Absolute Liability

by Jennifer Becton

  Vincent gave me a dark look, as if daring me to laugh, and then kept his eyes focused on the floor. I took that as a plea for me to take the lead.

  “I’m Special Agent Julia Jackson, and this is Special Agent Mark Vincent. We’re with the Georgia Department of Insurance.” He offered his identification, and Mimsy leaned closer, smashing her boobs together even more as she reached out to stroke the badge. Vincent managed to retain his ID without making eye contact with her nipples. “We need to ask you a few questions about Roger McKade.”

  “Roger? You found out he burned down that warehouse for the insurance money, huh?”

  Actually, we hadn’t known for certain, but that was good to hear. It would sure make the fraud complaint easier to clear up.

  Apparently, Vincent agreed because his head snapped up, and Mimsy immediately angled her chest toward him. His focus went right back to the floor.

  “He tell you that he burned it?” I asked.

  “A man will tell me anything when I’ve got him on the table.” Mimsy fluttered her long mascara-laden lashes at Vincent. “I’m the masseuse, but I fill in up here when the receptionist is out.”

  “Ah. We’ll be calling you to testify about that,” I said. “What Roger told you on the table, I mean.”

  “There goes another client.” She lifted a salmon-colored nail to her lips, thinking. “He wasn’t that great a tipper anyway.”

  Vincent took out his notebook. “How can we contact you, Mrs….?”

  “It’s Miz.” She drew out the Z sound. I wondered if she thought it sounded seductive. “I’m divorced. Miz Mimsy Monahan.”

  Vincent wrote.

  “You’ll need my number too.”

  He nodded reluctantly—at least he looked pretty darn reluctant to me—and she gave it to him with an admonition to call any time.

  Vincent seemed to ignore that last comment and asked, “Was Mr. McKade here yesterday?”

  “Sure, he was in for his monthly treatments.”

  “Monthly?” I snickered. A vague look of amusement flashed across Vincent’s face, but he kept his eyes studiously downcast.

  “How long do these treatments take?” he asked.

  “Oh, it varies.” Miz Mimsy crooked a finger at him. “Come on back and I’ll show you.”

  I was surprised when Vincent followed. We didn’t really need to look around the place. Just to get an idea of a time frame. But dear old Mimsy gave us the grand tour of the spa and described each of McKade’s treatments in painful detail. By the time we returned to the reception area, she had her arm laced through one of Vincent’s, pressing herself firmly against his bicep. He had maintained his politeness, but his facial expression was glacial. I was surprised she didn’t freeze right on the spot.

  I was getting annoyed at her ridiculous flirtation, so I repeated Vincent’s earlier question. “The treatments he received yesterday would take how long?”

  “Gosh, he came in at lunchtime, and he was here a couple of hours at least.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  Now Mimsy was annoyed with me. She dropped Vincent’s arm and stepped toward me, one finger raised in warning. “Baby, I just keep track of when they come in. Not when they go out.”

  She went to the reception desk and checked the scheduling book. Vincent took the opportunity to retreat to a safer position behind one of the chairs. I doubted a chair—or a solid titanium wall—would stop Mimsy.

  “He came in here at 12:30.”

  “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Monahan.” I stressed the Mrs. just to annoy her. “We’ll be in touch.”

  And Vincent and I left the salon.

  “Pretty flimsy,” he said as we walked back to the GMC.

  I smirked. “What? McKade’s alibi or Miz Mimsy Monahan’s attempts at flirting?”

  “The alibi,” Vincent said. “He could have driven to Mercer and abducted Amber or hired someone else to do it.”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t seem shocked to see me this morning.”

  “There is that.”

  “What do you think it means?” I pressed. I really wanted to know his opinion on whether or not I needed to be worried about Roger McKade and his hunting arsenal.

  “Not sure yet, but at least we’ve got the fraud case pretty much in the bag.”

  After work, the quiet of my own house should have been calming, but instead, it provided too much opportunity for me to think about Amber and what might be happening to her.

  Unfortunately, I could not combat the fearful thoughts by cheering myself with positive news.

  We had no positive news.

  Vincent and I had made no progress on our side of the kidnapping investigation that day, and my call to Tripp revealed that the MPD had not gotten much further. Black and white units recanvassed the strip mall where the abandoned Altima had been found, but none of the employees or shoppers had seen anything suspicious the day before. The sketch artist had not been able to elicit enough information from the texting intern Carl West to produce a decent rendition of the kidnapper, and so far, none of Amber’s ex-boyfriends stood out as potential suspects.

  In short, the investigation had left us with precisely nothing. No leads to Amber’s whereabouts. No clues as to the identity of the perpetrator.

  Worse, the more time that passed with Amber in the hands of her abductor, the less chance we had of a good outcome, and that left me with a mind full of gruesome speculation.

  Where was she being held? Was she receiving food and water? Was she suffering?

  Was she dead?

  I didn’t want to engage in conjecture, especially because it flooded me with guilt and horror. I had to think of something else.

  I turned on the TV and flipped channels, landing on the local news. They were rolling a tape of Amber’s parents begging the kidnapper to return their child.

  I turned the TV off.

  I had to get out.

  After going to the garage and grabbing my bike, I rolled it across the street to Helena’s. A ride with her would certainly result in more Vincent talk, but that was eminently preferable to thinking of Amber and what might be happening to her.

  Helena and Violet were on the front porch, and I leaned on my handlebars to chat.

  “You up for a short ride tonight?”

  “What a great idea! Violet’s been a bit fussy today, and I really need some girl time.”

  Helena took her daughter inside to Tim, and soon we were navigating the hilly roads together. Between inclines, she told me about Violet’s antics, and I told her about Vincent at the day spa. This got some good laughs and more than a few comments about her desire to see him in a bathrobe, but in all, it was nice to have a girlfriend to talk to, even if it was just funny stories about how we’d spent the day or harassment over my non-dating life.

  I looked at Helena sidelong and smiled.

  This part of my life had been lacking while I was on the force. I just didn’t have time for an active social life back then. Now I saw how empty I had allowed my old life to become.

  I was glad to have Helena.

  After we exchanged stories, we grew quiet, and then Helena asked, “How do you like Vincent? As a partner, I mean. Do you enjoy working with him?”

  I thought for a while. How did I like Vincent as a partner?

  It had been a long time since I’d worked with someone on a daily basis, and I’d grown used to my freedom. I’d expected not to relish the idea of a partner, but so far, I had not felt stifled. In fact, my sense of freedom remained strong.

  “He’s not so bad,” I said. That was really all I could say.

  “Well, that’s good to hear. Any chance he’ll stick around?”

  I shook my head. “Probably not. He works out of the Atlanta office. He’s just here temporarily.”

  “That’s too bad,” Helena said. “Maybe you could convince him to stay. For other reasons.”

  I rolled my eyes at that last part, and I wouldn’t admit it, but I might not mind so
much if Vincent stuck around.

  Conversation stopped as we pedaled the last hill back toward our street, and I realized that I’d not spared a thought on kidnapping, murder, and guns for an hour or so.

  It was a relief.

  My M&P was strapped securely to my hip when I went into Southeastern Insurance the next day.

  I preferred to call it healthy caution, not paranoia, that had me a little on edge about returning to the scene of the abduction.

  My abduction.

  Kind of.

  I took the elevator to the fifth floor and went straight to Sandra Browning’s office to pick up the files I’d requested. Tripp had called earlier that morning with the first decent lead in the case. The abductor had indeed taken the files from my desk, so obviously they were important. I was eager to have a look at them.

  Sandra’s workspace was just outside the office of Hugh Barker, the president of Southeastern. His door stood open and his office was empty, but Sandra was at her post.

  “Good morning, Special Agent Jackson. Do you have any news on Miss Willis?”

  “I’m afraid not, but the MPD is still hard at work. I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.”

  “So sad.” Sandra shook her head. Her black hair remained stationary, but the large beaded necklace she wore swung back and forth.

  Sandra had been the one to call 911, and she’d observed the abductor from Ron Raleigh’s office, so I decided to question her quickly and see if she’d left anything out of the police report. “Have you thought of anything new about what you saw on Monday?” I asked casually.

  Sandra cocked her head to the side. “No, I honestly haven’t. I keep thinking back to that scene, though. I remember that the guy looked normal, business type, and he was in a black Altima. I recognized the car because my cousin has one just like it. The only other thing I remember clearly is the flash of the gun.”

  I thought a moment. “You said you saw the gun ‘flash.’ Like it glinted in the sunlight?”

  “Yeah, it was silvery, I think.”

  “Did it look like a revolver or a semi-auto?”

  She looked at me blankly.

  “That’s okay. It was too far for you to tell. I just figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

  Sandra sighed. “If only Ron and I had been able to see better, the police might not have wasted all that time looking for the wrong person.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. You did the right thing calling 911, even if you misidentified the victim.”

  “We were so sure it was you.”

  “You never saw Amber’s face?”

  “No, the kidnapper kept her in front of him most of the time. Plus, it was so far away.” She looked disappointed with herself. “I was so focused on the guy that I only got a quick impression of the woman as he pushed her along. I saw her dark hair, white skin, lean body. I thought it was you.” She shook her head as if clearing away the memory. “I may not have more information, but at least I have all the files you requested.” She picked up a large sheaf of papers and a CD. “I put everything right here on this data CD, even the old files, and gave a copy to the police. I hope it will be helpful in finding poor Miss Willis.”

  I smiled, happy to have found an efficient person to assist in getting all the documentation together. “Thank you, Mrs. Browning. I’m sure this will be a big help.”

  “If anything is missing, or if the files don’t work, do not hesitate to call me. Mr. Barker says I’m to give you full cooperation. Southeastern is most concerned about the safety of its employees, and we intend to work with you fully.”

  Sure, I thought. They were probably more worried about PR and not being sued by Amber’s parents.

  But I nodded anyway. “Please assure Mr. Barker that the DOI and the MPD are doing our best to ensure that this whole affair ends with justice for the guilty. Whoever they are.”

  She caught my inference, and she seemed to bristle. “Mr. Barker does not approve of fraud within this company, Special Agent Jackson, and we intend to punish anyone who indulges in it to the utmost extent possible.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I said, waving my files at her. “And thank you for the information. I’ll be in touch.”

  I headed back to the elevator, and on my way out of the lobby I ran into Ron Raleigh. He carried a delicious-smelling bag of take-out in one hand. Suddenly, I craved a burger.

  “Hey, Ron,” I said. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

  “Any word on our Amber?” he asked. His eyes were wide and sincere.

  I offered him a sad shake of the head. “Not yet, but the police and the DOI are doing everything we can.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I was hoping….” His voice trailed off.

  “We all were, but these things take time to sort out.” The confidence in my voice surprised me. Just last night I’d been so uncertain, but the new lead had given me fresh hope.

  He looked at me with worried eyes. “Do you think it has anything to do with Southeastern? Do you think we’re in danger?”

  I shifted the heavy papers. “There’s no concrete evidence of that yet, but the DOI is checking into it.”

  “Are you sure I can’t help in some way? I mean, I’m sort of a part of all this. Sandra and I were the ones who caused all the confusion.” He looked down at his brown loafers. “I could have sworn it was you I saw out there.”

  “Your office is on the fifth floor. It would have been hard to pick out detail.”

  “Yeah, but, well, I just feel so bad about getting it wrong. I don’t like to make mistakes.”

  The poor guy. I felt for him. Here he was, just your average worker, having a normal workday, and then suddenly he’s thrust into the world of crime. It couldn’t be easy for him.

  “Well, you can still help.”

  His eyes brightened. “I’d like that. I don’t want our mistake to have slowed down the search for that poor girl.”

  “Have you remembered anything new—anything at all—about that day?”

  As Ron thought back, his face gradually slid into an expression of disappointment. “No, I just remember looking out the window, and there you were—or I thought it was you—being shoved into the trunk of a car by a man with a gun. It was just so shocking.”

  “Don’t worry, Ron. We’ll find her.” I said it, but my assurance was based on nothing more than optimism at that point. I greatly hoped that something we uncovered in the Southeastern papers might lead to Amber’s rescue, but I knew our chances of a happy outcome only decreased as the hours wore on. “On that subject, I have to go visit the wastewater treatment plant. Sort out what happened there.”

  “Oh, I feel for you,” Ron said as he wrinkled his nose. “You have all the paperwork on that policy, right? I sent it to Sandra this morning.”

  I patted my stack of papers. “Yup, I’ve got the hard copy and the PDF.”

  “Well, good luck, and call me if you think of anything I can do.”

  I said I would, and he held the door for me as I made my way out of Southeastern to meet Vincent for lunch.

  “So the Navy, huh?” I asked this question between inelegant mouthfuls of cheeseburger and fries.

  Vincent and I sat at a red metal table with a huge brown bag of hand-cut fries between us. The burger joint was loud, but I was going to try for a conversation anyway. I was tired of thinking of Roger McKade at the spa, and that left me to ponder only Amber and the fraud suspect who took her when he wanted me instead. And I didn’t want to think about that either.

  Vincent nodded. “Yup, Navy.”

  That wasn’t exactly the detailed, informative response I was hoping for, so I pressed onward. “When did you join?”

  “I enlisted a couple of years after high school, served sixteen years, and now I’m in the reserves.”

  I lifted a fry to my lips, considering. “You spent sixteen years on a ship?” This seemed like a prison sentence to me. I have a touch of claustrophobia, and the idea of living all those years on
a ship, even one the size of an island, was disconcerting.

  “No, I was deployed on shore a lot of the time, but my last station was the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower.” I gave him a blank expression. I knew nothing about naval vessels. “Aircraft carrier,” he said by way of explanation.

  A lot of cops were ex-military, but I was no expert. Still, I knew that enlisted personnel were the grunts. They did the physical labor and took orders from the officers. I didn’t see Vincent fitting well into that kind of environment. He was too rough for an officer, too refined for an enlisted grunt. “What did you do for those sixteen years?”

  “My rate is master at arms, basically a Navy cop. Sometimes I worked on personal protection duty. After 9/11, we expanded the anti-terrorism force protection, and I was working in that capacity when I switched to reserves. Now I teach new recruits.”

  “Why’d you switch to reserves?”

  “Personal reasons.” And that was all he said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Okay.” I dipped a fry in malt vinegar and chewed on both the fry and his words for a while. Then I grinned. “I heard Ted address you as ‘Chief.’ Should I call you that too?”

  “Technically, Jackson,” he said between large bites of burger, “if you wanted to address me according to Navy protocol, you could call me Chief Petty Officer Master at Arms Mark Vincent. Or Chief Vincent. But I prefer Mark.”

  “Yeah, well, as long as you’re calling me Jackson”—which he obviously was—“I’m calling you Vincent.”

  “Works for me.” He finished his soda and jiggled the ice in the cup. “Refill?”

  I took a last sip and handed my cup to him. “Regular.”

  An eyebrow went up. “Good. I can’t stand a woman who drinks diet.”

  “I like the real thing.”

  Vincent went to the drink machine, and I wadded up the aluminum foil wrappers and threw all our trash in the garbage can. I waited for him by the door.

  Vincent stood out among the other patrons at the burger place. He was back in his sport coat to conceal the Sig on his hip, and he looked polished and cool. Everyone else seemed frazzled and hot. As he walked toward me, dodging tables and stray kids, he raised his eyes to meet mine. An odd little burst went through me.