Cut and Run

“It’s a catered event,” LaMoia reminded. “It’s not going to be over in a half hour. They’re probably not even set up yet,” he said, completing his argument. “Give ’em a minute.”

“There’s baggage,” Hampton advised from his uncomfortable seat.

“What about your guy inside?” LaMoia asked.

“That’s unconfirmed,” Rotem said. But then hearing himself say this, he ordered Hampton to try Larson’s cell phone again, muttering, “I’ve waited long enough.” ERT officer Peter Milton, suspended by a woven nylon climbing-strap from one of two wooden booms that supported four high-voltage electric lines, was in the midst of transferring his Skyjack to the next length of cable when he spotted a small stainless-steel box screwed into the wooden pole, and recognized it immediately. He’d moonlighted weekends for Cablevision.

Milton radioed his discovery to the command van and waited to see if LaMoia understood its implications.

LaMoia swiveled on the small stool and faced Rotem. “You may need our help on this one, Marshal Rotem-state law versus the feds, and all-but my officer just stumbled upon the unexpected. It seems someone in that compound is pirating their cable television.”

“Television?”

“A black box,” LaMoia explained. “Unauthorized intercept of a coaxial cable. It could be to steal high-speed Internet or a television signal, but state law’s the same either way.”

“Are we sure?”

“Milton knows his stuff, believe me. If he says it’s a black box, it’s a black box. And I don’t know about Washington, D.C., but in Washington state that’s a no-brainer for a search-and-seizure: ‘to confirm and record the use of the unauthorized interception of radio or television transmission,’ ” he quoted. “More to your favor is that our guys typically make such raids evening or nighttime-like right now-when people are in their homes. It’s not going to ruffle any judge’s feathers to cut us the paper this time of night.”

“Let’s make the call,” Rotem said with reservation.

LaMoia could see through to his concern. “As CO, I’m free to solicit the assistance of any law-enforcement perso

Rotem had his phone out. He told Hampton to get word to Larson to keep his head down because they were coming in.

“I’ve tried him, like, ten times,” Hampton said.

“Well, try him again.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Hope spotted a tray holding ten empty water glasses and two pitchers with ice. Scooping it up, she headed into the hall and turned left toward the stairs. She climbed quickly, arriving into the dizzying smell of oiled wood, leather, and the lingering sweetness of cigar and pipe tobacco. Golf championship plaques lined the walls, some dating back to 1910. Yellowed black-and-white head shots of officious-looking men in blazers and club ties filled in the gaps between the plaques.

She forced herself to walk slowly. With all the activity in the basement and the dining room being on the first floor, she assumed Pe

Hope cut across this room and into an opposing hallway where she came across a small window in a swinging door. She peeked through and saw a narrow stairway.

She pushed through and climbed to the second floor, knowingly out-of-bounds. She hoped a simple excuse of being lost might get her by. Stopping at the landing, she heard the elevator’s electronic groan. Peering out into this second-floor hallway, she saw the room doors were farther separated than on the ground floor. Bedrooms or billiards or card rooms, perhaps. The stairs continued up to her left. She knew she was in dangerous territory.

The tray grew increasingly heavy for her.

Out in the hallway, she heard the spit of a radio intercom. “Khakis, brown sweater.”

She didn’t have to look down to realize she fit that description.

She set down the tray, pushing it into the corner, and quickly climbed to the third floor.

From below she heard a male voice. “Hey, I got a tray here. Glasses. Pitchers. Fresh ice.”

If something was said back to this man, Hope didn’t hear it. She pushed through the door and stepped out into the third-floor hallway, struck by the immediate smell of a hospital ward. She wondered if Meriden Manor was serving as a retirement home for mobsters.

She darted past medical equipment, convinced her pursuer was coming through that door behind her at any second.

The smell of old people intensified, like a grandmother’s house on a winter day with the windows shut tight.

Through a partially open door she caught sight of a luxury suite of rooms and the back of a bald head-a man wearing hospital pajamas.

Not assisted living, but assisted dying, she thought.

Pe

Burning with resentment, hungry for her daughter’s freedom, she retraced her steps, trying each and every door. All locked. Slots for key cards like hotels. The Meriden Marriott. She opened the first door without a lock, albeit cautiously.

A storage room containing linens, a pair of upright vacuum cleaners, and two rolling buckets with a variety of string mops.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught the door to the stairs swinging open. Reacting, she ducked inside and pulled the door shut. She collected herself into the corner, crouching behind the pair of vacuum cleaners. Hunkered down.

A muffled male voice. A guard on a radio checking room to room.

The complaint of the hallway’s parquet flooring presaged the doorknob’s twisting. Hope ducked farther down, her eyes trained to the floor, head as low as she could manage.

The door opened, the room flooding with light. She could hear his breathing. The light lessened as the door started to close.

The BlackBerry lit up and buzzed in her pocket. She slapped a hand over it, tried to squeeze the buttons through the fabric of her pants. The vibration of the plastic continued.

The room lit up as the door was flung back open.

“Come out from there,” a tentative male voice ordered.

She heard a bucket kicked out of the way. Another crash, extremely close to her.

“Do… not… move,” the voice demanded.

She looked up slowly, just as the BlackBerry stopped buzzing.

Head down, she managed to get three numbers typed into the device quickly and hit SEND.

He was just a kid: twenty, twenty-two. Dark skin. He held a gun aimed at her head, the barrel’s small black circular hole staring at her like an unflinching eye.