by Diane Capri
He snarled and loosened the cord to let Gotting catch his breath. “How many kids did you take?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t keep count.” Gotting sucked in as much air as he could get. “Norell spooked when I went inside. Won’t do no more.”
“But you weren’t sent in for kidnapping.” The guy was a blabbermouth now with very little persuasion. Hallman didn’t believe Gotting had kept his secrets from the police.
“Where do I find Norell?” Hallman demanded, giving the cord one more solid yank.
Gotting had lost his fight. He seemed exhausted all of a sudden. His eyelids closed. “North Elm. 1734.”
“You kidnapped any babies since you got out?”
“No point without a fence. Not like I can sell the damn kids myself, can I?”
“You’re pathetic, you know that?” Hallman shook his head, released the tension on the cord, and moved away from Gotting.
Nobody in his right mind would buy a child from a train wreck like Gotting, no matter how desperate they were. A broker of some kind was the only reasonable way it could have been done.
He’d never heard of Zander Norell. Gotting could have lied, but he was too stupid to come up with a moniker like that.
Gotting remained still. His eyes were closed. He barely moved.
Hallman slapped Gotting’s face. He grunted and opened one eye.
Kidnapping, blackmail, and ransom were all a giant leap from Hallman’s specialty, which was burglary. He’d spent enough time in prison. He didn’t want to add the murder of this worthless piece of crap to the list. Simply put, Gotting wasn’t worth the price.
He loosened the cord from around the bony neck. Gotting’s head lolled sideways before jerking back.
“I want to rest,” Gotting said, glassy-eyed. He lay motionless on the sofa.
Hallman looked at the coffee table. Among the junk, he found a bottle of pills and a couple of syringes with a bag of white powder. He didn’t touch any of the drugs or paraphernalia. Gotting must have been in the process of using these when Hallman arrived.
He’d intended to use a combination of bribery and threats to persuade Gotting to hold his tongue. Now, he was flat out on the dirty sofa. Hallman figured it unlikely that Gotting would even remember his visit.
Which was probably a good thing. Eventually, the police were likely to become involved. They’d dig into everything, including the spaced-out waste of breath lying on the couch.
The blinds on the windows were already closed. Gotting was a serious addict. With the pills and powder he had on the table, he probably wouldn’t emerge from here for days. He might even die here. Hallman tried to feel sorry about that, but truth was, the world would be a better place without Gotting in it. Lucky for Hallman that Gotting didn’t die before now.
Hallman found a rag in the kitchen sink and did his best to wipe away his fingerprints. He spent more time on the lamp and its cord. He put the rag in his pocket. He’d toss it when he was far enough away.
On the coffee table was an old cell phone. The battery was half full. He turned the phone off and dropped it in his pocket.
Before he exited the apartment, He used the spy hole in the door to check the corridor. Quiet out there. Excellent. He wiped the door handle with his sleeve as he left.
At the bottom of the steps, he noticed the exit at the rear of the parking lot. He put on his hat, pulled up the collar of his coat, and walked fast. His steps were buoyed by success and optimism now. Things were falling into place.
He didn’t stop walking until he was well past the broken Burlington sign.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Monday, November 27
6:35 p.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
Farther south was a big box electronics store with a parking lot the size of an aircraft carrier. The store was warm. He could feel the heat flowing into him and drying his jeans.
In the middle of the store, dozens of PCs and laptops were on display. He headed for the most expensive. Two salespeople converged on him. He fended them off and brought up the web browser.
The internet connection was slow, but he was safer using it in the store than he had been in the prison where everything was monitored. The last thing he wanted was some overzealous screw finding anything in his search history.
He searched for Jess Kimball.
There were several pages of hits. Her full name was Jessica. She was an average height blonde. Her hair had a natural curl to it. She stood confidently, her shoulders square, her back straight, and her brown eyes piercing the camera’s lens. He scrolled through more photographs. Her clothes had a no-nonsense edge, but they weren’t sophisticated or obviously expensive.
He found a set of pictures from a magazine awards ceremony. She was accompanied by a very well-groomed older man.
His name was Carter Pierce. Hallman looked him up. Pierce had inherited a fortune and made it a bigger one. If the yearly lists of the richest people in America could be believed, he had doubled his inheritance every decade. He was an only child. Even though he had been romantically connected with several women, he had never married.
Hallman grunted. Either he had impossible standards, or he was impossible to get along with. Whatever, Carter Pierce was as alone in the world as it was possible to get.
Pierce owned Taboo Magazine, a high-end glossy, noted for its in-depth reporting and photography. Pierce also ran Taboo. He was credited with articles about the rich and famous, and he’d gone to court to protect his journalists. He splashed money at all sorts of worthy causes. Charities, his staff’s medical bills, and crime victims, whether they appeared in his magazine or not.
Which brought Hallman back to Jessica Kimball.
Looking over the front pages of the last twelve editions of Taboo Magazine, her reporting appeared on the cover nine times. She was the magazine’s star reporter. That’s why Carter Pierce stood by her side at the awards ceremony.
He said many times that he considered Kimball like family.
Family.
People did a lot for family.
Hallman scrolled through the images until he found what he was looking for.
Jess Kimball’s son, Peter.
Hallman clicked on a link. An article about Peter Kimball opened. Peter had been abducted before his second birthday. His mother, Jess, had spent her life searching for him. Hallman scanned the story quickly, absorbing the few specific details that might prove useful.
There was an age-adjusted picture of Peter’s face at fifteen, but it looked to Hallman like a generic image that probably matched thousands of teenagers. On the same page were a toll-free number for tips and a notice that Jess Kimball would pay up to fifty grand for information that led to her son’s safe return.
Fifty grand would pay off Snap Metcalfe, but fifty was way less than what Hallman had in mind.
He scrolled through another page listing Kimball’s work tracking down criminals and helping the victims. He laughed. What sort of crime-fighting hero can’t even locate her own kid?
Hallman found the Taboo Magazine website. Her biography didn’t list a phone number, but there was a general one for the magazine. He wrote it down on the back of his lottery ticket form.
He left the store and walked another mile to a gas station with a rare outdoor phone booth. Even better, the booth was on the edge of the parking lot, out of CCTV range. The once shiny metal structure was rusting, but the phone looked functional.
Behind the gas station were rows of low-income houses. He guessed they didn’t have fancy security video cameras. He could call from here without being recorded.
He used some of his change from the charity shop to place the call.
A woman answered. She had a warm and inviting voice. He summoned his most casual tone to ask for Jessica Kimball. The woman put him through without question.
“This is Jess Kimball.”
Her voice was exactly what he expected. Businesslike. Straight to the point. A busy profe
ssional.
He kept his tone the same. “Have you found your kid?”
“Who is this?”
“Have you?”
There was a long pause. “Who is this?”
He snorted. “You don’t have to drag out the call so it can be traced. Question is, have you found your kid?”
“Do you have information or not?”
“You need to get some money together.”
“I have a reward for anyone with information that leads to his discovery.” She was calm and controlled. Not easily rattled, this one.
He scoffed. “Fifty grand? You call that a reward? That ain’t worth getting out of bed for.”
“If you know where he is, the reward is higher.”
“Here’s what I know.” He clucked his tongue against his teeth. “I know you need to get serious about my money.”
“Do you know where he is or not?” She was getting a little testy.
He smiled. “One million. Chump change. Your sugar daddy Pierce spends more than that on lunch.”
“What do you—”
“Get it. Fast. Before anything happens to your little boy.”
Hallman hung up. He glanced around the gas station. A woman was filling up an old Chevy, and a man was loading a propane bottle into the back of a pickup. Neither paid Hallman any attention.
He needed to get moving. Kimball might contact the police immediately. She might even have sent a message while they were on the phone. It could take her a few minutes to get the message through to the right people at Kansas City PD, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
He left through the back of the lot and weaved his way past the small houses. There was no sidewalk, so he walked along the curb. Several people eyed him, but no one spoke to him.
He kept his head down and kept moving. After ten minutes, he hadn’t heard a police siren or seen a cruiser, which boosted his confidence.
They would trace the call eventually. Nothing happened on the US phone system these days without being recorded on a hundred computers. Finding the phone wouldn’t get them very far. He hadn’t threatened her, but he was pretty sure he had captured her interest. He grinned.
Leave her stewing for a while, and the next time he called she’d be desperate.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Monday, November 27
7:10 p.m.
Denver, Colorado
The extortion call had come into the Taboo offices after hours, and the answering service had forwarded the call to her cell phone. She’d picked it up from her car as she left the Denver PM studio.
All calls to Taboo’s offices were recorded, which was stated automatically when calls were received before a human came on the line.
Jess had listened to his demand for money in exchange for information about Peter. She’d heard similar demands over the past fifteen years. Every time, her stomach somersaulted and every nerve in her body hummed until she chased down the caller and dealt with him herself.
These calls had always been hoaxes before. This one felt different, but she couldn’t say precisely why.
When he hung up, she punched a code that allowed her to replay the conversation.
His voice came back at her, solid and strong. No hesitation. No doubt that his position was superior to hers. He didn’t threaten. He taunted. And he wanted her to believe he had facts to back him up.
She listened to the recording twice more. His vocabulary was plain. No real accent to his voice, but he’d sounded confident. Too confident to be bluffing? Maybe.
He’d called to prepare her for future threats. He wanted to plant anxiety in her mind. She nodded and wrote “anxiety” on her notepad.
By the fourth repetition, she managed to detach from her feelings and consider the call objectively. From hard experience, she knew emotional reactions could only have a negative impact. She’d have time to figure out her feelings later. Right now, she needed a professional to deal with the caller.
She dialed Henry.
FBI Special Agent Henry Morris was the closest Jess had come to a personal relationship since Peter’s father deserted her. They’d met while chasing a pair of Italian criminals, and kept in touch after the case closed. Later, Henry had transferred from Dallas to the Denver office to close the physical distance between them.
The relationship was progressing, albeit slowly. The lagging pace was more her doing than his. Peter held her total emotional focus. She couldn’t make room in her life for anyone else until she found her son. Henry said he understood. She hoped he did.
Henry was a straight arrow, tight-lipped about his work, and only talked with her about his cases after information was publicly announced. Jess respected his professionalism because he also respected hers.
Despite his heavy workload, Henry always found time to help Jess when he could. In matters related to Peter, the FBI had jurisdiction if Peter had been moved across state lines. Both Jess and Henry believed he had, although neither had any proof.
Henry answered her call after the fourth ring before his phone switched to voicemail. “Jess?”
She didn’t waste his time or hers on pleasantries. “I just got a blackmail call about Peter.”
“How threatening?” Henry asked.
“Nothing specific. Implied he knew Peter’s whereabouts and demanded money. He’ll call again with details.”
“Hoax?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged reflexively. “Most of what he said was generic. A couple of minutes of internet research, probably. Anyone could have made the call.”
“How well can you remember his exact words?”
“It was an incoming call to Taboo. I’ll get you a recording.”
“Do that. I’ll give it to the audio guys. Caller ID?”
“No. So probably a pay phone. There aren’t many of those left in the world.”
“I’ll get records from telecoms.” He paused a beat. “You’ve had calls like this before. What do you think?”
“Yeah, plenty. Comes with the reward and the tip line and my high profile.” She breathed slowly, considering his question. “But this guy seemed different. He had unusual confidence, or maybe determination. I’m not sure how to describe it. But he sounded believable.”
“Did he have any unique information?”
“No, but he just…”
“Gave you goosebumps?”
She swiped splayed fingers through her curls and sighed. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“Okay if we monitor your calls?”
“You’ll get no complaints from me.”
“I’ll set it up. And send me the recording. I’m headed to the DA in a few minutes, but the audio guys can still work on it asap.”
She closed her eyes and forced air into her lungs. “Thanks, Henry.”
“No thanks needed. The kidnapping of a child with transportation across state lines. FBI territory. Front and center.”
“Even after thirteen years?”
“Absolutely. The case is open until it’s closed. No question.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I’m running way behind. We can talk later. Send the recording, and I’ll get my team going on this. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Monday, November 27
7:15 p.m.
Kansas City, Kansas
Metcalfe saw Max Spinney’s name appear on the phone’s display while he sat in his BMW waiting to collect another debt.
Spinney wasn’t good for anything besides sitting on a bar stool, but he had the best ears in the whole of Kansas City. A smarter guy might have turned that skill to greater profit. As it was, Spinney was always looking for his next drink. When Spinney called, it usually meant someone was getting in the way of Metcalfe’s business.
He pressed the button to answer. “Yes?”
“I just had a visitor. Came to find me specifically.”
“Hmmm. Who was it?”
“Shane Hallman.”
“And?” Hallman
popping up twice in one day rang alarm bells. Metcalfe leaned back in his seat and paid closer attention.
“He owes you a bundle, right? I remember from when he went inside. He got out today.”
“That so,” Metcalfe said, not wanting to reveal he already knew.
“Thought you might be interested.”
“What did he want?”
“He was looking for a guy,” Spinney said shakily. “Don’t know if you know him.”
“Try me.” After Spinney failed to reply, Metcalfe sighed. “If it’s good, I’ll pay your bar tab for the day.”
“Right. Okay. Thanks… Hallman’s looking for Gotting.”
Metcalfe frowned. “Gotting?”
“Earle Gotting. Two-bit low-life from ages back.”
Metcalfe permitted himself a small smile. Max Spinney calling someone else a two-bit low-life was remarkable irony. “Why does Hallman want Gotting?”
“Said they were inside together. Same wing out at Humboldt.”
“Possible, I guess.”
“You questioning me?” Spinney demanded.
“Don’t get your boxers in a wad, Max,” Metcalfe said. Spinney’s tab for the day was always substantial. If Metcalfe didn’t want to pay for his information, someone else would. There were plenty of others Spinney could sell good info to. Hallman owed money all over Kansas City.
Spinney harrumphed and pouted a little before he replied. “Gotting was released six months ago. Now Hallman gets out, and the first thing he does is come looking for him.”
“So they’re having a reunion?”
“Not likely. He didn’t even know that Gotting’s one of those people that drinks like a fish.”
Metcalfe ignored Spinney’s second bit of irony. “Maybe.”
“Word is, Gotting’s into drugs. Sells and uses.”
Metcalfe raised his eyebrows. News like that was always worth having in his pocket. “Hallman a user?”
“Hard to say. But he wasn’t looking for a fix today. There’s something going on, I tell you. Cooked up some scheme together while they were inside, maybe?”
