by Lisa Gardner
Two agents appeared in the hallway. They had Daniel Coakley, picked up fifteen minutes after his wife, between them. Now they led him past the interview room, just as the older FBI agent, Bill, opened the door, ostensibly to get something to drink.
Anita looked up. Spotted her frail husband walking past, and froze.
“What…what is he doing here? You didn’t tell me!”
“Eleven million dollars stolen,” Mark stated crisply. “A family of three, vanished. Do you really think we’re going to leave any stone unturned?”
“But Dan’s health! You can’t interview him. His heart. He gets tired, he needs to rest.”
“And we need answers, Anita. By three P.M. tomorrow. We’re going to keep going till we get them.”
In that instant, watching through the two-way glass, Tessa felt bad for Anita Bennett. She even felt guilty, as bringing in Dan had been her idea. But if she’d expected the older woman to cave, to magically confess all, she was mistaken.
Instead, Anita Bennett simply shook her head. “But I can’t give you answers. I didn’t steal from the company. I didn’t even know funds were missing. And I don’t know what happened to Justin. I didn’t do this. Justin is like family to me. And I take care of my family. Just look at my financial record. That is what I do. Work hard and tend to the ones I love. You can’t squeeze blood from a stone, Agent. You can’t squeeze blood from a stone.”
She stared up at both FBI agents beseechingly.
And in that moment, Tessa, who never trusted anyone, believed her.
“Damn,” she murmured.
Wyatt, who was seated beside her, seconded the motion.
THEY KEPT ANITA BENNETT TILL MIDNIGHT. Then, when her story and her husband’s story never wavered, Nicole Adams personally escorted both back to their home. The task force remained at the conference room table, but no one had anything to say.
“We’ll keep digging,” Nicole’s partner, Special Agent Hawkes, offered at last. “Get an agent down to the Bahamas, see if we can get a description of the person who closed out all the shell accounts. It’s a new lead; we just need more time to chase it.
No one stated the obvious: They didn’t have more time.
“Let’s talk three P.M. phone call,” Wyatt suggested.
Hawkes obliged: “I’m thinking the call to Justin Denbe’s cell will come from a restricted number, probably from another iPhone, given the FaceTime feature. We have Justin’s cellular company on standby to assist us with tracing the source of the call through triangulation of cell towers. That takes time, however, so we’ll want to keep the caller on the phone as long as possible. Ask questions, maybe get confused about the wire transfer numbers, require clarification.”
“We have ten minutes max,” Tessa pointed out. “Remember the instructions: By three eleven the ransom funds must be transferred, or the first member of the Denbe family…”
“You’re thinking of taking the call in the Denbes’ town house?” Wyatt asked Hawkes.
“That’s our current plan.”
Wyatt was quiet for a moment. “Why?”
Hawkes frowned. “Why not?”
“I’m thinking the action is up north. The jacket tossed in central New Hampshire. The requirements of the hideout location, given the logistics of housing that many people while remaining out of sight of cops, locals, et cetera. You take the call here, and odds are, you’re at least three hours away from the party. Or, say, you bring Justin Denbe’s iPhone to my offices. Still take the call, no problem, but now be closer to the heart of the matter.”
Tessa perked up. She hadn’t thought about that, but she liked it. “Their instructions don’t cover where we or the phone have to be,” she pointed out. “Nothing stopping us from heading north.”
Nicole Adams had returned, was standing in the doorway. “I wouldn’t want to spook them,” she said cautiously. “This is the one contact we get. If we do something unexpected, even if not explicitly against their instructions…” She let the rest of the warning go unsaid.
“Nine million dollars is a lot of reason not to spook too easily,” Wyatt commented.
“Or we do what they’ve been doing,” Tessa interjected with growing excitement. “They’re sending us video with tight focus, little background, right? We can do the same. We’ll grab artwork from the Denbes’ town house, say…the big print of the red flower that hangs in the family room. Stick it on a wall in your office”—she glanced at Wyatt—“and take the call there. Just enough background to be familiar. Might be interesting, actually, to have the kidnappers think the task force is safely tucked in Boston, when really, we’re three hours north.”
“Steal a page from their book,” Wyatt murmured. “I like it.”
“Unless their demands involve activity down here in Boston,” Hawkes warned.
Wyatt shrugged. “You have a whole field office of agents five minutes from the Denbes’ town house. What can’t they handle?”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
They all looked at one another.
“Makes me feel like we’re finally doing something other than play catch up,” Wyatt said at last. “All along, the kidnappers have been calling the shots. They say jump, we say how high. Now, I don’t know how much this will help us in the end, but…it’s something. I’d like to feel as though we’re doing something.”
They agreed.
Tomorrow, 8:00 A.M., they’d reconvene at the Denbes’ town house. Take the phones, borrow a painting and stage their own video conference call at the North Country sheriff’s department.
Tessa liked it. Less than fifteen hours now. Then the task force would take on the kidnappers. At stake, an entire family. Including fifteen-year-old Ashlyn Denbe, reading her own ransom instructions, the look on her face when she reached the death clause…
They would do this. Wire the money, receive the Denbes’ location, then rescue the family safe and sound.
Unless of course, this whole thing was really about the embezzled 11.2 million dollars.
In which case, they would never see the Denbes alive again.
Chapter 36
THEY DIDN’T COME FOR US first thing in the morning. The sky lightened through our narrow outer window. I woke up, tossed and turned. Dozed back off, only to dream of striking cobras and orange pill bottles. The second time I awoke, I forced myself to sit up, confront the cinder-block reality of my jail cell. I could hear Ashlyn above me, also thrashing in her sleep, murmuring something low and agitated under her breath.
Justin wasn’t in his bunk, but sat on the floor, his back against the steel door as if keeping guard. I wondered if he’d passed the whole night there. He was awake now, head up, arms resting on his hiked-up knees, but he appeared lost in thought, one finger tapping absently against his other hand, as if working out a problem.
I played my morning game of guessing the hour. The day seemed fully under way. Eight A.M., nine A.M., ten A.M.? Maybe if we survived this afternoon, I’d sign up for a survival course. Become the world’s oldest Girl Scout, learning how to pinpoint compass directions based on the moss growing on trees, or the hour of the day based upon the shadow that same tree cast upon the ground. I could learn some new skills. Certainly, my old ones weren’t doing a whole lot for me.
I crossed to the toilet. Justin gave me his back, the closest we could get to privacy.
Afterward, when he remained preoccupied and Ashlyn continued to thrash on the top bunk, I scrubbed my face, using only my hands because we didn’t have any soap or towels. Then, acting on impulse, I picked up our empty plastic jug and worked on filling it with water from the sink. I leaned my head over the tiny sink, pouring half the water jug over my hair, then worked at my scalp furiously with my fingertips. I could feel myself spraying water everywhere, but I didn’t care. I just couldn’t take one more second of the rank smell of my own hair, the constant itch of dirt and grime on my skin.
I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Maybe I was trying
to slough off my own skin, shed my miserable existence. Or maybe, a year from now, this would become the DNA evidence that would be used to convict Z and his team on all charges. The castoff cells of my dead skin, sprayed over this tiny sink in this tiny cell in this much too big prison.
I missed soap, the soft feel of lather, the reassuring scent of cleanliness. But I continued scrubbing, pouring the second half of the jug slowly over my head, down the fine strands of my shoulder-length hair. Finally, I splashed more water onto my neck, then shoved up the jumpsuit sleeves and scoured at my arms. By the time I finished, I was soaked, my jumpsuit was soaked and the cinder-block wall was thoroughly sprayed with water. And I felt better. Prepared for the day. As ready as I was going to get.
“Can I have a turn?” Ashlyn, now awake and watching me from the top bunk.
Wordlessly, I began to refill the jug.
“Beautifying yourselves for your rescuers?” Justin drawled from the floor.
“We are women.” I handed my daughter the water jug. “Now hear us roar.”
THE MORNING WORE ON, slowly and surely eroding our nerves. My hair dried as I took up pacing between the bunk beds. My jumpsuit, too. I still wouldn’t call myself clean. Just…less dirty.
Justin gave his swollen face and short hair a quick douse. Then, when the vast common room remained quiet, just the never-ending hum of fluorescent lights, he started a light regimen of push-ups, followed by sit-ups, then finally pull-ups using the top bunk.
Ashlyn watched us both as if we were insane. She had assumed the fetal position, curled up in the corner of the top bunk where she could see everything while remaining carefully tucked away. She reminded me of a feline. Not at all relaxed. Just waiting for the first excuse to spook or pounce.
I forced her to drink water, given that she was still recovering from yesterday’s miscarriage. I wished I had food for her as well. I finally had my own appetite back, my stomach actually growling as I prowled around the narrow cell. It seemed fitting that I would finally be ready to eat the day our kidnappers stopped feeding us.
Did they want us weak, fatigued, uncertain? All part of Z’s campaign of psychological warfare. By the time 3:00 P.M. rolled around, we’d do whatever he wanted just as long as he tossed us a bread crumb.
Or had something else happened? Our kidnappers had become sick, or were otherwise impaired? They wouldn’t just leave us, would they? Drive off, disappear? No one knew we were here. We would rot, literally die like forgotten animals trapped in a cage. Sure, the water would keep us going for the first week. But after fourteen, fifteen days of no food…
A new sound. A snap, then a flicker of the lights as the hum died out, taking the overhead lights with it. Our cell went from overbright white to shades of gray, illuminated only by a sliver of window, while the common area went to immediate shadow, a stage suddenly devoid of spotlights.
“Powering down,” Justin murmured.
And I got it. What our captors were doing. Preparing to leave the prison. Preparing to end the game, make their getaway.
What was the time? I couldn’t figure it out based on the angle of the sun.
But it was coming. Three P.M.
The hour of reckoning.
I stopped pacing, climbed up to the top bunk and held my daughter’s hand.
After another moment, Justin joined us. We sat together, arm in arm, and waited for whatever was going to happen next.
TESSA WOKE UP AT FIVE THIRTY. Her room was still dark. She’d been asleep three, four hours tops and couldn’t figure out what had woken her. Then, she watched her door soundlessly open, Sophie’s pale form appearing.
Her daughter drifted into the room, moving so quietly Tessa wasn’t even sure she was awake. Sometimes Sophie sleepwalked. Sometimes, she also talked in her sleep. Or, more like sleep-screamed.
Now Sophie materialized at the edge of Tessa’s bed, her eyes round and alert in her face.
“Mommy?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find the family?”
“Not yet.” Tessa drew back her covers. Sophie climbed aboard.
“You checked the cold, dark places?”
“Some of them.”
“What about the mountains? Did you try all the cabins in the mountains?”
“Tomorrow…today, actually… I’m going to head north. We’ll check more.”
“Bring cookies.”
“Absolutely.”
Sophie tucking against her. “That girl needs you.”
Tessa, hesitating. Her daughter was identifying with the victim, and given how things might turn out… She should hedge her bets, better manage her daughter’s expectations. And yet, in a case like this, was such a thing even possible? She found herself saying: “Losing you was the worst thing that ever happened to me, Sophie. Returning home, discovering that you weren’t there. It hurt. Like someone had punched me in the stomach.”
“I didn’t want to go. They made me.”
“Of course. I knew you never would have willingly left me. I hope you know, I never would’ve willingly let you go.”
“I knew, Mommy. Just like I knew you were coming. And I knew you’d make them pay.”
Tessa, wrapping her arms around her daughter’s bony shoulders. “We were lucky, Sophie. It sounds funny, but we got each other back. That makes us lucky.”
“And Mrs. Ennis.”
“And Mrs. Ennis.”
“And Gertrude.”
Sophie’s doll. With the eye they had carefully sewn back on. “I want this family to be lucky, too, Sophie. I’m going to try very hard to help them. There’s a whole bunch of detectives, in fact, who are working hard to help them. But sometimes, it also takes a bit of luck.”
“Cold, dark places.”
“Got it.”
“Bring cookies.”
“Yep.”
“Carry your gun.”
“Yes.”
“Then, please come home. I miss you, Mommy. I miss you.”
WYATT DIDN’T SLEEP. He worked his phone, clearing messages, catching up with the rest of his department. His deputies had some news: a break-in at a methadone clinic in Littleton, sometime Saturday night. Could be related to their case, or then again, maybe not. Gas station attendant had called in about filling up a white van on Saturday morning. Driven by two tough guys. Made him nervous, he said. Figured they were running drugs, given the plain white van, the dead man stares. They’d headed north on 93, all he could offer. One had three tears tattooed under his left eye. Definitely, the dude had served time.
Fish and Game had found another van parked off road by Crawford Notch. Older model, painted dark blue. Abandoned when they found it, the back littered with empty beer cans and smelling strongly of marijuana. Sounded like it belonged to some people up to no good, but probably not trained professionals up to no good.
And so it went. A string of a dozen or so possible sightings or maybe leads, if only they knew what they were sighting or leading.
At 2:00 A.M., Wyatt gave up on calls, stared at their map instead. He fell asleep with his head upon it, dreaming of Xs and Os and Ashlyn Denbe telling him to hurry up, there wasn’t much time left.
Six A.M., he was up, showered and back in yesterday’s uniform. He met Kevin downstairs, both of them checking out, grabbing coffee, then heading for the Denbes’ town house. They arrived thirty minutes early and were still the last ones to arrive.
Special Agent Hawkes already had the Denbe family cell phone. Nicole already had the picture.
Nothing new to report. Agents were still working the financials, while a pair of uniformed officers now sat outside Anita Bennett’s house. Feds were in place at the insurance company headquarters in Chicago. Cellular company still awaiting final go-ahead for the 3:00 P.M. EST call.
They knew what they knew. They had what they had. It was what it was.
They headed north, reaching the county sheriff’s department by 11:00 A.M. By noon, the Denbes’ picture was on the wall, and
they’d run through half a dozen ransom scripts. Nicole would handle the call, with the rest of them providing backup.
Twelve thirty, they ordered lunch.
One o’clock, Wyatt finished debriefing local PDs as well as the state police. They’d set up a designated channel through dispatch, ready to broadcast information the second they had any.
He once again reviewed the map.
One thirty, two o’clock. Two fifteen. Two thirty.
What’d they miss, what’d they miss? Always something. You planned, you prepared and yet, in the end, it was always something.
Wyatt, back to staring at his map.
Two forty. Two forty-eight. Two fifty-two. Two fifty-five.
What if the suspects never called? What if this was how the case ended, not with a blaze of glory but in total radio silence? The family was already dead, an embezzler covering his or her tracks. There wouldn’t be any rescue. Just a sad, drawn-out search that would consume days, weeks, months, maybe even years.
Three P.M.
Three oh one.
Three oh two.
Justin Denbe’s phone rang to life.
Chapter 37
ZMATERIALIZED OUTSIDE OUR CELL DOOR. For the first time since this ordeal started, he appeared tense, and his wired alertness immediately put our own nerves on edge. He was bearing a black plastic garbage bag that turned out to be filled with our original clothing. Now he fed each item through the wrist slot in the door with terse orders for us to change.
Our first step back into the real world, I wondered, our Boston garb? But I already doubted it. Ashlyn and I had also been commanded to change for our segment of the ransom demands; not because Z had wanted us to look our best on video, but because he hadn’t wanted to give away any information on our whereabouts, such as prison jumpsuits. I had a feeling the same logic applied here.
If the ransom demand was met, the police would learn of our location soon enough. But it wasn’t Z’s style to give away any advantage before he had to.
Once we were changed, it was time to exit the cell.
