“Denny DePrizio. Got some bad news for you, Counselor.”

In the background noise behind DePrizio, I heard sounds of automobile traffic, a horn honking, an engine revving. DePrizio was calling from a pay phone somewhere. I didn’t think there were any pay phones these days.

“Oh, shit,” I said. “Don’t tell me.”

“Nothing, my friend. The briefcase, the money—all clean.”

“Dammit.”

“Y’know, if what you’re telling me is on the up-and-up, then these guys would be too smart to leave a print, anyway. Right?”

I sighed. “I guess so. It was a shot in the dark, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, listen. I’m beginning to feel like I’m being bullshitted here. And I don’t like being bullshitted.”

DePrizio was pretty good at this. He actually sounded like a good cop trying to look into something for me.

“It’s not—I’m not—” I let out a low moan. “I guess I can’t really expect you to believe me.”

A long pause. “Well, listen—you show me something, I’ll look at it. I’m not too interested in wild-goose chases, right? But you give me something real, I’ll look at it. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough. Shit.”

“In the meantime, I got a briefcase with ten thousand bucks?”

“Give it to charity,” I said. “I don’t want that guy’s money.”

He laughed. “You gotta take this money back, Mr. Kolarich.”

“How about I get back to you on that? I’m tied up for the next couple of days. I need to be careful about meeting with you.”

“Still the black helicopters following you?” He was pretty clear on his opinion of my paranoia. “Call me,” he said, laughing.

“I will,” I said. “And when I do, I’ll have something tangible for you.”

I left the office and went to my car. I needed to talk to those eyewitnesses the prosecution had identified and I was done waiting for them to return my calls.

I was on my way to the highway when my cell phone buzzed, a single bleep, indicating a text message. I picked up the phone and watched the graphic on the screen, the back of an envelope appearing, within which the words, “Message from Pete.”

I hit the “read” button and read the words of the text message:

J: I have to get out of town. I feel like I’m trapped. I’ll never beat the charges and I can’t go to prison. I am not cut out for it. I hope you understand. I can’t tell you where I’m going but I will try to get in touch with you soon. I’m sorry. Pete

I struggled to keep my focus on the road, reading and rereading the message. I clicked it off and dialed Pete’s cell phone. Wherever he was, he had his cell phone close.

“Answer the phone!” I yelled. The call rang into voice mail. I hung up and typed a text message of my own, in reply to him: “Tell me where you are.”

I hit “send” as I sped down the highway. I held the cell phone in front of me, in the event Pete would respond with another text. The text message was optimal from the sender’s perspective because it avoided a conversation. And it was anonymous. It didn’t have to be Pete making the communication. It was just Pete’s phone.

I called the number of the hotel where he was staying, asked for his room, and got nothing but a half-dozen rings and then a voice mail. “Dammit,” I said into the phone. I redialed the hotel and this time asked for any information on Pete Kolarich. The front desk had nothing in the system to indicate that Pete had checked out.

But I knew that he had.

45

I DROVE TO THE HOTEL, with the dawning realization that Pete wouldn’t be there, that I had made a fundamental mistake, that Smith’s goons could have found him any number of ways, including the same way I found Pete’s supplier, J.D.—by triangulating his cell phone calls.

They even had a plausible cover for the abduction. Pete was facing a stiff prison sentence, and the text message made sense on a superficial level. He was running. He couldn’t handle prison. Hell, I’d made it easy for them. Pete had taken a leave from his job and he was hiding in a hotel, having cut off contact with everyone. He had already isolated himself. Nobody would wonder where he was, why he hadn’t shown up for work. Nobody would notice his absence.

I had underestimated Smith. I had miscalculated his desperation. I had backed Smith and his friends into a corner, and now they had my brother. They had taken a step that was irreversible. Until now, they could remain fairly anonymous, working behind the scenes to frame my brother on drug and gun charges. And they could reverse it. The same people who helped frame my brother could recant, or disappear. But abducting Pete? There was no retreating from that.

I’d long suspected that once Sammy’s trial was over, Pete and I would have bull’s-eyes on our chests. Smith and company would come after us. I’d hoped to wrap up everything before then to prevent it from happening.

But now they’d taken the first step down that road. They had my brother, and they’d use him for leverage against me—to drop the motion for DNA testing, to follow their game plan for the trial, to do whatever they wanted—but they’d never let Pete go now.

I left the hotel, having talked the management into letting me look briefly in his room, confirming, by the presence of his suitcase, his toiletries, that Pete had not willingly checked out of the hotel.

My body went cold. I drove in silence back to my office, where I expected to receive the call. I knew Smith would freeze me for a while, let my fear and imagination get the better of me. I turned to the stack of files in the corner of my office, devoted to the investigation into Audrey Cutler from way back when. If there had been any doubt that Smith’s mysterious client had murdered Audrey and those other girls, there wasn’t anymore.

I read through everything I could in the file, forcing out images of Pete and what they might be doing to him. When my intercom buzzed, I jumped from my seated position on the floor, revealing the extent of my nerves.

“Mr. Smith for you on 4407.”

I punched the button and didn’t speak.

“Your brother’s alive,” Smith said. “Whether he stays that way is up to you.”

I didn’t answer.

“Drop that motion. Forget about DNA testing or delays. Use the guy we gave you—Sanders—and stick to the goddamn script.”

I took a deep breath, then another, before answering, the same answer I gave to Father Ben recently. “Or what?” I asked.

“What do you mean, ‘or what?’ You know what.”

“My brother might as well be dead already. You’ll never let him go.”

“You have to trust that we will,” he said. “What’s the alternative?”

I could do this. If there was one thing I learned from my childhood, it was how to act tough when I was scared. This guy had my brother and me by the balls, but I could keep my voice strong, I could play the hard-ass. I had no other choice.

“The alternative is that I make you pay, Smith, starting tomorrow. The judge is going to allow my request for DNA testing. We both know that.”

He paused. I had him thinking.

“Let Pete go right now,” I said, “and I drop that DNA request. It’s your only option.”

“Hey, asshole, I’m the one with the options. You know what I have to do to keep my guys from tearing your brother from limb to limb right now? They want to take a razor blade to the guy.”

I closed my eyes, shutting out the images. I felt like I was spinning out of control, full-throttle panic, just at the time that I had to retain control. My body began to shake uncontrollably. My brother was in their hands, and there was nothing I could do. I wanted to capitulate right there, cry uncle, offer to drop the DNA and go along with whatever they wanted, as long as they let Pete go. But what I had said to Smith was true—they’d never let him go. Not now. My game of poker had backfired.

“They’re telling me, starting tomorrow, it’s one finger a day, every day, until they’re satisfied that you’ve fallen in line. I can’t stop this, Jason. Only you can.”