“Bingo,” Corcoran said, and nodded toward a makeshift structure not unlike a phone booth, its walls baffled to deaden any sound in the office around him. Loomis entered the booth at once, sat in a chair set up in front of an extension phone. Endicott, Corcoran, and two of his detectives put on ear phones at the monitoring equipment. Carella stood by the green phone that would connect him directly to the Eight-Seven. The three other detectives and the remaining agent were already sitting at phones that linked them to One Fed Square.
The room was utterly silent.
When the phone rang again, its sound burst on the air like a hand grenade.
“Here he is,” Endicott said. “Just sound natural, hear what he has to say. We’ll be on him, believe me.”
The phone kept ringing.
“That’s three, four…”
“Pick up,” Endicott said.
In the booth, Loomis picked up the receiver.
“Barney Loomis,” he said.
“We have the girl,” the voice on the phone said. “We want $250,000 in unmarked, hundred-dollar bills. We’ll call at three P.M. sharp to tell you where to deliver it. Do anything foolish and she dies.”
“How do I know she’s still alive?” Loomis asked at once.
“Would you like to talk to her?”
“Yes. Yes, please. Let me talk to her.”
There was a silence.
“Verizon landline is tracking,” one of the agents said.
“Sweetheart, come here a minute.”
This on Loomis’ phone. Somewhat apart, as if the caller were holding the receiver out to someone.
“Verizon says it’s a cell phone,” one of the detectives said.
There was another silence, longer this time.
“Tell Mr. Loomis you’re okay,” the voice on the phone said. “No, don’t touch the phone!” Sharply. “Just tell him you’re fine.”
“It’s AT&T wireless,” the same detective said.
“Get on it,” Endicott said.
A shorter silence.
“Hello?”
“Tamar?”
“Yes, Barney.”
Across the room, an agent was asking an AT&T operator to determine the number of the cell phone and track its location.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Barney.”
“Nobody’s hurt you, have they?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I’ll get the money they want, Tamar. You’ll be home soon.”
“Thank you, Barney.”
“How’s the CD doing?” Tamar asked.
“Very well, actually.”
“First tower’s tracking,” one of the agents reported.
“Am I gonna be a star?”
“Oh, you betcha, kid. A real diva.”
“Good. I have to go now, Barney. He wants me to get off the phone.”
“I’ll see you soon,” Loomis said.
The man’s voice came on again.
“Okay?” he asked. “Satisfied, Mr. Loomis?”
“Second tower’s got it.”
“Yes. Thank you,” Loomis said.
“Get the money by three P.M.”
“Keep him on,” Endicott said.
There was a click on the line.
“Shit!”
“The way this works,” Corcoran said, yanking off his ear phones, “is the landline company hands us off to the wireless provider, who tracks the call through the base station towers handling it. It’s called triangulation. These are three
“He’s out on the Island someplace, that’s for sure,” one of the agents said.
“Here comes the info now,” a second agent said, and joined him at the computer. They both turned to look at the printer as it began spewing paper. Two detectives rose from their phones and immediately put on their jackets.
“How does it jibe with Sands Spit?” Endicott asked.
“Rosalita Guadajillo,” the first agent said, yanking the printout free. “3215 Noble. Nowhere near. She’s right here in the city.”
“Maybe an accomplice,” Corcoran said.
“Move on her,” Endicott ordered, and the two agents went out the door, followed immediately by the two detectives. Carella, sitting by his new green toy with his thumb up his ass, looked at Special Agent in Charge Stanley M. Endicott.
“We have experience in such matters,” Endicott explained, and shrugged.
“What’s happening?” Loomis asked, coming out of the booth.
“We lost him,” Endicott said.
“This is going to be elaborate,” Corcoran said.
“How do you know?”
“We’ve had experience with these things.”
“She’s alive,” Barney said. “Thank God for that.”
“Everything’ll be fine,” Endicott told him. “You’ll see.”
Carella said nothing.
“You pissed off about something?” Endicott asked.
SPECIAL AGENT HARVEY JONES definitely thought he saw cockroaches in the hallway. Which was better than rats, he supposed. His cousin was an agent in Los Angeles, and she told him there were rats in Beverly Hills. Driven down into populated areas because of the drought. Drinking from rich people’s swimming pools. Imagine you’re a movie star and you go out for your early morning swim in your big private walled pool and a hundred rats are in the water with you! In this part of the city you expected rats—although all Jones had seen so far were cockroaches. In Beverly Hills, you didn’t expect rats. Jones had grown up with both cockroaches and rats; he was sensitive to both.
