Free Silent Joe by T. Jefferson Parker

walked up the stairs to the FBI Orange County Investigative Resident
    Agency. The public entrance door was heavily fortified with bulletproof glass and mesh and a video camera was trained on the entryway. In the lobby I walked past the Wall of Martyrs—photo-plaques of FBI personnel who'd lost their lives in the line of duty.
    Steve Marchant led me into the FBI War Room, set up for Savannah. Impressive: ten agents, six computers, a phone bank with recording and listening equipment, a big radio console. There was a handwritten timeline on a twenty-foot sheet of butcher paper tacked to the wall, so you could see at a glance what had happened. Pictures of Savannah and Alex Blazak hung above it.
    Some of the agents turned and looked at me, others stayed at their tasks.
    "I wanted to give you a look at this before we talked," said Marchant. "Joe, we've got up to two hundred agents ready to roll when this thing breaks. We hate kidnappings, and we use every resource we've got to make them go our way."
    He took me to a small conference room. There were a tape recorder and a video camera set up and ready to go.
    "Make yourself comfortable, Joe. We're going to go through Wednesday night in detail. Coffee?"
    "No thank you."
    "How's your memory?"
    "Very good."
    Marchant sat down across from me and tested the tape recorder, said the case number, date and time, my name, and asked me if I ^ here of my own free will, volunteering information. I said I was, and Mirandized me anyway.
    "Let's get started. Okay, Joe, tell me about Wednesday night."
    Two hours and two tapes later I'd gone through a lot of what I remember Marchant was particularly interested in Will's conversations in the Will's relationship with Savannah, and my talk with Jack Blazak earlier the morning. He made notes on a computer-generated sheet that may have been a phone company readout, or may not have been. He played his information very close to the chest—I learned nothing I didn't know already; The Feds are famous for being closed and tight when they want to.
    For my part, I said nothing about Lorna Blazak's card, and Alex’s "business" address. And nothing about Will's words to Jennifer Avila, or the money he'd passed to her, or about Mary Ann being blue that night. I'd been entrusted with those things and I didn't feel right about offering them to a man I barely knew.
    After Marchant turned off the tape and video recorders, he sat back looked at me. "What do you think of the father, Jack?"
    "Intense. Distraught."
    He nodded. "And Lorna?"
    "Dazed."
    "Yeah. If they contact you again, I want to know, immediately."
    I agreed.
    "At the tennis courts, when you dropped off the ransom cash—did get a look at the players?"
    "Doubles on one court—an older foursome. The other court were two teenagers, male, pretty good players, hitting hard."
    "Those young men pay any attention to you?"
    "None that I noticed."
    "Joe—your mother and father have a good relationship?"
    "I think it was strong. They loved each other and faced things together."
    "You have any reason to think Will was sexually involved with Savannah?"
    "None. He loved women, sir, not girls."
    He made a note, then closed his book. "Joe, we'll be using sheriff's department personnel on this. Local PD's too, if we need them. I want you to know we're here to help, not to take the glory."
    "I understand."
    "But I'm going to get that girl back safely. Nothing is going to keep me from doing that. I'll do what it takes."
    "It sounds like you're warning me, but I'm not sure what about."
    Marchant stood and smiled. He's a tall man, but he stoops a little, like he's trying to hide it. "What I'm saying is, I appreciate your help. I'm on your side. All two hundred of us are on your side. Birch wants to run the homicide. That's fine by us. He's a little . . . protective sometimes. But I want you to know we'll help you out any way we can."
    Half an hour later I was telling Rick Birch everything I'd told Marchant. But nothing