by Amy Faye
Every interview, you have that little hope in the back of your mind, like maybe you strike gold out of nowhere. It usually doesn't happen, but it's always nice to hope.
Which just left his little date at the Queen household. A little over an hour early meant it was time to get going. You never know with these types. They try to catch you off-guard sometimes. Other times, it's all by the book.
Either way can go right, for them or for you. Both ways can go real wrong. You just hope that the worst doesn't happen. That's all you can really do.
Josh takes a breath, does up the button on his suit. Anna should be here. It's her child. She does all the work taking care of it. Her parents lived right across the hall, and they were home all the time.
But they assured him, on more than one occasion, that she was an excellent mother. There was a lot going on in her life, a lot of reasons to be disappointed. A girl that age might have left the kid with her parents more.
She didn't. They came over about every day, of course. Grandparents are like that. Happy, smiling, healthy-looking girl. No problems with the baby. And all thanks to her mom.
None of it fit with the theory that Detective Meadows didn't want to give name to. It couldn't be crossed off, not permanently. You don't ignore evidence that contradicts your theory, but it takes a big weight off his chest to put that idea towards the back.
Someone took the kid. That much is clear. Whether there's more to it, though, he can't say. That's the good news. Nothing to worry about.
He adjusts the pistol on his hip as he slips into the car again, jumps on the radio and tells the dispatcher that he's heading over to the Queen residence. She says that the other boys will be there in a few.
Getting there, seeing a sour-faced guy at the gate and a familiar scarred face at the door, is almost a comfort now.
"Hey, Terry," he says, trying to sound as friendly as he can.
Terry doesn't seem to like it. Then again, he doesn't seem to like much of anything, when he's on the job. Which, to the best of Josh's ability to say, seems to be all the time.
He's guided back into the study. There's a land-line phone sitting on the table, and Josh's cellular is on the table next to it. Or, presumably. They're both sitting there, neither ringing, and Al Queen and his lawyer are both looking at them.
Mitch is drumming his thumbs on the chair. It's hard for Josh to keep the sneer off his face. It's hard not to say, 'is this boring to you?' He keeps it to himself. That's the job.
Nobody else has arrived yet. They'll arrive sooner or later. Until then…
Josh's phone vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out and reads the message to himself. Tap's in place. They got permission from the elder Queen, but they went ahead and got a warrant just in case. You don't take chances with a case like this.
Josh checks his watch. Fifty minutes. It was going to be a long time waiting. He wishes that he had brought something that he could do, to pass the time, but that would only make things worse. It wasn't his place to be entertained.
He's here to work, and even though he's early, work is what he's going to do.
There's a momentary thought, a question of whether or not he should ask Al Queen about his whereabouts on the night. There's no clear connection, though, so he's not going to ask. He's sure as hell not going to do it now, and he's sure as hell not going to do it without a recorder present.
Besides that, it would be stepping on toes. He's already skating on thin ice, these days. Already too thin, and he's out too far to come back in to shore just yet. But there's nothing he can do about that, not right now, except keep his mouth shut when he's around big names.
"You mind if I sit?"
Al Queen seems a little distracted by the phones not ringing, but he nods and makes what might be interpreted as a head-gesture towards one of the chairs. Or it might have just been a vigorous second nod.
Josh doesn't need to be told twice. He settles into the ornate sofa he sat in before. It's just as comfortable as he remembers. Just the right level of firmness.
It looks like it was around before Josh's own grandmother was a twinkle in her parents' eyes. Folks back then knew their furniture, he figures. Then again, maybe it's Josh who doesn't know furniture, which makes some sense on a detective's salary.
Now there's nothing left but to wait for the phone to ring, watch and see what happens, and hope to hell that nothing goes sideways.
If everything goes according to plan, then his job is about to get a hell of a lot easier. The only thing that really surprises him, when the phone finally rings, is the frustration on the face of the elder Queen.
The cell rings, and Mitch picks it up. It doesn't take long to figure out that he hasn't got his heart in it. He takes everything down with a pen, on a pad provided by the lawyer.
We've probably got people back at the station, doing the exact same thing even as they record the call. But where Al Queen seems to be real concerned, Mitch doesn't seem worried at all.
Now the question was, which was the real surprise—that Mitch isn't worried, or that Al is?
Josh makes a note to have his recorder with him next time they have one of these meetings.
Chapter Eleven
Anna Witt was trying to sleep for the fourth time when her phone finally rang at four past midnight. It was almost a Godsend, because at least it finally meant that she had a reason that she couldn't get to sleep.
She pushed her hair back out of her face in an attempt to try to sound as awake and alert as possible, and then answered the phone.
"Hello?"
A familiar, low voice answered on the other end of the line. "Miss Witt? Are you up?"
"Detective. Yes. I'm up."
"Good. I'm coming over. We need to talk."
That seemed awfully late. How long were his hours? "Okay."
He hung up first. Anna let herself lay back down, let her eyes droop shut for a minute. It felt, every time, like she was only moments away from the sweet embrace of sleep, and yet… every time, she lay awake for thirty or forty minutes, her mind completely alert even as her body was exhausted.
Anna buzzed him in when the ringer went off, and a minute later, a knock came at the door. Mom and Dad probably wouldn't mind that much, right?
Mitch had always come by, all hours of the night. It wouldn't be that weird for them, probably. She hoped. At least this was for something important, so she could tell them she had to do it, if they were mad about it. Hopefully, though, they wouldn't be.
"Sorry about the late hour, Miss Witt."
"No, it's fine. Come in." Anna feels tired, but part of her still screams to make sure that the door is locked when he comes inside. She fights it for as long as she can before turning the bolt closed.
"Sit down, please."
Anna does what she's told. She likes it when people are easy to understand, and when they're direct. It makes life easier. She waits for him to say something.
He wouldn't have come over for nothing. Not that she would mind him coming over outside the case, but he's never given any indication that he thought about it.
"We just got off the phone with the kidnappers."
That got Anna's attention. "What did they say?"
"They demanded a million dollars' ransom, to be delivered tomorrow evening."
"Well—they're gonna pay it, right? I mean, a million, that's not so much. But like. If they're not—could I talk to them? The kidnappers, I mean?"
She wanted to believe that Mitch would pay. That his father would pay. Someone there would have real human decency and wouldn't let her daughter die. But if they didn't…
Then it would have been all her own stupid fault somehow. It seemed so real in her mind, that she definitely locked the door. And they'd have to have a key to get in the outside door.
But what if she'd made a mistake? What if she remembered wrong? What if, when she thought she went and checked on the door, she was remembering the night before, or the night before that?
What if… Jesus. It didn't seem right. She didn't think that she forgot. But what if she did, and all of this was because she didn't do enough to keep her daughter safe?
She'd never be able to forgive herself. Never mind being forgiven by anyone else, she'd blame herself forever and that would be exactly what she deserved.
Mitchell was right about her. She was an idiot. She was just too dumb to be left on her own, and that's why she had to have someone there to tell her, when she was, you know... messing up.
"Anna? I need you to focus. Look at me."
Anna blinked. What? Oh. She'd lost herself in thought for a minute. "I was listening—I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it," he says. He doesn't look angry. Not right now. After seeing him so upset before, it's a strange reminder that he didn't look like that in the beginning. "The instructions are very specific. You're going to be the one carrying the money."
"Me? What? Why?"
Detective Meadows's eyebrows furrow together. "I don't know. You take the money, you go to the park. A car will come by, they'll pick up the money, and they'll go. Then they'll call, and they'll give Ava's location."
"But why do they want me? I might screw it up somehow."
"We're not going to let that happen, Anna, but you shouldn't be so down on yourself. You're plenty smart. Just hold yourself together, keep your head straight, and you're going to be fine. We'll get you prepped tomorrow. You'll be fine, okay?"
Detective Meadows stood up. "I'll let you get back to bed."
He makes it most of the way to the door by the time Anna decides to speak. "I can't fall asleep."
"I'm sorry?" The detective stops and turns.
"I can't fall asleep. I've been trying for hours. And I just can't."
"Try to sleep."
"Do you have anything that helps you sleep? Not like. Medicine or something, just. Advice, maybe. My head feels like it's racing."
Detective Meadows looks at her flatly for a minute. "You're real upset about this, aren't you?"
The question is fairly innocent, but it hits in a way that Anna isn't expecting, and all of a sudden she's crying without really knowing for even an instant why.
"I'm sorry, I don't know what I did, but I'm really sorry about it. I didn't mean to screw everything up, I promise. Please, just get Ava back. Please? I'll do whatever you want. I'll say whatever. I don't know what I did but it's my fault and—"
She doesn't see him walking closer, and she doesn't hear anything over the sound of her sobs. Anna doesn't realize anything's changed until his arms circle around her shoulders and pull her in tight.
"You're doing fine, okay? You're doing just fine. Nobody's upset with you. Calm down, and everything is going to be alright."
Anna's head hurts. She wants to sleep, but she just… can't. She wants to stop crying, but every time the tears slow down for a moment, she can hear her own voice in her head, a voice that's telling her that she's a terrible mother.
A voice that tells her that it's her fault someone took Anna. And it's her fault that Mitchell left. And as much as she was finally starting to feel really comfortable with Ava, with the weekly appointments, with everything…
She didn't deserve to feel that way. She didn't deserve to be happy. She's suffering right now because she deserves to suffer. Detective Mitchell's hands start brushing through her hair, pushing it out of her face.
"Everything's going to be alright, Anna. Don't worry." His voice is soft, only a little above a whisper. "Don't cry. It's all going to be alright."
His arms feel strong and warm and comforting, and Anna wants nothing more than to stay there forever. She pushes him back, and he steps away like he was spring-loaded. She doesn't deserve strong and warm and comforting. The tears, which had abated for a moment, start up again, renewed at the thought.
Anna fell back into the couch, her hands pressed into her eyes. "I'll do my best tomorrow, okay?"
Detective Meadows doesn't answer right away. He sounds a little sad when he finally does. "I know you will, Miss Witt. I'll call you tomorrow, around noon."
She rubs her eyes and watches him open the bolt and head out the door. She can just barely hear the door below closing as well. It usually slams hard enough that you can hear it through the whole complex.
Anna takes a deep breath. In one, hold. Out two. Hold. In three, hold. Out four, hold.
She's going to be okay. She has to be okay. Because tomorrow evening she's going to do something very important to save her baby, and she's got to do it exactly right, or she's never going to see Ava again.
So she's not going to get another chance.
Chapter Twelve
He shouldn't have touched her. There were plenty of good reasons he shouldn't have. Plenty of reasons like professional standards, ethics, potential lawsuits. Conflicts of interest.
Things that could be the first big stain on a case that had, up til now, gone pretty well.
None of those things had stopped Detective Meadows up until now, and they hadn't stopped him this time, either.
He might feel bad about it, one day, but the one thing he didn't was hate himself for it. Because she needed it. And the second that she'd given a sign that she didn't want it, he'd backed off.
He ran through the whole logical strain in his head again before he turned the ignition and the car jumped to life. He'd done it because it was the right thing to do, and ethics and best practice be damned. It needed to be done.
That didn't make him feel as much better as he'd hoped, though. Didn't help much at all, to be perfectly honest.
Part of what was eating at him, though, was that he couldn't answer the one valid concern she'd had. Anna Witt was a woman who constantly seemed to be convinced that she'd done something wrong.
He didn't doubt for a moment where that little concern had come from, but as much as he wanted it to be, it wasn't Josh Meadows's job to fix that problem, and it was especially not his job to fix it after they've already split up.
He swallows his concerns about her relationships. That's her life, not his. He's not supposed to be worried about her. After all, for all he knows, she's a suspect. That could all have been, in some weird way, a confession.
It assumed a cunning on her part that she hadn't shown, and a wickedness that Josh didn't want to imagine could exist in this world.
Ten years on the force, climbing up to Detective, had taught him that there was a lot more wrong with the world than he'd like to imagine, so he'd better just as well get used to the idea. He hadn't yet, and the day that he did was the day he would quit. Become a construction worker or something.
Why her? Why not someone else? Was there some kind of concern that someone else might not go through with it? Why not have Al Queen himself walk the money out? They could even have tried to go for some kind of double-cross and pulled the old man into the van.
They could have gotten way more than a million for Al or Mitch Queen, if they'd been grabbed. And this would be a golden opportunity to grab one of them. But they didn't give themselves that opportunity.
Instead, they'd asked to have a woman that was, speaking for the wider world, nobody at all. They'd demanded she come alone. No police escort, nothing like that.
Well, hell. Meeting in a public park, you weren't exactly going to avoid the cops perfectly, but they'd stay at a distance. A big enough distance that they wouldn't be noticed even by keen and cautious eyes.
The problem, the thing that concerned Josh, was that there must have been some reason. A reason for choosing her.
It was easy enough to say, she's the mother, she's the least likely to screw something up. But that would be assuming that they didn't know anything about her.
They'd found a woman who'd been tied, previously, to Mitch Queen and her child, in spite of her name never appearing in full in any of the papers—Josh had checked.
They'd come in while she was asleep. They'd known that she wasn't awake, because if she was, then th
e whole thing would be in trouble. Hell, if she'd even woken up when they were inside…
Which means that they didn't pick her randomly out of a hat. They knew plenty about Anna Witt, and they knew full well that whether she was capable or not, she didn't think she was. She thought she was a real fuck-up.
Why would you pick someone like that to do your drop-off? Someone who would come right out and tell you that they'd probably just screw it up if you left it to them?
Why would you pick someone like that?
The idea occurs to him like a punch in the gut and it's hard to convince himself not to turn around and find someone else to tell it to. It's hard to keep fresh in his mind that he'll have plenty of time in the morning to tell someone.
Because the idea that they wanted someone who might screw it up, or wouldn't be confident that they hadn't screwed it up, isn't an idea that just goes away.
Because if that's what you wanted out of your drop person, there are only so many reasons. Almost all of them end up at the intersection of "take the money" and "run" before too long.
He eases his foot off the gas. No choice but to wait and see what happens. After all, they've got nothing to go on but a menacing—and distinctly male—voice on the other end of a telephone line.
They traced the number, of course. They weren't idiots. They found the phone in a trash-can right on Eight, ten miles east of Anna Witt's place. Right where they said it would be, when the call had ended.
The next call would be from a totally different phone. And, if a third had to be made—it wouldn't, they'd been very careful to assure—then they would be making it from yet another phone altogether.
These were some cautious fuckin' guys. These were guys who thought things through, who made decisions that wouldn't end up being big damn mistakes.
And more than that, they had chosen to do all of this in a way that Anna Witt would be in a solid position to take a big fall if things didn't come through.
Josh's stomach twists. Who would do something like that? He doesn't need to think long or hard about it. Someone who wanted to punish Anna, punish her in a way that wasn't ever going to go away?