A Field of Red (7 page)

The cell phone rang again—wires were sticking out of it, leading to the Bureau equipment and two other phone handsets, which allowed the call to be monitored. It was also being recorded. King ran his eyes over the phone recording setup to make sure nothing had gotten put out of place and to verify the recording had started.

King nodded at Nick Martin, who picked up the cell phone, being careful to not dislodge the wires, and put it to his ear. Chief King picked up one of the other handsets, and he and Graves leaned in to share it. Glenda was perched on the arm of the chair next to Nick. They were both looking at the Chief, who nodded at Nick.

Nick pressed the button.

“Hello?” Nick’s voice was nervous, tentative. That, as much as anything else King had seen over the past few days, told him that Nick wasn’t involved in the kidnapping.

It was a hard thing to consider, but in most of these types of cases, it was a family member. King grabbed his legal pad and started taking notes. He’d be able to make notes on the call later, from the recording, but he wanted to jot down his initial impressions, including what he’d just decided about Nick.

 “We have your daughter and the other girl,” the gruff voice on the other end said.

To King, the voice sounded male, late 20s, smoker. King wrote it all down. The caller got right to the point, with no preamble. That would make negotiation more difficult.

Sergeant Graves leaned forward, listening intently—they were so close that King could smell coffee on his breath.

King jotted down:

THIS GUY KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

and showed the note to Graves, who nodded.

“Um, okay,” Nick Martin said. Next to him, Glenda burst into tears and then stifled them quickly, wanting to hear the exchange.

The kidnapper spoke again.

“We want $1,000,000. By tomorrow evening.”

Every eye in the room turned to Nick, who slowly nodded.

“OK, OK. I want...I can get that for you,” Nick said slowly. King had told him to take his time and not rush. “Just don’t hurt her, OK? Don’t hurt them.”

Nick glanced up at King, who nodded, encouraging him. This was going to be the hardest part, getting the Martins to demand proof of life.

“But…but before I do anything,” Martin continued, “I want to hear my daughter. To make sure she’s OK.”

The room was silent. Deputy Peters, standing behind the Martins, looked at the Chief. Agent Shale looked worried; he was actually biting his nails. Graves just stared at the cell phone in Nick Martin’s hand. King knew it was a gamble that might piss off the kidnappers, but exercising a little control was rarely the wrong call.

On the phone, there was the sound of rustling. Finally, another voice came on.

“Daddy?”

Nick looked like he might drop the phone. Chief King smiled and leaned over and steadied the man’s hand. After a moment, the father answered.

 “We’re here, honey.” Nick said.

King could see that his hands were shaking.

“Are you OK, honey? We love you.” Glenda said quietly into the phone, leaning close to her husband.

The little girl’s voice came back.

“Yes, I’m OK,” Charlie said, sounding distant, weak.

“Did they hurt you?” Glenda asked.

That got him thinking, as Charlie answered that she and Maya were okay. King jotted something down and held up the yellow pad for Nick to read. It said:

ASK HER TO IDENTIFY HER FAVORITE FOOD — HER VOICE COULD BE A RECORDING

 Nick’s eyes went wide, but King nodded. Nick turned back to the phone in his hand.

“Um, honey, I need to ask you a question. What is your favorite food?” Nick Martin asked, his voice tentative.

The phone rustled again.

“Hey, what’s going on?” the gruff kidnapper barked.

Nick stood his ground.

“I’m talking to Charlie,” he said. “Asking her a question. I just need to know if it’s really her or some kind of recording.”

King heard the kidnapper curse under his breath. The phone rustled again. Charlie came back on.

“Um, my favorite food is spaghetti and meatballs,” she said quietly. “You know that, Daddy.”

Glenda started to cry. Chief King nodded.

“Okay, honey,” Nick said again. “Just do what they say, and this will be over soon. Put the man back on.”

The phone rustled again, and the kidnapper spoke again.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” the kidnapper said. “I’m not calling again. You will put the money in a black satchel or briefcase. You know the Old Hotel, across from O’Shaughnessy’s?”

Nick Martin nodded, then must have realized the guy on the other end couldn’t see his nod. “Yes, I do.”

“Good,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “Put the briefcase in the trash can outside the Old Hotel Thursday at exactly 6:06 p.m. And no cops. Or the girls die.”

Glenda’s clenched hand went to her chest, an expression of panic that King had seen her make a few times.

“I’ll call you back when I have the money and get away safely,” the voice on the line said. “And if you or anybody else tries to stop me from picking up the money, or from leaving with the money, the girls die.”

The phone went silent.

The bar at O’Shaughnessy’s was his favorite part of the restaurant. Many people only sat in here while waiting for a table in the restaurant proper.

But Nick Martin loved the feel of the long, narrow space and preferred it to the rest of the restaurant. The beautiful shelving and glassware behind the bar, the long, flat surface of the wooden bar top, the frame around the doorway leading back into the rest of the restaurant—it screamed traditional bar decor. And the entire west wall was old, exposed brick, broken up only by framed historical pictures of Cooper’s Mill and the old canal that had been the lifeblood of the small town for so many years.

Now, the canal was an empty ditch, and the town had long ago moved on, but, at least in the black and white photos, the canal was alive and well.

Nick knew that the owners had spent a pretty penny converting this place over from the old Natty’s in 2004, and you could see where all the money had gone—the space was beautiful.

“We’re all pulling for you, Nick. Let me know if you need anything.”

Nick Martin looked up. It seemed like every single person coming through the bar was stopping at his table to say something. He’d been hugged and drinks had been sent over. One woman, who had worked hard to keep him from getting elected to city council, leaned in and gave him a heartfelt kiss on his cheek. She seemed genuinely upset about what had happened to him. He appreciated their thoughts and concern, but Nick really just wanted to be left alone.

Nick nodded to the speaker. It was Jake Delancy, a downtown resident. Good guy. Nick had used him on a couple jobs. The guy was a bit of a craftsman and tinkerer, but an odd one. Jake made his own cheese, for God’s sake. But Nick had brought him in to do custom cabinetry on a few projects, and the man was a true artisan.

“Thanks, Jake,” Nick said.

Jake nodded and headed off. Nick went back to his beer.

A few minutes later, Nick’s partner, Matt Lassiter, walked in, and Nick waved him over. Matt was tall and thin and well-dressed, a longtime friend and popular in town, even though he wasn’t from around here. Several people nodded and said “hi” to Lassiter as he walked through the bar to Nick’s table.

Nick had known Matt Lassiter for years. He’d moved to town and immediately gotten involved in the local commercial real estate market. And the man had acquaintances everywhere, probably from his years out west in Vegas. He’d made a killing on real estate out there in 2002–2006 and still had the connections. Nick also considered Matt his closest friend, and Nick was sure that Matt would help him out.

As Matt passed the bar, he slapped another patron on the back good-naturedly and smiled at the bartender, holding up two fingers. The bartender nodded and turned, starting a drink.

“That’s impressive,” he said, as Lassiter sat down. “You got some kind of signal?”

Matt nodded.

“For Spence? Oh, yeah,” Matt said. “I have four drinks that I order regularly. He knows them so well, I just have to let him know which one when I come in.” Lassiter turned and greeted another person, as they passed the table, then turned back to Nick. His face turned serious. “How are you doing?” Matt asked.

“Not great,” Nick said, running his hand along the beer glass. Beads of condensation ran down the glass and dripped onto the coaster. “We got the ransom call today.”

Matt’s eyes went wide.

“Jesus,” Matt said. “But that’s good, though, right? Now you know what’s going on and that at least someone has her. Better than…better than she’s just gone. Now, at least there’s a plan. To get her back.”

Nick nodded and took another long sip of his beer.

“So,” Matt continued. “What do they want?”

“$1,000,000. By tomorrow evening, around 6ish,” Nick said to his beer. “I don’t have that kind of cash. Not on hand, anyway. It’s invested in all my projects. I’ve closed out of a couple already today.”

Spence, the bartender, brought over a drink and set it in front of Matt. It was blue and fizzy and Nick didn’t even ask. He knew Matt was always trying new drinks and developing new favorites. Spence turned to Nick.

“You need anything, Mr. Martin?”

Nick shook his head. After a long silence, the bartender turned and left.

“Well, how can I help?” Matt asked quietly, sipping at his cocktail and giving a thumbs-up to the bartender across the room.

Nick sighed. “Not sure yet. But I spent the afternoon with the cops, trying to figure out how to raise the cash. I will need to close my partnerships on a deal or two and wanted to know if you want them.”

“Anything I can do to help.”

Nick looked at him.

“I hate to do it, but I guess I’m pulling out of the Dragon’s complex downtown. I figured you might want to buy my shares.”

 Matt Lassiter nodded thoughtfully.

“I don’t want in on the Dragon’s location. I think it’s too heavily leveraged,” Matt said. “And I told you that when you got in,” he said, pausing to take another drink before continuing. “If you are interested, I would be happy to buy you out of the Holly Toys building. The Holly Toys loft project isn’t going anywhere, and even if the economy turns around, the renovation costs are going to eat up any profit. But I’ve always liked that property.”

Nick smiled and looked up.

“You made that same offer a couple months ago, right?” he asked, nodding. “I know, the project took forever to get off the ground, and it will probably never make money. But even if it takes years to get finished, I really have a good feeling about that space,” Nick said, looking at his beer. “It’s probably because I grew up right there on Plum. I remember walking by that old building every day on the way to school. Back then, it was humming with activity.”

“And now it’s an empty shell,” Matt said, looking at his blue drink and the umbrella that floated in it. “The only person making money on it right now is the security guard. Tell you what, sell me your half, and I’ll give you $600,000. That’ll get you half-way there.”

Nick thought about it. It was a fair deal, more than fair. And Matt was good for it. After a second, Nick nodded his head.

“It hurts, but I can do that,” Nick said, shaking his hands. “I had plans for that space, but now it looks like you’re getting your wish—but at that price, you’d be overpaying.”

Matt started to argue, then nodded. “I’m okay with overpaying a little.”

Nick nodded, relieved but also saddened. Nick hated selling properties. It was like an admission of guilt, taking a loss.  “And I’m gonna sell that Dragon’s property,” Nick said. “Another guy in the ownership group wanted to buy me out anyway.”

Matt started to say something but went back to his drink.

 “Thank you,” Nick said to Matt. “And thanks for stepping up. I hate the idea of selling. But between the Lofts and the Dragon’s project, I should have nearly enough.”

Matt nodded, smiling. “Yeah. But I’m happy to help. I’ll get you a cashier’s check in the morning. Or do you need it tonight?”

Nick shook his head. “No, the morning is fine. I need to get word to the Dragon’s people to set up the ownership transfer in the morning. And Shale, the FBI agent, said that if the money were in the account, he’d be able to facilitate converting it into cash.”

Lassiter sipped at his blue drink as Nick took out his phone and started dialing.

The phone on the small table next to the bed rang.

Frank was watching TV and looked up at the clock—it was just after 10pm on Monday night. Only three people knew he was staying here at the hotel, and Frank quickly ticked them off in his head: it wasn’t his daughter—she would call his cell, if she were delaying or canceling their lunch meeting tomorrow, something he’d been half-expecting all day. The staff at the Tip Top Diner next door wouldn’t be calling—the place was closed up tight. No one in Birmingham had the number of the hotel—they would call his cell, same as his daughter, if they needed him. That left only the front desk.

Frank muted the late local news and picked up the phone.

“What?”

“Hi, Mr. Harper,” said the high, squeaky voice on the other end. Oscar at the front desk. “Sir? Umm…there’s a policeman here, asking to speak to you...”

Frank sat up and shook his head.

 “Fine,” Frank said. “Send him up.”

He knew what this was about. Gina, the waitress, had mentioned that her husband was a cop. And cops usually stuck together, especially in small towns. His name was Stan, or something like that. Frank had given her some advice on how to get clear of the guy, and now Stan had showed up here at the hotel to scare Frank off, or at least get him to stop putting ideas in Gina’s head.

Frank felt sorry for Stan. It didn’t matter to Frank if the guy was a cop. Stan was used to pushing his wife around, and Frank didn’t have any use for those types of guys. And if Stan was here to scare Frank off—well, Stan would find Frank hard to frighten.

Frank had fought cops before. Plenty of times.

He shook his head and glanced around at the messy hotel room. Frank stood and started clearing away the bottles and beer cans. There was no need to give the guy an excuse to search the hotel room. As he picked up the empty glasses and tidied up, he shook his head at his own stupidity.

Ben Stone had gotten himself killed by taking chances, trying to do things without backup. Getting involved in stuff that didn’t really matter, like this Gina situation. Why hadn’t Frank learned his lesson? Don’t get involved. Frank felt like he should get it tattooed on the back of his hand, where he could always see it. Or get it tattooed along the scar on his left arm, where he would see it every day and never forget.

When he was done, Frank opened the hotel room door and stood in the doorway. He heard the steps on the stairs before he could see them, and then a cop emerged from the stairway and turned up the carpeted hallway, looking at the room numbers.

He was a big sucker.

Frank didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do now except stand his ground. And avoid getting into a shootout.

“Hi, Mr. Harper?” the policeman said, as he approached. At least he appeared friendly.

Frank nodded.

The man stopped about eight feet back, well out of grappling range. Smart.

“I’m Sergeant Burwell,” the burly cop said. He nodded at the hotel room behind Frank. “Can we speak for a minute?”

Frank nodded slowly, curious. This guy didn’t look mad, or spoiling for a fight.

Frank stood back and held the door open, allowing the policeman inside. Deciding to take a casual approach to this “meeting,” Frank closed the door, then nodded and crossed in front of the cop, taking a seat in one of the two chairs that flanked a small table by the window.

The cop stood by the television, even after Frank motioned him to sit. The cop’s hands rested on the gun and container of mace located at each hip. Frank wondered if the cop even noticed what he was doing with his hands.

“How can I help you?” Frank asked, already knowing the answer.

“Well, Mr. Harper,” Burwell began. “Chief of Police King asked me to come out and see you.”

Frank looked up, not surprised.

“Oh? Why? Need me to keep out of it?” If this wife-beating cop already had his Chief involved, things could go south for Frank in a real hurry—

The cop looked confused. “What?”

“I know what this is about,” Frank said, shaking his head. “You’ve got a cop that likes to use his wife like a punching bag, and you’re here to tell me to mind my own business. Or you’re the cop—I wouldn’t know, since I haven’t met the guy.”

Burwell continued to look more and more confused. Frank started to feel less confident that the cop had any idea what Frank was talking about.

Finally, the burly cop shook his head.

“I’m not sure what we’re talking about,” he said. “Are you talking about Stan and the restraining order? How do you know about that?”

Frank looked at him. “You’re not Stan?”

“No, sir. He’s been suspended,” the cop said. “Too much going on right now for the Chief to look into it, so Stan’s riding the pine.”

Frank nodded, then shook his head.

“Okay, sorry about that. His wife works next door, and she wanted some advice about how to proceed. Sounds like you guys are handling it.”

Burwell nodded.

“Okay, so how can I help you?” Frank was genuinely curious.

Burwell shuffled, looking at the ground. “Well, Chief King thinks you could help with a case we’re working. It’s the kidnapping, been going on for a week or so, and we got word you were a cop—”

“Ex-cop,” Frank interjected.

The police officer looked at him.

“What?”

“I’m not a cop anymore, Sergeant Burwell.” Frank said, looking out the window. “I’m retired. I’m part-time now with the Alabama Bureau of Investigation. Me in my cubicle, working cold cases.”

Frank saw the officer’s head nod in the reflection in the window.

“That may be the case,” Burwell said. “But we’re not trained for this kind of thing. We heard you worked these kinds of cases before, had some good insights. The Chief had me run your file, mostly to make sure you weren’t somehow involved in the case. New faces in town can make people nervous.”

Frank nodded.

“A few of us have had some training in this area,” Burwell continued. “Detective Barnes worked one years ago in St. Louis. He and the Chief are the only ones with experience. But not a lot.”

Frank turned and nodded at the muted TV. The large-haired anchor was back, her lips moving but no sound coming out.

“Sounds like you’re doing the right things,” Frank said, nodding at the TV. “I just saw the coverage—searches, talking to the family, looking for people with grudges. And the ransom call today—that’s always good. Keep the bad guys talking.”

Burwell nodded.

“That’s right. But nothing is coming up.”

Frank hated kidnapping cases. They almost never turned out well.

He turned and looked at the cop for the first time, really looking at him. The abrupt change in expectations had clouded Frank’s view of the man, but now he could see that the sergeant was quiet, hat in hand, just looking at Frank. Frank didn’t know what to say. This sounded like a genuine cry for help, not an invitation to come help them cover their asses with this investigation.

“No luck yet?” Frank asked.

Sergeant Burwell shook his head.

“The family checks out,” Burwell said. “Both families, actually. The housekeeper has been with the Martins for years, and the girls practically grew up together. The Martins have money, although they might not have enough. The ransom call came in today. They want a million by tomorrow evening.”

Frank nodded but didn’t say anything.

The cop waited for a response from Frank, but none came. After a moment, Burwell continued.

 “We were treating it as a missing person’s case and worked it a while, before the Chief called in the Bureau. The kidnappers called the mom’s cell phone yesterday, first call. The FBI representative up from Cincinnati will take point on that. I’m not sure…well, Chief said not to say much about Agent Shale, the FBI liaison. Anyway, it’s been days, and you know, better than anyone, the statistics on kidnapping and child abductions. Most of the kids recovered alive are found with two days of the initial abduction.”

Frank nodded.

“Yeah, after 48 hours, the percentages drop off,” Frank said.

Burwell nodded and took out a small notepad and pen, taking notes, but Frank did not elaborate. After a moment, the cop looked up.

“And?” the cop said. “The percentages drop off, but not always, right?

Frank sighed. “The drop off severely. But those are in the cases of abductions.”

Burwell wrote it down, then looked back at Frank. They both waited for the other to speak, but nothing came.

“Look,” Burwell finally said. “I get that you might not trust us because of the Stan situation. But we have an active investigation going on here, and you’re in our jurisdiction. If you know anything that can help—”

Frank shook his head.

“So, you’re going to bring me in because I can’t solve your case for you?  What’s the charge, officer?”

Burwell seemed taken aback by Frank’s outburst.

“That’s not what I meant, sir,” Burwell said. “But I’m sworn to uphold the law, same as you were.”

Frank nodded. “Emphasis on the past tense.”

The room grew quiet. Frank wondered if Burwell had figured out Frank’s little system of staying quiet to let the silences grow. Maybe Frank was getting a little of his own medicine.

Finally, Frank sighed again.  “It’s true, it’s more likely in abductions that, as more time passes, it’s more difficult to recover the victim. But in kidnappings for ransoms, the timeline doesn’t matter as much. It can drag out over weeks or months.”

“Oh,” Burwell nodded, jotting it all down. “I hadn’t thought about that. But we were relieved when the kidnappers called. Chief King wants you—”

“I can’t,” Frank said, shaking his head and cutting Burwell off. “I’m not getting involved.  I told you what I know, and what I think about your prospects, but I’m not helping with the case.”

Burwell looked up from his pad.

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Frank said. “But…any dialog with the kidnappers is good,” he said, changing the subject. “Just give them what they want, keep them engaged.”

The cop paused for a long moment.

“Yup, okay,” he said. “Chief is working through all that with the Bureau. They will handle the ransom and the drop. But our investigation is going nowhere.”

Frank thought about it for a minute to let the cop think he was considering it. But his mind was already made up. His mind had been made up since the conversation started.

“Look,” Frank said. “I’m done with this kind of stuff. I...I’m done. And it sounds like you’re on the right track. The Bureau is involved, now, so you don’t really need me. Just follow the money, and it should work out.”

Sergeant Burwell didn’t answer.

 “Have the Chief look into everyone’s background that has regular contact with the family,” Frank continued, suddenly feeling weary and old. Frank knew he should stop talking, but the cop looked like someone had just shot his dog. “It’s often a family friend or accountant or someone like that, someone with ties to the family but without the loyalty of being part of the group.”

The cop jotted down what Frank was saying. But just talking about it made Frank start to feel weary, remembering all the cases he’d followed and how few of them ended well. He remembered the kid in downtown Atlanta, buried in that cardboard box by the highway. Frank had gone through all the steps, done the work, just like he was telling this sergeant to do. Follow the leads, check the family. Cross the “i’s”, dot the “t’s,” as Williams, the arson investigator, liked to say with a wry smile.

But if this case was like the one in Atlanta, they could do everything right and still not get there in time. Frank remembered that poor little boy—

The sergeant stared at Frank, waiting for more words of wisdom, but Frank had none.

The room grew quiet.

 “So, you’re not going to help—” the sergeant began.

“No,” Frank said.

“Why not?”

“You don’t need me,” Frank said, his voice coming out harsher than he wanted. “Just investigate the case and everyone involved. The kids will turn up.”

It was cold. And a lie. They both knew it. The chances of recovering the girls alive diminished with each passing hour. But Frank didn’t want to go down this road again.

Ever.

Another long moment of silence, with the burly cop staring at him, hands on his hips.

Frank shook his head and stood slowly. He always stood slowly when he was around angry, armed men. Frank walked to the hotel room door and pulled it open.

The burly cop hesitated and then shook his head and walked toward the door.

“You know, I would think you would want to help,” Burwell said as he passed Frank. “Two young girls’ lives are at stake,” the sergeant said, stopping on the carpet out in the hallway and looking at him angrily.

“Don’t you even care?”

Frank looked down at the carpet at the man’s feet. Boots, clunky, good for running through muddy fields. Cop boots.