Stolen

by Carey Baldwin

  Ah, so this accounted, at least in part, for his mood. He didn’t want to “downsize” any more than they did.

  “But all of this—” Hatcher swept his hand around the room full of burnt orange furniture “—all the extra dough and manpower was in place to find the senator’s daughter. And while Harriet Beckerman might be lying up in that morgue with her face chewed off, Laura Chaucer is very much alive . . . and no longer missing . . . technically speaking.”

  Caitlin’s head felt like someone hit the button on the spin cycle. This was a lot to take in in such a short time. Truella Underland’s story rang true. Caitlin felt sure dental records would confirm the body in the morgue was that of Harriet Beckerman, a troubled young woman who would never get the chance to turn her life around. Harriet Beckerman had lived in the same apartment complex and had been friends with Laura Chaucer . . . and now the task force was being downsized because Laura, apparently, was alive. And judging by Hatcher’s reaction, he’d heard the name Harriet Beckerman before. “You found Laura?”

  Hatcher opened the door between the war room and the interview room and jerked his head. “Just get inside, please. I could really use some help in there. I feel like I’m being torn apart by a pack of wolves—or mountain lions—or whatever.” He sent Caitlin a feeble smile, and she knew his attempted joke was really an olive branch.

  She took it. “We’re all on the same team, Jordan. I’m sorry if it seemed like we left you in the lurch.”

  “Same team. Let’s get to it,” Spense said.

  Hatcher was clearly beyond pissed about his resources getting pulled and had taken it out on them. But despite his rude behavior he needed Spense and her more than ever. The three entered the interview room en masse, ready to face the wild beasts—who turned out to be a rather tame-looking group, but Caitlin understood that didn’t mean their fangs weren’t sharp.

  Whit Chaucer, his wife Tracy, and Grady Webber were all dressed in the same conservative designer garb they’d worn to the press conference. Ron Saas—she recognized him from the press conference, too—wore khaki pants, a white button-down, and a tweed sports coat. She assumed they’d been given the news that Laura was alive, and yet no one looked relieved.

  Whit’s angry, purple face was a stark contrast to his wife’s sickly pale one. Saas’s shoulders were hunched like he was ready to raise his fists and defend himself if someone else threw the first punch. Grady’s face was a blank slate that she knew from experience would be written and re-written with whatever emotion he deemed opportune.

  Hatcher pointed a finger at Saas. “Tell Agent Spenser and Dr. Cassidy what you told the rest of us.”

  Okay, not wasting time with introductions and small talk. Fine with her. Saas undoubtedly knew Spense and her from all the attention the media had showered on them anyway.

  Saas crossed his arms over his chest. “Laura Chaucer scheduled an appointment with me for Monday night, but when I checked my calendar, it had been canceled. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting the young lady, but I did see her this morning. She came to my office around eight, on her own steam, under no apparent duress, and demanded a meeting. She did give a false name—Ruby Rogers. My assistant wanted to help her and agreed to work her in. But then, when I was about to go out and greet her, she turned and ran out of the office.”

  “We’ve confirmed Mr. Sass’s story,” Hatcher said. “Cliff reviewed security footage. CCT caught Laura in several campus locations over the course of this morning—unaccompanied and unharmed.”

  So why did everyone look so damn miserable? Why weren’t they toasting the good health of Senator Whit Chaucer’s prodigal daughter? Obviously she hadn’t returned to the fold.

  “You should’ve called it in.” Grady narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Saas.

  “I told you already, or maybe I told the detective. I recognized her from having seen her in publicity shots with her father, but I didn’t know Laura was missing until the press conference. She came to my office around eight a.m., before the announcement.”

  Caitlin didn’t quite understand either. “You said she canceled her meeting with you earlier in the week. But you were seen at dinner with her Monday night.”

  “I did not meet with her. I don’t know where you got your information but it’s absolutely false.”

  “Didn’t you interview him to confirm Cayman’s account?” Spense asked Hatcher.

  “Cayman and Senator Chaucer spent the better part of Tuesday looking for Laura, and reported her missing late that night. Wednesday, we put this task force together and got boots on the ground. Mr. Saas was scheduled to come in on Thursday for questioning—but as you know Thursday we had matters to attend up in the wilderness. We had to reschedule him for later today.”

  “And you didn’t know why the police wanted to talk to you?” Caitlin asked Saas.

  “No one told me jack, except that it was about one of the students at Holly Hill. Had Detective Hatcher bothered to inform me of the situation, naturally I would’ve called the instant I saw Laura. I would’ve had campus security detain her. Don’t try to put this on me. You people blew it.”

  “We don’t inform you vultures in the press of anything until we’re ready for the entire world to know,” Hatcher said gruffly, then turned to Spense and her. “Got any more questions for Mr. Saas before I kick him out?”

  Caitlin nodded. “Are you in the habit of dining out with female students?”

  Saas jumped to his feet. “No.”

  “Then why set up a dinner meeting with Laura, and why did she cancel?”

  “I don’t know the reason. My assistant deleted the meeting on the calendar. I don’t know who called to cancel or why. I don’t normally take students to dinner, but Laura is the daughter of . . .”

  He didn’t have to finish. Everyone knew whose daughter Laura was, and clearly Saas had wanted to give her the VIP treatment.

  “She claimed she had new information about the death of Angelina Antonelli. You can’t blame me for nipping at bait like that.”

  “So you did talk to her when you set up the dinner?”

  “Yes, my assistant put her through at her request.”

  “But she didn’t hint at the information?” Chaucer asked.

  “Not a peep.”

  The senator got to his feet and extended his hand. Saas shook it. They both glared at Hatcher, the guy who blew it.

  “Thanks for coming forward with the information Laura is alive. Her mother and I are incredibly grateful.”

  “Glad I could help.” Saas turned to Hatcher. “Am I free to go?”

  “Don’t let the door hit you.” Hatcher paused. “And don’t leave town without telling us.”

  Saas made no answer as he exited the room, and Hatcher pulled the door closed behind him.

  “Now that the press has left the building, would someone please tell me why everyone’s so damn miserable?” Spense asked. He didn’t really care who answered him. It was clear everyone else in this room still knew something he and Caity did not.

  Chaucer gnawed his lower lip the same as Spense had seen him do during a debate, pondering the matter long and hard, as though world peace depended on his response. In the end he let his wife speak for them.

  “Laura called Grady a couple of hours ago. She, she . . .” Tracy Chaucer’s voice thinned and finally disappeared altogether.

  Webber took over. “She claimed her friend, Harriet Beckerman, had been murdered and that she—Laura—had a lock of her hair. Then she concocted a wild story about being drugged and waking up with her throat slashed. But since she’s running around all over campus none the worse for wear, there’s no question she’s lying about that part.”

  Chaucer turned even more purple and grabbed his old friend by the collar, yanking him to his feet. “You’re the one concocting the wild story, Grady.”

  Webber coughed and sputtered, and put one hand up. “I’m sorry, Whit. Truly, I am. But I have to tell the truth.”

  Sp
ense and Caity exchanged a glance.

  Was she thinking what he was thinking? Why would Laura believe Harriet had been murdered unless she’d done it or witnessed it or . . .

  “Grady, I respect your opinion, but this time, I think you’ve got it wrong. Laura is simply not capable of such a horrific crime.” Tracy Chaucer pulled her husband by the hand to sit back down. He continued to stand, so she gave up.

  “You just lost me,” Spense said.

  Hatcher cleared his throat. “While you and Dr. Cassidy were out, Webber rendered a professional opinion: he’s fingered Laura Chaucer as a killer.”

  This was getting very interesting. Spense could hardly wait to hear the good doctor’s theory.

  “I didn’t finger anybody. I just threw out the possibility. Tracy’s absolutely correct. In her right mind, Laura wouldn’t kill a spider if it sat down beside her. When she’s lucid, she’s a sweetheart of a girl with a generous spirit. I’m not suggesting anything to the contrary. But we have to face facts. If she’s lost touch with reality again, we don’t know what she’s capable of doing. If she has a lock of Harriet Beckerman’s hair, and if Harriet really has been murdered, well, I’m afraid we all know what two and two equals.”

  “What the hell do you mean lost touch with reality again? The only reason she ever lost touch with it in the first place was because you prescribed the wrong medications. She hasn’t had a hallucination in years.” Chaucer grabbed his chest like he was out of wind and finally, sat down next to his wife.

  “Whit, please don’t play the blame game with me.”

  “Don’t play the shrink game with me. I am not a goddamn patient of yours, Grady. Save the cutesy lingo for Tracy. She appreciates your cleverness more than me.”

  Tracy inhaled sharply.

  “Let’s be clear on two things, Whit. Both you and Tracy wanted Laura . . . comfortable. You insisted I do whatever it took to keep her anxiety at bay. You’re the ones who wanted her to never suffer a sleepless night. If it took some adjustments to get her meds right, that’s no fault of mine.”

  “He’s right, Whit.” Tracy looked up from the floor.

  “What’s the other thing?” Hatcher asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “You said let’s be clear on two things,” Caity put in.

  “Oh, yes. About Laura’s hallucinations. I said they were largely due to the medications. But the truth is the etiology of psychosis is multi-factorial.”

  “English, for God’s sake.” Hatcher rubbed his temples.

  “A break with reality is rarely due to one thing. It’s the result of genetic predisposition, environment, organic issues like alterations in brain chemistry, and social stimuli.”

  “That’s not English.”

  “It’s nature, nurture and the bad shit that happens to you.” When Webber looked at Tracy and Chaucer, Spense saw his expression turn ingratiating. “Not that you should hold yourselves in any way responsible.”

  “We don’t,” Whit retorted.

  “And that’s as it should be.” Now Webber’s tone was downright obsequious. It wouldn’t surprise Spense if the guy kissed the senator’s ring.

  “Hold on,” Hatcher interrupted. “Regardless of Laura’s sweet disposition, and who’s to blame for her problems, I’d like Dr. Webber to elaborate on this break with reality theory of his.”

  “All right. Let’s see. I believe the bad shit that happens to you category would include Laura’s kidnapping and Angelina’s murder. Now we’ve reached the anniversary of that traumatic event. Laura is off her meds and living away from her protected, safe, familiar environment. Her neighbor friend happens to look like her dead nanny. I believe those factors combined to create a perfect storm and cause what laymen call a nervous breakdown.”

  “A nervous breakdown is one thing. Killing your friend is quite another,” Hatcher said.

  “Well, of course I’m just hypothesizing. You’re the detective.” Webber made a half bow to Hatcher. “But we know Laura’s never recovered from her childhood trauma. Just suppose the anniversary triggered a psychotic episode in which Laura was driven by an irresistible impulse to re-enact that awful day.”

  “So she lures her friend, Harriet, who looks like Angelina, up to the same wilderness area where she was taken as a child, then stabs her, strangles her, and dumps her body? Fuck you, Grady. My daughter didn’t do it.” Chaucer doubled his fists.

  “Then why won’t she come home?” Hatcher asked.

  “Maybe the delusional part is true. Maybe because it’s the anniversary of her kidnapping and she’s off her meds, she thinks the kidnapper is after her again,” Whit conceded.

  “That seems possible,” Tracy said, then turned to Webber. “Doesn’t it?”

  “I think we should warn the public Laura may be dangerous.” Hatcher grimaced.

  “This is preposterous,” Chaucer said. “You cannot warn the public my daughter is dangerous based on unsupported bullshit. That could put her in danger.”

  “Can you live with it if we don’t say anything and something else happens . . . someone else gets hurt?” Tracy’s voice broke. “Are you worried about Laura or about your public image?”

  “Both if it’s all right with you.”

  “No. It most definitely is not all right with me. Just once, can’t you put your family first?” Tracy went to Webber and stood beside him. “I’m not letting you run the show this time, Whit. I’m going to stay right here. I want to be included in all decisions regarding our daughter. I don’t give a rat’s ass—” she stuck out her jaw “—how this looks to your constituents. I want Laura home safe and lord knows I do not want someone else’s daughter hurt because we didn’t do the right thing.”

  A vein bulged in Chaucer’s neck. “You’re so infatuated with Grady Webber you’re buying into his lies about Laura.”

  Her back went ramrod straight. “My feelings for Grady have nothing to do with this.”

  “They sure as hell do. He’s got you bamboozled into believing your own daughter, my sweet Laura, is a murderer.”

  “I trust Grady. He knows Laura better than we do, and that’s the God’s truth. If she’s done something wrong, she’s not responsible.”

  Caity put her hand on Tracy’s shoulder. “Look, you’ve offered a reward for Laura’s safe return. That means the public may try to intervene if they spot Laura. Until we know more about her state of mind, I suggest we advise the public not to pursue Laura if they do spot her.” She let out a long breath. “Senator, how about a compromise?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “What if we say Laura has suffered a trauma and may be emotionally unstable, therefore please notify the authorities if seen, but do not attempt to make contact with her?”

  “I guess that would work.” Chaucer sent both Caity and him an imploring look. “Do you two believe this nonsense Grady’s spouting?”

  Caity didn’t miss a beat. “Personally, I think Dr. Webber’s theory is highly unlikely. These crimes do seem connected—but that does not mean Laura’s at fault. Earlier today, Agent Spenser and I were putting a profile together that suggested a sexual opportunist may have been responsible for Angelina’s death.”

  Tracy gasped. “Oh, my God! Are you calling Laura a sexual predator? You think she killed Angelina?”

  “At the age of eight? While not impossible, it’s about as likely as the trout frying up the fisherman for supper,” Caity answered.

  “And if we are, in fact, dealing with a sexual predator, then statistically speaking,” Spense said, sending Webber a scorching look, “odds are far better that someone right here in this very room killed Angelina Antonelli and Harriet Beckerman than that Laura Chaucer did.”

  The air grew thin and silent. A few beats later, Caity broke it. “And by the way, we seem to be missing one of our key players. What about the bodyguard who gave the false report of Ronald Saas having dinner with Laura? Why isn’t he here?”

  “Cayman.” Hatcher shook his head. “At t
he moment, we can’t seem to find him.”

  Chapter 32

  Friday, October 25

  8:00 P.M.

  Hostel Digs

  Denver, Colorado

  Twenty-one dollars a night was a bit more than Laura had planned on, but Hostel Digs was well worth it. She’d scored a private room, and so far the quarters next door were empty. Nevertheless, she planned to sleep in her blond wig, facing the wall just in case . . . besides, the place was a bit chilly, and the wig kept her head warm—so it all worked out.

  The other good thing, and the real reason she’d shelled out the extra dough, was that Hostel Digs provided both free iPads and free Wi-Fi for guests. That meant she didn’t have to risk going back to Get Wired or pay for the privilege of using the Internet. Both the device and the signal came courtesy of a host claiming to be “jazzed” to have her here.

  She powered up the tablet then signed on as a guest. The tablet blinked back at her, and she found herself yawning, waiting for the signal to pick up. First order of business was to Google Caitlin and her partner. Laura had heard the park ranger call him Agent Spenser, so Laura assumed both he and Caitlin were FBI.

  The signal indicator was still blank.

  The tablet was taking a long time to connect, and her eyelids were drooping.

  She yawned again, and rolled over on her side, facing the wall.

  It had been a long, exhausting week.

  The light from the tablet had a hypnotic effect on her brain.

  She closed her eyes and felt herself fading.

  Don’t fight it, Laura. Just sleep . . .

  Her arm jerked, and she drifted off to dreams.

  Her core seemed cold, frozen solid. Shivers, originating from deep within wracked her body, and yet her palm was so moist she could barely grip the pen in her hand.

  “Get on with it.” That low growl in her ear was all too familiar. So why couldn’t she remember him?

  She knew the figure looming over her, but she didn’t dare turn her head. She didn’t dare see.