The Associate (19 page)

“That was a very smart move.”

“Unless they kill Patty,” Martin said, turning his steady eyes on Chandler.

“These people want money, Mr. Alvarez. That’s what this is all about. There won’t be any money if they kill your wife.”

Chandler waited a beat, hoping that Martin would relax a little. He didn’t.

“Please tell me, word for word, as best you remember, what was said during the call.”

“It was a man but he disguised his voice. He said, ‘We’ve got your wife. If you want her to live it will cost you one million dollars. We want it in unmarked bills. Nothing larger than hundreds.’ I told him it would take a day to get the money. He said he would call back with instructions. I asked to speak to Patty. He hung up. That’s everything. The call didn’t take long.”

“Okay,” the FBI agent said.

“I want honesty, Chandler,” Martin demanded. “Total honesty. What are my wife’s chances?”

Chandler looked grim. He shook his head.

“I have no idea what your wife’s chances are. There are too many variables. So I’m not going to guess or give you a best-case scenario. The honest truth is that I don’t know. All I can promise is that we will do everything in our power to get your wife back.”

The kidnappers told Martin to leave the ransom money under a log that crossed over Rattlesnake Creek in the mountains several hours’ drive from Desert Grove. Martin’s banker had the money ready, but on Chandler’s instructions, Martin told the kidnappers that it would take two more hours for the bank to put the ransom together. Martin drove to the bank to pick up a large duffel bag stuffed with money while Chandler used the darkness to infiltrate a heavily armed team into the woods near the stream.

Thomas Chandler had been raised in Philadelphia, educated in Boston, and trained for his job in Quantico, Virginia. Nothing in his childhood, his schooling, or his FBI training had prepared him for lying for hours in a cold, damp forest on sharp, stony ground. Chandler had only been able to remain motionless for a little while. Soon he was shifting his body every few minutes, doing the best a city boy could to move quietly.

Scanning the area around the creek only took his mind off his discomfort for a little while. The wide stream twisted through the woods, the water deep and clear as it boiled over several boulders that changed the course of the creek. Through night-vision glasses the area looked like a neon video game.

Chandler was turning his collar up as protection against the cold mountain air when a noise made him freeze. He checked his watch. It was after ten, just about the time Alvarez would be arriving. A twig cracked and the agent saw a flashlight beam light up a stretch of the trail that wound through the woods to Rattlesnake Creek. Chandler focused his night vision-glasses on the spot where a tree felled by lightning lay across the waterway. Moments later Martin Alvarez came into view carrying a large duffel bag across his broad shoulders. Chandler watched Alvarez wedge the bag under the log. When he stood up, Alvarez cast a quick look around before returning the way he had come.

As soon as Martin disappeared up the trail Chandler trained his glasses on the duffel bag, but nothing happened. The bag lay under the log, the stream ran swiftly between its banks, and the stillness of the forest lay over the agent like a blanket. Chandler found it impossible to watch the duffel bag continuously. Besides, he knew that the snipers hiding in blinds throughout the forest and the other agents in the capture team were on alert. He shifted for comfort and closed his eyes. He was starting to nod off when fear of falling asleep jerked him back to his duty. Chandler chided himself, slapped his face to stir his adrenaline, and refocused his glasses on the log just as a man dressed entirely in black rose out of the creek and grabbed the duffel.

Chandler unholstered his weapon. “FBI! Freeze!”

Automatic fire sprayed through the woods from somewhere on the other side of the creek. Chandler hit the ground. The man with the duffel fled down the stream using the burst as cover. Chandler heard the other agents return fire. He got to his feet and raced into the frigid water. The fleeing man suddenly darted out of the stream and into the forest with Chandler in pursuit. It was hard to move in the dense underbrush. The agent tripped over a root and stumbled forward just as another burst of automatic fire shredded the foliage above his head, showering him with leaves.

As soon as the gunfire stopped Chandler regained his footing. He heard ragged breathing and the sound of someone smashing through the bushes. Then a shot rang out, followed by a sharp grunt, and one of the snipers yelled, “He’s hit.”

Chandler raced ahead until he burst into a clearing, nearly running into a large man wearing a ski mask and bleeding badly from a leg wound. The man tried to pivot on his injured leg and stumbled. Chandler drove into him, taking him to the ground. Moments later a chokehold ended the brief fight. By that time several other agents assisted in subduing the captive.

“Where’s the other one?” Chandler demanded as soon as he caught his breath.

“They’re after him,” one of the agents answered.

Chandler remembered the duffel bag. He turned in a circle, then asked for a flashlight. He shined the light over the area where he’d just fought. Then he asked the handcuffed prisoner, “Where’s the ransom money?”

An agent pulled off the ski mask. The man he confronted was six feet tall. His face had the ruddy complexion of someone who worked outdoors and his red hair was plastered across his forehead.

“Where is Patty Alvarez?” Chandler demanded.

The man looked beat, but he did not look beaten.

“I want a lawyer,” he answered. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ before I talk to a lawyer.”

Chandler knelt next to the man, gripped his chin, and forced his head up so they were eye to eye.

“If Patty Alvarez is dead, you’re facing the death penalty,” Chandler whispered so only the man could hear what he said. “If you cooperate right now we can deal. Keep asking for a lawyer and I’ll be smiling at you when they pull the switch.”

Chandler released the man’s chin. The man broke eye contact. Two winded agents burst into the clearing. They started to speak, but Chandler held up his hand and led them out of earshot of the prisoner.

“There’s a deer trail a half mile up the creek,” one of the agents said. “We followed it for a mile. It crosses a deserted logging road that wasn’t on any of our maps. There were fresh tire tracks in the dirt.”

Chandler swore. The prisoner’s accomplice must have grabbed the duffel bag while the two of them were out of his sight. Chandler pushed past the other agents and walked up to the prisoner.

“Your partner has the money and he’s gone. That means you are going down for every charge I can think of unless you help us, right now. You have one minute to make up your mind.”

Martin Alvarez focused intently on the testimony of Lester Dobbs, who had cut a deal shortly after his arrest near Rattlesnake Creek, then led the FBI agents to the shallow grave where Patty Alvarez was buried. However, someone other than Dobbs had captured the attention of Paul McCann, the man who was on trial for Patty’s murder.

Melissa Arnold was the court reporter for the Laurel County Circuit Court during the trial of
State
v.
McCann.
Every day while court was in session, she sat in front of the dais from which Judge Melvin Schrieber presided typing every word that was spoken in court onto her stenograph machine with amazing accuracy. The ability to type with accuracy was not the only amazing thing about Melissa Arnold. She had long, honey-blond hair that hung to her shoulders, pale blue eyes, and full lips. The consensus around the courthouse was that she had the most beautiful legs anyone had ever seen. The rest of Melissa’s body was also outstanding. So outstanding, in fact, that Paul McCann could not keep his eyes off her, even though Lester Dobbs was giving testimony that could send him to death row.

Paul McCann was addicted to women, so it was not surprising that his attention was riveted on the most stunning woman in the room. Women were also addicted to Paul. He was a big man who dressed in loud clothes and sported gaudy jewelry. He wore his styled hair a little long, left his mustache a trifle bushy, and exposed his curly black chest hair whenever possible. Most men thought he looked tacky, but a certain class of woman found him irresistible and he did nothing to discourage their advances.

“Mr. Dobbs, how are you employed?” Ramon Quiroz, the Laurel County district attorney, asked his star witness. Ramon wore an ill-fitting brown suit. He was short, fat, and laid-back. He was also extremely tough to beat in court.

The question about employment proved to be a stumper for Lester Dobbs, who stared at Ramon the way he might if the prosecutor had asked him to explain quantum mechanics. Dobbs fidgeted in the witness chair and looked uncomfortable in the cheap blue suit that Quiroz had purchased for him.

“I ain’t employed right now,” Dobbs answered after a lengthy pause.

“That’s true, Mr. Dobbs,” Ramon agreed with admirable patience, “but before your arrest you did work, did you not?”

“Sure.”

“Well, then, why don’t you tell the jury what kind of work you performed.”

“I worked construction for Mr. McCann,” Dobbs answered, nodding toward Aaron Flynn’s client. At the mention of his name, the defendant reluctantly shifted his gaze from Melissa Arnold’s breasts and focused his attention on his chief accuser.

“What exactly were you constructing?”

“Sunnyvale Farm.”

“Which is?” Ramon prompted.

“A housing development. We was building forty-three homes, or was supposed to before the money run out.”

“How did you learn that Mr. McCann’s project was in trouble?”

“He told me. That’s why we did it. For the money, so’s he could pay off his creditors and keep the project going.”

“Objection,” Aaron Flynn said, rising to his feet.

“Yes, Mr. Dobbs,” Judge Schrieber lectured, “please listen carefully to the question and only answer what you are asked.”

“Jurors,” Schrieber continued, “please ignore everything Mr. Dobbs said, except his statement that Mr. McCann told him that the Sunnyvale project was in trouble.”

“Mr. Dobbs, you are an ex-convict, are you not?” Ramon continued.

“Yes, sir. Several times.”

“Did Mr. McCann know this?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s why he thought I’d help him, because I’d been in prison. He said he needed someone with criminal experience.”

Flynn objected on the grounds that the answer was not responsive and the judge lectured Dobbs again. Dobbs didn’t appear to be bright enough to understand what he was doing wrong. If the jurors suspected the same thing, they might also conclude that Dobbs was too dumb to make up his testimony.

“Mr. Dobbs, why don’t you tell this jury how you came to be involved in the kidnapping and murder of Patty Alvarez.”

“Okay. Best I recollect, it was one evening in April,” Dobbs said, turning toward the jurors. “I was sittin’ at the bar in the Red Rooster Tavern, mindin’ my own business and drinkin’ a beer. Mr. McCann come in the tavern. Next thing I know, he’s askin’ me if I’d like to join him for a beer in a booth.”

“Was it unusual for you and Mr. McCann to have a drink together?”

“Yes, sir, it was. In fact, this was the first time I’d ever talked to Mr. McCann, except on the job, and then it would be about problems on the site, stuff like that.”

“What did you two talk about?” Ramon asked.

“Nothin’ much, at first. Sports, the weather.”

“Did the conversation turn to Sunnyvale at some point?”

Dobbs glanced over at McCann. He looked as if he was embarrassed that he was testifying for the state.

“Mr. McCann told me that Sunnyvale might not get built. There was money owed or some such. If he couldn’t come up with it, the project was doomed. That’s how he said it, ‘doomed.’ ”

“What did you say to that?”

“Well, I was wonderin’ if I’d lose my job, because it paid pretty good. Mr. McCann said everyone would lose his job if he couldn’t pay off the loan. Then he asked me about the prison. Which one I’d been in, whether it was hard to be inside. It caught me by surprise, because he just jumped from one subject to another without no warning.”

“Did you tell him about prison and what you did to be sent there?”

“Yes, sir. He seemed right interested. Especially when I told him that I’ve been in for aggravated assault and armed robbery.”

“Now, just so the jury will know, those were two different convictions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’ve also been convicted of assault twice where you didn’t go to prison.”

“I got probation on that.”

“Okay. Now, what happened after you told Mr. McCann all about prison?”

“Nothin’ then. We just drunk some more beer, talked about some fight. Mike Tyson, I think. Then he looked at his watch and said he had to go. And he did.”

“So, the defendant didn’t mention anything about Mrs. Alvarez?”

“Not till the next time.”

“And when was that?”

“About three days later. I was walkin’ to my car after work when Mr. McCann stopped me. He asked me if I was interested in making some extra money. I said, ‘Sure.’ He said to meet him in the parking lot of the Red Rooster at ten. I thought I misheard him, so I asked him if he’d said the parking lot. He said this was a private matter and he didn’t want no one to know we was talking.”

“What happened in the parking lot of the Red Rooster?”

“Mr. McCann drove up and told me to get in this car he was driving. It wasn’t his normal one, which is this bright red sports car. This one was black, a plain old Ford. Anyway, I got in and he drove me out into the desert where it was only the two of us and he asked me what I would do for fifty thousand dollars.”

Several jurors turned to look at each other and there was murmuring in the back of the courtroom.

“What did you answer?”

“I thought he was kidding, so I joked back that I’d do most anything. Then, just in case it wasn’t a joke, I told him I wouldn’t kill no one. That’s when he asked if I would commit a crime short of murder and I asked him what he meant.”