Authors: Simon Gould
35
Even as I was opening the envelope, I couldn’t believe we had the potential identity of The Chemist. I just hoped that the Captain would dig up the guard from San Quentin, and that Tetley’s story could be verified, one way or the other.
I also knew that if we confirmed that it could be Sarah Caldwell, Charlie and I would turn over every stone in the state until we found her. I was reeling from the events that had unfolded so far today. Giving Charlie a quick sideways glance as I pulled out a sheet of paper, I could tell he was in the same frame of mind.
‘What does it say, man?’ Charlie demanded, ‘What’s the next step?’ I double checked what was on the sheet of paper; it didn’t say much.
‘WLA 14
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1500 – be on it – getting closer’, I replied, ‘That’s all it says Charlie boy. Just that’.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Charlie was getting more and more agitated. I took several moments to digest the latest message, possibilities tumbling around my mind.
‘The 1500 has got to be a time, can we agree on that?’ I questioned. ‘What else could it be?’
‘Yeah man, sounds good to me’, Charlie looked at his watch. ‘That gives us a couple of hours. We need to figure out the rest, let’s call it in’.
‘It also gives us a couple of hours to look into Sarah Caldwell is what it gives us’, I stated. ‘We need to move fast with this. We have to appear to be following her rules. We can’t let her suspect we may know who she is’.
I called in all the information we had gathered, both from James Tetley and from the latest instructions in the game. Captain Williams immediately said he would put together a secondary unit, specifically to unearth what they could about Sarah Caldwell. Running parallel to that unit, he assigned the tech guys to the message from The Chemist. He was confident that the message would pose no problem and he agreed that the 1500 sounded like a time. Maybe the rest related to some kind of timetable? If there was somewhere we had to be at three o’clock, we would fucking well be there. He rounded it off by telling us that Agent Balfer from the FBI had an ETA of ninety minutes and that we might as well head back to the station and bring him up to speed if he arrived before the next part of the game began.. ‘Rest assured guys,’ he concluded, ‘wherever you need to be come three o’ clock, you will be there’.
We were about half way to the station when he rang me again. ‘We think we got a result on the message. There are a couple of things it could be, but we think the most likely scenario is that it refers to the LRT and that you have to get on it at the stop on 14
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Street, West Los Angeles, at three o clock obviously’.
I could have kicked myself for not figuring that out. The Light Rail Transit in LA is a massive network. I seem to recall reading a while ago that it was the third busiest in the country taking in excess of something like three hundred thousand commuters a day. Crazy figures.
‘As to why?’ he added, ‘We’ve got no idea. That’s your department guys. Any ideas?’
‘Well if it is Sarah Caldwell, then I think I know why she is targeting me Captain. As to the purpose of the game, I honestly have no idea’, I said, disheartened as to the lack of information we really had. I only hoped we would turn up something soon that we could use.
‘Goes without saying, we’re having SWAT on 14
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. We’ll have them there for two. If she’s there, we’ll nail her boys. Fill me in on Caldwell when you arrive Patton’.
‘We’ll see you soon, Captain’, I hung up.
For the rest of the drive we mulled over why The Chemist would chose that location for the next part of the game. Was it just picked at random, or would it serve a higher purpose?
Ever since we’d spoken to Tetley, there had been a voice inside my head that was getting louder and louder. It kept repeating one thing: ‘You killed her brother’.
Something told me that if The Chemist was indeed Sarah Caldwell, then she wasn’t anywhere near through with me.
Not by a long shot.
36
Last Week
Now that he was standing under the Gerald Desmond Bridge waiting for Senator Conrad Conway, Paul Britland-Jones wasn’t sure if this had been a good idea or not. It had seemed like a good idea several weeks ago when the idea had first come to him. After seeing the Senator on the news and wondering if a potential blackmail had been there it hadn’t taken too much effort on the part of himself to dig up background information on Conway. From there, he’d spent three or four weeks surveying and tailing him whenever he had the spare time; mainly at night but he had done a couple of days too. He had a feeling that the night time was where the Senator would undo himself, and he’d been right on that score. He’d seen Conway with drug dealers, prostitutes, members of the criminal fraternity; he had built up quite a substantial file on one of the most respected individuals in Los Angeles. He’d also seen the Senator arrive and leave the Aon Centre a couple of times, but had no idea why he’d been there.
After Conway had received The Bully’s first letter, along with the compromising photographs of the Senator on Figueroa Street, he’d telephoned him the following day to verify his instructions. The resulting conversation didn’t really go according to plan.
It had been Britland-Jones’ intention to have Conway drop the money then have one of his contacts pick up the money. When Britland-Jones was satisfied that the money was there, he would have the photographs delivered by courier to the Conway residence. Conway had angrily said that that was unacceptable and the only way he would do this was if they were to meet face to face, then he had hung up saying that no matter what The Bully had on him, he could exercise damage limitation through the press and media via one of his close friends at the Farrington Network.
Realising that the Senator was not going to compromise on this, he had phoned back, agreeing to his terms. Not that he was intimidated, but he realised this was a one-shot deal, that Conway would indeed have powerful friends and allies; and that he was playing a dangerous game. Perhaps more dangerous than he had first thought. Nevertheless, Bobby Hambel would become an equally dangerous prospect if he didn’t receive his pay-off.
The meeting place of Gerald Desmond Bridge remained however, and true to his word, Britland-Jones had come alone. He had taken the liberty of placing the file he had on Conrad Conway in a safety deposit box and leaving instructions with a fellow journalist; and in fact fellow countryman; Jacob Hunt that if he didn’t receive a phone call by nine o’ clock the following morning to go to his house and retrieve the key that would open it. It was by no means a guarantee of his safety, but it was the best he could do.
This stretch of Long Beach was deserted at this time of night, which was the reason Britland-Jones had picked it. It also had excellent visibility for anyone approaching from either side, and just to be on the safe side, he had arrived here three hours ago, at eight p.m. Taking a considerable amount of time to check he wasn’t being watched, he now stood in the shadows of the bridge and was satisfied he was alone. All he had to do now was wait and see if the Senator showed up.
At five past the agreed meeting time, Britland-Jones’ alert ears pricked up. He heard the low purr of an expensive car approaching. He squinted in the dark to see if he could determine who was arriving. Sure enough, even in the darkness, he recognised the Senator’s Aston Martin. Out of instinct, he placed one hand on his Browning 9mm; a pistol he had procured from a contact several months ago when he’d realised he was operating more and more outside the law.
The Senator walked up to the bridge. Britland-Jones could see he wasn’t carrying anything. He better have brought the money! He pulled up a flashlight and flashed it once, signifying the agreed meeting place. Conway could have spent hours wandering around the lower constructs of the bridge not knowing where The Bully was standing.
As Conway climbed the final couple of steps towards Britland-Jones, they made eye contact for the very first time.
‘The money’, Britland-Jones quizzed, ‘have you brought it?’ Conway stayed silent for a moment; then replied.
‘There’s been a change of plan my friend. You won’t be getting the fifty grand off me’. Britland-Jones reached down towards his firearm. This had not been the news he was expecting.
‘I’d like it if you kept your hands where I could see them’, Conrad sounded calm, ‘I appreciate that the photos you have of me are worth something to you, and obviously, I would like all negatives and anything else you may have on me’. Conway had long ago realised that if The Bully had these photos, he would probably have a lot more on him.
‘Go on’, said The Bully, curtly.
‘I will give you something though, but it isn’t fifty grand. You won’t be getting that, not off me anyway. I’m going to give you something worth a lot more, but in return I expect any and all information on me to be in my hands by noon tomorrow’.
‘And what are you going to give me?’ Britland-Jones was curious. This was an unexpected turn of events but one he still may profit from.
‘What I’m going to give you’, Conway grinned, commending himself on his own genius, ‘is Paul McCrane and Jameson Burr’.
37
By the time we got back to the station, the team charged with unearthing anything and everything on Sarah Caldwell had already been assembled. As time was critical, Captain Williams had gathered every spare officer and detective he could reach, with the promise of more on the way. There were twelve people frantically scrambling at files and on phones; hell, even Williams’ secretary was in on the act. I’ll say one thing for the Captain, when he said ‘jump’, most people jumped. Whilst the frenzied activity looked promising, the news wasn’t good.
Over the next thirty minutes, every search performed, every phone call made, every lead chased up gave us nothing on Sarah Caldwell.
We sipped the department’s trademark shitty coffee as we filled in Captain Williams about our conversation with Tetley, and with my ties to the Caldwell family. I remember reading at the time of Andrew’s funeral that he had a sister, Sarah, but there was no mention of any other family. Not that I could recall, anyway. Captain Williams listened with his usual seriousness, his brow furrowed deep in thought. He’d been my Captain for nearly six years and had no aspirations to move any further up the ladder. Maybe he thought he got enough grief in his current position and that maybe that would increase exponentially should he have been promoted. At fifty-six, with his considerable experience and ability, he was certainly more than qualified and it was common knowledge that he had declined a promotion a year ago. His years off the streets had seen him put on more than a little weight but his height compensated for this to a degree. Nevertheless, he often wore an expression that suggested his wife constantly nagged him to lose a little weight, something that his mild addiction to Twinkies wasn’t going to help.
There was a knock on the door. Permission to enter granted, Detective Shawn Axon strode in, a look of bafflement on his face. ‘I don’t know what to say’, he addressed the room in general. ‘We’re an hour in, and by now, you would have expected at least one or two flags to have shown up. But we’ve hit nothing. It’s almost like she doesn’t exist. No record of DNA on file, no record of passport being issued, no record of a driving licence, no social security, never voted; nothing.’
‘You’re sure this Andrew Caldwell guy you ran off the road had a sister?’ Charlie mused. ‘I mean, it was a long time ago, man. You sure?’ Before I could answer, Williams’ phone rang, and we sat in silence whilst he had a short conversation, scribbling notes on a pad. The desperate look on his face had given way somewhat, to a look of hope.
‘We might have something’, he informed us. ‘There are no records at San Quentin of there ever having been a Sarah Caldwell there, but we have tracked down Dave Barnes. He was fired from San Quentin couple months ago; drunk on the job. Turns out he lost his home shortly after that and moved back to LA, now lives with his sister in Westwood, just off Rancho Park’.
‘We got time to go get this guy?’ I demanded. In less than an hour and a half we had to be at 14
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in West LA. Or at least we thought we did.
‘Don’t see any reason why not’, Williams commanded. ‘Rancho Park is fifteen minutes away from 14
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, as long as you’re there on time, why the fuck not?’
‘And the SWAT team?’ Charlie wanted to know.
‘Will be en-route in less than half an hour. They’ve been through all the schematics, they know where they need to be. They’ll be covert, of course. The media are already sniffing round this one and we don’t want them causing any more hysteria than they already have’. Williams had long ago realised that he held most of the media, and certainly most of the press, in utter contempt. ‘Get hold of Barnes’, he said, tearing the address off his notepad. ‘See if he can confirm if Caldwell ever had the pleasure of SQ. We want proof. Also, get a description. If she’s at 14
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at three when you guys get there, we’ll see her’.
If lady luck was beginning to shine on us, and I prayed she was, then I asked two more things of her right now; That Dave Barnes was in when we got to Westwood, and, with it being early afternoon, that he was sober.
38
Arriving at Westwood, we were cautiously optimistic. I had to have faith that we had made a breakthrough here. We just needed Barnes to confirm that Caldwell had been a prisoner at San Quentin, which would give us more than we had ever had previously.