by Harlan Coben
Rachel waited a beat. She stared at Conrad Dorfman. He stared back but dropped his eyes first. He picked up his tea and took another sip. "Can we find out why she came to you in the first place?"
"Without a court order? No, I don't think so."
"Your CD," she said. "There's a back entry."
"Excuse me?"
"Every company has one," Rachel said. "The info isn't lost forever. Your company programs in its own password so that you folks can get on the CD."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I used to be an FBI agent, Mr. Dorfman."
"So?"
"So I know these things. Please don't insult my intelligence."
"That was not my intent, Ms. Mills. But I simply can't help."
I looked at Rachel. She seemed to be weighing her options. "I still have friends, Mr. Dorfman. In the department. We can ask questions. We can poke around. The feds don't much like private eyes. You know that. I don't want trouble. I just want to know what's on the CD."
Dorfman put down his cup. He strummed his fingers. There was a knock, and the same woman opened the door. She beckoned Conrad Dorfman. He rose, again too theatrically, and practically leapt across the floor. "Excuse me a moment."
When he left the office, I looked at Rachel. She wouldn't turn toward me. "Rachel?"
"Let's just see how it plays out, Marc."
But there really wasn't much more to play. Conrad came back into the office. He crossed the room and stood over Rachel, waiting for her to look up. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"Our president, Malcolm Deward, is a former federal agent himself. Did you know that?"
Rachel said nothing.
"He made some calls while we chatted." Conrad waited. "Ms. Mills?" Rachel finally looked up. "Your threats are impotent. You have no friends at the agency. Mr. Deward, alas, does. Get out of my office. Now."
Chapter 21
I Said, "What the hell was that all about?"
"I told you before. I'm not an agent anymore."
"What happened, Rachel?" She kept her eyes forward. "You haven't been a part of my life in a long time."
There was nothing to add. Rachel drove now. I held on to the cell phone, again willing it to ring. When we arrived back at my house, dusk had settled in. We went inside. I debated calling Tickner or Regan, but what good would that do now?
"We need to get that DNA checked," Rachel said. "My theory might sound implausible, but does the idea of your daughter being held all this time sound any more so?"
So I called Edgar. I told him that I wanted to run some additional tests on the hair. He said that would be fine. I hung up without telling him that I had already endangered the drop by enlisting the help of a former FBI agent. The less said on that, the better. Rachel called someone she knew to pick up the samples from Edgar, as well as a blood sample from me. He ran a private lab, she said. We would know something within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, which would probably be, in terms of a ransom demand, too late.
I settled into a chair in the den. Rachel sat on the floor. She opened her bag and pulled out wires and electronic contraptions of all sorts. Being a surgeon makes me pretty good with my hands, but when it comes to high-tech gizmos, I'm totally lost. She carefully spread the contents of the bag across the carpet, giving this action her full attention. Again I wa s reminded of the way she'd do the same thing with textbooks when we were in college. She reached into the bag and pulled out a razor.
"The bag of money?" she said.
I handed it to her. "What are you going to do?"
She opened it. The money was in packs of hundred-dollar bills. She grabbed a wad and slowly slipped the money out, not breaking the band around it. She cut the bills like they were a deck of cards.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm going to cut a hole."
"In the actual currency?"
"Yup."
She did it with the straight razor. She dug out a circle about the perimeter of a silver dollar, maybe a quarter inch thick. She scanned the floor, found a black device that was about the same size, fit it into the bills. Then she put the wrapping back on it. The device was totally hidden in the middle of the money wad.
"A Q-Logger," she said in way of explanation. "It's a GPS device."
"You say so."
"GPS stands for Global Positioning System. Put simply, it will track the money. I'll put one in the lining of the bag too, but most criminals know about that. They usually, dump the cash into a bag of their own. But with all this money, they won't have time right away to search through every pack."
"How small do those things come?"
"The Q-Loggers?"
"Yes."
"They can make them even thinner, but the problem is the power source. You need a battery. That's where we lose out. I need something that can travel at least eight miles. This will do it."
"And where does it go to?"
"You mean where do I keep track of the movements?"
"Yes."
"Most of the time it goes to a laptop, but this is state of the art." Rachel lifted a device into the air, one I see too often in the world of medicine. In fact, I think I'm the only doctor on the planet without one. "A Palm Pilot?"
"Designed with a special tracking screen. I'll have it on me if I have to move." She went back to work.
"What's all the other stuff?" I asked.
"Surveillance equipment. I don't know how much I'll be able to use, but I'd like to put a Q-Logger in your shoe. I want to get a camera on the car. I'd like to see if I can hook up some fiber-optics on you, but that could be riskier." She started to organize her equipment, lost in the activity. Her eyes were down when she spoke again. "Something else I want to explain to you."
I leaned forward.
"Do you remember when my parents got divorced?" she asked.
"Yeah, sure." It had been when we first met.
"Close as we were, we never talked about it."
"I always got the impression you didn't want to."
"I didn't," she said too quickly.
And, I thought, neither had I. I was selfish. We were supposedly in love for two years--and yet I never so much as nudged her to open up about her parents' divorce. It was more than an "impression" that made me hold my tongue. I knew something dark and unhappy lay there. I did not want to poke at it, disturb it, have it possibly turn its attention in my direction.
"It was my father's fault."
I almost said something really stupid like "It's never anyone's fault" or "There are two sides to every story," but a fly by of good sense kept my tongue in check. Rachel still hadn't looked up. "My father destroyed my mother. Crushed her soul. Do you know how?"
"No."
"He cheated on her."
She lifted her head and held my gaze. I did not look away. "It was a destructive cycle," she said. "He'd cheat, he'd get caught, he'd swear he'd never do it again. But he always did. It wormed into my mother, ate away at her." Rachel swallowed, turned back to her high-tech toys. "So when I was away in Italy and I heard you'd been with someone else ..."
I thought of a million different things to say, but they were all meaningless. Frankly so was what she was telling me. It explained a lot, I guess, but it was the ultimate too-little-too-late. I stayed where I was, not moving from the chair.
"I overreacted," she said.
"We were young."
"I just wanted ... I should have told you about this back then."
She was reaching out. I started to say something, but I pulled up short. Too much. Just all too much. It had been six hours since the ransom call. The seconds tick-ticked, a deep, painful pounding in the well of my chest.
I jumped when the phone rang, but it was my regular line, not the kidnapper's cell. I picked it up. It was Lenny.
"What's wrong?" he said without preamble.
I looked at Rachel. She shook her head. I nodded back that I understood. "Nothing," I said.
<
br /> "Your mom told me you saw Edgar in the park."
"Don't worry."
"That old bastard will screw you, you know that."
There was no reasoning with Lenny when it came to Edgar Portman. He also might be right. "I know."
There was brief silence.
"You called Rachel," he said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Nothing important."
There was another pause. Then Lenny said, "You're lying to me, right?"
"Like a Vegas toupee."
"Yeah, okay. Hey, we still on for racquetball tomorrow morning?"
"I better cancel."
"No problem. Marc?"
"Yeah."
"If you need me ..."
"Thanks, Lenny."
I hung up. Rachel was busy with her electronic gizmos. The words she had said were gone now, dissipated smoke. She looked up and saw something in my face.
"Marc?"
I didn't speak.
"If your daughter is alive, we'll bring her home. I promise."
And for the first time, I was not sure that I believed her.
Chapter 22
Special Agent Tickner stared down at the report.
The Seidman murder-kidnapping had been beyond back-burner. The FBI had realigned its priorities in recent years. Terrorism was number one on the most wanted list. Numbers two through ten were, well, terrorism. The Seidman case had only involved him when it became a kidnapping issue. Despite what you see on television, the local police are usually anxious to have the FBI involved. The feds have the resources and the know-how. Calling them too late can cost a life. Regan had been smart enough not to wait.
But once the kidnapping issue was--and he hated to use this term for it--"resolved," Tickner's job (unofficially at least) was to back off and leave it to the locals. He still thought about it a lot--you don't forget the sight of a baby's clothing in a cabin like that--but in his mind, the case had been inactive.
Until five minutes ago.
He read the brief report for the third time. He wasn't trying to put it together. Not yet. This was too weird for that. What he was trying to do, what he hoped to accomplish, was to find some kind of angle, some sort of handle he could grip. Nothing came to him.
Rachel Mills. How the hell did she fit into this?
A young subordinate--Tickner couldn't remember if his name was Kelly or Fitzgerald, something Irish like that--stood in front of the desk, hands not sure what to do. Tickner leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. He tapped the pen against his lower lip.
"There has to be a connection between them," he told Sean or Patrick.
"She claimed to be a private detective."
"Is she licensed?"
"No, sir."
Tickner shook his head. "There's more to it than that. Check phone records, find some friends, whatever. Trace it down for me."
"Yes, sir."
"Call that detective agency. The MVD. Tell them I'm on my way."
"Yes, sir."
The Irish kid left. Tickner stared off. He and Rachel had gone through training together at Quantico. They'd both had the same mentor. Tickner thought about what to do here. While he didn't always trust the locals, he liked Regan. The guy was just off enough to be an asset. He picked up the phone and dialed Regan's cell.
"Detective Regan."
"Long time, no speak."
"Ah, Federal Agent Tickner. You still wearing the sunglasses?"
"You still stroking that soul patch--uh, among other things?"
"Yes. And maybe."
Tickner could hear sitar music in the background. "You busy?"
"Not at all. I'was just meditating."
"Like Phil Jackson?"
"Exactly. Except I don't have all those pesky championship rings. You should join me sometime."
"Yeah, I'll put that on my list of must-dos."
"It would relax you, Agent Tickner. I hear tremendous strain in your voice." Then: "I assume that there was a reason for this call?"
"Remember our favorite case?"
There was a funny pause. "Yes."
"How long has it been since we had something new?"
"I don't think we ever had anything new."
"Well, we may now."
"I'm listening."
"We just got a strange call from an ex-FBI agent. Guy named Dew ard. He's a private dick in Newark now."
"So?"
"It seems our friend Dr. Seidman paid his office a visit today. And he had someone very special with him."
Lydia dyed her hair black--the better to blend in with the night.
The plan, as it were, was simple.
"We confirm that he has the money," she told Heshy. "Then I kill him."
''You sure?"
"Positive. And the beauty of it is, the murder will automatically get tied to the original shooting." Lydia smiled at him. "Even if something goes wrong, nothing ties back to us."
"Lydia?"
"Something the matter?"
Heshy shrugged his giant shoulders. "Don't you think it would be better if I kill him?"
"I'm the better shot, Pooh Bear."
"But"--he hesitated, shrugged again--"I don't need a weapon."
"You're trying to protect me," she said.
He said nothing.
"That's sweet." And it was. But one of the reasons she wanted to do it herself was to protect Heshy. He was the vulnerable one here. Lydia never worried about getting caught. Part of it was classic overconfidence. Dumb people get caught, not those who were careful. But more than that, she knew if she did get nabbed, they'd never convict her. Forget her still girl-next-door looks, though that would undoubtedly be an asset. What no prosecutor would ever overcome would be the weepy Oprahization of her case. Lydia would remind them of her "tragic" past. She would claim abuses in many forms. She would cry on the talk shows. She would talk about the plight of the child star, of the calamity of being forced into the world of Pixie Trixie. She would look adorably victimized and innocent. And the public--not to mention the jury-- would lap it up.
"I think it's best this way," she told him. "If he sees you approach, well, he is apt to run. But if he catches sight of HP of' me ..." Lydia let her voice die out with a small shrug.
Heshy nodded. She was right. This should be cake. She stroked his face and handed him the car keys.
"Does Pavel understand his part?" Lydia asked.
"He does. He'll meet us there. And yes, he'll be wearing the flannel shirt."
"Then we might as well start on our way," she said. "I'll call Dr. Seidman."
Heshy used the remote to unlock the car doors.
"Oh," she said, "I have to check something before we go."
Lydia opened the back door. The child was fast asleep in the car seat. She checked the straps and made sure that they were secure. "I better sit in the back, Pooh Bear," she said. "Just in case a little someone wakes up."
Heshy angled his way into the driver's seat. Lydia took out the phone and voice changer and dialed the number.
Chapter 23
We Ordered d pizza, which I think was a mistake. Late-night pizzas are college. It was yet another not-so-subtle reminder of the past. I kept staring at the mobile phone, wishing it to ring. Rachel was quiet, but that was okay. We had always been good with silence. That, too, was weird. In many ways, we were falling back, picking up where we'd left off. But in many more ways, we were strangers with a tenuous, awkward connection.
What was odd was that my memories were suddenly hazy. I'd thought that once I saw her again, they'd head straight to the surface. But few specifics came to me. It was more a feeling, an emotion, like the way I remembered the ruddy cold of New England. I don't know why I couldn't remember. And I wasn't sure what it meant.
Rachel's brow creased as she toyed with the electronic equipment. She took a bite of pizza and said, "Not as good as Tony's."
"That place was awful."
"A little greasy," she agr
eed.
"A little? Didn't the large come with a coupon for a free angioplasty?"
"Well, there was that sludge-through-the-veins feel to it."
We looked at each other.
"Rachel?"
"Yeah."
"Suppose they don't call."
"Then they don't have her, Marc."
I let that settle in. I thought about Lenny's son, Conner, the things he could say and do, and I tried to apply it to the baby I'd last laid eyes on in her crib. It wouldn't compute, but that didn't mean anything. Ther e was hope. I held on to that. If my daughter was dead, if that phone never rang again, the hope would, I know, kill me. But I didn't care. Better to go down this way than try to go the distance.
So I had hope. And I, the cynic, let myself believe the best.
When the cell phone finally did ring, it was nearly ten. I did not even glance over to Rachel and wait for her nod. My finger was on the answer button before the first chirp could die off.
"Hello?"
"Okay," the robotic voice said, "you'll get to see her."
I couldn't breathe. Rachel moved over closer and put her ear near mine.
"Good," I said.
"You have the money?"
"Yes."
"All of it?"
"Yes."
"Then listen closely. Deviate from what I tell you and we disappear. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"We checked with our police sources. So far, so good. It appears that you haven't contacted the authorities. But we need to make sure. You will drive alone toward the George Washington Bridge. Once there, we will be in range. Use the two-way radio feature on the phone. I will tell you where to go and what to do. You will be searched. If we find any weapons or wires, we will disappear. Do you understand?"
I could feel Rachel's breath quicken.
"When do I see my daughter?"
"When we meet."
"How do I know you won't just take the money?"
"How do you know I'm not going to hang up on you now?"
"I'm on my way," I said. Then I quickly added, "But I won't hand over the money until I see Tara."
"Then we are in agreement. You have an hour. Signal me then."
Chapter 24
Conrad Dorfman did not appear happy to be dragged back into the MVD office this late. Tickner didn't care. If Seidman had come here alone, that would be an important lead, no doubt about it. But the fact that Rachel Mills had been here, too, that she was somehow involved, well, let's just say that Tickner's curiosity was more than piqued.
