“Curt himself was here this morning looking for something special for Roger Hagarty, who is in Mexico running a case.”
“How convenient,” Colt said happily. “Could you find him for me and have him call? I’m going to need some special things myself.”
“I’ll be happy to,” Robert said cheerfully.
“Let’s go,” Grover said, grabbing Colt’s upper arm and giving him a shove in the general direction of the elevators. “You’re the one’s been growling about the time.”
On this second trip to Queens, they chose to use the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. As Grover drove, Colt used the time to study the floor plans and commit them to memory.
“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding JJ,” Grover said, aware of what Colt was doing.
“I’m glad you are optimistic. But I don’t want to get in there and be figuratively stumbling around in the dark.”
“It’s always better to be safe than sorry — pardon the overused expression. But if the wife is so fond of the child, I’ll bet you the kid will be smack-dab in the middle of the master bedroom.”
As they emerged back into the daylight from the tunnel, Colt went back to the floor plans, but his cell phone interrupted him.
“It’s Curt,” his caller announced. “Robert said you were in need of some special equipment.”
“I need a gas-based dart pistol loaded with enough ketamine to stop an adult water buffalo in heat. One that has the green laser aiming devices. To be truthful, chances are I’ll be facing a couple of Dobermans.”
“Very funny,” Curt said, “but a humongous dose is not going to help. With ketamine darts, the animal doesn’t instantly fall over, even if I err on the high-dose side. That’s public folklore. The dog is going to stumble around for a few minutes and might still be dangerous. Keep that in mind.”
“So a dog might be able to chew on me for several minutes after I hit him with a ketamine-filled dart?”
“I’m afraid so. It can happen, unless you want to kill the dog.”
“Thanks for the good news. In addition to the dart pistol, I’m going to need my usual climbing kit with several fifty-foot lengths of rope. Also, one window anchor for a fast escape.”
“No problem. What else?”
“Some sort of an over-the-shoulder bag capable of supporting up to forty pounds.”
“How big?”
“About a yard long, twelve to fourteen inches high. Big enough to hold a one-and-a-half-year-old child. And, oh, yeah, an eyedropper.”
“What about any special weapons?”
“Give me something small and light but makes a lot of noise and I don’t have to aim.”
“You mean like an Uzi?
“That’s fine.”
“What else?”
“The usual breaking-and-entering tools, like lock picks, glass suction cups, and glass cutters.”
“Is that it?”
“I believe so,” Colt said. “If I think of anything else, I’ll give you a quick call.”
“When do you want to pick everything up?” Curt asked. “I’ll have it all at the front desk with your name on it. What about night-vision goggles?”
“Thanks for reminding us,” Colt said. “Let me ask Grover.”
“Of course I want night-vision goggles,” Grover said, hearing both sides of Colt’s conversation.
“Tonight’s forecast is calling for clear skies and a gibbous moon,” Curt said. “Just in case you haven’t checked.”
“I still want the night-vision goggles,” Grover said.
“Same with me,” Colt added.
“And I want a sniper rifle with a night-vision scope in case Colt is being chased when he comes out of the house with the kid.”
“Don’t even suggest it,” Colt said.
“It’s better to be...”
“Yeah, I know, ‘safe than sorry.’ Let’s abandon the clichés, will you please!” Colt pleaded.
“What time?” Curt said, interrupting the two agents. “What time do you want this stuff available by?”
“We don’t need it until around eleven. I don’t want to do this break-in until after one a.m., or even later.”
“It will be waiting for you by nine p.m. If you suddenly think of anything else, call me and I’ll do my very best.”
“Thanks, Curt,” Grover and Colt echoed into Colt’s cell phone.
42
March 28, 2010
Sunday, 12:31 a.m.
Whitestone, Queens, New York
After picking up all the equipment that Curt had rounded up for them, Grover and Colt had retraced the route that they had used that afternoon traveling from CRT’s main office out to Whitestone, Queens, a trip that had been very worthwhile indeed. The first thing they had learned that afternoon was that the group that had kidnapped JJ were not quite the amateurs Grover and Colt had earlier suspected. The perpetrators were cleverly and covertly watching the location where they were holding the child, 3746 Powells Cove Boulevard. It had only been over the last fifty or so years that professional kidnappers had realized that surveillance was a smart move, so that if the authorities, by one mechanism or another, were closing in on the hideout, the people holding the victim could be alerted to move on if there was time or kill the victim and hide the remains in a previously prepared location. Without the victim or the victim’s remains, prosecution of the case was always difficult at best. The only reason Grover and Colt had discovered these watchers was because they had specifically looked for them. It was two guys in a black SUV tucked into a neighbor’s driveway.
The second important thing they’d been able to achieve on their afternoon reconnaissance was to locate a good-size marina in the town just beyond Whitestone. Although the marina was technically not yet open for the season, they had been able to rent a Zodiac and a boat slip. They had to rent the boat for a week to justify the marina to get the outboard out of winter storage.
Trying the boat out, they had motored back to 3746 Powells Cove Boulevard. Seeing no one, particularly no guards, as they had from the land side, they’d allowed themselves to approach under the pier exactly the way they would that night. Sitting there under the wooden pier, Colt had used his laptop to scan the usual wireless alarm frequencies and write them down, while Grover had kept vigilance. At one point Grover thought he’d heard a baby wail. Looking at his partner to see if he’d heard, Colt lifted his eyes from the computer screen, smiled, and gave a thumbs-up sign.
The three-story house itself was appreciated much better from the water side. It was constructed of reinforced cement in a faux-Mediterranean style. Half buried in the top of the surrounding retaining wall were pieces of broken glass, and above it coils of razor wire. Despite this formidable defense on the land side, the waterfront was completely open, with the house set back about a hundred feet from the water’s edge. Immediately in front of the house was the pool. Along the side was a tennis court. They had seen the dogs, but only from a distance when they had left.
Now, just after midnight, pulling back into the marina where they had rented the boat that afternoon, Grover doused the headlights. With only the light from the moon, he drove around to the water side of the building and backed up to the pier where the slip they had rented was located. The marina itself was mostly dark, except for dim lights in a display window on the roadside, containing gleaming marine hardware, such as stainless-steel cleats and mahogany blocks. On the water side the only lights were positioned out on the pier complex on the top of long poles and directed downward to provide cones of light at various locations. The weather could not have been more perfect, without a visible cloud. There was no wind to speak of and the surface of the water was placid.