by Ben Miller
“Yeah.”
With the lilt of uncertainty in her voice, Reilly wondered if she were being truthful, but he continued to stare at the carpet between his feet. “I grew up in Massachusetts, in the same area as these kidnappings.”
“Oh,” Corinne replied. “What happened to your accent?”
He smirked and looked up at her. “I don’t know. I never really got one, I guess. Not everyone from there talks like that.” He left her gaze again, this time looking straight in front of him. “I’m adopted. Well, sort of. I spent my childhood between about a half-dozen foster homes.”
“Oh,” Corinne replied. With that build-up, she had expected something worse.
“I never actually got adopted. One family tried. I was about seven or eight. They were really nice—a middle-aged couple who never had any kids. But then the dad—er, you know, husband—had an accident at work and injured his back. I don’t know all the details, but I guess they couldn’t take care of me anymore. I got sent to another home, then a handful more through high school.”
“What happened to your parents? Your biological parents?” She placed a hand on his back, and he looked at her and smiled. She smiled back.
“Uh, I never knew them. I don’t think anyone knew who my dad was. My mom had problems with drugs—heroin mostly, I think. She spent time in and out of jail. I really don’t remember her. I have a picture of her in my head, but I’m not sure if it’s really accurate. I think it’s really more of a cross between Meredith Baxter-Birney and Margie Post.”
Corinne had a quizzical look on her face.
“Elyse Keaton from Family Ties and Christine Sullivan from Night Court. I didn’t get a whole lot of enriching stimulation in my youth. I watched a lot of TV.
“Anyway, she died when I was six. I do remember that. She had just gotten out of jail for dealing. Cops found her in some apartment with a needle in her arm. I hadn’t seen her in probably over a year. My foster folks—the ones who almost adopted me—told me. There wasn’t a funeral, but they offered to take me to a cemetery where she was buried.”
Corinne sat quietly. When he didn’t speak for a few moments, she asked, “Did you ever go? To the cemetery?”
Reilly shook his head. “I don’t even know where it is, to be honest.”
“Do you want to know?”
He rubbed the stubble on his chin as he considered her question. “No. I don’t think so.” He stood up and walked toward the bathroom. He turned to face her and put his elbow on top of the dresser beside him. “And, long story short, that’s how I ended up in CASMIRC. I decided in high school that I wanted to do something to help kids, help protect them. And I always wanted to be a bad-ass cop of some kind.”
“Like Miami Vice?” If Corinne had learned to use old pop-culture references to excite Reilly just as a means of manipulating him, he didn't care. He loved it.
“Totally. Sonny Crockett was my idol. I went to my high school prom in a white suit with the sky blue T-shirt underneath—sleeves rolled up and all.”
She tilted her head. “Didn’t you graduate high school in the late 90s?”
“Class of ’96. I was the coolest guy at the prom.”
“I doubt it,” she said straight-faced. “So that’s why you feel weird about this case? You don’t want to go back to Boston?”
Reilly fanned the air in front of him. “Is it getting hot in here? Crazy for September. You want me to turn on the AC?”
“Answer the goddamned question.”
Reilly raised his eyebrows. Not much time with Corinne ticked by without a reminder of her bluntness. He scratched his temple, an overly obvious sign of pensiveness. “I guess not. I got my way through high school, I got out, and I never looked back. I’ve always been kind of proud of that. I’ve never been back there.”
6
Jack sat at his desk at CASMIRC Headquarters in Quantico, Virginia, sifting through the file of the Massachusetts abduction cases. Jeff Pine had emailed him a number of documents from their investigation. While some of his colleagues—the younger ones, notably—would have simply viewed the documents on their computers, or more likely their iPads, Jack preferred to print them out and read the hard copy. He found that information stuck in his head better when he could touch it, take notes on it, flip back-and-forth through it. He didn’t consider himself an “old dog,” but he didn’t care to learn anything new about this trick.
Logically, he had started at the beginning. He read through the reports of the first crime scene: the abduction of ten-week-old Portia Stiles. She and her single mother Tina Langenbahn lived in a studio apartment in Chelsea, Massachusetts. Portia had a scheduled check-up with her pediatrician that morning. While preparing to load Portia’s car seat into her car, Tina was attacked from behind with a handheld conducted electrical weapon, commonly called by the brand name “Taser”—much like calling all flying disks “Frisbees”—which immobilized her. A silk black pillowcase was then placed over her head so she could not see her assailant. When her muscle function returned, she removed the hood to find her little Portia was gone.
In the four weeks since, investigators had made little headway in the search for Portia or her kidnapper. They found no fingerprints or identifiable debris at the crime scene. Tina Langenbahn could not offer much in the way of a description of the kidnapper. He had shouted at her right before the assault, and she claimed she did not recognize the voice. No witnesses had stepped forward, and the local and state police had interviewed over 100 people. The infant’s father, a bartender named Philip Stiles, had an alibi: since his bartending shift had ended at 2:00 am, he had spent the rest of the night and morning gambling at a Native American casino across state lines in Connecticut. Nine different security cameras confirmed his story.
The tag had been carefully removed from the pillowcase. Forensic analysis had determined it was 240-count off-white material—one of the cheapest on the market—and it had been dyed black from its original ivory.
AMBER Alerts had flashed on every highway sign, electronic billboard, and all local news stations throughout the next thirty-six hours, to no avail. Video surveillance footage from every nearby gas station and convenience store had not recorded anything of significance.
Six days into the investigation, the lead investigator Sergeant Rita Ferroni had contacted the Boston branch of the FBI, which brought Jeff Pine into the case. Jeff’s original notes focused on Portia’s car seat, noting it would need a base to fasten into for traveling in a car. Most car seats have bases manufactured specifically to match them, and different brands don’t mix. Either the perpetrator knew the brand of car seat, and by extension Tina Langenbahn, or he had bought a universal car seat base. These exist, but are much less common than the brand-specific bases. In Suffolk County, nine such universal bases had been purchased at retail stores in the previous two months. The FBI located all nine of the people who bought these bases, and all had alibis without raising an iota of suspicion.
Jack thought it more likely that the abductor didn’t use a car seat base at all; he didn’t seem too keen on following the law, after all. Other than this possible misallocation of resources, he could find no obvious holes in this investigation after his first read-through.
The files from the Theodore Gardner case were still scant, at this point. Jack looked at photos from the crime scene and an initial statement from Sara Gardner, which described a very similar scenario to the one experienced by Tina Langenbahn.
Jack picked up the phone on his desk and dialed the contact number for Jeff Pine. Pine picked up after one ring.
“Hello, this is Special Agent Jeff Pine.” Jack was struck by his impeccable diction and his formal yet pleasant tone.
“Hi, Jeff, it’s Jack Byrne. I’ve been looking through the files you sent, and right now I don’t think I have much to add.”
“Aw, shoot,” Jeff replied. “As much as I didn’t want to seem incompetent, I had hoped you would find something right away.”
&n
bsp; “No such luck.”
“Are you still planning on coming up tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’ll be bringing a small team, probably three or four of us. I’ll figure out what they’re going to do tomorrow before the end of the day today, and I’ll shoot you an email with a tentative itinerary.”
“OK. That implies you already know what you want to do.”
“Yeah. I want to start by personally interviewing both mothers.”
7
Despite the small fortune Randall had invested in completing his Work, he still had quite a bit of money saved up. He assumed the family of his late wife Sheila would want it all held up in some kind of escrow account, but he also knew that wouldn’t be easy. He could comfortably spend at least half of his money on legal fees without ripping through too much red tape.
He had selected his defense attorney about four months prior to his arrest, two months before committing his first crime. He had first seen Victor Upshall on TV, speaking at a press conference following the acquittal of his most recent client, a sleazy banker who had quite obviously hired a hit man to kill his wife. Upshall addressed the media in such a smug, pedantic manner, Randall hated him instantly. He thought about finding a way to incorporate murdering Upshall into his Work, but he couldn’t find a logical avenue to do so. Instead, he decided he would hire Upshall after his arrest and try to convince the douchebag of his innocence so that Upshall would represent him. As it turned out, Upshall did not require much convincing after seeing the balance in Randall’s investment accounts. He took on Randall’s case, and Randall couldn’t wait to put forth his best effort in ruining Upshall’s career—if one could call what he does a “career.”
Despite his disgust for Upshall, Randall looked forward to their meetings. Any departure from his concrete cell was a welcomed relief.
“Are you ready?” Upshall asked as he glanced down at the Rolex on his left wrist. He had looked at his watch less than twenty seconds ago, just when he sat down. Randall had noticed this repetitive gesture at the previous meetings too. He suspected it came as either force of habit or some kind of tic, so he decided not to find it personally offending.
“Ready? I don’t have anything to get ready for. I just have to sit there and look good. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Upshall put his left arm back down, placed his palms on edge of the small table between them, and leaned forward. “No. You have to sit there and look innocent.”
“Well, that might be a little more challenging,” Randall said as he offered a wry smile.
Upshall leaned back and cocked his head. “Is this, like, a joke to you? You realize your life is at stake here, right? You go in with a flippant attitude like this, and Our Twelve are likely to let you fry.”
Upshall always referred to the jury as “Our Twelve,” as if he and Randall somehow owned them. Though he despised just about everything else that came out of Upshall’s mouth, Randall liked this phrase. It reeked of confidence.
“Virginia doesn’t fry people, do they? I thought it was lethal injection.” Though the smile had faded from Randall’s face, he clearly still enjoyed antagonizing Upshall.
Upshall sat up straighter as he tightened his silk tie and fixed his collar. Randall guessed that it stood as Upshall’s way of regrouping, possibly counting to ten in his head so he didn’t blow up at a client. “No. You’re right. It’s just a phrase. Sorry. Your trial starts in four days, and I just want to see that you’re feeling prepared.”
“Yes.” Randall decided to stop messing with him. For now. “You’ve filled me in on what to expect. I’ll look good. I’ll look respectable. I’ll look innocent. I’ll make good eye contact without staring. I won’t show excitement, or disdain, or surprise. I’ve been well-coached.”
“Goddamned right.” Upshall looked at his watch again. “So I’ll come by here to see you early in the morning for a check-in, then I’ll go to the courthouse. Troopers will escort you there, and I’ll see you again in the courtroom.”
“Aye-aye.” If Randall’s hands weren’t shackled, he might have considered a sarcastic salute.
“Any questions?” Upshall asked as he reached down to pick up his briefcase from the floor beside his chair.
“One.” Randall leaned forward in his chair and pointed at Upshall’s face. “Is that a spray tan or from a tanning bed?”
“Tanning bed,” Upshall stated nonchalantly as he stood up. Randall’s glib attempt to insult Upshall had clearly failed. The lawyer couldn’t care less that Randall had just commented on his largely socially unacceptable fake tan. “I have one in my home. State of the art. You should get one—they’re great.”
“Yes. I’ll just put it in the auxiliary cell behind mine,” Randall said. “I’ve been looking to expand.”
“No, man. When you get outta here. In your home. ‘Cause I’m getting you outta here, Randall. You’re gonna go home.”
8
Fiona Evans looked at the plain-faced yellow clock on the wall in the kitchen. She probably had another twenty or thirty minutes until Tyler would wake up from his late-afternoon nap. This might allow her to get through one more chapter. She turned her attention back to the textbook in front of her.
She didn’t regret the decision to go to college; in fact, it gave her great pride. Few people in her position had the dedication and the wherewithal to put themselves through college.
She had squeaked through high school, never really giving a shit about much of anything having to do with education, earning barely enough passing grades to graduate. She kept her job at The Gap and started working some evenings part-time at a local bar and grill, first as a hostess, then as a waitress (which made almost twice as much money in tips). By the following spring, she had earned enough to move out of her mother and stepfather’s house into this apartment. Then life got interesting.
She partied every night. Not euphemistically—literally. Every night. She drank. She smoked. She did drugs. Ecstasy and pot mostly, with the weekly diversion into oxy’s, PCP, Special K, and the occasional flirtation with cocaine. She never did IV drugs. Not based on principle; needles scared the piss out of her. Couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her two jobs gave her enough money to pay for this apartment, her car, and her lifestyle. Her job at The Gap offered a pretty decent discount on clothes, too, which didn’t hurt.
Then, just a little over a year ago, she got pregnant. She had been hooking up with this guy Aiden on and off for a couple months. Some days she forgot to take the pill, but she had never had a problem before, so it didn’t seem like a big deal. Wrong. Big Deal. Capital B, capital D.
She considered her options for about twenty-four hours before telling Aiden. She decided to have the baby and raise it on her own. She would not have an abortion, that much was certain. She would even try to avoid sharing custody with Aiden if she could. She liked him enough to fuck him now and then, but she didn’t really care to share her life or her child with him. She also decided to get clean. Completely clean. No more drinking, smoking, or drugs. She quit cold turkey, stayed on the wagon, and never regretted it.
Aiden seemed pissed at first, not at her excluding him but more at the fact that she got pregnant. He calmed down when she told him she didn’t expect child support. He texted a couple of times during her pregnancy to check in on her. He came to the hospital to see his baby the day after Tyler was born, and he stopped by her place once the week after she brought Tyler home. Two months passed before he contacted her again, this time with a phone call.
“I want to see Tyler more,” he had said.
Based on his past behavior, his declaration had surprised her, but she had taken it in stride. “OK. You can come over to see him more. Just let me—”
“No. I don’t want to come there to see him. I want him here. I want some custody.”
She had paused, not having expected that at all. “Why?”
“’Cause he’s my kid, and I deserve to have him too.”
“Wh
y now?”
“What’s the big fuckin’ deal, Fiona?! Christ! Just… shit, I don’t know. Just tell me when I can get him.”
“Don’t be a dick, Aiden. You haven’t been around hardly at all, OK?!”
“Whatever!”
Fiona knew he had no reasonable excuse, and she was glad he didn’t try to fabricate one. “Listen. Why don’t you pick a time this week to come over and see him, spend some time with him, and we can talk about it, OK?”
He had agreed and they hung up. That was over a month ago, and she hadn’t heard from him since. She guessed he hadn’t been too serious in his commitment to establish his fatherhood.
Last week, the same day Tyler turned four months old, she had started college. She had enrolled at Roxbury Community College in their Early Child Development program. She loved it. The campus had an on-site day care facility—partially staffed by senior students from her program—so she could drop Tyler off when she went to class. In two years she would have her Associate’s Degree, and she could go work in a day care. She planned on earning enough to save up for a real four-year college by 2018. She wanted to get a business degree so she could open up her own day care.
First, though, she had to get through her homework in her Child Growth and Development class. Just one more chapter with the questions at the end would get her caught up for the week, actually one day ahead of schedule. Before she got to the end of the first page, though, Tyler started crying. He was awake, and he was hungry.
Child Growth and Development—at least the textbook version—would have to wait until another time.
9
“Have we been here before?”
Reilly scanned the room, pretending to ponder Corinne’s question. He remembered every place they had met to eat, drink, or hang out since they met, and he knew they had never been to Fiddler’s Green before. It was a charming Irish pub, replete with green glassware, soccer memorabilia covering nearly every square inch of the walls, and at least three dozen Irish flags visible from any vantage point.