by Mike Omer
As she drove, she realized she was muttering to herself. She prayed to God, swearing that if she managed to get back home safely she would never do cocaine again. She’d try the Dukan diet; she hadn’t tried that one yet. She’d become a better wife and stop wasting their money on drugs.
She reached the highway and got on. It was relatively clear, and she felt as if the traffic behind her calmed down.
Which was when she heard the helicopter.
It flew right above her, following her car. Her muttering became hysterical as she pressed the gas, then decided to give herself up, hitting the brakes, then panicking and accelerating again. This was a nightmare! Would her husband see the car chase tonight on the news? See her car on the highway, a tail of squad cars following her?
Sure enough, the sirens began screaming around her. The police closed in.
As far as tails went, this one was insane. What was she doing on the highway? Did her lover live in a different city? Why were the police following her? Was that really a helicopter flying low above them?
Jurgen was way out of his depth. All he had wanted were some pictures of Heather with another guy. He didn’t need any trouble with the police. God knew they were already looking for a reason to take him down.
He slowed down, pulled aside, waiting for the patrol cars and the helicopter to pass him by—at which point one of the patrol cars stopped behind him, brakes squealing, and another one blocked his way out. A white Chevy stopped just a few feet behind the squad cars, and two men leapt out of it, holding guns aimed at his car.
“FBI!” one of them shouted. “Get out with your hands up!”
Jurgen blinked, then switched off the engine. Carefully and slowly, he opened the door.
“I’m getting out!” he shouted. “I am unarmed!”
The two FBI agents didn’t look as if they were about to lower their weapons. He really hoped he wasn’t about to get shot. He had no idea what was going on. He got out, hands above his head, and turned around.
“Freeze!” one of them shouted, and he did. Rough hands grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back.
“Jurgen Adler, you are under arrest,” one of them said, and the angry metal bite of handcuffs pressed on his wrists.
He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but it was a huge mistake.
Heather stared in the rearview mirror with tear-stained eyes, watching the police surrounding the blue vehicle. She let out heavy shuddering breaths and slowed down, ignoring the irritated honking of the cars in her lane as she drove at a steady speed of forty miles per hour on the highway. Finally, she got off at the next exit and parked the car on the side of the road. She shook uncontrollably as she rummaged in her bag for her phone. At first she couldn’t even tap the message, couldn’t steady her tapping finger. Finally, she managed to send a message to her dealer.
Can’t meet. Almost got caught by the police.
She added a sad face to the message for good measure. Then she set the phone aside. What would her husband say about all this?
Her husband could go to hell, she decided. Next time he asked about her diet, she’d tell him that.
Chapter Twelve
Hannah walked briskly into the police station. Clint was waiting for her by the reception desk, wearing a tailored gray suit and a blue tie. His face was serious, his customary smile gone. When he’d called her earlier, it wasn’t to talk about the incident in the car, or the one later, in her bed. There was a development in the case. He’d asked her to come to the station as soon as possible.
“What happened?” she asked as she joined him. “What’s so urgent?”
He walked toward the stairs and she followed him.
“We arrested Jurgen Adler,” he said in a low voice.
“What?” she asked, her tone rising. “Why? Didn’t you want to follow him from a distance?”
“According to the agents tailing him, he spotted them and tried to shake off the tail. They were worried it could devolve into a hostage situation.”
Hannah was nearly running up the stairs, trying to keep up with Clint’s fast pace. “And where is he now?”
“Here. Agent Mancuso instructed me to interrogate him as soon as possible. She thinks his partners might find out he’s been caught, and decide to get rid of Abigail and flee. Your chief agreed to let me interrogate him in your interrogation room.”
“Did Agent Mancuso ask for me to question him as well?” Hannah asked.
Clint hesitated. “No,” he finally said. “But I thought you’d want to be involved.”
Hannah nodded. She did want to be involved. She also suspected Clint had broken some kind of FBI protocol by calling her without updating his superior.
“I want to lead the interrogation,” Clint said. “We don’t have time to do it right. We need to intimidate him; it’s the fastest way to get results. People assume the worst when they’re held by the FBI, and it often makes them crack faster.”
“Jurgen is not the type of guy who cracks easily,” Hannah said. “I agree; we can’t do this slowly. I think it’s best to ask him why he followed—”
“He doesn’t know what we have on him, and I prefer it remains that way.”
“But if you want fast results, there’s no point in beating around the bush. We should ask him why he followed Abigail.”
“I’d rather not,” Clint said shortly as they got to the interrogation room. He opened the door, and Hannah walked inside, her shoulder brushing his.
On a scale of one to ten, where one was the balloon-decorated room of a boy who just turned five, and ten was a solitary confinement prison cell, the interrogation room at the Glenmore Park PD was an eight. The walls were black up to waist level, where they turned dirty white. A one-way mirror adorned one wall, reflecting the harsh light of the single light bulb that hung directly above a small metal table.
Jurgen Adler sat behind the table, his hands cuffed. Hannah and Clint sat down on the other side.
“Mr. Adler,” Clint said. “I’m Agent Ward, and this is—”
“Detective Hannah Shor,” Jurgen said, his voice sounding strangely nasal. “We know each other. Hey, Hannah.”
Hannah nodded, her face blank.
“Mr. Adler, we know that—”
“Can I have a tissue?” Jurgen said. “I have a cold, and my nose is kinda dripping all over the place.”
“We’ll bring some in a few minutes,” Clint said. “Mr. Adler, where is Abigail Lisman?”
Jurgen blinked. “Abigail Lisman?” he asked. “The little girl? Isn’t she home?”
“She was kidnapped several days ago, as you know very well,” Clint said sharply. “Where is she being held?”
“She was kidnapped?”
“Oh, come on, Jurgen,” Hannah said, irritated. “Don’t play dumb. She’s been all over the news, on bulletin boards, in—”
“Hannah, I’ve been sick in bed for the past week,” Jurgen said, his eyes wide. “I didn’t know! When was she—”
“Mr. Adler, answer the question. Where is Abigail Lisman?”
“I swear, I don’t—” Jurgen suddenly sneezed, covering his face with his hands. “Argh,” he said, removing them from his nose. There was phlegm on his fingers and right cheek. “Cad I pdease hab a tissue?”
Hannah walked out of the room, went to the restroom, and got a roll of toilet paper. She returned to the interrogation room, slamming the door behind her, and handed him the roll.
“Thank you,” Jurgen said, cleaning his face and fingers.
“If Abigail Lisman is hurt, you’ll never leave federal prison,” Clint said, his words clipped and sharp. “But if you tell us where she is—”
“I don’t know where you got the idea I was involved,” Jurgen said, placing the bunched up toilet paper on the table. “I don’t know where she is. This is all news to me. If I had heard about her kidnapping, I’d have gone straight to the police.”
“Why?” Clint asked. “Do you know who has her?”
>
Jurgen leaned back. “I forgot how damned uncomfortable this chair is,” he muttered. “Why did you arrest me?”
“Who has Abigail Lisman?” Clint barked at him.
“For God’s sake, Jurgen, we have photos of you following the girl,” Hannah said, irritated. Clint shot her a furious stare which she pointedly ignored.
“Ah,” Jurgen said. He blew his nose into another piece of toilet paper. “So that’s it. Yes, it’s true, her father hired me to follow her.”
“Why would Mr. Lisman hire you to follow his daughter?”
Jurgen shook his head. “Not Mr. Lisman. Her biological father. Lance Koche.”
There was a moment of silence in the room.
“You didn’t know that?” Jurgen asked dryly. “A girl has been kidnapped, and you didn’t even check with her parents? What kind of investigation—”
“Mrs. Lisman didn’t tell us—” Hannah began.
“For God’s sake, Hannah, look at the girl’s damn pictures. Does she look anything like the Lismans? Yeah, she has her mother’s ears. And probably her chin. But that’s where it ends.” He raised his eyebrow. “Bernard would have figured it out. Isn’t he involved with this case?”
“Why did Lance Koche have Abigail followed?” Clint asked, ignoring the question.
Jurgen shrugged. “He mostly wanted pictures of her. With her friends, at school. I don’t know. I got the impression he had never met her before. Lance Koche is a sneaky bastard. Perhaps he was trying to figure out if he really wanted to meet his daughter.”
“Mr. Adler, I will only say it one more time. If you know where Abigail Lisman is and—”
“Talk to Lance Koche,” Jurgen said, his voice raised. “He’ll corroborate my story. I was only hired to take photos of the girl. I didn’t know about any kidnapping until just now.”
He sneezed again, and Hannah flinched as something wet hit her neck.
“I’be beed bery sick,” Jurgen said into another piece of toilet paper. “I habed’t beed out of bed the whole week.”
They drove Clint’s car to Lance Koche’s office, Clint seething behind the wheel. Hannah let him be; she wasn’t about to apologize for doing her job, and obviously she’d gotten results, and fast. The FBI—Clint included—seemed to be eager to pin the kidnapping on Jurgen. Hannah could understand their point of view. He was the perfect suspect, except that she knew him, and even more importantly, Bernard knew him well. Bernard said Jurgen couldn’t be involved, and that was enough for Hannah.
She glanced at Clint. He was frowning, his jaw locked tight. There was something attractive about his fury, but she missed his smile from the night before.
“You didn’t even wait ten minutes before doing precisely what I told you not to,” Clint finally said.
Told? Hannah raised an eyebrow, but let it slide. “He isn’t our guy, Clint. And he had some vital info.”
“He still might be our guy,” Clint said. “He could be buying time for his partners, and thanks to you he knows what evidence we’re holding, so he knows how to play us.”
“Lance Koche wasn’t surprised when we called him about Jurgen,” Hannah pointed out. “He knew who we were talking about.”
“He could have hired Jurgen for anything!” Clint spat. “And it doesn’t matter! I told you not to say anything about the photos, and you did it anyway.”
There was that told again. “You’re not my superior. We’re working together.”
“You’re my local police contact, and your main purpose is—”
“This is the place,” Hannah said. She didn’t like where the argument was going, and was relieved at the opportunity to change the subject.
“Fancy building,” Clint muttered, parking the car on the sidewalk.
It was. Lance Koche worked in a modern office building, its surface a grid of blue tinted windows. It managed to inspire an equal amount of superiority and bad taste, jutting up along Clayton Road like an alien monolith. Hannah realized that, despite passing by the building thousands of times, she had never stepped inside.
“Eighteenth floor,” she said, looking up. “Let’s go.”
They got out of the car and walked side by side. Hannah once again found herself half-running to keep up with Clint’s pace. It was getting annoying. She expected him to adjust his pace to accommodate the fact that his legs were about twice the length of hers, but he was either blind to that fact or simply didn’t care. Whatever the case, she was breathing hard when they got to the elevator. Neither of them said anything as they waited.
Finally, the elevator arrived on the ground floor, and got in. As it drifted upward, Hannah wondered why she found it so awkward to be in this small space with Clint, especially considering that just the day before she’d ridden him naked in his car.
Lance Koche’s office, like the building it was in, was designed to impress and intimidate. All the furniture had a polished, cold look to it, most in various shades of white or metallic blue. His secretary, a blonde woman with frighteningly long eyelashes, and hair so straight it seemed to be made from metal as well, asked them to wait a few moments while Lance finished an important business call.
Hannah doubted there was a call. She was certain Lance Koche was the type of guy who made almost everyone wait when they met him.
Finally, just as she was about to barge into his office, the door opened. A tall, middle-aged man with silvery hair stood in the doorway.
“Agent Ward? Please come in.”
They both entered the office. Lance sat down behind a desk made of heavy-looking, dark wood. It was clean and organized, with a few papers lying in a metallic tray and a small laptop sitting in the middle of the wooden surface.
“How can I help you, Agents?”
“Mr. Koche,” Clint said, without bothering to correct Lance about Hannah’s title, nor bothering to introduce her. “Did you hire Jurgen Adler a few weeks ago?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us why?”
“What did he tell you the reason was?” Koche asked.
“I’d prefer it if you tell us yourself,” Clint said.
Koche glanced at Hannah for the first time. There was something in his face. Worry? Anxiety? He covered it well, but Hannah could spot the bags under his eyes, the slight tremor in his lips.
“I hired him to follow my biological daughter,” Koche said. “Abigail.”
“Abigail Lisman,” Hannah said.
“That’s right.”
“Who was kidnapped last week.”
“That’s right.”
“Why didn’t you approach us when you first heard about your daughter’s kidnapping?” Hannah asked.
“She’s not my daughter,” he said sharply. “She’s my biological daughter. I didn’t know she existed until two months ago. I didn’t come to you because I didn’t find it relevant, and I was under the impression that the girl’s mother had enough problems on her plate.”
Hannah looked at him intently. Was he lying? Could he have been involved in the kidnapping somehow? And if so, why?
“When did you hear about Abigail’s kidnapping?” Clint asked.
“Naamit Lisman was here yesterday, to ask me to pay the ransom.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said I can’t afford it, and that I’m not inclined to pay such an amount for a girl I don’t even know.”
Asshole, Hannah thought. “How did you find out Abigail was your daughter?” she asked.
“Her mother told me,” Koche said, his mouth twisting in apparent annoyance. “She showed up here, to tell me she got pregnant from our one night all those years ago, and that now she wanted me to pay for her daughter’s private school tuition.”
“And what did you say?”
“I demanded a paternity test. It wasn’t the first time a woman had tried to get me with this trick. They say they’re on the pill, then suddenly it turns out they’re pregnant and I’m supposed to pay the bills.”
“Did
she do a paternity test?” Hannah asked, curbing the desire to punch him.
“She did one, and e-mailed it to me. The results were positive. Abigail is my biological daughter. I verified the authenticity of the results with the hospital, and then I said I would think about it.”
“Why did you have her followed?” Clint asked.
“Because I was interested,” Lance said, shrugging. “I never had children, and here was one all grown up. I wanted to know how she turned out.”
“So you hired a private detective?”
“That’s right.”
“You could have just approached her, or asked her mother to arrange a meeting.”
“I could have.”
“When did you hire Jurgen Adler?” Clint asked.
“One minute.” Lance picked up the phone on his desk and pressed a button. “Megan,” he said. “Can you come in for a second?”
The secretary entered the room, her feet making a light tapping noise on the hardwood flooring. She wore high heels, Hannah realized, even though she was plenty tall without them—probably five ten. Hannah guessed that Lance Koche expected his secretary to wear high heels. She was young, slim, blonde, big brown eyes. The perfect cliché.
“Yes Mr. Koche?” Megan asked.
“When did I meet with Mr. Jurgen Adler?”
She pulled out a small tablet and tapped on it with a long, pink manicured fingernail. “On the 22nd of January.”
“And when did Naamit approach you?” Clint asked Koche.
“A week before that. She didn’t have an appointment, so Megan won’t be able to—”
“On the 13th of January,” Megan said. “It was Monday, the week before.”
Lance Koche’s lips curved slightly upward. “There you go,” he said.
“And Jurgen gave you the photos?” Hannah said. “Did you meet with him again?”
“I met him once, when he came for the first payment,” Koche said. “After that he sent me the photos by mail, and I paid him with a bank transfer. Megan will happily supply you with the pictures and the transfer paperwork.”
