“Good question.” Lance’s eyes were dry and his vision blurry. Not that it mattered. He had been staring at the board most of the night, trying to make connections or generate ideas about where Olivia might be or who might have taken her. Unfortunately, the investigation wasn’t narrowing. Instead, the leads were spiderwebbing.
They didn’t speak again until Sharp had finished his soup.
“I set up some additional motion detectors and cameras outside,” Lance said. “Turn on notifications in the app, and you’ll get an immediate message whenever anyone approaches the house, and you can see their approach in real time.”
“That’s great. At least no one will sneak up on us.” Sharp pushed away the bowl. “Stella let me walk Olander’s murder scene with her.”
She was smart enough to make use of Sharp’s experience.
“The way Olander was killed suggests more than theft of the guns. A pair of cut zip ties was found on the catwalk above him. His hands were bound; then he was forced onto the catwalk in the barn. They put a noose around his neck, cut the zip ties, and shoved him off. The drop was only about six feet. His neck didn’t break, and the way his fingertips and nails were torn and bloody, we know it took him a few minutes to die. He hung there, tearing at the rope around his neck, until it strangled him.”
Lance’s belly cramped at the visual running through his head. Next to him, Morgan shuddered. He put an arm around her shoulders.
“Sounds like an execution,” Morgan said.
“Yes,” Sharp agreed. “I got the sense of punishment or revenge.”
“Or they were making an example of him,” Lance pointed out.
“Maybe all of those things.” Morgan crossed her arms. “But why? Who are they? Did he betray them in some way?”
Lance wrote the possible motives under a new column headed with OLANDER’S MURDER. “Maybe he stole the guns from them?”
“It’s possible.” Sharp massaged his scalp with both hands as if his head hurt. “But how are the guns or Olander’s death related to Olivia’s disappearance?”
“We don’t know that they are,” Morgan said quietly. “There’s no mention of guns in Olivia’s notes.”
“Shit.” Sharp lowered his hands, shot to his feet, and paced the narrow space between the desk and credenza. “Are we any closer to finding her?”
Lance didn’t insult Sharp with meaningless encouragement. The chances of finding Olivia alive decreased with every moment that passed. They all knew it. There was no pretending.
“Let’s table the Olander case for now,” Lance said in a firm voice. “Let the forensics team and medical examiner do their jobs.”
“You’re right. Whoever killed Olander literally didn’t bother to cover their tracks. There’ll be evidence, but it will take time to process. Same with the materials from the bomb left on our porch. An arson investigation is not a fast process either.” Sharp walked two steps, pivoted, and took two more strides in the opposite direction. “Did we find any sign that a former subject of one of Olivia’s investigative journalism pieces could be behind her abduction?”
“Nothing that makes sense.” Lance tapped the note on the board. “The only real possibility is in Oregon.”
“Where are we?” Sharp’s voice echoed his frustration.
“My mother sent the rest of the background reports,” Lance said. “I’ve started skimming them. So far, nothing has jumped out at me.”
Sharp swept a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in tufts. “Have you made any headway with the Franklin case? What did you learn at the sheriff’s station?”
“Morgan and I read the murder book. The sheriff was convinced Franklin was tied to the disappearances of five other women who went missing over the past ten years. But his theory is mostly conjecture with a small amount of circumstantial evidence.” Morgan picked up her file on the Franklin case. “What if he’s innocent?”
A shadow passed over Sharp’s eyes. “Then the real killer certainly wouldn’t want Franklin freed and the Brandi Holmes murder case reopened.”
Lance picked up the marker and wrote REAL KILLER? in the FRANKLIN CASE column. “The attorney, Mark Hansen, also has motive. He royally screwed up Franklin’s case.”
“Maybe he didn’t miss the error,” Morgan said. “Maybe he purposefully let it go.”
“Why would he do that?” Lance asked.
“Blackmail and bribery come to mind.” Sharp scrubbed both hands down his face.
Lance circled his name. “He claims he was in Rochester overnight Thursday, but he refused to prove it.”
“We can’t make him provide receipts, but we can keep his name on the short list.” Morgan sighed. “What other leads do we have?”
“I’m going to talk to the brother, Joe,” Sharp said. “Today. Without Stella, if that’s the way it has to be.”
“I’m going to track down Olivia’s editor after I talk with her agent,” Morgan said. “I know it’s the weekend. He could be away, but I’m not waiting any longer.”
“I’ll go with you,” Lance offered.
Morgan was more than competent, but so was Olivia, and she had been kidnapped. Morgan’s New York State concealed carry permit was not valid in the city. She’d be going unarmed. Lance did not like that. As a former cop with more than ten years of experience, he could carry a gun anywhere as long as he maintained his certification. He would go with her and play bodyguard.
“We’ll have to leave soon,” she said. “It’s a three-hour drive without traffic.”
Lance turned to Sharp. “When are you checking in with Stella today?”
“We’re touching base later in the morning. We were tied up at the Olander farm most of the night. I came back here, and she was going to catch a nap if she could manage it.” Sharp studied the board. “I feel like we’re missing something.”
Morgan’s eyes were heavily shadowed, and she looked like she’d slept in her clothes—which she had. “I need to shower and change.”
Lance hesitated, looking back at Sharp. “Do you want me to stay here?”
“No. Go with Morgan.” Sharp waved away his offer. “Stella will call in a few hours. I’ll be fine.” He rose and picked up his soup bowl and mug. “As much as I don’t want to rest, I’ll be more useful if I sleep for a couple of hours. Maybe my brain will reboot and things will start to make sense.” He carried his dishes to the door. “Please go. I can’t be everywhere at once. I need you two to chase down leads in the city.”
Lance and Morgan collected their jackets and followed Sharp toward the kitchen, and all three left through the back door. The air outside was cold, damp, and cutting. Sharp armed the security system, locked up, and walked around the side of the duplex. Morgan buttoned her wool jacket and followed Lance to the Jeep. The police and arson investigators had finished with the porch, but it was still roped off for safety’s sake.
Lance slid behind the wheel and watched Sharp climb the wooden staircase on the outside of the house. A minute later, lights brightened the windows of his second-story apartment.
“Think he’ll be all right?” Lance drove away from the curb.
Morgan rubbed her hands together. “No. I don’t think so.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Olivia wheezed. Drawing air in and out of her lungs felt like she was trying to breathe through a cocktail straw. Her inhalation caught in her throat. The coughing fit left her breathless. Again. Her chest and back ached.
On her hands and knees, she breathed shallowly, trying not to trigger another coughing spell. All of her concentration focused on inhaling and exhaling as slowly and steadily as possible. She had no time to worry about her claustrophobia or the pain in her foot and face.
For the next few minutes, sucking oxygen into her lungs was a full-time job. Her chest felt tight and her ribs hurt.
What was she going to do?
What could she do?
Nothing.
Suffocate.
Die, maybe.<
br />
She fought the panic that shook her. Fear would only make breathing harder. But the tightness of her lungs amplified her claustrophobia. She thought of Lincoln and imagined his voice in her head, calming her.
She shivered and continued searching through the dirt, crawling on all fours. The temperature was falling. It would be best to continue moving, keep her blood flowing. Lying down usually made her asthma worse. She was an asthmatic locked in a damp cellar. If she didn’t get medical help soon, her situation wasn’t going to end well. It couldn’t. He didn’t have to do anything to her for her to die. She could do that all on her own.
Her fingertip encountered a small rock. She wrapped her fist around it for a second. The cellar was old. A century of feet had packed the earthen floor. But underneath, there were rocks. Crawling back to her blanket, she added the rock to the few she’d accumulated, but none were large enough to use as a potential bludgeon.
She’d considered trying to remove the lid to the chemical toilet, but it was made of light plastic and wasn’t heavy enough to be used as a weapon. She could not think of a way to use empty plastic water bottles as weapons either. She had one more option, but it was a long shot. She’d reserve it as a last resort.
Footsteps sounded outside, startling her. Then she heard the rusty squeal of the door hinges. The door opened, and the beam of a flashlight shone down the steps. A minute later, he descended. Even though she expected to see the Halloween mask, the unnatural rubber face sent fear spiking through her.
Carrying a small white bag, he tromped down the steps. How long had it been since he was here last? A day? The sky through the door was gray, but again, she didn’t know if it was morning or evening twilight or just overcast.
He stared at her through the mask. “Are you going to be respectful today?”
Did that mean one day had passed?
Olivia nodded. Best to act submissive. It was what he seemed to want.
He held a white bag toward her. “Say please.”
She cleared her throat. “May I please have the food?”
“That’s better.” He put the bag in her hands.
Inside was a white take-out container. The unmistakable smell of chicken soup wafted to her. Instantly starving, she dug the plastic spoon out of the bottom and ate some. It was lukewarm, but the liquid soothed her throat.
She swallowed and paused for a breath. “Thank you.” Her voice was barely audible.
He nodded, and the arrogant incline of his head made it seem as if he was pleased with her obedience.
There was no way to escape. The only way she was getting out of this alive was if someone found her or if her captor decided to let her go. She should talk to him. Engage him. Try to make him see her as a person. If she could connect with him, she might foster some empathy.
If only she could talk and eat and breathe at the same time. Eating took priority. She’d eaten the second protein bar and gone through half the water originally stocked in the cellar. She needed the food for fuel in case she had an opportunity for escape.
Halfway through the soup, she gagged. The coughing started up again, and she feared she would vomit what she’d eaten. She set the spoon in the soup and waited for the spell to pass. She needed to pause every few mouthfuls, and it took her a long time to finish. Even though she couldn’t see his face, his posture became impatient. He shifted his weight and checked the time on his watch.
“I got you medicine.” He pulled a plastic bag bearing a drugstore logo from his jacket pocket. He opened the bag and pulled out a bottle of cough syrup and a bag of cough drops.
Olivia shook her head. “They won’t”—cough—“help.” She wanted to say I don’t have a cold, but all she could do was hack.
“Fuck you.” He threw the bottle of syrup and the cough drops to the ground. “You ungrateful bitch. Haven’t you learned anything? I’m gonna be so happy to be done with you.”
But Olivia was focused on getting enough oxygen into her lungs. She was using up all of her energy on the fear of suffocation. Her lungs were betraying her. She was strangling from the inside out.
“I’m sorry,” she wheezed.
He shook his head and crossed his arms, disappointment emanating from his stiff body. “Doesn’t matter. You only have to survive two more days. Then it’ll all be over for you.”
A chill swept over Olivia. He was going to kill her in two days? Her brain scrambled, her panicky thoughts scattering like rats. Her hand went to her pocket. It felt like last-resort time.
He turned and headed for the steps. Olivia pulled the drawstring from her pajama bottoms out of her pocket, wrapped an end around each hand, and lunged forward. She looped it around his neck, pulling tight with all her strength.
The string was a half-inch-wide woven cotton cord. She had tied a knot at each end to give her a better hold.
He made a choking sound. His hands flew to his neck, and he tried to get his fingers under the cord. Unsuccessful, he reached over his shoulder to grab her. Olivia leaned back, put her weight into the effort, and stayed out of his reach. He staggered, but the mask over his head protected his neck. She pulled harder, her feet digging into the dirt for leverage.
Was it working?
But before hope could bloom, he grabbed hold of the string at the back of his neck. He spun. The cord caught on the mask and pulled it off his head.
Their eyes met for one tight breath.
He leaped forward. His fist struck her temple before she could register what had happened. Pain burst behind her eyes. Her vision blurred, and she crumpled to the ground. She watched his leg draw back, and she braced herself. The first kick caught her in the ribs. She curled into a ball, protecting her head with her hands as the next two swings of his boot struck her thighs.
He left the cellar without saying a word. The doors slammed shut with a resounding, angry bang. Footsteps in gravel faded away.
Her head pounded from the blow. She wheezed, lungs aching. She tested her limbs. The places where she had been kicked ached. She would be bruised, but her legs worked. Nothing was broken.
Sweating, shivering, and dizzy, she dragged herself to her hands and knees and resumed her hunt for rocks. She had to find another way to escape.
If she didn’t, she would die in two days. What was driving the time line? It didn’t make sense. Had he asked for ransom and not gotten it? Had he asked for ransom but was planning on killing her anyway after he received it?
He couldn’t let her live.
Not now that she had seen his face.
Chapter Twenty-Five
At eight o’clock, Morgan read from her file in the passenger seat of the Jeep while Lance drove into a parking garage in Manhattan. “Kim Holgersen was born in Redhaven, but she’s lived in New York City for the last twenty years. She worked for two literary agencies before opening her own firm in 2015. She married Brandon Sykes in 2007. He’s a real estate investor.”
Lance stopped the vehicle next to the attendant booth, handing over his keys and collecting his ticket. Morgan shoved her file into her tote and climbed out of the Jeep. She led the way out of the garage. They walked two blocks and stopped at a crosswalk on the opposite side of the street from Kim Holgersen’s Upper East Side condominium building.
“Nice building.” Lance gazed upward. “Looks expensive.”
“Everything in this neighborhood is expensive.” Morgan watched the traffic signal. “Kim and her husband bought this condo for nine hundred thousand dollars in 2007. Since then, the value has more than doubled.”
The walk signal flashed, and they crossed the street.
“Is Holgersen successful?” Lance asked.
“According to your mother’s background report, Kim brokered some large book deals this year, and her client roster is impressive.” Morgan recalled a few of the agent’s well-known clients she’d seen on the website. “Your mom also noted that a typical literary agent receives a fifteen percent commission from their authors.”
&
nbsp; “Then they need to close frequent deals to make money.” Lance opened the glass door and held it for Morgan. She stepped into the sleek modern lobby decorated in shades of gray. Two huge sprays of fresh red chrysanthemums brightened either end of a reception desk finished in a rich mahogany stain.
Morgan gave their names to the doorman. He called up to the agent’s apartment, then waved them toward the elevator. They rode it to the fifteenth floor and found unit 1511.
A tall woman of about forty opened the door. She wore slim black pants and a tunic-length sweater. Her face was pale, even for a redhead. Her eyes were shadowed with dark circles as if she hadn’t slept. “I’m Kim Holgersen. Please, come in.” She backed up to allow them inside.
By Manhattan standards, the place was huge. Lance and Morgan followed Kim past a kitchen with a long gray granite island to a shockingly spacious living room. The apartment was decorated in the clean, clutter-free style of professionals with a regular cleaning service and no kids. A few photos in matching silver frames were artfully clustered on a side table.
Morgan leaned closer to look at the pictures. In one, Kim stood in front of a lake with two elderly people who looked like older versions of her. The man held a large fish by the gills.
“Your parents?” Morgan pointed to the photo.
Kim smiled. “Yes. That was a few years ago, when my dad could still fish. He had a stroke.”
“I’m sorry.” Morgan scanned the other pictures. In most of them, the person with Kim was holding a plaque. She squinted to read the print. “Your clients have won quite a few publishing awards.”
Kim nodded. “I’ve been very lucky. The industry has been good to me.”
“You’re being modest,” Morgan said. “You must have an eye for spotting talent.”
“I love good books,” Kim said simply. “I knew Olivia was special when I read the first page of her manuscript.”
“Thank you for seeing us, Ms. Holgersen.” Morgan perched in one of the chairs.
“Please, call me Kim.” She chose the love seat opposite Morgan. “I apologize for not getting back to you right away. I was under the weather and mostly asleep for the past couple of days.”
Save Your Breath Page 17