by Mike Omer
She rose and walked briskly to the green car. She pulled a set of keys from her pocket, and opened the trunk, then bent inside. When she rose, she held an object in her hand. For a moment Abigail didn’t understand what she was seeing. The woman was cast in shadows, and the item in her hand looked like a large strawberry popsicle.
But then the woman moved, the object came into light, and Abigail felt all her muscles tense. It was a knife, its blade covered in dried blood. The woman walked slowly over to Abigail, her eyes glazing over, becoming detached.
The child, the woman had called her. Abigail’s heart rattled in her chest as she tried to squirm away, feeling panic suffuse her. The woman talked about her like an object, something that could be discarded at will.
“My name is Abigail Lisman,” she said, trying to overcome the shaking in her voice. “My mother’s name is Naamit.” She was about to mention her father, then realized it was smarter not to. “I have a friend named Gracie. We like watching cartoons together… Please!”
The woman’s steps slowed, though she still approached Abigail, her eyes staring into the distance.
“I won second place in gymnastics last year. I have a small teddy bear my grandmother bought me when I was a year old. I still sleep with it, but I don’t tell anyone.”
The woman halted, her eyes focusing, the distant gaze gone.
“I love pop music and reading, and I love going to the beach more than anything. I’m twelve years old. For my birthday, I got a—”
“Shut up!” the woman barked. Her eyes were wide, angry. She looked at Abigail, her mouth twisted in a grimace of fury, then turned back, tossed the knife into the trunk, and shut it.
Picking up her water bottle and unscrewing the cap, she walked over to Abigail. With an abrupt motion, she brought the bottle to Abigail’s lips, and Abigail could feel the edge of it cutting her gums, could taste the coppery taste of blood in her mouth. The woman tilted the bottle, and water poured into Abigail’s mouth. She couldn’t drink fast enough and she coughed and sputtered, water pouring down her chin on her shirt.
Finally, the woman pulled the bottle away. “You’re still useful to me, child,” she said, her voice trembling, halting. “I might need you as a hostage. But I promise you this.” She suddenly smiled, a terrible, manic smile. “Your father will never see you again.” She rose and walked to the car. She opened the door, sat inside, and shut it.
Abigail breathed hard, shaking. She was cold. Her drenched shirt clung to her skin, freezing her. She whimpered, dropping to the floor, as a fit of sobs overtook her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hannah woke up disoriented, and took a moment to get her bearings. She was in Jurgen’s living room, lying on his couch, covered with a small blanket. She blinked several times, trying to figure out what had happened.
Lance Koche’s e-mail account had been disappointing. He obviously almost never used it, preferring to use his business e-mail account instead. He had received five hundred and twelve e-mails in the past three years, and most of them were marked unread. There was a medical test result that turned out fine, some e-mails regarding a newsletter subscription, several receipts for books, some purchases of flowers, a necklace, a watch, and a television. There was a series of e-mails in which Koche discussed a private lawsuit with his lawyer—something to do with libel, but it was eventually settled out of court.
All of Jurgen’s e-mails with Abigail’s photos were there as well, except for the first one, sent to the business account. Jurgen and Hannah went over the e-mails twice. When she began nodding off, Jurgen had suggested she rest her eyes for ten minutes on the couch.
Jurgen still sat in front of the computer. “Good morning,” he said without glancing back.
“What time is it?” she muttered.
“Just after seven.”
“Damn it!” Hannah said, frustrated. “I didn’t mean to sleep like that! Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I think you needed a few hours of sleep,” Jurgen said. “How are you feeling now? Fresh?”
“I feel terrible,” she muttered. “I’m going to make myself a cup of coffee.”
“Make me one as well,” he said distractedly.
She plodded to the kitchen and made two mugs of coffee, without bothering to wash them from the night before. She glanced outside the kitchen window. It didn’t look like morning. The sky was completely hidden by the dark storm clouds, and a torrent of rain was washing the streets of Glenmore Park. She returned to the living room and handed one mug to Jurgen.
“There’s something weird about the ransom,” he said, sipping from his mug.
“Yeah?” Hannah said.
“You think that Koche knew the ransom letter would go viral, that people would donate the ransom money.”
“That’s right,” Hannah said, suppressing a yawn.
“It’s kind of a stretch. But suppose he really did know that. Why ask for three million? His debt was five million, right? He couldn’t cover his debt with three million.”
“Well, yeah,” Hannah said. “But he could cover the debt with the ransom money and the rest of his inventory.”
“But then he’d be bankrupt,” Jurgen pointed out. “That doesn’t sound like a good plan for a man like Koche. I mean… he’d end up with nothing.”
“Maybe he planned to split with the money,” Hannah said, shrugging.
Jurgen shook his head. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of man to run away. You know what I think? Let’s suppose Koche didn’t conspire to kidnap Abigail.”
“Okay,” Hannah said. She wasn’t about to argue. All the evidence indicated that Koche was guilty, but examining cases from different angles often proved useful.
“Suppose someone knew that Koche’s business was already struggling. He could raise almost three million dollars for the ransom by selling his inventory, but then his business would be doomed.”
“So you’re saying someone kidnapped Abigail to ruin Koche?”
“We have several glaring suspects,” Jurgen pointed at the screen. “This guy, with the libel suit. Your angry employee. A desperate competitor.”
“The FBI profiler thought the kidnapper hated Abigail’s parents,” Hannah said slowly. “But no one knew that Abigail is Koche’s daughter. No, that doesn’t make any sense.”
“He might have told someone!”
“I doubt it.”
“We should at least check if—”
“We will,” she snapped, “but your theory doesn’t hold water.”
He glanced backward at her. “You know, it isn’t my job to figure this out. This is a police problem. I’m not on the force anymore; you guys kicked me out—”
“It was your own damn fault.”
“Okay, listen—”
“The paternity test,” Hannah interrupted him again. “The one that Naamit sent him. It isn’t in this account.”
Jurgen shrugged. “She could have just handed it to him.”
“No, she sent it by e-mail,” Hannah said. “Koche told us. She must have sent it to his business account.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Someone could have read his e-mails in the office,” Hannah said. “Maybe his computer was unlocked, and someone opened his mailbox and saw the paternity test.”
“That’s possible,” Jurgen said. “The IT guy? I mean, he wouldn’t even need to creep into the office. He could probably access all of Koche’s e-mails from the server or something.”
“Right,” Hannah frowned. “But he didn’t have a problem with Koche. Your theory requires a motive.”
“Money is a good motive,” Jurgen said.
“So now it’s just about money? No, if someone else did it, he could have kidnapped just some random rich kid. Why go after Koche’s biological daughter, whom he never even acknowledged? It doesn’t make sense.”
“So suppose someone who hated him in the company accessed his e-mail,” Jurgen said.
“Yeah.” Hannah chewed h
er lip. “But this doesn’t match the fact that Darrel Simmons told his friend he was planning something big with his boss—”
“His employer,” Jurgen said.
“What?”
“Earlier, you told me Simmons said that he was planning something big with his employer.”
Hannah frowned. “He said… boss. Not employer.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The boss is the one who gives the instructions,” Hannah said slowly. “Not necessarily the one in charge. Koche doesn’t strike me as the kind of the man who tells his porters what to do.”
Jurgen nodded slowly. “So who was Simmons’s boss?” he asked. “Who told him what to do?”
Hannah thought. She could feel it, the puzzle disassembling in her brain, reassembling to create a completely different picture. It was like an optical illusion, where all of a sudden you realized the drawing you were looking at could be interpreted differently. It wasn’t a middle aged man at all, it was a young woman.
Megan, Koche’s assistant.
Jurgen had said she went over all of Koche’s business e-mails. That was part of her job. Koche had bought a necklace and flowers using his private account. He had used that account because he wanted to surprise his girlfriend, the one who went over his business e-mails. And then, a year ago, the flower e-mails stopped. Koche had broken off the affair.
What had Koche said to them a few days before? It wasn’t the first time a woman tried to get me with this trick. They say they’re on the pill, then suddenly, it turns out they’re pregnant, and I’m supposed to pay the bills. She’d thought he was talking about Naamit. But no, he was talking about someone else who turned out to be pregnant. Megan. And he didn’t want her child. And later, she found out he’d had a child with another woman.
“Megan, his personal assistant,” Hannah said, her words fast, her heart beating quickly. “She saw the paternity test. And your first e-mail. She knew Koche had taken an interest in his biological daughter. She had access to everything. She knew how much money it would take to destroy Koche’s business completely. And she was probably the person who managed the porters. She was Simmons’s boss…” She thought for a moment. Koche claimed he never hired anyone with a criminal record. “She was planning this when she hired Simmons. She knew about his criminal record, probably thought he would be able to help her pull it off. That was what Simmons was talking about. He was planning a big job with Megan, his boss. They were planning to kidnap Koche’s biological daughter! And… holy crap, this matches Zoe’s profile of the kidnapper!”
“Who’s Zoe?”
“The FBI forensic psychologist,” she said distractedly, thinking. Horror began to seep into her mind. “Simmons must have thought they were going to return Abigail. But that might never have been Megan’s intention. Maybe she wanted to ruin Koche’s business and his life, killing his daughter. That’s why she killed Simmons.”
“So you think she killed Abigail?” Jurgen asked, his voice soft.
“Maybe.” Her voice trembled. “Or not. We never found a body. She would have left Abigail dead with Simmons, right?”
Jurgen shrugged, his face blank.
“She might intend to use her as a hostage,” Hannah said. “Or to make a spectacle of Abigail’s death. I don’t think she’s dead yet. I think Koche would have known if she was. I think Megan would have let him know.”
Jurgen nodded, and Hannah could imagine what he thought. He thought that Hannah didn’t really believe Abigail was alive, she was just hoping for it. And he was right.
Mitchell was doing what he did best: sitting in front of a computer, sifting through information. He was in Koche Toolworks, with Agent Mancuso, Agent Ward, and several other FBI agents, and he felt very out of place. He mentally cursed Hannah yet again for not showing up. When she was there, they were the Glenmore Park PD team, participating in a joint investigation. When she wasn’t there he was “sore thumb Lonnie,” the only one who wasn’t an FBI agent.
He was reading all the e-mails Lance Koche had sent or received that included any reference to Darrel Simmons. There weren’t many. In fact, so far it was hard to prove the two men even knew each other beyond the fact that Simmons worked at Koche Toolworks. Koche didn’t have a lot to do with his porters. He let one of his underlings do that job.
He sighed and leaned back. Perhaps his time would be better spent looking again for any address which might be used to hide Abigail Lisman. The night before, he had made a list of hundreds of addresses mentioned in Koche’s e-mails. He opened the spreadsheet and started going over them.
He heard Agent Mancuso answer her phone. “Hello? Yes, Detective?”
He lost interest in the spreadsheet, listening to the phone call.
“No, she isn’t here. No one is. I assume Koche’s lawyers told his employees to—”
She stopped talking. Mitchell turned around and looked at her. She frowned, listening intently to the other side of the call.
“I see,” she finally said. “I’ll send a team over to her house. Get over here as soon as you can.” She hung up. “That was Detective Shor. Koche’s personal assistant might be our missing kidnapper. Her name is Megan—”
“Shaffer,” Agent Ward said. “Megan Shaffer. I have her address right here.” He checked something on his computer. The room had gone completely silent, everyone tense, waiting. “32 Old Quarry Road, apartment 13,” he finally said.
Mancuso nodded and pursed her lips. After thinking for a moment she said, “Okay. Detective Shor gave me good reasons for her suspicions. It’s not definite, but I don’t want to blow this in case she’s right. Agents Constantine, Fuller, Manning, and Ward, we’re going to Megan Shaffer’s apartment. I’ll have SWAT rendezvous with us there.”
Several agents leaped from their chairs. Mitchell grabbed his keys and gun, and stood up as well. Mancuso was already on the phone, talking to someone, asking for a SWAT team. She strode out of the room, the other agents in her wake. Mitchell was about to follow when he noticed that Agent Ward was still sitting down, frowning at his computer.
“What is it?” Mitchell asked.
“It’s an apartment building,” Ward said. “There was a garage in Simmons house, and we think they used it to get her in and out of their vehicle. But Megan would have to take her out of the car right on the street to get her into her apartment.”
“They might have underground parking,” Mitchell suggested.
“It would still be the building’s public parking,” Ward said. “She’s been very careful so far. Would she really carry the kid up to her apartment in a building, where she could meet any of her neighbors on the way?”
“Maybe Abigail isn’t with her,” Mitchell said. “She might be…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
Ward nodded. “Could be,” he said. “But in that case, there’s no reason to hurry. Four agents and a SWAT team are on their way to Megan Shaffer’s home. They’ll get her. But let’s assume Abigail is alive. It’s an assumption that makes me happy.”
“You’re just like Hannah,” Mitchell said.
Agent Ward paused, then nodded slowly. “Thanks, I think,” he said. “So… where would Megan take her?”
“We should check her computer,” Mitchell suggested.
“That’s a good idea. I’ll call the IT guy, see if he can give me her password.”
Clint went over to the desk outside Koche’s office, where Megan usually worked, his phone to his ear. Mitchell listened distractedly to the agent talking on the phone. Finally, he called Hannah.
“Yeah?” Hannah said.
“Why do you think Megan is the kidnapper?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there, Mitchell. But she didn’t do it with Lance Koche. She did it to get back at him. I think they had an affair.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said, and hung up. If Hannah was right, Lance Koche wasn’t the one who had called the shots. All their work going over his property, checking his warehouses…
He pau
sed, then he sat in front of the computer. Koche had told them he sold some of his inventory to pay for his debt. Would that mean he didn’t need the storage space? He checked his list of addresses. There—two warehouses that Koche used to rent, and had cleared out a month before, terminating the contract. Mitchell found the owner in Koche’s contacts and called him.
“Billy Fallow, Storage Solutions,” the man answered almost immediately.
“Hello,” Mitchell said. “My name is Detective Lonnie, from the Glenmore Park PD. Lance Koche used to rent two warehouses from you, right?”
“That’s right,” Billy said, his voice suspicious. “But he doesn’t anymore. Bastard terminated the contract. Refused to pay the fine, told me there are rats in my warehouses. Threatened to sue. Damn asshole, there are no rats—”
“Mr. Fallow, is anyone else renting those warehouses right now?”
“No offense, Detective, but that’s private information. If you get a warrant—”
“I’m investigating the Abigail Lisman kidnapping, and every minute counts,” Mitchell said. “You don’t have to give me their names. Just answer one question. Is one of those warehouses rented by Megan Shaffer?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” the man said, sounding surprised. “Contacted me two days after Koche emptied the place. Said she heard I had an available warehouse. There aren’t many warehouses in Glenmore Park, Detective. She was lucky to find—”
“Thank you for your help,” Mitchell said and hung up. “Ward!” he shouted. “I know where she is!”
Hannah washed her face in Jurgen’s bathroom, trying to remove the cobwebs of sleep from her face. She put some water on her hair and attempted to give it a reasonable shape, failing spectacularly. That would teach her to sleep on someone’s couch.