by Janet Dailey
Part of her reply dissolved in a crackle of static. “. . . I was thinking the same thing . . . reopen the case.”
He held the phone away from his ear, not sure if he’d heard her right. What the hell was going on at headquarters?
“Do you actually have some dirt on Hoebel? Mr. Rules and Regulations himself?” Bannon strained to hear her reply.
“No, but there has to be a connection. Get this—the Montgomery evidence file was the only old case that the chief signed out. All the others were current ones.”
“Interesting,” Bannon said slowly.
“There’s more. This missing one apparently has letters, along with fill-in-the-blank reports. Or so said the master list.”
“Big deal.” Bannon shrugged it off. “Kidnapping cases generate a ton of mail. Mostly from cranks.”
“I know that. But the list specified a letter from someone calling herself Ann’s new mother, quote unquote, to Montgomery himself. So that got my attention.”
New mother. The phrase opened up a whole other aspect to the case that he hadn’t previously considered. “There was never any ransom demand made, was there?” he recalled.
“Not that I ever heard about, and there wasn’t any mention of one in the evidence master list.”
Subconsciously he must have registered the lack of reference to one, Bannon realized. Without it, he had automatically jumped to the assumption that the little girl had been taken by some perverted child molester. In those instances, a child rarely lived longer than a matter of days. But if she had been taken by someone seeking to fill a void in his or her own life—for the first time Bannon thought there might be a real chance Ann Montgomery was still alive.
“Was that letter dated, Doris?”
“The master list didn’t say. But what with the chief signing out the file and not returning it—and Montgomery trying to dissolve the trust—well, I don’t know about you but I want to know what’s in that letter.”
“Me too.”
“And I want to know why that file got sent to storage ahead of all the other Ms.”
“It may not be in storage, Doris.” It crossed his mind that it could be smoke wafting out of an incinerator by now.
“I’m going to call in sick and drive down to the warehouse where the first batch of cold case files were stored. I could be gone a couple of days.”
“You’re running the risk that somebody there could call Hoebel,” Bannon warned.
“I’ve been to the place before. The staff sleeps sitting up when they’re not watching TV. It’s not like the files are trying to escape. In the meantime,” Doris added, “we have to keep Montgomery on a short leash. The best way to do that is by going public. He’s less likely to grab back that two million dollars if he thinks it will make him look bad.”
“Agreed. That’s where Kelly comes in.”
“. . . I’m gone.”
The connection was broken. With a smiling shake of his head, Bannon flipped the cell phone and returned it to his pocket. Seconds later he was back in the flow of traffic and headed for his “coincidental” rendezvous with Kelly Johns.
Due in no small part to the green lights that met him at every intersection, Bannon pulled into the espresso bar’s parking lot in eight minutes flat. As he stepped out of the car he caught the back view of a slender blonde in a belted lightweight coat and high heels just entering the coffee shop. Though he couldn’t swear to it, he was certain it was Kelly Johns.
Two steps inside the door and his suspicion was confirmed. It was Kelly there at the counter, standing in profile, still in television makeup, a pair of designer sunglasses resting atop her head.
As luck would have it, there was no one in the line ahead of him and he walked up behind her. “Let me guess.” He peered over her left shoulder at the capped cup the attendant pushed across the counter toward her. “Double shot latte with skim milk and drizzles of caramel.”
She turned with a small start, her dark eyes lighting up with recognition at the sight of him.
“Bannon. This is a surprise. And more of a surprise that you remembered this.” She picked up the cup and gave it an indicating lift.
“Remembering details is my business,” Bannon reminded her and ordered a regular coffee. “Sometimes the seemingly minor ones turn out to be important.”
“I’d ask how you are, but you look so strong and fit, the answer seems obvious.” She waited next to him while his coffee was poured. “Are you back on duty?”
“Not yet. Which is probably just as well since they’d more than likely restrict me to desk duty and I’d hate it.” With his coffee delivered, he gestured to an empty table. “Do you have time to sit and drink that?”
After the smallest of hesitations, she smiled easily. “I can steal a few minutes.”
“Good.” He guided her to the table.
Once seated, she ran a thoughtful look over his face. “I don’t know if anyone told you or not, but I went to the hospital to see you a day or two after the shooting. But at the time, they were only allowing immediate family members in to see you. I stopped again a week or so later, and you’d already been released.”
“I’m sure someone mentioned it to me, but as drugged as I was, I don’t even remember my family being there.”
“I understand. I’m just glad that you’ve fully recovered—or almost.”
She meant that. Bannon could tell. And he also believed that she had come to see him back then out of genuine concern for his wellbeing. But he also knew she’d probably been hoping she could talk him into an exclusive interview.
While wasting a couple of minutes on idle chitchat, Bannon acknowledged to himself that she was still beautiful, intelligent, and very easy to talk to—all things that had originally drawn him to ask her out those many months ago. But when he compared her with Erin, even though he had just met her, Kelly came up lacking on many levels. It was an observation he wanted to explore. Then he caught her glance at her wristwatch and knew he was running out of time.
“So, what story are you heading off to track down this morning?” he asked, then held up a silencing hand. “I’ll bet you’re going to try to dig up a fresh angle on the Montgomery case.”
“Montgomery. You mean—Hugh Montgomery?”
He could almost see all her antennae go out, and worked to hide a satisfied smile. “The one and only.”
“Oh. Right. Just to be sure we’re on the same page, which case are you talking about? His name’s been mentioned in a couple of financial investigations that didn’t go anywhere.” She was careful to show only a mild interest.
“His daughter’s abduction. Either this week or next, it will be twenty-odd years ago that it happened. I just assumed your station would run a feature on it to mark the occasion. After all, it has all the hooks—a wealthy old Virginia family, beautiful little daughter missing, a two-million-dollar reward for her safe return.”
“Of course. You know we will,” Kelly assured him. “A juicy cold case report always boosts the ratings. We run them on our website for days sometimes.” She paused—deliberately, Bannon thought. “It was before my time, but we recycle a lot of stories. I’m trying to remember.” A thoughtful little crease marred her smooth forehead. “The police never had much to go on, did they? No blood-soaked little dress or anything like that?”
“Not that I know about.”
“Too bad. I know it sounds sick, but our viewers seem to like those gory visuals.”
“Not surprising when you consider the popularity of horror movies. Anyway—” Bannon gave a small shrug. “I’m sure you can dig up a ton of still pictures of the little girl and old footage out of the station’s image bank. Combine that with a computer-generated picture of what the girl might look like today, and you’d have a good feature.”
“Mmmm.” She made a vaguely agreeing sound that sounded far from happy. “But that wouldn’t be much different from any other station. Unless—” She stared at him for a long second. “I h
ave an idea. Excuse me, I need to make a quick phone call. Don’t go. Just stay right there.”
Clearly hot to pursue this idea, Kelly was out of the chair with her cell phone in hand before she ever finished talking. Amused by her avidity, Bannon sat back in his chair and sipped at his coffee to disguise his study of her.
After taking a few steps away from him for privacy, she partially turned her back to the table, punched a couple of keys on the cell phone pad, and raised the phone to her ear. The connection was almost instant as she started talking in quick, hushed tones.
As conversations went, it was short, but television news had a reputation for brevity. Judging by the Cheshire cat–like uplift to the corners of her mouth when she walked back to the table, Bannon guessed that she had been successful.
“That was my producer I called.” Resuming her seat, she reached for her cup. “She liked my idea.”
“Good.”
Her dark eyes danced with amusement as she smiled at him over the rim of her cup. “You might not think so when you hear what it is.”
“Why?” What is it?” he asked, suddenly on guard.
“For an interview with you to be part of the piece.”
“Me?” he blurted in stunned disbelief.
“Remember that weekend we spent at Virginia Beach?”
“What about it?” Caution was in the flatness of his voice.
“I don’t think I ever showed you the picture I took.” Kelly rolled the cup between her hands and studied him with suppressed amusement. “I know you’re not conceited, but you’re very photogenic. In the interview you’re going to come across as tough and sexy. And that sells just as well as blood and guts.”
“Yeah, well—you know that I can’t divulge any specific information. About all I could do is comment on police procedure in cold cases such as this.”
“No problem.” A shoulder lifted in an eloquent shrug. “Do you agree to the interview?”
The wheels had already been turning, so his hesitation was minimal. “On one condition.”
Kelly cocked her head, intrigued by his response. “What’s that?”
“That I’m guaranteed to get a look at the viewer responses you receive.”
Her interest sharpened, all her reporter instincts surfacing with a rush. “Are you going after the reward, Bannon?”
Was he? After his conversation with Doris, Bannon admitted to himself that the reward was not entirely out of reach.
“Let’s just say I’m curious.”
He could tell that Kelly didn’t buy his answer. She paused fractionally, then gave him a decisive nod. “All right then. You’ve got a deal.”
“Good.” Something told him that she hoped to extract a price for this favor later on.
“Are you free to do the interview this morning?”
It was Bannon’s turn to shrug. “Why not?” Now that he’d agreed to it, he was eager to get it over with.
“Then let’s go.” Kelly rose.
The local television station was two blocks from the espresso bar. Kelly led him into its dim and cool inner sanctum and handed him over to her producer, a fortysomething, no-nonsense woman by the name of Carla Frazier. With a smile and a wave Kelly was gone.
The producer motioned to a chair in front of her desk. Bannon sat down as he made his usual visual survey of his surroundings. There on the monitor screen was a photograph of a little girl. Bannon recognized it immediately as being identical to one he’d seen in the Ann Montgomery file. Carla Frazier hadn’t wasted any time retrieving information about the case following Kelly’s phone call.
“It’ll be a few minutes before they’re ready for you in the studio,” she informed him. “The questions are all scripted. Try to keep your answers short.”
“No problem.” Bannon had testified in enough court cases to know that you never gave a five-word answer when no would do—and you never volunteered information.
“Might as well get the releases handled while we’re waiting.” She opened a drawer and pulled out several forms, then slid them across her desk toward him. “Sign here and here.” She stabbed the paper with the tip of her pen before handing it to him. “Basically it says that we have the right to edit your interview for content and length. And no, you don’t have prior approval of what goes on the air.”
“What a surprise,” he muttered under his breath and scratched his signature across the appropriate blanks.
“Yeah, well, not everybody gets their fifteen minutes of fame.” She gathered up the releases in a neat stack and sized him up with one glance. “Kelly thinks the camera’s going to love you. If it does, so much the better. If not, we’ll do the story with our anchor and the visuals we’ll create.”
“My feelings won’t be hurt if I end up on the cutting-room floor,” Bannon assured her.
She shot him a skeptical look, but said nothing.
An hour later, he found himself in a small, soundproof chamber with a photographic blow-up on one wall that looked vaguely like a city at night. There was one chair, for him. He felt like a perp in an interrogation room.
Everything happened fast. A skinny kid clipped a tiny mike to his shirt and a tech told him to look directly into the camera lens when he spoke, pointing to where it came through the other wall. A young woman came in to take the shine off his face with a powder-laden brush and frowned at his hair but left it alone. Bannon was grateful. He didn’t want to be gelled, thank you very much.
She was replaced by a man who didn’t give his name but squatted out of camera range, giving a countdown and then reading the scripted questions aloud in a monotone. Not ones Bannon was expecting, but they got what they wanted in two takes.
The whole business was about as exciting as waiting for a bus. He wasn’t expecting much . . . when and if the segment appeared on TV.
Two days later, a production assistant left Bannon a message on his cell phone, telling him the piece would air on the evening news slot. But Bannon didn’t pick the message up in time. He missed the broadcast and forgot about looking for it on the station website.
RJ opened the door of his fridge and heard the cat come running on soft paws. The suck of the rubber seal got Babaloo’s attention every time. Too bad there was nothing on the shelves worth eating for either of them.
His cell phone buzzed in his jeans pocket.
“Sorry, pal. That has to be Doris. I’ll make a supermarket run after I hang up.”
The cat sauntered away as RJ extracted the phone from his pocket, flipping it open without looking at the screen to see who it was.
“Hey,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“Am I speaking to RJ Bannon?” The male voice was cordial, but not remotely familiar.
“Who is this?”
“Olliver Duncan. Senior partner at Duncan, Hobert, and Giles. You don’t know me—”
“Let’s keep it that way,” Bannon said, cupping the phone in his hand to flip it shut. He stopped when he heard the man’s faint reply.
“I represent Hugh Montgomery.”
Bannon brought the phone back to his ear. “And . . . ?”
“We saw the segment on Ann’s kidnapping on the news today.”
“You’re one up on me. I didn’t.”
“I see.” There was an infinitesimal pause. “Mr. Montgomery and I would like to talk to you about that and some other things. At your convenience, of course.”
Frowning, Bannon considered the unexpected request. But there was only one way to find out what was behind it.
“Where and when?” he asked.
Olliver Duncan gave the address of his law firm. “Would one o’clock tomorrow work?”
“Fine.” Bannon flipped the phone shut and let his mind sift through the possibilities.
The glass doors of Duncan, Hobert & Giles were immaculately clean. Either they weren’t doing much business or they had a guy with a squirt bottle of glass cleaner who did nothing but run out and eradicate every fingerprint an instant a
fter a client arrived. It fit. Bannon had done his homework on Olliver Duncan. He had started out in criminal law, but he only represented white-collar crooks who stole millions with the stroke of a pen. No riffraff for him. Duncan had made a fortune and moved on. The clients on his current roster were generally respectable. And filthy rich.
The thought made Bannon smile grimly as he pushed one door open. He softened the smile when the young receptionist looked up.
“Mr. Bannon?” she said eagerly.
“That’s right. I have a one o’clock meeting with—”
“Mr. Duncan,” she finished for him. “You’re early. He’s not back from lunch yet.” She tapped the eraser end of a pencil on the large appointment book spread open on her desk. “I knew it was you the second I saw you open the door. I recognized you from the cold case segment on the news last night.” She gazed at him as if he was a movie star.
“Sorry, I haven’t seen it myself.”
She darted a quick look over her shoulder. There was no one there. “Really? But wasn’t it taped?”
“Yes.” He offered no further explanation.
“If you want, I could show it to you on my monitor. I’ll keep the sound down low. It’s only a few minutes long.”
Without waiting for his answer, she clicked away on her mouse, looking for the video clip online. Then she turned the screen around and tipped it up, beaming around the side of it at him.
He watched himself. It was excruciating. The thoughtful answers he had given sounded wrong, mainly because the smooth-talking anchor had changed the questions to suit his on-air persona. He emphasized the outstanding reward, directing viewers to the station website for details.
Bannon winced. The guy was putting a spin on the facts that made him want to punch something. The short segment concluded with the software-generated image of Ann Montgomery as she might be now, done by the station’s graphics department. His eyes widened when he saw it.
They’d blown that too. The features were just too perfect and the hair color was pale blond. They’d made her look like a glamorous model, not a real young woman.
