by Lisa Gardner
This room was more chaotic. The down comforter, covered in a duvet of greens, gold, and burgundy, had been kicked to the foot of the bed. The cream-colored sheets were twisted into a pile, the corner of the room lost to a mound of clothes. The room carried the musty odors of stale linens and recent sweat.
And because Quincy knew Rainie better than he knew his own heart, he could look at each item in the room and see clearly what must have transpired in the middle of the night. The tossed covers from another bad dream. The skewed lampshade from when she’d fumbled for the light.
Her trek to the bathroom, kicking aside socks and jeans along the way. The mess around the sink as she tried to clear the dream from her mind with water on her face.
The water hadn’t worked, though. At least it hadn’t when Quincy had still been around. She’d scrub her face while he watched her from the open doorway.
“Would you like to talk?”
“No.”
“It must have been a bad one.”
“All nightmares are bad, Quincy. At least they are for us mere mortals.”
“I used to have bad dreams after Mandy died.”
“And now?”
“Now it’s not so bad. Now I wake up and reach for you.”
He wondered if that’s when she grew to hate him. Because her love gave him comfort, and his love, apparently, gave her nothing at all.
Kincaid was finished in the bathroom. He moved around the dresser, opening each drawer, then checking the nightstands.
“When Rainie was at home, where did she keep her weapon?”
“We have a gun safe.”
“Where?”
“The study.”
Quincy led Kincaid back to the wood-paneled room. He gestured to a print on the wall, a black-and-white portrait of a little girl peering out from behind a white shower curtain. Most people thought the picture was mere art, purchased, perhaps, for the whimsical quality of the girl’s gap-toothed smile. In fact, it was a photo of Mandy taken when she was six years old. He used to carry it in his wallet. Years ago, Rainie had had it enlarged and framed for him.
And sometimes, when a case was particularly bad, say the Astoria case, Quincy would sit in here and simply stare at the photo of his daughter. He would think of the wedding she never got to have, the children she never got to bear. He would think of all the life she never got to lead and he would feel the sorrow press down upon him.
Some people believed there was a special home for children in heaven. A place where they never felt sickness, or pain, or hunger. Quincy didn’t know; his relentlessly analytical mind didn’t do well with matters of faith. Did the children who had loving parents or grandparents get to be reunited with them? What about the newborn who starved to death while her mother went on a weeklong drinking binge? What about the five-year-old thrown down the stairs by his father? Were there foster parents in heaven?
Or did these children spend eternity all alone?
Quincy didn’t have these answers. He just got up and went to work each day. It was what he did.
Kincaid took Mandy’s photo down from the wall. The safe was mounted behind it.
Quincy gave the combo. Kincaid turned the dial. The door opened and they both eyed the contents.
“I count three handguns,” Kincaid said with a trace of triumph, while Quincy said:
“It’s not there.”
“But look—”
“All backups. That’s a twenty-two, a nine-millimeter, and my old service revolver. I don’t see her Glock.”
“Would she have left it anyplace else?”
“No. The rule is when at home, the gun is locked in the safe. We wanted to make sure we were in the habit. You know.” For the first time, Quincy’s voice cracked. He caught it, soldiered on. “For when we adopted our child.”
“You’re adopting a child?” Kincaid sounded honestly flabbergasted.
“Were. Past tense. It fell through.”
“Why?”
“The DUI. That event, coupled with a few things from Rainie’s past, made her look emotionally unstable.”
“No shit,” Kincaid murmured.
“The system isn’t meant to be easy.”
“But you thought you were adopting? Right up into September?”
“For a while, Sergeant, we had a picture of the child.”
“Damn,” Kincaid said. He looked back at the safe, mental wheels obviously churning: Burnt-out investigator, overwhelmed by failed marriage, failed adoption, takes her own life. In policing, once again, you had to play the odds.
“Well,” Kincaid said philosophically, “morning’s here, conditions are improving. I think the thing to do now is get some dogs in the woods. Do you have any family?”
“My daughter’s coming.”
“Good, good. That’s probably best.”
“Don’t give up on her,” Quincy said tightly. “My wife is a former member of law enforcement. She deserves better than to become just one more neglected case piled on the desk of an overworked Major Crimes sergeant—”
“Whoa—”
“I have resources, too, Sergeant. Hasn’t that occurred to you yet? Say the word, I can call in old favors. There are people in this town who know and love Rainie. They believe in her. They’ll plow through those woods, they’ll slog through the mud and the rain—”
“Hey, I’m not giving up on this case!”
“You’re already jumping to conclusions!”
“As an objective outsider—”
“You didn’t know my wife!”
“Exactly!”
Kincaid was breathing hard. Quincy, too. For a long time, the men stared at each other, each one waiting for the other to back down.
Then Quincy’s phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and immediately held up a silencing hand.
“Is it—?”
“Shhh. It’s Rainie.”
7
Tuesday, 8:04 a.m. PST
“Hello?”
Static. A beeping sound. Then a click as if the call had been disconnected.
“Hello?” Quincy tried again, voice more urgent, hand white-knuckled on the phone.
The call was lost. He cursed, tempted to hurl the tiny phone across the room, then it rang again. He flipped open the phone before the ring completed its first musical chime.
“… morning paper.”
“Rainie? Where are you?”
“She can’t come to the phone right now.” The voice sounded distorted, mechanized.
“Who is this?”
“You must read the morning paper,” the voice intoned.
“This is Investigator Pierce Quincy. I’m looking for Rainie Conner. Can you tell me where she is?”
“You must read the morning paper.”
“Do you have her? What is it that you want?”
“What everyone wants—fame, fortune, and a finely baked apple pie. Goodbye.”
“Hello? Who is this? Where are you?”
But the caller was gone. Quincy knew it before the first syllable left his mouth. He immediately returned the call, but on the other end, Rainie’s phone just rang and rang and rang.
“Who was it? What’d she say?” Kincaid was standing over him, looking as agitated and impatient as Quincy felt.
“It was a man, I think. Using some kind of voice-distortion machine. He kept saying I must read the morning paper. Word for word. ‘You must read the morning paper.’ Quick—pen, paper. While it’s fresh, we need to write this down.”
Quincy fumbled around his desk, jerking open drawers, scattering a tray of pens.
Kincaid was behind him, rifling a second drawer in search of a notepad. “Why read the paper?”
“I don’t know.”
“Which paper?”
“I don’t know. ‘Read the morning paper.’ That’s what he said. ‘Read the morning paper.’ ” Quincy finally got a pen. His hand was trembling so badly, he could barely grip it between his fingers. Too many thoughts
were in his head. Rainie kidnapped. Rainie hurt. Rainie … So many things that were far, far worse.
Nine years ago, Bethie on the other end of the line. “Pierce, something’s happened to Mandy. You’d better come quick.”
Kincaid had found a spiral notepad. He thrust it across the desk, where it slid to a stop in front of Quincy.
But Quincy couldn’t write. His fingers wouldn’t hold the pen, his hand wouldn’t scrawl across the page. He was shaking. He’d never seen his hand tremble so much, not in all of these years. And then he suffered a surreal moment, where he stood outside his body, staring back down at this scene, and what he saw was a hand, old, thickened, soon to be age-spotted, grasping ineffectively at a pen.
He felt powerless. His wife was kidnapped, and for a heart-stopping moment, he didn’t know what to do.
Kincaid took the notepad away from Quincy. There was more sympathy in the sergeant’s eyes than Quincy was prepared to accept.
“You talk,” Kincaid said. “I’ll write.”
Quincy started from the beginning. There wasn’t much to document after all. A disguised voice on Rainie’s phone, ordering Quincy to read the morning paper and claiming to desire fame, fortune, and apple pie. Four lines spoken, a total of thirty-two words.
They started with the first instruction: You must read the morning paper.
“Local,” Kincaid declared.
“What? The call? It wasn’t a good signal, but that would put the caller anywhere in the coastal range. And pulling the records won’t help—it’ll just list a call placed to my phone.”
“No, no, not the call, the paper. Otherwise he’d say ‘morning papers,’ plural. But he kept saying ‘paper.’ That’s specific. I’m guessing the Bakersville Daily Sun.”
“Ah, the Daily Oxymoron,” Quincy muttered. “We don’t get it delivered. But …” He thought about it. “We should be able to find something online.”
“Screw that, we’re going straight to the source.”
“You have a contact?”
“Better. I have a public information officer. He can get straight through to the owner if we have to.” Kincaid pulled out his cell phone and punched two buttons. Seconds later he was talking to a Lieutenant Mosley, and a few seconds after that, he was gesturing frantically for the return of the spiral notepad.
“Is there a return address? When was it postmarked? No, no, no, I don’t want it handled! Listen, I’m sending over two scientists from the Portland lab right away, along with Latent Prints. Anyone who’s touched that letter needs to be sequestered now; I don’t care if they own the damn paper. We’re on our way.”
Kincaid flipped his phone shut and headed immediately for the door. The sergeant was already at a half-jog; Quincy quickly picked up the pace.
“What is it? What did he say?”
“Ransom note. Op-ed editor of the Bakersville Daily Sun just notified our PIO twenty minutes ago. They found a note in this morning’s mail. Says a woman has been kidnapped, and if anyone wants to see her alive again, it will cost ten thousand dollars cash.”
“Who sent it?”
“Not clear.”
“When?”
“Postmarked yesterday.”
“But that’s not possible.” They were at the car. Kincaid jumped in on the driver’s side, Quincy rounded the front.
“It is and isn’t,” Kincaid said, already firing up the Chevy. “It’s not possible that the man had kidnapped your wife yesterday afternoon. But then the ransom note didn’t mention a specific name, or provide a description.”
“Stranger to stranger,” Quincy filled in. “The guy didn’t know who he was taking. He just knew he was taking someone.”
“Exactly. Crime of opportunity.”
“Against a trained member of law enforcement?”
“Maybe he got lucky. Or maybe … We don’t know how he chose his target yet. Maybe,” Kincaid’s voice was quiet, “he started at a bar.”
Quincy didn’t say anything. Kincaid headed down the steep driveway at an unhealthy pace. Quincy grabbed the dash.
“Listen,” Kincaid was saying. “A letter’s a good sign. Guy’s making contact and every contact provides an opportunity. We started with the phone call to you. Now we’ve got an envelope, a letter, and a postmark all worth analyzing. All we need is a little saliva to seal the envelope, and we got DNA. A postmark close to home, and we have geography. Add the handwriting sample and we’ve nailed a suspect. This is a good thing.”
“I want the letter sent to the FBI lab.”
“Don’t piss me off.”
“Sergeant, with all due respect—”
“Our Questioned Documents unit is very good, thanks.”
“The bureau’s is better.”
“The bureau’s lab is all the way across country. We’d lose a day just in transport. My guys can handle the letter just fine, and they can get started this afternoon. You do understand the need for speed.”
“It’s always a matter of minutes,” Quincy said curtly. His gaze had gone out the window. “Always.”
“You ever work with a local you thought had brains?”
“Only the one I married.”
Kincaid arched a brow. He was still driving too fast, cutting S-curves and swinging around traffic. It was obvious to Quincy that the sergeant had once been a big fan of Starsky and Hutch.
“Give me thirty minutes,” Kincaid said abruptly, “and I think you’ll change your tune.”
“You can find my wife in half an hour?”
“No, but I can find out if the author of the note actually took her.”
“How?”
“The letter included a map. Follow the directions to the scavenger hunt and discover proof of life. Guy’s reaching out, Mr. Profiler Man, and we’re going to nail him for it.”
“I’m going with you,” Quincy said immediately.
Kincaid finally flashed him a grin. “Somehow, I never doubted that.”
8
Tuesday, 8:33 a.m. PST
Downtown Bakersville, Oregon, wasn’t much—a four-block Main Street that housed a variety of family businesses, most of them struggling now that Wal-Mart had built on the outskirts. The Elks still maintained a lodge, which was actually an old bowling alley, painted bright blue. Then there was the corner florist, the Ham ’n Eggs diner three doors down from that, an office supply store, an undersized JC Penney’s. The businesses existed to serve the locals; most of the summer tourists passed straight through from the beaches in the south to the Tillamook Cheese Factory in the north.
Quincy couldn’t remember the last time he’d come into the town, but Kincaid seemed to know his way around. The sergeant swerved around one corner, made a hard right on the next. All the while he was working his cell phone. Calls for a detective to head straight for the Daily Sun and secure that note. Calls to his lieutenant, requesting more manpower. Calls for the crime lab and Latent Prints to get their butts to the coast. Then a call in to Sheriff Atkins, still conducting the search.
Finally, Kincaid had the public information officer back on the phone, getting the lowdown on people and titles at the Daily Sun.
Policing was management. It was throwing a million balls into the air, and keeping them all going without ever stepping out of bounds or disobeying the rules. It had been a long time since Quincy had been in the thick of it, working a fast-breaking case. He could feel the adrenaline rush whooshing up his spine, the unmistakable tingle of excitement, and it left him feeling vaguely guilty. His wife had been abducted. Surely it shouldn’t feel like the good old days.
Kincaid slapped shut his phone. A two-story cement structure had just appeared on their left, a seventies-issue office building, all flat roof and boxy angles. Kincaid careened into the parking lot and wedged the Chevy between two SUVs. Welcome to the Daily Sun.
“I talk,” Kincaid said as he bounded out of the car. “You listen.”
“How many kidnapping cases have you worked before?” Quincy asked.
Inside, the hoopla was immediately obvious. Reporters, copy editors, and assistant gophers who should’ve been bustling around with the endless number of tasks that went into creating a daily paper instead hovered on their tiptoes inside the foyer. Some clutched manila file folders to their chests. Most, however, didn’t bother with pretense. Everyone knew something important had occurred, and all waited anxiously to see what would happen next.
Kincaid didn’t disappoint. The sergeant squared his shoulders, approached the receptionist, and flashed his badge, his expression pure TV-cool. “Sergeant Detective Carlton Kincaid, here to see Owen Van Wie, immediately.”
Van Wie was the publisher of the daily rag. He’d been contacted first thing this morning, and much to the PIO’s dismay, already had a lawyer on site. Thus far, at least, Van Wie was promising the paper’s complete cooperation. They’d see how long that lasted.
The receptionist led the way, Kincaid tipping his head in acknowledgment at the gathered masses.
“Carlton?” Quincy murmured behind him.
“Oh, shut up.”
The Daily Sun was a small-town paper, and the publisher’s office looked it. Cramped windowless space, one bank of strictly utilitarian gray metal filing cabinets, and one completely overwhelmed desk. Van Wie sat behind the desk. Across from him sat another man in a suit and tie. Lawyer, Quincy guessed.
The men already occupied the only seats in the room, leaving Kincaid and Quincy to stand shoulder to shoulder in the narrow doorway. Kincaid flashed his badge, providing quick, perfunctory introductions.
Quincy shook Van Wie’s hand, then met the publisher’s attorney, Hank Obrest. Suit was off-the-rack, tie a cheap polyester blend. Local lawyer for the local paper, Quincy thought. The two had probably gone to high school together and remained best buds ever since.
“You have the note?” Kincaid asked. The sergeant clearly wasn’t a fan of small talk.
“Right here.” Van Wie gestured to two sheets of paper lying in the middle of the desk. Both men were eyeing the letter warily, as if it were a bomb that might go off at any instant.
“Did you save the envelope?”