by Randy Rawls
I found Hammonds at his desk, sitting in semi-darkness, only a small lamp for illumination. Even under the poor lighting, I could see he looked as tired as Sargent. No, more so, more tired than any person I’d ever seen. If I hadn’t known he was only forty-two, I’d have sworn he was in his seventies. The attractive professional I met had deteriorated into an old man filled with grief. My heart went out to him, wishing I could offer peace, but knowing only the return of Ashley could do that—and then, only partially.
His head came up, and he attempted to smile. It didn’t work. He still wore the blue polo shirt he had on when I left, but now it looked bedraggled, which pretty much summed up his whole appearance. He reflected a man hovering on the edge of collapse. He stared at me as if I were his last hope—which, as phony as it might sound, I guess I was.
I scanned his desk to see what he was drinking, but saw only a half-filled coffee cup, and that looked cold. As far as I could tell, he had not sought solace in a bottle. That must have taken strength—strength I’m not sure I would have had in the same situation. I’m not much of a drinker, but there are times I crave a smooth scotch. Had I been in Hammonds’ position, I might have been reaching for the bottle.
Further scrutiny revealed that everything was in its proper place. The office was spotless, not one loose paperclip. I assumed he spent his time sprucing up the office, burning off the nervous energy that threatened to consume him. My heart went out to him.
Still wearing my gloves, I placed the envelope on the desk. “This is what they left.”
“Don’t touch that.” It was Sargent.
The voice came as a surprise because I hadn’t realized he’d followed me. My first thought was he looked different, fresher somehow. Then it registered that he’d put on his suit jacket and tightened his tie.
“We need to have our crime scene techs go over it first,” Sargent said. “There could be evidence that’ll lead us to the kidnappers. Or,” he frowned, his eyes hard, “it could be a bomb. In any case, let me handle it.”
I stared at Sargent, knowing he was right. We needed to follow set procedure. On the other hand, we needed to know whatever message it contained—and every minute could be critical. More damned dilemmas.
I swallowed hard, looking at Hammonds. The uplift I’d seen in his chin when I placed the envelope in front of him was gone. His hands hovered in the air, frozen by Sargent’s words. They trembled, and the tiredness had returned to his face. Then, stubbornness moved in. “I have to know what’s in here.”
“I know, sir,” Sargent said, compassion in his tone. “But we can’t risk destroying evidence—evidence that might lead us to your daughter.”
“Damn—”
“Maybe you could open it,” I injected, my comment directed at Sargent. Both of them were right, and the last thing we needed was a pissing contest. “It appears to be sealed with the clasp, no glue. I’m sure you can empty it without messing it up.”
Sargent chewed on his bottom lip.
“C’mon,” I said. “You know we have to see the contents. Take a chance. Where’s your heart?”
Sargent glared at me, then looked at Hammonds. “Alright. But not in here. I’ll take it out by the pool—me, just me. You two remain right here. If it’s a bomb …” His voice drifted away, but a stubborn look claimed his face, reminding me of the stony countenances carved into Mount Rushmore.
“It can’t be an explosive,” I said. “They didn’t kidnap Ashley to blow somebody away. They want money, probably lots of it.”
“I’m not as prescient as you,” Sargent said. “One of my many shortcomings.” His sarcasm hovered in the air as he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and worked his hands into them. He picked up the envelope like it held one of the dead sea scrolls—one that had not been deciphered. “Stay here. I’ll bring the contents back … if I can.”
After Sargent left the room, Hammonds rose, came around the desk, and headed for the door. “No way I can sit here and wait. We can at least keep an eye on him.”
“We can watch from the patio,” I said. “Sargent is right. It’s his play, and he’s taking a big chance for us. You and I are bystanders until he’s ready to show us what’s in the envelope.” To myself, I added, Please don’t be a bomb.
When we stepped outside, I pretended to stumble and saved myself by grabbing Hammonds’ arm. I feared he’d keep following Sargent. He cut me a look, but stopped. I may or may not have sighed with relief. Part of me said we had to stay back and let Sargent do his job, while the rest yelled for me to stay with him. But I was responsible for Hammonds, and I needed to keep him safe—and under control.
Forcing my emotions down, I said, “We may as well sit,” indicating a couple of comfortable-looking lounge chairs. “It’s going to be a long day, no matter what he finds.” I settled onto the cushion and leaned back. To my surprise, but not to my surprise, my eyelids threatened to close. It had been a long, tough night, and my adrenalin flow had slowed. The thought of sleep came uninvited to my mind.
“I suppose you’re right.” Hammonds voice sounded as tired as I felt. He sat beside me.
Along the edge of the pool, Sargent knelt and placed the envelope on a snack table. From his briefcase, he took out a recorder and rested it on a chaise lounge a few feet away. He was about thirty feet from us, but I had no problem seeing his every move. Hammonds had enough pool lights to support an Olympic high-diving event.
Sargent removed his suit coat, folded it in half, and lay it beside the recorder. He loosened his tie, then reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a clasp knife. He swiped his forearm across his forehead, opened a blade on the knife, then pushed a button on the recording device.
His lips appeared to form words as he began working on one wing of the clasp, moving at the speed of an arthritic snail. I assumed he chose to record every motion he made, leaving me to wonder if the recorder was bombproof.
The predawn hour wasn’t hot. In fact, for South Florida, it was pretty cool, low seventies, maybe. But sweat ran down my cheeks, defying the weather. When I glanced at Hammonds, he wiped his face, his palm coming away wet. The external temperature had nothing to do with our perspiration. Our internal thermostats were registering well above sweat production. We were victims of tension. But only Sargent was in a position to physically feel it, especially if things went bad.
For a long moment, I saw strain on Sargent’s face, then he relaxed. He sat back on his haunches and wiped his face again. Several deep breaths later, he walked to the other side of the table and repeated his act on the second wing of the clasp, moving no faster than before. I stared as his lips continued to move, forming words for the recorder. His professionalism and courage forced me to upgrade my opinion of him—but not much. He was still a horse’s ass.
After what seemed an eternity, while my racing heart waited for an explosion, he leaned back and flexed his neck and shoulders. I realized I had been holding my breath, or as close thereto as one can come. My eyes hurt from squinting. I could picture every hair on his fingers. That’s how closely I watched as he worked. I imitated his stretching, taking deep breaths, forcing myself to relax. I couldn’t imagine the stress he felt, but my neck hurt. Sargent was a better man than I had given him credit for.
Rubbing the back of his head, he stood and circled the table, his eyes glued to the envelope. I hoped he saw whatever he sought. Or maybe I hoped he didn’t see it. I wanted the darn thing to be innocent so we could get the message that might be inside.
After three or four trips around the table, Sargent knelt again, grasped the end of the envelope, and gently shook it. Something slid out and he froze, I froze, and I’m sure Hammonds beside me froze. Then Sargent smiled and picked up the object and held it in the air for us to see.
A DVD.
As if it was an omen, the first hint of daybreak peeked at us above the trees borderin
g Hammonds’ back yard. The world looked brighter, in more ways than one.
fourteen
Sargent refused to let us have the DVD, explaining it could carry fingerprints. After some discussion, and Hammonds’ blood pressure rising, Sargent agreed to make a copy. We headed into the office where Hammonds booted his computer, then turned the chair over to Sargent.
Sargent said, “If there’s anything on this disk, and I screw it up, the chief will have my ass.” There was no accompanying smile.
I understood his thinking. The evidence chain was so tight no policeman dared challenge it. All it took was one foreign print and a good defense counsel would have the whole thing tossed out of court. And in South Florida, judges were quick to look for reasons to side with the accused.
Hammonds’ sister walked in, her appearance disheveled. “I couldn’t sleep. Will I be in the way?”
I moved aside to make space for her.
“I’m going to make a duplicate,” Sargent said. “Then I’ll ship the original off to the lab, and you can do whatever you please with the copy. I only hope it’s worth the potential cost to my career.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Hammonds said. “No one is going to mess with your life because of this. That, I promise.”
While Hammonds and I stood by, Sargent hit the right keys and we listened to the whir of the drives. A moment later, he punched the button on drive number two and handed me the disk. “I’ll send one of our uniforms downtown with the original. You guys can see what’s on this one.”
Sargent stood and left the room.
I heard him say, “Officer Campbell, I want you to get this to our CSU people and don’t spare the tires. Tell them I need it analyzed for prints and anything else they can find as fast as they can crank up their magic machines. If they give you any lip, tell them it’s Chief Elston’s number one priority.”
Hammonds slid into the seat in front of his monitor. “I have to know what’s on here.”
“Give it a moment,” I said. “After what Sargent has been through for us, I think he deserves a chance to see it firsthand.”
The sister glanced my way, then nodded. “She’s right, John.”
Hammonds cut me a look that left little doubt he considered any delay too long to wait, but lifted his fingers from the keyboard. “Tell him to get in here. I don’t have time for this crap.”
Sargent reentered the room. “Did you check it?”
“Waiting for you,” I said, then nodded to Hammonds.
Sargent smiled, his first real smile in my direction since I’d met him. His behavior over the past hour had gained him a seat with us. He camped out over my shoulder while I sat beside Hammonds. We stared at the monitor as the DVD spun up.
The directory opened. There were three .jpg files and one .rtf file. Their names were Ashley Watches TV, Ashley Eats Pizza, Ashley Naps, and Instructions.
The titles of the files yanked at my heart, but I tried to stay cool and analytical. My investigative mind said, “Open the instructions,” but Hammonds was a mouse click ahead of me. In retrospect, I couldn’t blame him for going for the pictures first. If Ashley had been my child, I’d have done the same.
The first picture showed Ashley seated on a small chair watching TV. She was clean and wore a smile. Her blond hair reflected the flash of the camera. From every indication, she was happy and enjoying the show.
The second put her in the same chair, but with a table to match in front of her. A piece of pizza with bites missing lay on a plate. There was no sign of stress or abuse, and again, she had a big smile for the photographer.
In the third, she appeared asleep on a single bed with a Mickey Mouse coverlet over her. Her face was serene, a small smile playing on her lips, as she cuddled a Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal. There were no outward signs she realized things were not normal.
Studying the images, I fought tears. The pictures were so innocent, yet showed how much under the kidnappers’ thumbs she was. I couldn’t control myself. Tears flowed, and I sniffled.
Hammonds grabbed a tissue, then passed the box to me. I dabbed my eyes, blew my nose, and concentrated on the last picture. Ashley was a beautiful blond child with an angelic face. Who on planet earth would want to kidnap her and hold her for ransom? The depravity of some people was simply beyond my comprehension. I had to get her back.
Hammonds stared at the screen as if he wanted to climb in and hug his daughter. Moisture pooled in his eyes, threatening to form into droplets.
I said in a quiet voice, “She looks okay. They haven’t harmed her.”
“Yes,” he responded, emotion thick in his voice.
“Is that the outfit she wore to school yesterday?”
He blinked, then clicked back to the first picture. “It could be. She has something like that. I was gone when Sabrina …” his voice broke, “… when Sabrina dressed her.” Though he spoke, his demeanor was of one in a stupor.
To keep both of us from getting too morbid, I said, “Let’s see the instructions.”
He broke out of his trance. “She looks all right, doesn’t she? They haven’t hurt her.”
I swallowed words I really wanted to say—like, it looked like the bastards had her convinced her parents approved of her captivity. “She looks fine, but let’s find out what they want.”
He clicked on the .rtf file, and it opened in his MS Word program.
Defense Attorney John Hammonds,
If you, and whoever’s with you, are reading this, we have passed the first stage of our endeavor. I assume you opened the pictures so you know Ashley is fine. No harm has come to her. If you haven’t looked yet, I suggest you do so. I’ll wait .
Okay, let’s move on. But first, just so you know, I am not alone. Be assured that someone is with Ashley at all times—no matter how many of us are otherwise occupied. In other words, if you deviate from the instructions one inch, someone will make sure Ashley gets her due.
Your incompetence cost me ten years of my life. I want restitution. Let’s say each year is worth $100,000, not much by modern standards. Your total bill is one million. I know you’ll have no problem raising that amount. I know several others that you failed. Each reported he overpaid by an exorbitant amount.
You and those with you can ease off. I’m sure you’re plotting how you’ll capture me during the exchange. It won’t be quite that simple. My plan is basic. You won’t see Ashley until seven days after you pay. And, if you do anything I don’t like before or during that period, she will be lost to you forever.
You have the rest of today to accumulate four million dollars. Yes, four million. Why? you’re thinking. Pretty simple. We’ll use four different drop sites, one million at each site. I, and only I, will know which is THE site. The other three will not be serviced. If you’re lucky, you will recover those funds. Otherwise … Well, that’s just something else for you to worry about.
I’m sure you want to know what happens if you don’t pay. Again, nothing complicated. Ashley simply disappears. How? you wonder. Keep wondering. You’ll have years to live in the agony that I had—years of knowing you’re paying for your incompetence.
Last, I have to tell you I am sorry about your wife. All she had to do was cooperate, and she’d be alive to enjoy this with you. Instead, she chose to play heroine. We couldn’t allow that, could we? Make sure you don’t try to play hero. It won’t work any better for you than it did for her. And if you die, what happens to Ashley?
Use your time wisely. The next contact is on my schedule, and I shall expect you to be ready.
_____
The gazebo in Hammonds’ front yard drew me after the drama surrounding the DVD and its contents. I needed fresh air and solitude, and I suspected John Hammonds could use some time alone, also. If I left, maybe Sargent and Hammonds’ sister would get the hint and clear out, too.
T
he octagonal structure measured about thirty feet across—large enough for a living room in most houses, but not out of place on the Hammonds’ lawn. It had five tables with separate cushioned benches. I suspected the tables locked together, creating an area for a large buffet. The construction of the building and its contents was with rich-looking wood, perhaps teak. In other words, it radiated luxury and good taste. The thought crossed my mind to ask Sly if he had partied there.
I sat at the center table. In front of me lay a printout of the message from the kidnapper and the three pictures he included. I stared at the words, trying to squeeze more from them. There had to be something that would tell us who was behind the murders and kidnapping. Something that would help me see between the lines.
I decided to take it apart, but my cell phone interrupted before I could begin. I fumbled it out of my purse and looked at the number. Bob Sandiford. “Hey, Bob, what’s up?”
“Just wanted to let you know we have a dozen people on the street with the picture and sketch. They range from Fort Lauderdale up here to Boca. That’s not a lot, but if they see anything, they’ll let me know, and I’ll pass the word to you.”
“Thanks, Bob. I really appreciate this.”
“I expect we’ll get more volunteers as the day wears on. Communications is not what we do best. But each of these people can identify with tragedy. They’ll step up as soon as they find out what happened. Hang in, Beth. If that woman puts her nose outside, we have a chance of spotting her.”
“Terrific.”
“What was in the envelope? Have you opened it yet?”
“Sorry. I’m so tired my mind isn’t functioning like it should.” I told him about getting back to Hammonds’ place, the contest with Sargent, and the contents of the envelope. I finished with, “There was a DVD containing the kidnapper’s demands.”