The Kobalt Dossier

by Eric Van Lustbader

  He stopped at a light. It was so early in the morning—around 4 A.M.—there was hardly any traffic. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay, sure.” She turned away.

  The light turned green and they took off.

  *

  Ben slowed the car as they approached their destination. “How’s your head?”

  “Never better.” She heard her own words through incessant thunder. The analgesic she’d been given was wearing off and she wasn’t about to screw with her reflexes by taking another one.

  He pulled the car up to the curb and parked, bit off a harsh laugh. “I don’t know why I bother.”

  “Clearly, you can’t help yourself.”

  It was a cutting remark, certainly, one of many she had hurled at him after the accident. But this one was different; this one truly cut him. She could see it on his face, though he struggled mightily to keep it hidden. Something occurred to her then that should have registered long before. Ben was a master at keeping his emotions secret—save when it came to her. She felt something tap her heart, the tip of his finger maybe, the sense that perhaps she and Ben could be a field team again. This should have warmed her. Instead, it had the opposite effect: it incensed her. She felt vulnerable, naked to his gaze. She felt unaccountably violated.

  She swung out of the car. It was raining again, but gently. Evan stood on the sidewalk in front of the Fisher house with legs slightly apart, the way a seaman might on the deck of a ship in rough water. The vertigo she’d experienced when exiting the car had passed. She breathed in deeply, filling her lungs until her head cleared fully.

  Ben came up beside her. “Do you have a way to get into the house?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, we’d better get going. But I can’t imagine what we’ll find. No doubt the FBI boys have been over every square inch of it already.”

  “I know the house better than they do.” Evan still hadn’t looked at him. She felt an electricity between them that was entirely new and not particularly pleasant. After all we’ve been through, she asked herself, what is this now? And what do we do about it? Nothing, the answer came back from the recesses of her mind. Not a damn thing. Just put one foot in front of the other, head into the dark like always, and see where it leads. But this dark led into Bobbi’s house, where ghosts were interred, ghosts alien to her. Inimical. She felt a chill ripple along her bones. Her hands felt stiff, frozen despite the warmth of the spring night.

  Ben gestured. “Shall we?”

  She was on the verge of acquiescing when she saw the black Chevy Tahoe from out the corner of her eye. Both she and, she was sure, Ben knew who the occupants were. They quickly moved into deep shadow, concealing themselves.

  She placed a hand on his forearm. “Let’s surveille the competition first.”

  Two FBI suits appeared, checked their mobile phones, then started up the brick walkway to the Fisher house. One was taller, beefier, and older than the other. The younger one was slim but filled out his suit nicely. Evan was willing to bet the older one was ex-military and that he’d been the champion boxer of his unit in the heavyweight class. His face featured a jaw like the prow of a ship.

  “Okay,” Evan said as they disappeared through the front door. “Let’s go.”

  Ben was nonplussed. “You want to go inside while they’re there?”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Yeah. Let’s wait until they leave.”

  “And what if they’re joined by another forensics crew? No, we’ve got to get in there and have a look around as quickly as possible.”

  She led him around the side of the house to the back, which was screened in from the neighbors on either side by an army of tall evergreens. Paul liked his privacy, so he had let the trees grow so tall he had started getting complaints from the neighbors, which he had ignored completely until they simply gave up and ceased to call.

  The backyard was loosely divided between use for adults—nearer the house was a fire pit, picnic table, chairs, umbrella stands, and a brickwork outdoor barbecue. The back half was mostly taken up by a swing set, a complex jungle gym, a slide, and one of those moveable soccer goals. All along the periphery, Bobbi’s neatly planted gardens—roses, azalea, mountain laurel, flowering quince, hardy hibiscus—were blooming with color. Three wide steps led up to a back porch that ran the length of the house, protected by a railing with fluted iron spindles.

  Evan picked her way over to the barbecue, stuck her hand into one of the niches on the left side of the covered grill, pulled out a key.

  She gestured toward the back door, and she and Ben mounted the stairs. She turned the key in the lock, and they slipped silently into the kitchen. For a moment, all was deathly still inside. The emptiness was absolute and, for Evan, heart-wrenching. After a short time, the ghosts manifested. The faint rise and fall of two voices in conversation. All the lights in the front rooms had been turned on. Evan led Ben through the kitchen. A box of take-out pizza lay crumpled in the garbage bin. No after odors of cooking. As they moved stealthily into the dining room, toward the hallway to the living room and den, the place seemed dead, no scent of Wendy’s lemongrass shampoo, no echo of Michael’s loud voice. The sadness—awfulness of their loss struck her all over again like a punch to the gut, redoubling her vow to find them. She examined everything with the minuteness of a Sherlock Holmes.

  They heard the voices more clearly now, and Evan sang under her breath, “The Badger and the Ferret went to see in a big black SUV,” to the rhythm of “The Owl and the Pussycat” nursery rhyme she used to recite to the kids when they were very young.

  But the voices were coming their way, so they backtracked, turned to the right as they reentered the kitchen, took a narrow flight of back stairs to the upper floor. Three bedrooms, one each for the children and the master. They went through each one methodically, silently, but could find nothing of value.

  “Not even a single photo,” Evan said sadly. “They’ve stripped the corpse bare.”

  “Only what you’d expect from the FBI,” Ben replied.

  In Paul’s home office they found an expensive desk, expensive task chair, expensive furniture—just the way Paul Fisher liked it. And on that expensive desk, only wires trailing on a surface completely devoid of any electronic equipment.

  “So the Feds must have the laptop,” Ben mused. “Their cyber-forensics team is no doubt already scouring the hard drive, social media accounts, emails, and the like.”

  “Or whoever took the kids. Either way, it won’t do them a bit of good.” Evan peered inside the empty wastepaper basket. “I know Paul. He was deeply paranoid about his work, let alone what private life he’s had since Bobbi was killed. He’s too savvy to have left even a single breadcrumb.”

  Ben nodded. “It’s helpful you know him, but I hoped maybe the people who took them might have inadvertently left a sliver of themselves behind.”

  “Not fingerprints. The place has been dusted. Anyway, they’d have worn gloves.”

  “Removable booties too.”

  She was on her hands and knees, checking the corners of the room. She turned on the flashlight feature of her cell. With her head near the floor, she turned it sideways to look under the leather sofa and chair. Not even a dust ball. But bending down like this was a mistake. Her head pounded worse than ever.

  She rose, switched off her flashlight function. “Here we go.”

  Ben said, “Are you sure this is a good idea?” on the way down the stairs.

  “We need to know what they’ve discovered.”

  They emerged from the gloom of the back staircase into the now-lit bright butter-yellow of the kitchen. Linebacker and Slim were in attendance, staring into the open refrigerator.

  Evan chuckled grimly to herself. “If you’re looking for a treat, gentlemen, you’re bound to find Butter Brickle ice cream in the freezer.”

  At which, they both whirled. Slim’s service Glock 9mm was drawn and aimed at
the two intruders.

  “Who the hell’re you?” Linebacker said. “And may I ask what you’re doing here?”

  “This is an active FBI investigation scene.” Slim had an unexpectedly deep voice. “You’re trespassing and therefore subject to arrest.” With his free hand, he swung out a pair of handcuffs.

  “Hold on there.” Ben showed them his ID. He asked for theirs and they offered them: Linebacker was Jon Tennyson, Slim Jason Leyland.

  “Now.” Tennyson’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care what part of the federal alphabet soup you’re from. Get out of my crime scene. I’ll only ask this once.”

  “You’re also part of the same federal alphabet soup,” Evan pointed out, stepping toward him.

  Tennyson peered at her. “Do I know you?”

  “I doubt it. But why don’t you take a look in the freezer, see if the Butter Brickle ice cream is there.”

  Leyland let out with a growl, but with the twitch of a meaty shoulder, hauled open the freezer. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Putting his gun and manacles away, he brought out two pint-sized containers.

  “So?” Tennyson kept his eyes on the interlopers.

  “Butter Brickle,” Leyland reported. “Just like she said.”

  “I know this house. I’ve known Wendy and Michael since they were born. They’re my niece and nephew.”

  Tennyson snapped his fingers. “That’s it! You’re the missing aunt. Evan Ryder.”

  “Hardly missing. I just returned from a long vacation in Sumatra.”

  “That must’ve been a helluva trip,” Leyland opined, pointing at the wound in her skull.

  “I was fighting with a Komodo dragon.”

  Leyland’s brow furrowed. “What the hell is a Komodo dragon?”

  “It’s a lizard,” Tennyson said. “The largest currently living, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You’re not,” Evan said.

  Leyland rolled his eyes. “She’s pulling our leg.”

  “No kidding.” Tennyson hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Take another look in Mr. Fisher’s study. Maybe forensics overlooked something.”

  “But—”

  “Check for a loose floorboard.”

  “Right,” Leyland said through gritted teeth.

  “Okay, Ms. Ryder,” Tennyson said as if he really meant it. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Jason can be a bit abrasive but take my word for it he’ll be a solid agent.”

  “Now you understand our interest here,” Ben said.

  Tennyson shook his head. “Your personal interest, yes, of course. But not you being here. Kidnapping is FBI territory. It would serve all of us well if you left us to it.”

  Evan stood hands on hips. “Not if a foreign hostile power is involved.”

  Tennyson blinked as if she had shone a bright light in his face. “I beg your pardon. This is a strictly domestic matter. Nine out of ten times the remaining parent takes off with the kids in tow.”

  Ben gestured. “Why would a man like Paul Fisher do something like that?”

  “Gambling debts, coke habit running wild, a girl or two he’s knocked up. Maybe a young man. All poison to a man of Paul Fisher’s reputation.” Tennyson shrugged. “Could be any or all of those things. The list is practically endless, but those are the most common.”

  Evan said, “I don’t think they apply in this case.”

  “What have you got so far, Agent Tennyson?” Ben spoke at the same time.

  Tennyson sighed, produced a notebook. “This is not a favor I bestow lightly.” He flipped through several pages. “We’ve already spoken to the nanny, Dominica Sanchez. She’s half out of her mind with worry. She has no idea where the father has taken them. He didn’t leave her a note, hasn’t been in contact with her, and his mobile phone is off. Her story checks out all the way down the line. We’re monitoring Mr. Fisher’s credit cards. His bank account remains untouched—no withdrawals in the last two weeks. We got an Amber Alert out immediately, of course, but to date no joy there either. Frankly, and it pains me to admit it, at the moment, we’ve hit a brick wall.”

  He pocketed the notebook. “By the way, there’s no use you being here. You won’t find anything. Our forensic team has gone over every room with a fine-tooth comb,” he continued. “All the clothes are there. Ditto the suitcases. Plus, Mr. Fisher’s car, which forensics also dissected. Mr. Fisher’s laptop is, however, missing.”

  Ben and Evan exchanged a meaningful look. Paul’s laptop was with the abductors.

  Tennyson continued, “There’s no safe, no hidden compartments we could find.”

  “So nothing,” Evan said. “You have nothing.”

  “Not unless Jason finds a loose floorboard, but to be honest that’s the stuff of movies and TV shows.”

  Evan continued. “Okay, well, answer me this. If Paul took off with his kids why would he leave his car here?”

  Tennyson shrugged. “Maybe because his car’d be too easy to trace. And anticipating your next question, we’re already canvassing the cab, Uber, and Lyft drivers to see if they had a pickup here anytime in the last three days.”

  He looked at them in turn. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Ben ventured, “Ms. Ryder has more experience in the field, in hostile territory, than you could imagine.”

  An uncomfortable silence arose like the drawbridge to a castle, everyone eyeing one another warily. Leyland strolled in on the scene and, oblivious to the tension in the atmosphere, said, “No joy. No loose floorboards in the study or anywhere else upstairs.”

  “Only to be expected,” Tennyson said wearily. He gestured with one hand. “What can you tell me about Mr. Fisher, Ms. Ryder?”

  “Not that much. He and I got along about as well as oil and water.”

  Tennyson’s detective’s antennae were raised. “Why was that? You didn’t like the way he was raising the kids, maybe?”

  Evan gave him a thin smile. “I don’t like his politics. He’s a lobbyist for a select group of ultra-conservative interests backed by Samuel Wainwright Wells.”

  “The media baron. We’re familiar with him.” Tennyson’s brow furrowed. “So maybe you think he’s teaching his ideology to the kids?”

  “What is it with you?” Ben said, his annoyance all too clear. “Evan has no connection—”

  “Even though you were away,” Tennyson said, cutting through him, “I assumed you were in contact with Michael and Wendy Fisher. What can you tell me—”

  “Why d’you assume that?”

  Tennyson’s hands spread in front of him. “Butter Brickle ice cream?” He waited a beat. “Your only blood family since your sister was killed.”

  “There’s nothing more I can tell you. I saw them occasionally. I love them. Of course I do. But I’m not in the habit of calling family and friends when I’m away. Wendy and Michael know that. They accept it.”

  Tennyson nodded. He looked from one to the other. “Let me be crystal clear. I don’t like your kind. I especially don’t like you being here at an FBI crime scene, and I sure as hell don’t like you assuming you can hijack my case.”

  “So long, Tennyson,” Evan said. “Meeting you has been about as much fun as a root canal.”

  As she and Ben headed for the back door, Tennyson’s voice came to them. “Don’t get in our way, you two.”

  “Is that a threat?” Ben said.

  Tennyson shrugged. “Call it a warning shot across the bow. The next time my aim may be different.”

  *

  Gathering her coat around her butt and thighs, Evan sat on the back steps of Bobbi’s house. Dawn had begun to beat back the last vestiges of the night, still coiled around the boles of the pines and the bases of the Fishers’ private playground.

  Ben sat next to her. “What now? We have no clues as to where the kids are.”

  “I know where you took me,” Evan said as if she hadn’t heard him. “I know whose clothes I’m wearing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I recognized
the house when we left. It belongs to Isobel Lowe. You picked me up there after that poker game I infiltrated went amok.” She looked at him. “You never told me you knew her.”

  “Need to know.”

  “And now? Didn’t I deserve to know now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe. Uh-huh.” She nodded, as if affirming something to herself.

  They heard the door open behind them, turned to see Leyland emerge. He stopped, stiffened, clearly surprised to see them. Then he sat on the edge of a railing above them, shook out a cigarette, and lit up.

  “Waiting for your limo?” He blew out a cloud of smoke above their heads. “Did you not hear what Special Agent Tennyson said?”

  Evan contrived to ignore him. She was staring out at the backyard as more and more morning light illuminated it over the tops of the pines. “Okay, you’ve come for the kids—they’re the ones you want. But their father is home. What d’you do with him?”

  Ben was listening carefully but did not try to answer her. She was asking her own mind and he did not want to interrupt her train of thought. He’d seen this process play out plenty of times when they were in the field together—in the Caucasus, in Belgrade, on the outskirts of Kiev with the FSB hot on their trail. He cupped his chin in his hands and, looking out at the backyard, tried to see what she was seeing.

  “Do you slit his throat on the spot? That’d spoil the mystery of whether he took them, and now that’s precisely what the FBI think. You’d kill the wild-goose chase.” She tapped a forefinger against her lips. “Do you take him with the kids? Too risky. The longer he’s with you the more of a problem he becomes.” She took a deep breath. “So.” She looked around the backyard. “What d’you do with him?”

  “Are you going to tell us?” Leyland was standing behind them, listening.

  She gestured. “See these pines, Ben? See how tall they are, how they form a living wall on three sides?” She squinted. “Paul brought them in for privacy, yeah? Didn’t want anyone to spy on his kids. Or on the guests he brought around for private meetings. Which makes this a perfect place for …”

  She left the steps and got down on her hands and knees as she had in Paul’s office, her head on the side so close to the ground the uncut lawn tickled her right cheek, like little spears on her skin. She began moving slowly across the grass, ignoring the throbbing beneath her wound.