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July 2nd, 2001
There wasn't a second to lose. Diane grabbed her computer, and I grabbed my sun glasses, cell phone and my Heckler & Koch 9 mm. Manuel started up the Range Rover while I reset the alarms.
Diane and I ran to the car as I yelled to Manuel to head for the church. We scrambled into the back seat.
"Tell me again why we're doing this," Diane said as she tucked the little white notebook computer under the seat.
"'Cause Lieutenant Whitcomb told me to stay put, that's why."
"Of course!" Diane said with just a little sarcasm. "Never mind that you've been shot, you're weak, and several law enforcement officials have told you to stay out of this. And your doctor thinks you're in bed right now."
I sighed. "Something has happened to the Pattersens," I insisted stubbornly. "I just have a feeling they're in trouble. You know me."
Manuel looked back at us quickly. "Maybe they were grabbed into the witness protection program."
"I just don't believe it. Something's screwy. Trust me."
Of course, I didn't really know for sure. For one thing, it seemed strange to me that the Pattersens would disappear at a church with people all around. Far better to let them go home and whisk them away in the wee hours of the morning -- with the blue suiter covering their tracks. Nope. This looked like amateurs on the run - with the help of their priest.
We spent thirty minutes talking to the priest. Manuel waited in the Rover while Diane sweet talked him, and I tried being the heavy. Nothing worked. I think the priest would have allowed himself to be burned at the stake before telling us anything, despite our insistence that the Pattersens were in serious danger. On the way out of the church, I remembered that Will's parents live in Milpitas, so we found them with directory assistance and called them. They were home, but sounded confused and standoffish. We headed over anyway.
As we drove up their street, we saw that a black and white was pulling away, so we hung low until they were out of sight. Again, Manuel stayed in the car since too many strangers can often be alarming. Diane and I knocked at the door and put on our best smiles.
Mister Pattersen senior opened the door and scowled at us. "Who are you?"
"Excuse us, "Diane said in her sweetest tone. "My name is Diane Meyer. We just called? This is my friend Max. We were at the funeral with you. We just want to ask you some questions about Will."
Mister Pattersen's wife appeared in the door and put her arm around her husband. "Yes, I saw you there. Rachel didn't seem happy to see you. What do you want?"
"Will has disappeared, " I said. "We think he's in danger."
"We know that," Mister Pattersen said with obvious irritation. "The police were just here asking us about that. We don't know where he is. And what do you have to do with all this? Are you friends of Will and Rachel?"
"No," Diane said. "We're investigators."
"Really? Did Will hire you?" Mister Pattersen asked, squinting at me as if I were a little boy ready to tell a fib.
I looked at Diane. She looked at me. I scratched my head. "Well..."
"Just as I thought," he said harshly. "Listen to me young man. We just got back from our grand daughter's funeral. My son and daughter-in-law are suddenly missing, We've just spent forty-five minutes with the police, and they assure us they'll find Will and Rachel. And Rachel told us you had something to do with all this, so we're not real happy to see you right now. Just go away and leave us alone." And with that, he slammed the door shut in our faces.
As Manuel drove us back down I-880, Diane and I talked. "Any ideas?" I asked.
"Maybe. Bryan gave me an account on his system a long time ago. Told me it was for emergencies only. I can check for a credit card hit."
"I consider this an emergency. Can you do it from here?"
"Sure," she said as she pulled her computer out from under the seat. "I have a wireless modem PC card." In a few seconds, she had an Internet connection. In a few seconds more she was logged in to the police computer. "I need a social or a credit card number," Diane said tersely. I pulled out my wallet and handed her a credit card receipt of Wills. "Where did you get that?" Diane said in disbelief.
"Last Friday night,. From the Sheraton San Jose. When we had dinner with Will. I palmed it off the table after he left. An old habit. Hard to break."
"Shame on you," Diane said and pouted her lips in mock scorn. She typed for awhile and then stared at the screen intently, tapping her thumb on the wrist pad. In a few more seconds, she smiled. "Bingo."
"Whatcha got?" I said leaning over to look.
"They're checked in at the Hilton in Scotts Valley. Ten minutes ago." Diane turned to me. "Most people don't know that their credit card is charged when they check in for the full amount of their stay. Checking out is just a formality."
"I know that" I said as I pushed my elbow into her ribs.
"Here's a map." She pointed at the screen. "Manuel? Stay on 880 to 17. Follow the signs to Scotts Valley."
It was about four o'clock when we rolled into the deserted parking lot of the Hilton and found a parking place under a tree. In hindsight, that's where I got too relaxed. The California sunshine will do that to you. One minute you're cruising along, sitting in air-conditioned comfort, talking to a beautiful blonde, and the next minute all hell breaks loose. That's when I should have been on guard, but I got distracted for a minute, and that's all it takes.
It happened fast. Tires screeched. Suddenly we were surrounded. With my arm in a sling and still feeling the effects of the surgery, I admit I was just a tad off my usual form. I saw Manuel get off several rounds before I even had my gun out, but glass and metal got in the way. Before we knew it, we had three guns in our faces. I touched Manuel on the shoulder and shook my head. An all out fire fight here was not going to be productive. Quickly, we formed Plan "A" and then opened the doors. As we showed obvious signs of dejection, we were relieved of our weapons and escorted into the RV that has just blockaded us. on one side. The trailing goon shoved me in the back as I climbed the steps.
"Vasilly sends his regards," he scowled.
Of course, that comment didn't make me chuckle half as much as when they let us decide our own sequence in line while they herded us into the RV. Manuel went first, then Diane, and then me. This time it was their turn to be too complacent. They'd caught us off guard in the parking lot, relieved us of our weapons, seen our (feigned) poor spirits, and were herding us into what they thought would be a nice cozy torture chamber. Too cozy, it turned out.
Time for Plan A.
Manuel followed two of them up the steps with Diane closely behind. As soon as I got into the stairwell, Manuel grabbed the wrist of the leader and drove his arm straight up and behind him. The gun went off just as Manuel was putting his other elbow into the back of the goon's neck. I heard the powerful thud and the breath explode out of Manuel's victim. Meanwhile Diane and I were working simultaneously. I cocked my leg and drove the edge of my boot into the throat of the goon behind me. He went backwards with so much force, he hit the side of the Rover and his head cracked the window glass into a thousand tiny shards. As he slumped to the pavement, dragging blood down the side of the beautiful white Rover, I turned to see Diane grab the gun hand of the other leader and drive his arm right up into the low ceiling of the RV with considerable force. The gun dropped out of his hand. I snatched it at about face level, shoved the barrel into his face and pulled the trigger. The whole thing took perhaps four seconds.
Diane screamed and put her hands over he ears. "Geez, Max. Can you be more careful with that thing?"
"Sorry," I grinned. "Had to do it."
Manuel had thrown the first goon into a small booth-like dinning table and was literally sitting on him. I went outside and looked around. The gunshot, being muffled inside the RV, didn't seem to draw any attention, and the afternoon parking lot was quiet and mostly deserted. With one good arm and Diane's assistance, we lifted the guy with the bashed head into the RV and dropped him into a small couch in the back. We closed all the blinds and wiped the blood off the Rover with some towels we found aft.
It required both some finesse and some force to get useful information from the one goon remaining who was able to talk. We taped him to the booth with ample duct tape, and he couldn't move so much as an inch. It turned out that our old friend Vasilly had sent them to follow us and locate the Pattersens in the process. When they did, they were supposed to pump us for information, bump us off, and then call a fellow named Kurt O'Meara who would kill the Pattersen's with a bit more stealth and professionalism than these clowns could muster.
I placed a knife on our victim's throat and let it draw just a little blood as Manuel held the guy's cell phone to his face. He placed the call with no nonsense and provided our location. When he was finished, Manuel produced a small syringe and jabbed it into the poor fellow's arm.
"That's gonna keep this hombre out cold for at least eighteen hours."
"Good," I said. "Shall we visit the Pattersens?"
This time, Manuel and I went to the front desk and worked our I'm-the-detective,-this-is-lieunetant-Martinez,-here,-see-my-badge-and-gun scam. Worked like a charm, as always 'cause I flash the badge real quick and the gun real slow. Once we got the room number, we paid a visit. Will Pattersen opened the door.
"You again!" He tried to slam the door shut, but I'd already wedged my boot in the way. And my 240 pounds beat his 170 pounds as I leaned on the door.
Diane came around from behind me with perfect timing. "Would it help, Will, if we told you we just killed two gangsters in the parking lot and another, much more sophisticated professional, assassin is on the way here right now to kill both of you?"
Will froze. "Really? How'd he find us?"
"We found you, didn't we?" I looked at Will with steely gray eyes, dead serious. I didn't blink. He looked up at the ceiling and rolled his eyes, clearly realizing that he was out of his league.
"What do you want us to do?" he sighed.
"We're gonna call some friends in the police department back in San Jose. You're gonna go to what's called a safe house."
Rachel Pattersen who had been listening to all this from behind Will appeared at his side. "How long?"
"I don't know. A few days. A week. The point is, you'll be safe. If it's okay with you, Diane and I will stay with you until the police arrive." At this, he slumped his shoulders and invited us in.
I called Bryan Whitcomb and told him what was happening. I had to pull my head away from the earpiece when he yelled, "How many more are dead?!" I tried to explain to him that Scott O'Meara was probably on his way.
"Do you know when?" he asked.
"Haven't a clue. Probably tonight."
"I can send an officer down to pick up the Pattersens, but I can't spare the manpower to sit up all night with you. I'll call the Sheriffs office in Scotts Valley. Can't promise anything. Don't have much pull down there. For god's sake, will you be careful?
"Who, me?"
Diane and I watched over the Pattersens while Manuel prowled the grounds and checked in on our unconscious playmate in the RV. About 30 minutes later, a black and white showed up and we sent the Pattersens on their way. Diane went to the front desk and checked into another room on the same floor. Meanwhile, Manuel and I set up a small TV camera in a light fixture in the hallway, facing the outside of the Pattersen's room door. It transmits a signal on channel three, so I went back into the room, disconnected the cable TV coax and connected a small VHF antenna. It worked perfectly. We also set up a tiny acoustic transmitter next to the camera that I would give me a stinging but harmless jolt if anyone walked in front of my door. Which, of course, happened all evening.
By six fifteen, I was nestled in the hotel room and had ordered room service. No one from the Sheriffs Office called, so I figured we were on our own. I kept in contact with Diane and Manuel on my cell phone. Manuel continued to prowl the grounds, discreetly, looking for anything unusual. I got some sleep in the early evening while I could, figuring the action would start between two and four in the morning. At one-thirty, Manuel called on the cell to wake me up. I washed my face and double checked my gun.
It was time to watch some TV.
At 0410 in the morning, Manuel called. A single male had parked a brown pickup truck down the street and walked to the hotel. Manuel said he'd walked through the lobby, passed an empty front desk, and was headed my way. Manuel said he was following, but remaining discreet. Not too discreet, I remember thinking.
I watched the TV while O'Meara kneeled at my door and pulled out a small silver canister. He placed it in the door jam and inserted a small plastic hose under the door. In a second, I heard it start to hiss.
Show time.
I walked quietly to the door, grabbed the handle, and jerked the door open. O'Meara, startled, moved quickly. I put the gun in his face and pulled the trigger, but by then, he'd smashed the canister into my gun and the bullet went into the wall across the hallway. The Heckler and Koch skittered away on the carpet. In an instant, he was driving forward and upwards with powerful legs. He was bigger and stronger than I thought from watching him on the TV, and I fell backwards to the floor. In a flash he was on top of me, and I saw him pull something from his pants leg, something cold and metallic.
Previous adventures of Max Hadron:
The Case of the Paperless Portfolio (Nov 12, 2000)
The Case of the GoogolPlex Smackdown (June 25, 2000)
The Case of the WWDC Murder (June 13, 2000)
Copyright 2001 by John
Martellaro, All rights reserved. Quantum Threads banner
artwork by Tracy Haynes. This is a work of fiction. All
people, places, entities, and events are the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.
About the Author
John Martellaro lives in Colorado at 2,800 meters above sea level with a Ph.D. wife and two cats, Nikki and Data. He holds a B.S. in Astrophysics and an M.S. in Physics. His hobbies, include amateur astronomy, downhill skiing, bicycling, and listening to piano solos. His personal Macs are a B&W G3/400 with a flat screen Studio Display and a TiBook.
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