The 6th Target

"The Queensbury Registry was owned by two Americans, called themselves John and Tina Langer," Macklin continued. "The Langers disappeared after the Devereaux/Osterman abductions. The Canadian police e-mailed this photo of the Langers."

Macklin put another laser-print photo on Tracchio's desk, a man and a woman, white, late forties.

It was an informal snapshot taken at a holiday party. Beautiful room. Carved paneling. Men in di

Macklin's finger was pressed against the photo, nailing a brunette woman in her late forties, wearing a low-cut bronze-colored dress. She was leaning against a smiling man, who had his arm around her.

I could only guess at the woman's identity, but I knew the man. His hair was black, combed straight back. He had a goatee, and he didn't wear glasses.

But I'd looked into that face only a short time ago, and I knew him.

John Langer was Paul Renfrew.

Chapter 111

AT JUST AFTER NOON THAT DAY, Conklin and I were at Uncle's Café in Chinatown. We'd both ordered the Wednesday special: pot roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Conklin had made inroads into his potatoes, but I had no appetite for food.

We had a straight-on view through the plate glass across the gloomy street to a row of brick houses and the Westwood Registry.

A pregnant Chinese woman in pigtails refilled our cups of tea. When I looked through the window a nanosecond later, Paul Renfrew, as he was calling himself, was stepping out of his doorway and heading down the front steps.

"Lookit," I said, tapping Conklin's plate with my fork. My cell phone rang. It was Pat Noonan.

"Mr. Renfrew said he's going out for lunch. Coming back in an hour."

I doubted it.

Renfrew was going to run.

And he had no idea how many eyes were watching him.

Conklin paid the check, and I made calls to Stanford and Jacobi, zipped my jacket over my vest, and watched Renfrew's peppy march past herbal shops and souvenir stores as he headed toward the corner of Waverly and Clay.

Conklin and I got into our Crown Vic just as Renfrew unlocked the door of his midnight-blue BMW sedan. He looked over his shoulder, then entered his car and headed south.

Dave Stanford and his partner, Heather Thomson, pulled in behind Renfrew when he reached Sacramento Street while Jacobi and Macklin took a northern route toward Broadway. Our walkie-talkies bleeped and chattered as our team members called in their locations and that of the BMW, following, dropping back, weaving into place, and picking up the trail.

My heart was thudding at a good steady rate as we followed Paul Renfrew's run to wherever the hell he was taking us.

We crossed the Bay Bridge and drove north on Highway 24, finally entering Contra Costa County.

Conklin and I were in the lead car as Renfrew turned off Altarinda Road onto one of the smaller roadways in Orinda – a quiet, upscale town almost hidden within the folds of the surrounding hills.

I heard Jacobi on the car radio, telling the local police we were conducting a surveillance in an ongoing homicide investigation. Macklin requested backup from the state police and then called the Oakland PD and asked for chopper surveillance. The next voice I heard was Stanford's. He called for the big guns, an FBI response team.

"The SFPD just lost control of the takedown," I said to Conklin as Renfrew's BMW slowed, then turned into the driveway of a white multigabled house with blue shutters.

Conklin drove past the house, casual-like.

We made a U-turn at the junction at the end of the road, came back up the street, and nosed our car into a tree-shaded spot across from where Renfrew had parked his blue BMW next to a black Honda minivan.

It couldn't be a coincidence.

That had to be the van used to abduct Madison Tyler and Paola Ricci.

Chapter 112

I RAN THE VAN'S PLATES on the car computer. I was thinking ahead to a search warrant, impounding the van, fa

During the next hour, two perimeters were set up: The i

There'd been no activity from the house, making me wonder what was going on inside. Was Renfrew packing? Destroying records?

It was almost four in the afternoon when five black SUVs rolled up the road. They parked on the sidewalk, perpendicular to the front of the gabled house.

Dave Stanford walked up to my car window. He handed me a bullhorn. His ponytail had been clipped to FBI standards, and the humor in his blue eyes was gone. Dave wasn't working undercover anymore.

He said, "We're calling the shots, Lindsay. But since Renfrew knows you, try getting him to come out of the house."

Conklin turned the key in the ignition and we rolled out, crossing the street, coming to a stop in front of the Renfrew driveway. We were blocking in both the van and the BMW.

I took the bullhorn and stood behind my open car door. I called out, "Paul Renfrew, this is Sergeant Boxer. We have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of homicide. Please come out slowly with your hands in the air."

My voice boomed out over the quiet suburban block. Birds took flight, drowning out the flutter of the chopper blades.

Conklin said, "Movement on the second floor."

Every muscle in my body tensed. My eyes flicked across the face of the house. I saw nothing, but my skin prickled. I could feel a gun pointed at me.

I lifted the bullhorn again – pressed the button.

"Mr. Renfrew, this is your last and best chance. There's enough artillery aimed at your house to reduce it to rubble. Don't make us use it."

The front door cracked open. Renfrew appeared in the shadows. He called out, "I'm coming out. Don't shoot! Please, don't shoot!"

I cut a look to my left to see how the FBI response team was reacting. A dozen or more M16 rifles were still aimed at the front door. I knew that on a roof somewhere, maybe a hundred feet away, a sniper had a Remington Model 700 with a high-powered scope trained on Renfrew's forehead.

"Step outside where we can see you," I called to the man in the doorway. "Good decision, Mr. Renfrew," I said. "Now, turn around and back up toward the sound of my voice."

Renfrew was standing under the pediment that defined the entryway to the house. Thirty feet of clipped green lawn stretched between us.

"I can't do that," Renfrew said in a weak, almost pleading voice. "If I go out there, she'll shoot me."

Chapter 113

RENFREW LOOKED FRIGHTENED, and he had reason to be. If he made a wrong move, his life expectancy was something under two seconds.

But he wasn't afraid of us.

"Who wants to shoot you?" I called out.

"My wife, Laura. She's upstairs with a semiautomatic. I can't get her to come out. I think she's going to try to stop me from surrendering."

This was a bad turn. If we wanted to learn what happened to Madison Tyler, we had to keep Paul Renfrew alive.

"Do exactly what I tell you!" I shouted. "Take off your jacket and toss it away from you… Okay. Good. Now turn out your pants pockets."

The mic on my radio was open so that everyone on our cha

"Unbuckle your belt, Mr. Renfrew. And drop your trousers."

Renfrew shot me a look, but he obeyed. The pants went down, his shirt covering him to the tops of his thighs.

"Now turn around slowly. Three hundred sixty degrees. Hold up your shirt so I can see your waist," I said as he struggled to comply. "Okay, you can pull up your pants."