by Lisa Gardner
Of course, I need a piece of wood. I think there might be one more tucked in the mattress. I can’t remember. My thoughts are muddled. Stress. Fatigue.
The presence of a girl named Molly.
No choice. I have to do this.
I retreat from the secret door, crawling toward the mattress.
I don’t know what to say. Everything will be okay? So sorry to have stabbed you? Who the hell are you anyway?
What I manage is: “Hey.”
She whimpers.
I don’t want to know her name, I decide. I’m not having that conversation. Instead, it’s time to get practical.
“Do you know where we are?”
Fresh whimper.
“Is this room part of a house? Are we on the first floor, second floor?”
More whimpering.
I can’t take it anymore. I sit back on my heels, inches from the mattress, and make my voice as hard as possible. “Hey! We need to get out of here. You need medical attention. Now start talking. Where the hell are we?”
She doesn’t whimper this time. More like a shaky inhale. Then, just when I’m wondering if I’m going to have to slap her or something, she whispers: “Why-why-why are you making me do this?”
I keep my voice firm. “Which floor are we on? Which level of the building?”
“I don’t know. Why—”
“Were you kept in a room?” I interrupt. “Something like this one?” Or maybe exactly this one, as the previous occupant.
I can hear a shuddering exhale.
“How long have you been here?” I don’t mean to ask that question. It’s not relevant. But I can’t help myself.
She doesn’t answer, and a second later, I realize she probably can’t. Certainly, I’m already confused on timeline, disoriented by the lack of light.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” I ask instead.
“Dancing.”
“You were at a bar, a nightclub? In Boston?”
It takes her a bit, but finally, “Y-y-yes.”
“Did you drink too much?”
A small hiccup I take to be yes. Kids, I think. We’re all so young and fearless once. Nightclubs are nothing but a source of adventure. And a fourth, fifth, sixth rum runner the best idea in the world.
I hated myself for my own stupidity, waking up in a coffin-size box. Minute after minute, day after day, so much time to do nothing but repent.
And yet, if there’s one thing I miss . . . One reason I ended up taking so many self-defense classes.
I would give anything to feel that young and fearless again.
“It’s okay,” I hear myself say, and there’s a gentleness to my voice that catches me off guard. “What happened next?”
“Why, why, why,” she mutters, and I can tell she’s on the verge of tears again.
“Do you live in Boston?” I ask, trying to regain her focus. “Your family, yourself, you’re from around here?”
“Y-y-yes.”
I consider my next step. Asking her name directly hasn’t worked, God knows it didn’t for me in the days right after my “rescue.” I can’t explain it. It seems strange, surreal, thinking about it now. Twenty years later, how can you lose your own name, that reflexive, immediate sense of self? All I can tell you is that pine coffins work an awful lot like cocoons. At a certain point, it’s easier to let go, shed the layers, emerge anew.
Become the person he wants you to be, because to hold on to the past, the last sight of your mother’s face, hurts too much. So you let yourself go, assuming one day, when you get out of here, you’ll find yourself again.
Not understanding it doesn’t work that way.
A sense of self is such a fragile, powerful thing. And once you lose it . . .
I wonder again if this girl is Stacey Summers. If we had some light, if I could just see her . . . But now, the two of us are alone in the dark.
It shouldn’t matter. A victim is a victim is a victim, and there are a lot of them out there. Just look at the articles plastering the wall of my bedroom. But something about Stacey . . . The photograph of her smile. The way her father talked about her, so much raw pain in his voice. I wanted to find her. I wanted to be the one to bring her a happy ending.
Maybe her happiness, by association, would rub off on me. I would save her, but she would help me find the light.
At least that’s what I thought three months ago.
Am I crying again? I don’t know. I am not okay.
I reach out. I find her cuffed hands on the edge of the mattress. She flinches but doesn’t recoil as I finger the marks on each of her wrists. Fresh lacerations, old scars. Could wrists accumulate so much damage in just three months? Or am I dealing with someone gone far longer? How long did it take me before I gave up my name?
I don’t know. All these years later, so much I don’t know.
“Why, why, why?” she whispers in the dark.
It comes to me. The work-around. The kidnapper might have forced her to take a new name, but the identities of other people in her life . . .
“Tell me about your parents,” I say.
She whimpers.
“Your father. What’s his name?”
I can hear her head tossing against the mattress, agitated.
“Is it Colin?” I ask.
“Why, why, why,” she says.
“Can you give me a cheer?” I ask the possible former cheerleader. “Give me an E. Give me an S. Give me a C. Give me an A, a P, an E. What does that spell? ESCAPE!”
I might be losing it. The edge of my voice contains a hint of hysteria. But she’s stopped moving, is listening to me intently. Have I finally hit upon the remnant of a memory? Some inner trigger that will help snap her out of this?
“Why?” she whispers in the dark. Then: “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because we need to get out of here. Because I’m working for Colin Summers. Because I promised him, I promised myself, I’d bring you home safe.”
She doesn’t speak. Is it just me, or do I detect a sense of wonder?
“I can do this,” I inform her, forcing myself to sound confident. “The door, I think I can jimmy it open. I can get us out of here, but I need your help.”
She doesn’t move.
“You don’t need to be afraid of him,” I add belatedly. “First time, he caught me off guard. But now, I’m ready.”
“Who?”
“The big guy. The one who took you from the bar, grabbed me from my apartment. I think he might be drugging me.” I’m babbling now. “I mean, how else can he keep getting in and out of the room without waking me? So we’ll have to think of something. Maybe tear apart the mattress, jury-rig something with stuff, strips of cloth? We have resources, we just have to use them wisely.”
I’m getting ahead of myself. What I really need is the last sliver of wood I’m pretty sure is still stashed inside the mattress. Except she’s still not moving off it.
“Why?” she whispers.
“Why what? Why am I helping you? I already told you that.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because we need to get out! Because I promised your father—”
She whimpers, recoils. In the dark, I can feel her snatch her hands back.
“Hey,” I try to reassure her. “It’s okay. Whatever he promised, whatever he threatened . . . He can’t hurt your family. That’s just something these guys say to control you. Trust me. It’ll be okay.”
“I’ll do what you want! Please. I already told you that.”
“What do you mean, you already told me that?”
“I’ve been good. I’ve been so good. I’ve done everything you said.” In the dark, she moves suddenly, seizes my hand. “Please. I did exactly as you said. Ever since you brought me her
e. I’ve done everything you told me to. Now, please, let me go home. I won’t tell anyone if you’ll just let me go home again.”
Chapter 30
TEN THIRTY MONDAY MORNING, D.D. finally arrived at HQ. She felt slightly breathless, mind still whirling from her conversation with the Atlanta FBI agent and the circumstances surrounding Flora Dane’s rescue from Jacob Ness. D.D. was also acutely aware of how behind she was in her supervisor duties. Actually working the case, check. Processing paperwork and managing leads, on the other hand . . .
She would be good today, she promised herself as she hammered up the stairs, coffee in one hand, leather messenger bag in the other. She would sit. She would focus. She would behave like an actual supervisor of homicide, butt glued to her chair, eyes on the stack of files on her desk. She would skim reports, dot i’s, cross t’s, and, you never know, make a groundbreaking discovery that would blow the case wide-open. Who said desk jobs didn’t matter?
Her resolution lasted as long as it took to round the corner to her office, where she found BPD’s newest detective, Carol Manley, waiting for her. The petite blonde was wearing yesterday’s clothes and was nearly bouncing in place, hair standing on end.
“Have you been here all night?” D.D. asked with a frown. Then: “Wait a second. You were going through the videotapes. Did you find footage of Flora’s abduction?”
“No. I found the building inspector.”
“You mean the kidnapper disguised as a building inspector?”
“No, the actual building inspector. Turns out, he’s for real!”
* * *
DETECTIVE CAROL MANLEY had definitely not slept the night before, and apparently she’d compensated with many, if not dozens, of cups of coffee. D.D., who prided herself on speaking caffeine, had to ask her to slow down several times to get the story out.
Carol had reviewed the footage pulled from various cameras in the vicinity of Flora’s apartment. But she hadn’t made any significant discoveries.
“There’s too many images,” she explained in a rush. “Too many locals, too many cars, too much foot traffic. Each frame, each camera, there are dozens and dozens of people. And since I don’t know who I’m looking for, how do I sort that out?”
“You start by looking for Flora,” D.D. interrupted.
“Sure. Flora. Except what Flora? She was gone Friday night, Saturday morning. I think I found a traffic cam clip of Dr. Keynes’s car turning down her street, but that’s it. No Flora walking the streets after that, and it’s not like I have direct video of her building. Best I can do is check traffic cam footage of cars passing through the intersection near her apartment to see if she’s in any of them. But again, so much traffic, so many cars, and so many windows.”
D.D. rubbed her forehead, conceding the point. Pulling local video always seemed like an excellent idea until, of course, you were the detective wading through it.
“So I got to thinking,” Carol continued in a rush. “What I needed was more information, another visual clue. Then it occurred to me, the landlords, Mary and James Reichter, had said the building inspector had visited on Tuesday.”
“Except the Housing Inspection Division has no record of that.”
“Exactly! But why not start with traffic cams from Tuesday, right? Generally speaking, there’s less traffic midmorning on a Tuesday than, say, a Saturday night. Plus, we know the suspect is a big guy, which would make him easier to see on camera. I figure maybe I can get us a video shot of the actual kidnapper or, if I’m really lucky, his vehicle and license plate.”
D.D. couldn’t help herself: She was impressed. Searching for images of the suspect from his visit to the apartment on Tuesday did make more sense as a starting point. And, yeah, a license plate . . .
“But you didn’t find him?” she asked Manley now.
“Oh, I found him. Riley Hayes. Except he’s not some guy pretending to be a building inspector. He’s an actual subcontractor who inspects buildings.”
“What? But the department—”
“Hasn’t seen his report yet. Hayes is still writing it up, that’s why there’s no record. But the traffic cam captured a vehicle passing through the intersection on Tuesday with a logo on the side: Hayes Inspections. I copied down the plate, made some calls, and voilà. Inspector Riley Hayes, who did visit the Reichters’ building on Tuesday.”
“But . . .” D.D. frowned, took a slug of coffee, frowned again. “I want to speak to him.”
Manley beamed, bounced up and down on her toes again. “I know. Which is why I have him waiting for you in room six.”
* * *
D.D. HAD TO TAKE A MINUTE. She stashed her messenger bag beneath her desk, shrugged out of her jacket, took a few more hits of caffeine. Her mind was whirling again, and not in a good way. The building inspector couldn’t be an actual inspector. Because that wouldn’t make any sense. A suspect checking out the building as a ruse to access keys would explain how the same person was able to enter Flora’s locked-tight apartment. But a real building inspector actually doing his job . . .
What were the odds?
Carol was waiting for her outside the meeting room. The detective was armed with a fresh cup of coffee, apparently oblivious to the twitch developing in her right eye. An experienced overcaffeinator, D.D. recognized the symptoms of a dark-roasted high, soon to be followed by an excruciating ice pick to the temple, low. Good luck with that, she thought, then opened the door to the interview room.
The BPD’s headquarters was a modern glass monstrosity that you either loved or hated. Either way, it wasn’t the dilapidated, leaky-pipe, stained, dropped-ceiling affair featured on so many cop shows. The homicide unit’s offices could’ve passed for an insurance company’s digs, with an expansive bank of windows, tasteful gray cubicles, and a blue sweep of commercial-grade carpet. Keeping with that theme, the department included several smaller rooms for private chats with families, quieter conversations between detectives.
Room six was really just that. A small room featuring a modest table, a couple of chairs. A viewing window that could be accessed from the hall. It was neither intimidating nor welcoming, which made it perfect for conversations like this: where D.D. was interviewing either a possible suspect or a fellow civil servant.
The inspector glanced up as D.D. opened the door. At first look, he was younger that D.D. would’ve thought. Close-cropped dark hair. Square jaw. Block shoulders. Big guy, the kind who would leave an impression on elderly landlords such as Mary and James Reichter. In his dark blue dress shirt, name embroidered in white thread on the left side, he also struck the right chord of confidence. Strong, competent professional.
No wonder Mary and James had handed him the keys to their building. D.D. imagined many female tenants and home owners would’ve gladly done the same.
“Riley Hayes?” she asked now, entering the room.
He nodded, not quite meeting her eye. Nervous, she thought. On the sketchy side of honest.
Then again, so were many people when summoned to HQ for official police questioning.
Carol Manley followed D.D. into the room, closing the door behind them. The room wasn’t that big; D.D. and Carol took a seat at the table, across from their person of interest, and there was just enough space left over to breathe.
Carol set down her mug of coffee. D.D. saw the man’s gaze flicker toward it, a reflexive inhale of wafting steam, but he didn’t say a word.
“You inspected a building last week.” D.D. rattled off the address while opening the file Manley had prepared on Hayes. D.D. skimmed the background report, noting a couple of traffic tickets, nothing of real interest.
Across from her, Hayes nodded. “That’s right.”
“How long have you been an inspector?”
“Six months.”
“Kind of young.” D.D. looked up. “Says here you originally trained as a fireman
.”
“I was a fireman. Till I injured my back. On the job. Doctor’s orders transferred me to this.”
“Like the work?”
He shrugged, gaze on the table. “It’s a job.”
“Hayes Inspections. You own the firm?”
“My father. George Hayes. His company.”
She found that interesting. “How many buildings do you inspect a week?”
“Depends on the week. Some buildings, such as the Reichters’ place, aren’t that big, don’t take too long. Other properties . . . you can spend days.”
“Why the Reichters’ building?”
“Came up in the computer as overdue. City has a backlog right now, has hired firms such as my father’s to clear it.”
“So you were there because of the computer?”
He finally looked up, meeting her gaze for the first time. “You can call the Housing Inspection Division. What’s this about again?”
D.D. ignored his question. “According to the landlords, they couldn’t take you around the building. Too many stairs.”
“That’s right.”
“Instead, they gave you keys to the various apartments.”
Across from her, Hayes paused, seemed to be considering. “Did someone say they’re missing something? Is that what this is about?”
“I’m not interested in robbery,” D.D. informed him. “Not my department.”
Hayes frowned, appeared even more confused, which was right where she wanted him. “Anyone home in any of the units?” she asked.
“Yeah. As a matter of fact.”
“Who?”
“Woman. Third floor. I was going to put that in my report: She wouldn’t let me in.”
“Do you know her name, Mr. Hayes?”
“No. Wouldn’t say she was the kind of person inclined to chat. Didn’t seem to care much for city ordinances either.”