A Field of Red (31 page)

Frank shook his head. That was paranoia talking. They couldn’t all be in on it, could they? What was this, some episode of the Twilight Zone? Would he wake up and be back in that chair at Willie’s Barber shop, having nodded off during his haircut?

 “So,” Peters asked again. “What do we do?”

He looked back up at Peters. The young cop’s question hung in the air between them. Frank didn’t have any answers for him.

Nick Martin slumped back into his seat on the couch, beaten. The fight drained out of him—to Chief King, it looked like Nick aged ten years in the span of ten seconds.

“So, that’s it.”

Chief King nodded at Nick Martin. They were back in the living room of the Martin house, where they’d sat together days before and listened to the ransom call.

“We’re pretty sure he had help,” Chief King said quietly. Glenda was upstairs. She’d gotten hysterical when King had told them about Lassiter killing himself and had gone to lie down.

“He had to know where Charlie and Maya were,” King continued. “But he also had to have people helping him out, or he might have been listening to you talk about the case and figured out what we were doing. We’re still chasing down the leads, but it explains some things.”

Martin was shaken—King could tell the rug had been pulled out from under him.

“I just can’t believe it was Matt,” Nick said. “We were friends…” He was looking up at the mantle, and Chief King followed his eyes. Nick was looking at a framed photo of him and Matt Lassiter on a golf course. In the photo, they had their arms around each other’s shoulders. Chums.

“It surprised us all,” King said.

“He’s…he was my best friend,” Nick said, staring at the photo. “We worked together on projects, scouting out properties and having long discussions about the future of our parcels and buildings. We went on trips together. He’s been over here for Thanksgiving, for Christ’s sake. I can’t believe…If he wanted the property that bad, why didn’t he just ask? Why go through all this. And Charlie—”

King nodded. “Obviously, we were hoping he would tell us where the girls were.”

Nick Martin looked up at the Chief.

“You think they’re dead,” Nick asked.

The question hung in the air for a moment. King wasn’t exactly sure how to answer it. Keeping up hope, at this point, just seemed cruel.

“It’s likely…it’s likely that they’re dead,” King said. “I’m sorry, Nick. Once Lassiter got the money, there was no reason to keep them alive. We’ve discovered he’d racked up some pretty bad debts. As far as we can tell, he was under a lot of pressure to make good on them. He apparently had a buyer lined up for the Holly property even before this started. He couldn’t convince you to sell it to him outright—”

“I didn’t know!”

“I know, I know,” King said. “But he was desperate. And desperate people…”

Nick looked up at the stairs.

“What about the second ransom?”

King shook his head.

“It’s missing. I had a person guarding it, but he was attacked and left for dead. The money was taken.”

Nick shook his head. “That’s everything we had. What do I tell Glenda?”

“Tell her we’re still looking for Charlie,” King said. “And we won’t stop, until we know something for sure. And we’re still looking into Lassiter—we’re going through everything from his apartment, and we’re still running down leads.”

Nick shook his head and looked at the Chief.

“You don’t sound optimistic,” Nick said wearily.

“I…I just wouldn’t get my hopes up,” King said. “If Lassiter did have partners, by now they’re fleeing the state. In my experience, they’re tying up the loose ends.”

He realized, as the words came out of his mouth, how insensitive they sounded.

They had been fighting all day, off and on.

Charlie could hear it—it was a big old house, as far as she could tell, but at least the shouting voices let her know where the man and woman were in the house.

She’d slipped out of the zip tie an hour ago, after the young man had brought them a late lunch. Charlie was getting pretty good at predicting when the kidnappers would come into her room—three times a day for the three meals and once in the morning and again at night for bathroom breaks. Charlie was sure she’d have a while before they came back with dinner—at least, it was how it normally worked.

She had found another thing of lip balm in one of the drawers, and now both were in her pockets, along with the pen. She was wearing the same clothes for over a week, and at no point had the kidnappers offered her other clothes or given her a chance to take a bath or shower.

But now she was out on the roof, walking around outside.

Charlie had climbed out onto the roof from the bathroom window. She had never been scared of heights—maybe she had spent too much time with her father on construction sites, climbing ladders and walking on beams. Her mother would have died if she’d known what her father let her get away with, but now Charlie was glad. She scampered along the slanted roof like a cat, eyeing the ground three stories down. Charlie circled the entire roof, looking for a way down or a way into Maya’s room, but there was none. A large barn stood next to the house, but it was too far away to jump.

Her only option was the tree, with the branches that scraped her window. The tree looked like it would hold her, but she’d have to jump, and there was no getting back over to the roof, once she jumped.

Not knowing what else to do, she sat on the roof, watching the sun. It was a few minutes of freedom, maybe the last she would ever get. It seemed cruel, to be free, yet she couldn’t get away. It was almost worse than being tied up.

Charlie stared at the sun, letting it warm her face for a long time, thinking about her parents and how much she missed them. She wondered if she would ever see them.

After a while, she sighed and stood back up. Charlie walked the roof line again, circling all the way around, double checking for any way down, but found none. Hers was the only window out onto the roof. She made it back to the bathroom window, and climbed back inside the house, making her way back to the bed that had been her prison for what seemed like forever.

You knew you were making progress when they tried to kill you.

That’s what someone had told Frank once in response to an attempt on a cop’s life. But someone had tried to kill Frank. Zip tied him, taken him and the files out into the field. How had they gotten him into the middle of that field? He didn’t recall seeing any tire tracks. And Frank was a big guy, not easy to carry.

The zip ties had been a big clue, no matter what Chief King thought.

Frank stood at the white board, adding things to the mind map he had made of all of the people connected to the case. He had struck out “Matt Lassiter” with a big red “X,” but the case was, obviously, far from solved.

Frank had been a threat, but the way he’d been tied up, it indicated professional training. Any normal person would probably have trussed his arms in the front. It was much easier to tie someone up when they were on their back. Most people, if asked to tie a prone person, would lay them on their backs, tie their feet together, then tie their hands together in front. Very few people outside of law enforcement would think to lay a person on their stomach and truss up a person like a pig on his way to a luau. But that was standard for cops, who tied up suspects that way to make them easier for two men to carry.

Of course, leaving someone to burn up in a field was something few people would think of. Maybe they’d expected Frank to wake up from smelling the fire or breathing in the smoke. Tying his hands behind his back was enough of a delay to kill him.

It would’ve worked, too, if they hadn’t wanted the files and boxes to burn, too.

Frank sat back down and went through Lassiter’s file again. Frank’s copy was gone in the fire, along with his notes, so he flipped though the original. He spread the pages out before him on the conference room table, fanning them out and studying them, looking for patterns in his finances or the types of projects he liked to invest in. Travel itineraries, family connections, website searches—Agent Shale had been very thorough in the last two hours, perhaps trying to make up for missing something so obvious. Frank tried to ignore the hubbub around him—King and Graves and the others were preparing for a press conference—so he could concentrate on the case file.

A bunch of stuff had been taken out of Lassiter’s downtown apartment. Detective Barnes had been going through it when Lassiter killed himself. Nothing suspicious was found yet and nothing tying Matt back to the girls or to any conspirators.

Lassiter had been in bad with some sharks in Las Vegas. Funny how it always came down to money. The property was technically still in escrow, and the sale halted as a result of the police investigation. But it looked like Lassiter was a dead end. Literally. They had his motive and the money trail and nothing else.

Money.

Frank sat back and thought about the money that had been in the trunk of his car. King had given Frank the box of money for safekeeping. Frank had told the others—King, Peters, and Sergeant Graves—that he’d be keeping it in the safe in the hotel room. That’s why he’d been suspicious when Peters showed up to help Friday night.

But who knew it was in the car?

Frank was being watched.

Someone was keeping tabs on him and saw him carry the boxes out to his car. He had made two trips, he remembered—one with the money and one for the two boxes of files. Someone knew he had the money and was probably waiting for him to leave it in the hotel room unguarded—the safes in hotel rooms were notoriously easy to crack. They were cheap, mass-produced, and invariably could be accessed by a master key. Too often, hotel guests would lock something important inside and then need the front desk to retrieve it.

So someone had been watching Frank. Probably following him and jumped him at the Holly Toys warehouse.

Frank couldn’t imagine it was Lassiter—the guy was shorter than Frank and a lot lighter. Plus, Lassiter had already gotten his money and settled his debts, sending the deed and some of the first ransom to Vegas via FedEx.

If Lassiter had jumped Frank and taken the second ransom, the cops would’ve found the $500,000 in the apartment when they searched it. Or they would have found some clue as to where it had gone.

No, someone else was involved.

“Mr. Harper?”

Frank looked up. It was Peters.

“Yes?”

“Can we take a walk?” Peters asked, looking around.

Ah, decision time. Frank knew that Peters hadn’t engineered Lassiter’s death. Frank had to start trusting someone, and Peters made the most sense. Frank played his hunch.

“Sure, where to?”

Peters led him out the back doors, through the connecting walkway and over to the government side of the building. He turned into a large conference room—the same room where Frank had conducted interviews with some members of the government staff days earlier. The City Council used this room, just off the council chambers, to hold smaller meetings and study sessions. In the center of the room, sat a large table with stacks of paper, a box of pens, and two phones for making conference calls.

Peters motioned to the table and closed the door behind them.

“What’s with the secrecy?” Frank asked, sitting.

Peters smiled. “Not sure who to trust. But I was thinking about your car.”

Frank smiled. “Don’t worry. I don’t miss it. I hated that thing.”

Peters nodded. “Though it would be nice to know who took it, or at least where it is.”

“Didn’t you guys put out a BOLO on it?” Frank asked, assuming they had told area police to “be on the lookout” for his vehicle.

“Of course, after you went missing Sunday morning,” Peters said. “No one has called in, but the BOLO went statewide. But it wasn’t at Lassiter’s address, or anywhere in Cooper’s Mill, as far as we can tell. Everyone on patrol this morning was looking out for it,” Peters said. “But your car has to be somewhere. Who took it?”

“The same person who kicked my ass,” Frank said angrily.

 “What about that tracker you were talking about?” Peters asked.

Frank looked at Peters, and it suddenly dawned on him how stupid he’d been.

“Nice.” Frank smiled—he’d forgotten all about it.

Peters reached over and pushed a telephone across the table. “Make the call.”

A half-hour later, Frank was on the phone with the right IT person in Birmingham. He had called the office in Birmingham, who had directed him through four other numbers until he reached the right department.

Peters had left and come back, bringing a map and more coffee.

Since the car had been sold and was no longer Alabama Bureau of Investigation property, Frank had had to explain the situation several times before he found someone who could, and would, help him.

 “OK, it’s coming up now,” the technician said on the speakerphone. Frank leaned over the map of the area, familiarizing himself with towns he hadn’t heard of before.

“Looks like the tracker is inactive,” the technician finally said. “I can’t get a current location on it. And it can’t be activated remotely.”

Frank shook his head at the phone.

“Why not? This is part of an ongoing kidnapping investigation, and it could be our only lead—”

“It’s not protocol, I assure you,” the technician said, his voice tinny and distant. “You’ve got my full cooperation on this, believe me. But the tracker isn’t active—it’s in passive mode. It must still be wired to the battery, or it would have died years ago. It’s an old one, one they don’t even make it anymore.”

Peters leaned forward, talking into the phone. “Are you sure you can’t ping it or remotely reactivate it?”

“No.”

“But you can tell if it’s on or off,” Frank asked.

The line was quiet for a moment.

“Right, it’s on,” the technician said. “It looks like it’s in maintenance mode, so it must be damaged. It reports in once a day at midnight.”

Frank felt a glimmer of hope.

“Can you tell me where it was last night at midnight?”

“Hang on.” The line was quiet. “Yup, here it is. I’ll give you the last five locations.” The technician read off a series of coordinates, longitude and latitude. “Some are nearly identical. Does that help?”

“Yes, thank you. And thanks for pulling this up. It might help us wrap a case.”

“Well, good luck. Oh, I’m Carl. Call me back directly, if you need anything else.” The technician gave Frank his direct phone number before ending the call.

Frank hung up the phone, but Peters was already waiting by the door.

“Let’s go.”

They walked out and headed for the government offices—there was the planning department, utilities, tax department and, on the other side, the offices of the city manager and assistant city manager.

“Not going back to the station?” Frank asked.

Peters shook his head.

“Not sure who to trust, at this point.”

They walked into the Planning Department and found an open computer station—there were several with Internet access for the public to use to look up properties and zoning regulation. Peters pulled up Google and typed in the first longitude and latitude combination.

“Downtown,” Peters said.

Frank nodded at the screen. “Tuesday night—King was talking to me about the case at Ricky’s. Didn’t realize it was that late, but I guess it was.”

“The next three are all nearly the same,” Peters said, typing the first one in. The map changes, indicating the Vacation Inn parking lot.

“My hotel, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday nights,” Frank said. “I was back before midnight each night.”

 “Okay, and last night you were at the Holly Toys warehouse,” Peters said, remembering what Frank had told them. “Your car was parked in the parking lot, right? When did you get jumped?”

“Around nine,” Frank said. “I remember, because I could hear the band playing downtown.”

Peters thought about it, as he typed in the last set of numbers. “The HarvestFest started at 7, with two bands. One played 7 to 8 pm, and the other 8:30 to 10. You could have heard music as late at 1o pm.”

The map came up.

Frank watched, as the map suddenly zoomed out from Cooper’s Mill completely. The map tracked northward, zooming into an area miles away, displayed a location far to the north.

“Out in the country,” Peters said, using the mouse wheel to zoom into the area. It looked like farmland, mostly broken up with houses and smaller roads. Frank saw a large dairy farm and, running along the eastern side of the screen, the fuzzy brown swath of a river.

Peters nodded, zooming in. “It’s north of Troy. A farmhouse.”

Frank sat back and looked at the map on the screen. “It looks secluded, out by itself.”

The farmhouse was very large, two or three stories, with a big barn next to it. There was a gravel driveway and parking area in front and a long driveway that ran to the road, coming out near the river. Frank leaned closer and pointed at the screen.

“That’s a big house,” Frank said, studying the computer monitor. “No other houses too close, with good access to roads in all directions. Great place to keep the girls.”

Peters studied the screen as well, moving the map around.

“Out of the way but close enough to get to,” Peters said, agreeing. “What’s with that fenced-in back area, like a field?”

Frank shook his head. “Not sure. But the house is out in the country, and one town over from Cooper’s Mill. I’m assuming that’s not in your jurisdiction, right?”

Peters shook his head. “Nope—Troy has their own police department, backed up by Miami County. We’re almost never up there. Fire and EMT sometimes,” he said. “We need to call the Chief.”

“Not yet,” Frank said, standing. He didn’t want to put the information out there until he absolutely had to. “Let’s call from the road. And I hate to ask this, but do you have an extra firearm? Mine was taken.”

Peters nodded and smiled, then started for the exit. “I’ve got you covered.”