Black Sunrise

by Brett Godfrey

  Sand laughed softly. “That makes two of us.”

  “Christie enjoys spending time with you both,” Janet continued. “We respect our daughter and her judgment. She’s very selective when it comes to her friends.”

  Sand rested his elbows on the countertop. “The police are not as tactful.”

  “How so?” Jensen asked.

  Sand met his eyes. “‘Sugar daddy ditched by young hottie’—not the top of the police blotter.”

  “They actually said that?”

  “Not in so many words. But the message came loud and clear.”

  “Are you are a suspect?”

  “I’m sure I would be if they took the investigation seriously,” Sand conceded. “But they don’t really seem to buy into the idea that the girls are even missing. That’s the part I can’t understand. They are obviously missing—not to worry you, but this is serious. The police seem to have concluded that Jackie just got bored and made for greener pastures.”

  “They actually say that out loud?” Jensen asked.

  “Yeah, they say it—but it’s like a canned line,” Sand replied. “The official party line. It bothers me, because it’s both silly and artificial.”

  “Artificial?”

  “Like they don’t really believe that, but they can’t say so.”

  “Have they searched your house?”

  “I actually insisted they do so. They finally took me up on it yesterday. They didn’t find anything interesting to them. Took nothing but a few swabs from surfaces, some fingerprints and some hair samples. They didn’t remove any objects from my home. They only fingerprinted me when I asked them why they hadn’t done so, and it was like they only did it to make me happy, or at least less suspicious.”

  “Suspicious?”

  “You bet. Suspicious. There’s something really off here.” Sand leaned back on his stool and folded his hands in his lap. The man’s poise and quiet confidence impressed Jensen. His instinct was that Sand was an ally, but he wouldn’t drop his guard just yet.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few personal questions, Mr. Sand?”

  “Fire away,” Sand said evenly.

  “You have a criminal record of any kind?”

  “No.”

  “Have any trouble with the law at all?”

  “None,” Sand replied.

  “Ex-military?”

  “Noticed the photos?”

  Jensen nodded.

  Sand chuckled. “Christie said you catch everything.”

  Jensen ignored the comment. “Army? Gulf War? Panama? Kosovo? Grenada?”

  “Army,” said Sand. “Enlisted. Various stations through Southeast Asia.”

  “Then what?”

  “Some private contractor stuff.”

  “Contractor stuff?”

  “Sorry,” Sand said with a shrug. “You could call it private security.”

  Jensen nodded. “Where were you when the girls were out?”

  “Napping on the couch. You?”

  “I have another question, Mr. Sand,” Janet interjected, breaking the cadence and irritating Jensen slightly.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you harm either Christie or Jackie?”

  Sand looked at her evenly. “No, Mrs. Jensen. I would never do that.”

  She held his gaze for a long moment. “You can call me Janet,” she said at length, as though signaling that she’d reached a decision about Sand. “These last two days have been terrible.”

  Sand nodded. “Yes, they have been that, Janet.”

  “So let me ask you this,” Jensen said. “The day the girls went missing. Will you take me through that in detail?”

  Sand relayed that Christie and Jackie had taken his car to go to the Cherry Creek Mall; he’d expected them back in a couple of hours, but they’d never returned. He’d called the police twice. At about 12:40 the following morning, he’d gotten a return call. They had found his car in the mall parking garage, one of the only remaining cars. The key was still in the driver’s-side door.

  “They had their purses and phones when they left. Next day, I got on the computer and sent the police a list of the charges Jackie had put on my credit card on the afternoon they went missing. Neiman Marcus,” he said. “Her favorite. A few others. This proved she went inside the mall, which they seemed to doubt for no good reason.”

  “How long was it between your first call and when they found your car?” Jensen asked.

  “About four hours,” Sand said.

  “What were they wearing?”

  “Summer clothes,” Sand said. He glanced at Janet and then looked at his hands. “Tight shorts, skimpy tops.”

  “What exactly did you tell the police?”

  Sand relayed the conversations, and Jensen grilled him on every detail, tossing in random questions to keep the flow of ideas from becoming too predictable. It was obvious he was interrogating Sand and Sand was willing to go through it. Janet sat quietly and let her husband work. It went on like that for a quarter of an hour. Sand had called hospitals, and so had the police. He’d tried Christie’s cell—her number was in his iPhone—and he’d even called the Denver Athletic Club, where Jackie and Christie often worked out together.

  “Did they tell you I offered to take a lie detector test?” Sand asked.

  “No.” Jensen shook his head.

  “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind giving us a minute,” Jensen said. “We’ll just step outside if you don’t mind.”

  Sand nodded. “Sure.”

  On the front porch, Jensen asked his wife, “What do you think?”

  Janet shrugged. “Not sure. He’s very charming and seems sincere. My instinct is, he’s telling the truth. I don’t think he harmed the girls or knows where they are—but how can we be sure?”

  “Interesting he volunteered to take a polygraph,” Jensen mused. “We should verify that with Taylor.”

  “You think he would say that if he hadn’t really volunteered?”

  Jensen pulled out his cell phone and dialed Taylor’s number. It took a minute to get through, but the detective took his call. He quickly confirmed that Sand had indeed offered to undergo a polygraph. Other than that, nothing new.

  Jensen slid his phone back into his pocket. “He volunteered a poly. They didn’t doubt his veracity, so they let it go.”

  “So they didn’t actually do the polygraph?”

  “No.”

  “Mark, I believe him. Gut instinct only. I think we’re in this together with him,” Janet sighed. “And it does feel like they’re stonewalling us.” A tear trickled down Janet’s cheek. “The police aren’t going to help, are they? Are they just waiting for it to blow over?”

  “Sort of feels like they’re hiding something.” Jensen didn’t mean to say it out loud, but there it was. “Sand thinks so as well.”

  Janet nodded, wiping her eyes. “It is odd, isn’t it, Mark?”

  “Let’s go back inside,” Jensen said. “We’ll work with him. We can probably trust him, at least up to a point.”

  They rejoined Sand in the kitchen.

  “What’s the verdict?” Sand asked bluntly.

  “We’ve got to help each other,” Jensen responded. “We’ve got too much to lose.”

  “That we do,” Sand conceded gravely.

  Janet asked, “Where do we go from here?”

  For a few minutes, nobody spoke.

  Finally, Sand looked up. “Your daughter told me you’re the best lawyer in the country. Seems to me that if it was a sexual assault, a rapist would want to get one girl alone. So maybe there is more to it.”

  “Money?” Jensen replied. “We thought of that. But when do I get a ransom demand?”

  “Not necessarily your money,” cautioned Sand.

  “What do you mean?” Janet asked.

  “My guess would be that if ransom was the object, it may be that Jackie is the real target, and your daughter just got in the way.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me,�
� Jensen admitted.

  “I don’t talk about it, but I’m pretty well off myself. Actually, I’ve got a pretty heavy portfolio,” Sand said. “A very wealthy, very famous man left a lot of that money to me. I swore I would never reveal his name. The rest I earned myself.” Sand shrugged. “A little digging would uncover those assets. Also, I’ve made a few enemies during my life.”

  “Did Jackie know about your money?” Jensen asked.

  Sand shook his head. “Not in numerical terms, but she knows I’ve got enough to own this house, a few cars, and we go shopping a lot. I buy a lot of things for Jackie. I can’t help myself.”

  “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what are we talking about?” Jensen asked.

  Sand paused. “I know you’re well off, Mark. I’ve done some checking, just out of curiosity. Christie mentioned once that you have a couple of jets and more than one home. I’ve read articles about you in the Wall Street Journal. So I guess you can know a little about me. My portfolio runs well into nine figures.”

  Hundreds of millions. More than me, Jensen mused. “Who else might know about that?”

  “In the Leaky Information Age?” Sand replied. “Anybody.”

  “So the girls, taken together, could make for quite a ransom,” Jensen concluded. “This could have been a planned abduction. And I’ve got another confession for you. I have kidnap and ransom coverage on my family. A fifty-million-dollar policy limit. It’s with Chubb. They take security seriously, so I doubt that’s known, but as you said, this is the age of leaky information.”

  “Have you notified your insurance company of this situation?”

  “Not yet.”

  They fell into an awkward silence. Jensen helped himself to a pastry, washing it down with some black coffee.

  “You’re ex-Air Force?” Sand asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Intel?”

  “No,” Jensen said. “Pilot.”

  “What did you fly?”

  “Strike Eagles,” Jensen said.

  Sand nodded and then looked away. “When I was a younger man, with connections I don’t have anymore, I would have been all over this. But those resources are no longer available.”

  Jensen nibbled at his croissant, thinking. “I want to bring in some professional help,” he said at last.

  “Private investigator?”

  “I don’t know. I just have an idea.”

  Sand shook his head slightly. “Someone in mind?”

  Jensen nodded slowly, as though lost in thought. “When I was young, my dad and I played golf a few times with a man who’d been a deep-cover agent in Eastern Europe after World War II. Years after that, he founded some kind of elite private intelligence agency together with some of his CIA cronies. He’d be too old to help us now, if he’s even alive, but his company was a big deal. Had more resources than some countries, which is why governments and large corporations around the world often hired them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t remember the man’s name or the name of his outfit, but my father might,” Jensen said. “If we’re lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Dad has Alzheimer’s. Half the time he can’t remember what he had for breakfast. Other times he’s pretty lucid. It comes and goes. You have to catch him on a good day. I can call him now, but I’d like to make that call in private.”

  Sand showed Jensen to his den.

  As it turned out, Jensen hit is father on a good day.

  After a few pleasantries, mentioning nothing about Christie going missing, Jensen moved directly to the question.

  “Hey, Dad, do you remember that old intelligence officer? The one we golfed with? He said he owed you the favor of a lifetime?”

  A long silence, then the reply. “Sure, son. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, it’s kind of a long story, Dad. A client matter; I can’t really talk about it.” Jensen didn’t want to distress his father’s fragile mind with bad news. An emotional shock could push him over the edge. “But I think I could use that man’s help.”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, Dad, nothing to worry about. It’s just … something’s come up in my practice that needs some really special handling, and I thought of your friend. If his company’s still in business, maybe I can send some business their way.”

  “That important, is it, son?”

  Jensen paused. “Pretty important, Dad.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Another long pause. Then the older Jensen rallied, speaking with renewed strength and timbre in his voice. “Don’t bullshit me, son. If you’re in trouble, give it up. Don’t protect me or coddle me. Hell, I probably won’t even remember it by dinnertime. So spill it.”

  “I can’t, Dad. Confidentiality. You know. What was his name?”

  “Albert Brecht.” He spelled the name. “We’ve slipped out of touch; I don’t even know if he’s still breathing.”

  “Do you remember the name of his company?”

  “Not right now. It might come to me. You could try calling Albert. He lives in Baltimore, or at least he used to. He’s got to be past eighty. I might have his number here somewhere. Hold on. I’ll get Myrna to help me find it in my book.”

  Five minutes or so ticked by. Jensen could hear his father talking to his nurse in the background. He muted the phone, stuck his head out the door and asked Janet to Google the name Albert Brecht. She pulled out her own phone and did so, then looked up with wide eyes.

  “Wow,” she said. “A historic figure. But I’m not seeing any contact information.”

  Jensen’s father came back on the line. “Okay, son. You got a pen ready?”

  Spotting a notepad on Sand’s desk, Jensen took down the number, promising to call his father to update him about Albert Brecht if he succeeded in making contact. He signed off and then punched in the number his father had given him. A recorded voice answered with a raspy growl, sounding even older than his father. “Albert Brecht here. Leave a message. Thanks.”

  Jensen left a detailed message.

  Chapter 13

  “See you Saturday,” Beeman said.

  “Talk before that?” Antonio touched Beeman’s shoulder. “Tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  “Be good, dude.” Antonio stroked his mustache for a moment before getting out of the car. Beeman watched as he struggled with his pack before vanishing through the mirrored glass door of the Grayhound bus station.

  Holding the wheel loosely, Beeman pulled the Toyota out of the parking lot, crossed over the Yampa, then turned left onto Lincoln and parked, watching the bus station across the river. He waited for twenty minutes before a bus emerged from behind the depot and rolled away, belching a cloud of black diesel smoke. Beeman observed the station for another half hour to be sure Antonio did not emerge.

  Satisfied, he made his way down Lincoln Avenue until it became Colorado Highway 40. Keeping his speed below the posted limit, his window halfway down, he was glad to be out of Denver; it was always cooler in the mountains.

  He welcomed the drive, for it gave him time to think without the distraction of keeping Antonio under constant observation. The timing of the younger man’s return to the city was perfect. Absence from his job as a limousine driver might draw attention and was worth avoiding, but more importantly, Antonio’s time in Denver would permit Beeman time to make his own final preparations, unhampered by the younger man’s impatient meddling and ignorance.

  For the next three days, Antonio’s mind would be spinning like a top, roiling with fantasies, fears and doubts. Anticipation and panic would be pulling him apart. Antonio would return to the stage just when Beeman was ready for him, and he would be a frenetic mess, mentally exhausted from carrying the weight of his guilt, dread, lust and confusion every waking minute. Unremitting conflicts would pry open his mind, and Beeman would fill that void with the Primal Ecstasy, programming him to become a predator, driven by his restored basic nature to kill, purely f
or the sake of consuming another being. He would unmask the Hidden Engine.

  Once the drugs burned through Antonio’s system, he would be on a ragged edge. By the time of his return on Saturday afternoon, having endured a five-hour mountain bus ride, he’d be exhausted, agitated and susceptible to suggestion, even without chemical conditioning. Beeman would then begin to titrate Antonio’s drug regimen without his knowing it, affording just enough release to permit him to think clearly without artificial euphoria or masked impulses. Dose management in an unwitting subject as complex as a human was a true challenge, but Beeman was ready. In fact, he was looking forward to it.

  But first, there was work to do.

  Twenty minutes later, he took the turnoff for Colorado Road 24, and ten minutes after that, he rolled to a stop in the driveway of his cabin. As he pushed open the door and climbed out of the car, the hair on the back of his neck bristled, standing literally on end.

  He felt eyes raking over him as if touching his skin.

  He gently closed the car door and slowly turned, scanning the shadows and recesses of nearby groves of aspen and pine, his ears straining, scouring the environment for signs of human presence.

  But for the soft whisper of a gentle breeze caressing softly swaying pines, there was no sound. Leaves flickered in the sunlight. A squirrel darted across his driveway, vanishing into the forest.

  Beeman continued to turn in place, like a human radar dish, seeing no one, hoping to ping on some anomaly in his visual field, or instinctively sense the direction from which an observer might be watching, but no bearing called out to him over any other.

  As quickly as it had come, the presentiment was gone.

  He exhaled.

  It must have been his imagination, merely an after-echo of the fearsome paranoia he’d implanted in Antonio’s mind throughout the morning, nothing more. To be safe, he might take a hike later to inspect the woods for signs of human intrusion. He left his car in the driveway, avoiding the use of the electric garage door and the noise it would generate. Unlocking the front door, he entered quietly, closing it softly behind him. He stood in the entryway in silence, his ears still attuned to the faintest sound.

  Slipping out of his loafers, he padded through the living room to the kitchen.