Glenn Wilkerson gnawed on a two-hour-old ham and Swiss on rye as he worked through the mounds of routine paperwork that covered half his desk. The phone rang and he grabbed for it. It was Averly.
“Do you have something, Rob?” Wilkerson asked, as he tapped his pencil on the pile of papers in front of him.
“Probably nothing.”
“What?”
“I got the lab results back on that black stuff you guys scraped off the driveway. Big surprise—it’s rubber.”
“Figured that.”
“It’s a kind of hard rubber they use for all sorts of things, including the heels and soles of shoes.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“The photos show that mark as real dark, like it was fresh.”
“I know.”
“What was she wearing?”
Wilkerson stopped tapping and scratched his head. “Maybe the boyfriend knows.”
“Right. Like he spent time looking at her shoes.”
“Yeah,” Wilkerson said, snickering and sighing simultaneously.
“You guys don’t get many of these, eh?”
“Never had one before.”
“I figured that.” Averly paused for a moment. “We see them all the time.”
Wilkerson hung up the phone and stared at the piles of paper on his desk.
Adam finally left the study to check on Valerie. She was sitting up in bed, staring straight ahead.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Hold me,” she pleaded, with her arms reaching out for him.
Adam sat by her side and took her in his arms, gently placing her head on his shoulder. “I love you, Val.”
Valerie said nothing, only squeezed his ribcage tightly.
“Would you like some water?”
She nodded and her arms slowly retreated.
Adam rotated on the bed, retrieved the glass from the nightstand and held it out. “Do you think you can sleep tonight?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Do you want a Valium?”
“Two.”
Adam checked the brown plastic medicine bottle in the bathroom and found only eight tablets left. Time to call the doctor’s office.
Adam offered the tablets.
She placed the two yellow tablets in her mouth and washed them down. Without a word she handed Adam the glass.
“Why don’t you lie down? It’s ten-thirty.”
Adam pulled out one of the two pillows stacked up at the head of the bed. She slid down and then lowered her head onto the soft, down-filled pillow. Her eyes met Adam’s.
“Sara Ann’s coming back. I know she is.”
Adam stroked her hair. “You need to get some sleep, dear.”
Adam and Dawn sat together on the couch in the family room and watched the late-night news. One of the stations in Orlando had a short segment on the missing high school girl. The two choked back tears as they stared at Sara Ann’s picture on the screen. It was the one Adam had given Detective Wilkerson on Saturday, but Brad’s image was cropped out.
The TV blared: “Sara Ann Riley, a seventeen-year-old Cocoa Beach high schooler, is still missing this evening,” the anchorwoman announced. “If anyone has information, or thinks they may have seen her, they are asked to contact the Cocoa Beach Police Department. She has been missing since Saturday.”
A phone number appeared on the bottom of the screen. Sara Ann’s picture hung in the upper right-hand corner, as the background switched to the Riley driveway. It was night, but their home could be seen in the distance, the porch light glowing. It looked like nothing was wrong.
The anchorwoman came back on. “No one from the Riley family has been available for comment.”
Dawn leaned against her father, locked her arm with his, and rested her head on his shoulder.
“What do you think happened to her?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I want her back home.”
“We all do.”
The two continued sitting on the couch, softly sobbing and still not completely grasping the gravity of the situation.
When the news ended, Dawn kissed her father’s moist cheek and went upstairs to bed. Adam walked to the living room. Before entering the room he blotted the tears from his eyes with his shirtsleeve. Detective Carillo was slouched comfortably in the leather chair reading a magazine, a crumpled McDonald’s bag at his feet.
“That’s an interesting magazine,” Adam commented, pointing at the front cover.
Carillo peered around the side of the magazine. “It sure is.”
“My friend has a subscription and gives me his old copies. It’s humbling to see some of the yachts in there.” Adam stuck his thumb over his left shoulder. “And then I look out back at my twenty-one-foot Chris-Craft Bowrider. Well, anyway…”
“At least you got a boat. I’ve been in Florida for two years, and for two years I’ve wanted one.”
“Why don’t you buy one?”
“It’s a long story, but here’s the short version: My wife got the house she wanted.” A hint of a smile formed on Carillo’s face.
“Say no more, I understand.”
Adam stretched his arms upward as if trying to touch the ceiling. “I think I’m going to try and get some sleep. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Riley.”
Adam lumbered up the stairs to the master bedroom and soon was sliding into bed beside his sleeping wife. For the time being, she was lost to the world. He had a fleeting thought about taking one of her Valium tablets. But the weight from mental exhaustion quickly settled upon him, and within twenty minutes he was in his own sheltered, dreamless sleep.
10
THE PHONE was ringing. Adam sat straight up in bed. It was 2:30 am. Valerie moaned and rolled over. A rush of adrenaline shot out from his stomach and through his body. A jackhammer was pounding in his chest. Sara Ann?
The phone rang again and he lifted it. “Hello?”
Adam looked up and saw Dawn in the doorway. He motioned for her to leave the room.
Adam heard a metallic-sounding voice. “Let me speak to Valerie.”
“Who’s this?”
“I said, let me speak to Valerie,” the distorted voice snapped back.
Adam shook Valerie’s shoulder. She gradually sat up, rubbing her eyes. He put his hand over the phone.
“It’s for you,” he whispered.
“Who is it?” she asked in an undertone.
“I don’t know, but his voice sounds strange. Remember, stay calm.”
Still groggy, Valerie looked in Adam’s direction and slowly reached for the phone. He handed over the receiver reluctantly.
“He—llo?” Valerie said, struggling with the single word.
“I have your daughter,” the man said. His voice was peculiar, like he was gargling and talking at the same time.
Valerie’s hands began trembling, almost dropping the phone. “Where is she?”
“I’m sorry I had to take her.”
“But—but why? Where is she?” Valerie’s voice wavered and became louder.
Adam whispered, “No, Val, settle down.”
“Valerie, my dear, I don’t have much time.”
“Is she all right?” she blurted out.
“Val—settle—down,” Adam breathed.
“I want you to know that this is not a ransom call.” There was a pause. “Sara Ann will be returned to you.”
The words sent an instant wave of calm through her. “Then what do you want? Tell us what you want.”
“You will get a letter. Today. I will call again.” There was a click, and then silence.
Valerie sat on the bed, momentarily staring down at the receiver resting in her hand.
“What?” Adam asked.
“He hung up.”
“What did he say?”
Suddenly she threw the phone across the room then pounded both fists on the bed. “My baby! Someon
e has my baby!”
“Stop it, Val! Get your robe on. We need to go downstairs and see Detective Carillo.”
Valerie stumbled through a confusing description of the phone call as they made their way downstairs. Adam helped stabilize her, holding her arm as they descended the staircase.
After her convoluted account of the phone call, she could concentrate on only one thing that was said: Sara Ann will be returned to you.
Dawn followed her parents, not uttering a single word.
In the living room Peter Carillo was on speakerphone.
“Yes, he beat the trace. Another thirty seconds and we’d have had the bastard.”
He stroked his thick mustache as he talked and motioned the Rileys to sit. His shiny head reflected the light from his table lamp.
“I have the Rileys here now.”
Averly’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Could you hear anything in the background?”
“Not really,” Carillo answered.
“Something that might indicate where he was calling from?”
“No. There’s nothing I could hear. But we can have the tape run through analysis.”
“We may do just that.”
“You should hear his voice though.”
“Why?”
“He had to be using a distortion device.”
“So he was masking his voice.”
“Yeah, and he told Mrs. Riley he sent a letter. They’re supposed to receive it today.”
“A letter?”
“Yes, he said: You will get a letter. Today. Then: I will call again.”
“Okay, listen, there are several things we need to do.”
“I’m listening.”
“First of all, it’s almost three and I’m not going to get any more sleep, so I’ll be on the road in about an hour and should be there around five. I want you to call Glenn Wilkerson.”
“Now?” asked Carillo.
“Yes, now. When you hang up, call him. Tell him he needs to contact the town’s postmaster immediately.”
“Okay.”
“And then get him and a few officers into the post office and find that letter.”
“What if it hasn’t arrived at the post office yet?”
“We’ll never know if we don’t look.”
Carillo sighed. “I suppose.”
“I want that letter. Another thing, I’m going to try to get help from the FBI.”
Carillo slowly sat back in his metal folding chair. “The FBI? But there hasn’t been a federal crime committed.” His Brooklyn accent was now breaking out heavily.
The Rileys sat on the couch, hanging on every word.
“I know, but I think they should get involved anyway.”
“I suppose, if they’re willing.”
“I know the supervisory senior resident agent here in Orlando.”
“Who’s that?”
“Sidney Harrington.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Very well. I think I can convince him to help us out on this one.”
“Isn’t there an FBI office in this area that we should notify?”
“Yeah, I’m sure Sid will contact them after I talk to him. I believe it’s in Melbourne. I’ll call Sid after I get there.”
11
ADAM APPROACHED Carillo’s equipment table with his arms folded over his chest. “What do we do now?” he demanded.
“Hold on. One more call, then we’ll talk.”
Carillo got Wilkerson on the phone and arranged for the postmaster and two officers to start searching through the mail immediately. He hung up and turned to face Adam. “Mr. Riley.” He motioned toward the couch. “Please sit with your family.”
“I don’t want to sit. Besides, only part of my family’s here. I want some answers!”
“Please calm down.”
“To hell with calm, I want to know what’s going on.”
“What are you doing to catch this person?” Valerie shouted.
Carillo jumped to his feet. “Hold on!” Less than five feet from Adam, he looked up at him. “I know you won’t like this, but we wait.”
“Wait?” Adam shouted.
“Hear me out.”
“Do something!” Dawn screamed.
Carillo’s face tensed as he threw both of his arms upward. “Goddamn it! Shut up!”
Adam took one step back. Valerie and Dawn eased back down on the couch.
Carillo lowered his arms and pointed around the room. “Set—tle down. Understand?”
The room was silent.
“Okay. Here’s what’s going on. The postmaster and police will search the post office for the letter. As soon as I hear something I’ll let you know.”
Adam took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then slowly released the trapped air. “This guy’s using some sort of vocoder system to distort his voice, isn’t he?”
“He’s using something,” Carillo said, still visibly irritated. He then lowered himself onto the flimsy seat of the folding chair. The metal frame creaked under his weight.
The mail-sorting room at the Cocoa Beach post office had a familiar stale scent that Wilkerson recalled from his college days working in the student union building post office.
The postmaster had set up a simple system with four large wooden tables placed side by side, and two plastic bulk-mail carts positioned in front of them. Each of the four men snapped on rubber gloves, took one of the canvas bags from the stack in the corner of the room, and dumped it on a table. Letters of no interest went into the gray plastic cart and packages into the blue one. They worked fast but carefully, checking each piece of mail. Packages and letters crisscrossed each other en route to their destinations.
It took less than an hour to find it. The postmaster held up a letter with his latex-gloved hand. “Got it,” he shouted.
The envelope was white and addressed in printed letters to the Rileys. There was no return address. Wilkerson gently took the envelope from the postmaster, slipped it into an evidence bag, and headed for the police station.
It almost felt too easy. The envelope lay in its clear plastic bag on the seat beside him. I wonder what’s in the letter. He wanted to pull over and rip it open. Instead he popped a toothpick in his mouth and punched in Carillo’s number on his cell phone. The display said 5:27 am. He glanced over again at the letter in the plastic bag, mesmerized by overpowering anticipation.
“Carillo.”
“Peter, this is Glenn Wilkerson.”
“Did you find the letter?”
“Yup,” Wilkerson said, glancing at the seat beside him to make sure the letter was still there.
“Great. Where are you now?”
“Almost to the station.”
“No! Bring the letter here. Averly will be here by then, and we can open it immediately.”
Wilkerson grunted. Averly was one thing, but where did Carillo get off telling him what to do?
He heard Carillo catch his breath. “We’ll have the lab analyze it after we see what it says. Time’s working against us here. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Wilkerson grumbled. He snapped the phone shut and yanked his car into a tight U-turn back toward the Rileys.
12
WILKERSON WHEELED his car up the Rileys’ driveway and parked. Peter Carillo was right. Wilkerson spotted a dark blue Crown Victoria with an Orange County license plate. It had to be Averly’s.
Inside, Averly introduced Wilkerson to Dawn and Valerie. Valerie stood alone by the couch, her eyes locked on the plastic bag Wilkerson held with the letter inside. Adam watched her face turn pasty white.
“Val, sit back down on the couch,” Adam said, as he walked over and helped lower her beside him on the soft cushion. Dawn joined them on the opposite side, leaning on the armrest.
“Detective Wilkerson, do you have a pair of latex gloves?” Averly asked.
“Don’t go anywhere without them.”
“Then pu
t them on and open the letter.”
With his gloves on, he slid the letter out of the evidence bag and ran his index finger carefully under the flap. He gently pulled two handwritten pages out and glanced up at Averly.
“Read it,” Averly said.
Adam watched Wilkerson’s lips move, but no words came from his mouth. He was standing in the middle of the goddamn room reading the letter to himself.
“Out loud,” ordered Averly.
“Sorry.” Wilkerson shuffled the two sheets of paper. “It’s entitled Last Will and Testament.”
Valerie let out an ear-piercing cry and slumped over on Adam’s shoulder.
Wilkerson looked up at the Rileys, then over toward Averly, who gave him a sharp nod. Wilkerson continued:
I love you Mommy, Daddy, Dawn, and Brad, and everyone else, and all my friends and relatives. My thoughts will always be with all of you . . . (it’s almost over). I tried to be good, and I hope I never disappointed any of you. If I did, I’m very sorry. I only wanted to make you proud of me because I’m very proud of my family and everyone I know. Please do not be afraid, Gabriel and God will watch over me.
Wilkerson paused, coughing to his side to clear his throat, and added:
With all my love always, Sara Ann Riley.
Wilkerson again looked at the Rileys sitting on the couch. Adam stared back at him with wide, vacant eyes, one arm around his sobbing wife. Dawn slid over and held onto her mother with both arms.
Averly went and stood in front of the Rileys, waving for Wilkerson to bring the letter. “Is this your daughter’s handwriting?” he asked, as Wilkerson held out the letter.
Valerie didn’t lift her head from where it was buried in Adam’s shoulder. Adam studied both pages for several minutes.
“Yes.” Adam’s voice caught in his esophagus for a second. “I think so.”
“Are you sure?” Averly asked, adjusting his glasses.
Adam grunted to clear his throat. “Her ‘t’s—” Adam had to stop again. He took a deep breath and through pursed lips slowly let it out. “The small ‘t’s have loops. She does that.”
Dead River Page 5
