When She's Gone

by Palmer, Jane;

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Luke stared down the table at his team. The dining room table at the Boone house had been transformed into a temporary headquarters. Laptops, cell phones, papers, and photographs were scattered in organized chaos. His hands tightened on the leather chair he was standing behind as he asked, “What have we been able to glean from her other friends?”

  “Nothing we didn’t already know,” Thomas answered.

  “What about Sam’s phone?”

  “We’ve torn it apart, looked at everything from text messages to the websites she was visiting. We’ve got nothing.”

  “I want you to pull her records from the phone company. If she had something to hide, she probably would’ve deleted it before anyone could see it.”

  Thomas pointed to one of their analysts. “Get on that.”

  “No one noticed her being followed?” Luke shoved off the chair and paced around the room. “This doesn’t make any sense to me. She’s around people all day long: her family, her friends, drivers, bodyguards. Not one of them noticed someone following her, watching her.”

  Thomas shook his head. “We’ve interviewed everyone on the list. No one has noticed anything strange in the last few months.”

  “What about the patrons at the restaurant? The staff? Where are we on those interviews?”

  Vicki, a petite fireball of an agent, tilted her chair in his direction. “We’ve done two-thirds of the patrons and all the staff. Most of them remember seeing her that night, but no one saw the actual kidnapping. It’s a dead end.”

  She tapped her pen on the pad of paper in front of her. “We were able to use the traffic-light cameras and get a visual of the van. Stolen plates, traced back to an SUV in LaGuardia’s long-term parking.”

  No help.

  “The driver of the van appears to be a woman,” Vicki continued. “I’ve sent the image off to our labs to have it magnified and cleaned up. We should have it in a few hours.”

  “Call them and tell them I need it in thirty minutes. No excuses.” Luke blew out a breath. “If they give you any grief, tell them to take it to the director.”

  “What about the ransom note?” He turned his attention to a nearby agent, Jacob, who was eyeing him with a weary expression. The two of them had worked together for almost Luke’s entire career, and Jacob knew Luke didn’t take failure well.

  “No fingerprints on the note or on the necklace,” said Jacob, “other than Sam’s. Our handwriting expert confirmed the note was written by Sam.”

  “So we are able to confirm she was alive at the time the note was written.” Luke bounced on his feet. “The courier—”

  His thought was cut off by another young agent bursting into the room, her ponytail swinging. “Sir, you need to come with me right now. The kidnappers have called his cell phone. He’s talking with them right now.”

  Luke slipped into Oliver’s office soundlessly. The man was standing behind his desk, rigid, his face haggard and pale. To his right, another agent, the sound/audio master, was recording the conversation. His gaze met Luke’s briefly, serious concern and concentration etched across his features.

  The cell phone lay on the desk. It was on speaker, and from the first word, Luke immediately recognized that the kidnapper was using a voice-distortion device.

  “. . . didn’t follow our instructions.” Anger came through loud and clear, even though it sounded as if the man was underwater. “We know the FBI is with you.”

  Damn it. Luke ran a hand through his hair. They’d been careful. Extremely careful. How the hell did they know the FBI was involved?

  Was this an inside job? A family member? A member of the security team?

  Ara?

  “As punishment for disobeying our orders, the ransom amount is now thirty million dollars.” Oliver blinked, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

  Leaning over the desk, he bent closer to the phone. “I need more time to gather the money.”

  The kidnapper laughed. “No. You have forty-eight hours to get us the money, or the girl will die.” Luke’s jaw tightened as his temper rose. “I’ll call you again in forty-eight hours to arrange the exchange.”

  “Wait,” Oliver demanded. “Before I give you this money, I want assurances that Sam is alive and unharmed.”

  “She’s alive and unharmed,” the kidnapper repeated back to him, mockingly.

  “No.” Oliver’s voice hardened. “I want to speak to her myself. I want proof that she’s alive, or you won’t get a dime from me.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m telling you that nothing will happen until I know Sam is still alive.”

  “You’re trying my patience.”

  “Maybe.” Oliver narrowed his eyes. “But you’re the one who kidnapped my stepdaughter. The least you can do is give me some sign of good faith that Sam will be returned to her family unharmed.”

  The kidnapper was silent for a moment. “Stay next to your phone. I’ll contact you in a few minutes.”

  Then there was nothing but a dial tone.

  * * *

  Sam was freezing. Goose bumps trailed along her skin, and her teeth were chattering. They had taken her clothes, leaving her in nothing but her bra and underwear. Every time she moved, the zip ties around her hands cut into her skin, and the knot at the back of her blindfold dug into her skull. She didn’t know how long she’d been left alone, but by the growl of her stomach, it’d been a long time.

  The cold and the hunger were made worse by the silence. She couldn’t hear anything, no talking or footsteps. But she knew they were out there. Maksim, the one in charge, had promised to hurt her should she move one inch.

  After what they’d done a few hours ago, she believed him.

  How had she ended up here? Where had everything gone so wrong?

  He’ll pay it. He’ll pay the ransom.

  The mantra playing in her head was the only thing giving her any sense of hope, even as the tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered she wasn’t really Oliver’s child. There was a chance he wouldn’t pay, especially if he found out this was all her fault.

  The echo of her mother’s scream, the image of her frightened face flying down the hallway of the restaurant, brought a round of fresh tears to Sam’s eyes. She would give anything to feel the warmth of her mother’s arms, the brush of her lips across her forehead.

  A door creaked open, and Sam’s heart jackrabbited in her chest. Oh God, what was happening now? Instinct had her shrinking against the wall, desperate for a place to hide. Were they coming to finish off the job? Were they going to shoot her?

  Footsteps echoed and halted in front of her. The jangle of keys and the strong scent of aftershave. Someone grabbed her upper arms and pulled her into a standing position.

  She fought against him, trying to pull her arm out of his hand. She screamed against the duct tape stretched over her mouth.

  He smacked her across the face. The force of it knocked Sam’s head back against the wall. Stars played behind her blindfold, and her knees gave out.

  “I’m not going to kill you, so fucking stop it.” It was Sasha. She trembled, and his grip on her upper arm tightened. He pulled her forward. “Move it.”

  Her feet weren’t coordinated after so many hours sitting, and she stumbled. She struck her knee against the edge of something, and pain shot up her leg. Sasha was not sympathetic. He kept yanking until she was shoved into a chair.

  Cracked vinyl. It was slippery under her fingertips, and the seat of the chair listed to one side. The scent of cigarette smoke was strong. She gingerly reached out, and her fingers met something wooden. Probably a table.

  “Remove her blindfold,” Maskim ordered. When it was off, Sam blinked against the sudden assault of bright light. As the world came into focus, so did the man sitting across from her.

  Maskim’s black hair was combed back from his face. Up close, she could see that the small scar at the corner of his nose was the only i
mperfection in his skin. He’d removed his jacket and tie. Now in all black, he was dressed like death, the button-down shirt open at the collar, revealing the curve of his throat and a touch of his collarbone.

  Maksim calmly took a drag on his cigarette. The smell of the smoke was making Sam nauseous, and bile burned the back of her throat.

  “I’ll remove the tape over your mouth, but you have to promise not to scream.” Maksim picked up a pair of pliers resting on the table. “If you so much as make a whimper, I will be forced to pull out one of your teeth.”

  He took another drag on his cigarette. “Nod once if you understand my terms.”

  She gave a quick shake of her head in agreement. Maksim waved the pliers toward Sasha, who ripped the tape off with such force, it felt like half of Sam’s face went with it. She swallowed down the sharp cry bubbling in her throat, her eyes locked on the pliers still in Maksim’s hand.

  “Now.” He crushed the cigarette into an ashtray and leaned back in his chair. “You are going to do something for me. And you are going to do this because you don’t want me to kill you, right?”

  She met his questioning gaze and gave a silent nod.

  “Good. We’re going to make a phone call to your stepfather.”

  Sam’s heart raced.

  “You are going to tell him that you are unhurt.” Maksim waved the pliers. “If you do this, then he will pay us, and you will get to go home. Understand?”

  She nodded again. They were going to put her on the phone. This might be her only chance to get a message across, to help her family understand what was going on.

  What could she say?

  She closed her eyes and breathed in deep. She cleared her mind of everything. The pain and terror. The feeling of the hard chair underneath her. The smell of the cigarettes. She focused solely on finding a message.

  The idea flittered through her mind, and Sam’s hands shook. It might work. She opened her eyes as Maksim finished dialing the cell phone.

  “I have her.” With that brief introduction, he shoved the phone under her mouth.

  “Hello? Sam?” Oliver’s voice came through the loudspeaker, and sudden, unexplainable tears flooded her vision.

  “I’m not hurt,” she managed to choke out. Before Maksim could jerk the phone away she said quickly, “Ara, I miss you.”

  Sasha pulled on a chunk of her hair, twisting it painfully, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “You have your proof,” Maksim said into the phone. “The clock is ticking. I’ll call again in forty-eight hours.”

  He hung up and glared at Sam. “What the hell was that?”

  “She’s my friend.” Her voice trembled. “If I never get to see her again, I wanted her to know I miss her.”

  His eyes narrowed. Whatever he saw in her face must have convinced him because he said, “Take her back to the room.”

  Sasha replaced her blindfold and the duct tape before manhandling her back into the other room. Without another word, he dumped her on the floor and left her in the dark.

  The sound of the door shutting was all the trigger Sam needed. She let loose, her body racked with sobs, the tears wetting the blindfold. The duct tape across her mouth muffled the sounds, but also made it more difficult to breathe. She forced herself to stop crying, but she couldn’t stop the fear from staying lodged in her throat.

  That phone call was probably the only chance she had to get a message to her family about how to save her. She had no illusions that she was going to get out of this alive, even if Oliver paid the money. Maksim and Sasha were going to kill her. She’d seen it in their eyes, as clearly as if it had already happened.

  With her message, she’d placed all her hope in one woman.

  Please, please, Ara. Figure it out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Giving a presentation after so many years in the FBI should’ve been a piece of cake, but Luke felt the weight of this case coming down on him. The tension in his neck and shoulders was giving him a massive headache.

  He had very little information, almost no leads. He was failing, and judging from the frown stretched across FBI Director Robert Johnson’s face, his boss was thinking exactly the same thing.

  He said nothing for a long moment but then finally waved at the chair across from him. “Sit down, Patrick.”

  “I prefer to stand.”

  “Sit. Down. I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

  Luke hesitated but then sat, his back ramrod straight.

  Johnson leaned back in his chair. “I’ve listened to the phone call between Oliver and Sam. What do you make of the last thing Sam said? The part about missing Ara.”

  “I don’t know. Is it a message of some kind? Or is it a real sentiment? Ara was her bodyguard. And I have a feeling she knows more about Sam’s life than she lets on. It could be nothing.”

  “Or it could be something.”

  Luke nodded. “Or it could be something. I’ve been thinking about what it could mean, if it is a message, but I’m coming up empty.”

  “Have you played it for Ara?” Johnson asked.

  The thought had occurred to him almost immediately, but Luke had rejected it. “No. I don’t think it’s a good idea. The message could be a way for the kidnappers to communicate with Ara, to send her instructions of some kind.”

  “Have you come up with any direct evidence to show she’s a part of the kidnapping plan?”

  “No. We’ve been able to clear Grant from the suspect list, so her attacking him, while troublesome, didn’t put the case in jeopardy.”

  “What do you make of the fact that she left Sam alone at the restaurant?”

  “Negligent. But she has a reasonable explanation that’s backed by Sam’s mother. Plus she tried to follow the van in an attempt to get Sam back.” Luke could hear the words as they left his mouth, and he knew where the director was going.

  “I understand how it sounds,” Luke acknowledged. “But Ara has a questionable history that makes me wonder about her real intentions. And sir, I believe she knows more than what she’s saying.”

  “She probably does. Which is what you’re going to find out when you interrogate her.” Johnson’s deeply lined face wobbled with every word, the folds of his chin disappearing into his tightly buttoned shirt. “There’s no other way to decipher the message. Let Ara hear it, see if it means anything to her.”

  “So you don’t believe she’s a viable suspect?”

  “I think the risk is low and worth taking,” Johnson answered. “Find out what you need to know to appease your conscience and ensure she isn’t in league with the kidnappers, but then use her.”

  “It will take time. Time that I won’t have to work on other leads.”

  “That’s why you have a team,” Johnson replied. “Assign them to do other things while you’re figuring out what in the hell Sam is trying to say. This message she gave us might be the lead we need to crack the case.”

  “I know.” Luke ran a hand through his hair. “It’s part of what makes it so damn frustrating. I just wish there was some other way to figure it out without using Ara.”

  Johnson’s beady eyes locked on Luke. “You’re a damn fine FBI agent. Nearly as good as your father.”

  Luke’s jaw tightened at the supposed compliment. It felt more like a backhanded slap.

  “Nearly as good” seemed to be his legacy. At first, he’d been proud to follow in his father’s footsteps. Dan Patrick had been a career FBI agent, solving more cases than anyone else, his quick mind and fast trigger finger the stuff of legend. Many of the old timers, like Johnson, had served for decades with him. Now, so many years into his own career, it felt like Luke would never get out from behind his father’s shadow.

  “You Patricks tend to be stubborn and independent,” Johnson continued. “It normally serves you well, but it can get in the way. It’s my job to tell you when that happens.”

  “And you think I’m being unnecessarily cautious?”
<
br />   “I think time is running out and you can’t be as thorough as you’d like. Our backs are against the wall here.” He sighed. “I agree that Ara’s actions with Grant were reckless, and you’re right to be cautious, given what we’ve learned about her past. But I don’t see any way around it. And at this point, we need to use any lead we’ve got. Including Ara.”

  Luke blew out a breath. “I don’t like it, but I agree it’s our best course of action. I’ll play Ara the message.”

  Johnson gave him a nod. “Find Sam. Bring her home. And then catch the bastards. You do that and you’ll have written your own legacy.”

  * * *

  Ara paced the tiny interrogation room. Her bruised knuckles ached, and her stomach was still sore from Grant punching her. Yet none of her physical pains compared to the emotional and mental agony she was trapped in.

  Had they found Sam? Had Oliver agreed to pay the ransom?

  She wanted to bang on the door, punch the walls, do something to expel the frustration boiling inside. It wouldn’t help. Only finding Sam would ease the heavy weight of guilt she carried.

  Damn Luke Patrick. Damn him to hell. If Sam died because he’d refused her help, it would be on him.

  As if called by her thoughts, the door opened and Luke himself strolled through. His gaze flicked over her, taking in her wrinkled clothes and messy hair.

  Rather than be embarrassed, she gave him the same appraisal. Ara’s lips tightened. Why the hell did he look so good? Black suit and white, crisp shirt, freshly shaven face.

  He’d obviously taken time to shower and change his clothes. All while Sam was at the mercy of men doing God-knows-what to her.

  Bastard.

  Heat rose in her cheeks, and her fists clenched. He caught the movement and arched his eyebrows.

  “Are you going to hit me, too? Or do you only use teenage boys for boxing practice?”

  She didn’t answer him. He moved into the room, closing the door behind him, and set a bag down on the table. He pulled out a sandwich, Coke, and some chips.

  “You should eat something.” He gestured to the chair closest to her.