Touch & Go (26 page)

“Pessimism is an occupational hazard,” she granted. “So, one of our suspects has probably served time. Most likely, the FBI is already on it, but I’ll mention it when they next emerge from their cocoon. Anything else?”

“For a crime we keep saying is financially motivated, there’s a lot of financial motive right here. I mean, as long as you’re grabbing a family for ransom, why leave behind the gold and diamonds? The kidnappers don’t want a bonus for their efforts?”

“Disciplined,” Tessa stated. “That’s my theory. The kidnappers had a plan, and they stuck to it. Which scares me a little as Libby’s diamond alone must be worth an easy hundred grand. If you think about it, when the other guys aren’t looking, you could simply slide it in your pocket…”

Wyatt saw her point and it worried him a little, too. Essentially, they weren’t just looking for a professional, well-disciplined predator. They were hunting a professional, well-disciplined team.

“I think they kidnapped the wife and daughter in order to better control Justin,” he said abruptly. “Guy like him sounds like a natural-born fighter. With the lives of his wife and kid at stake, however…”

Tessa nodded shortly, that tight look back on her face. “Limits his options,” she murmured. “Another argument that the abduction team did their homework and came prepared.”

“But no ransom?”

“Nothing yet. Come on. I’ll take you upstairs.”

Upstairs turned out to be the third floor. A lot more evidence placards and signs of a struggle. Tessa walked him through the scene, the Boston cops’ theories on the chain of events. It all sounded good to
him. God knows, he’d never had the occasion to use urine drops to diagram a crime scene.

They completed their inspection, then Tessa once more headed downstairs. When they came to the second-floor landing, she was still walking, but he paused.

“What’s here?”

“Family room, guest bedroom, library.”

“I mean, in terms of the kidnapping.”

She shook her head. “There isn’t anything on this level.”

“And the top level, above the third floor?”

“Nothing.”

Wyatt frowned. “Meaning the activity was limited to the third floor, where the intruders got the girl, and the foyer, where they got the parents, then the kitchen, where they stacked the family goods after everyone had been subdued?”

Tessa nodded.

Wyatt looked at her. “Pretty precise, if you ask me. This is what, a six-thousand-square-foot town house? How many levels, how many rooms? And yet, to judge by the
lack
of evidence on certain levels, the kidnappers never wasted a step. In, out, done.”

She stilled slightly, and he could see the implications sinking in. “We already figure it’s an inside job—or at least, someone the Denbes knew gave out the security codes. But what you’re suggesting…”

“They’ve been here before,” Wyatt said bluntly. “Either as guests, or the same person who gave out the security codes also gave them a personal tour. Enough so they’d know exactly where to find Ashlyn’s bedroom and precisely where to stand to grab the parents walking in.”

“For that matter, they were briefed on the family’s habits,” Tessa added. “Because if Libby had driven, she and Justin would’ve entered from the lower-level garage, but he drove, meaning they used the front door.”

“Who would know such details?”

“The housekeeper, Dina Johnson. I would guess some close friends and acquaintances. Also Justin’s management team, the crew we met last night. I’m told they were all frequent guests in the home, plus it makes sense Justin might have given them security access in case they needed to fetch something for him, that sort of thing.”

“In other words, a decent-size pool of suspects,” Wyatt said. “Who’ve already fed us a bunch of stories.”

They’d arrived back in the main foyer. Kevin was no longer hunched over the floor, having probably worked his way to the kitchen.

“If this is about corporate gain,” Tessa said, “why kidnap? How does abducting Justin and his family assist with taking over Denbe Construction?”

Wyatt considered the matter. “Missing its leader, the company goes into crisis mode, meaning the management team can assume emergency control of Denbe Construction.”

“To what end? Justin is found, he takes it back over.”

“Unless he’s incapacitated. Hurt.” Wyatt paused. “Killed.”

Tessa nodded but wore a troubled frown. “It’s possible. God knows, there have been enough cases involving murder-for-hire by disgruntled business partners. It’s not always easy to understand what some people find worth killing over.” A chiming sound came from her pocket. She pulled out her cell, glanced at the screen. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

Wyatt nodded, wandering to the family room, where he eyed the hand-carved mantel one last time, then pulled out the thick sheaf of papers from his bag, and set about reading.

Next thing he knew, Tessa Leoni was standing beside him, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Got it!”

“Got what?”

“The answer to my question. Wait, is that the evidence log?” She pointed to his stack of papers. “You got the FBI to share the evidence log?”

“Not the FBI. Boston cops. I found their jacket, remember, and now I’m horning in on the FBI who horned in on them. Figured the detective in charge, Neil Cap, might feel like doing me a favor.”

Her eyes widened. “Well played.”

“The mountains aren’t all bears and moose,” he assured her modestly. “Sometimes, we deal with foxes, too. Now, your answer to your question?”

“How did Libby discover her husband’s affair?” she said immediately.

Wyatt blinked. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought about it. “The daughter? She visited the building to check out the competition, according to Anita Bennett.”

“Good guess, but according to Libby’s hairdresser, Libby found out about the other woman six months ago, whereas Ashlyn showed up in the lobby only three months ago. So
how
did Libby find out? Something she saw? Or something someone said?”

Wyatt perked up. He could see where this was going now. “Interesting.”

“This morning,” Tessa continued, “I requested the transcript from Libby’s phone. And get this: She received a text in the beginning of June, telling her she needed to keep a better eye on her husband. Then, two days later, asking her if she knew what he was doing during lunch. Then, a third text, the day after that, telling her to check his phone messages. Now get this: The texts to Libby’s phone come from a prepaid cell, no caller ID available.”

“Covering his tracks,” Wyatt mused.

Tessa smiled again. And her blue eyes were definitely brighter, and her face animated, and call him crazy, but he found himself holding his breath.

“Funny that you should say
his
tracks, because my first thought was
her
tracks. And the only woman I could think of who’d be in the know is the other woman, Kathryn Chapman. So I asked one of the research analysts at Northledge to run a full background. And guess what? You were right. I think it was
his
tracks. According to my brilliant research analyst, Kathryn Chapman’s uncle is none other than Justin’s second in command, Chris Lopez.”

Chapter 24

THE FIRST TIME I MET JUSTIN I was working at a friend’s clothing boutique. I helped with customers on the weekend, while tending to my fledgling jewelry business on the side. In return, my friend paid me next to nothing but agreed to display some of my pieces.

I heard the jangle of the front door opening, looked up from a rack of scarves I was rearranging and Justin walked in.

I can tell you everything about those first fifteen minutes of our relationship. I remember his brown hair, longer then, darker, the way it fell to the side of his forehead almost boyishly. I remember the size of him, the sheer physical presence of his broad shoulders, the way he seemed to literally block the sun. He wore blue jeans, but not the designer kind. Real honest-to-God, broken-in, clinging-to-his-long-legs jeans, as well as an olive green L.L. Bean barn coat and scuffed-up work boots.

Then, his smile. Quick, instantaneous. He looked at me, he broke into a huge grin and he declared, “Thank heavens, I’m saved!”

And just like that, I was lost.

I wanted to run my fingers through that hair. I wanted to feel the hard wall of his chest. I wanted the scent of him in my nostrils. I wanted to hear the rumble of that deep voice in my ear, over and over again.

He had needed a present that day, for a female friend. I, of course, sold him one of my original necklaces.

With my phone number on the tag.

Which led to our first date, where I can tell you exactly how his face looked, a little more sheepish now, almost shy as he offered up a single yellow rose, then held out his hand to boost me into his old Range Rover. Please excuse the mud, the scattering of pencil bits and, oh yeah, the rolls of building plans. He was in the construction business, he said, hazards of the trade.

I remember the look in his eyes the first time we made love, not that evening, though I would’ve. Not until date number four, and his blue eyes were so intent, so focused on my face, every sigh coming out of my mouth, every undulating move of my body, I felt as if he were trying to memorize me. This is Libby. This is what Libby likes.

Later, he confessed that he’d been nervous, and that made me laugh so hard he swore he’d never tell me a secret again.

Except he did. He told me he loved me before I ever confessed that I loved him. He told me I’d be his wife one day, before I knew it myself.

Then, that Thursday night, when he returned home from a particularly long and grueling business trip, and I greeted him with a bouquet of pink and blue balloons and the news I was pregnant, the total sea change of expressions across his face. From weary exhaustion to squinty-eyed confusion to slow-dawning joy. Followed by complete and utter adoration. He dropped his bag. He swooped me up, and the balloons broke free, escaping out the open door as we laughed, then cried, and I can taste to this day the salt on his cheeks.

The memories of a marriage. The faces of my husband. So many moments, when I saw him so clearly. So many moments, when I
know
he saw me.

Is that what you lose over time? Not so much a loss of affection, as a slow clouding of your own sight? We became less and less focal points for each other, and more like pieces of furniture to maneuver around in the course of everyday life. I know there were times in the
past few months when I sat across from my husband, as high as a kite, and willed him to look at me. Then, when he continued to calmly shovel dinner into his mouth, I poured myself another glass of wine in order to fill the void.

It’s hard to realize you’re invisible in your own life. But maybe the blindness was mutual. Because if not for three texts sent to my cell phone, I never would’ve guessed Justin was having an affair. Meaning that somewhere along the lines, my own husband had also become unnoticed by me.

But I was seeing him now.

I traced the swelling of his right eye. The five lacerations on his cheek. The lower lip that still welled with a single drop of blood. The ugly evidence of more bruises around his neck and shoulders.

His brown hair, silvered now with age, felt damp, as if the pain of the beating had made him sweat. And he smelled rank and terrible, or maybe that was me.

The dehumanization process, meant to break us, to turn us into animals.

But I wasn’t going to let it. I refused to let our kidnappers win.

I was looking at my husband. I was seeing him again, a good man who’d taken a beating to protect his wife and daughter. A brave man, who had to be in agonizing pain, but didn’t utter a single complaint as Ashlyn and I slowly roused him to standing, then eased him into the lower bunk.

My husband.

I sent my daughter to bed. She’d had enough for one night and needed the rest. Then, though my hands still shook uncontrollably, and I had to pause on occasion to recover my breath, I slowly and gently washed the worst of the blood from Justin’s face.

He sighed.

I kissed the corner of his mouth.

He sighed again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I wish…”

“Shhhh. Rest now.”

I got him to quiet down. Then I fell asleep, still sitting up on the edge of the bunk, holding my husband’s hand.

THEY DIDN’T COME FOR US first thing in the morning. Maybe they decided they’d tortured us enough the night before. Or, more likely, they were catching up on their own rest.

Our narrow window lightened with daylight. I awoke with a crick in my neck from sitting with my back against a metal bunk post. I felt weak but less achy. More like a middle-aged woman, badly in need of water, food and a good night’s sleep.

The pills, I figured. Whatever Radar had provided was masking the worst of my withdrawal, temporarily reducing my symptoms. I didn’t know what that might be. Not Vicodin, because that always provided a lovely glow, a softening of life’s hard edges. I felt none of that. No melting wonderland, just fewer tremors, less nausea and despair.

I should ask Radar about the medication, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Right now, this moment, I was doing better. Given our current situation, I had a feeling that was as good as it was going to get.

I used the toilet while my family slept, then refilled the water jug from the sink, which, given the barely-there trickle, was an accomplishment. This must be what inmates did with their time in prison. Stood around waiting to get enough water out of the faucet to wet a finger, rinse their mouths, wash their faces.

I took tiny sips out of the jug, working on hydration while I peered out the window in the cell door, eyeing the cavernous, overlit expanse of the dayroom, wondering where our attackers might be lurking next.

To the far left end of the dayroom was a bank of showers. Broad, white-tiled stalls, six down, six up. On the left end of the stacked rows loomed one particularly large stall with metal support bars bolted to each wall. Handicap accessible. Things you don’t think about. That not all members of the prison population are big, tough guys. Some are injured or aging or otherwise impaired.