Dangerous Games Read Free Page A

Crandall.”
    “I’d like you better if you’d let us get the hell out of here, Agent McCallum.”
    “Just a little farther. I want to see what happens when we come to an intersecting pipe. What else do we know about our adversary?”
    “He knows how to open foreign bank accounts. Could be a world traveler.”
    “Could be. But these days you don’t need to go overseas to open a foreign account. It can be done by mail.”
    “One way or the other, he knows his way around the banking system.”
    “He—or they. Is it one man or a team?”
    Crandall hesitated. “I’m guessing one guy.”
    “Easier to pull it off if you have an accomplice.”
    “Yes, but there’s his megalomania. He doesn’t think he needs help. That’s my read on it, anyway. What do you think?”
    “It’s not my case. I have no opinion.”
    “That’s a cop-out.”
    “Absolutely.”
    “You must have some opinion.”
    Tess acquiesced. “He’s smart, as you said. He’s got it all planned out. The way he’s worked it, he hasn’t given us even a glimpse of him. We haven’t seen his handwriting or heard his voice. He’s a ghost.”
    “He could be anyone,” Crandall said.
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “That’s not very reassuring.”
    No, it wasn’t, Tess reflected. But it was true.
    She thought about the man they were after, the man who used these passages as his killing ground. He had played his game adroitly so far. No slip-ups yet.
    The first note had been found on Wednesday afternoon, January 5, inside a videocassette box dropped through the return slot of a rental outlet. The note was written in felt marker on a sheet of notebook paper, a popular brand sold in thousands of stores. Paper-clipped to it were a driver’s license issued to Angela Morris and an index card bearing a laser-printed bank account number.
    The note’s handwriting was large and clumsy, and there were several misspellings.
     
    My name is Angela Morris. He is making me write this. He is kiddnaping me. He says my life is at steak. He is going to put me under ground in the storm dranes. The storm dranes will flood tonite when it rains. You must transfer $1,000,000 in city revenus to the bank account number on the card before it rains. When it rains it will be to late .
     
    The money had never been transferred. Tess doubted that the kidnapper had expected it to be. Most likely he’d used Angela as a test case in order to familiarize the authorities with his method of operation—and to prove he was serious.
    Because kidnapping was a federal crime, the Bureau had been brought in at once. The case was all over the media, of course. It had all the elements of TV drama, except a flashy moniker for the killer. For some reason the journalistic gimmick of nicknaming serial offenders had become passé. To the Bureau he was the unsub—unknown subject—in the case code-named STORMKIL.
    On Sunday, January 9, a second note was found, this time inside a Ford Taurus parked in a loading zone. A patrol cop traced the Ford to Paula L. Weissman of Reseda. He was writing Ms. Weissman a ticket when he saw the sheet of paper, the driver’s license, and the index card on the dashboard. He had the presence of mind not to touch these items, but it made no difference; there were no prints on them but the victim’s.
    The handwriting of this note was more polished, but the message was nearly the same.
     
    My name is Paula Weissman. I’m being held captive by a man who says he is responsible for the abduction of Angela Morris last week. He demands that $2,000,000 in municipal revenues be deposited in the bank account indicated on the attached card. He says you made a mistake last time, but he’s sure you will cooperate now. He wants me to tell you he’s very disappointed with you, and he doesn’t want to be disappointed again. He says he doesn’t handle disappointment well. He says it’s something he’s working on. He says to remind you of the weather forecast .
     
    That was all,