Gone (9 page)

Kincaid didn’t miss a beat. “No. There’s no indication the victim has crossed state lines, and nothing here our own crime lab can’t handle. Naturally, we appreciate the assistance of local and county investigators with our efforts.”

“Aw, shucks,” Sheriff Atkins said.

Kincaid flashed her an equally gracious smile.

Quincy, however, had had enough.

“Final immediate task?” he asked incredulously. “What about securing the fairgrounds? What about procuring the ransom money? What about wiring a female officer? The tasks you just outlined will take days to complete. We have two hours.”

Kincaid wouldn’t look at him. Neither would Mosley. The room took on a sudden, expectant hush. And in that silence, Quincy finally understood. He slammed his fist on the table.

“I’m going to pay the money,” he said harshly. “Goddammit, you cannot stop me from paying that money.”

“Mr. Quincy—”

“She is my wife! She is a fellow member of law enforcement, how dare you—”

“We are going to make every effort in our power to find your wife.”

“Except follow his instructions!”

“We’re not going to disregard them either. Lieutenant Mosley and I were discussing it earlier; I think it’s highly appropriate to open a two-way dialogue—”

“No! It’s too big a risk. We don’t know enough, I won’t allow it.”

Kincaid fell silent again. Lieutenant Mosley, too.

And then Quincy got the rest of it. He had been so pleased Kincaid had let him participate in the investigation. He had never stopped to wonder about Kincaid’s motives. For example, did he really value Quincy’s help, or did he just want to keep the former investigator busy?

When Quincy spoke again, his voice wasn’t angry anymore. It was deceptively quiet. “When?”

Kincaid glanced at his watch. “The special edition of the
Daily Sun
is probably rolling off the presses as we speak.”

“Who crafted the message?”

Kincaid didn’t flinch. “I did.”

“You’re not qualified. Call the FBI. Get a profiler. Do things right.”

“I would never heedlessly endanger the life of the hostage,” Kincaid said firmly. “Our message is simple and clear. We will absolutely pay the ransom, we just need more time. That works in all of our favors, Mr. Quincy, including Rainie’s.”

“You don’t understand yet. It’s not about the money, Sergeant Detective Kincaid. It’s about power: his desire to have it and hold it over our heads—”

“Thank you, Mr. Quincy.”

“One wrong word from you and he’ll kill her out of spite.”

“Thank you, Mr. Quincy.”

“You need to bring in a professional—”

“It’s
done,
Mr. Quincy. It’s done.”

In the silence that followed, Quincy felt those words like a blow to the chest. The breath caught in his lungs. He could feel his heart race, adrenaline, anger, anguish. Thirty years. Thirty years of building a knowledge base, of honing an instinct, of earning a reputation for being the best of the best. And now, when it mattered most, when Rainie was out there, helpless, vulnerable, needing him . . .

He gathered up his things. He made it out the front doors just as the skies opened up and it once more started to rain.

14

Tuesday, 2:38 p.m. PST

S
HELLY
A
TKINS CAUGHT UP
with him in the parking lot. She ran up behind him. Quincy turned at the last minute, shoulders hunched, lips thinned. He wasn’t in the mood and felt no need to disguise it.

The sheriff came to a halt several feet back. She didn’t speak right away. The rain pelted between them, running in rivulets off Shelly’s hat and forming puddles at their feet.

“Long night,” she said at last.

Quincy shrugged. They’d all been up since the early hours of morning; it wasn’t worth discussing to him.

“State likes to run their own show,” the sheriff tried again.

“They always do.”

“I talked to Luke Hayes this morning. He had a lot of nice things to say about your wife. As a person, as an investigator. He was real surprised to find out she’d gone missing. He said he’d do some asking around on his own.”

“I appreciate that.”

“He also said you used to work with the bureau, that you’re pretty good at these things.”

Quincy merely shrugged again.

“Do you think he’s local?” she asked abruptly. There was no need to define who.

“I think the UNSUB knows this area,” Quincy stated carefully. “I think he’s either lived here in the past, or at least visited enough to be very familiar with the terrain. Kidnappings entail complicated logistics; an UNSUB would want to be somewhere he feels comfortable.”

“I read somewhere,” Shelly said, “that most ransom cases have a personal connection. A business partner, a family member, or hell, even a loan shark, looking to get back something owed to them.”

“Rainie didn’t gamble, I’m her business partner, and the only debt we have is our mortgage. Though with banks these days . . . maybe I shouldn’t put anything past them.”

The rain was picking up, starting to come down in sheets. The sheriff didn’t seem to notice. Quincy had already spent so much of the day being wet and tired, he didn’t care that much himself. Maybe they never should’ve moved to Oregon, he found himself thinking. Maybe if he’d demanded that they remain in New York, Rainie would still be safe.

“Kincaid’s not so bad,” Shelly offered up at last.

“He has his moments.”

“And all of us, we’re going to work real hard on this.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Of course, if I were you, I wouldn’t want to take anyone at their word.”

Quincy cocked his head, finally eyeing the sheriff with interest.

“I’d want to do my own asking around,” Shelly was saying. “I’d want some good ideas of where to start.”

“Yes,” Quincy agreed quietly. “I would like that.”

“I had a deputy making some calls this morning, routine checks of places Rainie was known to frequent. You know, in case she magically showed up. One of those calls was to Dougie Jones’s foster mom, Laura Carpenter. According to her, the minute she mentioned Rainie’s name, Dougie asked if she was missing. Dougie seemed to think that Rainie was a liar, and liars get what they deserve.”

“What else did Dougie say?”

“Mrs. Carpenter didn’t have anything else to report. ’Course, Dougie’s statement does seem to warrant some kind of follow-up. Then again, Dougie doesn’t do so well with uniforms. Or for that matter, men.”

“Then it’s a good thing my daughter’s coming to town,” Quincy said.

“Why, yes, it would be.” Shelly Atkins finally cracked a smile. It took ten years off her age and made him notice her eyes once again. She had soft brown eyes. It was hard to imagine a woman with eyes like that ever telling a lie.

“What brought you to Bakersville, Sheriff Atkins?” he heard himself ask.

“The job. Used to work in La Grande. In comparison, this is a big step up.”

“Miss the quiet old days yet?”

She grinned at him. “Never in a million years.”

Shelly trotted back toward the Fish and Wildlife building just as a car turned into the parking lot. Quincy caught a glimpse of Kimberly behind the wheel, Mac in the passenger’s seat.

Quincy had a plan. Now he had his own crew. He also had one last item Kincaid had neglected to grab when Quincy had bolted from the room—his cell phone. The kidnapper had already called it once. Quincy was willing to bet money he’d call it again soon.

Tuesday, 3:01 p.m. PST

“W
ELL, TO GIVE THE
OSP
CREDIT,
the statement’s not half bad,” Kimberly said fifteen minutes later. They were seated in Martha’s Diner, on the outskirts of town. It had always been a favorite spot of Rainie’s; she was addicted to Martha’s homemade blueberry pie. Quincy had ordered a piece. It sat, uneaten at the table, like a memorial.

Kimberly pushed the
Daily Sun
across the table toward Quincy. Rainie’s kidnapping was front-page news, except that her name and occupation were never revealed. Quincy could read signs of the OSP’s influence everywhere. Key facts had been withheld to keep from informing the abductor of things he may not yet know. Other leading statements had been deliberately included—victim may have last been seen at a bar—in an attempt to elicit information from the public.

The article concluded with a formal statement from the PIO. “‘We are eager to work with the abductor in this matter,’ said Lt. Mosley, ‘to do everything in our power to ensure the return of the victim, safe and sound. Unfortunately, new federal banking requirements do not allow us to meet the abductor’s current demands in the time frame given. We encourage the abductor to call us immediately, at a number set up just for his use, so that we may discuss this matter with him and work out an agreeable payment plan. Again, we understand the abductor’s demands and we want to be of help, we just need a little more time.’”

The number was at the end of the article, a hotline that probably led straight to the op center, where an entire task force and a tape recorder were standing by. Quincy thought that was too obvious. He had his own ideas about what number the UNSUB would call, and it wasn’t some police-controlled hotline.

“So the abductor calls in,” Kimberly said, “and they have an expert ready to negotiate.”

“I believe they have Kincaid ready to negotiate. I don’t know yet if I would call the sergeant an expert.”

“But you don’t think he’s a dumb bunny.”

“I will grant him one step above bunny level of intelligence.”

“I see the bloom is off the rose,” Mac murmured. He was working his way through an enormous piece of chicken-fried steak with apparent gusto.

On the other hand, Kimberly had inherited her father’s lack of appetite. Her tuna salad remained largely ignored; same with his cup of soup.

“OSP’s strategy?” Kimberly asked her father.

“Kincaid didn’t feel it necessary to share the details with me, but I would assume they’re going with the classic approach: buy time to allow the police to further their investigation and get their ducks in a row. If all goes as planned, they’ll find Rainie before it ever gets to a ransom drop.”

“New federal banking requirements.” Mac finished the last bite of steak, pushed away his plate. “Nice touch, but only if the guy hasn’t done his homework.”

“Kincaid’s current assumption is that the kidnapper is of limited educational background. The local yokel, if you will.”

Mac grinned at that. “And you?”

“The means of communication has been simple but clever. The notes, while short, are properly spelled and adequately articulated. Some aspects of behavior have been crude, but then again, very effective.”

“Simple does not necessarily equal dumb,” Kimberly murmured.

“Exactly.”

“Well, the guy had to have something going for him to abduct a woman like Rainie. I can’t imagine her falling for just any ruse, or going down without a fight.”

Quincy didn’t say anything. The silence grew long, and in that silence he heard months’ worth of fighting and arguing and worrying. He had never said anything to Kimberly about it. He hadn’t wanted to violate Rainie’s privacy. Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to admit to anyone, not even his daughter, that his second marriage was failing.

Kimberly and Mac exchanged a look. Quincy saw it, but still couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“Was she really at a bar?” Kimberly finally asked, voice gentle.

“I don’t know. We have yet to retrace her last steps.”

“Dad, you should know her last steps.”

“You assume I was still living at the house.”

“Oh, Dad.” Kimberly reached across the table, squeezed his hand. She and Mac exchanged another look, with Mac suddenly declaring, “I think I’ll go to the bathroom.”

“No, no.” Quincy removed his hand, shaking aside his daughter’s concern and Mac’s obvious ploy. He forced himself to sound firm, matter-of-fact. For a man who’d spent most of his life dissembling, it wasn’t so hard after all. “It’s not a secret, certainly nothing the Oregon State Police don’t already know. Rainie and I have separated. It happened last week. I had hopes that it would be temporary. I thought if I left, it might shock her into finally stopping drinking.”

“Oh, Dad.” Kimberly sounded dismayed again. In contrast, Mac was to the point.

“When?”

“It started several months ago. At least that’s the best I can tell. We were called in for a double homicide in August. The scene involved a mother and her small child. Rainie’s been struggling ever since.”

“You’ve both been to bad scenes before,” Mac said.

“Define bad,” Quincy challenged with a shrug. “As a professional, I can give you theories. That the combined weight of so many cases finally caught up with her—the tipping point, if you will. That actively preparing to adopt a child made her more vulnerable to this particular case—lack of compartmentalization, if you will. None of it really matters. At the end of the day, it seems that each and every member of law enforcement has that one case that hits too close to home. You had your case several years ago, Mac. In August, Rainie found hers.”

Mac looked away. He wasn’t going to comment on that, and they knew it.

“What about the upcoming adoption?” Kimberly asked. “That must have given Rainie something to look forward to.”

“It fell through.”

“Oh, Dad,” Kimberly murmured again.

“Naturally, the separation puts me in a slightly different light in the OSP’s eyes,” Quincy said briskly. “Sergeant Kincaid has opted to share some details of the investigation with me, but has obviously kept many more to himself.”

“Lovely,” Mac muttered. “As if you don’t have enough things to worry about.”

“In the good-news department,” Quincy continued, “I seem to have found an ally in Sheriff Shelly Atkins, Luke Hayes’s successor. She gave me a lead: Apparently the boy Rainie has been working with, Dougie Jones, commented first thing this morning that Rainie might be missing. He called Rainie a liar and said liars get what they deserve.”

“You think a child did it?” Kimberly asked with a frown.

“Dougie’s seven, which makes that doubtful. But then again . . .” Quincy shrugged. “He’s a troubled, mixed-up boy who’s led a troubled, mixed-up life. It’s quite possible he knows something about what happened.”

“So when do we go talk to him?” Mac spoke up, pushing away from the table and gesturing for the bill.

“I was thinking Kimberly would interview him. Soon as possible.”

“Me?” Kimberly looked around the table.

“Dougie doesn’t like cops or men.”

Kimberly narrowed her eyes. “And while I’m following up with this charming young boy, what are you two going to be doing?”

“Going to the fairgrounds, of course. Kincaid spent a lot of time and energy preparing the newspaper article, but he also made one very big assumption: that the UNSUB would read it before four p.m.”

“Oooh, fun,” Mac murmured, already reading between those lines.

Quincy said, “My thought exactly.”