If Angels Fall (30 page)

“You all know what’s at stake here. Do whatever it
takes,” Gonzales vowed to the group.

Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Nancy Nunn was overwhelmed. Where was Gabrielle? What
was he doing to her? Oh God. Please watch over her.

All my fault. It’s all my fault. Why wasn’t I
watching her?
What was he going to do to her? Oh
God, would she ever see her again? Golden Gate Park. That’s where they found
the baby girl last year. Murdered. Oh God. The accusing eyes of the carousel
horses.

I’m okay Mom, I’m just waiting at the door.

The man was a Caucasian, late forties to mid-fifties.
He had a full beard, bushy blondish hair, medium build, about 170-190 pounds,
six feet to six feet, two inches tall. Beth Ferguson estimated as she worked in
a nose, ears, and mouth that might match those of the man the teens had seen.
He wore a long-sleeve shirt; the girls couldn’t see any tattoos. They kept
repeating, reciting details. Nancy and Paul sat with them, studying the sketch,
struggling to remember if they had ever encountered the man who took Gabrielle.
Nancy prayed.

God please help me. Please don’t harm her. She’s just
a little girl, an innocent little girl. We should be looking for her. My child
has been abducted. Why didn’t the world stand still? Why wasn’t everyone
looking for her? I have to find her—

Nancy bolted to the hall, where she was stopped by the
throng of detectives leaving the conference room, running square into one of
them. He was calm, compassionate. She felt his large, strong hands steady her
shoulders gently. He smelled of a trace of Old Spice. Nancy’s father wore Old
Spice. The hall fell silent except for Nancy’s sobbing as she looked up at the
detective, her voice breaking.

“Bring her home to me. Please bring her home to me.”

Sydowski’s blue eyes watered with understanding. He
knew her suffering—he would carry it with him as a crusader carries an amulet.
It was his solemn promise. She read it in his face, the face of a good man. He
embodied her hope. Her only hope.

“I promise you, Mrs. Nunn, we will do everything we
can on this earth to find Gabrielle.”

Tears rolled down Nancy’s face as her husband took her
in his arms, comforting her. “If he asks for money, we will pay it.” Paul Nunn
said. “Whatever he asks for. We’ll sell the house.”

Sydowski nodded.

Two other detectives ushered the Nunns away for more
questioning before taking them home.

Turgeon and Sydowski said nothing in the elevator or
during the walk to the car. Nothing anyone could say would be worth a damn.
They were alone with their thoughts and the case. Turgeon started the Caprice,
had slipped the transmission into reverse when Gord Mikelson ran up to them.

“CHiPS just locked on to a truck, could be our guy.”

“What?”

“Bearded man driving a battered pickup with a girl
about six or seven wearing a dress. They have a dog in the cab. Near the
Presidio, northbound towards the bridge. CHiPS bird has got him and Marin
County’s rolling. The guy hasn’t made us yet!”

“Punch it, Linda!” Sydowski switched on the police
radio.

The Chevy roared, leaving fifty feet of smoldering
rubber at the hall, emergency lights wigwagging and siren screaming.

San Francisco’s
skyscrapers and the surging whitecaps of the Bay wheel slowly under
the California Highway Patrol chopper approaching the south end of the Gold
Gate Bridge near the Presidio.

It had been assisting the San Francisco police in the
abduction investigation, hovering over Golden Gate Park, the Sunset, and
Richmond districts. It had returned to its Oakland base to refuel when its
radio crackled. An off-duty CHiPS patrol car spotted a pickup matching the
description in the Nunn kidnapping, northbound on 101 near the Palace of Fine
Arts. The chopper lifted off within forty-five seconds of the call.

The suspect truck was a Ford, the driver Caucasian,
bearded. Passenger was a girl, five to eight years old, her head barely visible
from the rear. A small dog was in the cab. The cruiser couldn’t get closer for
the truck’s tag without being noticed.

Traffic on 101 near the Golden Gate looked like a set
of toy cars from the air. The CHiPS chopper nearly invisible, lingering a
quarter mile or so south. The spotter locked onto the pickup through
high-powered binoculars. The truck was now on the bridge.

Police radios sizzled with dispatches as cars from
several jurisdictions headed to the area. No stop would be made on the bridge.
Too risky. It would happen at the viewpoint exit on the north side. The suspect
was considered dangerous and possibly armed.

They would hold him for the SFPD.

Weaving through traffic on the Golden Gate, Turgeon
and Sydowski monitored the takedown on their radio.

“Yeah, we’ve got him,” huffed a CHiPS officer. “No
problem here. No weapons.”

Turgeon and Sydowski arrived minutes after the arrest,
with Turgeon blasting the siren, jolting slow-moving rubberneckers out of their
way. Half a dozen officers were at the scene, four cruisers with front doors
open, emergency lights pulsating, surrounded the pickup, radio calls competing
with the chopper above.

An officer was talking to a man in the backseat of one
car. In the front of another car an officer talked with a little girl, while a
blond dog panted in the rear seat behind the cage. Motorists slowed to gawk. A
few tourists nearby watched with worried, puzzled faces as officers searched
the interior of the pickup’s cab. Sydowski clipped his shield to his jacket and
groaned. Also watching were TV news crews and newspaper photographers.
Reporters were talking to people, taking notes.

“Those guys are fast.” Turgeon shook her head.

The Chevy’s Michelin radials screeched as they skidded
to a halt next to the pickup. Sydowski had his door open before the car stopped
and a highway officer glanced at his shield.

“San Francisco PD?” The officer shouted over the
chopper.

“That’s right,” Sydowski said, noticing the stripes
and the name plate of Sergeant Marvin Miller.

“This is Inspector Turgeon,” Sydowski said. “Mind if
we talk to these people?” Turgeon went to the car holding the driver, Sydowski
went to the car with the little girl, opened the cruiser’s passenger door, and
squatted beside the girl. She was terrified.

“Excuse me, officer.” Sydowski did not take his eyes
from the girl. “Hi there. I’m Inspector Sydowski. I’m a police officer, too.”

She nodded.

“I bet this has got you pretty scared, sweetheart?”

She nodded. Her chestnut brown hair was in a neat
ponytail, tied with a pink bow. Her face darkened. “Was Daddy driving too fast?
He says police will stop you if you drive too fast.”

“Well, that’s true,” Sydowski said. “People shouldn’t
drive too fast. You’re a pretty smart girl to know that. Can you tell me your
name and how old you are?”

“My name is Jennifer Corliss. I’m seven years old and
I live at 7077 Brownlington Gardens. Where’s my daddy?”

The dog barked. A retriever pup.

“This your dog, Jennifer?” Sydowski asked, reaching
into his jacket for the Polaroids of Gabrielle Nunn.

“His name is Sonny Corlis. He lives with me and my
daddy and mommy and my little brother, Ethan. Where’s Daddy? We have to go now.
Mommy and Ethan are waiting at the cabin.”

Sydowski held up that morning’s birthday party
snapshot of Gabrielle for Miller. Not even close.

“Daddy’s right over there, Jennifer.” Sydowski nodded
to his left. “We’re going to take you to him in a minute. Meanwhile, why don’t
we let you sit with Sonny, while we talk to your daddy, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sydowski and Miller started for the second cruiser
where Jennifer’s father was being questioned.

“Say, you Sydowski, from Homicide?”

“Yup.”

A smile grew on Miller’s face. “The legend himself. I
thought I’d recognized you from the news.”

Turgeon stopped Sydowski before he got to the car.

“I don’t think he’s our boy, Walt.”

“Uh-huh. Well that’s not Gabrielle Nunn back there.”

Turgeon’s face was taut. “Mr. Corliss is not thrilled
with this attention. He’s pissed off.” Turgeon looked at a business card.
“Thoren J. Croliss, executive with a downtown investment group.”

Sydowski saw Corliss several yards away, out of
earshot outside the police car leaning against its front right fender, arms
folded resolutely across his chest, ignoring the officer talking to him.
Corliss was in his late thirties, early forties. Trim build, thick sandy hair,
and a beard, tanned chiseled cheeks. Faded jeans and a navy Ralph Lauren polo
shirt. Wayfarers hung from his neck. A man who was always in charge. A man who
sealed deals on squash courts, knew his way around most foreign capitals. A guy
who carried a phone with him everywhere. Likely called his lawyer already,
Sydowski thought.

“He’s demanding to speak to somebody in charge.”
Turgeon said.

“Oh, is that right?” Sydowski said.

“We ran his name and made some calls,” Miller said.
“He’s clean. Checks out. Just picked up his seven-year-old daughter, Jennifer,
from school and they’re on their way to the mother and son at their cottage at
Bel Marin. That’s their dog, too, a retriever. They fit the damn description
circulated. We told him that. Told him the situation.”

Sydowski rubbed his chin, told Miller his people made
the right call, then nodded to the reporters.

“Marvin, anybody here talk to the press yet?”

“No. It’s your show.”

Sydowski turned to Turgeon. “You up to it, Linda?”

“What have you got in mind?”

“What have you got in mind?”

“Talk to those guys and set the record straight. Tell
them we stopped a subject matching the description in the Nunn kidnapping.
Don’t give Corliss’s name or any details about the abduction. We’ll give them
more at the press conference later.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Talk to the old man here. Send him on his way.”

Turgeon was uneasy. A few minutes ago, Sydowski was
holding Gabrielle Nunn’s traumatized mother, staring into her eyes. She didn’t
like the way his jaw was fixed, the way he regarded Corliss.

“Don’t rough him up, Walt,” she joked.

Sydowski shoved a Tums into his mouth.

Thoren J. Croliss drew himself to his full height,
standing nearly eye to eye with Sydowski.

“And who the hell are you?” Corliss snapped.

Sydowski handed him his badge and identification.

“Homicide?” Corliss stared at Sydowski. “What is
this?”

“We’re investigating the recent abduction of a little
girl, Mr. Corliss. Unfortunately your truck, with yourself, your daughter, and
your dog, fit the description of the suspect’s vehicle.”

“I can’t believe this!”

“I can only offer you our apology. You are free to
leave now.”