Lapides glanced at Captain Harris, who glanced at Laverne Masters. “I’m afraid not,” Laverne said after a pause. “I insisted we withdraw our funds. We believe these people should not be encouraged to play so malevolently with the loved ones of a deceased woman. We should not negotiate with terrorists.”
It took a moment for that thought to sink in, during which I considered correcting Laverne on her definition of terrorist, and rejected that thought. “There’s only one million in five cases?” I asked.
“Actually, the real money is all in one case, the one Ackerman left on top,” Lapides answered. “I didn’t think it was a good idea, but nobody listened to me.” He spread his hands in a gesture of futility.
I turned immediately toward Ms. Washburn. “Let’s go,” I said. I started to walk away just as Ackerman’s walk was coming to an end at the “fence” to the utility company’s cordoned-off area.
Ms. Washburn fell in behind me as the others watched with blank stares. “Go? Go where, Samuel?”
“Ackerman’s house. I only hope we’re not too late.”
TWENTY-THREE
“DO YOU REALLY THINK someone’s going to try to hurt Ackerman’s wife?” Ms. Washburn asked as we drove—at a speed somewhat above the legal limit, I noted—to the Ackerman home, whose address Lapides had given us and Ms. Washburn had programmed into her GPS device, kept in her glove compartment and now mounted on her dashboard. It was estimated by the device that at our present speed, it would take twelve minutes to reach Ackerman’s Spotswood home.
“They have done everything they said they would do so far,” I noted. “While I will admit that they have not promised much, everything they have warned about has proven to be accurate. I think it would be a very serious error to underestimate their resolve now.”
I felt the car speed up a little more. I did not say anything to Ms. Washburn about her driving, because I understood the urgency of the situation, but I did inwardly note it. I decided to concentrate on the fact that it was 3:24 in the morning, and there would be very little traffic on any road we would use.
“I still don’t understand why they would target Mrs. Ackerman,” Ms. Washburn went on. “She seems to be the person least involved in this whole business. Why punish her for something she probably doesn’t even know about?”
That question had been bothering me as well. “Perhaps the idea is to prey on Ackerman’s mind,” I said. “Make him feel guilty about not following their instructions.”
“I don’t see how that helps them,” Ms. Washburn said, shaking her head slightly. The speedometer showed the car traveling at a rate 25 miles over the speed limit. “What benefit is there to make Ackerman feel bad once they’ve already missed out on getting their money? And why not direct their anger at the Masters family? Aren’t they the ones who should be paying off on this?”
“I agree, the selection of Mrs. Ackerman seems irrational,” I said. “But criminals are not always the most logical of thinkers.”
“You said it yourself,” she answered. “It would be a very serious error to underestimate them.”
I considered that for much of the ride. And as I sifted the pieces of the question in my mind, there appeared to be many contradictions involved in everything we had done since Ackerman appeared at the door of Questions Answered the previous morning. Many of the points were small; they didn’t necessarily point to enormous incongruities. But the number of them was troublesome, particularly since I could not yet discern a pattern in the thought process behind them.
Ms. Washburn concentrated on getting us to the Ackerman home as quickly as possible. I had asked Ackerman if he wanted to come along, but Captain Harris had dissuaded him, saying there were police already guarding his house who would contact him if there were any disturbance. She and Lapides felt Ackerman would be more valuable at the GSCI facility, where the remote police cameras watching the drop-off point could be monitored and action taken after the briefcases were picked up.
Captain Harris probably believed there was little real danger to Mrs. Ackerman, and that if a threat did present itself, her husband should be elsewhere. At least, that is the way Ms. Washburn had interpreted the captain’s position.
Ackerman had looked nervous, but he acceded to the advice the police officers gave him and got into the SUV for the trip back to the institute. Laverne Masters was also being returned to the institute facility in her car.
It seemed odd that Ms. Washburn and I were the only ones concerned about Eleanor Ackerman.
We were only 1.2 miles from our destination, according to the GPS system, when Ms. Washburn’s cellular phone rang. Rather than try to drive and talk at the same time, she noted the incoming call, handed the phone to me, and said, “It’s Lapides.”
This time, I was prepared as soon as the phone rang, and took a handkerchief from my pocket to receive the phone. Ms. Washburn looked at it, then turned back to face the road and placed the phone in the handkerchief. I pushed the appropriate button and said, “Detective?”
“They came to pick up the money,” Lapides reported immediately.
“How many people were there?” I asked.
“Just one, and it seemed to be a man. But the cameras couldn’t zoom in close enough, and the lighting there was not great. They weren’t night-vision cameras.”
“What was the reaction when they discovered that the bulk of the money was counterfeit?” I asked Lapides.
“We don’t know; they didn’t check while they were there. That was about ten minutes ago. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thank you, detective,” I said and disconnected the call. I placed the phone in the cup holder between the two seats and folded the handkerchief to put back into my pocket.
“I’m not contagious, you know,” Ms. Washburn said.
“I apologize if I offended you,” I answered. “It was not personal. I would have done the same with any other person.”
“Even your mother?” she asked.
I considered that. “Yes.”
Ms. Washburn nodded. “All right, then.”
We were driving up to the Ackerman home and could see the police cruiser in front of it, when Ms. Washburn asked, “Samuel, why don’t you carry a cell phone yourself ?”
I lowered my head for a moment. This was an embarrassing statement to make, but it was an honest question, and it merited an honest answer. “I tend to … lose things,” I said softly. “I do not always pay attention to objects. So on those occasions when I have owned a cellular telephone, I have not been able to keep it with me. It is, as my mother would say, an Asperger’s thing.”
Ms. Washburn did not respond, and I was unsure what that might have signaled. She parked the car on the side of the street opposite the police cruiser, and we got out after I asked for and received the flashlight Ms. Washburn kept in the glove compartment. I walked to the cruiser, and the officer in the driver’s seat lowered his window.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” I told him. “I am Samuel Hoenig of Questions Answered. Detective Lapides and Captain Harris might have told you we would be on our way.”
The officer, whose nametag read SIKOWSKI, nodded. “They called a little while ago,” he said. “It’s been quiet, not a peep from the house.”
“Has anyone approached the house?” I asked.
Sikowski shook his head. “At this time of the morning, this is about as quiet a street as you’re going to find,” he said. “We’ve been sitting here for more than an hour. We checked with the lady inside as soon as we arrived—woke her up and scared her, I’m afraid—and since then we haven’t seen one person so much as walk or drive by.”
“Have you done any foot patrol of the area?” I asked. “A sweep of the perimeter?”
“There’s nothing in the back but woods,” Sikowski said. “We took a look when we were first here, but there hasn’t been a light or a sound, no reason to do it again since we arrived.”
That was a little worrisome. “Do you mind if I t
ake a look?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
I was not sure what to make of that. “Why would I do that?” I said.
Sikowski looked perplexed.
“It’s an expression, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn explained, taking my arm. “It means you should go ahead and check around the house.”
“Oh. Good. I will, then.” I nodded toward Sikowski. “Thank you, officer.”
He raised the car window again without comment. I turned to walk toward the house, but something occurred to me, and I knocked on Sikowski’s window, which he lowered and looked at me.
“Are there any pets in the house?” I asked. “A dog?”
Sikowski shook his head. “No, we asked that, too. Turns out Dr. Ackerman is allergic.” And he raised the window again before I could thank him or ask another question.
As we crossed the street, I looked at Ms. Washburn. “Perhaps you should stay here,” I told her. “If there is a problem back there, I don’t want you exposed to it. Your husband is already concerned …”
“Never mind about my husband,” she insisted. “I’m here to help you. I can’t do that sitting in the car. Let’s go.” And she started toward the house again, so I followed.
We made a cursory inspection of the front entrance, which was locked and had a keypad and a small sticker indicating there was an alarm system at work in the house. I did not jostle the door handle or lock enough to set it off, but did confirm that it was not the subject of any recent tampering.
There was no reason to favor one side of the house over the other, so I walked slowly toward the left side, where the driveway led to an attached garage. Again, the garage door was secure, so we walked around the side, careful not to disturb any of the tidily planted flowerbeds or trip over the garden hose, which was left unrolled behind the garage. I suppressed the urge to roll it onto the cart standing not ten feet away and proceeded toward the back of the house. There was no exterior door on this side.
While it had not rained recently, the garden hose indicated that there had been some watering done recently, and the grass was a bit damp, perhaps with dew this early in the morning. I instructed Ms. Washburn to be careful about where she stepped and to try to restrict herself to paved areas. I also asked her, although it was considered impolite, to let me walk ahead of her. She had no objections and actually seemed to welcome the suggestion.
When I turned the corner to glance at the back of the house, I stopped in my tracks and held up my hand to halt Ms. Washburn before she could make the turn. “Someone has been here,” I said.
“Are you sure?” Ms. Washburn looked alarmed, which was sensible on her part.
“There are indications in the grass and muddy footprints leaving the house,” I told her. I advanced twenty-five feet to take a closer look, and Ms. Washburn followed. “They are not old enough to be anything but signs of an intruder.”
“The footprints are just leaving the house?” Ms. Washburn whispered. “None going in?”
I considered that. “No, and you’re correct that it is notable. It might be that something alarmed Mrs. Ackerman, and she simply left the house. I’ll check. Please call the police and tell them to alert the officers in the cruiser.”
Ms. Washburn’s responses were coming with a delay. She was breathing hard. She must have been frightened. “I can’t. I think I left the phone in the car.”
“Then go back and tell them,” I said. “I will signal with the flashlight if there is a problem. If there is not, I’ll simply turn on the lights in the front room, and you can come inside.”
Again, there was an interval before Ms. Washburn answered me, and her voice was a little shaky. “I don’t want to leave you here alone,” she said, although her tone, if I was judging it correctly, was contradicting her words. It was confusing.
I pointed out the obvious. “I will not be alone,” I told her. “Either Mrs. Ackerman, the intruder, or both will be inside the house.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.” Ms. Washburn turned and began to run back toward the street.
I assessed the situation and decided that if Mrs. Ackerman was in need of immediate help, there was no sense in waiting for the officers. I approached the back door of the house, noting that there appeared to be no signs of a forced entry, and that the security alarm was not sounding, despite the presence of a keypad at the back door entrance.
When I pushed on the door with my elbow (to avoid leaving fingerprints the police would find later), it opened without my turning the doorknob.
I did not consider that a good sign.
There was a mudroom immediately inside the entrance, and no signs of a disturbance there. A washer and dryer stood in one corner of the room, but there was no laundry hamper present. The laundry had been done. There was no blood on the floor or anywhere else in the room, and if the intruder had indeed come this way while exiting the house, that was clearly a positive sign. Unlike the person who had last left this room, I was careful to wipe any mud off my shoes on a mat by the door. Then I walked inside as quietly as I could manage.
I considered calling for Mrs. Ackerman, but if there were still an intruder in the house, that would be a most unfortunate alert. Better to search.
Given the time of night, it was obvious that the most likely place to find Mrs. Ackerman would be the master bedroom, which is most often located upstairs. I made my way through the kitchen, which appeared quite peaceful, and into the living room, where there was a carpeted stairway.
I thought that would give me an advantage, muffling my steps, but it was not to be—the third stair from the top creaked loudly, and I immediately heard a sound coming from a room to my left, no doubt the master bedroom. I had alerted someone that I was in the house.
Unarmed as I was, it crossed my mind that waiting for the police officers to arrive might still be a viable option, but they had not yet arrived in the house (at least as far as I could perceive), and there was still the very real possibility of danger to Mrs. Ackerman, the reason I had come here to begin with.
I stopped at the top of the stairs, considered my plan carefully, and moved as quietly as possible toward the open bedroom door on my left.
It did not take long to reach the doorway. Even forcing myself to look around the unlit hallway—my pupils having adjusted to the darkness—I could not find anything that could reliably be used as a defensive weapon. I am a second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, after years of training that my mother had insisted would help me socialize with others my age, and decided to rely upon that skill if the need arose. If my opponent was armed with a gun, however, tae kwon do would be a less effective option.
But it was the only one I had.
I stepped inside the bedroom, once again grateful for the sound-dampening effect of the wall-to-wall carpet. I stood absolutely still in the new atmosphere, letting my eyes adjust once again, then assessed the scene.
It was an upper-middle-class bedroom, with a king-sized bed in the center, a master bath to the right of the bed, and two dressers, one on each side of the room, which I’m sure were quite lovely but which I could not see clearly enough to confirm the suspicion. A full-length mirror on the left side of the bed gave me a start before I realized I was seeing my own reflection. There was almost no light coming in from any of the three windows in the room. A humidifier unit was turned on, so white noise hummed quietly as I stood.
The one unexpected feature of the room was that there was no one in the bed.
I walked slowly around the bed and looked inside the bathroom. There was no one visible there. A quick look inside the shower unit confirmed the absence of anyone inside. A second door led to a small sauna, but there was no one inside that room, either.
The sauna was the darkest room in the suite, with no windows, so my eyes were especially well adjusted when I walked back into the bedroom itself. And that meant I could see something I had not noticed before. Specifically, I examined a black hole running th
rough the comforter and the sheets beneath it. A hole that bore the smell of something burning.
A bullet hole.
Had an intruder come in and shot at the bed, incorrectly believing someone was sleeping there? That seemed unlikely, because the bullet hole was at the foot of the bed. A person trying to kill someone sleeping in a bed would probably not first take aim at the toes.
I considered the noise I’d heard on the stairs, almost a high-pitched whimper, and dropped to my knees. I looked under the bed. There was a woman under there.
A live woman.
“Mrs. Ackerman?” I asked. But the woman did not respond; she merely stared at me and whimpered again. “Are you Eleanor Ackerman?” That question solicited only a more pitiable moan. It had not occurred to me before, but suddenly I understood that Mrs. Ackerman would not know who I was, or whether I was there to attempt to harm her, as someone else had clearly done shortly before.
Downstairs, I heard the front and back doors open at the same time. “Police!” came a cry from below.
“Mrs. Ackerman, I am Samuel Hoenig,” I told the woman under the bed. “Your husband sent me here to see if you were all right. I mean you no harm, and I have no weapon. Are you injured?”
She shook her head; no, she was not injured.
There were footsteps on the level beneath us. It would be best to let the officers know we were not hostiles. “We’re up here, officers!” I shouted. “No one is injured! No one is in the room with us. I can’t be sure about any other rooms except the mudroom and the kitchen!”
“On our way up,” I heard Officer Sikowski say. “Identify yourselves, please.”
“Samuel Hoenig,” I called. I gestured to Mrs. Ackerman that she should do the same. It seemed to distract her enough to compose herself.
“Eleanor Ackerman,” she tried to shout, but she was lying on her stomach under the bed and could not generate much volume.
“What?” Sikowski called.
“Mrs. Ackerman is coming out from under the bed,” I said. “She’s all right.”
Sikowski appeared at the door, weapon drawn but held with the barrel to the floor, as I helped Mrs. Ackerman out from under the bed. She coughed twice as Sikowski, making sure we hadn’t been coerced by an unseen assailant, searched the room. He turned on the overhead track lighting when he was finished.
The Question of the Missing Head Page 17