Nope. Nobody showed. Maybe after she was done with the transcribing situation she'd head downstairs and grab a cup.
She was almost done. She'd typed in only Coop's remarks, leaving out Jack's comments, and hers as well. As soon as she finished she'd e-mail it to her Hotmail account—just in case some Dementedist hacker got into The Light's system and started messing with her files.
After that, the writing would begin. She'd cull out the good passages, the really damning ones, and begin to shape her article around them.
She was nearing the point where the interview stopped and the surgery began when she heard the scrape of a shoe. She looked up in time to see a big man in a wet overcoat hurtling through her doorway. She tried to dodge a black-gloved fist swinging toward her face, but couldn't move fast enough. Pain exploded in her cheek as he connected.
The blow knocked her out of the chair. She sprawled on the floor, dazed, trying to muster a scream through the disorienting haze. As she opened her mouth she felt a sweet-smelling cloth clamped over her lips and nostrils. The fumes burned her eyes.
"We've been trying to get to you all night," said a voice.
Where was Henry?
She held off as long as she could but finally had to take a breath. As soon as the fumes hit her lungs she felt an oddly pleasant lethargy begin to invade her limbs. Her vision fogged but she still could see. And she saw another man, smaller than the first, seating himself at her desk.
She watched him grab her tape recorder and hold it up.
"Got it!" He pocketed it and stared at her monitor. "Now let's see what she's been writing."
"Jensen told you not to read it. If you—"
"Hey, she mentions Cooper Blascoe here. This must be it. The bitch is writing shit about the PD!" He started hitting the keys. "Well, we'll just have to get some deletion action going, won't we."
Jamie felt her consciousness ebbing. The voices started to fade away, echoing down a dark, bottomless canyon.
Had she e-mailed the file to herself as she'd planned? No… hadn't had the chance. Everything she'd done, the whole transcription was right there on the screen. All her work…
Work? screamed a voice in her head. Forget your damn story; these guys are going to kill you!
With panic welling in her, Jamie tried to struggle free but her limbs had become stretched-out rubber bands.
"Okay, that's done," said the one at the desk. "And the program says that's the only thing she's worked on since yesterday." He rose and turned toward Jamie. "Okay, let's bag her up."
Bag…?
Seconds later the cloth was removed from her mouth and nose and fresh air flooded her throat. But only for a heartbeat before a coarse canvas sack closed over her head and down along her body. She felt herself lifted and twisted and jostled into something that seemed like a huge sail bag.
"Don't forget her handbag," the big guy's voice said. "Jensen said to make sure we didn't forget that."
She opened her mouth to scream as she was lifted free of the floor, but her voice hadn't returned. She heard an umph! as she was slung like a sack of wheat over someone's shoulder. Probably the big guy's. And then she was on the move, bouncing along to who knew where. The point of his shoulder jabbed into her stomach with every step.
She tried to scream but again her voice failed her. She heard the elevator doors slide open. A moment later the car lurched into motion—downward motion. Did they think they could carry her out like this right through the lobby? Henry would—
Oh, no. Had they done something to Henry? Please, God, make it so they just tied him up. Please!
As soon as the elevator doors opened she made another try at a scream. This time she managed a faint squeak, like a kettle readying to boil.
No one bothered them as they passed through the lobby and out the front doors. They stopped moving and she was dumped off the shoulder onto a hard surface. From the way it bounced she knew it was a car, but it wasn't upholstered.
Another attempted scream and this time she achieved conversation-level volume, but before she could try a second, a door was slammed down over her and the faint sounds of the city were abruptly shut off.
That sound… not a door. It could only be a trunk lid.
No! They'd locked her in a car trunk!
As the car lurched into motion, Jamie began kicking and screaming, but knew with a despair as black as Luther Brady's soul that no one was going to hear her.
7
"The problem is partially solved."
Luther Brady felt the muscles that had been wound spring tight since Jensen's last call begin to unwind.
"Partially?"
"We have Grant. The former Jason Amurri is still out there."
"Did you get to her in time?"
"I believe so."
"Believe isn't good enough."
"I'll ask her. Then we'll know."
"How will you be sure?"
"She'll tell me."
The finality of that simple statement sent a warm glow of reassurance through Luther.
Jensen added, "What do we do after that?"
Luther had been thinking about that, and had an answer ready.
"We're pouring a column tonight. Bring her there. I'll have the volunteer notified that she'll have to wait till next time."
"You'll be there?"
"Have I ever missed? Ten o'clock. And who knows? Maybe you'll have the other half by then."
Luther hung up and allowed himself a smile. A tiny one. Two in one pillar… an intriguing possibility.
8
Jack had brought Entenmann's crumb donuts to the traditional Friday morning perusal of the latest film reviews before the Isher Sports Shop opened for business. The papers were spread on the counter, collecting the crumbs, but only briefly: Parabellum was on clean-up duty, and he was devoted to the task.
Jack had checked in with Gia earlier. She'd said she was doing fine but he sensed something forced in her tone. He planned to stop in later.
He was halfway through a review of the latest Robert Rodriguez film when Abe spoke around a mouthful of Entenmann's.
"Nu? Haven't you been talking to someone at The Light lately? What do you think about that murder there last night?"
Jack almost choked as his throat clenched.
"What? There's nothing in the paper about—"
"Happened too late for the paper. It's all over the radio this morning. Don't you listen?"
Aw, no. A shattering rush of guilt paralyzed him. He hadn't been persuasive enough. He hadn't watched The Light long enough. He'd failed her.
Jack didn't want to hear the answer but had to ask: "Did they say anything about how she was killed?"
"She? No, a he. The guard at the front desk. Shot in the head. I hear the police suspect an inside job because there was no sign of a break-in or a struggle. Probably someone he knew."
Jack's burst of relief was short-lived. That poor unsuspecting guard's death—Jamie had called him Henry—had to be related to what they'd learned last night.
Jack yanked his phone from his pocket and called information for The Light's number. A few seconds later the switchboard was putting him through to her extension.
But a man answered, his voice gruff, sounding annoyed. "Yeah?"
"Jamie Grant, please."
"Who's calling?"
"A friend. Is she there?"
"Not at the moment. Give me your name and number and I'll tell her you called."
Jack cut the call. If that wasn't a cop, he'd eat a pair of Abe's roller blades for lunch.
This was looking very bad.