by Greg Enslen
He looked around the room--there were many pictures on the walls and expensive stuff sitting around. The entire home was also decorated with stuff for Halloween, down to the pumpkins on the front porch.
“Where’s the nanny?” the Chief asked.
Glenda looked up at him. Her eyes were puffy and red.
“She was really upset,” Glenda said. “We gave her the day off.”
“Has she called to check in?” the Chief asked.
“No,” Nick shook his head. “I told her I would call her if we heard anything.”
That was interesting--the nanny had already been interviewed, of course, but Chief King would have thought the nanny would have wanted to be here for the call. He was making a note of it when there was a knock at the front door.
Deputy Peters, one of the patrolmen stationed at the house, left the room to answer it. King heard mumbled voices and then Peters came into the room and called the Chief over.
“Chief, it’s Ken Meredith.”
Great, King thought.
“I got it.” King went to the door and pulled it open.
Ken ran CM-TV, the local public TV station. People were always confusing it with CMTV, the country music TV station on cable, and Ken could be very sensitive about that, and about the town not supporting the local station enough. He was always trying to put on interesting programming, usually to no avail.
CM-TV broadcast out of the third floor of the Monroe Township building downtown, a building that used to hold a downtown theater until it had been converted to offices in the 1970s. Current tenants included the local Chamber of Commerce. The broadcast facilities for CM-TV sat in the old balcony. In fact, there was a particular door, hidden behind the set of their semi-monthly local news show, which opened onto the cavernous space above the offices thirty feet below.
“Hey Chief,” Ken asked quietly, leaning in and almost hitting the Chief with his camera. Ken’s voice was low, conspiratorial. King noticed his face was sweaty. “Can I film the ransom call?”
Behind him, across the lawn in the driveway, were three satellite trucks from local TV stations. Chief King saw a couple of the reporters talking, including that rotund fellow from Channel 4, Dale Scott. Chief King recognized him from the escort case last year, which had made the local news for almost a week straight. He’d gotten a lot of practice giving press conferences and had gotten to know a lot of the local press. Another reporter was working on her makeup in the side mirror of one of the trucks.
Chief King shook his head.
“Ken, we talked about this,” King said. “You can’t film that, or the family, unless they want to do interviews or speak to the press. And you have to stop sneaking into the police station. It’s completely inappropriate for you to be--”
“It’s public information, what happens in the station,” Ken answered, adjusting the camera on his shoulder.
“No, it’s not,” King said. “We’re conducting an investigation.” King could see that Meredith was completely wired, shaking like one of those little dogs that shakes all the time when they’re cold.
“After the call, you’re just going to come out and tell the media what happened,” Meredith said, his eyes red. “Wouldn’t it make it easier to just have me film it?”
Sergeant Graves, King’s third-in-command, walked up the sidewalk, passing Meredith. Graves smiled at King and made a face that said something like, “I’m sorry for what you’re having to put up with,” then headed inside.
King looked at the man with the camera and shook his head.
“No, Ken. You can’t film the phone call,” King said, as forcefully as he dared. “It’s sensitive, and we’ll probably be negotiating.”
Ken’s face fell. He wasn’t good at taking rejection. The same thing had happened last year, when Meredith had wanted special access for the escort case, and King had said “no.”
But then Meredith had a thought and started literally jumping up and down.
“OH! Can I film this part, where we’re talking?” Ken lifted the video camera and flicked it on, but the Chief put his hand on the lens and pulled the camera slowly back down.
“No, Ken,” King said. “You need to calm down. Back on the Red Bull?”
Ken started to say something but looked at the other reporters.
“I just wanted an edge.”
King shook his head. “You know how you get.”
Meredith nodded.
The Chief patted Ken on the shoulder. “It’s okay, just do your best. Look, I gotta get back inside. I’ll let you know what we learn,” he said and turned, shutting the door behind him.
King walked slowly back through the expansive foyer, shaking his head. This town was full of “interesting” people, that was certain. He took his time, looking at a collection of photos in frames on a long, low table that ran along one wall. When the call came, if it ever did, they would let him know.
Many pictures of Nick and Glenda and little Charlie, along with a few more: Nick Martin being sworn in as a city councilman, his hand on a Bible with the Mayor, Bill Hendrickson, administering the oath. Nick and Glenda on a vacation somewhere snowy. Nick and another guy golfing; it looked like Matt Lassiter, Nick’s business partner. Another one of Nick and Matt, this time in Vegas.
There were several of Nick with different groups of serious-looking people in suits, posing at groundbreaking ceremonies. They all had those ridiculous golden shovels you always saw, digging into little fake plots of dirt. Glenda in New York with a group of friends, holding a beer and grinning in front of a limo. And one of Nick and Glenda on a beach, much younger. They looked happy.
King walked back into the living room. He’d seen all those pictures in the files, of course, but looking at them on the table and how they were arranged, it told you how important they were to the family. And that wasn’t conveyed in a simple stack of copies that he’d been through. Maybe he needed to rethink some of their procedures.
The Bureau guy had returned and was fiddling with the wiretap equipment again. King hoped that he didn’t mess something up or accidentally unplug an important wire.
Sergeant Graves had found a chair and was waiting. He nodded at King again. Graves was good. King wanted him to sit in on the call--the man never missed anything.
The Chief nodded back and walked over to the chair in the living room and, just as he sat down, the cell phone on the table in front of them rang loudly, making Glenda jump.
The Bureau kid hopped up and flicked on the equipment. The Chief was glad to see he’d returned in his absence. The guy was trying, at least. But Chief King was also certain that, when this case was over, the kid would have contributed exactly nothing to the outcome.
The cell phone rang again--wires were sticking out of it, leading to the Bureau equipment and two other phone handsets, which allowed the call to be monitored. It was also being recorded. King ran his eyes over the phone recording setup to make sure nothing had gotten put out of place and to verify the recording had started.
King nodded at Nick Martin, who picked up the cell phone, being careful to not dislodge the wires, and put it to his ear. Chief King picked up one of the other handsets, and he and Graves leaned in to share it. Glenda was perched on the arm of the chair next to Nick. They were both looking at the Chief, who nodded at Nick.
Nick pressed the button.
“Hello?” Nick’s voice was nervous, tentative. That, as much as anything else King had seen over the past few days, told him that Nick wasn’t involved in the kidnapping.
It was a hard thing to consider, but in most of these types of cases, it was a family member. King grabbed his legal pad and started taking notes. He’d be able to make notes on the call later, from the recording, but he wanted to jot down his initial impressions, including what he’d just decided about Nick.
“We have your daughter and the other girl,” the gruff voice on the other end said.
To King, the voice sounded male, late 20s, smoker. King wrot
e it all down. The caller got right to the point, with no preamble. That would make negotiation more difficult.
Sergeant Graves leaned forward, listening intently--they were so close that King could smell coffee on his breath.
King jotted down:
THIS GUY KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS
and showed the note to Graves, who nodded.
“Um, okay,” Nick Martin said. Next to him, Glenda burst into tears and then stifled them quickly, wanting to hear the exchange.
The kidnapper spoke again.
“We want $1,000,000. By tomorrow evening.”
Every eye in the room turned to Nick, who slowly nodded.
“OK, OK. I want...I can get that for you,” Nick said slowly. King had told him to take his time and not rush. “Just don’t hurt her, OK? Don’t hurt them.”
Nick glanced up at King, who nodded, encouraging him. This was going to be the hardest part, getting the Martins to demand proof of life.
“But...but before I do anything,” Martin continued, “I want to hear my daughter. To make sure she’s OK.”
The room was silent. Deputy Peters, standing behind the Martins, looked at the Chief. Agent Shale looked worried; he was actually biting his nails. Graves just stared at the cell phone in Nick Martin’s hand. King knew it was a gamble that might piss off the kidnappers, but exercising a little control was rarely the wrong call.
On the phone, there was the sound of rustling. Finally, another voice came on.
“Daddy?”
Nick looked like he might drop the phone. Chief King smiled and leaned over and steadied the man’s hand. After a moment, the father answered.
“We’re here, honey.” Nick said.
King could see that his hands were shaking.
“Are you OK, honey? We love you.” Glenda said quietly into the phone, leaning close to her husband.
The little girl’s voice came back.
“Yes, I’m OK,” Charlie said, sounding distant, weak.
“Did they hurt you?” Glenda asked.
That got him thinking, as Charlie answered that she and Maya were okay. King jotted something down and held up the yellow pad for Nick to read. It said:
ASK HER TO IDENTIFY HER FAVORITE FOOD -- HER VOICE COULD BE A RECORDING
Nick’s eyes went wide, but King nodded. Nick turned back to the phone in his hand.
“Um, honey, I need to ask you a question. What is your favorite food?” Nick Martin asked, his voice tentative.
The phone rustled again.
“Hey, what’s going on?” the gruff kidnapper barked.
Nick stood his ground.
“I’m talking to Charlie,” he said. “Asking her a question. I just need to know if it’s really her or some kind of recording.”
King heard the kidnapper curse under his breath. The phone rustled again. Charlie came back on.
“Um, my favorite food is spaghetti and meatballs,” she said quietly. “You know that, Daddy.”
Glenda started to cry. Chief King nodded.
“Okay, honey,” Nick said again. “Just do what they say, and this will be over soon. Put the man back on.”
The phone rustled again, and the kidnapper spoke again.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” the kidnapper said. “I’m not calling again. You will put the money in a black satchel or briefcase. You know the Old Hotel, across from O’Shaughnessy’s?”
Nick Martin nodded, then must have realized the guy on the other end couldn’t see his nod. “Yes, I do.”
“Good,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “Put the briefcase in the trash can outside the Old Hotel Thursday at exactly 6:06 p.m. And no cops. Or the girls die.”
Glenda’s clenched hand went to her chest, an expression of panic that King had seen her make a few times.
“I’ll call you back when I have the money and get away safely,” the voice on the line said. “And if you or anybody else tries to stop me from picking up the money, or from leaving with the money, the girls die.”
The phone went silent.
Chapter 9
The bar at O’Shaughnessy’s was Nick Martin’s favorite part of the restaurant. Many people only sat in here while waiting for a table in the restaurant proper.
But Nick loved the feel of the long, narrow space and preferred it to the rest of the restaurant. The beautiful shelving and glassware behind the bar, the long, flat surface of the vintage wooden bar top, the frame around the doorway leading back into the rest of the restaurant--it screamed traditional bar decor. And the entire west wall was old, exposed brick, broken up only by framed historical pictures of Cooper’s Mill and the old canal that had been the lifeblood of the small town for so many years.
Now, the canal was an empty ditch, and the town had long ago moved on, but, at least in the black and white photos, the canal was alive and well.
Nick knew that the owners had spent a pretty penny converting this place over from the old Natty’s in 2004, and you could see where all the money had gone--the space was beautiful.
“We’re all pulling for you, Nick. Let me know if you need anything.”
Nick Martin looked up. It seemed like every single person coming through the bar was stopping at his table to say something. He’d been hugged and drinks had been sent over. One woman, who had worked hard to keep him from getting elected to city council, leaned in and gave him a heartfelt kiss on his cheek. She seemed genuinely upset about what had happened to him. He appreciated their thoughts and concern, but Nick really just wanted to be left alone.
Nick nodded to the speaker. It was Jake Delancy, a downtown resident. Good guy. Nick had used him on a couple jobs. The guy was a bit of a craftsman and tinkerer, but an odd one. Jake made his own cheese, for God’s sake. But Nick had brought him in to do custom cabinetry on a few projects, and the man was a true artisan.
“Thanks, Jake,” Nick said.
Jake nodded and headed off. Nick went back to his beer.
A few minutes later, Nick’s partner, Matt Lassiter, walked in, and Nick waved him over. Matt was tall and thin and well-dressed, a longtime friend and popular in town, even though he wasn’t from around here. Several people nodded and said “hi” to Lassiter as he walked through the bar to Nick’s table.
Nick had known Matt Lassiter for years. He’d moved to town and immediately gotten involved in the local commercial real estate market. And the man had acquaintances everywhere, probably from his years out west in Vegas. He’d made a killing on real estate out there in 2002–2006 and still had the connections. Nick also considered Matt his closest friend. Nick was sure that Matt would help him out.
As Matt passed the bar, he slapped another patron on the back good-naturedly and smiled at the bartender, holding up two fingers. The bartender nodded and turned, starting a drink.
“That’s impressive,” he said, as Lassiter sat down. “You got some kind of signal?”
Matt nodded.
“For Spence? Oh, yeah,” Matt said. “I have four drinks that I order regularly. He knows them so well, I just have to let him know which one when I come in.” Lassiter turned and greeted another person as they passed the table, then turned back to Nick. His face turned serious. “How are you doing?” Matt asked.
“Not great,” Nick said, running his hand along the beer glass. Beads of condensation ran down the glass and dripped onto the coaster. “We got the ransom call today.”
Matt’s eyes went wide.
“Jesus,” Matt said. “But that’s good, though, right? Now you know what’s going on and that at least someone has her. Better than...better than she’s just gone. Now, at least there’s a plan. To get her back.”
Nick nodded and took another long sip of his beer.
“So,” Matt continued. “What do they want?”
“$1,000,000. By tomorrow evening, around 6ish,” Nick said to his beer. “I don’t have that kind of cash. Not on hand, anyway. It’s invested in all my projects. I’ve closed out of a couple already
today.”
Spence, the bartender, brought over a drink and set it in front of Matt. It was blue and fizzy and Nick didn’t even ask. He knew Matt was always trying new drinks and developing new favorites. Spence turned to Nick.
“You need anything, Mr. Martin?”
Nick shook his head. After a long silence, the bartender turned and left.
“Well, how can I help?” Matt asked quietly, sipping at his cocktail.
Nick sighed. “Not sure yet. But I spent the afternoon with the cops, trying to figure out how to raise the cash. I will need to close my partnerships on another deal or two and wanted to know if you want them.”
“Anything I can do to help.”
Nick looked at him.
“I hate to do it, but I guess I’m pulling out of the Dragon’s complex downtown. I figured you might want to buy my shares.”
Matt Lassiter nodded thoughtfully.
“I don’t want in on the Dragon’s location. I think it’s too heavily leveraged,” Matt said. “And I told you that when you got in,” he said, pausing to take another drink before continuing. “If you are interested, I would be happy to buy you out of the Holly Toys building. The Holly Toys loft project isn’t going anywhere, and even if the economy turns around, the renovation costs are going to eat up any profit. But I’ve always liked that property.”
Nick smiled and looked up.
“You made that same offer a couple months ago, right?” he asked, nodding. “I know, the project took forever to get off the ground, and it will probably never make money. But even if it takes years to get finished, I really have a good feeling about that space,” Nick said, looking at his beer. “It’s probably because I grew up right there on Plum. I remember walking by that old building every day on the way to school. Back then, it was humming with activity.”
“And now it’s an empty shell,” Matt said, looking at his blue drink and the umbrella that floated in it. “The only person making money on it right now is the security guard. Tell you what, sell me your half, and I’ll give you $600,000. That’ll get you half-way there.”