by Elle Gray
“They need somebody to handle this for them quietly,” he tells me. “I told her we might be able to help.”
“Of course we will,” I nod. “We’ll help. Let’s go talk to her.”
Five
Morgan Residence; Windermere, WA
She sits across from us on the sofa in the sitting room, a wadded-up tissue in one hand, her husband’s hand in the other. They’re wearing matching expressions of grief and fear on their faces. When they look at me, I can see the light of hope shining in their eyes. Hope that I can help. That I’ll get Jordan back home to them where she belongs.
“I don’t know how it happened,” Kayla starts, her voice thick with emotion. “We were at the park, and she was playing with some of the other kids while I talked with some of the other mothers. And then she was just— gone.”
A choked sob bursts from her throat and she leans her head down on her husband’s shoulder. He wraps his arm around his wife and pulls her tightly to him. He strokes her hair softly. Even though I can see the sorrow in his eyes, he’s trying to be strong for her.
“It’s not your fault,” Joseph says. “Don’t blame yourself, Kayla.”
“Your husband is right, this isn’t your fault,” I say. “You can’t beat yourself up about this. It could have happened to anybody.”
I try to inject as much sympathy and compassion into my voice as I can, try to reassure her, but it doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to other people. I often have to simply fake it. I know most people would say that makes me sound like a sociopath, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I process emotions differently. And judging by the look on Kayla’s face, my words sounded as false coming out of my mouth as they’d felt to speak. I failed to reassure her. I’m not here to reassure them though. I’m here to get their daughter back home to them, safe and unharmed.
As Joseph embraces his wife and smooths her hair as she cries, I clear my throat and look around their home. Windermere is one of Seattle’s wealthiest suburbs and is home to many of the one-percent of the one-percenters, which is impressive given the wealth in the area. It’s a picturesque place with an almost small town feel to it. The homes are all stately and grand, though the owners do their best to avoid looking gauche or ostentatious. No enormous mansions or palatial estates here. After all, it would be tacky to go flaunting one’s wealth in such an obvious way. One must at least keep up the pretense of being humble.
The Morgans are no different. Though everything in their home is obviously expensive, the effect is restrained. Understated. It’s feigned humility at its best. I’d know since my family home is in Laurelhurst, which is just up the road. Although not a shoebox and we had more than enough house to move around in, it certainly isn’t a grand, palatial estate either. Like the homes in Windermere, my family home is restrained and understated.
Given my upbringing, I can’t exactly pretend to be a man of the people or a salt of the earth type, but I think I’m a little more level-headed than most of my family. That’s mostly Veronica’s influence on me, but working for the SPD for a decade exposed me to things I never would have seen in the staid, sanitized world the Arringtons exist in. That sort of experience can’t help but change you. Humble you. Well, as much as I can be humbled anyway.
“Mr. and Mrs. Morgan?”
We all turn to see a tall, thin, severe looking woman in a gray dress with a white apron tied around her waist standing in the doorway of the sitting room. Beyond her, I see a man in dark blue coveralls and a blue ballcap with a cable company logo on it pulled low over his eyes. He’s got a tool bag slung over his shoulder and a clipboard in his hand. His mouth is open, and he’s gaping around the wide, circular foyer, seemingly impressed with the size and ostentatiousness of the place.
“Yes, what is it, Mercy?” Joseph asks.
“The repairman is finished,” she replies. “I just wanted to make sure there was nothing else before I sent him away?”
“No, it’s fine,” Joseph replies. “Thank you, Mercy.”
“Very good, sir.”
Mercy walks to the foyer and dismisses the repairman as I turn back to the Morgans. Kayla is a beautiful woman. Dark hair, darker eyes, tall and shapely, and impeccably fashionable. Joseph is a tall, thin man with round, rimless glasses and a receding hairline. His hair is sandy blond, and his eyes are blue.
Sitting side by side, they look like the Homecoming Queen and the class nerd. They’re an unlikely couple, but it’s not hard to see that even though they are hurting in ways they couldn’t have foreseen, they are still very much in love. Some couples handle situations like this by letting their fear consume them and end up tearing each other apart. Usually because one will want to handle the situation one way, while the other wants to go a different direction.
But it seems to have strengthened the bond and the resolve of these two. These two seem to be in lockstep with each other. They’re drawing closer, rather than splitting apart. And that’s a good thing.
“And how old is Jordan?” I ask.
“She’s four,” Kayla replies.
“Brody told me the kidnapper contacted you?” I ask.
They nod in unison. “Yes,” Kayla says. “It was a man using one of those things that disguised his voice.”
“A voice modulator,” I note. “Okay, so what did he say?”
“He told me that if we don’t follow his instructions to the letter, he would kill Jordan,” she says, choking back a sob.
“And what were his instructions?”
Kayla opens her mouth to reply but breaks down into tears, unable to speak. Joseph clears his throat and turns to me.
“He said if we called the police, he would kill our daughter,” he says. “No police. He was adamant about that.”
It’s a common tactic kidnappers for ransom use, so I am unsurprised by it. The fear of something happening to their child will make most any parent pliable and make them adhere to almost anything. It’s the ultimate form of control.
“What does he want?” I ask. “What is his main demand?”
“A quarter of a million dollars,” Joseph says quietly.
For somebody with the kind of portfolio the Morgans have, I’m sure it’s just a drop in the bucket. They can probably fork over that kind of cash without having to worry about skipping a meal. It’s curious to me though. The kidnapper obviously knows the Morgans have money; it’s likely why he targeted them for an abduction in the first place. And while a quarter of a million is a healthy amount, it’s not… excessive. Not by their standards. The demand is almost restrained, in a way. I don’t know if it means anything just yet, but it’s an interesting piece of information I’ll squirrel away to give some thought to later.
“And when does he want it by?” I ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Kayla says.
“Where is the drop?”
“He said he’d call with instructions,” Joseph says. “Tomorrow night at six. He said promptly at six.”
I look over at Brody, who hasn’t said a word through this interview and is just sitting there looking shellshocked. I imagine knowing this family and seeing them go through this has to be tough. He’s letting me take the lead. The trouble is, I’m not sure where to go with this all just yet.
Over the last few months, I’ve read up on various investigative techniques, but given that this is my first real case, I’m still finding my footing. But this is what I wanted, and this sort of thing is what I’m good at. I’ll figure out the details as I go.
“So am I correct in assuming that you’re not going to call the police?” I ask.
They shake their heads in unison. “Not with our daughter’s life at stake,” Kayla says. “I won’t risk her life.”
“If a quarter of a million dollars will get Jordan back us safely, it will be worth every penny,” Joseph adds.
“Okay, so how can I help you?” I ask.
It seems a fair question since they seem content to pay the ransom and not involv
e the authorities. It’s an approach I don’t think is entirely wrong, given all of the bureaucratic red tape and borderline incompetence of the SPD. It seems more likely than not that they’d bungle the response and wind up getting Jordan killed because some idiot like Schreiber would make it more about his ego than getting the job done properly and safely.
“We would like you to make the ransom drop for us,” Joseph says.
“And we would like you to learn anything you can about this man when you see him so that we can use it to bring him down later.” Kayla clenches her hands into fists, her voice heated. “Brody says you’re the best man to do that. After we get our little girl back, I want this man to pay.”
“We want to find him when this is all over.” Like his wife, Joseph’s voice hardens into steel. “Once we have Jordan back safely, I want to find him. Nobody does this to us. Nobody does this to our daughter and gets away with it.”
He doesn’t have to tell me what it is he wants to find this man for. It’s obvious. Once the exchange takes place, and Jordan is back home, I have no doubt that if I am able to discern the man’s identity, they’ll hire somebody else to execute him. Or hell, maybe they’ll even offer the money to me to do it. I can understand the impulse. And in their place, I might want— and do— the same exact thing.
I wonder, though, how that would play for a man who is planning to launch a run for a Congressional seat within the next year. From what I’ve learned, Joseph Morgan has big ambitions, politically speaking. But that’s not for me to judge. Nor is it for me to dictate ethics and morals to these two parents who are scared and angry right now. It’s only for me to do the job they need me to do right now.
I nod. “I can do that,” I tell them. “I’ll be happy to help.”
Six
Reuben Hayes
Bainbridge Island, WA
“It’s time for supper, Jordan,” I say. “Grilled cheese and tomato soup.”
She looks up at me with wide blue eyes that are red and puffy, swollen, and shimmering with tears, but doesn’t speak to me. She hasn’t since I lost my temper and yelled at her earlier. She wouldn’t stop crying and yelling for her mother. It had gotten to be too much for me to bear, so I snapped and screamed at her to shut up.
I hate losing my temper like that. Yelling and screaming like that is low-rent and classless. It’s the sort of thing people without manners do. I am better than that and hold myself to a higher standard.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper earlier, Jordan,” I tell her. “I should not have yelled at you like that, so I apologize if I frightened you.”
She looks at me with those wide eyes of hers and sniffs loudly. “I want my mommy.”
“Of course you do. And as long as they follow the rules, you will be back with them soon enough,” I tell her. “For now, just eat your supper and watch cartoons. If you’re a good girl, I’ll bring you a pudding cup later.”
On the television screen, a dark-haired girl with her pet monkey in red boots runs around, trying to solve a mystery while talking to the audience. I use the remote and raise the volume a bit for her.
“See? That’s better, isn’t it?” I ask as I set the remote down out of her reach on the tall dresser.
“I want my mommy,” she says. “I want my mommy now!”
I see her building to another meltdown and want to prevent another screaming fit. From either of us. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, giving the girl as warm a smile as I can muster. Which, under the circumstances, is not all that warm.
“Eat your supper,” I say.
I back out of the room and close the door then slide the bolt home, locking her in. I walk up the stairs and shut the basement door, bolting that closed as well. After that, I pour a glass of wine and head out onto the back deck as the sun slips toward the horizon, casting the sky in vibrant shades of red and orange. The wispy clouds overhead look to be aflame, and a cool breeze blows in off Puget Sound. In the distance, the Cascades rise high into the air, standing silent sentinel over the world, safeguarding us as they have for millennia.
I hadn’t expected that I would need to abduct another child for cash so soon after taking the Henderson child a few months back. But I’d come across an opportunity to better secure my future, so I’d had to dip into my retirement fund to finance it. It was unexpected but necessary. But it left me needing to fill in that dent with another job. I don’t want to put myself behind where I want to be when my work is complete, and I’m ready to walk away.
I sit down on the chair and put my feet up on the railing that runs along the wrap-around porch. I take a drink then cradle the wine glass in my hands as I look at the city sitting across the Sound from me and sigh. I take a drink of my wine as I watch one of the last ferries of the day crossing from Seattle.
Unlike the home I have down in L.A., my home here on Bainbridge Island is private. It’s in a remote area of the island, so I don’t have neighbors who are close by, which is a plus. Also, access to the island here is limited, which is another plus, since it means that I don’t have unexpected visitors just dropping in. I can always see who’s coming before they get here.
I enjoy my privacy, and unlike life in even a staid tract home like I have in L.A., I have even more control. Everything is far more predictable. It’s why I like coming home to Seattle to rest and recharge before I pick up my work again. It gives me a good opportunity to enjoy life in the city I was born near, and will likely die in. Hopefully, not for a while yet though.
While I don’t have many fond memories of my childhood— it was terrible beyond measure— I have created my own memories. Better ones. Memories that I will be able to look back on fondly many years from now while I enjoy my golden years. Memories that will sustain me for the rest of my life.
As I think about the child in the other room and the payday that should be coming my way, my thoughts turn to the man I saw in the Morgan household today. My curiosity piqued, I go into the bedroom that I’ve converted into my media office and flip on the bank of eight computer screens mounted to the wall.
I sit down at the desk and type in the commands to remotely access the audio and visual equipment I’d installed in the Morgan’s house by posing as the cable repairman. For somebody who just had their child abducted, you would think they’d be more careful about who they let into their house. But that is not my concern.
“Drats,” I mutter to myself.
I hadn’t gotten the camera into the foyer until after the mystery man had arrived, so I missed the introductions. Which means I did not get his name. I watch the conversation between them all play out though, intrigued by this man. I am relatively certain he isn’t a cop. I just didn’t get that feel from him, and my instincts rarely prove to be wrong.
But who is he? Some private investigator? The Morgans are filling him in on what was happening with Jordan and my ransom demands, which is interesting. And technically, since he’s not a cop, I suppose they didn’t break my rules. But I do plan on mentioning it.
I play and replay the video footage again and again because there is just something about him that seems… familiar. I can’t say how or why, but he is definitely tickling something in my mind. It’s irritating me because my memory is usually sharp, and I can recall most anything I need to when I need to remember it. But when it comes to the man in the Morgan house, I am drawing a complete blank. It’s frustrating.
That is the only variable I can’t account for, simply because I don’t know who this man is or what role he is going to play. Perhaps it’s benign. Or perhaps it’s something else. I need to know which it is because I do not like having loose ends and variables I haven’t factored into play.
I’m going to need to find out who this is and what he’s got to do with this. I’m in control of this situation, and I don’t want anybody else getting the mistaken idea that they are.
Seven
Paxton
Morgan Residence; Windermere, WA
“Remember,
relax and do not let him rattle you. No matter what he says,” I tell Kayla. “Guys like this need to have absolute control. He will try to shake you and get under your skin. Don’t let him.”
She nods. “O—okay. I’ll try.”
We’re crowded around the phone that sits on the replica Resolute Desk in Joseph’s office. Subtle. The air around us is thick with the scent of lemon and wood polish. One entire wall holds a floor-to-ceiling bookcase stuffed with dozens of volumes ranging from historical biographies to the latest Michael Crichton novel. The spines all look well broken in. These books aren’t just for show.
“Don’t just try, Kayla,” I urge. “It’s critical that you remain in control. That you show no emotion whatsoever. Guys like this feed off it.”
I glance at my watch and see that it’s five fifty-eight. We’ve got two minutes. I expect the man will make us wait five minutes or so, just to reinforce the notion that he’s in control by making us wait on him. It’s a cheap psychological tactic that’s more annoying than it is effective. But this is his show, and if we want to get Jordan back, we have to let him play it out.
“Maybe we should have called the police after all,” Joseph sighs. “Maybe they could have traced the call—”
“No, he’ll kill Jordan,” Kayla cries. “You heard what he said, Joseph.”
Joseph looks scared. Petrified. As we get closer to the appointed hour, his fear seems to be growing while Kayla remains steadfast in her belief that she’s handling this the right way. It’s the first crack I’ve seen between them, and I need to shore it up.