. He scanned the inbox and read the ransom message from Schein. The other messages were mostly junk mail.
Forte closed the e-mail program window, then shut down the computer. He got up and walked through the rest of the rooms downstairs. Finding nothing of interest, he went up the stairs.
The door to Hallee’s room was open. He went in.
Everything had been tidied up. The bed was made, the clothes picked up off the floor, the bookshelves straightened. The stuffed tiger that Hallee had been holding when he first met her was propped on the shelf of the multimedia center. Forte looked closely. The medallion with the scripture reference had been taken off the collar. Probably tagged and bagged for evidence by some of the FBI’s forensic people.
Forte slowly let the flashlight travel over the shelves of the media center. Nothing leaped out at him and screamed ‘This is a clue.’ He edged down to the end of the built-in desk, still looking at the books and CD titles on the shelf at eye level. He idly spun the globe on the stand as he studied the shelves’ contents. He turned to walk out of the room.
He turned back to the globe as it slowly stopped spinning. He leaned closer, holding the flashlight at an angle to eliminate its glare off the metal finish of the globe.
The faint ghost remained of a red X that had been marked on the globe. It looked as if it had been rubbed with some kind of cleaner in an attempt to remove the mark. The X was practically invisible if viewed straight on. But when a light was held at an angle to the sphere, it could be seen, if very faintly.
The X had been marked in the Caribbean region of the globe. Next to an island. Off the coast of Belize.
Forte stood very still. He remembered his conversation with Father Buell about Jerah Schein’s dream of sailing to the Caribbean.
He pulled open the desk drawer and scooped up the dozen or so pens that lay in the tray inside the drawer. He sat at the desk, grabbed a notebook and flipped it open to a blank page. He opened each pen and scribbled on the paper. Only two of the pens wrote in red ink.
He turned to the globe and made an X with each of the red pens. None came close to the type of mark produced by the X near Beliz
e. He took a tissue and wiped away the marks he had made.
Hallee had not made the X on the globe. Who had?
Forte got up and went up the stairs to Freida’s room. Moving quickly, he rifled through the drawers of the two bedside stands. He came up with three red felt-tip pens. He ran back to the globe in Hallee’s room.
He tried the first one. No match. The second. No match.
He carefully made an X with the third marker.
He looked at the faded original X. Then back to the one he had added.
It made the exact same type of mark.
Forte sat on the edge of the bed and thought it over. It was such a stretch that the FBI would not believe any of this, even if he could convince them he was not obstructing justice merely by trying to track down the kidnapper.
But it was all he had to go on.
He found the phone book in Hallee’s desk, took out his cell phone, and dialed the hospital. He was connected to the nurse’s station near Freida Lamberth’s room. He asked to speak to the policeman at her room. A pause, then the cop came on the line.
“Officer Gordon, can I help you?”
“I need to talk to Freida Lamberth.”
“She is resting now. Can’t come to the phone.” The cop sounded irritated. “Who is calling?”
“A friend,” Forte said. “Listen, can you just do this: go into her room and see if she is okay. Please, it won’t take but a second.”
“Listen, man, I don’t know what you …”
“It is important. You don’t have to wake her up. Just see if she is there. Please,” Forte said, his voice urgent now.
The line was silent for a beat. Then the officer said, “Hold on.”
Forte waited. He heard the man get up and open the door.
Almost immediately, he heard the door bang open and the guard shouted something down the hallway. The cop picked up the phone. “She’s gone! Who is this…”
Forte disconnected the line.
Chapter 30
Tuesday, 10:30 a.m.
Forte looked over at the child in the passenger seat of the van. Kyra was holding up her doll so it could look at the sights of the French Quarter as they passed by.
“See, Penelope,” Kyra told the doll, “that’s where the beautiful princess lives when she comes to visit. And nobody will ever ever come to hurt her.”
Forte drove the van east through the narrow streets, past Jackson Square and the old French Market. Soon he was out of the official boundaries of the Quarter. The buildings were still small compared to the high-rise structures in the downtown area. They were less ornate than the renovated apartments and storefronts in the well-traveled parts of the Quarter.
He pulled a scrap of paper out of his tee-shirt pocket. The address was near. He slowed the van as he checked the numbers on the crowded apartments. He pulled to the curb in front of an apartment that was noticeably more well kept than the other homes on the narrow street.
Standing at the bottom of the stoop were Skull Cap and Goatee, the thugs he had first seen with Poochie. As the van stopped, Goatee walked up the stairs and rapped on the door with his knuckles. The door opened and Poochie walked out into the sunshine. He stepped aside and another person followed him out of the apartment.
She was an older woman in a stylish blue dress. She shaded her eyes with a hand and looked closely at the van. Forte could see the wrinkles in the old woman’s coffee skin around her eyes as she recognized Kyra.
“Gran-mama!” Kyra squealed next to him. Forte got out and went around to help Kyra out. As soon as her seatbelt was unbuckled she shot out of the van and ran to the old woman who scooped her up and hugged her close.
“Kyra sweetie, my precious baby,” the woman said, her eyes closed. Her voice sounded as if tears were close to the surface. She opened her eyes and saw Forte standing on the sidewalk. She mouthed the words “Thank you” soundlessly.
Poochie watched the reunion silently, a smile playing across his face. For a moment, he almost looked like a normal proud uncle, Forte thought. Some good in the worst, some bad in the best.
* * *
Back at his office, Forte walked to the window, peered out for a few moments, then meandered back to his desk. It was his fifth trip back and forth. He was restless. He had telephoned Jon Brach at the newspaper and left a voicemail message for him. Other calls to Rosie Dent at the FBI and to other contacts in the New Orleans Police Department and Orleans Parish District Attorney’s office had been fruitless. Everyone was out.
Forte sat for about five minutes at his desk, drumming a pencil on a yellow legal pad. On the pad he drew a vertical line with two headings at the top of the page: “Person/Situation” and “Disposition.” He had quickly jotted down the facts to fill out the two columns:
Tyson Lamberth: Murdered by Jerah Schein
Hallee Lamberth: Kidnapped by Schein. Whereabouts – unknown.
Ransom Money: In kidnapper’s bank account; offshore, untouchable.
Freida Lamberth: Disappeared. Kidnapped? Whereabouts – unknown.
Forte looked at the list. A lot had happened in the past three days. He had been hired to protect an 11-year-old girl. She had been stolen from the very house he was guarding while he was in the bedroom of the girl’s mother. He had been shot at by thugs he thought were Colombians but turned out to be hired by the kidnapper. He had come within ten seconds of being blown up by a bomb after coming within minutes of finding the kidnapped girl. Now the $25 million ransom money from the Lamberth family was gone and the kidnapped girl’s mother had disappeared.
“One of my finest hours,” he said aloud.
About the only thing Forte knew for sure at the moment was that he was actually sitting at his desk. Come to Forte Security, the bastion of ineptitude. You can’t count on us but we’re good for a few chuckles to relieve your stress.
For another minute or so he beat himself up as he waited for his calls to be returned. Then he got up and walked past Verna’s desk to get some coffee. A few minutes later he went back through to find the newspaper. He came through again to find another pencil.
Verna looked up from her paperwork, her eyes trailing him over the top of her reading glasses. “You might need to ease up on that coffee,” she said. “Just a suggestion.”
He didn’t respond as he walked past.
At his desk, he picked up the pad from the desktop and walked around the room slapping it against his leg. Outside his office another bright April morning beckoned but not for him. On the streets below a few people strolled along the sidewalk, on the way to their apartments or to the Square or to the park, apparently enjoying life as worry-free as a dolphin in the sea, leaping and chattering in the sun-splashed waves.
He thought about the mark that had been rubbed away from the surface of Hallee’s metal globe. It wasn’t enough to tell the FBI about. But it was something.
In the next room, Verna called out to him. “You better turn on the news,” she shouted.
He threw the legal pad on his desk, found the remote and clicked on the TV.
The picture showed a large sailboat looming above a Coast Guard cruiser. On the rear of the boat was the name “Tyson’s Reward.”
Forte turned up the volume.
“… was located by a Coast Guard rescue team an hour ago. Apparently, an SOS signal had been sent out from the radio on Lamberth’s boat at 6:30 this morning. When rescuers reached the craft, they found it empty but with bloodstains on the deck.” The picture cut to a shaky scene, shot from a news helicopter, that showed a man in an FBI jacket bending over a dark red stain on the boat in front of the sailboat’s main cabin.
The scene cut to the news studio where a distinguished looking anchorman calmly continued. “Investigators have rushed the blood sample to their lab to determine if the blood is that of Freida Lamberth, the widow of murdered abortion doctor Tyson Lamberth. Mrs. Lamberth was discovered missing from her hospital room last night. She had been recovering from the shock
of the kidnapping of her daughter, Hallee, who had been scheduled to be returned yesterday afternoon. Eleven-year-old Hallee was abducted…”
The phone rang and Verna answered. “For you,” she called out.
Forte picked up.
“Are you watching the news?” asked Jon Brach.
“Yes, I saw it,” Forte said.
“Here’s an update that the TV people don’t have yet,” Brach said. Forte could hear an ambulance siren through the phone in the background. “The FBI did a quick test on the blood found at the boat. It’s Freida Lamberth’s.”
Forte’s heart sank. “Not good,” he said.
“Not for her,” the reporter said. “But I’ve got more for you.”
What could be worse, Forte thought.
“The last will and testament of Tyson Lamberth was read earlier this morning. The NCLU just held a press conference. Dr. Lamberth’s estate was worth 40 million bucks. He left half of his money to his daughter Hallee, forty percent to the NCLU, five percent to Tulane University. That leaves five percent to his wife. Freida got the house too.” The reporter paused. “But it looks like she won’t be around to enjoy it.”
Forte held the phone to his ear as he looked out the window of his office.
“Al? You there?”
Forte sat down at his desk. “Yeah, I’m here. Thanks for calling me back. Strange world, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it can be at times. Gotta run now. Bye.”
Forte hung up the phone. He picked up his coffee mug, looked into it, then set it back on the desk. He picked up the legal pad and looked at the list he had made.
Next to Freida Lamberth’s name he marked through the word ‘Kidnapped.’
He left the question mark where it was.
Chapter 31
Wednesday, 3:30 p.m.
“Where have you been since yesterday?” said Verna, never one to beat around the bush. She was standing in the middle of Forte’s den in his apartment, a feather duster in her hand as she watched the man come in.
“Just wandering around some, thinking,” Forte said. He threw his keys on the table and went out on the balcony. Boo the cat lay on his back in the big round cushion chair in the corner. He stretched mightily as Forte approached, his yellow eyes squeezed shut, and leaped out of the way as his master fell backwards into the chair.