Good As Gone (2 page)

“Given what you have been through as a husband and father, that is understandable.”

My body tensed. In that moment I could have snapped Davignon’s neck. Was he really using the abduction of my six-year-old daughter and the subsequent suicide of my wife to play on my emotions? Did he really think that would work? Or was he hoping I’d attack him, giving him the leverage he needed? I drew a deep breath, trying to think only of the Sorkins. Still, I had no intention of playing into his hands, regardless of how noble the cause.

“But the past is past, Simon,” he said, “and at present there is a terrified young American couple who require your services in Paris.”

I stood, tossed the folder onto the chair I’d just vacated.

“Fortunately,” I said, “you have the resources of the National Police at your disposal. Roughly, what, a hundred and fifty thousand agents?”

Davignon nodded. “Roughly,” he said. “But as I am sure your service with the United States Marshals has taught you, sometimes organization and cooperation within an agency of that size can prove difficult. Too many chefs, as they say, spoil the soup. And in these cases, time is of the essence. Each hour that passes makes it that much more unlikely that we will ever find Lindsay Sorkin alive.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” I said, moving past him, trying to disguise my emotions. “But as I said when you pulled over my taxi, I have a plane to catch. If your driver will take me to Charles de Gaulle, I still have a chance of making my flight.”

“Or…”

I stopped, stared at the door, my pulse racing.

“Or you can spend the next several months in a French prison awaiting trial. As you may have read in
Newsweek,
our former president Nicolas Sarkozy left office with our prisons operating at a hundred and twenty-six percent capacity, far higher than the European average. The prisons are overcrowded, and frankly an embarrassment. But it’s not my job to comment, only to enforce the law.”

I turned back to see that Davignon’s gun was drawn, aimed at the dead center of my chest.

“I am afraid, Simon, that without your cooperation, I would have to place you under arrest for the kidnapping of Jason Blanc from his mother in Bordeaux.”

I stared at him, ignoring the weapon as best I could.

“And here I thought that you admired what I do, Lieutenant.”

My statement was met with a mirthless smile.

“I do, Simon. It is why you are here and not at headquarters being booked. It is why I am offering you this opportunity.”

Coincidentally, most of my referrals came from U.S. government officials who thought I could do more for the victimized parent than any government agency could. The father of Jason Blanc, for instance, was referred to me by a case officer at the U.S. Department of State. The case officer had been assigned the unfortunate task of informing Peter Blanc that his Massachusetts child-custody order could not be automatically enforced in France. Once he learned that he’d have to file for custody again in the French courts, Peter Blanc immediately began fearing for his son’s life. Peter had won custody only after Jason’s mother, Fanny, smacked the nine-year-old boy’s left hand with a hammer, sending him to the emergency room at Mass General with three shattered fingers and a mouthful of lies. Peter’s caseworker at the State Department sympathized—her sister had been in a similar situation four years earlier and I’d helped. So, within twelve hours of opening the case, Jason’s father received an anonymous e-mail with my phone number. Yesterday, after taking Peter’s frantic call at five in the morning, I had dropped what I was doing, verified the information he gave me with his family lawyer in Boston, and been on a Delta flight to Charles de Gaulle three hours later.

Needless to say, all my referrals were very hush-hush, but none had been delivered under threat of arrest, none with a handgun pointed at my chest.

“You say the Sorkins are desperate, Lieutenant, yet you’re the one leveling a semiautomatic pistol at my heart. Smacks a bit of desperation on your part, I’d say.”

“You no doubt followed the disappearance of little Madeleine McCann, the three-year-old British girl who went missing in the resort area of Praia da Luz in the Algarve region of Portugal. The girl was never found. To this day, the Portuguese police are swallowing criticism from international media outlets accusing them of being slow and inept. Meanwhile, Portugal’s own media have attacked the police for their massive effort, contending no other missing child in the history of the country ever received such attention. You see, Simon, in the case of a missing child, the police cannot win, nor can the country in which the child went missing, particularly when it is the child of foreign nationals from the U.K. or the U.S.”

Davignon lowered his weapon so that it pointed at the floor, but continued to hold it in both hands, elbows slightly bent.

He said, “France and the National Police are in no condition to endure an international media circus that will not aid one iota in returning Lindsay Sorkin to her parents. The Sorkins have agreed to hold off speaking to the media, because I promised to deliver you. I have only until noon today. So yes, Simon, I am desperate to find that little girl. To save an innocent life, and to spare my department and my country from a deluge of unwanted attention.”

I considered Davignon’s plea. Frankly, I could not have cared less about the National Police or their image. Even the country itself, though welcoming, wasn’t high on my list of priorities.

However, I had the grave feeling that if I didn’t at least entertain Davignon’s offer, he wouldn’t let me leave France. At least not without a fight. Of course, my own well-being didn’t rank much higher than French national pride; it hadn’t for some time.

On the other hand, there was Lindsay Sorkin. This little girl—her image would remain burned into my mind at least until this crisis was over. As painful as it might be for me, I owed it to Lindsay to hear her parents out.

“I’ll give you twenty-four hours of my time,” I said. “If I have no leads by the close of that window, I’m returning home. Because if that’s the case, my presence will make no difference. It’ll mean the girl is gone.”

Davignon hesitated, but finally he nodded.

“Fair enough.” He holstered his weapon and removed the walkie-talkie from his belt. “Bring in the Sorkins,” he said into it.

He held the walkie to his ear and listened before speaking again.

“
Oui,
Bertrand,” he said. “Both of them.
Maintenant, s’il vous plait.
”

Chapter 3

Vince Sorkin appeared to be in his midthirties, the wear of the previous twenty-four hours already showing on his face in the form of a vacant gaze I knew too well. The same dead eyes often stared back at me from the mirror, causing me to question whether I was still among the living. Both of us continued breathing, both of our hearts continued beating, but both of our little girls were missing and it wouldn’t matter how much time passed. Until and unless his daughter was found alive, Vince Sorkin’s eyes would never burn with life again. Just like mine.

We’d moved into the dining room, with the Sorkins seated across a thick marble table from me and Lieutenant Davignon.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Mr. Fisk,” Vince Sorkin said.

“You’re welcome,” I replied, though I thought thanks were hardly in order. “Now, first things first. Give me a complete description of Lindsay. Height, weight, birthmarks, scars, the works.”

Vince said, “She’s about three feet four inches tall. Approximately forty-two pounds. She has a large birthmark on her big left toe, and a small scar on her right knee from when she took a bad spill off the couch and onto our glass coffee table as a toddler.”

“Blood type?” I said.

Vince glanced at his wife and frowned. “All we remember is that it’s rare. We’d have to contact her pediatrician back in the States.”

“We’ll take care of that,” Davignon said. “What’s her doctor’s name?”

“Richter,” Vince said. “Keith Richter in San Jose.”

Davignon took the name down and motioned for me to continue.

“Now,” I said, “tell me everything that’s happened since you arrived in Paris. Don’t leave out any details.”

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to tell. The family had arrived at Charles de Gaulle only forty-eight hours earlier and immediately took a taxi to their hotel. The driver wasn’t overly friendly; in fact, he hadn’t struck them at all. He was nondescript, spoke barely a dozen words during the entire transaction, all of which were uttered either at the beginning or end of their ride. In front of the hotel he halfheartedly thanked Vince for his generous tip and sped off.

“Did you catch his name?” I said. “It would have been posted somewhere inside the taxi.”

Neither of them had. It had been a long day of air travel, fifteen hours from San Jose with connections in Seattle and Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland. They were exhausted and, understandably, Lindsay had been fussing.

“I have men at the airport, making inquiries,” Davignon assured me. “We’ll inform you as soon as we identify their driver.”

“Which leads us to the hotel,” I said.

Vince described Hotel d’Étonner as a six-story luxury hotel with rooms starting at six hundred euros a night. The nineteenth-century mansion was a brief walk from the bright lights of the Champs-Elysées and had been artfully restored to blend small-chateau charm with world-class appeal. They’d booked their stay online.

“How many people did you interact with when you arrived at the hotel?” I said.

Vince turned his smooth, aristocratic face toward the ceiling in thought.

“The desk clerk,” he said, “who was a young female, a brunette, black hair with blue eyes. Her name was Avril, like the pop star. Then the bellhop, a young male, light hair. Seemed more German than French. He also brought our food when we ordered room service. Both he and the desk clerk were friendly enough, but neither seemed to take any particular interest in Lindsay.” He shook his head and frowned. “No one else, at least not that I remember.”

I turned to Lori, who had remained perfectly silent since she entered the cottage.

“Mrs. Sorkin?” I said gently.

Lori shrugged; it was a tired gesture befitting a woman twice her age. The flesh around her eyes was red and puffy from crying and lack of sleep. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded like she’d spent a lifetime smoking, though that probably wasn’t the case.

“I can’t remember speaking with anyone,” she said. “I was preoccupied with Lindsay the entire time. She was upset that we’d left our Yorkie, Lucy, behind.”

Upset,
I thought. If so, it could be that she left on her own. Or at least not put up a struggle or screamed when she was taken. If someone overheard that bit about the dog, they could have used it to calm her or even lure her away.

Of course, that was if she had been taken by a complete stranger, which was rare. Far more often, children were abducted by people they already knew.

So I changed direction and said, “Any enemies, Vince?”

He seemed taken aback by the question.

“Enemies?” He shook his head. “No, no enemies. I mean…”

I tried to remain even-tempered. “Let’s start with work. Tell me, Vince, what is it you do for a living?”

“I’m a software developer for Nepturn Technology.”

“Nepturn Technology?”

“It’s a Silicon Valley start-up.”

I asked him to elaborate.

Vince Sorkin sighed, rubbed his eyes. “Typically, military contractors are funded by federal agencies, right? They use taxpayer money to build, test, and sell new weapons designs. Nepturn takes a different approach. We’re funded by private investors. This cuts out the majority of the wait time and bureaucratic red tape.”

“So you design weapons technology,” I said.

Vince didn’t respond, didn’t need to. Instead, Davignon cut in with what he already knew.

“Monsieur Sorkin helped design a remote-controlled automaton that could potentially replace soldiers on the battlefield. It is two and a half feet in height, can travel up to fifteen miles per hour, and it has the ability to blow a one-foot hole through a steel door with perfect accuracy from a distance of five hundred meters.”

In the span of less than a minute Sorkin and Davignon had changed the very nature of what we were dealing with. Chances were, this wasn’t a random abduction perpetrated by an amateur pederast who lived alone or in his mother’s basement. There was now a very good chance that we were playing with professionals. Which meant extortion, the exchange of life for information, quite possibly a ransom demand.

I tried to choose my words carefully. I wanted to do everything I could not to upset Lindsay’s parents any further.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but this isn’t my field. I want to help you find your daughter but, given the circumstances, I’m afraid I can’t. You’re much better off in the hands of the National Police.”

Lori Sorkin, who bore an uncanny resemblance to my beloved Tasha, broke into tears.

“We know the statistics, Mr. Fisk,” she said. “If you’re wrong, if this has nothing to do with my husband’s business, then we’re running out of time. Please…”

I slowly pushed my chair out and stood.

“Mrs. Sorkin,” I said gently, “if time is indeed of the essence, I can’t help but think I’d be wasting yours, and I can’t do that.” I turned to Davignon. “Lieutenant, I promised you twenty-four hours. But given this new information, I think I’d only be hindering the investigation.…”

“I understand,” Davignon said, his eyes locked on the marble table. “But there is nothing to indicate that Lindsay’s abduction has anything to do with Monsieur Sorkin’s employment. There has been no contact whatsoever with the kidnappers, which is rare in matters of extortion.” He finally stood, stared me straight in the eyes. “I have only one more request, Simon. Visit the crime scene in Paris. Perhaps you will see something my men may have missed.”

I shook my head. “Lieutenant, there may be no evidence Lindsay was taken for Mr. Sorkin’s trade secrets, but there’s also no indication she was chosen at random—”