Gone (5 page)

7

Tuesday, 8:04 a.m. PST

“H
ELLO?
”

Static. A beeping sound. Then a click as if the call had been disconnected.

“Hello?” Quincy tried again, voice more urgent, hand white-knuckled on the phone.

The call was lost. He cursed, tempted to hurl the tiny phone across the room, then it rang again. He flipped open the phone before the ring completed its first musical chime.

“. . . morning paper.”

“Rainie? Where are you?”

“She can’t come to the phone right now.” The voice sounded distorted, mechanized.

“Who is this?”

“You must read the morning paper,” the voice intoned.

“This is Investigator Pierce Quincy. I’m looking for Rainie Conner. Can you tell me where she is?”

“You must read the morning paper.”

“Do you have her? What is it that you want?”

“What everyone wants—fame, fortune, and a finely baked apple pie. Goodbye.”

“Hello? Who is this? Where are you?”

But the caller was gone. Quincy knew it before the first syllable left his mouth. He immediately returned the call, but on the other end, Rainie’s phone just rang and rang and rang.

“Who was it? What’d she say?” Kincaid was standing over him, looking as agitated and impatient as Quincy felt.

“It was a man, I think. Using some kind of voice-distortion machine. He kept saying I must read the morning paper. Word for word. ‘
You must read the morning paper.’
Quick—pen, paper. While it’s fresh, we need to write this down.”

Quincy fumbled around his desk, jerking open drawers, scattering a tray of pens.

Kincaid was behind him, rifling a second drawer in search of a notepad. “Why read the paper?”

“I don’t know.”

“Which paper?”

“I don’t know.
‘Read the morning paper.’
That’s what he said
. ‘Read the morning paper
.
’
” Quincy finally got a pen. His hand was trembling so badly, he could barely grip it between his fingers. Too many thoughts were in his head. Rainie kidnapped. Rainie hurt. Rainie . . . So many things that were far, far worse.

Nine years ago, Bethie on the other end of the line.
“Pierce, something’s happened to Mandy. You’d better come quick.”

Kincaid had found a spiral notepad. He thrust it across the desk, where it slid to a stop in front of Quincy.

But Quincy couldn’t write. His fingers wouldn’t hold the pen, his hand wouldn’t scrawl across the page. He was shaking. He’d never seen his hand tremble so much, not in all of these years. And then he suffered a surreal moment, where he stood outside his body, staring back down at this scene, and what he saw was a hand, old, thickened, soon to be age-spotted, grasping ineffectively at a pen.

He felt powerless. His wife was kidnapped, and for a heart-stopping moment, he didn’t know what to do.

Kincaid took the notepad away from Quincy. There was more sympathy in the sergeant’s eyes than Quincy was prepared to accept.

“You talk,” Kincaid said. “I’ll write.”

Quincy started from the beginning. There wasn’t much to document after all. A disguised voice on Rainie’s phone, ordering Quincy to read the morning paper and claiming to desire fame, fortune, and apple pie. Four lines spoken, a total of thirty-two words.

They started with the first instruction:
You must read the morning paper.

“Local,” Kincaid declared.

“What? The call? It wasn’t a good signal, but that would put the caller anywhere in the coastal range. And pulling the records won’t help—it’ll just list a call placed to my phone.”

“No, no, not the call, the paper. Otherwise he’d say ‘morning
papers,
’ plural. But he kept saying ‘
paper.
’ That’s specific. I’m guessing the
Bakersville Daily Sun.
”

“Ah, the Daily Oxymoron,” Quincy muttered. “We don’t get it delivered. But . . .” He thought about it. “We should be able to find something online.”

“Screw that, we’re going straight to the source.”

“You have a contact?”

“Better. I have a public information officer. He can get straight through to the owner if we have to.” Kincaid pulled out his cell phone and punched two buttons. Seconds later he was talking to a Lieutenant Mosley, and a few seconds after that, he was gesturing frantically for the return of the spiral notepad.

“Is there a return address? When was it postmarked? No, no, no, I don’t want it handled! Listen, I’m sending over two scientists from the Portland lab right away, along with Latent Prints. Anyone who’s touched that letter needs to be sequestered now; I don’t care if they own the damn paper. We’re on our way.”

Kincaid flipped his phone shut and headed immediately for the door. The sergeant was already at a half-jog; Quincy quickly picked up the pace.

“What is it? What did he say?”

“Ransom note. Op-ed editor of the
Bakersville Daily Sun
just notified our PIO twenty minutes ago. They found a note in this morning’s mail. Says a woman has been kidnapped, and if anyone wants to see her alive again, it will cost ten thousand dollars cash.”

“Who sent it?”

“Not clear.”

“When?”

“Postmarked yesterday.”

“But that’s not possible.” They were at the car. Kincaid jumped in on the driver’s side, Quincy rounded the front.

“It is and isn’t,” Kincaid said, already firing up the Chevy. “It’s not possible that the man had kidnapped your wife yesterday afternoon. But then the ransom note didn’t mention a specific name, or provide a description.”

“Stranger to stranger,” Quincy filled in. “The guy didn’t know who he was taking. He just knew he was taking someone.”

“Exactly. Crime of opportunity.”

“Against a trained member of law enforcement?”

“Maybe he got lucky. Or maybe . . . We don’t know how he chose his target yet. Maybe,” Kincaid’s voice was quiet, “he started at a bar.”

Quincy didn’t say anything. Kincaid headed down the steep driveway at an unhealthy pace. Quincy grabbed the dash.

“Listen,” Kincaid was saying. “A letter’s a good sign. Guy’s making contact and every contact provides an opportunity. We started with the phone call to you. Now we’ve got an envelope, a letter, and a postmark all worth analyzing. All we need is a little saliva to seal the envelope, and we got DNA. A postmark close to home, and we have geography. Add the handwriting sample and we’ve nailed a suspect. This is a good thing.”

“I want the letter sent to the FBI lab.”

“Don’t piss me off.”

“Sergeant, with all due respect—”

“Our Questioned Documents unit is very good, thanks.”

“The bureau’s is better.”

“The bureau’s lab is all the way across country. We’d lose a day just in transport. My guys can handle the letter just fine, and they can get started this afternoon. You do understand the need for speed.”

“It’s always a matter of minutes,” Quincy said curtly. His gaze had gone out the window. “Always.”

“You ever work with a local you thought had brains?”

“Only the one I married.”

Kincaid arched a brow. He was still driving too fast, cutting S-curves and swinging around traffic. It was obvious to Quincy that the sergeant had once been a big fan of
Starsky and Hutch.

“Give me thirty minutes,” Kincaid said abruptly, “and I think you’ll change your tune.”

“You can find my wife in half an hour?”

“No, but I can find out if the author of the note actually took her.”

“How?”

“The letter included a map. Follow the directions to the scavenger hunt and discover proof of life. Guy’s reaching out, Mr. Profiler Man, and we’re going to nail him for it.”

“I’m going with you,” Quincy said immediately.

Kincaid finally flashed him a grin. “Somehow, I never doubted that.”

8

Tuesday, 8:33 a.m. PST

D
OWNTOWN
B
AKERSVILLE,
O
REGON,
wasn’t much—a four-block Main Street that housed a variety of family businesses, most of them struggling now that Wal-Mart had built on the outskirts. The Elks still maintained a lodge, which was actually an old bowling alley, painted bright blue. Then there was the corner florist, the Ham ’n Eggs diner three doors down from that, an office supply store, an undersized JC Penney’s. The businesses existed to serve the locals; most of the summer tourists passed straight through from the beaches in the south to the Tillamook Cheese Factory in the north.

Quincy couldn’t remember the last time he’d come into the town, but Kincaid seemed to know his way around. The sergeant swerved around one corner, made a hard right on the next. All the while he was working his cell phone. Calls for a detective to head straight for the
Daily Sun
and secure that note. Calls to his lieutenant, requesting more manpower. Calls for the crime lab and Latent Prints to get their butts to the coast. Then a call in to Sheriff Atkins, still conducting the search.

Finally, Kincaid had the public information officer back on the phone, getting the lowdown on people and titles at the
Daily Sun
.

Policing was management. It was throwing a million balls into the air, and keeping them all going without ever stepping out of bounds or disobeying the rules. It had been a long time since Quincy had been in the thick of it, working a fast-breaking case. He could feel the adrenaline rush whooshing up his spine, the unmistakable tingle of excitement, and it left him feeling vaguely guilty. His wife had been abducted. Surely it shouldn’t feel like the good old days.

Kincaid slapped shut his phone. A two-story cement structure had just appeared on their left, a seventies-issue office building, all flat roof and boxy angles. Kincaid careened into the parking lot and wedged the Chevy between two SUVs. Welcome to the
Daily Sun.

“I talk,” Kincaid said as he bounded out of the car. “You listen.”

“How many kidnapping cases have you worked before?” Quincy asked.

“Oh, shut up.” Kincaid headed into the building.

Inside, the hoopla was immediately obvious. Reporters, copy editors, and assistant gophers who should’ve been bustling around with the endless number of tasks that went into creating a daily paper instead hovered on their tiptoes inside the foyer. Some clutched manila file folders to their chests. Most, however, didn’t bother with pretense. Everyone knew something important had occurred, and all waited anxiously to see what would happen next.

Kincaid didn’t disappoint. The sergeant squared his shoulders, approached the receptionist, and flashed his badge, his expression pure TV-cool. “Sergeant Detective Carlton Kincaid, here to see Owen Van Wie,
immediately.
”

Van Wie was the publisher of the daily rag. He’d been contacted first thing this morning, and much to the PIO’s dismay, already had a lawyer on site. Thus far, at least, Van Wie was promising the paper’s complete cooperation. They’d see how long that lasted.

The receptionist led the way, Kincaid tipping his head in acknowledgment at the gathered masses.

“Carlton?” Quincy murmured behind him.

“Oh, shut up.”

The
Daily Sun
was a small-town paper, and the publisher’s office looked it. Cramped windowless space, one bank of strictly utilitarian gray metal filing cabinets, and one completely overwhelmed desk. Van Wie sat behind the desk. Across from him sat another man in a suit and tie. Lawyer, Quincy guessed.

The men already occupied the only seats in the room, leaving Kincaid and Quincy to stand shoulder to shoulder in the narrow doorway. Kincaid flashed his badge, providing quick, perfunctory introductions.

Quincy shook Van Wie’s hand, then met the publisher’s attorney, Hank Obrest. Suit was off-the-rack, tie a cheap polyester blend. Local lawyer for the local paper, Quincy thought. The two had probably gone to high school together and remained best buds ever since.

“You have the note?” Kincaid asked. The sergeant clearly wasn’t a fan of small talk.

“Right here.” Van Wie gestured to two sheets of paper lying in the middle of the desk. Both men were eyeing the letter warily, as if it were a bomb that might go off at any instant.

“Did you save the envelope?”

“Right next to it. Cynthia, that’s our Opinions Editor, she opened it first. She likes to use a letter opener, so it’s a nice clean slice along the top. Don’t know if that kind of thing helps you or not.”

Kincaid whipped out a handkerchief and used it to move the two pages closer to him. Quincy tried to scan the document first, but Kincaid’s shoulder blocked him.

“Who else touched it?” Kincaid asked.

“Mail department,” Van Wie answered, ticking off fingers. “Jessica, who sorts the letters. And probably Gary, Cynthia’s assistant.”

“We’ll need to print them for comparison.”

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” the publisher said.

“I’m sure it won’t,” Kincaid agreed firmly.

Quincy leaned to the left and, using a capped pen from his breast pocket, tugged the note into his field of view.

The letter was typed, cheap white copier stock, standard business format. No header, no footer. Only address listed was the one for the newspaper.

Dear Editor:

You don’t know me. I don’t live here. But I know this town. Last night, I kidnapped a woman who lives here. Do not be horrified. I am not a pervert.

I want money. $10,000 cash. I will return the woman alive. I am serious. I am professional. Follow the rules, and all will be well. Ignore me, and the woman will die.

I have included a map showing where to find proof of life. Find the X by noon or the woman will die.

Ignore this letter, and the woman will die. Remember, I am a man of my word.

Sincerely,
The Fox

Quincy read the note three times. Then he carefully pushed it aside. The second page, also cheap white office paper, revealed a crude drawing done in thick black pen. As the note implied, X literally marked the spot.

Quincy was already forming impressions in his mind, and his first instinct had been that the map would be complicated. Something that would clearly prove that the unidentified subject—UNSUB—was the one in control, and the police must obey his every command.

Instead, the map was nearly cartoonish in its simplicity. One walked out of the
Daily Sun,
headed south on 101, took a left, took a right, and ended up near the Tillamook Air Museum in a cemetery. Amateurish. Adolescent. And yet brilliant. A location remote enough that the chance of someone noticing a man there in the middle of the night was small. And distinct enough that it wouldn’t be hard for the police to find the “clue.”

Quincy read the note again. Then again.

He didn’t like the icy feeling beginning to settle in at his gut.

Kincaid was now examining the envelope. “Return address,” the sergeant murmured to Quincy. “Gives the initials W.E.H. and a street address in L.A. Trying to prove his point that he’s not from around here?”

“Maybe.”

“Postmark is Bakersville, however, so he mailed it in town.”

A knock at the door. A detective, Ron Spector, from OSP’s Tillamook County office had arrived. Kincaid stepped back into the hallway, where he and Spector huddled together, speaking in low tones.

Quincy reviewed the map again. Part of him wanted to bolt out the door, head to the air museum, and race through the cemetery in an ironic search for proof of life. But the cooler, analytic side of him understood an investigator should never rush. The ransom note itself was a treasure trove of information, not to be ignored. So much could be found in the small play of words. Let alone paper type, ink choice, fingerprints on the page, saliva on the seal. A detective should be assigned to chase down the return address. Quincy himself wanted to run a search of the initials, W.E.H., which were already niggling at the corners of his brain.

Something he’d seen before? Someone he knew?

There were so many pieces of the puzzle they hadn’t even begun to put into place. They had yet to canvass the local hotels and motels, to interview twenty- to forty-year-old males traveling alone. They had yet to retrace Rainie’s last steps, determine who might have seen her. Had she been drinking somewhere? Did she still have her gun?

That last thought gave Quincy pause. If the abduction had been random, maybe the UNSUB didn’t yet realize he’d taken a member of law enforcement. . . . At one point, Rainie had been able to reach her cell phone. What about her weapon?

The idea made Quincy feel curiously seasick. On the one hand, if Rainie stood up to her attacker, she might get away. On the other hand, how many killers had he interviewed over the years who claimed their bloodlust was initially triggered by a woman’s resistance?
She fought me, so I killed her.
For some men, it was really that simple.

Kincaid was back. He informed Van Wie that Detective Spector would now be handling things at the
Daily Sun
. Then Kincaid carefully picked up the two-page ransom note, still using the handkerchief. Detective Spector would enter the original pages into evidence and start the process of preserving chain of custody. Kincaid and Quincy, however, would need a copy of the note and the map for their own efforts.

At the last moment, Kincaid gestured for Quincy to follow him down the hall.

“What do you think?” Kincaid asked as they approached the copy machine.

“Simple,” Quincy said. “But clever.”

“Simple but clever? Come on, Mr. Profiler Man. Surely you earn those big bucks coming up with more than that.”

“I want a raunchy ruling analysis of the note,” Quincy said abruptly, “testing the paper for signs of indentation. Can your QD people do that?”

“They’ve been known to be competent.”

“You’ll ask for the test?”

“I’ve been known to be competent, too.”

“All right.” Quincy ignored the other man’s sarcasm. “I think the author of the note is lying. I think he’s telling us what he wants us to believe, but not what’s necessarily true.”

“Ah, so your first instinct is rampant paranoia. Do tell.”

“He claims he’s a professional. He claims it’s about money. But have you ever heard of a ransom case where the victim was random? Around here, given the demographics, you’d stand a decent chance of kidnapping someone who didn’t have the kind of resources necessary to meet the ransom demand.”

“Ten grand isn’t that much,” Kincaid protested.

“Exactly,” Quincy said. “Why ten thousand dollars? That’s not a lot of money for holding a person hostage.”

“He has to make the amount accessible. You said it yourself, this isn’t the richest part of the state. Plus, don’t get me wrong, but for some of us, a quick ten grand isn’t doing so badly.”

Quincy merely shrugged. “Why invite in the police? Don’t most ransom notes specifically state
not
to contact the authorities? For someone trying to score a quick ten grand, in your own words, he’s just bought himself a bigger headache.”

“Ah, but see, given this guy’s system, he has no choice. Without us affirming that it’s a ransom note and verifying proof of life, the family of the missing person wouldn’t know to take the letter seriously. And if the family of the victim doesn’t take things seriously, Señor Fox doesn’t get paid.” Kincaid had finished copying the two pages. Now he laid the envelope across the glass.

“Now let me tell you what I think. Point one—I actually agree with you. I think the note is a big ball o’ lies. But here’s where we differ. You think if the guy is lying, he must be devious. I think the guy is lying because he’s a rank amateur.”

“Ah, so
your
first instinct is basic stupidity.” Quincy spread his hands. “Do tell.”

“Okay, get this. Our guy—”

“The UNSUB.”

“Yeah, that’s right. In the feebie world, gotta have an acronym for everything. Okay, so our
UNSUB
. He needs to make some money. Now, I’m assuming this guy isn’t so bright and isn’t so together in this world. For that kind of mutt, ten grand can be a lot of dough. Maybe pay off a gambling debt.” Kincaid’s look was pointed; there were a number of casinos along the coast, and they brought with them the requisite casino issues, including gambling, loan-sharking, alcoholism. “Or maybe just pay off his new ATV. I don’t know. Thing is, for this guy, ten grand is enough, especially for a day’s work.”

“Day’s work?”

“Yeah, which brings me to point two: our UNSUB, he’s not sophisticated enough for a big operation. He needs something quick and easy. So instead of, say, identifying a target, tailing her for days, and then trying to figure out how to kidnap her from her home or at work, he goes with a crime of opportunity. Something easy. Say, a woman, who may have been drinking, pulled over in her car in the middle of the night.

“Of course, not knowing who this woman is or anything about her background, how can he make contact? Simple, use the local paper. And maybe in this case, we weren’t moving fast enough—I don’t know—so he decides to make direct contact as well. We’re still not talking anything that complicated. He has the victim’s cell phone, he uses a voice distorter any idiot can buy from Radio Shack. Boom, done.

“Now, if he’s watched any movies at all, he knows the first thing that’s required in these cases is proof of life. Well, he’s making this all up on the fly, so again, how to communicate? Hey, I know, bury it in the middle of a cemetery. That’ll get the job done, plus he can have a good chuckle, picturing a fine, handsome state detective trying desperately not to dig up any bones. God knows I’m gonna have to laugh about it.

“Then the UNSUB introduces a few deadlines, ’cause this yokel can’t afford for things to get drawn out. He sends the note before five p.m. the day before to ensure we’re called first thing in the morning. Gives us a deadline to find proof of life, to make sure we’re moving. I bet you now, we get to the cemetery, and we’ll find the drop details for the money, along with another deadline, in probably one, two hours. Hell, it’ll probably include another map. Stick money beneath tombstone A, find a map to tree B, where we’ll find the girl.