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Richie rocked in his desk chair beside me. The chair had never been oiled and the rhythmic squeaking of the springs was both apt and intolerable. He looked dazed, removed, beside himself. I wanted to do something for him, anything, but there was only one thing he needed, only one person he wanted to see.
Brady’s eyes were fixed on the screen. He knew Cindy well and had always liked her. He stared, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of the chair.
“Son of a bitch,” he said.
In two minutes and thirteen seconds, it was over.
“Play it again,” he said.
“Hold up, Brady. I need to check my mail.”
Another untraceable email from “Unknown Sender” was waiting. The subject line of the email contained two words: “Part two.” I hovered my cursor over the attachment.
I said, “Rich. You ready?”
He nodded sharply. I felt like I was cutting open his chest when I tapped open the video file. I hit Play. At first glance, the time frame appeared to have picked up from where the first video ended. We saw the large metal door. Light was still showing through the transom window, but the sky was a shade darker now. My gut told me that the video had been recorded only minutes ago.
But. There was a distinct difference between videos labeled parts one and two. Cindy wasn’t in the second video. What had he done with her? Had he simply stopped looking at her?Had he moved her? The video had nearly ended and we had yet to hear from Blackout. And then the picture jumped to a new location.
Blackout wasoutsidethe building. I scanned the narrow wedge of his vision intently as he walked unencumbered and unimpeded at a quick pace down a narrow and empty street.
Inspector Tyler Wang said from behind me, “I know this place. It’s a commercial alley between Yerba Buena Gardens and Market.”
Brady said, “Wang. You and Michaels go there now. I don’t know what or who you’re looking for, but I pray that you’ll recognize him or see a building that could be the location. Get backup from the uniform pool. I’m calling dispatch now.”
My intercom buzzed: Bobby at the front desk.
He said, “I have a call for you, Sergeant. He says you’re waiting to hear from him. Wouldn’t give me his name and his number is blocked. He’s on hold.”
I said, “Have the radio room trace and record the call and then switch it over to me.”
“They’ve got the line,” Bobby said.
“Put him through.”
The light on my landline console blinked. I paused for a few seconds to get my pulse down to high normal and pressed the red button.
“This is Boxer.”
“Do I have your attention, Sergeant?”
The electronic wheeze was gone. It was a man’s voice. To my ear, it was a generic American English accent.
“To whom am I speaking?”
“You know.”
“I’m putting you on speaker,” I said, trying to keep the panic below my larynx. “Please let me talk to Cindy.”
“I’ve just sent you another video. See you in the movies.”
He clicked off.
CHAPTER 64
CONKLIN FREED HIMSELF from the chair jam around my desk, then, picking up the aluminum trash can, he drop-kicked it and continued to kick it down the bullpen’s center aisle. After he’d reached the far wall, I called him back.
When he was sitting beside me again, I said, “Ready?”
