by Greg Enslen
She shook her head. “No, just that day in the ambulance, when he apologized. I think...I think he’s taking some time.”
Frank nodded. “Probably not a bad idea. Just keep an eye on your doors and windows.”
The smile faded from her face. Again, he couldn’t just give her the comforting words that someone else would have. Even before they were out of his mouth, he heard himself being overly honest with the woman.
She nodded and quietly took his order, then left him alone. They somehow sensed how much he liked his quiet time, and even his newfound celebrity status wasn’t an excuse to interrupt him too often. The wrapping on his right hand made it hard to eat, so he unwrapped it before digging into his ham and cheese omelet. He was happy to see the swelling was going down.
An hour later, he drove to the location of the second ransom drop, parking where instructed.
The second ransom drop was taking place at the high school football field. Oddly, the high school itself was located in another part of town, up on North Hyatt, a mile north of town and surrounded by corn fields. But the football team still played at the old downtown field next to City Park. It was located between the tall trees of the park and the new Cooper’s Mill Pool to the north. To the east sat the extensive parking lots built for the new pool and, beyond the parking lots, a row of tall pines that lined the banks of the river beyond.
For someone trying to retrieve the ransom money, it would have been difficult to choose a worse location.
There were clear views of all approaches from the park, the pool, and the parking lot. The field was surrounded on all sides by tall bleachers. The center of the field would be impossible to reach without crossing at least thirty yards of open grass. It was a police sharpshooters dream, if the Cooper’s Mill Police Department had been able to bring in a sniper to incapacitate whoever showed up to retrieve the ransom.
No one in their right mind would pick this as a ransom drop, and Frank said so to Chief King, Graves, Barnes, and the others when he arrived. To a man, they all agreed.
The group of men waited in the park under a line of trees, watching the field. Nick Martin was walking back from dropping off the satchel of money, which was now sitting in the middle of the sunny, grassy field, right on the 50-yard line. The grass was beat down from last night’s football game.
“This is never going to happen,” Graves said under his breath. “Why would someone pick this location?”
“I don’t know,” King said. “But we still have to go through the motions,” he said, taking another sip of his coffee. “I didn’t put all my eggs in this basket, though--I’ve got patrols stationed at all the major exits from town, looking for anything suspicious.”
Agent Shale stood next to them, watching the money through a set of binoculars. “Whoever this is, we’ll catch them.”
Frank wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t say anything. His back was still smarting from the fight last night, where that fat guy had suckerpunched him. Frank thought he might be slowing--the guy had caught him by surprise.
A few more minutes passed.
Frank had another donut from the box that Deputy Peters had passed around earlier. They were excellent. The box lid said “Tim’s Donuts, Vandalia” on the top, and Frank made a mental note to check that place out at some point in the future. He sipped at his coffee, holding it in his right hand, rewrapped with the bandage.
A black leather satchel, identical to the first one, sat in the middle of the sunny field, untouched. White stripes marked out the lines on the football field.
Frank wondered why they were being played. Clearly this whole thing was a big distraction, a pointless exercise. But was it to distract them from something going on elsewhere? Frank couldn’t see the point. He noticed a stretch of asphalt on the other side of the field.
“What’s that?”
King followed his eyes.
“Bike trail. Goes south to Kyle Park and north along the river, all the way to Troy. I had it closed. We’ve got men on bikes on either side, out of view. I thought maybe that was the play, someone on a motorcycle could swoop in and out of here pretty easily by taking the bike path, but they’d still have to get across the field to get the money. And without a pretty girl in a low-cut top to distract us.”
They waited another half hour, but nothing happened. Nick Martin was getting increasingly agitated, but there was nothing that Frank or anyone else could say. Finally, King called them all together and announced they were canceling the drop.
“Now what?” Nick Martin asked.
King shook his head.
“First, we wrap up here,” the Chief said. “We’ll retrieve the money and lock it up. If they don’t call soon, we’ll get the money back to you. As for how we proceed from here, we need to regroup. Let’s get back to the station and sit down and talk out our options.”
King turned to Sergeant Graves. “Can you take Nick and secure that satchel? I want it locked away for now.”
Graves nodded, and he and Martin walked off, passing the squat modern building that housed the park’s bathroom facilities.
Frank was thinking and shaking his head.
“What?” King asked.
Frank glanced around, and the others were all out of earshot. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he said quietly. “It’s all just been about wasting our time.”
King nodded for him to follow. The two of them started across the park to where King’s police cruiser and Frank’s Taurus sat parked. As they crossed the park, they passed a strange building that appeared to be eight-sided. Beyond were tennis courts and playground equipment.
“Chief, I’ve got a theory, but you won’t like it,” Frank said as they walked.
“Go on.”
Frank glanced over at him--they were alone, and it was time for him to speak his mind.
“I feel like we’re being played,” Frank began. “And always two steps behind. Now, with every lead turning up dry, and this wasted morning, I’m starting to think that the kidnappers are getting information ahead of time. It’s not good to think about, but they might have a source in your department.”
King stopped walking and looked at Frank.
“Look,” Frank said, “I know that’s not something you want to hear--”
King put up his hand, stopping him.
“Actually, it’s been on my mind too,” the Chief said. “A lot. It would explain a few things.” Chief King turned and kept walking. “The fact that I’ve been through the case files so many times without coming up with a decent lead might mean something’s been left out of the files. If that’s the case, it’s someone on my staff.”
Frank walked along, not sure what to say. No one wanted to think they had been betrayed, but--
“Who do you trust?” Frank asked quietly.
King glanced at him, then back at the others across the park. “Peters, of course. He’s my cousin. And Graves--he’s the best I’ve got. And Barnes. And you, when you’re not in the bag.”
Frank looked at him. “Hey, things were screwed up before I got here.”
“True, true,” King agreed, smiling.
“Then have Graves look into it,” Frank said. “Barnes has his hands full. If it were me, I’d have Peters and Graves dig into the records, see if any files have gone missing, or anything has leaked that shouldn’t have.”
They got to the cars.
“Where to?” Frank asked.
“Well, we should be going back to the station and get updates,” the Chief said. “Then I can talk to Graves and Peters in my office. Then go through the files again? It seems like we’re just spinning our wheels,” King said.
“I know what you mean,” Frank said. “I did that again last night--found a couple new things, but nothing that would break the case open. But if you talk to Graves or Peters, do it out of your office. Take them for a stroll.”
“You think my office is bugged?”
Frank shrugged. “Better assume so.”
The Chief nodded, thoughtful. “But first, I’ve got to go check on Glenda Martin and her psychic down at Kyle. Wanna tag along?”
Frank grimaced. “I guess I have to.”
Chapter 42
“Anything yet?”
Deputy Peters turned to see the Chief and Mr. Harper walking across the soccer field toward him. Peters was in Kyle Park, at one of the furthermost soccer fields, to “assist” Glenda Martin and the psychic with anything they needed.
Peters shook his head. “Nope, nothing.”
Mr. Harper grumbled. Peters liked the man, but he was hard to interpret. Sometimes it seemed the man was angry at the world, and, at other times, he could be very pleasant. Although Peters could have done without all the cursing, he’d already learned more from Mr. Harper than from any of the other cops at the Department. Except for Cousin Jeff, of course.
“I wonder how long we should give her,” Mr. Harper said, looking across the soccer field. The psychic woman, Mrs. Martin and the psychic’s assistant were visible just inside the corn field that ringed the patch of grass. “She’s not going to find anything out there, right?” Frank asked Peters.
He shook his head.
“No, sir. We’ve looked at that field four times now, and all the other fields around here, all the way to the river.”
Peters wasn’t happy with the kidnapping case, obviously, but he’d been happy with the opportunity to expand his usefulness and prove to his cousin that he could be a valuable member of the team.
Initially, Chief King had gently persuaded Peters to not choose a career in law enforcement. After the initial ire had passed, though, Peters took it upon himself to prove his cousin wrong. He’d thrown himself into the books and night classes that led up to an intense ten weeks at the State Police Academy. He’d been the smallest officer-in-training in the class, and the klutziest, but he’d tried to make up for it with study and endurance, and graduated third in his class. After that, his cousin had been unable to refuse him a place on the local force.
And now, Peters was taking advantage of the case and the fact that the department was stretched to the breaking point. Everyone was slammed with background checks and witness interviews and running down the two dozen “leads” that were phoned in each day since the two little girls had gone missing. None of the leads had helped much, but Peters was learning more and more every day.
It might seem cruel, but on some level, the kidnapping was the best thing that had ever happened to Peters and his career.
And now Mr. Harper, ex-cop and current bad ass, was in the picture. Peters had volunteered to be his departmental liaison. Working with Harper on case file reviews had already taught Peters a few things, and he’d enjoyed helping Mr. Harper familiarize himself with the case and the town.
And, as he had been taught by his more successful cousin, Peters had written down almost everything Mr. Harper said, no matter how trivial it might seem. The point was to absorb as much as he could from the man before he was gone.
Chief King shook his head.
“I wanted to talk to Glenda,” the Chief said. “Maybe dissuade her from putting too much faith in this woman. But now I’m thinking the distraction is good for her. She’s focusing on something, at least,” he said. “Frank, what do you think?”
Peters turned to see Mr. Harper staring out at the field. “These wheat and corn fields can be quite spectacular,” he said, surprising Peters, who had never heard him talk like that. “Did you know that Mrs. Martin had quite a career in photography? She was pretty good, good enough to have her stuff in a gallery.”
“I saw the photo albums at her home,” King said.
Mr. Harper nodded and turned to look at them.
“And on the walls, I suspect. Those big landscape shots? Those were hers, I think,” he said. “I talked to the gallery owner over in New Stanton yesterday. Glenda’s work was good enough to sell, before she gave it up. Nick didn’t support her, evidently. Now she’s painting.”
“Here they come,” Peters said, indicating the two women coming out of the field, trailed by the young man with the mascara. They walked up to the men--the psychic woman was smiling, bemused, but Glenda Martin just looked sad and drawn.
“Any luck?” Chief King asked.
Glenda shook her head. “No, not yet.”
“Lady Meredith was getting some visions,” the boy offered. “But your bad energy put a damper on it.”
Peters could tell Mr. Harper wanted to say something profoundly snippy, but the ex-cop demurred to the Chief.
“Oh, sorry about that,” Chief King said. “We’d be happy to hear anything you’ve got to say.”
Meredith sighed.
“Well, I know the children are alive,” the psychic began. She spoke slowly, deliberately. Peters thought that she might enjoy having everyone’s attention--she seemed to feed off of the energy.
“And where they are being held--it feels like a cave, or a forest. They are surrounded by wood. It is cold and dark, but not the kind of place a policeman would think to look,” she said, looking at Glenda. “Their hands are bound, handcuffs or something. And I hear a scraping sound, like nails on a chalkboard.”
King nodded, jotting it down.
“I hope you can understand--we appreciate the help,” the Chief said. “But we’ve searched everywhere several times, so it makes sense that, if the girls are still alive”--he shot a glance at Glenda, who was hanging on Meredith’s every word--“they would be in a strange location.”
Meredith smiled.
“That’s not what I mean, Chief. I’m not saying they’re in a strange place, because you’ve already looked elsewhere. I’m saying they’re in a strange place.”
“But where should they be looking?” Glenda asked, her eyes wider than Peters had ever seen them. He remembered her demeanor on that first morning he had met with her, when he’d directed the first spate of Kyle Park searches. Now, she seemed relieved, filled with hope. It was nice to see her spirits buoyed. But it would be doubly cruel if her daughter were never found, or turned up dead.
Peters had been surprised when he’d heard that Chief King was allowing the psychic access to the case and to the Martins. He’d assumed the whole thing was a big waste of time. Jeff had explained over beers one night that, sometimes, it was more eyes on the case, even from something as outrageous as a civilian or a self-professed medium, that could break a case open. She might not have any “powers” whatsoever, but she might bring a new perspective to the case. Much like bringing in a washed-up ex-cop, fresh eyes could sometimes tease out a new lead or a new approach.
Lady Meredith smiled.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “But I feel like it’s a forest or a cave. Somewhere dark. Cold--I got a shiver when I sensed it.”
Peters saw Mr. Harper give the Chief another look--clearly, Harper thought this was all a load of crap, but he was holding his tongue.
Chief King nodded. “That’s very interesting. We’ll expand our search to include those types of locations.”
Glenda’s eyes got bigger, and Lady Meredith smiled. “We’ll continue our search,” the psychic announced. “Glenda, can you take me to the exact location where the girls were taken?”
“Certainly,” Glenda said, nodding.
“Deputy Peters, can you accompany them?” Chief King asked. “Give them whatever help they need, okay?”
Peters nodded. He knew he was taking one for the team--he’d rather be out in the field, helping the Chief or interviewing friends of the family with Mr. Harper. At this point, Peters would have volunteered to staff the tip line if it had gotten him away from Lady Meredith and her creepy lap dog with the dark mascara. He just walked around, taking pictures and writing things down. He almost never spoke.
Instead, Peters nodded. Maybe something would come of it.
Chapter 43
After the meeting with Mrs. Martin and the psychic, Chief King and Frank had driven separately back to the police station. Fra
nk ran back to the hotel and grabbed more of the files--he’d made notes on a few things and wanted to look them up at the office.
In the car by himself, Frank had tried to listen to music to calm down, but there was no denying the psychic got under his skin. He had held his tongue this time, but he could tell she was waiting for an opportunity to nail him again on something.
Some low, quiet piano jazz helped, although he was starting to get tired of the same stack of CDs. He wished he had an operating radio in this car, or a ceiling that didn’t hang down like the decorations in some Middle Eastern harem. If this case turned out well, and he got paid, or if he could somehow manage to earn at least some portion of the $50,000 reward, one of the first things he would buy was a new car.
He’d always wanted a big, solid El Dorado. Black, spotless interior, with bench seats and a dashboard that went on forever. Ben Stone had had a friend who owned one, and Frank had gotten a chance to ride in it once. It was like floating on a cloud. A black, armored, tank-like cloud, but smooth. A Cadillac from back when they made Cadillacs for businessmen and stock brokers and not gangsters and rap stars.
When Frank arrived at the station, King was already conducting yet another press conference, one filled with absolutely no new information other than the news that the kidnappers hadn’t showed up to claim the ransom. More stupid questions were asked. The TV reporters and newspaper guys needed fodder, even if it was nothing more than reassurance from the police that they were “still working around the clock” on the case. Tina Armstrong was there again, still in her sunglasses. Frank watched her but could never tell where she was looking. He wondered about her photophobia, what caused her extreme sensitivity to light, and how it affected her job.
After the press conference, Frank and King and the other senior staff met again, going around the table once more and reviewing all the active leads, of which there were only a handful.