The Blue Nowhere

Gillette said. The hacker was studying the screen on a laptop, online via a cell phone.
    They arrived at the Bay View Motel. Bob Shelton braked hard and skidded into the parking lot where a uniformed cop directed him.
    There were a dozen state police and highway patrol cars in the lot and a number of uniformed, plainclothes and armor-suited tactical officers clustered around them. This lot was next door to the Bay View but was out of sight of the windows.
    In another Crown Victoria were Linda Sanchez, along with Tony Mott, who was decked out in his Oakley sunglasses—despite the overcast and mist—and rubberized shooting gloves. Bishop wondered how he could keep Mott from hurting himself and anyone else during the operation.
    Stylish Tim Morgan, today in a double-breasted navy-blue suit whose cut was ruined by a bulletproof vest, noticed Bishop and Shelton and ran up to the car. Bent down to the window.
    Catching his breath, he said, “Guy fitting Holloway’s description checked in two hours ago under the name Fred Lawson. Paid cash. He filled out the car information on the motel registration card but there’s no match in the lot. The tag number was fake. He’s in room one-eighteen. The blinds’re down but he’s still on the phone.”
    Bishop glanced at Gillette. “He still online?”
    Gillette looked at his laptop screen. “Yep.”
    Bishop, Shelton and Gillette climbed from the car. Sanchez and Mott joined them.
    “Al,” Bishop called to a well-built black trooper. Alonso Johnson was head of the state police’s tactical team in San Jose. Bishop likedhim because he was as calm and methodical as an inexperienced officer like, say, Tony Mott, was dangerously gung ho. “What’s the scenario?” Bishop asked.
    The tactical cop opened a diagram of the motel. “We’ve got troopers here, here, here.” He tapped various places around the grounds and in the first-floor corridor. “We don’t have much leeway. It’ll be a typical motel room takedown. We’ll secure the rooms on either side and above his. We’ve got the passkey and a chain cutter. We’ll just go in through the front door and take him. If he tries to get out the patio door there’ll be the second team outside. Snipers’re ready—just in case he’s got a weapon.”
    Bishop glanced up and saw Tony Mott strapping on body armor. He picked up a short black automatic shotgun and studied it lovingly. With his wraparound sunglasses and biker shorts he looked like a character in a bad science-fiction film. Bishop motioned the young man over. He asked Mott, “What’re you doing with that?” Gesturing at the gun.
    “I just thought I ought to have some better firepower.”
    “You ever fire a scattergun before, Officer?”
    “Anybody can—”
    “Have you ever fired a shotgun?” Bishop repeated patiently.
    “Sure.”
    “Since firearms training at the academy?”
    “Not exactly. But—”
    Bishop said, “Put it back.”
    “And, Officer?” Alonso Johnson muttered. “Lose the sunglasses.” He rolled his eyes toward Bishop.
    Mott stalked off and handed the gun to a tactical officer.
    Linda Sanchez, on her cell phone—undoubtedly with her extremely pregnant daughter—hung back well to the rear. She, for one, didn’t need reminding that tactical operations weren’t her expertise.
    Then Johnson cocked his head as he received a transmission. He nodded slightly and then looked up. “We’re ready.”
    Bishop said, “Go ahead,” as casually as if he were politely letting someone precede him into an elevator.
    The SWAT commander nodded and spoke into the tiny microphone. Then he motioned a half dozen other tactical officers after him and they ran through a line of bushes toward the motel. Tony Mott followed, keeping to the rear as he’d been ordered.
    Bishop walked back to the car and tuned the radio to the tactical operations frequency.
    It all comes down to this. . . .
    From the radio headset he heard Johnson suddenly call, “Go, go, go!”
    Bishop tensed, leaning forward. Was Phate waiting for them with a gun? Bishop wondered. Would he be completely surprised? What would happen?
    But the answer was: nothing.
    A staticky transmission cut through the air on his radio. Alonso Johnson said, “Frank, the room’s empty. He’s not here.”
    “Not there?” Bishop asked doubtfully. Wondering if there was a mix-up about which room Phate was in.
    Johnson came back on the radio a moment later. “He’s gone.”
    Bishop turned to Wyatt