And Shaw reminded himself that it was possible these documents had no relevance whatsoever. They’d been compiled not long before October 5, yes, yet look by whom they’d been compiled: a man whose relationship with reality had, by that time, grown thread-thin.
As Shaw stretched, looking up from examining a picture of an old New England courthouse, he happened to see a car moving slowly along the street, pausing at his Malibu. It was a Nissan Altima, gray, a few years old, its hide dinged and scraped. He couldn’t see the driver—too much glare—though he did notice that he or she didn’t sit tall in the seat. Just as Shaw was rising, phone ready for a picture of the tag, the vehicle sped up and vanished around the corner. He hadn’t seen the tag number.
The person from last night? The person spying on him from above San Miguel Park? Which begged the all-important question: Was it X?
He sat down once again. Call the Task Force?
And, then, what would he tell Wiley?
His phone hummed. He looked at the screen: Frank Mulliner. They weren’t scheduled to meet for an hour.
“Frank.”
“Colter.” The man’s voice was grim. Shaw wondered if the young woman’s health had taken a bad turn; maybe the fall had been worse than it seemed originally. “There’s something I have to talk to you about. I’m . . . I’m not supposed to but it’s important.”
Shaw set down the cup of superb coffee. “Go ahead.”
After a pause the man said, “I’d rather meet in person. Can you come over now?”
26.
A white-and-green Task Force police cruiser sat like a lighthouse in front of the Mulliners’. The uniformed deputy behind the wheel was young and wore aviator sunglasses. Like many of the officers Shaw had spotted in the HQ, his head was shaved.
The deputy had apparently been told that Shaw was soon to arrive, along with a description. A glance Shaw’s way and he turned back to his radio or computer or—after Shaw’s indoctrination into the video gaming world yesterday—maybe Candy Crush, which Maddie Poole had told him was considered a “casual” game, the sort played to waste time on your phone.
Mulliner let him in and they walked into the kitchen, where the man fussed over coffee. Shaw declined.
The two men were alone. Sophie was still sleeping. Shaw saw motion at his feet and looked down to see Luka, Fee’s standard poodle, stroll in, sip some water and flop down on the floor. The two men sat and Mulliner cupped his mug and said, “There’s been another kidnapping. I’m not supposed to tell anybody.”
“What’re the details?”
The second victim was named Henry Thompson. He and his marriage partner lived south of Mountain View, in Sunnyvale, not far away. Thompson, fifty-two, had gone missing late last night, after a presentation at Stanford University, where he was speaking on a panel. A rock or a brick had crashed into his windshield. When he stopped, he’d been jumped and kidnapped.
“Detective Standish said there weren’t any witnesses.”
“Not Wiley?”
“No, it was just Detective Standish.”
“Ransom demand?”
“I don’t think so. That’s one of the reasons they think it’s the same man who kidnapped Fee,” he said, then continued: “Now, Henry Thompson’s partner got my name and number and called. He sounded just like I did when Fee was missing. Half crazy . . . Well, you remember. He’d heard about you helping and asked me to get in touch with you. He said he’d hire you to find him.”
“I’m not for hire. But I’ll talk to him.”
Mulliner wrote the name and number on a Post-it: Brian Byrd.
Shaw bent down and scratched the poodle on the head. While the dog wouldn’t, of course, understand that Shaw had saved his mistress, you might very well think so from its expression: bright eyes and a knowing grin.
“Henry Thompson.” Shaw was typing into Google on his phone. “Which one?” There were several in Sunnyvale.
“He’s a blogger and LGBT activist.”
Shaw clicked on the correct one. Thompson was round and had a pleasant face, which was depicted smiling in almost every picture Google had of him. He wrote two blogs: one was about the computer industry, the other about LGBT rights. Shaw sent the man’s web page to Mack, asking for details on him.
The reply was typical Mack: “’K.”
Shaw said to Mulliner, “Can I see Fee?”
He left and returned a moment later with his daughter. She wore a thick burgundy robe and fuzzy pink slippers. Her right arm was embraced by quite the cast, pale blue. And there were bandages on the back of her other hand.
Her eyes were hollow, red-rimmed.
Sophie leaned into a gentle hug from her father.
“Mr. Shaw.”
“How does it feel? The break?”
Expressionless, she looked at her arm. “Okay. Itches under the cast. That’s the worst.” She walked to the refrigerator and poured some orange juice, then returned to the stool and sat. “They put you in a police car. I told them you saved me.”
“Not a worry. All good now.”
“Did you hear? He kidnapped somebody else?”
“I did. I’m going to help the police again.”
A fact the police did not yet know.
Shaw told her, “I know it might be tough but would you tell me what happened?”
She sipped the orange juice, then drank half the glass down. Shaw guessed she was on painkillers that made her mouth dry. “Like, sure.”
Shaw had brought one of his notebooks and opened it. Sophie looked at the fountain pen, again without expression.
“Wednesday. You got home.”
In halting words, Sophie explained that she’d been angry. “About stuff.”
Frank Mulliner’s mouth tightened but he said nothing.
She’d biked to Quick Byte Café for a latte and some food—she couldn’t remember what now—and called some friends to check on lacrosse practice. Then to San Miguel Park. “Whenever I get pissed or sad, at anything, I go there to bike. To shred, rage. You know what I mean ‘rage’?”
Shaw knew.
Her voice caught. “What Kyle used to do on his board. Half Moon Bay and Maverick.” Her teeth set and she wiped a tear.
“I pulled onto the shoulder of Tamyen to tighten my helmet. Then this car slammed into me.”
The police would have asked and he did as well: “Did you see it?” Shaw thinking gray Nissan, though he’d never lead a witness.
“No. It was, like, boom, the fucker slammed me.”
She’d lain stunned at the bottom of the hill and heard footsteps coming closer. “I knew it wasn’t an accident,” she said. “The shoulder was really wide—there was no reason to hit me unless he wanted to. And I heard the car spin its wheels just before it hit, so he was, like, aiming. I got my phone to call nine-one-one but it was too late. I just threw it, so they could track it maybe and find me. Then I tried to get up but he tackled me. And kicked me or hit me in the back, the kidney—so I was, like, paralyzed. I couldn’t get up or roll over.”
“Smart, tossing your phone. It’s how I found out what happened to you.”
She nodded. “Then I got stabbed in the neck, a hypodermic needle. And I went out.”
“Did the doctors or police say what kind of drug?”
“I asked. They just said a prescription painkiller, dissolved in water.”
“Any more thoughts about their appearance?”
“Did I tell you . . . ? I was telling somebody. Gray ski mask, sunglasses.”
He showed her the screenshot from the security video at the Quick Byte.
“Detective Standish showed it to me. No, I never saw anybody like that before.” She rose, found a chopstick in a drawer and worked it under the cast, rubbing it up and down.
“If you had to guess, a man or a woman?”
“Assumed a man. Not tall. It could’ve been a woman but if it was she was strong, strong enough to carry me or drag me to the car. And, I mean, kicking me in the back when I was down? You wouldn’t think a woman would do that to another woman.” She shrugged. “I guess we can be as messed up as a man.”
“Did they say anything?”
“No. Next thing, I woke up in that room.”
“Describe it.”
“There was a little light but I couldn’t see much.” Her eyes now flared. “It was just so fucking weird. I thought, in the movies, somebody’s kidnapped and there’s a bed and a blanket and a bucket to pee in, or whatever. There was a bottle of water. But no food. Just a big empty glass bottle, this wad of cloth, a spool of fishing line and matches. The room was really old. Moldy and everything. The bottle, the rag—that stuff was new.”
Shaw told her again how smart she was, breaking the bottle to make a glass blade and cutting through the Sheetrock.
“I started looking for a way out. The only windows that weren’t boarded up were on the top floor. I couldn’t just break one and climb out. I started looking for a door. They were locked or nailed shut.”
Screwed shut, actually, Shaw recalled. Recently. He told them that he too had looked and found only one open—in the front.
“Didn’t get that far.” She swallowed. “I heard the gunshots and . . . Kyle . . .” She sobbed quietly. Her father approached and put his arm around her and she cried against his chest for a moment.
Shaw explained to him how Sophie had made a trap from the fishing line and had used another piece to tie it to her jacket and made it move back and forth so there’d be a shadow on the floor. To lure the kidnapper closer. And nail him with an oil drum.
Mulliner was wide-eyed. “Really?”
In a soft voice she said, “I was going to kill you . . . him. Stab him. But I just panicked and ran. I’m sorry if you got hurt.”
“I should’ve figured it out,” Shaw said. “I knew you’d be a fighter.”
At this she smiled.
Shaw asked, “Did he touch you?”
Her father stirred, but this was a question that needed to be asked.
“I don’t think so. All he took off was my shoes and socks. My windbreaker was still zipped up. Your handwriting’s really small. Why don’t you just write on a computer or tablet? It’d be faster.”
Shaw answered the young woman. “When you write something by hand, slowly, you own the words. You type them, less so. You read them, even less. And you listen, hardly at all.”
The idea seemed to intrigue her.
“Anybody at the Quick Byte try to pick you up recently?”
“Guys flirt, you know. Ask, ‘Oh, what’re you reading?’ Or ‘How’re the tamales?’ What guys always do. Nobody weird.”
“This was in the Quick Byte.” On his phone Shaw displayed a photo of the sheet that had been left in place of her MISSING poster. The stenciled image of the eerie face, the hat, the tie. “There was also a version on the outside wall of the room where you were held.”
“I don’t remember it. The place was so dark. It’s creepy.”
“Does it mean anything to either of you?”
They both said it did not. Mulliner asked, “What’s it supposed to be?”
“I don’t know.” He’d searched for images of men’s faces in hats and ties. Nothing close to this showed up.
“Detective Standish didn’t ask you about it?”
“No,” Sophie said. “I would have remembered.”
A ringtone sounded from inside her robe pocket. It was the default. She hadn’t had time to change it on her new phone. The old was in Evidence and would probably die a silent death there. She looked at the screen and answered. “Mom?”
She glanced toward Shaw, who said, “I have enough for now, Fee.”
Sophie embraced him and whispered, “Thank you, thank you . . .” The young woman shivered briefly and, with a deep inhalation, walked away, lifting the phone. “Mom.” She picked up the glass of orange juice in her other hand and walked back to her room, Luka following. “I’m fine, really . . . He’s being great . . .”
The corner of Mulliner’s mouth twitched. He glanced at Shaw’s naked ring finger. “You married?”
“No. Never.” And, as happened occasionally when the topic was tapped, images of Margot Keller’s long, Greek goddess face appeared, framed by soft dark blond curls. In this particular slideshow she was looking up from a map of an archaeological dig. A map that Shaw himself had drawn.
Then Mulliner was offering an envelope to him. “Here.”
Shaw didn’t take it. “Sometimes I work out payment arrangements. No interest.”
“Well . . .” Mulliner looked down at the envelope. His face was red.
Shaw said, “A thousand a month for ten months. Can you swing that?”
“I will. Whatever it takes. I will.”
Shaw made this arrangement with some frequency and it drove business manager Velma Bruin to distraction. She’d delivered many variations on the theme: “You do the job, Colt. You deserve the money when it’s due.”
Velma was right, but there was nothing wrong with flexibility. And that was particularly true on this job. He’d gotten the lesson about the financial stresses of Silicon Valley.
The Land of Promise, where so very many people struggled.
27.
Halfway to Henry Thompson’s address, Colter Shaw noted that his pursuer was back. Maybe.
He’d twice seen a car behind him making the same turns he’d made. A gray sedan, like the one outside Salvadoran coffee heaven. The grille logo was indiscernible six or seven car lengths back. Nissan? Maybe, maybe not.
He believed, to his surprise, that the driver was a woman.
Shaw had been keeping an eye on the car when the driver blew through a red light to make a turn in his direction. He caught a glimpse of a silhouette through the driver’s-side window. He saw again the short stature and frizzy hair tied in a ponytail. Not exclusive to women, of course, but more likely F than M.
You wouldn’t think a woman would do that to another woman. I guess we can be as messed up as a man . . .
Shaw made two unnecessary turns and the gray car followed.
Eyeing the street, the asphalt surface, measuring angles, distances, turning radii.
Now . . .
He slammed on the brake and skidded one hundred and eighty degrees, to face the pursuer. He earned a middle finger or two and at least a half dozen horns blared.
A new sound joined the salute.
The bleep of a siren. Shaw hadn’t noticed that he’d U-turned directly in front of an unmarked Chrysler.
A sigh. He pulled over and readied license and rental contract.
A stocky Latino in a green uniform walked up to him.
“Sir.”
“Officer.” Handing over the paperwork.
“That was a very unsafe thing you did.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
The cop—his name was P. ALVAREZ—wandered back to his car and dropped into the front seat to run the info. Shaw was looking at the space where the gray car had been and was no longer. At least he’d confirmed that it was the same vehicle as at the Salvadoran restaurant—a Nissan Altima, the same year, with the same dings and scrapes. He hadn’t caught the license tag.
The man returned to the driver’s window and gave Shaw back the documents.
“Why’d you do that, sir?”
“I thought somebody was following me. Was worried about a carjacker. I heard they go after rental cars.”
Alvarez said slowly, “Which is why rental cars don’t have any markings to indicate they’re rental cars.”
“That right?”
“You troubled by something, call nine-one-one. That’s what
we’re here for. You’re from out of town. You have business here?”
A nod. “Yep.”
Alvarez seemed to ponder. “All right. You’re lucky. It’s my court day and I don’t have time to write this up. But let’s not do anything stupid again.”
“I won’t, Officer.”
“Be on your way.”
Shaw restowed the papers and started the engine, driving to the intersection where he’d last seen the Nissan. He turned left, in the direction where she would logically have escaped. And, of course, found no trace.
He returned to the GPS route and in fifteen minutes was at the complex where Henry Thompson shared a condo with his partner, Brian Byrd. A police car, unmarked, sat in front of the building. Unlike with Sophie’s kidnapping, the Task Force, or whoever was running the disappearance, would know for certain that Henry Thompson had been kidnapped, having found the man’s damaged car. The officer—maybe the elusive Detective Standish—would be with Byrd, waiting for the ransom demand that Shaw knew would never come.
His phone hummed with a text. He parked and read it. Mack had discovered no criminal history in the lives of Thompson or Byrd. No weapons registrations. No security clearances or sensitive employment that might suggest motive—Thompson was the blogger and gay rights activist that Wikipedia assured Shaw he was. Byrd worked as a financial officer for a small venture capital firm. No domestic abuse complaints. Thompson had been married for a year to a woman, but a decade ago. There seemed to be no bad blood between them. Like Sophie, he appeared to have been picked at random.
Very wrong time, very wrong place.
After leaving the Mulliners, Shaw had texted Byrd to make sure he was home, asking if they could meet. He immediately replied yes.
Shaw now called the number.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Byrd?”
“Yes.”
“Colter Shaw.”
Byrd was then speaking to someone else in the room: “It’s a friend. It’s okay.”
The Never Game Page 13