The Never Game

by Jeffery Deaver

  Then back to Shaw: “Can we talk? Downstairs? There’s a garden outside the lobby.”

  Neither of them wanted the police to know that Shaw was involved.

  “I’ll be there.” Shaw disconnected, climbed from the Malibu and strolled through manicured grounds to a bench near the front door. A fountain shot mist into the air, the rainbow within waving like a flag.

  He scanned the roads beyond the lovely landscaping looking for gray Nissans.

  Byrd appeared a moment later. He was in his fifties, wearing a white dress shirt and dark slacks, belly hanging two inches over the belt. His thinning white hair was mussed and he hadn’t shaved. The men shook hands and Byrd sat on the bench, hunched forward, fingers interlaced. He arranged and rearranged the digits constantly, the way Frank Mulliner had toyed with the orange golf ball.

  “They’re waiting for a ransom call.” He spoke in a weak voice. “Ransom? Henry’s a blogger and I’m a CFO, but the company’s nothing by SV standards. We don’t even do tech start-ups.” His voice broke. “I don’t have any money. If they want some, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “I don’t think it’s about money. There might not even be a motive. It could be he’s just deranged.” Shaw was going with he; no need to muddy the conversation with talk about gender.

  Byrd turned his red eyes to Shaw. “You found that girl. I want to hire you to find Henry. Detective Standish seems smart . . . Well, I want you. Name your price. Anything. I may have to borrow but I’m good for it.”

  Shaw said, “I don’t work for a fee.”

  “Her father . . . He paid something.”

  “That was a reward.”

  “Then I’ll offer a reward. How much do you want?”

  “I don’t want any money. I have an interest in the case now. Let me ask you some questions. Then I’ll see what I can do.”

  “God . . . Thank you, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Colter’s fine.” He withdrew his notebook and uncapped the pen. “With Sophie, the kidnapper spotted her ahead of time and followed her. It’s logical that he’d have done the same with Henry.”

  “You mean, staking him out?”

  “Probably. He was very organized. I want to check all of the places Henry was, say, thirty-six hours before he was kidnapped.”

  Byrd’s fingers knitted once more and the knuckles grew white. “He was here, of course, at night. And we had dinner at Julio’s.” A nod up the street. “Two nights ago. The lecture at Stanford last night. Other than that, I have no idea. He drives all over the Valley. San Francisco, Oakland too. He must drive fifty miles a day for research. That’s why the blogs are so popular.”

  “Do you know about any meetings in the past few days?”

  “Just the lecture he was driving home from when he was kidnapped. Other than that, no. I’m sorry.”

  “What articles was he working on? We can try to piece together where he was.”

  Byrd looked down at the sidewalk at their feet. “The one he was most passionate about was an exposé about the high cost of real estate in SV—Silicon Valley, you know?”

  Shaw nodded.

  “Then there was an article about game companies data-mining players’ personal information and selling it. The third was about revenue streams in the software industry.

  “For the real estate blog, he drove everywhere. He talked to the tax authorities, zoning board brokers, homeowners, renters, landlords, builders . . . For the data-mining and revenue-stream stories, he went to Google and Apple, Facebook, a bunch of other companies; I don’t remember which.” He tapped his knee. “Oh, Walmart.”

  “Walmart?”

  “On El Camino Real. He mentioned he was going there and I said we’d just been shopping. He said no, it was for work.”

  “The panel at Stanford last night? What facility?”

  “Gates Computer Science Building.”

  “Did he go to any LBGT rights meetings lately?”

  “No, not recently.”

  Shaw asked him to look over Thompson’s notes and any appointment calendars he could find to see where else Thompson might have gone. Byrd said he would.

  “Would Henry have gone to the Quick Byte Café in Mountain View recently?”

  “We’ve been there, but not for months.” Byrd couldn’t sit still. He rose and looked at a jacaranda tree, vibrantly purple. “What was it like for the girl? Sophie. The police wouldn’t tell me much.”

  Shaw explained about her being locked in a room, abandoned. “There were some things he left. She used them to escape and rigged a trap to attack him.”

  “She did that?”

  Shaw nodded.

  “Henry would hate that. Just hate it. He’s claustrophobic.” Byrd began to cry. Finally he controlled himself. “It’s so quiet in the condo. I mean, when Henry’s away and I’m home, it’s quiet. Now, I don’t know, it’s a different kind of quiet. You know what I mean?”

  Shaw knew exactly what the man meant but there was nothing he could say to make it better.

  28.

  Shaw was making the rounds of places Henry Thompson had been prior to his kidnapping.

  Apple and Google were big and formidable institutions and without the name of an employee Thompson had contacted there, Shaw had no entrée to start the search. And there’d be no chance to reprise any Quick Byte scenario in which a Tiffany would help him play spy and give him access to security videos.

  Stanford University was a more logical choice. The kidnapper was likely to have followed Thompson from the lecture, then passed him on a deserted stretch of road, stopped a hundred or so yards ahead and, when Thompson caught up, flung the brick or rock into his windshield.

  But the Gates Computer Center, the site of the panel, was in a congested part of the Stanford campus. There was no parking nearby and Thompson might have walked as far as two hundred yards in any direction to collect his car. He shared Thompson’s picture with a handful of employees, guards and shopkeepers; no one recognized him.

  Shaw knew the road where Thompson had been taken. He drove past it. The car had been towed but a portion of the shoulder was encircled by yellow tape. It was a grassy area; probably picked by X to avoid leaving tire prints, like at the factory. There were no houses or other buildings nearby.

  Then there was the Walmart that Byrd had said Thompson had driven to. Why had the blogger’s research taken him to a superstore?

  He set the GPS for the place and piloted the Malibu in that direction. Over the wide streets of sun-grayed asphalt. Past perfectly trimmed hedges, tall grass, sidewalks as white as copier paper, blankets of radiant lawns, vines and shaggy palms. He noted the stylish and clever buildings that architects might put on page one of their portfolios, with mirrored windows like the eyes of predatory fish, uninterested in you . . . though only at the moment.

  Then, just as had happened on his drive from his camper to the Salvadoran restaurant, Shaw left behind the mansions and glitzy corporations and suddenly entered a very different Silicon Valley. Small residences, stoic and worn, reminiscent of Frank Mulliner’s house. The owners had made the choice between food and fresh paint.

  He now pulled into the parking lot of Walmart, a chain with which he was quite familiar. A dependable source of clothing, food, medical supplies and hunting and fishing and other survival gear—and, just as important, last-minute presents for the nieces—his sister’s children, whom he saw several times a year.

  What could have brought Henry Thompson here?

  Then he understood the blogger’s likely mission. In a far corner of the parking lot were a number of cars, SUVs and pickups. Sitting in and around the vehicles—front seats and lawn chairs—were men in clean, if wrinkled, clothing. Jeans, chinos, polo shirts. Even a few sport coats. Everyone, it seemed, had a laptop. Ninety years ago, during the Great Depression, they would have gathered around
a campfire; now they sat before the cold white light of a computer screen.

  A new breed of hobo.

  Shaw parked the Malibu and climbed out. He made the rounds, displaying Thompson’s picture on his phone screen and explaining simply that the man had gone missing and he was helping find him.

  Shaw learned to his surprise that none of these men—and it was men exclusively—was in fact homeless or unemployed. They had jobs here in the Valley, some with prestigious internet companies, and they had residences. Yet they lived miles and miles away, too far to commute daily, and they couldn’t spare the money for hotel or motel rooms. They’d stay here for two, three or four days a week, then drive back to their families. At night, Shaw learned, the camp was more crowded; this group worked evening or graveyard shifts.

  This would be why Henry Thompson had come here: to interview these men for his blog about the hardship of owning or renting property in the Valley.

  A lean, wiry Latino living out of his Buick crossover told Shaw, “This is a step up for me. I used to spend all night riding the bus to Marin, then back. Six hours. The drivers, they didn’t care, you buy a ticket, you can sleep all night. But I got mugged twice. This’s better.”

  Some were janitorial, some maintenance. Others were coders and middle management. Shaw saw one young man with an elaborate hipster mustache and filigree gold earrings drawing on a large artist’s pad, sketching out what seemed to be a trade ad for a piece of hardware. He was talented.

  Only one man remembered Henry Thompson. “A couple days ago, yessir. Asked me questions about where I lived, the commute, had I tried to find someplace closer? He was interested if I’d been pressured out of my house. Had somebody tried to bribe me or threaten me? Especially government workers or developers.” He shook his head. “Henry was nice. He cared about us.”

  “Was anybody with him or did you see anybody watching him?”

  “Watching?”

  “We think he might’ve been kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped? Are you serious? Oh, man. I’m sorry.” He gazed around. “People come and go here. I can’t help you.”

  Shaw surveyed the lot. There was a security camera on the Walmart building itself but too distant to pick up anything here. And there was the No Tiffany factor.

  He climbed back into the Malibu. Just as he did, his phone hummed and he answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, Colter. It’s Brian Byrd.”

  “Have you heard anything?”

  “No. I did want to tell you I looked everywhere and couldn’t find any more notes of Henry’s. You know, where he might’ve been if that guy was watching him. Henry must’ve had everything with him. You had any luck, anything at all?”

  “No.”

  “Who does something like this?” Byrd whispered. “Why? What’s the point? There’s no ransom demand. Henry never hurt anybody. I mean, Jesus. It’s like this guy’s playing some goddamn sick game . . .” Shaw heard a deep sigh. “Why the hell’s he doing this? You have any idea?”

  After a moment Colter Shaw said, “I might, Brian. I just might.”

  29.

  Shaw sped back toward the Winnebago. He kept an eye out for cops but at the moment he didn’t care about a ticket.

  Once in the camper he went online and began his search.

  He was surprised that it didn’t take very long to find what he hoped he might. And the results were far better than he’d expected. He called the Joint Major Crimes Task Force and asked for Dan Wiley.

  “I’m sorry. Detective Wiley’s not available.”

  “His partner?”

  “Detective Standish’s not available either.”

  The message of the woman at the JMCTF desk was getting as familiar as her voice.

  Shaw hung up. He’d do what he did before: go to the Task Force in person and insist on seeing Wiley or Standish, if either of the men was in the office. Or Supervisor Cummings, if not. Better in person anyway, he decided. Getting the police to accept his new hypothesis of the case would take some persuasion.

  He printed out a stack of documents, the fruits of his research, and slipped them into his computer bag. He stepped outside, locked the door and turned to the right, where he’d parked the Malibu. He got as far as the electrical and water hookups and froze.

  The gray Nissan Altima had blocked in his rental. Its driver’s seat was empty, the door open.

  Back to the camper, get your weapon.

  Dropping his computer bag, he pivoted and strode to the door, keys out.

  Three locks. Fastest way to get them undone: slowly.

  Never rush, however urgent . . .

  He never got to the last lock. Twenty feet in front of him, a figure holding a Glock pistol stepped from the shadows between his Winnebago and the neighboring Mercedes Renegade. It was the driver of the Nissan—yes, a woman, African American, her hair in the ragged ponytail he’d seen in silhouette. She wore an olive-drab combat jacket—of the sort favored by gangbangers—and cargo pants. Her eyes were fierce. She raised the weapon his way.

  Shaw assessed: nothing to do against a gun that’s eight paces distant and in the hand of somebody who clearly knows what to do with a weapon.

  Odds of fighting: two percent.

  Odds of negotiating your way out: no clue, but better.

  Still, sometimes you have to make what seem like inane decisions. The wrestler in him lowered his center of gravity and debated how close he could get before he passed out after a gunshot to the torso. After all, lethal shots are notoriously difficult to make with pistols. Then he recalled: if this was the kidnapper, she’d killed Kyle Butler with a headshot from much farther away than this.

  The grim-faced woman squinted and moved in, snapping with irritation, “Get down! Now!”

  It wasn’t get down or I’m going to shoot you. It was get down, you’re in my goddamn way.

  Shaw got down.

  She jogged past him, her eyes on a line of trees that separated the trailer camp from a quiet road, the gun aimed in that direction. At the end of the drive, she stopped and peered through a dense growth of shrubs.

  Shaw rose and quietly started for the Winnebago’s door again, pulling the keys from his pocket.

  Eyes still on the trees, both hands on the gun, ready to shoot, the woman said in a blunt voice, “I told you. Stay down.”

  Shaw knelt once more.

  She pushed farther into the brush. A whisper: “Damn.” She turned around, holstering her weapon.

  “Safe now,” she said. “You can get up.”

  She walked to him, fishing in her pocket. Shaw wasn’t surprised when she displayed a gold badge. What he didn’t expect, though, was what came next: “Mr. Shaw, I’m Detective LaDonna Standish. I’d like to have a talk.”

  30.

  Shaw collected his computer bag from the clump of grass where he’d dropped it.

  As he and Standish approached the Winnebago door, an unmarked police car squealed to a stop in front of the camper. Shaw recognized it. It was the same vehicle that had lit him up after the dramatic U-turn on his way to Henry Thompson’s condo. Officer P. Alvarez.

  Shaw looked from the detective to the cop. “You were both following me?”

  Standish said, “Double team tailing. The only way it works. Ought to be triple, but who can afford tying up three cars these days?” She continued: “Budget, budget, budget. Had to follow you myself last night. Peter here was free this morning.”

  Alvarez said, “I didn’t want to have to pull you over but it’d been more suspicious if I didn’t. Was an impressive turn, Mr. Shaw. Stupid, like I said, but impressive.”

  “I hope I don’t need to do it again.” He cast a dark glance toward Standish, who snickered. Shaw nodded to the bushes. “So, who’d you spot?”

  “Don’t know,” she said with some irritation in
her voice. “Had a report of somebody near your camper, possible trespasser. Smelled funky to me, all things considered.”

  Her radio clattered. Another officer, apparently also cruising the area, had not spotted the suspect. Then came one more transmission, from a different patrolman. She told them to continue to search. She told Alvarez to do the same. When he drove off, she nodded toward the Winnebago. After Shaw unlocked the last lock, she preceded him inside.

  The word warrant glanced off his thoughts. He let it go. He closed and locked the door behind them.

  “You’ve got a California conceal carry,” she said. “Where’s your weapon? Or weapons?” She walked to his coffeepot and poked through the half dozen bags of ground beans in a basket bolted to the counter.

  “The spice cabinet,” he said. “My carry weapon.”

  “Spice cabinet. Hmm. And it’s a . . . ?”

  “Glock 42.”

  “Just leave it there.”

  “And under the bed, a Colt Python .357.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Must be doing well in the reward business to afford one of those.”

  “Was a present.”

  “Other CCPs?”

  A concealed carry permit in California is available only to residents. The California ticket doesn’t let you carry in many other states. He had a nonresidence permit issued by Florida and that was good in a number of jurisdictions. Shaw, though, rarely went around armed; it was a pain to constantly pay attention to where you could and couldn’t carry—schools and hospitals, for instance, were often no-gun zones. The laws varied radically from state to state.

  Shaw said, “You thought I might be the kidnapper.”

  “Crossed my mind at first. I confirmed your alibi, what you told Dan Wiley. Didn’t mean you weren’t working with somebody, of course. But snatching some soul and hoping her daddy’ll hand over a reward? Well, there’s stupid and then there’s stupid. I checked you out. You’re not either variety.”

  He then understood why she’d been tailing him. “You were using me as bait.”