“Not according to her family.” Hatcher who’d been backed against the wall moved in for a closer look at the ink.
“Maybe the folks aren’t aware,” Gaines continued.
“Laura’s parents controlled her tightly, so it’s possible she hid it from them.” Caitlin made a mental note to check with the bodyguard. “Maybe Cayman’s seen something they haven’t. Or maybe she confided in her psychiatrist.”
“Multiple stab wounds make this an obvious homicide.” Gaines swept a gloved hand above the length of the body. “But they weren’t the cause of death.”
“Then what was?” Hatcher asked.
“Impatient, aren’t we? But to answer to your question, I checked for retinal hemorrhages before you arrived. Cause of death appears to be asphyxiation.”
“So she was strangled.”
“There are many ways death by asphyxiation can occur. For all that tells us she could’ve been gassed in a garage with carbon monoxide.”
“But you don’t believe that.” Hatcher paced from top to bottom of the room with his hands crossed behind his back.
“No. But I need more than just belief. I need evidence.” Gaines sighed. “And here we have it.” He motioned them over to observe as he delicately dissected the neck, revealing a broken piece of bone—the hyoid. “Without question, the young woman on my table was strangled to death.”
Chapter 23
Friday, October 25
8:00 A.M.
Task force headquarters
Highlands Hotel
Denver, Colorado
“Jordo . . .” Cliff poked his head into the interview room. “What do you want me to do about the reporters?”
The press conference.
Spense had forgotten all about it, and apparently so had Hatcher.
“What time did we say?”
“Ten.”
Hatcher checked his watch. “Ain’t happening. Call ’em up and tell them it’s a slow news day, sorry for the false alarm.”
“Sir.” Cliff cleared his throat. “They’ve been harassing Rhonda already. If I don’t hand out some inside information, they’ll probably make up some tall tale about you cheating on Louise.”
“Louise knows no one else will have me.”
“That may be,” Spense said. “But Cliff’s got a point. We’ve got to give them something to hold them at bay or no telling how creative they’ll get. We need to control the media on this one. Use it to our advantage.”
“Let’s see, then. We’ll just say the senator is missing a daughter—again—and she might or might not be the corpse laid out in the morgue. Considering her parents don’t yet know what we found up in the Eagles Nest Wilderness, seems like poor form to me.”
“What have they been told?” If it’d been up to Caity, Spense knew she’d have personally called on the family hours ago.
“That we have news. That we need them here ASAP. They’re staying at Laura’s apartment in case she returns. I offered to go out last night, but Mrs. Chaucer was sleeping, and it was the senator who set the meeting time of 8:00 A.M. With this amount of destruction to the body, we don’t expect the family to be able to make an ID. I didn’t see a reason to push the meeting earlier since we don’t know for sure the young woman we found is Laura.”
Spense checked his watch. “Past eight now.”
“Guess they’re late.”
“For an update on their missing daughter?” Spense didn’t like it. “They should be beating down the door to find out what’s going on.”
“I think Mrs. Chaucer is sleeping is code for drunk out of her gourd,” Hatcher said. “I think the senator’s trying to save her face.”
“Let’s hope the Chaucers get here soon,” Caity said. “There were too many people up on that mountain to keep this under wraps for long. By tomorrow, someone will have leaked the story. What if instead of telling the press to come back tomorrow, we reschedule for later this afternoon. That’ll give Spense and me time to at least start on a profile, time to get the parents in, and hopefully time for Gaines to make a positive ID.”
“I like the way she thinks,” Cliff said.
“I don’t see a downside to that. Tell the vultures we’ll meet up with them this afternoon—at a time to be determined later.”
“I don’t know if that’s going to hold them, Jordo.”
“Best I can do.”
Cliff backed out of the room, looking only moderately appeased.
“While we’re waiting, we might as well talk about the original kidnap. If our Jane Doe turns out to be Laura, and even if she doesn’t, there’s little doubt it figures into our current case. The body was found near Frank’s Cabin, same MO. And close to the anniversary of the first kidnapping. Officially, that case is cold. But what about unofficially?” Spense asked.
“Unofficially that case is still cold.”
Caity leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Sure, but you must have a theory about what really happened. There must be persons of interests not yet ruled out.”
Hatcher stood up and went to the door, checked to see if the Chaucers might be within earshot. Apparently, they weren’t. Hatcher clicked the lock. “Just want to be sure we don’t get a surprise interruption.” He sat down and put his hands behind his head. “There are about as many theories as I’ve got fingers and toes, but the three main ones are as follows: The Vendetta. The Opportunist. The Greedy Bastard.”
“You named the theories?” Caity asked.
“Makes it more fun,” he said.
In this, Spense felt a certain kinship to Hatcher. Solving puzzles was fun, and it helped to make the job bearable. Solve a puzzle. Save a life. Not a bad gig. “Three theories will likely lead to three profiles. Maybe we should pick one. We’re going to have to make some assumptions or we’ll never get anywhere. As long as we remember the profile has to come second to the evidence—”
“Don’t worry.” Hatcher swigged from a bottled water. “I’ll have no trouble reminding you that whatever you come up with is full of crap until proven otherwise.”
“Let’s start with The Vendetta.” Caity went to the whiteboard. She liked playing scribe, and Spense liked watching her. This morning she looked particularly curvy in the skinny jeans and red sweater she’d thrown on. He was secretly glad she hadn’t had time to unpack and press her work clothes.
“That’s the theory most favored by Senator Chaucer, himself. He’s absolutely convinced that whoever kidnapped Laura . . .”
“And murdered Angelina,” Caity put in.
“Goes without saying.” Hatcher shrugged.
“Let’s say it anyway, since two young women are now dead and whether or not Angelina was an accomplice has yet to be proven. She could’ve been collateral damage, and even if she was in on the scheme, she didn’t deserve the death penalty.”
“This public service announcement has been brought to you by bleeding heart liberals everywhere.” Hatcher waved his hand in the air. “Now can we return to our regular programming?”
“Of course.” Caity laid a calming hand on Spense’s shoulder before he came out of his chair. It was one thing for him to call her a bleeding-heart liberal . . . “Just looking for truth in broadcasting,” she told Hatcher without rancor.
“The Vendetta theory proposes that someone with a grudge against Whit Chaucer or against Mrs. Chaucer . . .” Hatcher paused, giving Caity time to write as he talked. “Kidnapped Laura as an act of retribution, seeking revenge on the family.”
“Interesting that the senator favors that theory,” Caity said.
“How so?”
“Because it makes it his fault. In a way, he’s taking blame for what happened to his daughter. It also gives him the comfort of a cause and effect metaphor.”
“What the hell’s she talking about?” Hatcher asked Spense.
Spense said nothing, allowing Caity to speak for herself.
“I’m talking about the fact that the idea of a random universe scar
es people. Most of us want to believe that our actions control our fate, even though sometimes that’s not the case. It may be comforting for the senator to believe something he did caused his daughter to be kidnapped. If his behavior led to Laura’s kidnapping and Angelina’s murder, it’s a good thing in a way, because his behavior is something he can modify.”
“But he can’t change the past.”
“No, but it gives him the power to control his future.”
“I guess.”
“It’s also a reflection of narcissism. The world revolves around him. Laura was taken because of him. It’s not about her—it’s about him.”
“A narcissistic politician. Go figure,” Spense said. “But do our theorists think it was a personal vendetta or something related to the business realm? A personal vendetta suggests our UNSUB would be someone with close ties to the family. A friend, a relative, or someone on their staff such as a housekeeper.”
“Seems like I remember Mrs. Chaucer telling a reporter she suspected a cook.” Caity looked to Hatcher for confirmation.
“Yes, the cook had prepared two separate meals for the Chaucers—fish sticks for Laura and chicken for her parents. Whit is allergic to fish, and apparently the chicken was prepared on the same cutting board. Following dinner he wound up in the emergency room. Cook had recently asked for a raise and been turned down. Tracy Chaucer was convinced the fish sticks incident was deliberate. She fired the cook the next morning. Cook had a key to the house and was quite familiar with the family’s comings and goings. She had motive, means, and opportunity.”
“And a violent streak?” Spense asked.
“Not that we know of. No criminal record. Cooperated fully with the inquiry. Nobody but Mrs. Chaucer liked her for it—crime was too vicious for a nice middle-age lady with no history of nothing.”
“Except nearly killing Whit Chaucer,” Caity said.
“Accident. Besides, her sister alibied her for the night of the kidnapping. If she had done it, and she had the ransom money, why stick around Denver and keep working as the hired help? But she’s still in the area if you want to talk to her.”
They wrote the cook’s information down, but in Spense’s mind she was low on the suspect list. “Okay, who else? Close friend? What about the Chaucers’ inner circle?”
“You want me to alibi every socialite in Denver?”
“I’m talking about really close friends,” Spense said. “What about Grady Webber?”
“Him, we talked to. He also had a key to the home, sometimes checked on things for the family while they were out of town—unless he was tagging along. He got along swimmingly with the entire family. Not so much as a ripple over a bad round of golf between Whit and him. And Tracy Chaucer is Webber’s biggest fan. A bachelor at the time, Dr. Webber claimed to be home sleeping that night—alone. So he had means and opportunity but zilch for motive.”
“What about on the business side?”
“Now there’s a long list, and that’s where Chaucer puts his money. Lots of people don’t like you when you’re rich and powerful—at least that’s what the senator tells me, because how else would a guy like me know? And some of his company policies were thought to be unfriendly to the environment.”
Caity frowned. “That would encompass a lot of people. Anyone overlooked for a promotion. Anyone in the Sierra Club.”
“And he had financial dealings abroad, too. Based on the business enemy theory, we were buried in suspects. We combed through long lists of names, but couldn’t connect anyone to the kidnapping. And that was still better than where the Greedy Bastard theory took us.
“In that scenario, someone without a personal vendetta, who was simply looking for financial gain, targeted the Chaucers for money. It’s a reasonable supposition, but without the personal connection, we didn’t know where to start. It could’ve been absolutely anyone who’d read about Whit Chaucer in the papers, and he’d been written up a lot in the months preceding the kidnapping.”
“Not absolutely anyone,” Spense offered. “There are plenty of Greedy Bastards around, but someone looking to cash out by targeting a wealthy businessman would have to be a thrill seeker, someone unafraid of risks and consequences. We’re talking about a con man, or woman, with personal access to the family. Might be an overlap between the Greedy Bastard category and the Vendetta category—that could narrow it down.”
“Maybe. Where were you thirteen years ago?”
“We’re here now.”
“Let’s not forget The Opportunist,” Caity said. “I’m guessing you’re thinking a vagrant or criminal. Someone who did yard work, or passed by the area and just what, happened to see a window open or an unlocked door, crawled through and grabbed Laura and Angelina?”
“Bingo. But it’s my least favored theory. We chased down a few sex offenders in the area and some parolees but came up empty.”
Caity nodded. “I agree. If Angelina was involved, that wouldn’t fly either. Hard to believe some homeless guy colluded with her to kidnap Laura. So that leaves us . . .”
“Thirteen years later with no viable suspects, and Laura gone missing again—only this time, it looks like she might not be coming home alive.”
Chapter 24
Friday, October 25
8:00 A.M.
Holly Hill College
Denver, Colorado
Laura’s luck was finally starting to change. The pickup she’d stowed away in last night had carried her all the way to Denver and parked in a lot just yards from a budget motel. The desk clerk hadn’t looked at her twice or asked for identification when she’d signed in as Ruby Rogers, paying cash for the room. Tonight, she’d move to a youth hostel. Even forty bucks was too steep a price to pay when she had to make five hundred dollars stretch indefinitely. But she wasn’t going to dwell on the negative.
She’d been given another chance at life, and as horrible as her mission might be, having one gave her a sense of purpose. She was bruised and sore and tired, but she didn’t recall ever awakening to a sweeter morning.
At a dive near the motel, she’d splurged on waffles and sausage and coffee. No one bothered her, or looked at her funny. A greasy paper lay on the counter, and she’d checked it and found nothing about her disappearance or about the dead body in the wilderness. She didn’t know if she had hours or days until it all hit the front page, but for now, it seemed she was free to come and go without attracting notice—as long as she was careful. As an extra precaution she’d bought a blond wig. Though she wasn’t wearing it now, she was quite looking forward to seeing a whole new Laura staring back at her in the mirror.
She climbed out of the cab, pulled the collar of her jacket over her neck and zipped it all the way to cover the marks on her throat. Then she tied her hoodie under her chin and ducked her head before entering the student union at Holly Hill College. A directory on the wall told her the college newspaper office was in room 101, just down the hall. Ronald Saas was the student advisor, and she knew he kept office hours on Friday mornings.
She didn’t know for sure that she could trust him, but he’d been polite when she’d met with him for dinner on Monday. He hadn’t told her she was crazy, only that he found her theories unlikely. She’d been surprised by the way he’d reacted. He didn’t seem disturbed by anything she’d said—but then again, he was a professional. He’d neither encouraged her, nor discouraged her. In fact he’d said very little other than that she didn’t have any real evidence. But that was exactly what she might have in her backpack. She could only hope it would be enough.
She couldn’t risk going to the cops or to her parents, who very likely would lock her up in either a jail or a hospital respectively. At least Saas couldn’t slap her in cuffs right then and there, even if he did rat her out to the authorities later. She’d talk to the man first, feel him out, and then decide whether or not to entrust him with the locks of hair. The one thing she definitely could not do was destroy the evidence that might put a killer behind b
ars for good.
She took a deep breath, opened the glass doors to the college newspaper office and approached the receptionist. “Ruby Rogers for Ronald Saas.”
The receptionist typed something into a computer then shook her head. “I don’t see you on this morning’s calendar.”
“I have an eight o’clock with Mr. Saas. I’m doing a piece on the backcountry ski club.”
“Sorry, but I don’t have anyone down for eight o’clock. I’ve got a nine o’clock as his first appointment.”
“Oh, that’s mine. Guess I got the time wrong,” Laura tried. “It’s under my buddy’s name. We’re sharing a byline.”
The woman arched an eyebrow. “Not unless your buddy’s the dean of behavioral sciences.”
Laura dug her heels into the carpet. “Okay, look, I don’t have an appointment. But since he’s free until nine, maybe you could give me a break. It’s urgent that I see Mr. Saas.”
“You should’ve been honest in the first place.” The receptionist tapped her pen on her teeth, contemplating, then let out a long breath. “What was your name, again? And no more shenanigans if you want me to get you in.”
To stop herself from running around the desk and hugging the receptionist, Laura stuck her hands behind her back. “If you’ll just tell him his Monday night dinner companion is here, I’m certain he’ll see me.”
“Take a seat, and I’ll see what I can do.”
How she’d won the receptionist over, she had no idea. Maybe she noticed the dark circles under Laura’s eyes and felt sorry for her. Or maybe, unlike some other people Laura knew, the receptionist wasn’t on a power trip and didn’t mind helping another person out, even if she wasn’t going to get a darn thing out of it for herself.
Laura tried to sit quietly, but couldn’t manage it. She flipped one page of a People Magazine then climbed to her feet, twisting her hands as she watched the blinds in the office labeled Ronald Saas, Community Advisor slowly inch up. When they reached the halfway point, the receptionist gave her the thumbs-up.
Stolen Page 11
