by Greg Enslen
“Meredith’s the psychic?” King asked, and both Nick and Glenda nodded. “We’ll show her every courtesy,” King said, “but we can’t let it distract from the case.”
Graves and Shale shot the Chief a funny look.
“Nick, work with Agent Shale, get the money ready.” King continued. “Graves, come up with a duty roster and get eyes on that field tonight. I want surveillance through Saturday morning.”
The others filed out, but Frank hung back. When he was alone with King, he leaned in.
“This doesn’t feel right.”
King nodded. “I agree.”
31
Frank Harper sat in a booth at the restaurant, waiting, his head pounding. He had never wanted a drink so badly in his life.
He was someplace called The Drunken Noodle, near the highway. Across the expanse of concrete, on the other side of the highway, he could see the sign for his hotel.
The town was small enough. He was starting to get a feel for where most of the landmarks were located. And, as he’d crossed the parking lot and entered the Asian restaurant, he started to understand why so many people preferred to live in small towns, much like the town he’d grown up in outside of Baton Rouge. Small towns were just more comfortable. This place was nice, except that everyone in town seemed on edge. Or maybe it was just because he wasn’t from around here and not a familiar face.
He stared at the frosty glass of water in front of him, wishing it was a beer or a shot of anything. Instead, he picked it up and took a long, slow sip. He needed to be steady. Frank was waiting on Laura, who had agreed to meet him for a quick lunch and suggested this place.
Shaking his head, he tried to think about the case. Thinking about beer or bourbon would only lead to another backslide. And he didn’t need that, or another dressing down by the Chief, especially after the man had brought him in on the case.
The case. It had absorbed every waking minute of his last 48 hours, ever since he’d been standing in the rain with Chief King and nodded. Now, he was starting to wonder if that had been a good idea.
Going through all the case files over and over hadn’t really helped, but it had steeped him in the facts and figures and people of the community. Looking around the busy restaurant, he wondered idly if any of those case files represented people he was looking at. But things were just not adding up. He’d worked enough cases to know when he was making progress and when he was just spinning his wheels. Usually, he had a running tally of suspects and leads in his head to work on at any one time—but with this case, everything checked out. The whole thing was too neat.
And this second ransom call didn’t make any sense. It was like getting blood from a stone, unless the kidnappers thought the Martins were swimming in cash.
Or the kidnappers knew something that Frank didn’t.
Frank heard her voice and looked up as she came in. Laura was carrying a little boy—Jackson.
Frank stood and smiled.
“You been waiting long?” she asked, walking over to the table and setting down a large purse. He couldn’t take his eyes off Jackson, who squirmed in his mother’s arms. He looked so much like her when she had been a toddler, but the shock of hair was not from the Harper side of the family.
“Dad?” she said, and he glanced at her as they sat down. “You been here long?” she asked again, smiling.
“What?” he asked, looking back at Jackson. “Oh, no, just got here,” he said, pointing at the water.
Laura slid into the seat and let Jackson go. The little boy turned around and sat at the table expectantly, like someone was going to pass him a scotch and soda.
Frank smiled.
“He looks big, bigger than I thought he’d be.”
She smiled and tousled Jackson’s hair.
“Yeah, he’s getting heavy,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “You’re gonna have to walk more, monkey!” she said to the boy, who was looking across the table at Frank.
Frank smiled. “Hi, Jackson.”
The boy looked a little wary. He glanced up at his mom for direction. Frank remembered when Laura used to do that, glancing at him or Trudy for guidance. She would always do that when something funny happened to see if it was okay to laugh.
Laura nodded. “It’s okay, Jackson,” Laura said. “This is who I was telling you about. This is my Dad, and your granddad. His name is Frank.”
Jackson looked back at Frank and, after a moment to think about it, nodded as well.
“Hi.”
“Hi, Jackson,” Frank said, smiling. “I’m Frank. Do you like to be called Jackson, or do you prefer ‘monkey’?”
“I like ‘Jackson,’” the little boy said brightly. “Monkey sounds funny to me. But Katie calls me ‘monkey’ sometimes. Katie’s my friend at school,” Jackson said matter-of-factly.
“Great, that’s great,” Frank said. “I like Jackson,” he said. Frank turned and picked up the item on the seat next to him and slid it across the table. It was a small box, wrapped in green striped paper. The woman at the toy store had done it for Frank, or the wrapping job would have looked a lot rougher around the edges.
“I got you something.”
Laura smiled in a way that Frank had not seen before. It made Frank suddenly understand that he was doing the right thing, being here in Cooper’s Mill, trying to make that connection again, or any connection. Maybe it wasn’t the old connection they’d had before, but something completely new. Her eyes teared up a little, and Frank looked away, staring at the present, as Jackson pawed the paper off.
Inside was a package of plastic dinosaurs.
“Awesome!”
Frank smiled—he was smiling a lot more than he was used to.
“I wasn’t sure what to get you, but I figured you liked dinosaurs,” Frank said. “Everyone likes dinosaurs, right?”
Jackson nodded, smiling at the package.
“What do you say?” Laura asked the boy, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a cloth napkin.
Jackson looked away from the dinosaurs and up at Frank.
“Thank you,” he said in a sing-songy, genuine way, and then tore into the packaging, using his fork to pry at the plastic. In moments, Jackson had liberated the dinosaurs, and they were growling at each other and teaming up to attack the grouping of condiments situated in the center of the table.
“Thank you,” Laura said to Frank, who was enjoying watching the dinosaurs gang up on a helpless bottle of soy sauce.
“It was no big deal,” Frank said. “I just went by the toy store downtown…”
“It is a big deal,” she said, interrupting him. “For me, and for him,” she said, nodding at the boy.
Frank nodded, and picked up the menu.
“So, what’s good?”
Laura made a couple of recommendations and helped Jackson pick out something from the Kid’s Menu. Frank needed something light—his stomach was doing flips after being cut off so abruptly from Frank’s dietary staple, alcohol.
When the waiter came around, Frank let Laura go first, and he suddenly realized how pleasant it was, just sitting here with her and Jackson and listening to her order. It was no big deal, and, at the same time, a huge deal.
After their food was ordered, he and Laura chatted for a few minutes about his hotel and what he thought of Cooper’s Mill. Then the conversation turned to the case.
“Oh, it’s coming along,” he said, setting down his water. “I’m reviewing the case, up to this point, and trying to find anything they might have missed.” Frank hesitated, not wanting to get into the details. He didn’t need her worrying about him. And even though Jackson was busy playing with the toys, Frank didn’t want to scare him.
That was how the trouble had started with her mother—first, Trudy had been worried about him in the job, and then, after Katrina, when he was in a very dark place, she had worried about him. And what he might do to himself.
“Good,” Laura said. “They could use you, I’ll bet. They’re ju
st a small-town police department. They are amazing at what they do, but I think kidnapping is a little bit out of their comfort zone. I doubt if anyone over there has actually investigated one before.”
“No, they’re good guys,” Frank said. “One of them went to Quantico for basic FBI training, including kidnappings, hostage taking and negotiation. Plus, we have an agent up from Cincinnati, and he’s well-versed in all the techniques.”
Frank didn’t elaborate. His daughter didn’t need to know the guy was an idiot.
They watched Jackson play for a few minutes, chatting about other things unrelated to the case. It was nice to talk about, and think about, other things. Frank had been so immersed in the case for two full days, the conversation was a welcome respite.
And, as they talked more and more, and slowly seemed to become more comfortable around each other, Frank wondered at the future of their relationship, him and his daughter. He liked this—just sitting here, together, talking. They were talking about their lives, what things were like at her salon, how Jackson was doing in school. She cracked a couple of jokes, and they laughed together. He made a wry comment about something she had done when she was young, and for a moment worried that he had gone too far too fast, but she laughed heartily, a laugh he hadn’t heard in probably ten years.
This was what life should be about, these types of moments. Not dusty fields or flooded hospitals, or obsessing about things that had already happened and could not be changed. Not running from one case to the next, worrying about completion percentages and bosses that didn’t understand that, sometimes, the case simply could not be solved.
No, Frank liked this feeling a lot. It was like he was needed.
He didn’t want to push it and upset the apple cart. When the food came, they made small talk that was, at the same time, completely pointless and heartwarmingly precious.
An hour later, Frank still didn’t want lunch to end. They had covered a far range of topics, everything from his apartment in Birmingham to her warm feelings about Jackson’s school and the staff. But the lunch had to end. Laura needed to get Jackson to school, and Frank needed to get back to the case.
Frank paid, something he was happy to be able to do. The money fronted by Chief King was really coming in handy. Being able to pay for their lunch, and being casual about it, made Frank feel an almost overwhelming sense of pride.
Frank carried her bag out as they left the restaurant and walked to her car, a small red Honda that looked like it had seen better days. Like father, like daughter, he thought, glancing over at the Taurus. She opened the car, and Frank buckled Jackson into his seat, giving him a quick peck on the forehead.
Frank smiled and went around the front of the car and, before she said goodbye and climbed into her car, Laura surprised him with a heartfelt hug, long and pleasant. She smelled vaguely of shampoo and perfume, some scent akin to tangerines. And even as he waved, as she drove away, Frank could still detect the scent in the autumn air.
32
Thursday evening, two cars sat in the dark and expansive grocery store parking lot. The pavement around the cars was shiny. Behind them, the Cooper’s Mill Burger King stood next to Main Street.
The rain that had been coming down off and on for three days had let up momentarily. Only a light mist hung in the air over the two cars, which had been positioned so the driver’s windows faced each other.
Tyler, the man sitting in the police cruiser, spoke first.
“You sure about this?” he asked.
“Yes,” the other man said, his face hidden in the shadows. “I’m sure.”
The two drivers spoke quietly, occasionally glancing around to make sure they were not being watched.
The man reached over and passed Tyler the green duffel bag, passing it between the open windows. “There’s your money, plus whatever you get from the second ransom on Saturday. Bad idea, by the way.”
Tyler nodded, taking the money. The bag was heavier than he expected. He put the money in the floorboard.
“Thanks,” Tyler said. “My people are getting itchy. But I don’t think it’s a bad idea—gotta keep Chief King and the others distracted. And this will all be wrapped up by Saturday night or Sunday. And then it will be ‘Buona Sera,’ as my mom used to sing.”
The other guy nodded.
“What are you doing about the girls? I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” the man said. “You promised me.”
“I know,” Tyler said, nodding. “Everything’s going to be fine. But that’s one reason I asked for the second ransom—I need more cash to cover the extra expenses. The little girls have spent time with my contacts and know what they look like. So my people need to leave the area—and I’m leaving, too. After this, my contacts and I are going away for a long time.”
“I just wish you had told me about it first,” the other man said, shaking his head. “I didn’t like hearing about it on the news.”
“Had to be done,” Tyler added. “Besides, Nick Martin and his pretty wife are good for it.”
“What about that new cop?”
“He’s no idiot,” Tyler said, glancing around. “He’s retired PD. Digging into the case, talking to everyone again. Re-interviewing the Martins, going over the evidence.”
The other man shook his head.
“I don’t like it. Do we have to get the second ransom? Why can’t we just wrap this up now?”
Tyler looked at the man. “Hey, you got your money, right? So, I’m just supposed to go away and never bother you again? And my contacts are just supposed to disappear?”
The other man shook his head. “No, but there’s a lot of money in that bag, more than enough—”
“It’s not enough,” Tyler said. “Not by a long shot. So drop it about the second ransom. I’ll handle it, and then we’ll wrap things up. Girls go back to their families, you and I part ways, everyone’s happy.”
The man nodded slowly.
“That would be fine, except for this new guy. What was that he said at the press conference about identifying the kidnappers? That can’t be true, is it?”
Tyler shook his head, but waited a moment before speaking. He loved that look on people’s faces when he had information that they wanted, and he held it back.
“He’s just fishing,” Tyler said. “Looking to stir things up. Getting the press involved was his idea, too—before, Chief King was holding them off.”
The other man shrugged. “I don’t like the attention. Will he find anything?”
“Don’t worry about them,” Tyler said curtly. “Things are moving along. And then ‘There’ll be no next time,’” he said, singing the Louis Prima tune. The song sounded odd and out of place in the dark, but he didn’t care. “But this is it. No more meetings, unless you’ve got more money for me.”
The police radio squawked loudly, announcing an EMT run in progress in Cooper’s Mill. Tyler reached over and silenced the radio.
The other man was quiet for a moment, and then nodded slowly. “OK, no more meetings. What are you going to do with the girls?”
Tyler shook his head.
“Beep boop—like I always say, it’s taken care of. I said don’t worry about it, just like I said don’t worry about that money from the second ransom. I’ll take care of it.”
“Good,” the other man said sharply. “Good luck with the money.”
Tyler nodded.
“Nothing to worry about,” Tyler said.
33
It was late on Thursday evening, and Frank was back in his hotel room.
He had spent most of the day at the police station, watching the videotaped interviews with the principals in the case. He’d also talked to each of the police officers and investigators in turn, even holding a short and snippy conversation with Deputy Stan Garber, nursing his broken arm. Frank let each one talk, asking questions and trying to find any information that might have been gathered by the cops but had failed to make it into the written reports.
He
was trying to stay busy. Every time he slowed down, even for a moment, his hands started to shake and he started thinking about a bourbon on the rocks. Or five.
A solid two hours of the day, after lunch, had been taken up with a long meeting with Agent Shale, going over the finances for Martin Construction again. Frank had been through the financial reports on Wednesday, back at the coffee shop, but this time, he and Shale went through each and every Martin Construction investment—and there were many—and determined who might gain from bankrupting the company. Between both ransoms, Martin was back on his heels.
Nick Martin and his company had had their fingers in a lot of pies. Frank had heard that saying from Ben Stone, and it had stuck. And Ben and he had investigated enough cases together to know that somehow, it all fit together, if you did the work. More times than he could count, Frank and other investigators had broken a case wide open by finding a seemingly-pointless gas station receipt or other scrap of information. In one case, the identification of the kidnappers had turned on the mention of a limited financial partnership in an obscure legal document, a document that had been sitting in the case file since the day the investigation started.
Frank and Agent Shale had gone through all the construction projects, finished and unfinished, and made a list of all of the “partners,” or people, that could benefit. It tied into Frank’s newest theory: that, somehow, the entire kidnapping was really a way to put financial pressure on the Martin’s and Martin Construction.
Soon they had a nice short list of business partners and other businesses to look into, and Frank had tasked Shale with running down reports again on all of those people. They’d run credit checks/histories on all of them before, but Frank wanted more information, anything the FBI could dig up. All the other files were stacked up on the table next to the hotel room window, ready to be referenced again, if needed.
But first, he was sketching out the connections, as he remembered them. He was drawing a “map” of the members of the community and how they were connected. He was making visual notes on several sheets of paper, drawing circles with names in them and connecting them to other circles with names in them.
