Stolen

by Carey Baldwin

  She slumped against the open door, giving Caity the opportunity to swoop around her and enter Truella’s Campus Ridge apartment.

  “Agent Spenser!” Caity offered a supporting arm to Truella. “Put those away. You can’t arrest this young woman simply for being a bad roommate.”

  Truella accepted Caity’s help, pulling herself upright. But it only took an instant for the grateful look she’d sent Caity to change to something more . . . pissed off. Truella ducked out from under Caity’s supporting arm. “I am not a bad roommate.”

  Spense stepped inside as well. Truella had vacated the doorway, and that was invitation enough for him. “Oh I’m not going to charge her with that, though clearly she’s not winning any friendship medals, here.” He pinned Truella with a hard glare and dangled the handcuffs inches from her face, allowing them to chime musically against each other. “Your roommate hasn’t been home since parents’ weekend. That’s a week ago, and you haven’t bothered to report her missing.”

  “I didn’t know she was missing. I thought she was on one of her excursions.” She pulled her shoulders back. “Anyway, you’re bluffing. Just because you’re FBI doesn’t mean you can go around arresting anyone you feel like for no reason.”

  “Agent Spenser doesn’t bluff. I’m sure he has some reason.” Caity walked from the front door to the living area like she was the hostess and Truella the guest. Spense followed, and Truella, looking very confused, did, too. The room was small and opened onto a kitchen with a gas stove and beat-up dinette set.

  Spense stood, arms crossed over his chest while Caity and Truella seated themselves on a tan faux leather sofa. Off to the left, he could see a room with an unmade bed and clothes piled on the floor.

  Truella followed his gaze. “That’s Harriet’s room. She’s a slob.”

  Yeah. No friendship medals for this one.

  “So, then, if you’re not arresting Tru for failing to report Harriet as missing, what kind of charges did you have in mind?” Caity narrowed her eyes at him, while inching closer to Truella in an exaggerated show of support.

  “I was thinking obstruction of justice.” He widened his stance. “Only because accessory to murder seems a bit premature.”

  “I don’t know.” Caity slid Truella a questioning gaze. “I think she’ll talk to us.”

  “Of course I will! I’m the one who called you, remember?”

  “Well, Tru, you did hang up as soon as you found out the reward was only for information about Laura Chaucer,” Spense said.

  “No, no, no. We got disconnected. My cell lost signal. My battery died.”

  Spense grabbed a phone off the coffee table. “This yours? One hundred percent charged—and look at that signal.”

  “Now. I had to charge it up so I could call you back.”

  Spense uncrossed his arms and spread his palms. “Luckily, we’re here, so you won’t have to worry about either the battery or the signal anymore. Which was the problem, again?”

  Truella blinked rapidly. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  Caity shook a finger at Spense. “Put those cuffs away. Tru’s a good egg. I just know it.”

  “She waited this long to call the cops. And then, it was just because she thought she’d get a reward. She clammed up as soon as she found out she wouldn’t get money for telling us about Harriet,” Spense said.

  “I don’t need a reward. I promise I’ll cooperate.”

  Spense offered Truella her cell. “You’d better.”

  Truella’s hand shook as she accepted her phone from Spense. “Honest, I didn’t know anything bad happened to her—not until I saw that press conference on TV. Maybe it’s not really Harriet.”

  “I hope not.” Caity’s false chumminess suddenly disappeared. Spense could hear genuine empathy for Truella in her tone. He’d known Caity couldn’t keep up a pretense for long, but it didn’t matter. She’d played her part of the ruse well, and just long enough.

  Truella leaned forward, wringing her hands, a dazed look in her eyes.

  Spense had no doubt she’d tell them everything she knew about Harriet Beckerman—to save her own hide. “On the phone, you said you thought the body that was found up in the wilderness might be that of your roommate. Describe Harriet, please.”

  “She has long dark hair—almost black—and blue eyes.”

  “Keep going.”

  “She turned twenty last month. She’s shorter than me—I’m five four. And she’s thinner and prettier than me, too. She . . .” Truella’s eyebrows flattened. “She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t mind stealing her friend’s boyfriend.”

  Maybe that was why Truella seemed so angry with Harriet.

  “Let’s get back to her physical description. Does she have any distinguishing marks or features?” Caity asked.

  Spense pricked his ears. The dolphin tattoo hadn’t been mentioned in the press conference.

  “A tattoo on one of her hips. I don’t remember which one. It was some kind of fish, a whale, I think.”

  “Okay. You’re doing great,” Caity said, her voice suddenly subdued. “Harriet fit the description you heard on the news, so you called the hotline. That was the right thing to do. But, Tru, why did you wait so long? What did you mean when you said you thought Harriet was on one of her excursions?”

  “Harriet has a problem—she likes to party. Booze it up big-time. I’ve known her two years, and she’s disappeared for a few days maybe three other times before. But she always showed up eventually. You can see why I wasn’t too worried.”

  Not worried that her friend was out there on a bender, and no one knew where. “Did you at least talk to her parents?” Spense asked.

  “Harriet’s dad’s not around. And she barely speaks to her mom even when they are getting along.”

  “They’re not getting along now?”

  “Mrs. Beckerman put Harriet on probation. If Harriet didn’t get sober, her mom said she’d pull her out of school and stick her back in rehab. And Harriet didn’t want to go to rehab. I thought she’d gotten clean for real this time . . . until she went out that one Saturday and didn’t come home.”

  “Saturday October 19?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think I understand,” Caity said. “You didn’t want to get Harriet in trouble with her mother. Even though you were mad at her, you still wanted to protect her. Like you’re doing now. Only at the moment, you actually are helping, so keep it up.”

  “That’s right.” Truella’s eyes grew moist. “I’m not a bad person. I did want the reward money—I admit it. But that’s not the reason I hung up. I’ve got more to tell than just about . . . I hung up because I was scared.”

  And from the pallor of her skin, Spense could tell she was still scared. He wasn’t immune to her feelings, but there was too much at stake to go easy on the kid. Tragic that the one nice thing Truella tried to do for Harriet—keeping her secret from her mother—turned out to be the worst possible thing she could’ve done. Classic enabler. “You didn’t call Harriet’s mom, but did her mom try to contact you?”

  “Not until this morning.”

  Spense waited.

  “She said Harriet was supposed to check in with her by phone once a week. She said she’d gotten a few texts, but when she told Harriet to either call her or pay the piper, the texts stopped.”

  Didn’t help much. Whoever had taken Harriet, assuming she was in fact their Jane Doe, would have her phone and could’ve sent the texts. Still, they might reveal something useful. He drummed his fingers together, sensing Truella was still holding out. “What about you? Did you get any texts?”

  Her throat moved in a long visible swallow. “Mrs. Beckerman asked me did I know where Harriet was, and I told her the truth. I didn’t. I don’t. I bet I’m wrong. I bet she’s just on a binge like I told you before.”

  “Tru, Agent Spenser asked you a question.” Caity placed her hands on the young woman’s shoulders and turned Truella toward her. “Did y
ou get any texts from Harriet’s phone?”

  Truella looked around for an escape route. There weren’t any. Spense was in front of her, Caity beside her. “Just one—on Monday. The text said she was with a friend.” Her voice trembled uncontrollably.

  “Take it easy, Tru,” Spense said. “I was just messing with you before. I needed you to take this seriously, and now I can see you do. Whatever it is that’s got you so worried, just tell us. We’re the good guys.”

  “We’re the good guys,” Caity repeated, locking eyes with Truella.

  “Harriet’s text said she was partying with a friend—the girl who lives in 317—Laura Chaucer.”

  Chapter 30

  Friday, October 25

  12:15 P.M.

  Get Wired Coffee Shop

  Denver, Colorado

  “It’s me.” Huddled in a back cubicle in front of a pay-as-you-go computer, Laura tugged her blond wig to better secure it in place and whispered into her new burner phone.

  “Laura, is that you?”

  She heard the surprise in Dr. Webber’s voice. He was the last person she ever thought she’d call, but the televisions in the electronics store, where she’d bought a phone and a watch, kept looping recorded footage of him begging her to return home. When she’d seen her mother and father standing in the background at that press conference, looking stricken and pale, she’d felt the weight of their suffering like Sisyphus’s rock.

  Was she doomed to disappoint them for all eternity?

  She desperately wanted to make it to the top of the hill and just once be the daughter they deserved.

  She could’ve called her father, but then when he ordered her home, she’d have to refuse. And her track record of standing up to the senator wasn’t the greatest—as in when had she ever? Never, except this fall, when she’d enrolled in college away from home. She was certain he’d be quick to remind her how that had turned out.

  Then there was her mother, but Tracy had always been fragile. No telling what the shock of hearing Laura’s voice would do to her. So, in the end, Dr. Webber seemed like the best way to get a message to her parents.

  She owed it to them to let them know she was alive . . .

  And she owed it to Harriet’s mom to tell the cops it was her daughter’s body they’d found.

  “Your parents are sick with worry. I’m sick with worry,” Webber said.

  “I—I’m safe.”

  “Safe where?” he asked, his tone suddenly coaxing.

  Ah yes, good old Dr. Webber, the master manipulator.

  “Just tell me where you are, dear. I’ll come get you myself.”

  “No!” She cringed at how loudly she’d spoken. She had to be careful after that press conference. A blond wig could only hide so much.

  “Laura, please let me bring you home where you belong.”

  “I—I can’t come home. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” he said, trying a sterner approach. “Your parents love you. They don’t deserve this.”

  “I know that.” She hesitated. She didn’t trust him like her parents did, but he couldn’t deliver her message if she didn’t give it to him. “There’s something I haven’t told you yet—the reason I can’t come home.”

  He said nothing, and she imagined herself slouching in a chair in front of his desk in that gloomy office of his. Right about now, he’d be checking his watch, impatiently waiting for her to get on with it.

  “Something bad is happening again. I woke up and didn’t know where I was. My throat was cut—more like scratched with a knife—but it was bleeding. And I—I . . . there were empty pill bottles.”

  “My God, Laura, I want you to hang up and call 911. Then call me right back.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You must. You tried to hurt yourself again.”

  “No. It was someone else who hurt me. It was him.”

  “Him who?” She could hear the release of a heavy breath coming through the phone.

  “I told you about him once, when I found the lock of Angelina’s hair.”

  “We’ve been through all this before, Laura. That was a figment of your imagination.”

  In other words, you’re crazy. “No. It wasn’t. It isn’t. When I woke up, I found more locks of hair.”

  “You’re high on pills. That’s why you can’t think clearly. Now, just listen to me, and I’ll explain what’s happening to you. You thought you found a lock of hair before, remember, and then it disappeared. It disappeared because it wasn’t really there to begin with.”

  “I have two locks of hair tied with ribbons in my pocket, right now.”

  “That’s a hallucination.”

  “No. I’m touching them. You can’t touch a hallucination. You explained that to me in therapy. My hallucinations were visual, brought on by drugs. I’m not taking any drugs now.”

  “What about the empty medication bottles?”

  “He must’ve fed the pills to me. But I threw them up.”

  “Where are you, Laura?”

  “I’m calling from a pay phone in Silverthorne.” She didn’t know why she said that. Her parents had always told her Dr. Webber was a good friend and an excellent doctor, but she knew by the way her gut was pinging he wasn’t on her side. And Dr. Duncan had told her to trust her gut. She wished she’d called Dr. Duncan instead.

  “Where in Silverthorne are you? A gas station?”

  Give him the message and then get off the phone. “I think my friend, Harriet Beckerman, has been murdered. I need you to tell that to the police.”

  “Listen to me very carefully, Laura. If you’ve hurt this girl, this Harriet, you really must turn yourself in. Your father will get you the finest lawyer, and I’ll testify you don’t know right from wrong.”

  “But I do know right from wrong!” Her voice had gotten too loud again. She looked around but no one seemed to have noticed.

  “Then why did you kill your friend? Why did you try to kill yourself? You’re not well, Laura. Just tell me where you are so I can help you.”

  “I never said I killed Harriet. And you’re not helping me. This is the opposite of help.” She could hear her own voice shaking. If only Dr. Webber would believe in her. “I would never hurt my friend. I would never hurt anyone.”

  But his only reply was silence.

  “Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Which thing do you want me to believe, Laura? That you would never hurt anyone or that your friend has been murdered and you have a lock of her hair in your pocket? Because frankly, I don’t see how both of those things can be true. Either you’re delusional or you’ve done something terrible and then tried to kill yourself.”

  “It was him. He killed my friend, and then he tried to kill me.”

  This time Dr. Webber’s answer was swift and cruel. “Then why aren’t you dead, Laura? Why aren’t you dead?”

  Chapter 31

  Friday, October 25

  2:00 P.M.

  Task force headquarters

  Highlands Hotel

  Denver, Colorado

  Detective Jordan Hatcher was in Caitlin’s face the moment she and Spense swung through the door into the war room. In this instance, Spense’s old school ladies first policy had put her directly in the line of fire. Hatcher had the flophouse sweats and some of his perspiration flung onto her along with an expletive or two. He was so worked up his ears had turned the color of ketchup. “Where have you two been? All hell’s been breaking loose around here.”

  Good to be missed?

  Hatcher’s agitation surprised Caitlin. She wanted to ice him down before his head exploded. Resisting the temptation to check his pulse, she said, “We were out interviewing a witness. We left a message with Cliff. I guess you didn’t get it.”

  “Who the fuck told you that you could interview a witness without me?”

  Caitlin cringed, not because of the cursing but because she anticipated Spense’s response. Nobody likes being told how to do his job, and Spense wa
s no exception. Considering just how good Spense was at what he did, she couldn’t blame him if he lost his cool.

  Spense’s hand shot into his pocket, and she released her breath.

  He wasn’t going to let Hatcher get his goat after all.

  A beat or so passed, then Spense tossed his cube in the air and caught it. “This is a joint task force. Caity and I aren’t under your command—we answer to the BAU. While you were wrapping up the press conference, a tip came in to the hotline. We followed it up, and if you weren’t so busy braying like an ass I would’ve told you we think we know who our Jane Doe is. Her name is Harriet Beckerman. You’re welcome.”

  “Harriet Beckerman? Holy shit.”

  “You can say that again.” Caitlin offered the detective a conciliatory smile.

  “Holy shit.”

  Hatcher really didn’t get the whole figure of speech thing, but she wasn’t about to go down that path with him. Caitlin glanced at the door to the interview room. It sounded like a squad of paratroopers was behind it. She could hear shoes clomping, cups clanking, chairs scraping, and voices talking over each other. “Sounds like you’ve had some excitement around here, too. What gives?”

  Hatcher stepped closer and lowered his voice. “We’re disbanding the task force.”

  She took a step back. How could they even think of such a thing after finding a young woman brutally murdered. “That’s a bad idea.” Understatement. “If Laura’s still alive, she’s in grave danger.”

  Hatcher angled his head toward the interview room. “Follow me if you dare—it’s a madhouse in there—you’ll understand everything soon enough.”

  Now it was Spense wearing the red ears. “You can’t disband the task force at a time like this.”

  “Not my call. This is coming from above.” Hatcher shifted back and forth on his feet. “Disband might not be the correct term. Downsize. Reorganize. Resource reallocation. Whatever you wanna call it, it sucks. I’m still on the case, and Cliff. I’m going to try to make an argument to keep you two around a while longer.”