Touch & Go (11 page)

For the first time in six months, I would’ve touched my husband and meant it.

Instead, the three of us just stood there, not speaking, waiting to see what terrible thing would happen next.

Z REAPPEARED SHORTLY, his footsteps ringing down the hall as he approached from a different direction. His minions hadn’t spoken in his absence, and I had a feeling that’s the way things worked. Z called the shots, the other two did the shooting.

The kid, in his jeans and tennis shoes, didn’t bother me. He had a tendency to duck his head and hunch his shoulders self-consciously, almost as if embarrassed to be there.

The other one, with the checkerboard hair, worried me. His eyes were too bright, some shade of neon blue I associated with drug addicts or lunatics. He held Justin’s arm in a white-knuckled grip, his face openly daring Justin to do something about it. The bully, looking forward to the fight.

I noticed the kid, with one hand upon each of our elbows, kept Ashlyn and me a good distance from his partner. And I noticed Justin made no attempt to close that gap.

When Z appeared, both the kid and the checkerboard commando stood a little straighter, ready for the next set of instructions. I wanted to brace myself, call upon some kind of internal reserve. I had nothing.

My stomach hurt. My head pounded.

I needed my purse.

For the love of God, I needed my pills.

“Would you like a tour?” Z’s voice sounded taunting. Because he had not said we could speak, none of us answered.

“It’s a twelve-hundred-bed medium-security facility,” Z continued crisply. “State-of-the-art, completed just last year and, conveniently for us, currently mothballed.”

I glanced up. My confusion must’ve showed on my face, for he expanded: “Welcome to your tax dollars at work, where one hand builds the prison, but a different hand funds the opening and operating of said facility. Basically, capital expenditures fall under appropriations bills, whereas operational costs fall under the government’s
annual budget. Except the state’s budget has been facing the usual shortfalls, so this prison has never been opened. It simply sits here, a very expensive shell wasting away in the mountains of New Hampshire. It’s perfect for us.”

He turned on his heel, walking down the hallway toward the direction he’d come, and his commandos dragged us into place behind him.

“Did you know,” he continued over his shoulder, “that eighty percent of prison escapes occur when an inmate is already out of his cell, maybe tending to his prison job, or in the infirmary? That’s because no one, absolutely
no one
can escape from a modern jail cell. Walls are five-thousand-pounds-per-square-inch concrete poured twelve inches thick. The windows feature one-inch-thick bars formed from saw-resistant steel and positioned every five inches in front of fifteen-minute ballistic-rated glass. That means”—he gave me a glance—“you can fire a small-caliber pistol at point-blank range and the glass might spiderweb, but still won’t break.

“Doors are twelve-gauge steel with a solid one-inch-thick dead bolt. All locks are triggered electronically, meaning there is no way to manually override the dead bolt system. Not to mention there are at least seven locks between you and the outside world. First lock is on your cell door. Get by that, you’re in a locked dayroom. Which leads to a double-locked sally port, where the system only allows one locked door to be opened at one time. After that is a locked corridor leading to a main wing entrance where there is yet another sally port. Two more doors, two more locks.

“Should you finally exit the prison, you must now confront the perimeter fencing. The fences are completely electrified and built in two layers, each sixteen feet high and separated by a twenty-eight-foot-wide no-man’s-land filled with seven rolls of razor wire. Even if you somehow disabled the electric fencing, and/or survived scaling the first sixteen-foot fence, you must still drop down into the no-man’s-land
and navigate seven rolls of razor wire in order to make your way over the second sixteen-foot-high fence. After which, you will find yourself plopped in the middle of six hundred acres of some of the most rugged wilderness the North Country has to offer. Nighttime temperatures are currently forecast to be below freezing. Oh, and this area is known for bears and bobcats.”

Z stopped walking. Abruptly, we all drew to a halt.

He stared at my husband. “Did I miss anything?”

Justin didn’t speak. I looked at him in confusion. He and Z seemed to be involved in some kind of staring contest.

“Not that there’s any need to leave the prison,” Z said now, still staring at Justin. “As part of the building contract, this facility was fully stocked. Bunk beds, rec tables, state-of-the-art medical equipment, state-of-the-art dental. Two cafeterias, including a separate, self-enclosed cooking space for the preparation of nut-, dairy- and gluten-free items. Can’t have any of the inmates dying of food allergies, yes? The complex also runs on ‘duel fuel,’ both natural gas and oil, with fifty thousand gallons of oil on site. Plus its own water tower, sewer system and utility plant. A fully independent operation. With redundancy. I believe that’s what you call it? So utilities can’t be disrupted, water cut, sewer stopped. We could hole up here for years without anyone being the wiser.”

Z still stared. Justin still didn’t speak.

On the other side of Radar, my daughter shuddered.

“I served eight years as a soldier,” Z said abruptly. “Still never had it as good as the convicts who will one day occupy these cells.”

My husband spoke up: “I just build—”

“I didn’t say speak.”

“Then stop talking to me.”

“I’ll hurt you again.”

“Then do it. Just tell me what the fuck you want and stop terrorizing my family!”

Ashlyn and I both recoiled, tucking ourselves ironically against the kid, who stood as still as stone.

Z didn’t move. He continued to watch my husband, as if evaluating something. The look on his face was not harsh, but clinical. Sizing up his opponent. He would hurt my husband in the end. He would hurt all of us, I realized. He just wanted to do it properly.

“Please,” I heard myself whisper. “We have money…”

“Not what this is about.”

Justin snorted. “Money is what it’s always about.” He swung his gaze to Z’s cohorts, the kid, the checkerboard man with the neon-blue eyes. “Sure you two couldn’t use some extra cash? I got a company worth a hundred mil. Whatever he’s paying you, I can do better.”

“Just let our daughter go,” I added quietly.

The kid didn’t move. Checkerboard man actually smiled, but it wasn’t a nice expression.

Ashlyn shuddered again.

“Girl stays,” Z stated. “You stay.” He looked at me. “You stay.” He looked at Justin. “And I don’t have to tell you why or for how long. Because I know you, Justin. I know exactly how your mind works. You’re a born problem solver. Even now, you’re not panicking; you’re simply waiting for the situation to reveal itself. Because in your experience, information is power. It enables you to dissect, control, resolve.

“Which will make breaking you all the more interesting. Now then, the fun is just beginning.”

Z moved his hand, pushed open the door behind him to reveal a supply closet neatly stacked with piles of orange material.

“Your new wardrobe,” he announced. “Get dressed. From here on out, you’re our prisoners. And this is your new home.”

Chapter 12

LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICERS such as Boston detectives and FBI agents generally went straight to the source. Would descend upon a company, badging the receptionist and proceeding to milk every last drop of information from the rank and file.

Since Tessa was no longer a cop, she went about things the private investigator’s way: She identified the name of Justin Denbe’s right-hand man, tracked him down on his personal cell and arranged to meet him twenty minutes later at a coffee shop several miles and at least two neighborhoods away from Denbe Construction’s downtown Boston headquarters.

She went with the right-hand man, figuring he’d know the most about Justin’s personal and professional life. She lured him off campus because anyone was more apt to talk without known friends or associates looking over his shoulder.

Chris Lopez, construction manager, was already waiting for her at the Starbucks. She recognized him immediately because even from thirty feet away, his clothes and demeanor screamed construction. Well-worn jeans, red plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves layered over a plain white T, scuffed work boots complete with a layer of grime ringing the heavy soles. He wore his black hair short and she could see rings from a dark blue tattoo just creeping out above the collar of his shirt.

Former military. The buzz-cut hair, muscled forearms, stocky build, lounging in the hard wooden chair, denim-clad legs sprawled forward.

Currently, he was appraising her as openly as she appraised him. Which didn’t surprise her, either. Uniform was forever attracted to uniform. If she pegged him as former military, she bet he’d already pegged her as former law enforcement, some sort of internal radar system pinging both of them onto high alert.

She took her time crossing the room. Bright, sunny Saturday afternoon, the Starbucks was still jammed, people loading up on mid-afternoon lattes and muffins. She doubted she’d pulled Lopez from work when she’d dialed his cell. Given the military and construction personnel’s reputation for working hard and playing harder, she’d bet she’d pulled him out of bed, or someone else’s bed, where he’d been sleeping off Friday night.

She went with someone else’s bed. Hence the work clothes, including work boots; all he’d had to drag on when summoned to a last-minute meeting.

He didn’t look away as she approached. If anything, he met her gaze head-on, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Ballsy, she thought, for a guy most likely still wearing another woman’s perfume upon his skin.

And maybe, slightly flattering. Women like her didn’t garner a lot of glances across a crowded room. She had a tendency to hold herself too rigidly, always on guard against some unknown threat, but also walled off from polite chitchat. Then, after the events of two years ago… There were mornings she didn’t even recognize her face in the mirror. Her blue eyes were too flat. Her face too grim.

People moved away from her on crowded subways. She told herself it was good to be tough, but there were days she still found it depressing.

Her husband had been killed, and she lived now as an island. If
not for Sophie’s unconditional love, she would exist in total isolation. It made her value her daughter more, while also worrying that having an eight-year-old as her main source of companionship was not healthy for either of them. Sophie’s job was to grow up and leave her.

And Tessa’s job was to let her.

She’d arrived at the table for two. She removed her long coat, too warm for a sun-baked coffee shop, and given she’d left her gun in her vehicle’s locked glove compartment, unnecessary. She draped her coat over the back of the chair, moving unhurriedly, then, at long last, took a seat.

Neither of them spoke, and now Chris Lopez’s smile grew.

“So,” Tessa said at last. “What was her name?”

His smile vanished. “What?”

“The woman. Last night. Or not the kind of thing where names are necessary?”

He scowled.

She held out her hand. “Tessa Leoni. I’m here in regards to the Denbe family.”

“You’re the former cop,” Lopez said, voice a tad sulky. He shook her hand but no longer appeared so amused. “The state trooper. You shot and killed your own husband.”

“Allegedly,” she corrected. The story of her life.

“What do you miss most? The uniform, the gun or the really uncool car?”

“The easy parking. Now, tell me what you do for Denbe Construction.”

They’d covered the basics by phone beforehand. Justin Denbe and his family were missing—Lopez had already been aware of the situation, no doubt called by either Denbe Construction or the Boston cops, probably both, during the initial search phase. Lopez reported last seeing Justin at a 3:00 P.M. meeting on Friday afternoon in the
corporate office. Hadn’t spoken or met with him since. As for the family, the house, Lopez hadn’t seen them or visited Justin’s Boston town house in months. Too busy on a job down south.

Tessa wasn’t having this conversation because she thought Chris Lopez could lead her to the Denbe family. She was interviewing Chris Lopez as part of the next step of the missing persons’ process—developing a victimology report. Who was Justin Denbe? And who were the winners and the losers when a man like him vanished into thin air?

“You know construction?” Lopez asked her now.

She shook her head, taking out her phone and holding it up for inspection. When he grudgingly nodded permission, she tapped the recording app and set the phone on the table between them.

“Denbe Construction is a major player. We bid on projects that cost at least tens of millions and often hundreds of millions. Think prison construction, senior care facilities, military barracks, et cetera. Big money, significant timeline, make-it-or-break-it kind of risk.”

Tessa decided to start with the basics. She got out her notebook, turned it horizontally and presented it to Lopez. Here was a trick she’d never learned at the police academy, but had come up day one in corporate security school.

“Org chart,” she asked. “Major players.”

Lopez rolled his eyes but took the paper, her offered pen and drew the first box on the top of the page. Justin Denbe, CEO. Made sense to her. Beneath Denbe came three boxes. CFO Ruth Chan; COC Chris Lopez; and COO Anita Bennett. Tessa recognized Bennett’s name, as she’d been the one to contact Tessa’s boss bright and early this morning. Now, beneath the chief of operations’s name, Lopez drew two more, smaller boxes: MIS Tom Wilkins and Office Admin Letitia Lee.

“COC stands for chief of construction,” Lopez explained, tapping
the box bearing his name. “Anita Bennett and I act almost as cochiefs of operations. She handles business affairs, while I manage the building gigs. So admin reports to her, while the tradesmen report to me.”