Hatcher pointed out a group of files and documents piled haphazardly on the table. “I don’t know if you’ve been briefed already . . .”
“Just the bare minimum—we packed our bags and flew in from Dallas right after wrapping up our last case,” Caity said.
“Then, I’ll start at the beginning.”
“Great.” They knew only basic details from what the director of the FBI told them on the way to the airport. But of course they’d heard of Laura Chaucer before. She’d been kidnapped as a child, and it had made national news—a cold case that confounded police and provided fodder for the gossip rags even to this day. “As I understand it, Laura Chaucer was last seen at the Wildflower Café on Monday evening, October 21.”
“That’s right. She had dinner with Ronald Saas, the editor of the Mountain Times—that’s a local newspaper here in Denver. Saas is also a community advisor to the Holly Hill Gazette, the campus newspaper. Laura enrolled as a freshman at Holly Hill College in late August. By all accounts, she was eager to score a spot as a cub reporter. Not sure what you know about the college, but it’s not only pricey, it claims one of the top journalism programs in the country.”
“So the editor of a local newspaper . . .” Caity scribbled something in her pocket-sized notebook.
“Ron Saas,” Hatcher repeated.
“Was the last person to see Laura before she went off the radar?”
“No. He was the last person to be seen with her. Her bodyguard, Ty Cayman, was the last person, as far as we know, to see her before she disappeared.”
“I didn’t know Laura had a bodyguard.” Spense tugged his lower lip. This was quite a wrinkle. If she had protection . . .
“What the hell was the bodyguard doing while Laura was busy disappearing?” Caity finished his thought for him.
Hatcher swept some of the strewn papers together and tapped them into a neat pile. “I misspoke. Technically, Cayman isn’t her bodyguard anymore. But he says he followed her to the Wildflower Café where he observed her having dinner with Saas and engaging in animated conversation. Afterward, Cayman tailed her back to her off-campus apartment. After watching her enter her home, he continued to stand sentry until all the lights went out, and she was, presumably, in for the night. Then Cayman headed home with the plan to return around five a.m.—per his routine.”
“Okay, so she was last seen by Cayman on Monday night, entering her own apartment. He kept watch until she turned out the lights. Did he check in with her by phone to make sure she was good for the evening?” Spense asked. The dots didn’t connect.
“He made no contact with her.”
“Why not?”
“Because he wasn’t supposed to be following her. As I said, technically, he wasn’t her bodyguard. He used to be, but she told him to take a hike before she moved from DC to Denver.”
“Then why was he following her?” Caity frowned.
“He worked for Daddy—not Laura. The senator kept him on the payroll as a secret watchdog. Chaucer wanted protection for his daughter whether she liked it or not.”
Caity leaned forward, a look of comprehension on her face. “And she didn’t like it. I’m guessing this Cayman had been on her for a long time. That she may have been fed up with being kept on Daddy’s leash.”
“The Chaucer family hired Cayman as Laura’s personal bodyguard after the first time she disappeared, at age eight.” The flush on Hatcher’s face suggested discussing that old kidnap case made him uncomfortable. He’d better learn to deal with it. Laura’s disappearance, once it was made public, would bring it all back into the spotlight.
From what Spense knew of the matter, the Piney Trails police had indeed screwed up. At the time, Whit Chaucer, a wealthy businessman and city council member was already highly regarded among the town’s elite, including the police chief—and the uniforms at the scene had been deferential rather than commanding.
After calling 911, Chaucer summoned a caterer to bring in food for the family and the officers. With people traipsing, unsupervised, through the home, the crime scene had been contaminated. But that flotsam had floated too far out to sea to be dragged ashore now. Spense said nothing about it, and pasted on a neutral expression. “You were one of the first uniforms on scene. What can you tell us about the kidnapping?”
“Thirteen years ago, eight-year-old Laura Chaucer disappeared from her home along with her nineteen-year-old nanny, Angelina Antonelli. On the morning of October 14, Whit Chaucer found a ransom note warning him not to contact the authorities or his daughter would be tortured and killed. Tracy, Mrs. Chaucer, was terrified of the consequences to her daughter, but despite her pleas not to, Whit had the good sense to call 911.
“I was a beat cop in Piney Trails at the time—my partner and I took the call. Later, Piney Trails got an assist from the Denver PD and the CBI got involved. Many of us here in this room had a hand in the investigation—when we heard Laura had gone missing again, we wanted in. So if you’re hungry for cold case details, we can dish ’em up hot.”
“Mid October.” Spense hadn’t remembered the dates surrounding the first case.
“So this isn’t a coincidence. It’s an anniversary,” Caity said. “I understand a ransom was paid. Is that what led to Laura’s safe recovery?” She emphasized the words safe recovery as if to remind Hatcher that no matter what else had gone wrong, the authorities had achieved an all too rare victory. They’d brought a kidnap victim home alive.
“Probably. We orchestrated a ransom drop with marked bills. We took every precaution. Did it by the book, but things didn’t go as planned . . .” He coughed into his hand. “We had eyes on the bag containing the payoff. Then a small fire broke out in the trees that concealed our men, and they had to put it out or risk a major forest fire—not to mention their lives. During the ensuing chaos, the money disappeared. We never got a bead on the kidnapper. Once the fire was out, we initiated an area search based on a tracking chip sewn into the lining of the bag. We later located it—empty—a few miles up a trail leading into the Gore mountain range. Laura was found nearby, huddled behind a bunch of boulders, less than fifty yards from a park-service cabin. She was covered in blood. Turned out not to be hers. Thank God. She was unharmed except for minor scrapes and cuts.”
“I don’t remember reading about a cabin,” Caity said.
“That’s because we held the information back from the press. Not even the family knows.”
“So the cabin is a test of guilty knowledge.” Caity nodded. “Got it.”
“Did Laura give a statement after she was found?” Spense asked.
“Chaucer allowed it, but only after his buddy, Dr. Grady Webber, talked to her first and gave the go-ahead. Laura had no memory of anything that happened after being tucked into bed by her nanny the night of October 13. Last thing she recalled was arguing with Angelina, because she’d refused to let her watch a scary movie on television.”
“Was that the routine, for the nanny to put her to bed?”
“Either the nanny or Chaucer. Apparently Mrs. Chaucer liked to retire early.”
“Earlier than an eight-year-old?”
“Tracy Chaucer suffered from migraines and an assortment of other ills. Took pills—and by her staff’s reports, boozed more than a little.”
“What about the blood they found on Laura?” Caity steered them back to the track Spense had jumped.
Hatcher grimaced. “Angelina’s. A few yards from where we recovered Laura, we located a corpse, thinly covered in leaves. Angelina had been stabbed over one hundred times.”
“And he—the kidnapper—Angelina’s murderer—has never been apprehended,” Spense said. Just tying things up. It was a well-known fact. Led to a public outcry and the belief that shoddy police work had left a deranged monster prowling the streets of Denver.
“Here’s the thing. We think Angelina was not an entirely innocent victim. Experts later determined the handwriting in the ransom note to be similar to samples from Angelin
a’s diary, and the note included several idiosyncratic phrases, also consistent with her journal entries.”
“So you think the nanny was involved in the kidnap.”
“Sure seemed like an inside job. No signs of forced entry to the house.”
“Signs point to the nanny,” Caity agreed. “But then again, she wound up dead, whereas Laura was left unharmed.”
“Sure. But we believe Angelina had an accomplice, a boyfriend. That he got rid of her in order to eliminate any witnesses. Wanted to keep the money for himself.”
“Then why leave Laura, a potential witness, alive?” It didn’t add up for Spense.
“We don’t think he planned to let Laura go. We think, somehow, she managed to get away while he was dealing with Angelina. There were no rope marks on Laura’s body to suggest she’d been bound, and she didn’t have any defensive wounds.”
“So she might’ve gone willingly, indicating her abductor was someone she trusted. But since she wasn’t tied up later, it seems more likely she was drugged,” Caity said.
“Drugged,” Hatcher confirmed.
Spense supposed it stood to reason that with her kidnapper still at large, and Laura the only one left alive who might identify him, her parents would take measures to secure her safety.
Hatcher went on, “Laura’s parents hired Cayman to protect her, and he lived and traveled with the family for over a decade, until about three months ago, when Laura officially declared her independence. She pronounced herself an adult and insisted she didn’t have to abide by her parents’ rules anymore. At twenty-one, she came into a large sum from her grandparents’ trust fund, and she was no longer financially dependent on her mother and father. She quit therapy, ditched her meds, and revealed she’d been accepted to Holly Hill College.”
“How long has she been back in the Denver area?”
“That’s one more heartbreak. She’s been back in Denver just two short months. Now she’s missing. The Chaucers blame themselves for ‘allowing’ her to claim her inheritance. They say Webber advised them to contest the trust on grounds of Laura’s mental instability. But instead they followed the advice of Laura’s DC therapist—a Dr. Duncan—to encourage her to become more self-sufficient. Now the Chaucers are second-guessing themselves. Without the money, Laura couldn’t have left home—she’s never held a job of any kind.”
Spense guessed that was because she’d never been permitted to seek employment.
“Even though they had Cayman watching her, he couldn’t guard her effectively without her consent,” Hatcher went on.
“Didn’t he make use of surveillance equipment?” Spense asked.
Caity’s eyebrows shot up, and Spense knew she was troubled by the way the Chaucers had overridden their daughter’s wishes. Caity would be in the DC therapist’s camp. No doubt about that.
“No cameras or listening devices.” Hatcher ran a hand through his hair. “Naturally we have to look hard at those closest to Laura, but every action the Chaucers have taken tells me they love their daughter. A wealthy, prominent family, one who’s paid a ransom already, makes a prime target for kidnappers and other predators. And then, there’s the matter of Angelina’s killer still being at large.”
“Could be dead or in prison by now,” Spense thought aloud.
“We believe he’s still in play. Marked bills used in the ransom drop still show up now and then, but there’s no consistent pattern to when and where. I don’t blame the parents for keeping their daughter locked down tight.”
“But they didn’t use surveillance,” Spense said. Inconsistent.
“They told me Tracy couldn’t stand the thought of someone watching Laura in her private moments—it seemed like yet another violation. Cayman stayed in their home in a room adjoining Laura’s, but the family never allowed cameras, not even when she was a child.”
Spense was developing more empathy for the entire family. It sounded like the parents struggled to balance protecting their daughter’s safety with respecting her privacy and growing need for independence. And he could understand why the senator kept Cayman on Laura without her consent. He might’ve done the same thing in Chaucer’s shoes.
“Sounds like Laura’s been locked in a prison of fear most of her life—hard to blame her for wanting to break out.” Caity, on the other hand, clearly didn’t approve of the parental subterfuge.
Not a surprise. Caity didn’t take violations of individual freedoms lightly. Because of her father’s execution, which had been based in part on a coerced confession, she was a strong proponent of civil liberties—in every form.
“But Laura is still a loose end. The danger to her is real,” Spense said. It was unnecessary to add that if Laura had been abducted again, Angelina’s killer would be the prime suspect.
“The bastard is still in the wind, but it’s even worse than that.” Hatcher lowered his gaze. “We have very few clues to his identity. That’s one reason I’m glad you’re here. I’m counting on the two of you to develop an accurate profile of our mystery man. He could be anyone. He could be anywhere. He could be right under our noses, and we wouldn’t even smell his stink.”
Chapter 8
Afternoon
Somewhere in the Rocky Mountains
Find your strengths and stretch them farther than you ever dreamed possible.
Laura recalled her counselor’s beaming, naïve face as she’d led the evening lesson at wilderness survival camp, and how, at the time, she’d found the idealism shining from that young woman’s eyes nauseating. What did the counselor know about survival compared to Laura?
But now, she stopped to consider what were her strong points?
Definitely her brain and her body. She’d always excelled at school. And she’d trained hard, partly because she’d been bored and lonely with little companionship other than Cayman, who was a gym rat; but mostly because she feared she might someday have to fight for her life.
Her parents sent her to survival camp and kept a bodyguard on her.
Who wouldn’t be afraid?
Too bad at the moment her body was wrecked, but at least her head was beginning to clear. She closed her eyes, and the counselor’s beaming face appeared. Laura opened her eyes and drew her shoulders back. Maybe, if she could buy time to recover, she could turn this thing around. With logic telling her he wasn’t coming back for her, she decided to trust in reason and let it, rather than fear, guide her actions. She needed water and warmth and food, in that order, to regain her mental and physical strength. She should take care of her body first, then plan her next move.
Out the window, light shone down, bouncing brightly off the scattered patches of snow and packed ice. These conditions told her two things. First, the temperature dropped below freezing at night, so even inside the cabin, she might succumb to hypothermia if she didn’t bundle up. Second, she was at higher altitude—in Denver, there was still no snow on the ground. Hugging the sheet tightly around herself, she ventured onto the porch for a better look around.
The cabin was surrounded by few trees, most of them bristlecone pine and krumholtz—knee timber. There was snow, but only here and there. So, she was nearing, but not yet at, the tree line and the snow line. That meant she was at least 9,000 feet above sea level, maybe 10,000—another tidbit she’d picked up in wilderness camp. A few yards ahead the sun glinted off something shiny—metal. She shaded her eyes and squinted.
An outdoor spigot!
Fresh water!
She hoped.
She lifted her hands to heaven in gratitude. Part of getting strong was getting clean. The bodily fluids caking her skin demoralized her, weakening her spirits, and in this moment, taking back her dignity seemed almost more important than food.
She longed to feel human again.
Suddenly, her back tingled a warning, then went into a full-blown spasm. She massaged it until the ball of pain adjacent to her spine unwound. The muscles in her legs, always well-defined, appeared like small rocks, with puf
fy veins chiseled on top. When she tried to stretch, the tendons in the backs of her knees felt dangerously brittle, like they might snap. Lying unconscious on a cabin floor, for lord knew how long, had also made her ankles swell.
Her body could no longer be ignored.
Her bowels screamed, and she knew she’d soon be standing in literal shit if she didn’t heed their urgent warning.
The bloating in her feet made her pumps a tight fit, but she managed to get them on. Then in almost one continuous motion, she stumbled off the porch steps, released her bowels and heaved up bile. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand she realized she felt better—no—make that much better. Like her body had rid itself of a deadly poison. For no reason, she laughed. She might be hysterical. In shock. Or maybe she just needed the relief the laughter brought. Next, she scrubbed her face and teeth with snow from a patch that didn’t look too dirty. At the pump, she drank first, before washing her hair and body. The frigid water and air seemed so clean and pure she wanted to linger under that blessed spigot forever, but her skin had taken on a blue hue. Her core temperature was dropping fast.
She had to get back inside.
She eyed the sheet, lying on the ground where she’d discarded it. No way would she wrap that vile thing around her again. She could wait another minute for her clean dress. With a high head, she hurried back to the cabin, naked save for her pumps. Her pace was as quick as her legs would allow, but still left her time to survey her surroundings.
Beyond the cabin, trails wound upward into majestic peaks. Peaks she’d grown up admiring. She had to be somewhere in the Gore mountain range. Her mind began to race with possibilities. She couldn’t have climbed up into the wilderness on her own—that seemed certain. And it was unlikely her abductor would’ve carried her more than a short distance.
There was only one logical conclusion: Somewhere nearby was a road.
This time of year it would be closed, but that wouldn’t stop her from using it any more than it had stopped the monster who’d brought her up here. He had to have driven it as far as he could, then carried her the rest of the way. Or maybe, he’d used an ATV.
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