by PT Reade
With a heavy sigh, I took out my phone and called Amir.
***
Several of the people Andrew had called were already in the lobby when we pulled up into the meticulously manicured grounds outside his office building. Andrew’s driver parked the car, and we jumped out. Andrew ran to the elegantly austere entrance. I followed in his wake.
GreenLife, Hyde’s company, serviced almost half of greater London. More recently, he had moved into commercial recycling and energy management. Judging by the expensive modern art and the beautifully designed office spaces, business must’ve been booming.
We moved up to the tenth floor, and I marveled at the rows of computers and empty desks where hundreds of people worked every day. They were the worker bees keeping Andrew’s company running and in turn keeping London free of garbage. I’d never worked in an office like this, but right then, half-drunk and fully exhausted, with events spiraling out of control, I was almost jealous of the simpler life.
It must be nice to have a nine-to-five.
Andrew rushed to a large private office, now converted into a situation room. An assistant had set up everything in advance. I was impressed, especially given the hour. As soon as we entered, there were hot cups of coffee available and computers ready to go. An assistant performed a very rough round of introductions, a series of bland faces and names I wouldn’t even try to remember. Then Andrew did something that surprised me. Rather than tell me he did not need my services any longer, he told those gathered to help me in any way I needed. The suits all around me looked more used to business brunches and presentations than handling kidnapping cases, but they gave a series of sleepy nods anyway. It was hard to believe everything had happened so fast, but it was already 12:50 in the morning.
In the midst of this, Amir rushed through the door, his face puffy and his eyes wide with concern. Sweat dotted his forehead. My distraught friend looked as though he’d skipped the elevator and sprinted up to the tenth floor.
I’d told him all there was to know on the phone. It had been one of the hardest conversations of my life.
“Anything new?” he asked as soon as he located me in the crowd.
“Nothing yet,” I said. “We’re about to come up with a plan of action.”
“What were their demands?” Amir asked.
Andrew answered this one, speaking with quiet anger. “Three million pounds within twelve hours. If I fail at that, they’ll…” He stood silent for a second and stared at the carpet. Finally, he took a deep breath and regained his composure. “They’ll hurt both girls, and the ransom goes to five million within twenty-four hours. If they don’t receive their money by then, they’ll kill them both. No police involvement. They’ll be calling to give me an address to drop the money within four hours.”
“My god,” Amir said. He dropped heavily into one of the many chairs in the office. He looked like he might throw up.
“Blume,” Andrew said. “Have you ever dealt with anything like this?”
“Not directly,” I admitted. “I mean I used to be a cop but I’m not sure—”
“He can find them,” Amir cut in, hope in his voice, desperation in his eyes. “Blume’s the best chance we’ve got. I know it.”
“Look, I appreciate the vote of confidence but this is moving way too fast,” I said raising my hands.
Andrew glanced at me, then back to Amir. “You vouch for him?” Andrew asked.
“Absolutely,” Amir said.
“Then I’d like to officially hire you again, Mr. Blume,” Andrew said. “Effective immediately.”
I sighed. “Okay…fine,” I said, dizzy at the pace this was all happening.
Millions of pounds, missing girls, and we weren’t even an hour into Sunday. I suddenly longed for the boring party and, more importantly, the free booze.
“What can we expect, do you think?” he asked.
“And how in God’s name did it happen?” Amir cut in. His bushy brows were knitted, and his eyes were gleaming. He was absolutely livid, and I was glad. Anger was more useful than despair in a situation like this.
I briefed the group on the events at the party, the bogus caterer and everything since.
No one asked why the connection took so long to make. This was good, as we didn’t have time for recriminations, and I didn’t have time for remorse.
“We also found,” I added, “that the cab they got into was a decoy. The company name on the side is a real company, but they don’t have the license number in their system. Now, it seems obvious that Chelsea was the target, given Andrew’s status, and Aisha was just unlucky enough to be there when it happened. Otherwise, Amir would have gotten the ransom call.”
“My baby,” Andrew stammered. “When my wife passed away it was so hard. It hit Chelsea too, but we were there for each other. Always have been. I love her so much. Oh god. I just don’t—I don’t know what to do.” Andrew ran his palms down his face and began pacing the room.
“Andrew, I need you to focus. Does Chelsea have her phone on her?”
He glanced up. “Always. She’s glued to the damn thing.”
“Ok good. Amir, what about Aisha?”
“I suppose so. I’m not sure. But what—”
He was interrupted by another man entering the office. Everyone turned to look as both glass doors opened. Flanked by an entourage of lackeys, he wore an expensive gray suit and carried himself with far too much assertiveness, given the situation. I’d never met the guy, but I recognized him from TV; the overweight frame, the ruddy complexion, and the dark eyes. Gordon Hyde. Right away, I didn’t like him. His face was too emotive—all false smiles and forced concern—the signs of a well-rehearsed politician. I’d rarely read anything positive about the man, and based on research for other cases I’d worked on, I was pretty sure he was dirty from the top down.
“My God, Andrew,” he said, walking directly for his brother and embracing him. “I’m so sorry.”
The two hugged awkwardly. It was clear that they were not on the best of terms.
“Thanks for coming, Gordon,” Andrew said.
“Of course. I know you said the police can’t get involved, but I have a great many resources I can bring to bear on this situation that can help with this.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Andrew said dismissively. “I have Mr. Blume here, in my employ. He’s the reason we found out about the kidnapping so soon. I won’t need your help.”
“Oh, well. Good then.” Gordon said, giving me a wary glance. The man looked almost surprised to see me there, but he recovered so quickly I doubted anyone else noticed.
The brothers exchanged a glance that made me go cold. There was no love lost between the siblings. I made a mental note to look into it—after I’d found the girls. Before then, the kidnapping would be my top priority, but with a politician involved, there was no telling what I’d face along the way.
“Our time is short,” Andrew said. “So, Blume, do you have any idea where to start looking?”
I’d sketched out a few strategies on the way to Andrew’s office, and although none of them felt solid, I did not want to say such a thing at a pivotal moment.
“I have a few thoughts, yes. Tracking down the cab will be my first call.”
“I thought it was fake?”
“Fake company, real cab. I think I know how to find it.”
“Then for God’s sake, get to work. Tell my driver I gave you permission to take my car. It’ll be quicker this way.”
“Of course,” I said. “One thing…when they call back, ask for proof of life. But don’t be too pushy about it. And if they ask if you are working on getting the money, say yes. Even give specifics if you can. What bank you’re dealing with, things like that. If they bite, you can even offer to give them the number of your banker for verification. If they take you up on it, give them my number.”
“Anything else?” he asked.
“On the phone, try to remain calm. Assholes like these feed off
of emotion. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
“Ok, and Blume, thanks, really.” Andrew spoke to a couple of his assistants and moved closer to me as I made my way to the exit. We stepped outside the bustling office into the eerie quiet of the empty hallway outside. Once alone, he placed a hand on my shoulder. “I need my daughter back. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her.” He shuddered, and his voice cracked. He raised watery eyes and looked directly at me. “I’ve heard about you, Tom, why you are here, what happened to you and your family. I might be able to help; it all goes deeper than you think. The people who are involved… Anyway, I have files, in my office. I’m certain they can help you more than they can help me.” He motioned to the room we had just left. “You bring back my Chelsea, and they are all yours.”
I wanted to ask a thousand questions. Instead, I simply nodded.
“I’ll find the girls. I will.”
I headed out. Here I was neck deep in another case, despite my plan to take it easy. High chance of danger, lives on the line, and an entire city to search with nowhere to begin. The setting had changed, but the rest was all too familiar.
This was my nine-to-five.
FIVE
The clues drove me forward, but reality held me back.
Andrew wasn’t kidding about his car being quicker. The black Supercharged Range Rover sat gleaming in the executive parking bay. It was an impressive beast, but I didn’t have time to admire the vehicle further before I jumped inside.
When I got behind the wheel, someone tapped on the passenger window. I looked over in time to see Amir opening the door.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
“Going with you,” he answered.
“No, you’re not,” I said. “The worst person to be working on a case like this is a father who is directly involved.”
“She’s my daughter,” he argued.
“Exactly. You keep yourself safe so when we get her back, she’ll have a father to return to. I’m going to have to be a prick about this, Amir. Get out of the car. Let me do my job.”
He gave me a chagrined look. Knew I was right. Reluctantly, he got out of the car. Before closing the door, he said, “Please find her.”
“I will.”
No pressure or anything, I thought, as he clicked the door closed.
I keyed the car to life. The deep V8 roared with satisfaction, begging to be let loose.
I pulled out of Andrew’s driveway slowly, getting a feel for the big beast, and finally opened it up as I headed straight for my apartment. Still, I had to be careful. I didn’t want to draw unnecessary police attention, so it took nearly twenty minutes for me to reach my place.
When I arrived, I pulled the car into the yard behind Amir’s restaurant, hustled up the steps to the back entrance, and moved through my shabby digs to my desk. It was a mess.
Sweeping all the notes and files to the floor, my notebook computer found it’s place front and center. I tore off the tie that had been strangling me all night, and the relief was instantaneous. There was no time to get fully changed out of the suit, but it was a start. I booted up my computer, and as it loaded, I called Andrew. When he answered, the hope in his voice was almost too much for me.
“Andrew, what’s Chelsea’s phone number?” I asked.
He gave it to me, and I jotted it down.
“Can you ask Amir for Aisha’s?”
After a couple of seconds delay, he gave me that number as well. I wrote it alongside Chelsea’s.
“Have the kidnappers called back yet?” I asked.
“No.”
“Let me know when they do and give me the drop-off address.”
With the call ended, I opened up a program on my computer that was essential to my plan. Some might have called the software illegal; others may have frowned upon it, but in cases like this, I found such questions of morality easy to overlook. Besides, no one who knew me could ever accuse Thomas Blume of being a Boy Scout. The empty whiskey bottles standing in a neat row on my shelf, mocking me, bore testament to the fact.
The software I had opened was one of the many “find my phone” applications on the market, but this one was a little souped-up, designed for forensic investigators. It allowed not only the locating of any phone registered on the network but also a remote download of its contents, something hackers had abused a few years ago to expose some celebrity dirty laundry to the public.
I typed in Chelsea’s phone number and gave the program an approximate range to search. In this case, I gave a hundred-mile radius because the kidnappers hadn’t had enough time to get much farther than that. While it searched, I made an instant coffee, needing the caffeine to jolt my system awake. I had no delusions about sleeping anytime in the next few days, so sugar and caffeine were going to be my very good friends. Not ideal, but it was better than becoming re-acquainted with my hip flask, which I’d consciously left in my bedroom in a half-assed attempt to kick the booze. Half-assed was my specialty these days.
With the coffee strong enough to wake the dead, I returned to the computer and found that the program had a match. The tool had located Chelsea’s phone but was saying that Aisha’s was either turned off or not working. I was beyond relieved to find that the signal on Hyde’s daughter’s phone was stationary, meaning that Chelsea and her captors, or at least the phone, were not on the move.
Of course, if the kidnappers were smart, they would have ditched the phones out of fear of the very same GPS technologies being used against them. But I could only go with what I had. And the program was telling me that Chelsea’s phone was in East Clapham.
After being struck by a sudden idea, I pulled up my email and typed up a quick message asking for a favor. The clock on the computer screen showed me it was 1:40 am. I’d likely not get an answer to the email for several hours, but that was fine. I had plenty to do in the meantime.
I chugged down the rest of the cooling coffee and headed back out, taking my laptop with me. I’d be on the move until this case was solved, and I had no idea when I would be back home. The coffee, adrenaline, and desire to find the girls were driving me forward. I still wasn’t sure which one was winning out when I climbed into Andrew’s car and threw it into drive, heading south of the river. Around me, the city was finally folded in the embrace of near darkness. Roads were almost deserted and sidewalks empty. With only the acid streetlights to keep me company, I drove through the night.
It was surprisingly peaceful, but I had an ominous feeling the peace wouldn’t last long.
***
Following the app’s coordinates, I navigated the empty roads to Clapham and tried to recall what I knew about the area. The district sat southwest of the river in the borough of Lambeth. It included the vast park area of The Common and Old Town, a region with roots going back to Roman times. Today most people saw the district only when they passed through the busy transport hub at Clapham Junction.
As my GPS led me into a narrow side street just off the High Street, it all seemed unremarkable and, at this hour, mostly deserted. Certainly, nothing that screamed “kidnappers’ hideout.”
There were several industrial-type buildings and empty lots, some with the beginnings of construction and some simply dried up and dead.
The coordinates to Chelsea’s phone only gave the location within 100 meters. It led me directly in front of a large ramshackle garage. An oily shutter was down, and inside, the noise of power tools and engines shattered the quiet. That alone was enough to raise a few red flags, given the time of night. It looked like one of those workshops that auto mechanics used to trick-out cars, but what kind of garage would be open at this time?
By the time I parked in front of the place, the dashboard clock read 2:27 am. A chain-link fence surrounded the block, protecting a lot filled with car parts and a few nice-looking vehicles. I climbed down from the car and looked around, frustrated that this was clearly a place of business. I didn’t want to break in, but I also didn’t ha
ve time to wait around for six or seven hours and waltz in the main entrance.
As I stood at the gate of the chain-link fence, I could see that one of the workshop doors was rolled up. The inside was barely visible due to the angle, the harsh light of a welding torch flashed from within, and I could hear the murmur of two people talking.
Another surprise presented itself when I placed my hands along the gate. It was unlocked. With a very easy push, the chain-link gate swung open. I caught it before it could issue any creaks or groans. Tiptoeing into the lot, I clung to the deep shadows at the side of the building for cover. As I made my way to the workshop entrance and the light of the welding torch, I studied some of the various cars within the lot. One of them caught my eye, confusing the hell out of me.
It was a New York cab, right down to the dented fender and yellow paint job. A few cars down from that was what appeared to be an ambulance with the cab removed and, directly beside it, a limo missing two tires.
What the hell kind of place is this?
I reached the edge of the workshop entrance and felt the reassuring bulk of my X26 stun gun. The solid plastic device was almost permanently attached to my hip these days. A state-of-the-art, projectile-based weapon, it used no wires and instead fired miniature taser rounds that shocked with 50,000 volts on impact.
Sure, I preferred the comfortable cold steel of a real pistol, but I saved that particular weapon for only the direst of situations. The Police in this city were already looking for a chance to put me away. Carrying a firearm was a risk I couldn’t afford to take at this stage.
Keeping to the shadows, I peered around the corner. I saw enough to realize that this was not any sort of normal auto garage, as if the late hour wasn’t already enough of an indication. The man with the welding torch was working on a sophisticated-looking Porsche, only with the interior of the thing hollowed out. Tucked away in the corner, there was a weird 1950s pickup truck that looked like it belonged on a farm somewhere in Central America.