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That had to be the van used to abduct Madison Tyler and Paola Ricci.
Chapter 112
I RAN THE VAN’S PLATES on the car computer. I was thinking ahead to a search warrant, impounding the van, fanning a flame of hope that a speck of Paola Ricci’s blood could be found inside a seam in the van’s upholstery — real evidence to link the Renfrews to the abduction of Paola Ricci and Madison Tyler.
During the next hour, two perimeters were set up: The inner perimeter encircled the gabled house. The outer perimeter sealed off a two-block area around it.
There’d been no activity from the house, making me wonder what was going on inside. Was Renfrew packing? Destroying records?
It was almost four in the afternoon when five black SUVs rolled up the road. They parked on the sidewalk, perpendicular to the front of the gabled house.
Dave Stanford walked up to my car window. He handed me a bullhorn. His ponytail had been clipped to FBI standards, and the humor in his blue eyes was gone. Dave wasn’t working undercover anymore.
He said, “We’re calling the shots, Lindsay. But since Renfrew knows you, try getting him to come out of the house.”
Conklin turned the key in the ignition and we rolled out, crossing the street, coming to a stop in front of the Renfrew driveway. We were blocking in both the van and the BMW.
I took the bullhorn and stood behind my open car door. I called out, “Paul Renfrew, this is Sergeant Boxer. We have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of homicide. Please come out slowly with your hands in the air.”
My voice boomed out over the quiet suburban block. Birds took flight, drowning out the flutter of the chopper blades.
Conklin said, “Movement on the second floor.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. My eyes flicked across the face of the house. I saw nothing, but my skin prickled. I could feel a gun pointed at me.
I lifted the bullhorn again — pressed the button.
“Mr. Renfrew, this is your last and best chance. There’s enough artillery aimed at your house to reduce it to rubble. Don’t make us use it.”
The front door cracked open. Renfrew appeared in the shadows. He called out, “I’m coming out. Don’t shoot! Please, don’t shoot!”
I cut a look to my left to see how the FBI response team was reacting. A dozen or more M16 rifles were still aimed at the front door. I knew that on a roof somewhere, maybe a hundred feet away, a sniper had a Remington Model 700 with a high-powered scope trained on Renfrew’s forehead.
“Step outside where we can see you,” I called to the man in the doorway. “Good decision, Mr. Renfrew,” I said. “Now, turn around and back up toward the sound of my voice.”
Renfrew was standing under the pediment that defined the entryway to the house. Thirty feet of clipped green lawn stretched between us.
“I can’t do that,” Renfrew said in a weak, almost pleading voice. “If I go out there, she’ll shoot me.”
Chapter 113
RENFREW LOOKED FRIGHTENED, and he had reason to be. If he made a wrong move, his life expectancy was something under two seconds.
But he wasn’t afraid of us.
“Who wants to shoot you?” I called out.
“My wife, Laura. She’s upstairs with a semiautomatic. I can’t get her to come out. I think she’s going to try to stop me from surrendering.”
This was a bad turn. If we wanted to learn what happened to Madison Tyler, we had to keep Paul Renfrew alive.
“Do exactly what I tell you!” I shouted. “Take off your jacket and toss it away from you. . . . Okay. Good. Now turn out your pants pockets.”
The mic on my radio was open so that everyone on our channel could hear me.
“Unbuckle your belt, Mr. Renfrew. And drop your trousers.”
Renfrew shot me a look, but he obeyed. The pants went down, his shirt covering him to the tops of his thighs.
