“Already taken care of,” the detective said, walking up to them.
His expression was grim. “I assigned a uniform to follow Odem as soon as he left the building. But I’ve got even bigger fish to fry at the moment. I just got a call from Thorndike. Seems the media just released a story that we were questioning another suspect today. Thorndike was upset, wanted to know why he had to learn about it on the news like everyone else. I’m heading over to the house now to smooth his ruffled feathers and bring him up to date on the investigation. When he hears about Odem, the good doctor might be coming to us begging for police protection.”
Damien shook his head, frowning. “You gotta do something about that leak in your department, Detective.”
Mayhew scowled. “I know, I know. Hell. Just what I need. A damn leaky faucet. I’m gonna have to talk to the captain when I get back.”
Althea said, “Have you had a chance to visit Claire’s high school and talk to some of her teachers?”
“My partner and I made the rounds yesterday. They all had pretty much the same things to say about Claire—smart girl, outstanding student, true leader, an ambitious go-getter with a bright future ahead of her. They acknowledged that there had been some rifts between Claire’s friends and a few other cliques, but nothing you wouldn’t find in any other high school. Girls fight, they compete for boys and attention, they’re catty to one another. And although some of her classmates might have been jealous of her, none of her teachers could think of a single person who would want to hurt her. Which, of course, is what they all say in these situations. No teacher wants to believe one of their own students could be a school shooter in the making or a violent psychopath capable of kidnapping and brutalizing a classmate.”
“What about an employee—a janitor or cafeteria worker—who may have taken an unusual amount of interest in Claire?” Althea probed. “Someone who might have gone out of their way to talk to her, offer her assistance, things like that?”
Mayhew made a face. “We spoke to most of Claire’s friends, and none of them remembered her mentioning anything like that. They swear she would have told them if she’d ever felt weirded out by someone at school, whether it was a teacher or a janitor. Just to cover our bases, though, we asked the school secretary to provide a list of all custodial staff and employees that were terminated within the last six months. She’s supposed to be faxing it over this afternoon. We’ll run the names through the system and see if we get any hits. We also asked Claire’s friends if they had noticed anyone suspicious hanging around the school, loitering around the parking lot, looking like they didn’t belong. All of them said no. But that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why not?” Althea asked.
“Have you ever been to the high school?”
Althea shook her head.
“Well, they’ve got a pretty good setup over there. It’s a small private school, so part of the hefty tuition goes toward hiring a private security company to keep the little rich kids safe. There are two security guards posted on campus every day until six P.M. One circulates inside the building—especially during class change times and lunch—and the other patrols the grounds. The parents asked that the guards be in plainclothes, so the kids won’t feel like they’re in prison or attending some inner-city school plagued by crime and violence.”
Damien chuckled dryly. “Can’t have that.”
Mayhew snorted. “Of course not. Anyway, the guards also have the authority to enforce school discipline policies. The principal told me that this helps keep the number of school fights down and discourages students from bragging about their wild keg parties out in the open.” He shrugged. “If you ask me, I’d rather know up-front what they’re up to so I can catch ’em in the act as opposed to them pretending to be perfect little angels in my face while they sneak around behind my back.” He paused, grimacing. “Like Claire.”
“Like Claire,” Althea murmured in agreement, reflecting once again on the tragic irony that the teenager’s secrecy may have enabled her abductor to get away with the perfect crime.
Damien said, “What about the computer lab at the school? We’ve been thinking that Claire must have used another computer to open a secret e-mail account and correspond more freely with Odem.”
“If she did, she didn’t do it at school,” Mayhew said. “We spoke to the computer science faculty, and they said the computers are firewalled to prevent students from viewing inappropriate material and accessing the computers for personal use. They told us Claire wouldn’t have been able to open an e-mail account or check any personal messages.”
“So that’s a dead end,” Althea muttered in frustration.
Mayhew said, “We’re still going through her PC and checking her instant message activity, which is stored on the hard drive.”
“If Odem was smart enough to instruct her to open a separate e-mail account,” Damien said grimly, “he was smart enough not to IM her at home. If he was really smart, he would have told her not to use any of her wireless devices to contact him. That means no laptop, PDA, cell phone, or we could trace her activity through her MAC address.”
Mayhew frowned in confusion. “What the hell is a MAC address?”
“The Media Access Control address is a unique value associated with a network adapter,” Damien explained. “In other words, it’s a number that acts like a name for a particular network. Any wireless capabilities with a MAC address can be traced, so if Claire sent or received a message from Odem using her laptop, PDA, or cell phone, we could simply trace it through her MAC address, which, in the world of computer networking, is just as important as an IP address.”
Mayhew scowled, passing a hand over his thinning cap of hair, mussing it even more. “The double-edged sword of modern technology,” he muttered darkly. “There are so many damn methods of communication nowadays—e-mail, cell phones, text messaging, instant messaging, BlackBerrys. It’s done nothing but create more fucking work for cops.”
Althea and Damien chuckled quietly. The detective was right. Modern technology had been both a blessing and a curse to those in law enforcement. On one hand it enabled underresourced police departments to streamline cumbersome processes and procedures, which helped cops do their jobs better. But on the other hand, technology had spawned a new breed of cybercriminals, and keeping one step ahead of them could be a daunting task for many law enforcement agencies, which was why the FBI had launched the Cyber Investigations division for the sole purpose of combating Internet crime.
“If your cybertechs need any help pulling the data off Claire’s computer, let me know and I’ll send one of our forensic examiners over to lend a helping hand,” Damien offered. “These guys can break passwords and decrypt files in their sleep.”
Mayhew nodded. “I might have to take you up on that. We don’t have the luxury of being territorial or letting our egos get in the way. We need all the manpower we can get. My partner’s been out in the field since the crack of dawn this morning leading the ground search efforts, along with deputies from the sheriff’s office, state police, and representatives from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. We’ve also got our mounted police unit involved to help with that rural area around the Thorndike property, and our divers are going to be dragging parts of the Chesapeake later today.” He blew out a long, weary breath, exhaustion stamped into his features and adding to his haggard appearance. “We’ve covered a lot of ground in the last two days, yet it seems like we’ve barely scratched the damn surface.”
Althea wanted to offer some words of reassurance, wanted to tell him they would find Claire and bring her back home. But she couldn’t make that kind of guarantee. The harsh reality was that no matter how hard they worked or how much they willed Claire’s safe return, they were all at the mercy of an unknown predator. She knew it, and so did the two men standing with her.
“You’re doing a helluva job,” she said to Mayhew instead, meaning it.
He gave her a brief, gra
teful smile. “I’m sure you’ve both already heard that we’re convening a task force to compare notes on the investigation and make sure everyone is on the same page. We’re having our first meeting tomorrow morning at eight-thirty at the old fire hall on Reisterstown, which we’re using as our base of operations.”
“I know where it is,” Damien said. “We’ll be there.”
Mayhew nodded briskly, then glanced at his watch, a cheap, serviceable watch that was the complete opposite of the platinum Rolex worn by James Odem. “I’d better get over to Casa Thorndike and do some damage control before he sics the commissioner on me. God, I just love my job,” he grumbled as he started away.
As Althea and Damien were leaving the station a few minutes later, Damien’s cell phone rang. He picked it up and listened for a prolonged moment, then said in a clipped voice, “We’re on our way.”
When he ended the call and looked at Althea, she felt a knot of instinctive tension tighten in her stomach.
“Who was that?” she asked warily.
“Balducci. He said a package arrived at the office today.” He paused. “It seems that the kidnapper has made contact.”
Chapter 15
When they reached the office, they headed straight to the conference room where the special agent in charge was waiting for them, seated at the head of the long conference table with a grim expression on his face.
In the center of the table, in a clear plastic bag, was a yellow nine-by-twelve envelope with a metal closure and a torn flap. It was addressed to SAC EDWARD BALDUCCI. There was no return address. Right beside the envelope, also encased in plastic to preserve trace evidence, was a single sheet of white letter-size paper. Centered on the page was a printed message:
When the music changes, so does the dance.
The blood drained from Althea’s head.
Without a word, she and Damien sat down across from each other at the table.
“It came this morning,” Eddie said flatly. “When I returned from a meeting downtown, it was sitting there with the rest of my mail.”
“Which your secretary puts on your desk every day,” Damien said.
“Right. It was postmarked on Saturday. Sent first-class.” Eddie paused. “It was mailed from Richmond, Virginia.”
A silent look of comprehension passed between the three agents. But it was Damien who voiced what they were thinking. “He wants to make sure we’re involved in the case. So he took her across state lines.”
“Or he wants us to believe he did,” Althea murmured.
No one posed the obvious question. It hung in the air like a specter, silent and ominous. Why?
Why did the kidnapper want the FBI to become involved in the case?
Why had he taken Claire Thorndike across state lines, which was a federal crime?
Because he wants you to play his twisted little game, Althea.
A chill of foreboding swept across her flesh.
She could feel the heat of Damien’s gaze trained on her. He was worried about her.
Pretending not to notice, she stood and leaned across the table to read the cryptic note encased in plastic. When the music changes, so does the dance.
“I’ve seen this before,” she said suddenly. “It’s a West African proverb. It’s often been used as a theme for Black History Month celebrations. The proverb is basically about re-creating yourself to meet every circumstance, without ever losing the essence of who you are.”
Eddie frowned. “That doesn’t sound very threatening.”
“No, but there’s definitely a message in there,” Damien said. “The question is, who’s the message about? And who is it really for?”
The room fell silent. Althea knew they were all thinking the same thing, that she was the intended recipient of the proverb, but no one wanted to say it.
“There’s a reference to music,” Althea said. “James Odem was teaching Claire about Coltrane for her music class.”
Damien and Eddie nodded thoughtfully.
Damien posed, “Maybe the perp is telling us that he’s a chameleon, able to adapt himself to any situation. Able to escape detection.”
Althea stared at him alertly. “I think you’re right. I think that’s exactly what he’s telling us.”
Eddie scowled. “Then it’s a taunt. A catch-me-if-you-can arrogance.”
“Which fits the profile of the type of predator we’re looking for,” Damien muttered. “Someone who thinks he’s smarter than us. Someone like James Odem.”
Again they fell silent.
“Looks like the note was generated on a laser printer on standard copy paper,” Eddie observed, shifting focus. “Which means it could have been sent by anyone.”
Althea nodded. “And the envelope was addressed to you, which doesn’t give us any clues into the sender’s identity. Any crackpot with Internet access could look up your name and the address of the Baltimore field office.”
“Right,” Damien agreed. “And he knew that by sending it directly to the SAC, it wouldn’t get lost in the shuffle. It would be taken seriously, given priority status.”
Eddie nodded. “I was waiting for the two of you to arrive and have a look at it before I handed it off to the lab guys.” He heaved a deep sigh. “I think we can all safely assume the chances of lifting a usable print are a gazillion to one.”
Althea and Damien nodded in reluctant agreement. Whoever had sent the note was smart, cunning, meticulous. He—or she—would not have been careless enough to leave fingerprints, or any other trace evidence, that could lead the authorities right to his doorstep. This was a game to him.
A deadly game he intended to win.
Althea suppressed another shudder and asked, “Is it possible he’s a Virginia resident?”
“Not likely,” Eddie answered. “I think he traveled there specifically to mail the note. But just to be on the safe side, I already contacted our field office in Richmond and gave the SAC the postal code from the envelope. They’re going to check out any abandoned buildings and warehouses in the area and talk to locals. Maybe someone saw a girl matching Claire’s description around the time the letter was mailed. It’s along shot, but worth a try.”
Damien nodded. “They should also take a photo of James Odem up to the post office, see if any employees recognize him. The note was mailed on Saturday, which was only three days ago. We might be lucky enough to get a positive ID.”
“If he’s our guy,” Althea qualified, sitting back down.
“How did it go at the police station?” Eddie asked.
Damien gave him a quick rundown of that morning’s interview with James Odem. When he’d finished, Eddie shook his head, frowning deeply. “Sounds like he’s definitely lying about something. But he’s got a lot to lose. By tomorrow morning his name and photograph will be splashed all over the news in connection to Claire’s disappearance.”
“Guess he should have thought about that before he decided to hook up with a teenage girl,” Damien drawled, unsympathetic.
“Assuming he’s not responsible for her disappearance,” Eddie said, “he’s got to be the unluckiest son of a bitch ever. Of the thousands of men every year who meet underage girls online, this poor bastard had to meet the girl who goes missing.”
Damien grimaced. “I’m not ready to give this guy a pass. He walked in there and lied to our damn faces.”
“What if he didn’t lie?” Althea countered philosophically. “What if he was telling the truth about Claire becoming obsessed with him? Would that be so impossible? He’s an attractive, intelligent, successful doctor who gave her the time of day. Never underestimate the power of male attention on an impressionable, lonely young woman.” She hesitated, pursing her lips in thought for a moment. “You know, when I was in college, I met an older man in a chat room. He seemed very smart and sophisticated, and he was easy to talk to. I had a boyfriend at the time, but I found myself confiding in this man, this complete stranger. I shared personal things with him, things I had
n’t even told my best friend. It felt good to talk to someone who didn’t know me, who wouldn’t judge me. I don’t know. Maybe if I wasn’t dating the star basketball player, I might have developed feelings for my chat buddy. Of course,” she added sardonically, “I didn’t know at the time that he was a professor at my university and a bona fide scumbag.”
“I remember,” Eddie said darkly.
“You’ve just proven my point,” Damien growled. “Grown men who spend hours online chatting with young girls don’t automatically deserve the benefit of the doubt when it comes to criminal behavior.”
“But my chat buddy isn’t the one who kidnapped me,” Althea pointed out quietly.
Damien frowned, but said nothing. Neither did Eddie.
“And now that I’ve brought up the elephant in the room,” she said in a calm, measured voice, “I think it’s time we start exploring the very real possibility that we’re looking at a copycat here. We’ve all been thinking about it. The arrival of this note forces us to confront it head-on. So who wants to go first?”
Damien and Eddie traded glances, but neither spoke.
A wry smile curved Althea’s mouth. “All right. I’ll go first. I’ve come up with a victim profile by compiling a list of the similarities between myself and Claire Thorndike at the time of our abductions, and there are too many of them to be ignored. As soon as I walked in here and saw this note, the first thing that went through my mind is, this is how it started before. With a note. A message from the kidnapper.”
Damien nodded, his expression grim. “After that, your bookbag was found at a convenience store. Deliberately left there by the kidnapper.”
Althea nodded. “Once we learned that Claire’s purse, cell phone, and backpack were missing, I knew why. The perp took them as souvenirs. My hunch is that he’s going to contact us at some point to let us know where we can locate those items. And he’s not going to leave them just anywhere. It’s going to be strategic. Anthony Yusef ”—there was a time she couldn’t utter her abductor’s name without shuddering—“left my bookbag at the convenience store because it was symbolic for Garrison. And he knew that, because he’d already taken the time to learn everything he could about Garrison. So now we have to think like the Unsub. What does he know about us? We can already assume he knows plenty about me, but what has he learned about you, Damien? Or about Eddie?”
No One But You Page 18