Pitfall (4 page)

Chapter Four

T
he traffic was surprisingly light as I tooled down Pershing Avenue toward home. I used that time to mull over the events of the past few hours.

After Jacob Cahill’s last remark, he’d then said, with an odd mix of sadness and desperation etched on his face, “The only salient question is, will you help us? Will you help us find our daughter?”

And what do you know? Even as I opened my mouth to tell him thanks, but no thanks, round yourself up someone else, I found I couldn’t.

“Mr. Cahill, I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you.” He dropped both hands down on his thighs and nodded, his voice tinged with relief. “Thank you.”

“You realize, of course, you’re getting shoddy goods here. In the missing persons department I’m batting oh-for-three.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have complete and total faith that you’re the man.”

I shook my head wryly. “Sir, you’re a piece of work, I’ll give you that.”

“Call me Jacob.”

“John. And Jacob, I hate to bring this up, but …”

“But we need to talk about limiting your liability, of course.”

I was glad I hadn’t had to draw him a map regarding this; business is business, after all. We spent the next few minutes going over my standard agreement, which stated I was doing this work as a favor, no money was changing hands, no promises made or implied, and so on. It went on to say that if required to in a court of law, Cahill would swear to this fact.

It’s at this point some people go a little sideways. The idea of appearing before a magistrate and vowing that whatever work I was doing for them was being done solely at the other person’s request sometimes is more than they can bear. But Cahill seemed fine, and stated the document was satisfactory.

We agreed on wording regarding time spent, saying the contract covered a week’s worth of work. I think the unsaid thing between us was we both knew that would tell the tale. In seven days Ms. Sarah Cahill would either be safe at home, or she’d never be. In today’s anything-goes climate, probably no one would ever know what had become of her, and that was simply unacceptable. After the things I’d suffered as a boy at the hands of my drunken father, I’ve never been able to tolerate the idea of the weak or helpless being abused. The thought of a girl like Sarah possibly undergoing unnamed horrors made my mouth go dry.

We stood to shake hands to consummate the deal. “I’ll need a recent photo of her. The newer the better.”

“A photo.” Cahill shook his head in frustration. “I knew I was forgetting something. I do have one, but I left it on my desk back at the office. It’s newer than the snapshot I keep in my wallet. She’s only fourteen in that one. If you’ll follow me over we can get it.”

“Fine.” We both walked out my office door and down the long carpeted hall, taking the stairs down one flight to the main floor. From there we walked out into the sunshine.

Cahill cranked his head up, squinting into the bright, dry, cobalt blue sky. In mid-August the humidity in southwest Ohio usually requires gills, but for a change the weather was pretty good. Not that that meant anything. Mercurial climate is something we’ve had to learn to endure in this part of the country. Give us ten more days and we’d have snow on the ground. Well, not really. Hyperbole, you understand.

Cahill regarded me. “I feel like a weight’s been taken off my shoulders. That there’s real hope now.”

He did look some better than he had an hour earlier when we’d first met. A bit of color had returned to his complexion, and his eyes were clearer.

But I felt caution was called for. One of us had to be the voice of reason, and I guessed that was me. “Don’t get too laid back yet, Jacob. I still have to find her.”

“You will. I have full confidence in that.”

Good. That made one of us.

He’d parked his car, a silver-gray 2011 Mercedes-Benz S600, in the parking space on the street right behind my Mustang; thankfully the street wreckers had finally abandoned their raucous task. He appeared startled when he saw me put my key in the old gal’s door.

“This is yours?” His mouth fell open. “I’ve seen it at the games, but didn’t know it was yours. A sixty-five ’Stang.” He gazed down at my car reverently and raised his eyes. “Big-block four twenty-five? Holley carb?”

“That’s right. And Glasspacks.”

“Glasspacks.” He lightly ran his hand over the flawless candy-apple red paint job. “I had one just like this when I was eighteen, except mine was electric blue.” A slight smile played around the corners of his mouth. “When this is over I’m going to buy another one. To celebrate.”

It occurred to me about this time that Jacob Cahill was a man of many parts, not the least of which was his implicit confidence in me. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t misplaced. Even though I was sure it was.

*

Hopping on Bypass 4, we took it to where it crossed Tylersville Road. Hanging a left, we kept going another half-mile before turning right into a blacktopped parking area that must have spanned an acre. At its far end hunkered a large brick-and-smoked-glass building with lush landscaping, and the name Prestige Industries displayed on the freestanding stone sign out front.

Cahill pulled into a slot with his name. I was about to go past him on my way to the visitor’s area when he waved me into the slot next to him.

After exiting our respective vehicles, we strolled up the main walk, passing a fountain in a circular area surrounded by concrete benches, blue, pink, and mottled red hydrangea bushes, and Japanese maple trees. Pretty. Taking in the outside security measures at a glance, I spotted several small video cameras hidden in their verdant branches. Maybe not so pretty.

Entering a nondescript, light-green lobby with brown marbled floors, we passed a semicircular-shaped counter manned by several alert-looking men wearing hunter green blazers with Prestige patches on their breast pockets. After producing his photo ID, which he hung from his neck on a nylon lanyard, Cahill picked up a visitor’s pass for me before we moved on. Just at the other end was another door, this one solid-looking, with scanners mounted on the right frame.

Cahill inputted his thumbprint and retina, opened the door, and we entered. In comparison to the main entry, the two-story lobby on the other side was gorgeous, and it was hard not to stare. Brass geegaws and huge predatory-looking ferns flocked, with smoked glass a-plenty all around, putting me in mind of the entrance to a better hotel instead of an office complex.

We passed an elevator bank, electing to use the staircase. As we climbed to the second floor I remarked, “This is a nice place. What’s Prestige do anyway?”

He glanced at me before looking away. “Aerospace projects. We’ve landed quite a few classified military and government contracts.” He shrugged. “You know.”

Well sir. That bore some discussion.

Reaching the top stair found us approaching a smaller lobby, illuminated with recessed, indirect lighting, and decorated in muted brown and green earth tones. The gray and black carpet beneath my feet was plush Berber, and soothing classical music, J. S. Bach’s
Air on a G String
(sometimes a hilljack can fool you with what he knows), softly played from hidden speakers deep in the walls. A hint of cinnamon graced the air. All in all, very nice.

The receptionist seated at the Danish modern desk wasn’t what most men would term attractive, but she had a professional bearing. Thin, ash-blonde, jewelry-free, and plainly dressed in a beige business suit, her brass nameplate listed her as one Susan Abernathy.

“Mr. Cahill.” Her voice came as a shock. It was a gorgeous instrument, a pure, lovely contralto, like something you’d hear on a late-night PBS radio station. This woman had missed her calling. “I thought you’d left for the day.”

“So did I. Say hello to Mr.  Brenner.”

“Mr.  Brenner. May I get you some coffee?”

“We won’t be here that long,” Cahill replied. “Please hold any calls for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gestured. “Right this way.”

I followed him as he turned and began padding down the long hallway to our left. As we did we started passing door after open door, and from inside those offices I could hear the sounds of people talking, pages turning, computer keys clacking, felt-tip markers on dry-erase boards squeaking, printers whirring, faxes squawking. This place was busier than a fiddler’s convention. War and airplanes are big business. I should know.

Unlocking a door that had his name stenciled in gold, he pushed it open, stepping back so I could go in first.

I gave his office my own version of the say-nothing, nodder, and thin-lips treatment as I strolled in. The room, like the man, was neat almost to the point of fastidiousness, done up in a pleasing dark cherry paneling that contrasted nicely with the deep-piled, blue-gray carpet. Diplomas and civic award plaques dotted the walls, and a large plate glass wall behind the dark cherry, Louis XIV desk overlooked the tree-dotted park-like area in back of the building.

Cahill walked over to that desk, which wasn’t quite as big as a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier. From it he plucked up one of those lacquered brass tri-fold picture frames like your granny keeps on the mantel, the kind featuring grainy black and white photos of people you don’t know wearing Depression-era hand-me-downs. At least in my family it was like that. Holding it up, he moved aside so I could see it better.

The center picture featured Cahill and two women, an older one and a younger, along with a little boy I recognized from my coaching duties as Billy. I assumed the women were his wife Ruth and daughter Sarah. Both were dark-haired beauties. The shot was of the four of them dressed up in evening finery, obviously on their way to a special event.

Jacob Cahill stood clad in a black cutaway complete with cummerbund, his son Billy in a wooly and uncomfortable looking little kid sport coat and trousers. Sarah wore a red cocktail dress, and was holding up what looked like car keys, while Ruth sported a stunning strapless burgundy evening gown set off by a string of graduated ivory pearls. All four were smiling, and they didn’t appear forced; they seemed genuinely happy. The photo on the right was a simple studio shot of Billy, while the one on the left was of Sarah alone, with that same studio look.

He gazed at the photos, and then looked up at me. “The picture in the middle is from last year. We were running late to our company Christmas party. Ted Larch took it. He and Sarah were attending a party later that night with some friends from her work.” Regarding what he held, his expression grew wistful. “She looks happy, doesn’t she? The car we gave her that year wasn’t much, a used Volkswagen Jetta, but you would have thought Ruth and I had handed her the keys to a Lexus.” His sad smile faded as his voice thickened. “She really was a wonderful girl …”

Realizing what he’d just said, his face grew stricken. “
Is! IS
a wonderful girl! Oh God, John!” Cahill slapped his hand over his mouth, and for a second I thought he was going to keel over. “What did I just
say?”

I didn’t like where this was going, at all, and my answer was even. “Just a slip is all it was, Jacob. Nothing more.” I pointed at the other two pictures, trying to get his mind off of morbid thoughts. “These are nice shots. A local studio?”

“No …” He seemed to be getting himself under control by degrees, his panic banked with a strong will. “No, last Thanksgiving I hired a professional to come in and take pictures of my family for our holiday card we send every year.”

“He’s very good.”

“Yes. He is.”

I turned and stared hard at him. “Listen, I need to ask you some tough questions, and I want straight answers.”

He grew guarded, his expression closing down. “I’ll try. What is it?”

“Before, as we were coming up the stairs, you alluded to Prestige having secured a lot of government defense contracts. Tell me about that.”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to—”

“Just answer the question.” I softened my tone. “I need to know.”

“Well … yes.. We’ve gotten our share. And that’s all I can really say. Why?”

“Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary around your home these past few days? Before your daughter went missing?”

“Out of the ordinary? In what way?”

“I mean has anyone approached you or your coworkers that you know of? Are they or your neighbors acting differently? Have there been strange cars in the neighborhood, odd letters, weird phone calls, anything like that? Think hard.”

“That I would have mentioned to you,” he bristled. “Why the third degree?”

“Simple. Espionage.”

“Espionage?”

“You work for a company that does classified business with Uncle Sam. Weaponry. Guidance systems. Who knows what. I saw the retina scan and thumb print you provided at the door, so I assume you have a top-level security clearance.”

“Of course. But—”

“Don’t you see? It’s called extortion. What better way of getting at you than to take your child?”

That seemed to throw him for a second. His mouth worked uselessly as he tried to formulate an answer. Frustrated, I wondered how he’d never even considered the possibility.

My gaze was as direct as my tone. “Jacob, this isn’t the time to be evasive. It’s like a big jigsaw puzzle. I have to find all the pieces, large and small, and then put them together. I’m good at that, but I need your help. So I can’t stress it enough: don’t hold anything back.”

“Well, I’m not aware of anything like you’re talking about.”

I held his eyes another moment, and then relented. “All right. But as long as we’re on the subject, I really do wish you’d reconsider involving the authorities.”

“No. I was hoping that wouldn’t be …” He swallowed. “Necessary. Something like that … well, it might affect my clearance.”

“Your clearance?” My eyes widened. “Good God, Cahill, this is your daughter we’re talking about.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” His voice had gone rough with anguish. “But if I lose my job over this, where will any of us be?”

“Whatever,” I said. “But if I strike out because of your stonewalling you’re going to have to do a whole lot better than that. You’ll have to contact the Feds then, and screw your job.” I inhaled deeply and blew it out. “Okay, we’ll let it go for now. But if anything unusual occurs, even if you think it’s nothing, let me know. By the way, don’t contact me again. As soon as I find out anything important, I’ll touch base using a burn phone.” Again I indicated the solo shot of Sarah. “I need her picture,” I reminded him.

“Okay. Sure thing. Sure, what was I thinking.” Cahill clumsily fumbled with the back of the frame a moment before it finally came off. Once more he looked at Sarah’s image, eyes welling at her shy, hopeful smile, before handing it over. A blind man could see this ordeal was about to kill him.

I began to take the picture, but the grieving father still held it. I met his gaze, waiting.

“Please.” The word was a whisper, his eyes spilling tears at last as they met mine. “Find her. She… I …” His voice caught, failed.