by Brad Parks
Eliminating Bronik and Aiyagari was the only way Dafashy could salvage his career. And he had subsequently discovered a way to compensate himself handsomely for doing it.
What’s more, he had created, in Michael Dillman, the ultimate fall guy:
One who didn’t really exist.
The state police and the federal government were right now pouring a thousand human hours into finding an apparition.
All the while, the real perpetrator was hiding in plain sight, in that shed tacked onto the side of that falling-down house.
Just waiting for everything to blow over.
Such a cunning, cool customer.
He must have somehow found Sheena, holed up with Scott Sugden. Maybe Dafashy made a lucky guess? Maybe he lured them into a meeting? Sheena thought she was safe with her armed friend. But she obviously wasn’t. And Sugden had died trying to defend her.
Soon Aiyagari and Bronik would pay the same price. Because there was no chance Dafashy would leave them alive. He was just waiting three hours to hit the button on his remote detonator, because that’s what a fleeing suspect would do.
Eventually, the authorities would call off their search for Michael Dillman. They would conclude the bad guy, whose real name they never knew—and who obscured his electronic tracks every step of the way—had slipped their noose.
Then Dafashy would go on with his life, free from sexual harassment charges and independently wealthy on top of it. He would spend the money slowly, carefully, in a way that didn’t attract too much attention.
Yes, Dafashy had thought of everything. And he would trust in his sterling intellect, and the perfection of his scheming, to protect him.
So how did you capture the perfect criminal?
Easy. Use his perfection against him.
Dafashy’s one vulnerability was that he had to continue acting innocent. Which meant Emmett wouldn’t need an army of cops or a massive manhunt to find the man.
One phone call, and Dafashy would be forced to come running.
If only to keep up his masquerade.
Beppe was going on about Schrödinger’s cat—the context for it, the debates it had spawned, how it had been misunderstood—when Emmett interrupted him.
“Actually, Beppe, would you mind making a phone call for me?” Emmett asked.
Beppe looked startled to have been interrupted in the middle of his lecture.
“Yes, of course. What is it?”
“Could you call David Dafashy and ask him to come over here immediately?” Emmett asked. “Tell him you’re meeting at Brigid’s house, and you need him to join you as soon as possible.
“And don’t tell him I’m here.”
Dafashy’s hands.
This was all about his hands. If they were visible, and not clutching a cell phone or some other device that might be used to set off an explosive remotely, then Emmett could apprehend him, cuff him, and end this thing.
Beppe had made the call. Dafashy eagerly accepted the invitation. He said he would be there right away, even said he had something he wanted to share with Beppe.
Of course he did.
No doubt it was something that would further obfuscate matters. Dafashy seemed to be an expert at that.
Emmett gave Brigid her instructions while Dafashy was en route. She was to open the door, then clear out of the way so Emmett could get the drop on Dafashy.
It was a simple plan. No webcams or cryptocurrencies.
Old school.
Just how Emmett liked things.
The only thing that could thwart him was if Dafashy’s hands were in his pockets. Emmett would have to use a move he had learned long ago. If you kicked the backs of a man’s knees while you landed on his back, he went down every time.
He also instinctively took his hands out of his pockets to brace his fall.
Emmett waited until he saw Dafashy pull up, then hid on the hinge side of the door. Dafashy’s boots were heavy on the front steps. He rang the bell.
Brigid made eye contact with Emmett, pausing as she approached the door.
He nodded at her.
His pistol was drawn, with the safety off. He was as ready as he’d ever be.
Brigid opened the door, and said, “Hello, David, thank you for coming.”
Her voice was high pitched. Wooden. Would Dafashy notice?
“I came as soon as I could,” he said gravely.
Emmett still couldn’t see the man yet. Where were his hands? Sides or pockets?
Then Dafashy closed the door behind himself.
Sides.
Emmett stepped forward and said, “Put your hands up. You are under arrest.”
Dafashy startled, but soon recovered himself and his natural arrogance.
“What is this about?” he demanded, turning toward Emmett.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Emmett said, leveling the pistol at Dafashy, staying just out of arm’s length. “If you fail to comply, I will consider it an act of aggression and I will use deadly force.”
“What are you talking about? This is—”
“Put your hands on your head.”
“I’m not—”
“Put your hands on your head now.”
Dafashy’s face signaled his annoyance. But he complied.
“Turn around,” Emmett said.
“This is absolutely ludicrous,” Dafashy said, even as he turned his back to Emmett.
Ludicrous. The fancy words, right to the end.
“Very slowly,” Emmett said, “I want you to put your hands behind your back.”
“Haven’t you gotten tired of harassing me yet?” Dafashy asked, tossing his hands back with dramatized exasperation.
Emmett’s answer was to snap a pair of handcuffs on him.
“Lie down on the floor,” he ordered. “Facedown. Now.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Lie. Down.”
With a roll of his eyes, Dafashy got to his knees, then paused. “Honestly, how am I even supposed to do this with my arms behind my back?”
Emmett grabbed the back of his jacket and lowered him until he was facedown on the hardwood floor of the Broniks’ foyer. From the dining room, everyone else—Beppe, Brigid, Aimee, Plottner and his entourage—looked on anxiously.
Quickly, Emmett rifled through Dafashy’s pockets—jacket and pants. This produced a wallet, keys, a cell phone, and a wadded handkerchief.
But nothing that looked like a detonator.
Which meant he must have been using the cell phone.
“Okay, where are they?” Emmett said when he was through.
“Where are who?”
“Matt Bronik and Sheena Aiyagari.”
“You honestly think I know?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re wrong. As a matter of fact, I was just getting ready to call you and tell you about MAI Holdings.”
“What about it?”
“As soon as you said the name it rang some bells. I had to look it up to be sure. And it turns out I was right. Sheena’s father is a wealthy businessman. His company is called Marwari Aiyagari International—M. A. I. It’s a multinational corporation that builds cell phone towers all across the globe. India and China. Russia. Parts of Africa. Even America. MAI Holdings is the shell company he created to possess its assets, including Huangpu Enterprises. If these telecom engineers worked for a company owned by MAI Holdings, it means they worked for Sheena’s father.”
“Why would Sheena’s father kidnap his own daughter?” Emmett said. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No, not Sheena’s father. Stop being so thick. It’s Sheena herself.”
“Why would she do that?”
Dafashy twisted his neck in an attempt to shoot Emmett a withering glance. He didn’t get very far, so he had to impart most of his scorn with his dismissive tone.
“Are you really that daft? She had a front-row seat for what Matt was doing with the quantum virus. She saw enough to be a
ble to steal his methodology. If Matt publishes that paper, she’s not even a footnote in history. But if Matt disappears and she publishes it? She makes Matt second author—posthumously of course—but she could claim to be the one who made the final breakthrough. And then she reaps the professional spoils. A Nobel Prize. Tenure anywhere she wants. Lasting fame.
“That’s why she kidnapped him instead of just killing him outright. She wasn’t sure if she could bring it home herself. She might need him for additional help or information.”
It was a theory, for sure. Emmett was still a long way from accepting it.
Chief among his doubts: “If all that’s true,” he said, “why did she also kidnap herself? And kill her own friend. And what’s with the five-million-dollar ransom demand?”
“How should I know? The woman is certifiable. Look, obviously something went wrong on her way to the Nobel. I know you think there’s no way cute, adorable little Sheena could be involved in something so awful. But open your eyes, man. She’s in it up to her neck and beyond.”
Emmett glanced into the other room. Were any of them buying this? It was difficult to tell.
He thought about when he first met Sheena at Baker Library, with her battered face and her apparent terror. Michael Dillman hadn’t even surfaced at that point.
Was that all an act? Had she inflicted those injuries on herself in order to deflect any suspicion? To make herself look like one of the victims?
“And other than the Huangpu–MAI Holdings connection,” Emmett asked, “what proof do you have that Sheena is involved?”
Dafashy sighed dramatically. “Well, I obviously haven’t connected all the dots for you. So here’s an idea. How about you let me up off the floor so I can help you investigate?”
Emmett was sure Dafashy would like that. Really, how was this new so-called revelation different from the version of truth Dafashy had been pushing all along?
Sheena was the evil harpy, the wanton harlot, the monster in every single one of Dafashy’s fairy tales.
For that reason alone, he might have dismissed anything Dafashy had to say out of hand.
But how to explain the fact, confirmed by Gary Evans’s best spies, that at least two of the men who carried Matt Bronik out of that building worked for Sheena’s father?
Emmett thrust his hands on his hips, then glanced at his watch. It was 9:23. Assuming that Michael Dillman—whoever he was—had started that three-hour timer when he received the Zcash, it was set to expire at 11:58.
At which point he might reveal the hostages’ location.
Or blow them into very tiny pieces.
So what did Emmett do about Dafashy?
Then, from the other room, Aimee called out, “Emmett, could you come in here, please?”
Emmett took a few steps toward the dining room and said, “Yes?”
Aimee was sitting in front of her laptop, which she tilted so he could see it.
It showed, of all things, a Google Maps satellite image, zoomed in close on a house.
“I’ve just been doing a few searches,” she said.
Searches? Emmett thought. What kind of—
Then he remembered: Aimee was a forensic accountant.
She continued: “MAI Holdings owns a house on the west shore of Lake Sunapee.”
CHAPTER 62
We tore down Interstate 89, lights flashing in front and behind, whipping past traffic that had pulled to the side for us.
I was toward the end of the caravan, just after the Bomb Squad, pushing the CRV’s engine to rpms it had never seen on my many trips to swim practice and the grocery store.
Aimee was in the passenger seat. Her twin jacket was crumpled at her feet. She was balancing her laptop on her knees, pumping her hot spot for more information on MAI Holdings.
So far, nothing seemed all that relevant. It was privately held, so there were no SEC filings to mine. Most of its work in America seemed to be in Appalachia or the rural West. The Lake Sunapee house was the only asset MAI owned anywhere nearby.
It made sense that Sheena’s father, who was apparently quite wealthy, wanted a place to stay when he visited his daughter. And a house on Lake Sunapee would double as a fine corporate retreat.
But I was still having a difficult time absorbing the rest of this. The kidnappers worked for Sheena’s father? And Matt was being held at his house?
Which meant . . . Sheena had started all this?
The same woman who politely chatted with me at all those physics department functions? And unfailingly asked me about how my son was doing in school? And talked to her mother every night at nine o’clock?
I wasn’t ready to believe she could be so duplicitous. Weren’t there some things a person wouldn’t do for a Nobel Prize?
Or was the pressure to achieve greatness really that strong?
We departed the highway at Exit 12A, having picked up an additional police escort, and ripped through the small town of Sunapee, which was mostly empty this time of year. After a few more turns on ever-smaller roads, we were suddenly slowing.
On our left was a driveway with two stone pillars. It was long, paved, and plowed—all signs of a wealthy owner.
I followed the caravan down, toward the lake. The house was a sprawling, multiwinged, two-story colonial that couldn’t have been any less than ten thousand square feet.
My clock read 10:06. An hour and fifty-two minutes remaining.
Aimee and I got out of the car. Dafashy remained in the back seat of Emmett’s vehicle—probably on the detective’s orders—and Beppe had stayed with him.
Emmett and the other state troopers quickly huddled near the Bomb Squad truck, paying little attention to the civilians.
Meanwhile, Plottner’s limousine, which had followed the caravan down the driveway, was suddenly on the move again. As I stared at it dumbly, it completed a five-point turnaround—made complicated by the presence of the other vehicles, the snowbanks, and the limo’s own unwieldiness—and was now rolling back up the driveway.
“Where’s he going?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” Aimee said.
The limousine disappeared from view.
Then my phone rang.
Plottner.
“Hello?” I said.
Then I read: “Lee informs me that there’s a significant chance the house may be booby-trapped. There’s also a chance Michael Dillman is still monitoring the premises and will detonate the explosive when he becomes aware of our presence. As my director of security, Lee has advised me to wait at a greater distance. So that’s what I’m doing. I’d suggest you do the same.”
Right.
Except.
Wasn’t it possible Plottner had done his research and discovered that Sheena’s father owned Huangpu Enterprises/MAI Holdings? Then Plottner had hired men from that company, knowing it would cast suspicion toward Sheena?
He could have also found the house that belonged to MAI Holdings and decided to use it, knowing it was unlikely anyone else would be going to a New Hampshire lake house in March. It was just like Plottner to think of every detail in his efforts to create more misdirection.
In which case, he was right now just continuing playing his part—to be cautious, and to encourage others to do the same.
But, truly, nothing here was going to explode. Plottner wouldn’t want Matt to be harmed.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll take my chances.”
Then I hung up.
The state police, having finished their deliberations, had apparently also decided the front door might have some kind of trap or trip wire, because they had entered the house through a window. Two men in bomb suits had shattered it with a battering ram.
Nothing exploded except the security alarm, whose shrieks were soon bouncing off the frozen water nearby, alerting the other empty lake houses that one of their own was being assaulted.
After thirty seconds, the alarm abruptly silenced. The central monitoring company must have been informed tha
t this was a police matter. Then one of the bomb-suit guys came around and opened the front door for the rest of the team.
Over the next twenty minutes, we lurked outside the house as members of the Bomb Squad crept room by room through the first floor. Every now and then, I could hear them yell something that sounded like “Clear.”
As soon as I saw them through one of the windows, tromping upstairs, I started toward the front door.
Aimee said something, which I ignored. She then hurried around to where she was blocking my path.
“What are you doing?” Aimee asked.
“Looking for my husband,” I said, then repeated my theory about Plottner not blowing up anything, least of all Matt.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m coming with you.”
Because of course she was.
We crept in the house through the still-open front door. I had decided to start my search on the north side of the house and then work my way south, just to be systematic about it.
It was 10:36. One hour and twenty-two minutes to go.
The house was, unsurprisingly, expensively furnished. I began in the mudroom, where there was no sign of mud. Just a top-of-the-line washer and dryer that probably cost more than any piece of furniture we owned.
Across the hallway was a guest bedroom that felt little used, despite a magnificent view of the water. It didn’t take long to search. Both it, and its en suite bathroom, were mostly empty.
The kitchen came next. But here, what caught my eye wasn’t the pricey brands—Viking, Sub-Zero, Bosch—it was the food, both perishable and, more tellingly, nonperishable.
Eggs. Milk. Sandwich meat. Cheese. It was all fresh. None of the sell-by dates had been met yet.
Someone had been using this kitchen. And had perhaps planned to continue using it for a while.
In a kind of trance, I pulled out the trash, finding it full of spent take-out containers, frozen meal boxes, and fast-food wrappers—not exactly the kind of fare consistent with an MAI Holdings corporate event.
“What are you doing?” Aimee snapped from the other side of the room. “Don’t touch that. It’s been handled by the kidnappers. It’s potential evidence.”
“Right, sorry,” I said, lifting my hands in the air, leaving the trash can where it was.