Stolen

by Carey Baldwin

  “Say again.”

  “Grady’s been using a form of chemical restraint on Laura. It’s so obvious, I don’t know why it took me so long to see it.”

  “I think I can guess what you mean, but maybe you better spell it out.”

  “Chemical restraint is just exactly that. You don’t have to put someone in a straitjacket to exert physical control over them—and when you use drugs to keep someone’s behavior in check, there’s an added benefit—you can exert control over not just their body, but their mind. There are plenty of medications designed to make a person docile.”

  “There ought to be a law against that.”

  “Believe me, there are plenty of them. But it’s tricky. A lot depends on the discretion of the doctor, and how the law is interpreted.”

  “That’s a hefty accusation. You sure he intended to use Laura’s medications to control her?”

  She wasn’t. “No, but, whether or not it was the intent, it was definitely the result. For example, here—” She laid a medication sheet in front of him. “Grady prescribed haloperidol, lorazepam, and phenobarbital—all at the same time.”

  Spense dragged a hand over his face, but he no longer looked sleepy. “I thought phenobarbital was used for seizures.”

  “It is.” She slapped down a progress note. “Says here he prescribed it for anxiety and as a sleep aid. That is a legitimate use of a barbiturate, but it causes central nervous system depression. Haloperidol is an antipsychotic but he’s using it for anxiety again, and lorazepam and diazepam. Every single one of these drugs induces sleep and docility. It’s a wonder Laura could hold her head up, much less understand what was happening to her.”

  “Webber did say the Chaucers wanted her to get a good night’s rest.”

  “I doubt they meant they wanted her sleepwalking through life. And this is just a slice of the picture. According to these records Laura was subjected to poly-pharmacy—”

  He held his hand up.

  “The use of multiple meds at once, for over a decade. And Spense, some of these medications can increase the risk of suicide. All of them used together . . .” She shuddered. “Looks like Laura Chaucer’s been walking around with a time bomb inside her.”

  “And Grady Webber has the nuclear codes.”

  Chapter 34

  Saturday, October 26

  8:00 A.M.

  Task force headquarters

  Highlands Hotel

  Denver, Colorado

  Spense stepped around an upended couch in what was left of the war room. The orange monstrosity listed precariously against the wall, and he stuck out his arm to hold it in place as Caity passed by. “Didn’t take long to dismantle this place,” he observed to a glum Hatcher.

  “All the extra furniture is going back to the rental center today. But at least the commander gave Cliff and me the suite until the end of next week—it’s paid up through then.”

  “And the rest of the team?” Caity asked.

  “Reassigned.”

  Their own fate, his and Caity’s, suddenly became an elephant swinging from the rented chandelier.

  “S’pose you’re wondering why I called you in first thing.”

  Spense had a pretty good idea. When they’d received Hatcher’s summons an hour ago, he figured Webber had already filed a complaint. “You gonna cuff me now or later?” He attempted a laugh, but if anything, it only made the doom and gloom in the room more oppressive.

  “Webber’s not going to press charges,” Hatcher said.

  A hopeful smile broke over Caity’s face, but judging by Hatcher’s sour expression, Spense knew the other shoe was about to drop. “So what did he want in exchange?”

  “You. Off the case.”

  “And you agreed?”

  “I said no problemo. Not like they haven’t already cut the guts out of the task force. I didn’t expect to get to keep you anyway.”

  “But Caity and I are on the FBI’s dime. Doesn’t cost your department a thing,” Spense said. He understood he couldn’t have any further dealings with Webber since it might taint any new evidence they got from him, but there was no reason to kick Spense to the curb altogether. He was surprised Hatcher hadn’t put up more of a fight. “I can work around this thing. Stay out of Webber’s way . . .”

  “He wants you gone. That’s part of the deal.”

  “What’s the rest of the deal?” Caity asked quietly. Her eyes, normally such a vivid blue against the jet black of her thick lashes now seemed almost gray. Last night, they’d been a softened color, too. Those eyes of hers were like a damn mood ring.

  Hatcher stared at a spot on the wall and said, “Caitlin. She’s gone, too.”

  “Like hell.” Spense slammed his fist into his palm. “Nobody’s going to pay for my stupidity but me.”

  “Not how it works. You and Caitlin are a package deal. If one of you gets a rose, the other does, too. And if one of you gets sent home . . .”

  “This isn’t a dating show.” Caity collapsed into one of the remaining chairs.

  “Then your boyfriend shouldn’t have acted like a jealous jackass.”

  “Jackass, I’ll give you,” Spense said. Though he was far from jealous of Grady Webber. Caity couldn’t stand the guy. “But Webber’s got to respect the boundaries Caity sets for him. I’m not going to stand by and let him get away with murder.”

  “Let’s hope you didn’t just.” Caity shrugged one shoulder.

  That was harsh.

  And coming from Caity, the nicest kid in the world, it just about killed him. He’d hoped the way they’d cooperated last night meant she’d forgiven him. But maybe that had been more for the sake of justice than for love.

  “Listen, Jordan. Keep Caity on. I’ll bow out completely. Officially. Unofficially. Every-icially.” He made a hands-off gesture. “I swear.”

  “Can’t do it. Webber was crystal clear about his terms.”

  “Who gives a flying fuck? Go ahead and charge me with assault. I earned my lumps and I can take them. There’s no reason for Caity to get the axe, too.”

  “It’s out of my hands. Commander’s officially blacklisted the both of you. The reason I called you in this morning was for one last meeting. I need you to turn over all your notes, fill me in on your working profile, etc.”

  “If you want our work product, then you have to keep us in the loop,” Caity said.

  “I’ve already told you, it’s not up to me.”

  “No.” She checked her nails. “I don’t mean that you would go against the commander’s orders. We would go off the books . . . but not off the loop. And don’t try to tell me you never had anyone off book before. Besides, there’s no one left around to tell tales anymore, right?”

  “Just Cliff.”

  “You trust Cliff,” she said. “It’s obvious. So what’ve you got to lose? Spense and I operating behind the scenes could be a good thing. It gives us more freedom to bend the rules.”

  Spense clapped the base of his palm to his ear. Did he just hear Caity suggest bending the rules? Maybe he’d set a better example for her than he’d realized. But he couldn’t let her make that sacrifice for him. “I don’t want you to risk your reputation because I screwed up, Caity.”

  “You screwed up, all right.”

  Yep. She was still pissed.

  “But I’d rather risk my career than let a predator go free.”

  Hatcher scratched the back of his neck, then motioned for them to sit. “You still think there’s a predator out there? You’re not buying Dr. Webber’s theory about Laura re-enacting the murder of Angelina Antonelli?”

  “The guy’s a quack at best.” Spense pulled up a chair next to Caity and across from Hatcher. “Last night, Caity went through a bunch of his notes and transcripts. We were hoping to find some minor professional mistakes Webber made that we could use to hold him at bay.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? Maybe it’s not too late to renegotiate.”

  Caity shook her heard. “We fo
und mistakes all right, but they weren’t minor. In good conscience, we can’t go to Grady and make a deal with what we found. There’s too much at stake. I wouldn’t want to tip our hand or promise to hush his conduct up either. Once all the puzzle pieces are in place in this criminal investigation, we’ll be ethically obligated to turn our findings over to the board of medical examiners.”

  “Why would Webber give us his files if he knows he did wrong?”

  “Because he’s arrogant. I’m sure he thinks, if challenged, he can explain away all the crap he pulled,” Spense said.

  “You gonna share that crap with me?”

  “Are you keeping us in the loop?” Caity asked.

  Look at her, playing hardball. Spense couldn’t help but puff out his chest.

  “How about you two get your asses down to Boulder, or wherever your family is, and lay low. I can’t exactly keep you on speed dial, but let’s just say I won’t delete your number from my contacts either.”

  “Good enough.” Caity took her time and thoroughly explained to Hatcher how Webber had been using Laura’s medications as a form of chemical restraint.

  “Shrinks!” Hatcher said, when Caity wrapped it all up. Then he cast a glance at his feet. “No offense, Caitlin.”

  “None taken. I’m well aware that although a good psychiatrist can be a godsend for someone in need, a bad one can do grave harm.”

  Hatcher raised his finger in the air. “You know what struck me wrong about Webber was how in that very first interview he kept dancing around the issue of whether or not he thought Laura was dangerous. One minute he was implying she killed her nanny because she had a lock of her hair in a sock, and the next he was saying the lock of hair was just a hallucination. Then he changed again and said maybe the hair in the sock was real . . .”

  “But went the way of all missing socks,” Caity finished Hatcher’s sentence for him.

  “With shrinks like that . . .”

  “No wonder Laura believed she might’ve killed her nanny,” Spense said. He scrunched his eyes up. “Caity, what’s that old Ingrid Bergman movie?”

  She sent Hatcher a look. “Spense gets a little distracted sometimes.”

  “No. No. No,” Spense said. “This isn’t that.” He pulled out his cube and solved it in a jiff. “See?”

  “Okay, sorry. But anyway, no, I don’t know that old Ingrid Bergman movie. Maybe if you clue the rest of us in on how you got from a lock of hair tied with ribbon and stuffed in a sock to a classic film it might jog my memory.”

  “It had Claude Rains in it, too.” That wasn’t right. “I mean Charles Boyer.”

  Hatcher clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “I hear you can solve the Times crossword in under two minutes. I seen you work that Rubik’s cube in nothing flat with your eyes closed. Some people think you’re some kind of a genius. But I gotta tell you, Spense, I’m not really feeling it.”

  “Gaslight!” Caity’s eyes lit up.

  And he was the one who put the shine back in them. “Yep. That’s the one.”

  “Of course.” She reached her hand toward him, but quickly drew it back. “Spense, you really are a genius.”

  “Still not feeling it.” Hatcher straightened in his chair.

  “Go ahead, Caity, you explain it.”

  “Well, I’m not sure where you were going, but I’m thinking about that disappearing lock of hair.”

  That’s exactly where he’d been going.

  Caity shifted her body toward Hatcher. “In Gaslight, Ingrid Bergman is a psychologically vulnerable young woman who’s been through a terrible trauma. She witnessed the murder of her beloved aunt. Charles Boyer plays her villainous husband who tries to make her question her own sanity.”

  Spense couldn’t contain himself. “Paula—that’s Ingrid Bergman—finds a letter signed with the killer’s name—it’s her husband, only now he’s using a different name.”

  “So the husband hides the letter, and tells his wife it never existed in the first place. Oh, my dear Paula, you imagined it. You must be losing your mind, my darling—I’m paraphrasing.”

  “And then he gives her a pill and sends her to bed, or something like that.” Spense spread his palms triumphantly.

  “Do you see, now?” Caity asked Hatcher.

  “You think somebody’s Gaslighting Laura?”

  “Locks of hair don’t just disappear. Maybe Laura did imagine them, but maybe . . . someone in her inner circle, maybe Webber, or someone else, put them in her drawer and then took them away again to keep her off-balance and make her question her own senses. Gaslighting is a real form of psychological abuse, and it doesn’t just happen in the movies. The medical term for it is introjection. When someone’s traumatized, and then kept isolated, it’s not uncommon for them to internalize their abuser’s version of world, and of themselves. Even if that version makes absolutely no sense.”

  “Like the idea Laura killed Angelina,” Hatcher said.

  Spense jumped in. “No reasonable person could possibly believe Laura Chaucer is responsible for the murder of her nanny. An eight-year-old child doesn’t have the resources to copy her nanny’s handwriting in a ransom note, convince the nanny to take her out into the wilderness, and then strangle and stab the nanny to death. But those stories of Laura standing over her sleeping mother with a knife, and the lock of hair she found in her drawer made Laura believe it was possible.”

  Caity grimaced. “And there have been a few unstable, obsessed bloggers over the years who’ve suggested Laura did it, too. As fragile as Laura’s psyche is, she needed someone to anchor her to reality in the face of those wild accusations.”

  “Too bad no one did,” Hatcher said. “Because while I don’t buy Laura having anything to do with her nanny’s death—Angelina was an accomplice who paid the price for associating with assholes. I do think maybe, now, Laura really has gone off the reservation.

  “She’s not eight years old anymore. Truella Underland told the two of you she got a text from her roommate saying that she was with Laura. And Laura called Webber to tell him Harriet had been murdered, and that she had a lock of Harriet’s hair to prove it. After all Laura Chaucer has been through, and as wacked-out as everyone claims she is, I have to say I think she might well have killed her friend, Harriet Beckerman. I don’t think either Angelina or Harriet were victims of a sexual opportunist. I’m sorry, but that theory is all wet.”

  “Jordo.” Cliff entered the room. “Sorry to interrupt, Roland Pritchard from SLY entertainment news just called. He wants to speak to either Agent Spenser or Dr. Cassidy.”

  “Oh, dear,” Caity said. “Please tell me Kourtney Kennedy’s not snooping around another one of our cases.”

  Hatcher blew a raspberry with his lips. “SLY. Isn’t that the gossip show that pays out small fortunes for dirt on celebs? And isn’t Kourtney Kennedy the hot chick who broke the news about the Fallen Angel Killer a few weeks ago?”

  “One and the same. What line is Pritchard on?” Spense asked.

  “He didn’t want to hold. He said you should turn to channel eight and watch Kourtney Kennedy’s report, then give him a ring and he’ll arrange to hand over the evidence.”

  “What evidence?” Hatcher powered on the TV. “Get him back on the damn line now!”

  Chapter 35

  Saturday, October 26

  8:30 A.M.

  Hostel Digs

  Denver, Colorado

  “This is Kourtney Kennedy bringing you breaking news from SLY entertainment.”

  Laura choked on the bite of cheese blintz she’d just taken and jerked her gaze to an image of long legs and red stilettos currently beaming from a television mounted in the corner of the breakfast lounge. The camera swept from the shapely legs up to some dramatic cleavage before zooming in on the face of a beautiful anchorwoman with a thousand-watt smile.

  Kourtney Kennedy.

  Though Laura wasn’t in the habit of watching the sleazy SLY celebrity news program, she knew ex
actly who this woman was. Last night Laura had fallen asleep—to terrible dreams—in front of her tablet, but this morning, before venturing cautiously into the communal area for a free continental breakfast, she’d done an internet search on Cassidy and Spenser. Online, she’d learned their backgrounds and about all their recent cases. Either her father, or the police, had brought in two top mind hunters. Agent Spenser, she now knew to be a profiler for the BAU, Dr. Cassidy a consulting psychiatrist—and Kourtney Kennedy? She was the Hollywood reporter who’d scooped one of their most recent adventures: the case of the Fallen Angel Killer.

  Laura gulped a sip of OJ to soothe her burning throat.

  “Yesterday, via a Denver press conference, the world learned the daughter of Colorado senator Whitmore Chaucer is missing.” Kourtney paused for effect. “Again.”

  Laura coughed violently. Droplets of juice spewed onto the napkin in her hand. She gasped, relieved to catch her breath. Her gaze darted around the room for the nearest exit.

  It was blocked by a couple of granola types, making kissy faces near the croissants. But at least the PDA was distracting the server replenishing the buffet table.

  Her breath loosened in her chest.

  Be cool, Laura.

  “It was thirteen years ago, almost to the day, that Ms. Chaucer was kidnapped from her home in Piney Trails, Colorado. A ransom was paid, and Laura, just eight years old at the time, was recovered alive.”

  A picture of Angelina popped onto the screen.

  “This young woman, Angelina Antonelli, was not so lucky. Police theorized the nanny was an accomplice to Laura Chaucer’s kidnapping, and was subsequently murdered by her cohort in crime. But was she really? The case remains famously unsolved. And as everybody knows, we here at SLY never met an unsolved case we didn’t like.”

  There was a smattering of canned applause.

  The more Laura’s heart raced, the more her thoughts did, too. The press conference had been held yesterday, and Angelina was definitely not breaking news.

  Something else must be up.