Touch & Go (25 page)

Work, work, work.

Risk, risk, risk.

If these guys were truly professionals, why expose themselves to
the hazards of grabbing an entire family? Especially if the most financial gain could be made by simply kidnapping Justin himself?

Wyatt didn’t like it.

Two A.M. to three A.M. to four A.M.

Why take the entire family? Why not just kidnap Justin Denbe?

And thirty hours later, where the hell was the ransom demand?

WYATT ROLLED OUT OF BED AT SIX. He showered, which made him feel moderately human, then shaved, which definitely made him feel better, and finally changed into a fresh uniform he kept packed in a duffel bag, because in his line of work, an initial call out had been known to involve several days away from home.

Too early to call the North Country yet. If his people had real news, either from the hotline or direct public contact or from the campground searches, they would’ve let him know, regardless of the hour. His cell phone had no messages, same with his voice mail, which led him to believe they were still in the all-pain, no-gain phase of their investigation. Fair enough.

HE HEADED DOWNSTAIRS to retrieve a fax from the Boston PD, and found Kevin already in the lobby, holding two large cups of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

“Good man,” Wyatt said, grabbing the thick bundle of papers, then accepting the offered coffee. He looked around. The lobby was deserted.

“They provide a continental breakfast,” Kevin commented. “Can you believe it doesn’t open till seven thirty on a Sunday?”

Wyatt grunted, took a sip. He liked Dunkin’ Donuts regular. Nearly white with cream and heavy with sugar. Good stuff.

“Sleep?” Kevin asked.

“Who needs it? You?”

“I watched pay-per-view. But not porn. I know they make this big deal about
none
of the movie titles showing up on the hotel bill, but that just makes everyone look like they’ve been viewing porn.”

“Good to know.”

“You don’t talk much in the morning.”

“And you talk entirely too much.”

The men headed for a small table in the common room. No one around, so they didn’t have to worry about prying eyes or keen hearing.

“Game plan for the day?” Kevin asked.

“Stick around. Unless we get a development from up north, only real crime scene is here, not to mention all the players are in the city as well. Tricky, trying to profile an entire family. The number of interviews, background reports… We need more manpower. ’Course, we don’t have it to give.”

“FBI will start throwing more bodies at it, especially now that the family’s beyond the twenty-four-hour mark,” Kevin said. “Won’t have a choice. It’s been, what, a day and a half, and we have no leads, not even a ransom demand.”

“FBI’s gonna set up a command center. I’m guessing they’ll bring in a mobile unit, park it in front of the Denbes’ town house. They’ll be thinking seriously about preparing for contact from the kidnappers, wiring the house, tapping the landlines, all that stuff. I bet they keep the Denbes’ mobile phones as well. Just in case a call comes through them.”

“Can you text a ransom demand?” Kevin mused. “Especially on the teenager’s cell. There’s something suitably ironic about that.”

“Hell, if you can sext, why not ransom text? Textortion? Sounds good to me.”

Kevin took a sip of his own coffee. “So what do you think of Tessa Leoni? You got to interview with her last night.”

Wyatt shrugged. “She asked good questions. Can’t get a vibe on her relationship with Denbe Construction, though. On the one hand, they’re her client, on the other hand, it seemed to be her first time meeting any of them.”

“First,” Kevin confirmed. “Looked it up last night. Denbe has had Northledge on retainer for the past seven years, but it doesn’t appear to be a major account. Northledge probably provides routine background checks on prospective employees, that sort of thing, which is handled lower on the Northledge food chain than Tessa Leoni. Her boss saves her for more strategic situations.”

“This would be a situation needing some strategy,” Wyatt concurred, but he was frowning. “She seems kind of young to be the investigative big guns.”

“Twenty-nine. Served four years as a Massachusetts state police trooper. Two years at Northledge.”

“Twenty-nine? Shit, that’s barely out of investigative diapers.”

“She seems to be able to make it work,” Kevin said. “Her last employee review was positively glowing.”

“How can you know that? Seriously? From surfing the Internet in the middle of the night?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

Wyatt shook his head, finished up his coffee. “I want to head over to the Denbes’ residence. So far, we’re taking everyone else’s word for what happened. Nothing personal, but I want to know for myself.”

“We need contact,” Kevin observed, downing his own cup. “A ransom demand, something. That will get our wheels humming again.”

“Nah, we don’t need to wait for the kidnappers to find us. We need to use good old-fashioned investigative techniques in order for us to find them. Starting with answering my question of the day.”

“Which is?”

“If this is just about money, why take the entire family?”

“Oh, I can answer that.”

“Really? Dazzle me, Brainiac.”

“Economies of scale. You heard the construction team’s description of Justin Denbe. Big guy, handy with a gun, tough in body and spirit. Would you send one person to grab a man like that?”

Wyatt saw his point. “Guess not.”

“Except, the moment you get more bodies involved, you’re also slicing up the ransom pie. One guy grabbing Justin Denbe would earn two million. But three guys grabbing Justin Denbe only get six hundred sixty-six thousand six hundred and sixty-six dollars. Not nearly the same payday, given the amount of work. However, add in the wife at one mil and the daughter at another mil, and suddenly, the math becomes attractive again.”

“Economies of scale. Except, the wife and child add risk, too. Three people to control, transport, house and feed. Seems like you’re back to adding manpower and diluting payoff. Except…”

And suddenly Wyatt had it. The thought that had been with him since 2:00 A.M. Why you would take a family, and not just a man. Why a case was never about P and Ls, but always about what made people tick.

“Control,” Wyatt stated, and the moment he said the word, he knew he was right. “Think about it. A guy with Justin Denbe’s reputation—the kidnappers figure they’ll need multiple men to grab him and even then, they’re nervous. Which is an even better reason for taking the wife and daughter. Justin Denbe, on his own, might fight back. But now, with these guys holding his family… Whatever he tries, his wife and only child will pay the price.” Wyatt paused, shook his head. “Man, these guys are good.”

THEY FOUND THE DENBES’ BROWNSTONE shortly after 8:00 A.M. Wyatt wasn’t an urban guy, but their quaint, tree-lined avenue, featuring
row after row of meticulously restored historical town houses, he could get into. This was the face of Boston that tourists paid good money to see. Not to mention an architectural advertisement for how the other half lived.

The neighborhood was quiet this early on a Sunday morning. The street was completely lined with cars, of course. Porsche Carreras, Volvo station wagons, Mercedes sedans. If this is what the residents felt comfortable parking on the street, Wyatt could only wonder at what they had stashed in private garages.

He didn’t see any sign of a mobile command center outside the Denbes’ home, wasn’t even sure where there was space for such an immense vehicle to park. He also couldn’t make out the sign of major police presence but figured Boston had ordered roving patrols, that sort of thing. In case the Denbes suddenly resurfaced. Or even luckier for them, the kidnappers returned to the scene of the crime.

For now, the only sign that something wicked had this way come was a relatively discreet line of yellow crime-scene tape across the top section of the front door. Probably to keep from over-alarming the neighbors. Or, even to maintain good relations within the community. After all, people who paid this kind of money for real estate probably didn’t want any perceived disruptions to their homes’ net worth.

Kevin circled the block four or five times. They finally parked in a public garage and hoofed it back. Nice morning for a walk. Chilly, as the air carried a late-fall bite. But the sun was out, the redbrick sidewalk warming and the town houses’ various-colored facades glowing as they narrowed in on their target.

The Denbes’ front door—dark-stained walnut, he thought—was closed. Wyatt started with the basics: He knocked.

And the door opened.

For a second, he stood there, slack-jawed. Watching the heavy wood swing open, thinking, My God, they’re back! But then the walnut door completed its inward arc and he found himself staring at
Tessa Leoni, in crisp black trousers and a white dress shirt. She could’ve been a Realtor, except for the rather large gun holstered at her hip.

“Figured you’d pay a visit,” she stated without preamble. “A good investigator always has to see for himself.”

She took a step back and allowed Wyatt and Kevin to enter the home.

WYATT FELL IN LOVE WITH THE STAIRCASE. He tried not to stare. Hell, it was all he could do not to run his hands over such richly grained hardwood. Mahogany, he was guessing. Freshly oiled, patina darkened. And, oh, the graceful curve of the lower landing, the hand-hewn craftsmanship of each individual spindle, the hours of meticulous, painstaking labor.

Except, then he turned away from the staircase toward the front sitting room to discover built-in shelves, a gorgeously restored fireplace mantel, the original crown dentil molding… He gave up. He stood in the middle of the foyer, strewn with crime-scene placards and dusted with fingerprint powder, and he beheld a carpenter’s wonderland.

“Impressive, huh?” Tessa remained standing next to the door. He noticed she had a thing for personal space. And she wore her dark hair pulled back a tad too tight, as if she cared less for hairstyle and more for control.

“Holy shit,” he observed politely.

She smiled, her shoulders coming down a fraction. “By all accounts, Libby Denbe was the hostess with the mostest. Had a degree in creative arts, something like that, which you can see in some of the color choices. At least, they seem very creative to me, given that my own house is mostly white, white and, well, white.”

“Where do you live?”

“Just bought a little bungalow in Arlington. Small probably by New Hampshire standards, but works for me.”

“You got a family?”

“A daughter.” She eyed him thoughtfully, as if slightly surprised. “My husband died two years ago.” Another expectant pause. Wyatt looked around the foyer. Kevin was already busy examining the evidence placards, his brow furrowed in concentration, which meant that Wyatt was on his own.

“Sorry to hear that,” he drawled politely.

She smiled again, but it was ironic now. “It’s because you’re from New Hampshire,” she murmured. “I forget, sometimes, that not everyone cares about Boston news. Would you like the nickel tour? The feebies have yet to leave their mobile command center, meaning for the moment, the place is ours.”

Wyatt drew up short. “Mobile command center? Where?”

“The back alley that runs behind the townhomes. That’s where everyone has garage access, parking spaces, the less glamorous stuff. That’s how Back Bay works. You get these beautiful scenic streets, say, Marlborough, where you behold the front facade of each town house. Then you get a narrow back alley that runs behind it, featuring the much less glamorous rear of each building. Boston FBI pulled in last night. Big white mobile command center, very pretty on the outside, I’m betting lots of cool toys on the inside. Now, my turn: Is it just me, or do you have a history with the blond agent?”

“Nicole?” Wyatt fell in step beside Tessa and she led him away from the foyer toward what appeared to be the kitchen. “History is the operative word.”

“She good?”

“I’d say so. Smart, resourceful, ambitious. If I were missing, I wouldn’t mind her handling my case.”

“Good to know.”

Arriving in the state-of-the-art kitchen, first thing Wyatt spotted
was the pile of personal possessions topping the granite island. The FBI had left the items intact, Tessa informed him, as they had some behavioral expert returning today to further study the scene. Not to mention, it wasn’t necessary to remove the mobile phones to analyze them; the cellular provider had already faxed over transcripts of messages, texts and call histories.

There was something about the cache of personal possessions that bothered Wyatt. It was more than simply removing items that could be used to call for help or potentially aid in a victim’s escape; it was dehumanizing. Divesting the fifteen-year-old of her metallic orange cell phone with her Swarovski crystal initials stickered on the back. Stripping off the wife’s engagement ring and wedding band. Taking the husband’s obviously well-used, well-loved, battered red Swiss Army knife.

It also invoked a sense of déjà vu. He had to think about it, circle the pile for a moment, consider multiple angles. Then, it came to him:

“Prison intake,” he said.

Tessa glanced up from her own inspection.

“When you’re first admitted into jail, they take all your personal possessions,” he continued. “Jewelry, wallets, money, keys, phone, cash, everything. You place it in a pile, slide it over. That’s what this looks like. Prison intake.”

Tessa nodded thoughtfully. “So possibly one or more of our offenders has a history.”

“Unfortunately, that doesn’t limit the suspect pool much,” Wyatt said dryly. “We were already thinking professionals, and many of them have logged time. You know, that way they can continue their education with even more experienced felons, while forming new alliances to assist with fresh criminal activities upon release.”

“But never call you cynical.”

Wyatt looked at her. “Versus your natural well of optimism?”

That smile again. Larger, more genuine. Made her look, for a second,
like a woman still in her twenties. It occurred to him that Tessa Leoni’s natural state seemed to be almost wary, as if on guard against some danger he hadn’t identified yet. A story there. Definitely a story there.