The Kill List

by Nichole Christoff

  “Where do you suppose she was headed?” he asked me.

  If she had any sense, she’d make tracks to the nearest divorce court. But I kept that opinion to myself. “What do you suppose spooked her?”

  “She didn’t seem too happy to see you.”

  Barrett had a point. I couldn’t chalk up her fright to finding me skulking in the carport, though. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen me in the middle of the night, prowling around her house and promising to bring her child home.

  No, whatever bothered her was bigger than me.

  The last of her footsteps faded on the stairs. But the house didn’t fall silent. I picked up voices. Male voices. One of them was Tim’s. I pressed through the house. Barrett stuck to me like a sand burr.

  Evidence of the FBI’s investigation was everywhere. A stack of takeout menus lay on a chrome occasional table, their edges too perfectly aligned. At the foot of the staircase, shopping bags stood at rapt attention. Kev’s team had gone through these things and more. They’d had to. Because, as disturbing as it sounded, Brooke’s abductor could’ve set his sights on her while delivering pizza or selling her mother a pair of shoes.

  Just past the living room, a wedge of yellow light tumbled from Tim’s study. I nudged the door open wide to find my old friend and chaplain, Pearce, seated on one of Tim’s Modern side chairs. He’d clearly been home at some point in the day. While he looked tired, he’d showered and changed into civilian wear of fresh chinos and a polo shirt. I wished I could’ve said the same for myself.

  Tim sat behind his horrid glass slab of a desk, poring over papers spread like a casino dealer’s deck of cards. After all, post commanders rarely got a day off—even if they had problems at home. He wore civvies, too, but his clothes looked like they’d been snagged from the laundry hamper.

  “Excuse me.”

  Barrett and I turned.

  In the starched pale-green dress shirt and pressed black trousers of the army’s Class A uniform, the young man standing beneath the arch to the living room was as crisp as a newly minted coin. On each of his shoulders, single brass bars glittered as bright as bullet casings. Soldiers call these butter bars. And they marked him as a second lieutenant. That meant he was the newest of army officers, probably fresh out of college, and far down the food chain from lieutenant colonels like Barrett and colonels like Tim.

  He said, “You must be Ms. Sinclair. I’m Derrick Larkin, Colonel Thorp’s executive officer. The Colonel’s expecting you.”

  Not bad, I thought. Derrick had managed to work Tim’s elevated rank into two of the three sentences he’d uttered. Tim would love that.

  Under one arm, Derrick gripped a fat, fake-leather portfolio the way a Heisman Trophy winner grips a football. He shifted it to the other so he could tap on the study’s doorjamb. “Ms. Sinclair and Lieutenant Colonel Barrett to see you, sir.”

  “Jamie?” Tim rose to his feet. “Have you found my daughter? Where is she?”

  “We didn’t find her.”

  Tim dropped into his desk chair, ran a shaking hand across his mouth.

  Pearce cleared his throat. The reflection off his heavy lenses obscured his eyes as he tilted his head toward me. “Do you think she’s—”

  Dead?

  Even as a chaplain, Pearce couldn’t say the word.

  Barrett said, “Sir, do you know a man named Foley?”

  Tim turned to his executive officer. Derrick flipped open his fat portfolio, produced some sort of list. When he got to the end of it, he shook his head ever so slightly.

  “No,” Tim said, picking up where Derrick left off. “The name’s not familiar. Should I recognize it?”

  “Foley works maintenance for Franklin Contracting,” I told him. “He worked on your street last week. Have you had any work done on the house in the last few months?”

  “Does he have something to do with Brooke’s disappearance?”

  “It doesn’t look like it.”

  Now was not the time to tell him a convicted pedophile had identified his wife and child at twenty paces.

  But Tim guessed the truth. “He’s a child molester, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  Tim shot to his feet, paced to the window overlooking the backyard. Outside, the exterior lights cast a harsh glare that stripped the early evening shadows from every blade of grass in the lawn. The light couldn’t touch the woods, though, where Brooke’s kidnapper had taken her.

  “Where is this bastard now?”

  “He’s in my custody, sir,” Barrett replied. “Tomorrow, I turn him over to the FBI.”

  Tim didn’t acknowledge Barrett’s report.

  Derrick, however, scribbled in the portfolio.

  I said, “Even if you don’t remember Foley by name, he surely knows you. Have you noticed a tall, stringy guy hanging around the house? Maybe he offered to do odd jobs for cash.”

  “No.”

  But I wasn’t willing to give up on Foley so easily. Or to give up on Brooke. Thinking of Foley’s ratty T-shirt, the stacks of cash in Tim’s safe, and the bullet damage to his car, I said, “Has anyone demanded money since your daughter was taken?”

  “Like a ransom?” Tim frowned. “No.”

  “Maybe no one called it ransom. Maybe someone called it a loan. And maybe they took some potshots at you when you wouldn’t come across.”

  Derrick froze. Pearce fidgeted. Barrett leveled his expressionless cop’s stare at me.

  And Tim sank leglessly into his seat.

  He said, “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Then I’ll tell you. Someone shot at you. And someone has taken your daughter. For the sake of one, don’t you think you’d better start talking about the other?”

  “Jamie,” Pearce scolded, “that sounds like an accusation. She doesn’t mean it, Tim. Not like that.”

  But Tim knew exactly what I meant. My ex-husband raked nervous fingers through the white forelock of his black hair. “Do you have proof someone shot at me?”

  I didn’t. The strafing on the front of his car meant the projectile had passed by. It hadn’t gotten embedded in the fiberglass or trim. I couldn’t produce the bullet. I couldn’t hold it up for all to see.

  “Well?” Tim persisted. He wanted to make me say it. So I did.

  “No. I don’t have proof.”

  Tim blew out the breath he’d been holding. “Trust me, Jamie. If there was a connection between my baby’s kidnapping and someone shooting at me, I’d shout it from the rooftops, if that would bring her home.”

  Unless he didn’t see the connection. Or he wanted to hide it. I didn’t give voice to either of those options, though.

  Instead, I said, “I’m glad to hear it.”

  But Tim had already turned his attention to the papers on his desk. As if that were some sort of signal, Derrick tucked his fat, black portfolio under his arm. He herded me and Barrett toward the study door.

  On the threshold, I paused. “Thanks for your help, Tim. I know exactly what I need to do next.”

  “What’s that?” my ex-husband asked.

  He flicked a quick look at Pearce. Pearce shook his head in reply. Derrick didn’t speak. He didn’t even move. And at my shoulder, Barrett went very still.

  “All I’ve got to do is retrace your steps,” I told Tim. “When I do, I’m sure I’ll learn everything I need to know.”

  Chapter 8

  My subtle threat didn’t wring a confession out of Tim, but then I hardly could’ve expected it to. He’d spent a lifetime perfecting the art of lying. Being honest nowadays took effort.

  But why he wouldn’t make that effort when his daughter’s life was at stake was beyond me.

  Still, I was certain of one thing. The gouge in Tim’s front fender had definitely come from a bullet. And, as I blew from Tim’s house and made a beeline for Barrett’s cruiser, that made me certain of something else.

  “Tim lied,” I said.

  Barrett caught up with me halfway down th
e drive. “You think?”

  “He lied and his daughter will die, and he doesn’t give a damn as long as he gets to keep his secrets.”

  “We won’t let her die.”

  “But the son of a bitch lied!”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

  Barrett’s tone brought me up short. Apparently, sometime in the twelve hours between his questioning me at the post’s gate early this morning and our dropping in on Tim today, Barrett had looked into the history I shared with Tim. And he’d chosen this moment to let me know it.

  Really, I didn’t care if Barrett checked out my professional track record. As for my personal details, Barrett would’ve found bupkis. I’d worked very hard to keep my home address, my home phone number, and my real estate holdings hidden. But my divorce proceedings? That was another matter. That entry in the public record ran like a soap opera. And I didn’t like that Barrett had gone to the trouble of looking up those details.

  I didn’t bother to keep my feelings off my face.

  Barrett got the message instantly.

  “What did you expect?” he asked. “You thought I wouldn’t make some calls about a PI who showed up on my patch, in the middle of the night, during a missing child investigation?”

  “Technically,” I informed him, “Fort Leeds isn’t your patch right now. It belongs to the FBI.”

  “Oh, it’s still my patch. Your buddy Kev is just holding my place for me.”

  With that, Barrett ushered me into his car like the doorman at the Ritz.

  I flicked a last look at the house where I’d lived for four years with my exacting father, pissed as hell it was now occupied by my worthless ex. His new wife watched my departure from a second-story window. Derrick stood at the top of the drive as if he wanted to be sure I’d go. From the shadow of the entranceway, light sheeted across Pearce’s glasses while he watched me leave. The effect obscured his eyes and hid any judgment he’d formed about my baiting Tim—just when I could’ve used his vote of approval.

  When Tim’s house was a dot in the rearview mirror, Barrett said, “Does your buddy Kev know you were married to Colonel Thorp?”

  “First of all, Kev’s not my buddy. Secondly, it doesn’t matter. I’m not in this because of Tim.”

  And I wasn’t. I was in this for the sake of a stolen little girl. It was the truth whether or not Barrett believed it.

  He said, “What makes you think Thorp’s lying?”

  “Besides ancient history? There’s an oblong dent in his pretty little Beemer. I bet the technicians working with our buddy Kev would tell us it’s ricochet.”

  “A person would have to be a pretty bad shot to miss a target the size of a BMW, even if it was moving.”

  “Maybe the shooter didn’t want to kill Tim. Maybe he just wanted to scare him. Maybe it didn’t work, so the shooter took Brooke.”

  “Maybe and probably are pretty far apart,” Barrett remarked.

  He turned into the back lot of the Military Police building. A high fence crowned with razor wire ringed the asphalt. Not that that mattered just then. There were no off-duty cruisers in the parking slots to secure this evening. Chances were Barrett had every car on patrol right now.

  My XJ8 waited inside the fence. Its body, a slick Jaguar Racing Green, gleamed in the waning light. Barrett pulled into the space beside it.

  I said, “Foley was nothing but a dead end, and there’s been no ransom demand. That means the bullet damage to Tim’s car is the best lead we’ve got.”

  “No, that means we review the evidence we’ve gathered so far. That’s the first rule when an investigation hits a dead end. And I suspect you know it.”

  I shook my head. I hated all Barrett’s talk about rules. He sounded just like Kev.

  “I know,” Barrett said, “you’re here after a stalker attacked you in a car in Philadelphia. I know you’re tired. You’re probably hungry and you’re obviously angry. I’m going to review what we’ve got and I’m going to shake up our buddy Kev if I have to. I’m also going to bar you from my post for the next twelve hours.”

  “Twelve hours! Brooke could be dead by then!”

  “Not if I can help it. Look, I’m willing to book you into the VOQ—”

  I frowned; I had no desire to sit in a room in the visiting officers’ quarters, twiddling my thumbs.

  “—or there are half a dozen motels between the Pershing Gate and the highway. You can book yourself into one.”

  “Is that why you became a military policeman, Barrett? So you could tell other people what to do?”

  Barrett cut the engine with a quick snick of the key. “No, I became an MP because someone killed my dad in a hit-and-run accident on an army post and got away with it.”

  And for one long moment, only the crickets among the pines dared to speak.

  “Barrett,” I breathed, “I apologize.”

  “It’s all right. You didn’t know.”

  The small smile he gifted me with was like a sunrise on a new day. But that didn’t make what I’d said all right. I still had enough of a heart to know it.

  “I’ll go to a motel,” I told him, “and I’ll try to get some rest. But, please, call me with any news. Any news,” I repeated.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Barrett pulled my car keys from the cargo pocket along his leg. His fingertips brushed mine when he handed them over. My pulse went wild.

  Still, I wasn’t too distracted to say, “I’d like my weapon back, too, please.”

  “What, the twenty-two you’ve got strapped to your ankle isn’t enough for you?”

  “Not by a long shot.”

  Barrett laughed. He drew my Beretta from another pocket, the clip from a third, and handed both to me. “Technically, it’s a federal crime to carry an unauthorized firearm onto a military installation.”

  I swallowed my nerves and pretended to have more bravura than I actually felt.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I told him.

  Barrett smiled again, only this time he gave me the full-on push and pull of the lighthouse beacon.

  “ ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ ” he repeated. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  —

  Eleven minutes later, I was still on Fort Leeds, parked in the shadow of the base chapel. Oh, I’d pointed my Jaguar toward the Pershing Gate when I’d left Barrett. But I couldn’t bring myself to check into a motel while any daylight remained—and while Brooke was still lost.

  Two miles short of the gate, and well beyond Barrett’s line of sight, I’d turned into the Fort Leeds shopping complex. The Commissary—or “grocery store” in civilian speak—was busy with military families stopping for milk or bread before heading home. The Post Exchange, dry cleaner, and library were considerably less busy. The chapel’s parking lot was practically deserted. There, I pulled the photo of Brooke on her last birthday from my jacket pocket. I slipped it under the strap of my sun visor until the child’s merry eyes smiled down on me—and Tim’s face was obscured. The three-year-old’s smile was so sweet, so trusting. It threatened to melt even the broken bits of my shattered heart. So then and there, I renewed my vow to find her—and I turned my attention to the chapel’s view of the Fort Leeds Child Development Center.

  Its lot was like Piccadilly Circus. Tired parents swung through the pick-up lane to collect their kids. Worn-out daycare workers kept the line moving, handing off cranky toddlers as quickly as possible. Cars left the lot, some turning toward enlisted housing, some toward the neighborhood where I’d grown up. Everyone wanted to be home for dinnertime, bath time, bedtime stories.

  According to what Tim had told me in the wee hours this morning, and judging by the child seat fitted in his Beemer, he ran through this routine every evening. Likewise, he reversed the process every morning. And given that his job as post commander meant he’d rarely be alone and almost never on the move, I’d have said the best time to take a witness-free potshot a
t Tim Thorp would be before or after he and his kid swung through preschool.

  Of course, the post’s main drag was no good for an ambush. Too many cars traveled this road at this time of day and certainly before work, too. Farther from the gate, though, halfway between the Child Development Center and the first clusters of military housing, narrow, two-lane roads shrouded by dense undergrowth and barren pines branched from the main thoroughfare.

  If Tim were in the habit of taking one of these…

  I passed one particular turnoff and thought, Bingo. The road, as I recalled, meandered across the post before eventually running past the houses assigned to high-ranking officers like Tim. Other drivers heading my way bypassed it, preferring the quickest way home. But on this lane, Tim, with his Beemer built for speed, could push his car past the limit without other motorists clogging the road.

  The last golden rays from the setting sun slipped between the pines as I turned from the main road. As scrub and brush crowded close to my car, I knew. If anyone had lain in wait for Tim Thorp, it had been here.

  Finding the ambush site would be only half the battle in proving Tim a liar, though. And in finding little Brooke. I needed an extra set of eyes and ears for that. So, grabbing my Bluetooth, I made a call. Matty Donnelly picked up on the first ring.

  “Yo.”

  “Yo, yourself. I’ve got a job for you.”

  “Name it.”

  “I need you on Fort Leeds, New Jersey, tomorrow morning,” I said, scanning both sides of the road that ran through a rough landscape and into the twilight. “Bring your military ID with you.”

  “I never leave home without it.”

  “I’ll book us some rooms in town. I’ll grab a shower and a catnap there tonight.”

  I slowed as the track ahead became an overgrown trail that disappeared into the woods. To my right, however, the road continued around a sharp bend. The steady incline of a man-made hillock, built for a bunker or firing-range backstop, obscured what lay ahead.

  Across from the hillock, the barren pines were a black wall.