Touch & Go (31 page)

Enterprise. It sounded so clinical, even businesslike, Wyatt thought. Until you looked at Justin’s battered face. The man had been worked over good. A ring of crusty blood still plastered to the hairline at his left temple. His lower lip cut and puffy, his right eye entirely swollen shut. Not to mention a massive bruise on his other cheek, plus half a dozen larger and smaller lacerations combining to form one grotesquely misshapen mess.

Yet, the man had stared into the camera directly and spoken in a firm voice. Still holding up, then. Maybe because the kidnappers were picking on him, and not his wife and daughter? Meaning Justin’s own demeanor was a sort of proof of life for the rest of his family?

“We think she’s pregnant.” He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but it happened. Staring at Justin’s battered face, wondering if the guy even knew what all was going on within his own family.

“What?” Nicole, clearly surprised.

“The evidence log. Last page, contents from the garbage in the garage trash bin—”

“When did you get a copy of the evidence log?”

Wyatt shrugged, looked her in the eye. “When didn’t you read it?”

Nicole scowled, clearly taking his point. In her defense, it was a thirty-page document, and given everything she had to review as the lead agent. But still…

“One of those stick things from a home pregnancy test,” he continued now, aware of Tessa and Special Agent Hawkes watching him. “Marked positive.”

“You think Libby’s pregnant? But if it came from the trash, it could have been anyone’s.”

Wyatt arched a brow. “You mean like the sixty-year-old housekeeper’s?”

The FBI agent kept her chin up. “Or the daughter’s. She’s fifteen. That’s old enough.”

“True. Any talk of a boyfriend, or sleeping around?”

“Not yet, but that’s not going to be the first piece of knowledge shared by her closest friends. Frankly, interviewing teenage girls is tougher than approaching Mafia henchmen. They’ll either close ranks, or feed you so much gossip you don’t know what to believe. It’s going to take us at least a couple more agents, not to mention several more days to sort all those stories out.”

“In the meantime,” Wyatt stated evenly, “what was good for the gander may have proved good for the goose. Justin cheated on his wife. She cheated back.”

“Ending up pregnant?” She still sounded dubious.

“As well as addicted to Vicodin. Don’t pity those kidnappers.”

Nicole sighed, abruptly rubbed her forehead. “Meaning we possibly have four hostages. God, what a mess. Well then, all the more reason to make this ransom exchange happen. Shall we?” And she gestured once more to the monitor.

“JUSTIN’S INITIAL PHONE CALL WAS SHORT,” Nicole explained now. “Unfortunately, as we hadn’t anticipated a call directly to the insurance company, we didn’t have a phone tap in place. As a matter of protocol, however, the call was recorded. Our audio experts are working on it now, hoping to enhance the background noises in order to assist our efforts. Moving forward, of course, we’ll establish a designated line at the insurance company, as well as get one of our agents in place. Next time around, a professional negotiator should be able to drag out the conversation, allowing us the opportunity to trace it.”

“Why did he call first?” Tessa asked. “Why call, then send a video?”

“Proof of life,” Hawkes provided. “He needed to determine the insurance company’s requirement for ‘credible risk’ of imminent death. You know, what kind of evidence would he need to deliver to support a nine-million-dollar ransom demand?”

Tessa shuddered slightly.

Wyatt agreed: “How does a question like that
not
lead to chopped-off body parts?” he murmured to no one in particular.

Nicole nodded shortly. “The customer service manager was obviously shaken by the call, but she held up well. She said they would need visual confirmation that Justin and his family were alive. Justin asked if e-mailing a video would suffice. She agreed, but said they’d need evidence the video was real-time, not something that had been previously recorded. They agreed that Denbe would hold up today’s newspaper, SOP for these kinds of situations. Also, the manager gave Justin a code word to use at the beginning and end of the video—Jazz, which apparently is the name of her cockatoo—that way she’d know the footage had been filmed after he’d spoken to her.

“At the end of the call, you can hear Justin mutter that his face should take care of the rest. We presume that means he felt the image of his bruises, lacerations, et cetera, should suffice for evidence of credible risk.”

“Where’s the call center?” Wyatt asked.

“Chicago.”

“And he e-mailed the video there?”

“Directly to the manager’s corporate addy, which she provided.”

“How long did it take,” Tessa asked, “between the initial phone call and arrival of the video?”

“Approximately forty minutes,” Hawkes supplied. He tapped the keyboard, and an e-mail appeared on the monitor before them. He scrolled to the end, where a long string of technical fine print appeared. “See this? This is the kind of data that’s present on all e-mails, including time and date sent. More relevantly, it also includes the
various servers used to route the e-mail from origin computer A to destination computer Z.”

“You mean you can trace the e-mail?” Wyatt asked with fresh interest. He wasn’t a computer guy. Liked numbers fine, a good white-collar crime always being a fun puzzle to solve. But technology, computers…definitely more Kevin’s domain.

Hawkes’s turn to grimace. “In this case, probably not. Look, this line here is the X-Originating-IP: in other words, the IP address of the computer that sent the e-mail. We’d love a name, of course, Evil Kidnappers’ Computer from Boston. What we got, however, is a string of numbers that will only become relevant later, should we recover a computer to match up. Now, if you move to the next line, the Received lines, you’ll see each server that the e-mail passed through on its journey from the kidnappers’ computer to the life insurance company’s desktop. Sometimes, these servers are identified by a name, indicating the e-mail passed through a major corporate server on its way around the world, say Hotmail, or Verizon. In this case, however, you’ll see the Receiving-IPs have domain names such as FakeItMake-It, HotEx, PrescriptMeds, interspersed with lines of complete gobbledygook.”

Hawkes paused, looked up at them. “My best guess? The sender turned this e-mail into spam. Some of these funny-sounding domain names, that’s what they are; massive servers that sit around the globe and spit out e-mails for Viagra, Canadian drugs, et cetera. These servers survive by being hard to trace. Our sender took advantage of that. Meaning at least one of our UNSUBS has significant computer expertise. Maybe even runs spam as a side business, that sort of thing.

“Now, we got people,” Hawkes provided with a shrug. “They’ll analyze, dissect, attempt to unravel. But…” He shrugged again, and Wyatt got the message. Tracing the e-mail would be a long shot.

“The video itself looks homemade,” Tessa observed, moving along. “Single focus, up close and personal.”

“We’re thinking a cell phone,” Nicole stated. “Something with average resolution but not a quality video camera. As for the narrow focus, two considerations: One, Justin was counting on his injuries to motivate the insurance company to pay out an additional five million, meaning he needs the primary shot to center on that damage. Second, the narrow frame also obscures the background, limiting the amount of information we can glean on their current location.”

“Professionals,” Wyatt sighed.

“We do have one hint.” Hawkes tapped the arrow on the screen, and they watched the video play yet again, everyone staring intently at the battered face of Justin Denbe as he stared back at them.

The shot was neck to forehead. No excess space below, above or around. Just a gray-toned wash of Denbe’s battered features that darkened slightly at the edges.

“No flash,” Hawkes said. “In a focus this tight, flash would wash out the subject’s face, render most of his nose, cheeks stark white. However, no halos around his head, either, meaning the light didn’t come from behind him. Best guess, the room was sufficiently lit by overhead lights, allowing for even illumination of Denbe’s features.”

“Rules out some of the northern campgrounds,” Wyatt mused, mental gears churning. “A lot of them cut the power for the winter, meaning if the kidnappers were staying there, they’d have to rely on flashlights, candlelight, whatever. Not to mention, those old cabins…not many windows for natural lighting.”

“I’m thinking the place has modern lighting,” Hawkes said. “And if not a landline, would have to have reliable access to a cell signal given the length of the first call. Rules out some of your mountain parks as well.”

“Good point.”

“I want to see the wife and daughter,” Tessa murmured. “I don’t like that we’re not seeing Libby and Ashlyn.”

“Don’t think they want all three members of the family together,” Wyatt said. “Three together is harder to control. Not to mention filming gets more complicated. But I think Libby and Ashlyn are doing okay. That’s why Justin sounds better than he looks. He might’ve gotten the shit beat out of him, but his family is untouched. Otherwise, he’d sound more stressed, rattled.”

Wyatt turned to Nicole. “Is the insurance company going to pay?”

“Going through the chain of command now. But either way, they’ve promised to cooperate with us. We got people traveling to the offices as we speak. Give us another twenty minutes, we’ll have a tapped line, not to mention several agents in place. Justin has to make contact again—not enough information has been provided to complete the transaction. So there’ll be another call. And this time, we’ll be ready.”

Chapter 28

WE MADE IT DOWN TO MEDICAL, Radar’s boyish face set in an impassive expression as he helped get Ashlyn situated on the steel bolted bed.

Not much to do, according to him. Miscarriage was a natural event, the body’s way of coping. Best he could offer was Tylenol for the pain and water to counter the blood loss. Later, I should watch Ashlyn for signs of fever, which could indicate an infection. In which case, she would require immediate medical attention.

Radar didn’t expand upon that statement. Such as, would Z permit one of his nine-million-dollar hostages to visit an ER? I had a feeling our ransom demand was about to come back to bite us. Especially the way Z had looked at Justin… Had we really managed to negotiate a deal with Mr. Big Bad Commando? Or had we somehow just played right into his hands?

Radar left, and I went to work removing Ashlyn’s blood-soaked jumpsuit, carefully covering her with a towel as I went. A camera was mounted in the corner of the room, and I couldn’t bear the thought of Mick, sitting in the control center, getting off on my daughter’s pain. I wondered if I could reach up, smear water, or maybe Vaseline across the tiny electronic eye. But I figured Z would never tolerate such a blatant act of insubordination. He’d materialize, there would
be consequences, and looking at my daughter, myself, Justin… How much more abuse could we take?

I washed Ashlyn’s underwear the best I could in the sink, noticing some tissue, trying not to think about it.

Our captors had not considered new undergarments, so I redressed Ashlyn in her still-damp panties, now lined with feminine hygiene pads set out by Radar. He’d muttered under his breath that they made handy field dressings, hence his stash. Clean towels above. Blood-soaked towels below. Again, best not to think of it.

I forced myself to sit, stroking Ashlyn’s arm. Her eyelids had stopped fluttering. She appeared to be drifting into sleep. The body doing its best to heal, as Radar had predicted.

Radar finally returned. In hindsight, I realized he’d probably been gone a good thirty to forty minutes. Ironically, the longest time Ashlyn or I had been left unsupervised, let alone unshackled. Just hours ago, we would’ve run for it. But now…

Z seemed to know so much about us. Including how completely we would implode. Had he counted on it to make us easy marks? Known that eventually we would hinder ourselves? Ashlyn and I didn’t even require management anymore. We’d hamstrung ourselves with our own secrets. How accommodating of us.

“Methadone,” Radar murmured. One word. He spoke with his back to the camera. I thought about it, and then I understood. I bent over my daughter, my lank hair obscuring my own lips, so I appeared to be comforting Ashlyn. They could see us but not hear us meaning that appearances were everything.

“Those are the pills you gave me? I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s a synthetic opioid. Helps with withdrawal from other narcotics, such as Vicodin.” He turned toward a metal supply case, opening drawers as if searching for something. “But it’s also addictive. Eventually, you’ll have to wean off it.”

He was trying to advise me. For life after this. Assuming the ransom was a success. “How many pills should I take?”

“I’ve been giving you ten-milligram Diskets. First dose was four tablets. You seemed to struggle again this morning, so I gave you two more. It’s not an exact science. A real clinic would spend the first few days of detox figuring out the appropriate dosage for your situation. I’m just winging it.”

“I don’t feel…they’re not the same as Vicodin.”

“No high,” he said bluntly, still rearranging drawers. “Methadone manages the worst of the withdrawal symptoms, as you’re still on a narcotic. And the pills last longer. You should be able to take one dose a day in order to mitigate the depression, nausea, headaches. But like I said, you’re swapping one problem for another. Good-bye, Vicodin addiction; hello, methadone addiction. You’ll need to see a real doctor in order to manage the rest of your withdrawal. Assuming you want to.”

“You seem to know a lot about painkiller addiction,” I said at last.

He shrugged. “Drug abuse du jour.”

“You’re a good doctor, Radar. I appreciate your help. For me, and my daughter.”

He didn’t say anything, appeared uncomfortable.

I couldn’t help myself: “Why do you do this? Work with Z and Mick? You seem to have real skills, real talent. You could get a job, in a hospital—”