both drink the whiskey. “Not bad,” the leader says, and extends the third glass toward Koo, saying, “Sure you won’t join us?”
Oh, the hell with it. “I’ll hate myself in the morning,” Koo says, taking the glass, and he sips a little. It tastes nothing at all like Jack Daniel’s, Koo’s favorite whiskey, but it does spread an immediate warm alcohol glow through his body.
Peter has now taken some folded sheets of typewriter paper from his jacket pocket. “You’re going to make a recording for us now, Koo,” he says.
Koo had guessed that from the cassette recorder. He gives Peter what’s supposed to be a defiant look. “I am?”
Peter glances over his shoulder at the tough guy, Mark, then grins again at Koo. “Yes, you are,” he says. Holding out the sheets of paper toward Koo, he says, “You may want to look it over first. You’ll begin with some personal remarks of your own, some statement to convince your family and your close friends that it’sreally you, and then you’ll follow up by reading this. Exactly as written, Koo.”
Koo takes the papers. There are three sheets, messily typewritten, with many pen and pencil alterations in various handwritings. It isn’t easy to read, but very soon the thrust of the message makes itself clear, and Koo looks up at these bastards and says, “You’re out of your fucking minds.”
“That’s okay, Koo,” Peter says, unruffled. “You don’t have to agree with it, you just read it. Like it was a movie script.”
“They’ll say no,” Koo tells him. “And then what happens?”
“Tough for you,” says Mark.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Oh, don’t be pessimistic,” Peter says. “You’re an important man, Koo, you’ve got a lot of important friends. I think they’ll come through for you, pal, I really do. That’s why I picked you.”
“They won’t do it,” Koo says.
Peter looks a bit troubled, a bit grim. “I hope you’re wrong, Koo. For your sake, I hope so.” Turning, he says, “Mark, get the machine ready.”
Koo can’t believe this is happening to him. “Killed,” he mutters. “Murdered to death by assholes.”
5
Lynsey Rayne parked her Porsche Targa behind the Burbank Police Headquarters annex. A tall and fashionably dressed woman of forty-one, wearing many bracelets, she entered the building through the rear door, and asked directions to “the Koo Davis office.” That was what Inspector Cayzer had told her to ask for, on the phone, and it produced a uniformed policewoman to escort her down brightly lit bare corridors to a small crowded office with the hastily assembled air of a campaign headquarters, where she identified herself to another policewoman working as receptionist: “Lynsey Rayne. I’m Koo Davis’ agent, I spoke to Inspector Cayzer earlier.”
“One minute, please.”
Apparently this set-up was not yet organized enough to have intercoms; but the kidnapping and its investigation were still less than two hours old. Lynsey waited while the policewoman went to an inner office to report, then came back and said, “Yes, Miss Rayne, you can go in.”
Entering the inner office, equally small and ramshackle but somewhat less crowded, Lynsey saw two men rising from their desks. The one on the right was Inspector Cayzer, an old man but, she had been assured by Mayor Pilocki, a good one. “So you found us,” he said, smiling, and extended his hand, which she took, saying, “Any news?”
“Not yet, Ms. Rayne.”
“Inspector,” she said, and echoed his own earlier words to her, “surely they’ve gone to ground by now.”
“Kidnappers work at their own pace, Ms. Rayne,” Cayzer said. “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do to hurry them along. May I introduce Agent Michael Wiskiel of the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Agent Wiskiel, this is Ms. Lynsey Rayne, Koo Davis’ agent.”
“How do you do,” Wiskiel said. He had come around from behind his desk in anticipation of the
Oh, the hell with it. “I’ll hate myself in the morning,” Koo says, taking the glass, and he sips a little. It tastes nothing at all like Jack Daniel’s, Koo’s favorite whiskey, but it does spread an immediate warm alcohol glow through his body.
Peter has now taken some folded sheets of typewriter paper from his jacket pocket. “You’re going to make a recording for us now, Koo,” he says.
Koo had guessed that from the cassette recorder. He gives Peter what’s supposed to be a defiant look. “I am?”
Peter glances over his shoulder at the tough guy, Mark, then grins again at Koo. “Yes, you are,” he says. Holding out the sheets of paper toward Koo, he says, “You may want to look it over first. You’ll begin with some personal remarks of your own, some statement to convince your family and your close friends that it’sreally you, and then you’ll follow up by reading this. Exactly as written, Koo.”
Koo takes the papers. There are three sheets, messily typewritten, with many pen and pencil alterations in various handwritings. It isn’t easy to read, but very soon the thrust of the message makes itself clear, and Koo looks up at these bastards and says, “You’re out of your fucking minds.”
“That’s okay, Koo,” Peter says, unruffled. “You don’t have to agree with it, you just read it. Like it was a movie script.”
“They’ll say no,” Koo tells him. “And then what happens?”
“Tough for you,” says Mark.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Oh, don’t be pessimistic,” Peter says. “You’re an important man, Koo, you’ve got a lot of important friends. I think they’ll come through for you, pal, I really do. That’s why I picked you.”
“They won’t do it,” Koo says.
Peter looks a bit troubled, a bit grim. “I hope you’re wrong, Koo. For your sake, I hope so.” Turning, he says, “Mark, get the machine ready.”
Koo can’t believe this is happening to him. “Killed,” he mutters. “Murdered to death by assholes.”
5
Lynsey Rayne parked her Porsche Targa behind the Burbank Police Headquarters annex. A tall and fashionably dressed woman of forty-one, wearing many bracelets, she entered the building through the rear door, and asked directions to “the Koo Davis office.” That was what Inspector Cayzer had told her to ask for, on the phone, and it produced a uniformed policewoman to escort her down brightly lit bare corridors to a small crowded office with the hastily assembled air of a campaign headquarters, where she identified herself to another policewoman working as receptionist: “Lynsey Rayne. I’m Koo Davis’ agent, I spoke to Inspector Cayzer earlier.”
“One minute, please.”
Apparently this set-up was not yet organized enough to have intercoms; but the kidnapping and its investigation were still less than two hours old. Lynsey waited while the policewoman went to an inner office to report, then came back and said, “Yes, Miss Rayne, you can go in.”
Entering the inner office, equally small and ramshackle but somewhat less crowded, Lynsey saw two men rising from their desks. The one on the right was Inspector Cayzer, an old man but, she had been assured by Mayor Pilocki, a good one. “So you found us,” he said, smiling, and extended his hand, which she took, saying, “Any news?”
“Not yet, Ms. Rayne.”
“Inspector,” she said, and echoed his own earlier words to her, “surely they’ve gone to ground by now.”
“Kidnappers work at their own pace, Ms. Rayne,” Cayzer said. “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do to hurry them along. May I introduce Agent Michael Wiskiel of the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Agent Wiskiel, this is Ms. Lynsey Rayne, Koo Davis’ agent.”
“How do you do,” Wiskiel said. He had come around from behind his desk in anticipation of the
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