Dividing Zero

by Ty Patterson

  The train depot, its yellow and red structure immediately recognizable from the photo, looked empty and forlorn. No other person was visible but for Pickett and a few of his officers.

  Two police cruisers and the Tahoe were the only vehicles in the lot in front of the station.

  ‘There’s a ticket agent in the station. He didn’t see any man or a girl.’

  He wiped his forehead with the palm of a hand and dried it against a trouser leg.

  ‘The station doesn’t get much traffic. It has one service in a day and it’s not as if Toccoa is a large commercial hub,’ he said with a small smile.

  ‘They were here.’ His smile grew larger when the twins looked at him in sudden interest.

  ‘The station is also home to the Currahee Military Museum. It’s usually closed that time of the morning; however, a caretaker had arrived early today.’

  He broke off when Beth ran to the building, Meghan close behind her.

  The caretaker was in his late fifties, and had moon faced spectacles on his face. His eyes were bright behind them and regarded the twins in wonder.

  ‘You both are genuine twins?’

  Identical, not genuine, Meghan corrected him mentally.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Call me Bob,’ the caretaker flashed a gap-toothed grin, visibly pleased at the attention he was receiving.

  Yes, he had seen a girl. She was peering through a window when he had approached from the side of the building.

  ‘I’m waiting for my mommy,’ she replied when Bob had questioned her, concerned that she seemed to be alone.

  No she wasn’t alone. Daddy had gone to make a phone call.

  Bob hung around for a few minutes waiting for Daddy to turn up, however, he had things to do, stuff to be put away.

  The girl was nowhere to be seen when he returned half an hour later. Neither was anyone who looked like a daddy. The ticket agent hadn’t seen her when Bob asked him.

  Bob shrugged his shoulders and went back to work, figuring Mommy had collected Daddy and the little girl and had driven away.

  Meghan looked at the roof of the station, excused herself and ran around the building.

  ‘No security cameras?’ she asked when she returned.

  ‘No cameras, ma’am.’

  She looked over to Pizaka and Chang; the NYPD cops were with Pickett who was showing them the likely spot where Maddie had been photographed.

  Chang felt her gaze and shook his head imperceptibly.

  Nothing more to be seen.

  She and Beth went inside the cool interior of the station and spoke to the ticket agent.

  He was as old as Bob, his brown eyes smiling at their approach

  ‘It’s the most excitement I have had in many years,’ he greeted them and introduced himself.

  He kept shaking his head, the smile fading from his face as Meghan peppered him with questions.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I wish I could help, but I didn’t see anything. I told Roy the same.’

  Meghan stood in the station’s shade and watched her sister join the cops.

  She forced despair away, breathed deeply, and looked at the blue sky in the distance.

  Where are you, Maddie?

  The man and Maddie were still in Toccoa. The man knew his message would trigger a man hunt and the local police would be roped in.

  He also knew the cops would question car rental agencies and hotels. He had given thought to their escape from the station and had hit upon a plan.

  It needed a stroke of luck.

  He got lucky.

  He had hung around the station when the train had departed, his phone to his ear, when he saw the old lady emerge from a restroom.

  She made her way slowly to a pickup truck in the station’s yard.

  He approached her, smiled ruefully and spun a story about his cell phone dying on him. That his wife was waiting for them at the elementary school, to check it out for their daughter.

  They were from Atlanta and would be moving to Toccoa because of his job. His wife had driven a day earlier, and if his phone hadn’t died, she would be waiting for them at the station.

  The old lady was happy to drive them to the school and it was there that he and the girl spent the day.

  While the cops search for us everywhere else.

  ‘He’s mocking us. He’s taking us on a wild goose chase,’ Beth said quietly.

  Meghan, following Pickett as he reversed and rolled out of the station, didn’t reply, though she agreed with her sister.

  Pizaka or Chang didn’t refute Beth’s comment. There was no other reason for the message to be sent.

  Meghan cut her eyes to her sister. Beth was stony faced, her eyes expressionless.

  We still don’t know how he got our numbers, but that’s part of his taunt.

  They had traveled less than a hundred yards when Meghan slammed the brakes suddenly.

  ‘Jeez, sis,’ Beth yelled and braced herself with a hand. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The signboard. The graffiti on it.’

  Chapter 23

  Meghan reversed her Tahoe and drove back to the station’s yard. She looked up once in the mirror and saw Pickett’s tail lights flare, and simultaneously Beth’s phone buzzed.

  She hopped out, heard her twin say, ‘some harebrained idea,’ and then she was away, running to the signboard.

  She stopped when she was a few feet away and stared at it.

  The graffiti was still there.

  A crunch of tires on gravel announced the police chief’s arrival. Doors slammed, voices murmured, and the rest of them joined her.

  ‘You found Maddie?’ Chang smirked when he followed her gaze and saw nothing but the signboard.

  ‘What do you see?’ Meghan challenged him.

  Chang frowned. ‘Nothing. A signboard. We’ve have been looking at it all day.’

  A door opened and closed and more footsteps came their way.

  The ticket agent.

  ‘What’s up, Chief?’

  Meghan turned to him. ‘Sir, how old is this graffiti?’

  The clerk squinted at the board, scratched his head and shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Who the heck did that?’

  He raised his hands helplessly and turned to them. ‘I never saw that before. It wasn’t there yesterday.’

  Meghan smiled triumphantly. ‘That’s John Doe’s work.’

  The graffiti was meaningless. A red squiggle on each corner of the board, on top of the lettering. A red slash next to an O.

  The board now read TO/CCOA.

  ‘That makes no sense,’ Pickett frowned.

  ‘Why didn’t we notice it before?’ Pizaka glared at Chang and the twins, as if they were responsible for his not spotting the red markings.

  ‘We are inured to graffiti,’ Meghan replied. ‘We are so used to seeing it around us, that we just turn a blind eye.’

  ‘What made you return?’

  ‘Something that Chief Pickett said. That this is a small town. You don’t see much street art or disfiguring in such places.’

  ‘You’re right,’ the chief agreed with her. ‘I still don’t know what that marking means, though.’

  They all turned to the sign and studied it in silence.

  No clues came to them.

  ‘Those squiggles could be anything. That slash…’ Beth shrugged in resignation.

  ‘I bet the paint comes from a spray can that you can buy in any hardware or paint store,’ Chang grumped sourly.

  ‘How do we know John Doe did that?’ Pizaka demanded, mopping sweat from his face. Sweat wasn’t good. It spoiled his profile.

  ‘Buddy, we live in New York. A street artist wouldn’t stop at a few lines. Our mystery man did that.’

  ‘It must mean something.’

  ‘It does. To him. Meghan’s right. He’s mocking us.’

  They flew back to New York in the evening after spending more time with Pickett in his office.

  H
is officers had spoken to hardware stores in the town. None of them had reported recent sales of spray cans.

  There were very few people in town who were known troublemakers. All of them had iron clad alibis. None of them had been in the station’s vicinity. They didn’t disfigure the signboard.

  Zeb was waiting for them at JFK. His shades clashed with Pizaka’s. Neither of them greeted the other.

  ‘Anything?’ Zeb asked Meghan.

  She pulled out her phone and showed the marking to him.

  ‘That means something?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  He drove them back silently, and when he was nearing One PP, Chang’s phone buzzed.

  His listened, grunting and uh-uhing now and then. His lips were tight, his face was pale, when he hung up.

  ‘Amy Kittrell is in critical care.’

  The man left the school with several leaflets, the girl gripping his free hand tightly.

  She had asked for Mommy several times; he had to spin another story, that Mommy was selling a big house and had to cancel her trip.

  The girl asked if they were moving to Toccoa. She liked the school, but didn’t want to leave New York. She didn’t want to leave Peaches and Lizzie.

  He took her to a Dairy Queen to stem her questions. That distracted her and while she was licking a Royal Blizzard, he pulled out another burner phone and called to get a new rental vehicle, a pickup truck.

  They will be looking for sedans, family cars, or SUVs.

  The rental agency was fifteen minutes away; it posed a problem. He wanted to minimize their street time.

  He told the girl to stay put, he would be back soon.

  He told the teenager behind the counter to keep an eye on her. The teenager nodded and pocketed the five that the man slipped to him.

  The girl was on her second Royal Blizzard when he returned in the white truck.

  ‘Mike gave it to me,’ she smiled at him.

  Mike, behind the counter, shrugged. ‘She asked, man. What was I supposed to do?’

  The man paid for it, grabbed the girl, thanked Mike, and hustled her to the truck.

  Two hours later they were in Atlanta.

  Four hours later, when it was well past the girl’s bed time, they were back in New York

  The ball is in the NYPD’s court.

  Chapter 24

  Chuck Keyser parked his pick-up truck in the garage of his house in Highland Park in Birmingham, stepped out and stretched.

  He had spent the last couple of weeks camping and hiking in the Sipsey Wilderness Area. Twenty-five thousand acres of forests, woodland, and waterfalls, just a few hours away from Birmingham, made it the ideal getaway place for Keyser.

  He wiped his boots on the doormat and entered his home through the door in the garage that opened into a storeroom off the kitchen.

  The house was silent. It would be; Keyser was single.

  His wife had died eight years back, his kids, a son and a daughter, were both married and lived in California.

  He turned on the lights, brushed his sparse gray hair and went upstairs to shower.

  A light dinner, some mindless TV, and he was ready for bed.

  He was on the stairs when the blinking red light on his phone in the living room caught his attention.

  Messages.

  He pressed the button and listened.

  The first one was from a cold caller. He erased it. So was the next. He erased that one too.

  The next three messages were from other cold callers or local stores offering the latest and greatest deal in the land.

  There was a message from Chuck, his neighbor, checking if he was back.

  The last two messages gave him pause.

  He listened to the first one and erased it. No other action was needed.

  The second message was from some lady in New York, asking about someone from his past.

  Keyser had a past that very few knew of. He had served in the Army, had done stuff that not even his wife had known about.

  He noted the woman’s number, thought for a few minutes, and then punched the numbers.

  The phone in Meghan’s hand rang.

  They were still in the SUV. Zeb was still driving.

  They had dropped Pizaka and Chang at One PP and were heading to the twins’ apartments on Columbus Avenue.

  The phone connected to the SUV’s bluetooth system and its ringing sounded loudly in the interior.

  She didn’t recognize the number; however, they were expecting several calls.

  She punched a button and accepted the call.

  ‘Meghan Petersen.’

  A pause. ‘Ma’am, my name is Chuck Keyser. You left a message for me some time back.’

  Keyser’s voice was deep, quiet, and without inflection.

  Keyser, Kittrell’s boss in Baybush.

  ‘Thank you for calling back, Mr. Keyser. This is about Josh Kittrell. I believe he worked with you.’

  ‘A long time back, ma’am. He died in an accident. What’s your interest in him?’

  Meghan hesitated, looked at Zeb and Beth.

  They both shrugged. Go ahead. Tell him.

  She told Keyser about mystery man and Maddie.

  The line fell silent while Keyser digested her story.

  ‘Are you there, Mr. Keyser?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. That’s a whammy. I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am. Josh died. I saw his body. I attended his funeral. Whoever that man is, he isn’t Josh Kittrell.’

  Keyser hung up after the call had finished and went to his bedroom.

  He opened his wardrobe, moved clothes on a hanger and pressed a hinge.

  The small door clicked open to reveal a safe.

  Keyser extracted a box from the safe and removed a handgun, a Glock 22. It had one round in the chamber, its magazine had fifteen rounds.

  It was ready to go. It always was.

  Three days passed with no major developments.

  The twins investigated any connection Amy Kittrell had with Toccoa. There was none. There was no record of her spending any time there or ever visiting it.

  Mayo and Kane had no presence there. The town was too small for Amy Kittrell’s real estate firm to have an office in.

  Werner came back with addresses for the two hundred Josh Kittrell look-alikes and the twins were tracking them, calling them when contact was made, verifying them and then striking them off the list.

  They were not even halfway through. It increasingly looked like none of those on the list could have been John Doe.

  Still, they had to try, and go through all the names.

  Chang and Pizaka had tried interviewing Amy Kittrell again. They said they had news on Maddie’s disappearance.

  The mother wasn’t interested, whatever the news was.

  ‘You can meet her, when her daughter is along with you,’ the hospital’s receptionist made no attempt to conceal her glee when relaying the snub.

  The hotline had no Maddie sightings. The cameras at Penn Station didn’t show any more images of John Doe or Maddie. No staff on the station or the train recollected them.

  Pickett from Toccoa called. A man resembling John Doe had rented a pickup truck the day of their visit to the town.

  ‘He fooled us. He and the girl were right there in the town. You won’t believe where they were hiding.’

  Beth gritted her teeth and willed the police chief to continue.

  ‘He was in the elementary school. He said he was moving to the town and wanted to check out the school.’

  ‘Where’s the truck now?’

  ‘It was found in Birmingham. In a carwash’s parking lot. Vacuumed, washed, and cleaned. No DNA evidence.’

  ‘The trail died there?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘He could be anywhere,’ Beth scowled at her sister when the call ended. ‘With Maddie.’

  She stopped Meghan before the inevitable Why passed her sister’s lips.

  ‘Has Werner got anythin
g more on TO/CCOA?’

  ‘No,’ Meghan replied.

  Beth slapped the computer’s screen with the flat of her palm. ‘The world’s best supercomputer and it can’t find anything.’

  Werner shrugged electronically.

  Slapping it didn’t achieve anything. But humans didn’t get that, did they?

  Chapter 25

  ‘Amy Kittrell is my best closer. You know that house on Madison Avenue, the one with the Grecian columns?’

  Meghan and Beth shook their heads, struck dumb by the speaker’s forcefulness.

  They were in the mid-town office of Carey Landsman, where Amy Kittrell worked, on the eleventh day since the kidnapping.

  The firm was named after its founder who sat opposite the twins, dressed in a pale green outfit that shimmered as she moved.

  Landsman was in her late fifties, but a strict dietary regime, the best beauticians money could buy, and artful plastic surgeons, made her look forty.

  Her pale blonde hair kept falling over a brow. A practiced flick tossed the curl back to top of her head.

  In an elegantly manicured hand she held an electronic cigarette and delicately puffed away at it.

  Red nails painted the air. ‘You don’t know where it is.’ There was no sneer in her voice, just a statement that Landsman moved in rarefied social circles.

  ‘Amy sold it. In one week. For the asking price. This girl comes out of some town, Lord knows where, and outsells my ace closers.’

  The cigarette came to within an inch of Meghan’s face.

  ‘I want her back. You folks are harassing her. You need to back off. Stand down. Call off your dogs.’

  Pizaka and Chang had interviewed Landsman the day after the kidnapping; they had come back with just one fact. That Amy Kittrell worked there.

  Chang had rolled his eyes dramatically when describing her, ‘I would rather feed the lions than meet her again.’

  Carey Landsman was a socialite who had turned to selling luxury homes in the city, a decade back. She knew everyone. More importantly, everyone who mattered, knew her.