“Do you want company?” Zoë asked, handing me a mini-Playmate. “The kids can bunk down here with no problem. I brought their sleeping bags.”
“Thanks so much for this, Zoë. I’m okay alone. To my amazement, I’m actually getting some work done.”
“If you change your mind, let me know. We’ll come rushing back.”
I hugged her. “Thank you.” I stood in the doorway watching as she drove away.
A reporter I didn’t recognize ran in front of her car and held up his hand like a traffic cop, trying to stop her from driving away. She tapped the horn and accelerated, and he jumped out of the way. Zoë wasn’t the least bit shy.
Zoë’s care package included a tuna salad sandwich, a plastic container filled with green and red grapes, three chocolate chip cookies, and a can of ginger ale. A feast.
I ate at my desk and didn’t look up from reading until my cell phone buzzed, startling me. It was eight o’clock. I had a text message. Finally, my instructions had arrived.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The ransom instruction seemed so improbable, I reread it twice to be certain I had it right.
PUT DOLLS IN TRUNK. DRIVE TO THE ROUND THE CLOCK DINER. SIT AT THE COUNTER AND ORDER SOMETHING. WAIT FOR A MESSAGE. GO NOW.
The Round the Clock Diner was about as unlikely a choice as I could imagine. It was open twenty-four hours a day and busy all the time.
“Okay, then,” I said. I swung my tote bag over my shoulder and flew down the stairs to call Ellis.
“I’m to go to the Round the Clock Diner. Now. With the dolls in the trunk.”
“Good. Turn left out of your lot and head to I-95. Don’t worry about the reporters. Don’t worry about anything. Dawn will be at the diner before you. Act like you don’t know her. There’ll be other officers around, too. If you happen to recognize anyone, don’t show it.”
“Got it. I’m on my way.”
“Don’t drive too fast. Stay calm.”
Now that the exchange was under way, I felt utterly composed. I was ready. I’m good under pressure, always have been. It’s in the swirling uncertainty before a crisis and the chaotic period afterward, when I second-guess myself, that I fall apart. During the crisis itself, I’m fine. Serenity infused my veins like a drug, slowing my racing pulse and sharpening my wits. I call the phenomenon crisis-calm.
I picked up the bin and placed it in my trunk, setting the night alarm as I left. Two minutes after Ellis and I hung up, I drove out of my lot. The rain had slowed to nothing, but the air was thick with mist. It felt colder, too. It had hovered around seventy-five all day, a veritable heat wave for May, but now it felt closer to the low sixties. It wouldn’t be fully dark for another half hour, but it might as well have been. The cloud cover was thick, hiding the last glimmers of twilight. A column of reporters fell into place behind me. I noted that Wes wasn’t there. Bertie was first in line.
Around the second curve, I hit the brakes. A roadblock loomed in front me. A mobile digital sign sat on the shoulder, its message flashing in red: SOBRIETY CHECKPOINT. PLEASE DRIVE SAFELY. Four spotlights, two on each side of the road, their lights aimed to the sky, illuminated the road. A single orange cone sat on the white dividing line about twenty feet from the barricade. Two uniformed police officers, one male, one female, stood at the barricade, waiting.
I rolled to a stop and lowered my window.
“How you doing, ma’am?” the male officer asked.
He was about fifty and overweight. His badge read PORTSMOUTH POLICE DEPARTMENT. His name was Officer M. Toomey. A glint of silver caught my eye, and I looked to the right. His partner had moved to the passenger side of my car, standing next to the rear door, and I’d seen a reflection from her belt buckle.
“Fine, thanks,” I said.
“Please turn off your engine and step out of the car.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to ask you to take a field sobriety test.”
“Sure.”
“Please follow me.” We walked around the barricade. “Please walk from here to the orange cone, placing one foot in front of another and staying on the white line.”
I was certain reporters were video-recording my performance. I could imagine how the video would look on television, what a reporter might imply in his report.
“Josie Prescott, whose employee was kidnapped, snatched out of her company’s van, and whose customer, Alice Michaels, was brutally shot and killed in her parking lot, was stopped at a sobriety checkpoint last night. She was given a field sobriety test, a procedure typically reserved for cases where the police suspect drunk driving. And now to the weather.”
I didn’t care. Let them imply I was a fall-down drunk. All I cared about was rescuing Eric.
I walked the line with no problem. He asked me to touch my nose, asked the date and the day of the week, then thanked me for my cooperation and told me I could go.
They moved the barricade just enough for my car to squeeze through, then replaced it. When the next vehicle in line, Bertie’s white rental, reached the barricade, the two police officers approached it, one on each side, just as they had with me.
The road curved to the right. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw only darkness at road level behind me and the conical white light from the standing spotlights illuminating the sky above me.
“Thank you, Ellis,” I whispered.
* * *
The Round the Clock diner was housed in a long aluminum structure on the east side of Route One, not far from Portsmouth Circle. As I waited by the IT IS OUR PLEASURE TO SEAT YOU sign, I scanned the restaurant. It was about half full, mostly couples, but there were families, singles, and groups, too. A waitress in a pink uniform led two men who’d arrived just ahead of me to a table.
“Hey, Ger,” a big man in a booth by the window called to one of the newcomers. “Did you hear the news of the day? Doug here is going to build himself a kayak.”
The man called Ger cackled. “Makes sense. That canoe he built worked out so well.”
All of them laughed at the inside joke, and as I glanced around, I had the thought that shared jokes were a kind of glue in relationships. I wondered what kind of jokes Eric and Grace shared. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth, wishing I could stop thinking.
The Round the Clock was seriously retro. Hubcaps were mounted on walls as art alongside posters of James Dean, Marlon Brando, and Marilyn Monroe. There were old-fashioned minijukeboxes at each booth. Four people sat on black leatherette and chrome spinning stools at a pink Formica counter. A sign mounted on the wall read HOME OF THE ORIGINAL HUBCAP HAMBURGER.
“How ya doing?” the waitress asked, smiling as she approached. She had chin-length brassy-blond hair and dark blue eyes. She wore a frilly white apron over her pink dress and sturdy white tie-up shoes. Her outfit was very 1950s chic. Her nameplate read ALLIE.
“Good,” I said, because that’s what you say when strangers ask. “May I sit at the counter?”
“You bet. Help yourself to any stool you want.”
“Allie, darlin’, more coffee when you get a chance,” a man three tables away called out.
“Coming right now, Lar,” Allie replied.
Laughter popped up at the table to the right, then faded away, then popped up again. Doug who was building himself a kayak slid out of the booth, chuckling. A woman in a nearby booth began dancing from the waist up to “Under the Boardwalk” as she flipped through the jukebox options. Dawn sat at a table facing the front door, sipping a tall Coke from a straw that bent. I didn’t see anyone else I knew. Jovial banter wafted over me, as heartening as the smell of baking bread. I slid onto a stool near the end of the counter. No one sat on either side of me.
Another waitress came up and smiled, sliding a laminated menu in front of me. Her name tag read CYNDI.
“This sure is a happy place,” I remarked.
“Wait ’til you taste the food, hon. You’ll see why.”
“I l
ook forward to it, but for now I’ll just have coffee.”
I’d taken three sips when someone tapped my shoulder. I swiveled to see who it was. It was a boy, a young man, about eighteen, I guessed. He was a stranger.
“Is your name Josie?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Here.” He handed me a bulky padded envelope and started to turn away.
“Wait a minute!” I called. “What’s going on?”
“I dunno. Some guy asked me to run this in to you.”
“What guy?”
He shrugged. “Just a guy. I was coming in with a friend when he called out from his car. Said he forgot to give it to you.”
“What did he look like?”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “I dunno. A guy.”
“How old was he?”
“I’m not so good with guessing ages,” he said. “Look, I’ve got to go.”
“What kind of car was he driving?”
“A white Impala. About five years old.”
“Did you get the plate number?”
“No. What’s going on, lady?”
“Please … bear with me, okay? What’s your name?”
“Marc Johnson. Marc with a c, for Marcus.”
“Do you live around here?”
“Sure. Over by the library. On McNabb Court.”
“Good. Great. What’s your phone number?” I stuck my hand in my tote bag and felt around for a pen.
“I gotta go, lady. Sorry.”
He turned and fled, heading to a booth near the back, and I let him go. I had enough information so the police could find him. I tore into the envelope. Inside, I found a cell phone and a car key. There was a text message waiting for me on the phone.
PAY YOUR BILL. LEAVE ALL YOUR THINGS IN YOUR CAR’S TRUNK. KEEP ONLY THIS PHONE AND THE CAR KEY. GO NOW.
I flagged Cyndi down and got the check, left enough money on the counter to cover it and a tip, and went to the ladies’ room. I locked myself in a stall and sent Ellis a text on the phone he’d given me, typing in the message I’d received. I ended it:
WISH ME LUCK.
Outside, I hurried to my car and opened the trunk. As I swung my tote bag inside, the phone I’d just received buzzed, alerting me to a text message’s arrival. Someone was watching me. I scanned the lot but saw nothing unexpected. Two men were sitting in their cars with the engines on, one a Lexus, the other a Mini Cooper. Waiting for a friend or a spouse who went to the restroom, I guessed. A car pulled in and parked. Another car circled the lot coming from the rear and left. A woman stepped out of the diner, jogged to the Lexus, and got in, and they drove away. The man in the Mini Cooper turned off his engine and got out. He stretched, then glanced at his watch and hurried across the lot, as if he were late. Probably he’d wanted to finish listening to something on the radio.
The text read:
GO TO GREEN CAMRY PARKED AT BACK. SIT IN CAR. PUT OVERHEAD LIGHT ON. GO NOW.
Just like that, the GPS devices we’d planted in my tote bag and car were lost. At least I still have my boots, I thought. I found the Camry in the last row of the lot at the rear of the building by pressing the UNLOCK button on the key and watching for the flashing lights. I slid in behind the wheel and turned on the overhead lamp, wondering if police were nearby, hidden in cars or in the surrounding woods. A jumbo-sized blue bath towel was folded neatly on the front seat. I turned back corners to find the label. It was part of the Room Essentials collection and was, I knew, sold at Target stores nationwide. I stared at it for a moment, then checked the phone’s number. It had a 617 area code. The eastern part of Massachusetts. It buzzed. Another text.
DRIVE TO YOUR CAR. TRANSFER DOLLS TO CAMRY’S TRUNK. SIT IN CAMRY WITH LIGHT ON. GO NOW.
I did as I was instructed, backing the Camry up to my car, leaving about two feet between them. I hoisted the tub up and into the Camry’s trunk, then got back behind the wheel and turned the light on.
DRIVE TO FIELDSTONE INN. RT 1 NEAR HAMPTON. ON LEFT.
I knew the Fieldstone Inn. It was a new construction, all-suite residency hotel. I’d met the manager at the last chamber of commerce breakfast. It took about twenty minutes to get there, a straight shot down Route One. There was a steady stream of cars going in both directions, enough so I couldn’t tell if anyone was following me. When I got there, I turned into the lot and stopped. Thirty seconds later, a message arrived.
DRIVE TO POOL IN BACK.
Lights were on in about half the rooms, including a ground-floor unit overlooking the pool. The blinds were up. A man about my age was sitting on the bed watching TV, drinking beer from a bottle. The kidnapper could be watching me from any room, a creepy thought. I rolled to a stop.
TAKE KEYCARD FROM GLOVE BOX. LEAVE CAR KEY ON FRONT SEAT. TAKE TOWEL AND PHONE. GO TO …
Another text arrived.
… HOT TUB. REMOVE BOOTS AND CLOTHES TO UNDERWEAR. SIT IN TUB AND SUBMERGE HEAD. GET OUT AND TOWEL OFF …
“What?” I said aloud. “Are you nuts?”
I looked around. The man on the bed seemed oblivious to anything going on outside.
“I get it—you think I might be wired.”
It occurred to me that he might be listening in, that possibly he’d rigged the Camry with GPS, just as we’d done to my car, and added a listening device as well. He wouldn’t need to follow me … he could track me. He could also hear if I was making unauthorized calls—but I could text Ellis from the new phone.
… DON’T GO OUT OF SIGHT. GO NOW.
He’s watching me. My heart leapt into my throat at the thought.
I looked around. The place appeared to be deserted, but there were ample hiding places—stands of trees and bushes, a janitor’s shed near the pool, any of the guest rooms.
I opened the glove compartment. A white keycard, the kind used to access hotel guest rooms, rested on the black plastic. The only marking was a blue arrow indicating which way was up.
The pool area was surrounded by a six-foot-high black iron fence. The gate was fitted with a silver lock, a boxy-looking thing with a slot near the top. I inserted the keycard into the slot, and a second later a green dot of light glowed on the top. I pushed, and the gate swung open. The pool was kidney shaped, covered with a sturdy tarp. The hot tub was positioned at the far end of the pool. A separate building housed the towel service, now closed, and changing rooms, also closed. Big red-and-white signs warned that the pool and hot tub had no lifeguard, that you used the facilities at your own risk.
I dropped the key and towel on a chaise, then sat to remove my boots and socks. I stood to take off my slacks and shirt. Goose bumps appeared on my arms and legs, and I hurried into the hot tub. The jets weren’t on, but the water was hot. I eased myself in, sat for a moment, held my breath and dunked myself, then stepped out and ran through the chilly knife-sharp air and grabbed the towel. I wrapped it around myself and rubbed. The phone sounded, and I pounced.
LEAVE CLOTHES WHERE THEY ARE. TAKE KEYCARD. OPEN CAMRY TRUNK. CHANGE IN BACKSEAT. DROP YOUR UNDERWEAR OUTSIDE.
A second text arrived.
PLACE TOWEL AND KEYCARD IN TRUNK.
I ran to the car. Inside the trunk, I found a large clear plastic, kitchen-sized trash bag. I dumped the contents into the trunk. There was another towel, a match to the first, a pair of white briefs, a white bra, a black dress, and flip-flops. I stuffed everything back into the bag and got into the backseat area. Kneeling on the seat, glancing around to make sure no one was close by, I stripped off my underwear and slipped on the briefs, which were the right size, and the bra, which was too big. The dress was way too large, and shapeless. It hung like a potato sack to just below my knees. The flip-flops were too big as well. I wouldn’t be able to run in them. Or kick an enemy. I felt exposed and vulnerable and cold.
I dropped my underwear on the curb, as instructed, then placed the towel and keycard in the trunk and slipped behind the wheel to wait for the kidnapper’s next directive.
The man
was still watching TV, still drinking beer.
I turned the heat up to high, and when the warm air began pouring forth, I held my hands up to the vent.
My boots were gone, and with them the last GPS devices.
The phone buzzed.
DRIVE TO SHAW’S IN NEWINGTON. PARK NEAR THE LEFT SIDE ENTRANCE. GO NOW.
I had to make a decision, and I had to make it now, except there was no decision to make, not really. I typed:
I WANT TO TALK TO ERIC.
I hit the SEND button before I could second-guess myself.
NO. GO NOW.
NO. A PHOTO OF HIM WITH TODAY’S PAPER OR I TALK TO HIM. NOW.
Time passed. Seconds stretched into minutes.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please.”
It got too hot, and I lowered the temperature. It was still too hot so I lowered the fan speed. The phone buzzed.
HE’LL LEAVE A VM. DON’T ANSWER PHONE.
I texted back: OK.
The phone rang six times before the automatic voice message system kicked in. I watched the display. The phone number was the same as the one sending the texts. The call lasted twelve seconds. As soon as the icon popped up, I pressed 1 and followed the prompts to retrieve it.
“Hi, Josie,” Eric’s message began. He sounded tired, more than tired, weary. “It’s Eric. I’m okay, sort of. I got hit on the head. Do what they say, okay? Would you—”
I pounded the dashboard.
They. Eric said “they.” More than one. I wasn’t surprised. It would be next to impossible for one person to handle something this complicated, to manage so many moving parts, alone. A text arrived, a repeat of the last instruction.
DRIVE TO SHAW’S IN NEWINGTON. PARK NEAR THE LEFT SIDE ENTRANCE. GO NOW.
I pulled out of the Fieldstone Inn’s lot and headed back toward Portsmouth. The traffic was lighter, but not light enough to be able to spot a tail. Eighteen minutes later, I turned into the mega-grocery-store parking lot. A text arrived before I parked.
GO INSIDE TO FLORIST SECTION. LOOK UNDER PALM TREE FOR KEY. WHEN YOU HAVE IT RETURN TO CAMRY.
Dolled Up for Murder Page 15