Missings, The (28 page)

Chase called Bond for the third time that day to check in.

“Chase, I’m fine. You don’t have to keep calling. Really.” Bond did sound good. Like her old self. Almost.

“I’m worried.”

“You’re bored.”

“Caught me.” Oh God, he loved this woman. “Kids in bed?”

“Yep. We need to talk about the party Angela wants to go to this weekend. I’ll call the parents tomorrow, and if they’re both going to be home I think we should let her go.”

Chase felt the usual cramping in his gut whenever he had to let one of his kids grow up a little more. The world he knew and the world they knew could collide in some very bad ways. Bond tried to make him find balance and reason, but what the hell good would balance and reason do if another one of their children died? Where would balance and reason be then? “We’ll talk after you confirm with the parents tomorrow.” With any luck the parents wouldn’t know anything about the party and that would be the end of that.

Whit walked in the room and immediately had the attention of everyone.

Chase spoke quickly into the phone. “Gotta go. Don’t wait up.”

“We have one last hope,” Whit said. “Every other available judge has said they want additional probable cause before committing their names to a warrant. Judge Lane has been on vacation but is expected home within thirty minutes. I’m heading to his house myself and will let you know.”

“We’ll be ready to go.”

Less than forty-five minutes later, Chase got the call from Whit.

“Go get ‘em.”

Aspen Falls Memorial Hospital

Wednesday, September 26

Terri waited in the parking lot for the patrol officer who would assist her in the arrest of Dr. Armand Fyfe and Frank Dumont. She didn’t anticipate any trouble she couldn’t handle, but a bit of backup wouldn’t hurt.

A car with the Aspen Falls Police Department’s logo pulled up next to hers. A female officer nodded in Terri’s direction and exited the vehicle.

“Detective Johnson? I’m Officer Thomas. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The younger woman held out her hand. “I understand we’re making two arrests in the ER?”

“That’s right. Both male. Armand Fyfe, a doctor, and Frank Dumont, a physician’s assistant.”

“Let’s go. I’ll follow your lead.”

Fifteen minutes later a sputtering and still arrogant Armand Fyfe sat handcuffed in the backseat of the cruiser while Officer Thomas began writing her report using the laptop locked on the front console.

Terri secured Frank Dumont in the back of her car and walked over to Thomas’s window. When the officer saw Terri the window whirred down. “I just want to thank you, Officer Thomas. That went as smoothly as any arrest I’ve ever made. Good job.”

“Thank you. And it’s Linda.”

Terri gave the officer a smile, then slid into the driver’s seat of her vehicle and started the car. She needed to get a few things off her chest but didn’t want to blow an opportunity. She turned on a recorder and announced her name, Frank’s name, the date, time and location. He’d been Mirandized before leaving the building but she read the list of warnings and rights again. He didn’t respond. She stated his lack of response for the recording. “Well, Frank. It’s just you and me now. Funny how that happened, isn’t it?”

No response.

“Huh. I thought you were the talkative type. You sure talked a lot to Carol Greene.”

Silence.

“You thought telling her that crap about me would what… scare me away?”

“Stupid bitch.”

“What then?”

The spit hawked from the backseat missed her. Terri smiled. “Let me try this one. You didn’t want any nosy cop hanging out at family gatherings. Maybe get too close to your business. Ask too many questions about where you got that extra money.”

The silence this time spoke volumes.

“Now see, Frank. A couple of things. First, we were on to you long before you and I could have ever met around the backyard barbecue. That would simply never have happened unless you got out on parole or something. And second, Carol and I talked through everything and we’re cool. Not, of course, that it’s any of your business.”

“You can’t prove a thing.”

“Wrong again. Computers give up a lot of information these days. And so do scared doctors.”

“Fyfe didn’t say a thing to me.”

“You keep digging your hole deeper don’t you?”

“You must be talking about Fyfe. You arrested him.”

“Why would he have said anything to you?”

Silence.

“The reason he didn’t is because he thought we’d leave him alone because he gave you up.”

“Fuck.”

“Make that past tense and you’re right.”

The Presley Adams Residence

Wednesday, September 26

Chase knocked on the front door of Presley Adams’s mountain mansion, the uniformed officer with him tense and visibly anxious even in the dark. He knocked again and rang the doorbell. Light washed the shadows away and a moment later the intercom popped to life.

“Yes?” A woman’s voice. Accented.

“Ma’am, we’re with the Aspen Falls Police Department.” It would go a lot easier if she’d open the door and let them in.

“Is something wrong?” Swedish?

“Yes, ma’am. There is. Would you please open the door?”

“Show me some ID.”

Chase took out his creds and held them up to the camera as steady as he could. He heard a heavy bolt land home and the massive door swung inward.

“Please come in.” She had blond hair that was almost white. Nice looking in a forced kind of way. Chase thought she’d probably had some work done in one of the Preston Clinics.

“We’re here to see Presley Adams,” Chase said.

“He’s gone.”

“Where did he go?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. He called me from the clinic yesterday afternoon and told me to pack a bag for him, bring his passport, and arrange for someone to drive his car home.”

Damn it!
Yesterday afternoon. The man could be anywhere. A nice Swiss bank account and Presley Adams could do anything—be anyone—he wanted.

“What is your name?”

“My name is Kristina Bjorg. What is this about?”

“Ms. Bjorg, we have a warrant to search these premises and to arrest Presley Adams. Would you please show us his study? Then this officer will wait with you while I take a look.”

The woman began to shake. She lifted her hand in a ghostlike point down a long hallway, then her eyes closed and she started to crumple. Officer Duncan caught her as she went down.

“Get her some water then stay here with her.” Chase nodded toward the part of the house likely to hold a kitchen. “Be quick about it.” He waited until he heard the sound of water running then started down the hall in the direction Kristina Bjorg had pointed.

The study stood silent and cavernous. For all of the security in place at the clinic, Adams had surprisingly little at his own home—that false sense of security mountain resort living often brought on.

Chase turned on the lights and moved to the desk. He wished Daniel could be here to take a look at the computer, but maybe he could get some information on hard copy if he could figure out where to look. When he opened the first file drawer he sighed in relief. Not only a lack of security inside the home but organized as well. That didn’t make up for him skipping the country, but it did provide some encouragement.

Three filing cabinets didn’t reveal much, other than numerous bank accounts and real estate holdings. Clinics in all of the places Terri had learned about from Leslie James, but so far nothing to incriminate Presley Adams for anything other than being a rich bastard. Chase kept up his search.

His cell phone buzzed. Terri. “Did you make the arrests?”

“Taking them in now.”

“Good. I’m at Adams’s house. He skipped.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. Yesterday. No need to rush getting the information out. He’s gone.”

“You find anything on him?”

“Not yet. If you want to handle the interrogations on your guys, go ahead. But stop if you run into any problems. Have a uniform do the taping.”

“I already started on the PA. We had some personal things we needed to discuss. Don’t worry, it’s on tape and I caught him a couple of times. For the in-house interview, I’ll ask the uniform who assisted me with the arrests to handle the recording.”

Chase went back to his task at hand. Where would Presley Adams put something important? He didn’t seem concerned about actually hiding anything. Chase walked over to the liquor cabinet and opened the doors. Crystal and bottles—but something didn’t look right. He closed the doors and reopened them. The interior should be bigger. He ran his hands along the exterior of the cabinet then shoved the bottles over a little on the inside. There. He pressed. A panel slid open to reveal a hidden cache. Inside Chase found bundles of hundred-dollar bills, two passports with Adams’s picture but other names, and a leather-bound notebook. He set the cash and passports to the side and took the notebook over to the desk.

Names, dates, medical issues, payments—everything. The journal began more than two years ago. Easily a hundred people. Pages and pages documenting the donors and the recipients by name and blood type. Most of the donors’ names had a cash figure associated with them. Anywhere from two hundred to five thousand dollars. Some of them simply said N/A. He looked for Rachelle Benavides or José Sanchez and found them near the end. The blood test results from the ER patients at Memorial were also there. Twenty new names had come in last week. Potential body parts ready to be harvested for the right amount of money.

He looked for Efraín Madrigal’s name. He saw the young man’s name spelled out with an offer of two hundred to five hundred dollars indicated, and a split second later he froze.

No
. He must be reading this wrong. He blinked and felt his heart crashing around in his chest like a captured lion.

Chase put his fingers on the page and followed them along the columns. Under remarks.
There
. Two names that made his world eclipse to a sliver.
David Waters. Angela Waters.

* * *

Think. Think. Read this again
. It didn’t make sense. Why would the names of two of his children be in this kind of register? He forced himself to read carefully. Slowly. Understand the words. Determine the implication.

He sat and pieced together the information. It didn’t take long. The records were thorough.

Two years ago a current client of the Preston Clinic had been the recipient, through legitimate means, of both a lung and a kidney, and was apparently very lucky to have found a compatible donor. She had a rare blood type that made it nearly impossible for her to find a match in order to receive what she needed now. A heart.

When Chase and Bond had signed the form to allow David’s organs to be donated, they were not allowed to know the name of the transplant patient. Somehow Adams had gotten access to that information. Under the remarks section, David’s name indicated he’d been the previous donor. The best possible match therefore was David’s sister, Angela. A great deal of money had already been paid to the Preston Clinic as a deposit, with an even more significant sum to be paid upon a successful heart transplant.

The precise ledger indicated that Diana Sloan had checked into the clinic Monday night.

Panic seized Chase. He pulled out his phone to call Bond. The phone hadn’t even rung when he cried out, “Answer, answer!”

“Hi, honey. Still waiting for those warrants?”

“Where’s Angela? Go check on Angela.” The image of the black Mustang crawled into his brain. The Batmobile. The dumpster. Rachelle Benavides.

Angela.

“Chase, what’s wrong?” Bond asked, but he could tell she was moving. On her way to their daughter’s bedroom. He held his breath.

“She’s right here, Chase. I told you. Both girls were in bed when you called a little while ago. You worry too much.”

Chase pictured Bond approaching Angela’s door. Hand on the knob. Turning. His entire world drilled down to what was happening in his home while he stood in an evil man’s study—helpless. He was aware of his heartbeat, his breathing, the hairs on the nape of his neck.

“Chase, everything’s okay. She’s in her bed.”

He squeezed the words out. “Check her, Bond.”

“I don’t want to wake…
oh my God, Chase! It’s pillows! She’s not here! Angela is gone!
”

Wednesday, September 26

9:41 p.m.

Heather had picked her up at the end of the driveway earlier than ever before, but Angela’s dad wasn’t home and her mom was zonked. In case her mom or dad did check on her later, she’d taken extra special care to arrange her bed to look like she was asleep.

Angela felt pretty with the lipstick and mascara she’d put on in the car. She also felt grownup. And just a little scared. As often as she and Heather had snuck out, they’d never gone to a party or anywhere they absolutely knew for sure their parents would be dead against.

The music made her tummy thump and kids were laughing and shouting all around her. Everyone was drinking and a few people were hooking up in the corners. She wanted to relax a little more and not stick out like a baby.

Heather came up behind her holding two glasses. “Here, take one.” She held one toward Angela.

Angela had to shout. “What is it?” Angela took one of the tumblers and held it up to her nose.

“Mostly pop, but some guy added a little bit of booze to each.”

“What kind of booze?”

“How should I know?”

Angela sipped and watched her friend do the same. She was pretty sure the face Heather made mirrored her own. “Look, I’d say just put them down, but then someone else would just give us something even worse. Let’s hold onto these and walk around.”

Heather nodded and the two began to circulate through the crowded house.

After a while, Heather wandered off to dance with Randall Sprinkleman, a senior at the high school. Angela saw some other friends and went to hang with them for a few minutes. She wished there was a guy here she was interested in.