A flick of her thumb across the trackpad on the laptop brought the screen back to life. There were four images on the screen split into a grid view. One image in each corner of the screen. It was the rail station. Views of entrances and exits, the main concourse and, selecting a menu in the right corner of the screen, Harper was able to flick between different images of the rail station.
At first I thought they were just pictures. Then I saw a man walking through the station entrance.
“Is this the security camera feed?” I asked.
“It is. The station’s video system is being fed into the Bureau’s network. Long as you’ve got the right cypher,” she said, tapping the device protruding from the USB port.
The device that Washington had given to Harper. He was doing more than keeping her updated; he was making sure she could watch the drop go down – live.
She’d guessed, correctly, that the rail station was a bust. She had no evidence of that, of course. I thought about what she’d said, and decided that it took a lot more than instinct and a bad drop location for the money for Agent Harper to have been convinced that this was a dummy drop. There was more to this than I knew.
But right then, I did know one thing – Harper was the key.
“Tell me why you’re really convinced that this drop is a con.”
She stared at me while she considered her response. Weighing me up.
“Why’d you lie to Lynch about me? Why didn’t you tell him I slammed your head into the car?”
“It wouldn’t do my client any good. I took you for one of the smartest in that room. Why deprive my client of a good FBI agent?”
“So you think the train station is a bust too,” she said.
I had to be careful. She was being polite, but I didn’t trust her entirely. Not yet.
“I think what you’re saying has logic. But you’ve got to remember, kidnapping is a risky business. And criminals aren’t always as smart as they might appear.”
She took a sip of cold coffee. Those hazel eyes never wavered from mine. Not for a second. Those eyes weren’t penetrating. She wasn’t trying to read me, she was putting up a shield.
“Come on. There’s something else,” I said.
The images on the split screens remained unchanged. She checked the rest of the cameras in the mini-view then said, “This kidnapper, he’s patient. He waited a long time before he made contact. Most kidnappers panic and get on the phone, demanding money right away before the family even knows their loved one is missing. This guy didn’t. And he’s done his research: he knows to the cent how much they can raise in ransom in twenty-four hours. See, there’s probably a lot that you don’t know.”
“So tell me something I don’t know,” I said.
“We found Caroline’s car yesterday morning. Your client doesn’t know that either,” she said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Each of the video feeds remained static. No movement on the entrances to the rail station. It was getting close to three a.m.
“Why didn’t you tell him about the car?”
“You know your client has a reputation for doing things his way. He got to where he is now because of that rep. We can’t afford to have a father running around town with a gun. Some things your client can’t know. For his own good and that of his daughter,” she said.
“So why tell me now?” I said.
“Because it doesn’t matter any more. Howell is making his play right now, isn’t he? That’s the real reason why he’s not at the rail station.”
I didn’t answer.
“Don’t worry. Nobody else believes me. But they’ll believe me when the rail station becomes a bust, and Howell comes back to the house with his daughter. That happens – then your client is in major trouble and he’ll need a good lawyer.”
“If you really believe that then why aren’t you following him?” I said.
“How do you know we’re not?” she said.
Was it a bluff? Hard to tell. She let the silence build. And brought her gaze back to the laptop screen.
The way I figured it, Harper was one agent, with no backup. Unless Washington was following Howell? I thought about taking out my cell and texting Howell. But I didn’t make a move. I kept my hands on the table, and leaned back.
The overhead light shone on the dark screen, and I saw Harper had angled the laptop to keep an eye on my reflection as well as the screen.
I decided it was either one of two things.
It was a bluff – and the moment I took out my phone to text Howell she would know that he was on another mission and I would just have confirmed her theory.
It was true, or partially true. Only reasons to withhold information from Howell were either to keep him out of the hostage game, or because he was a suspect in his daughter’s disappearance.
After a few seconds I decided there was nothing I could do about any of those scenarios without making things worse. I drained the last of my coffee and left my cell well alone.
“So where did you find the car?”
“It was on an old dirt track in the woods, behind a cemetery just over the state line in Virginia. A guy out walking his dog called it in. We hauled the car to the lab. Didn’t find anything unusual – not really. No blood. Some hair from Caroline on the headrest. No signs of violence inside the car. But we found something on the back seat. A pair of glasses. There were blood spots on the lens. We’re testing the blood against Caroline’s DNA profile.”
Before I could say anything I saw her sit bolt upright and focus on the computer.
A man in black walked into the rail station rolling a suitcase behind him. She slipped some earphones on and folded her arms.
I asked her if she had another earpiece, and she practically threw a pair of white earphones at me. Placing them into my ears, I then held out the jack and she quickly plugged it into the second audio socket without taking her eyes from the screen.
The man in black strode into the rail station and stood in the center of the concourse, to the left of the unmanned information desk. I heard a phone ring and the man in black answered his cell.
“This is Lynch,” he said.
I leaned forward and I was able to make out SAC Lynch a little clearer.
The voice on the other end of the line was low, undoubtedly male and computerized – like he was using a device to disguise the voice. It was lower in volume than Lynch but you could make it out.
“Go to the men’s room,” said the voice. The device which filtered the speech made it sound disjointed, somehow alien.
The cameras followed Lynch as he walked toward the screen, then disappeared out of shot. Almost as soon as he’d gone from one camera, Harper flicked her index finger over the trackpad and a fresh angle came up on the right corner, replacing the old camera view. No one was outside the john, and as Lynch went inside we lost visual.
But we could still hear him.
His rubber-soled shoes sent high-pitched screeches over the mic.
“Third cubicle,” said the voice.
The agent hesitated. I could tell, the squeaking had stopped. Then the sound of a door backing open. Another, then another. My guess was that Lynch tried every cubicle door, bar the third one, to make sure the place was empty.
“I’m here,” said Lynch.
“Lift off the toilet cistern,” he said.
From the sound of a heavy case hitting the linoleum floor in the men’s room, the rattle from the handcuff chain, and the high-toned echoes from a porcelain cistern cover being lifted clear and set down, we knew that Lynch was probably leaning over the toilet bowl and peering into the reservoir of dull water.
The unmistakable noise of a toilet flushing, the cistern draining, and then a rapid drip as something was lifted clear of water.
“Take the key out of the bag and go to the lockers,” said the voice.
Five seconds later Lynch appeared on the screen again. He still held the phone in his right hand, and carried the case
in his left. He stopped in the middle of the floor, and looked at the banks of lockers on either side of the station. On the left was a free standing bank of lockers, twenty on one side, ten on the top, and ten on the bottom and the same on the reverse side.
“Left side,” said the voice.
Lynch began moving in that direction – slowly at first, then faster the closer he got to the set of pine lockers. The station was Saturday-night-church quiet. Not even a station attendant, or a guard, or a cleaner in sight.
“This guy has got to be kidding me,” said Harper and she snorted a laugh afterwards.
“He wants Lynch to put the ransom in a locker in a public rail station, covered with cameras twenty-four hours a day. This is either amateur hour or a setup,” she said.
So far, the kidnapping hadn’t looked amateur to me. The perp had gotten Caroline Howell cleanly, without any witnesses, and so far without leaving any trace evidence. This was wrong. Having their ransom placed in a public locker that they couldn’t get near without being seen was pretty stupid in my estimation. It didn’t fit with the professionalism of the abduction. It screamed fake.
Lynch checked the metal stub attached to the keyring. Probably looking for the locker number.
Before the tip-off, Lynch had walked slow. Having a final destination for the suitcase gave him enough motivation to double-time it to the lockers.
Setting down the case in front of the lockers, Lynch unlocked the handcuffs first. Then put that key in his pocket and held the locker key ready. Harper selected the camera with the best view and moved it to full screen. The camera was around thirty feet away from Lynch, and looking at his right side.
As Lynch opened the locker door it swung outwards, covering his face from our view.
But only for a second.
I expected the federal agent to open the locker door, and then heave the case inside it. Then he would await his next set of instructions, like where he was supposed to drop the key, and when and where he would pick up Caroline.
The suitcase remained on the station’s pale tiles.
And whatever the hell Lynch saw inside that locker was enough to make him stop dead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A quick check over my shoulder told me that Macy had put her feet up on the bar, slipped her earphones on and was gently rocking in her chair while she read her romance novel. It was a good thing too, as Harper was unable to keep the panic out of her voice as she got Agent Washington on the phone.
“What the hell is it?” she said.
I could only hear her side of the conversation. Washington wasn’t wearing a mic, like Lynch.
“Hold off on SWAT. Don’t break cover. Wait until we know what the hell is in there,” she said.
The tall, commanding figure of Agent Washington appeared on three of the screens, from various angles, as he raced toward the lockers and Lynch. Nothing from the SAC. Whatever Lynch had seen, he wasn’t talking about it.
Three feet from the bank of lockers, Washington put on the brakes and skidded to a halt beside Lynch. I saw him ask the lead agent if he was okay, then he looked to his right, at the open locker. Washington’s eyes lingered on that locker and he ignored Lynch. The image quality was poor, but we could clearly see Washington’s eyebrows furrow, and his lips part in a grimace as he fought to understand the sight before him.
“What is it?” said Harper.
I saw Washington register Harper’s voice by glancing at this cell phone, which he then swiped at with a finger.
“He hung up on me,” said Harper.
“For good reason, look,” I said.
Like me, Harper watched Washington flip his phone and hold it up to the locker. We both saw the flash go off half a dozen times. After Washington took the photos, Lynch gently eased him to one side, so that he could look directly into the locker.
Harper’s cell phone vibrated like a power drill. Over and over. The photos that Washington had taken were coming through.
I noticed that Washington remained at a distance from the locker – simply staring at it. From his hip pocket he produced something small, floppy, white: a pair of latex gloves. Never taking his eyes from the locker – he pulled on the gloves. I watched as he smoothed out the fit by jamming his fingers together, hand to hand, so the latex met the webbing between each finger. I imagined that he’d slipped on rubber gloves a thousand times before, and I wondered if he went through that ritual each time.
Harper opened the first of the messages from her partner.
Her phone screen was quite large. Big enough for two of us to see easily. A blue circle rotated on a blank screen, loading the first image.
“What’s the meaning of this?” said Lynch.
“Leonard Howell is guilty,” said the voice.
“What do you mean Leonard Howell is guilty?” said Lynch.
The cold, distorted voice spoke slowly, and carefully.
“It’s up to you now. I’ve kept my promise.”
A click came over the mic. Lynch pulled the earpiece from his right ear. The kidnapper had disconnected.
The blue swirl on the screen of Harper’s phone disappeared, and the white canvas gave way to color.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“What the …” said Harper.
Inside the locker I saw two items. One was a cell phone. It lay on the wooden base of the locker. Behind it, I saw something else. At once it was familiar and yet strange. As it was at the very back of the locker, the shadows obscured a full view.
The second photo taken by Washington zoomed in closer.
A shirt. It looked just like the white one Caroline had worn on the day she went missing. It was stained red. And below that dark red stain were more red marks. They were a lighter red. And they formed a sentence. Something written in red marker pen, or lipstick.
Or blood.
Howell murdered her in the basement.
A cell phone began ringing. Mine was on silent. I saw Harper check her cell. Nothing. Then we both looked foolish – the distant ring tone was sounding over our earpieces. A phone was ringing in the rail station. At first, I couldn’t piece together what was happening on screen. Lynch and Washington were looking at each other, then they stared into the locker. The white call screen had lit up on the cell phone.
I checked the time on the cameras.
3:13
Hitting the call button, Lynch stopped the ringing and brought the phone to his ear slowly. He didn’t say anything. Just listened.
The voice that came through the phone, into Lynch’s earpiece and sounded in our own earphones, was familiar.
“Where is she?” said Howell.
“Mr Howell? It’s Agent Lynch.”
The call went dead.
I swallowed down the taste of bile that swamped my throat.
I got up and dialed Howell’s cell, walking quickly toward the bathroom. Macy was still rocking gently, back and forth, reading her novel, popping gum in time to the beat pumping from her headphones.
Voicemail.
My pace quickened while I listened to Howell’s answerphone message. I wanted to be locked in the bathroom, out of Harper’s earshot when I left him a voicemail.
I didn’t make it to the bathroom.
The floor shuddered, every window in the diner flexed, plates and cups smashed on the floor, Macy fell out of her chair and I stopped dead in my tracks.
It was no longer dark.
I saw a massive tower of flame in the distance, beyond the trees, in the direction from which I’d come that night. On the crest of the black hill, half a mile away, a big house in Premier Point burned the night into an early dawn.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I closed the passenger door of Harper’s Dodge Charger as she dialed a number on her cell. Her leg straightened as she punched the gas pedal like it owed her money and we were out of the lot and onto the highway before I could peel the back of my head off the seat. The employee of Howell’s Home Security who manned the gate of
Premier Point confirmed it for Harper over the phone.
Howell’s house was a fireball. He’d called nine-one-one, asked for fire trucks and ambulances.
Agent Harper hit the speaker on her phone, and dropped it onto the dash so she could change gears. I put on my seatbelt when she pushed the Charger beyond eighty-five miles an hour. The road was still slick with rainwater and the car had about as much grip as a rattlesnake on a plate glass window. A jerk of the wheel or a half-inch of quick pressure on the accelerator would send us into a slide that Harper had no hope of controlling.
Her face was set with concentration and anger. Chewing on her bottom lip, eyes fixed on the road, I could tell two things: Harper was an excellent driver, and she wasn’t really concentrating on the road – her mind was still inside the rail station; still inside that locker.
Harper chewed on that lip. The Charger chewed the road. And the sky got brighter the closer we got to Premier Point.
“Open the gate, we’re fifteen seconds away,” said Harper.
Sure enough, she let her foot off the gas slow, careful not to brake, and gradually slowed the car by grinding down through the gears. Each gear change came with high revs from the engine, then the protest from the motor being denied the accelerator it craved.
She made the left turn into Premier Point at thirty miles an hour and ate ten feet of drift in the process. I gripped the handrail above the door but I was still being thrown around in the car. Harper could’ve been a professional driver – she was that good.
“Where did you learn to drive?” I said. I wasn’t that interested, I just wanted something to take my mind off the fear that my head was about to go through the windshield.
“South Dakota.”
“On dirt tracks?”
“No, Rapid City. I had an eventful childhood.”
The gate was already open. Most of the TV reporters were lit up from their cameras, with the orange haze from the fire just above their heads, peering over the top of the tree line.
The Liar Page 9