Panic (6 page)

The black Mercedes S65 AMG swept silently through the quiet East Hampton roads. Mary sat in the back, fully insulated from the outside world, and soaked up the view. Impossibly huge houses sailed past on either side, most of which were set back from the road and locked up behind heavy metal gates. Each house sat on acres of pristine lawn and most were nestled close to the woodland areas that seemed to stretch all the way out to the horizon. One or two had security guards standing in plain view by the front door.

“Not far to go now, ma’am,” said the driver, turning his head.

Mary nodded and pulled out a small makeup mirror. She adjusted her hair and added some foundation to the dark circles under her eyes. The result was just about acceptable, but hopefully the senator wouldn’t be looking too closely. Not with everything he had to worry about, anyway.

The car pulled around a corner and the houses disappeared, leaving just an empty road lined with trees. After thirty seconds they reached a clearing to the right and a set of large iron gates. The car pulled up and the driver opened his window, leaning out of it to reach the keypad mounted near one of the pillars. He punched in a code and the gates jostled open, swinging slowly backward to allow the car passage. Mary couldn’t make out a house yet, only a long driveway lined with trees and immaculately trimmed bushes.

“Just half a mile or so to the house, ma’am,” said the driver, as he started the car moving again.

Mary had assumed that the senator had money, but she hadn’t expected him to own a large estate in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the world. She couldn’t help but feel slightly intimidated, but quickly shrugged it off and concentrated on what she was planning to say during the meeting.

Mary had been surprised that the senator had agreed to see her at such short notice. Usually, the NYPD was kept out of the loop in high-profile cases like this, especially when the FBI got wind of what was going on and started fencing other departments out. This time felt different though, and the veteran police sergeant wasn’t sure what the senator was expecting from her. He had sounded a little distant on the telephone, a little distracted. Mary supposed that was probably a normal reaction to finding out your only daughter had been kidnapped by a violent psychopath, but there was something niggling at the back of her mind. Something just didn’t feel right, but she couldn’t work out what it was. Hopefully, Leopold would be able to shed some light on the situation. As usual.

The senator’s house loomed into view, and the Mercedes rolled up to the front door. The asphalt gave way to white gravel and the tires crunched quietly over the neatly raked stones before stopping near the entrance archway. The driver stepped out of the car and rang the doorbell. One of the house staff answered, a middle-aged man in a smartly pressed uniform, who said a few words to the driver that Mary couldn’t quite make out. The driver nodded and opened the rear passenger door for her, tipping his cap as she climbed out and went inside the house. The front door opened up into the entrance hall, an enormous atrium clad in white marble, with ceilings that stretched a full three stories into the air. Mary saw another man walking toward her, dressed in a dark blue uniform and body armor, with a large handgun holstered to his hip. It looked like a .45 SIG Sauer.

“Senator Logan is upstairs at the moment, ma’am,” said the security guard, drawing up close enough that she could smell his cheap cologne. “Perhaps you would be comfortable waiting in the drawing room? The senator will come down when Mr. Blake has arrived.”

Mary took a second to look the man up and down, a force of habit from years of sizing up potentially dangerous suspects on the force. She could tell he carried at least one other concealed handgun, and probably a bladed weapon sheathed to his calf, judging by the cut of the trousers. His face was pockmarked and scarred, suggesting occupational damage, and his expression was passive. His eyes gave away nothing. This guy was clearly a pro, but probably not in charge. That meant there must be others.

“He’s not here yet?” said Mary, trying to sound casual. “Okay, I’m sure the drawing room will be fine, thank you.”

“I’m sure they won’t be long getting here, ma’am.”

The security guard, whose name tag identified him as Viktor, led Mary through several long hallways before they arrived at a large, plush room with four luxurious armchairs positioned to face the open fireplace on the back wall. Another guard stood at the window, who turned to greet them as they entered. This man was of similar build to Viktor, but a few inches taller, with a shock of white-blond hair instead of the crew cut that Viktor wore.

“Please, sit,” said the blond.

Mary took a seat in one of the soft armchairs, and Viktor left the room without a word. She turned to look at the blond, who was also clearly carrying a multitude of hidden weaponry, and checked his name tag. She smiled.

“So, your name’s Dolph?” she asked. “Like Lundgren? Did your parents have a sense of humor?”

Dolph didn’t respond, but Mary was sure his blank expression flickered momentarily. Probably best not to test the patience of a heavily armed security guard who looked like he could punch through walls. She turned away and pulled out her cell phone. No calls yet.

Mary hoped Leopold would get there soon. He would arrive, no doubt, with some insane theory about the case and a list of unlikely leads to chase up. Not a shred of evidence of course, but Mary could usually rely on him to get results. At least professionally. On a personal level, Mary didn’t even know where to begin with Leopold, but she knew that life was always a little more interesting when he was around. She smiled to herself and kept her eyes on the door.

Chapter 10

Jerome pulled the crumpled SUV up to the set of heavy iron gates that shielded the senator from members of the general public. He announced their arrival on the intercom and the gates swung open slowly, creaking and groaning under their own weight. They were greeted at the front door by the senator himself, his face drawn and his eyes puffy. He looked like he had been awake for days.

“Oh good, you’re here, please come in,” said Senator Logan, pulling the door back and gesturing for them to come through.

Leopold stepped into the hallway and looked around, noticing the pristine marble and ornate staircase that wound its way up to the first floor, a good twenty feet above ground level. Leopold could make out the master bedroom upstairs through an open door and noticed the bed was still unmade. All the other doors were closed. Several uniformed guards stood in strategic positions throughout the upper levels, each wearing bullet-proof vests and what looked like SIG Sauer handguns holstered at the hip. Two of the security officers stood on the staircase, standing to attention.

“I’d like to introduce you to the head of my security team.” Logan gestured to the largest of the two men. “This is Jack Stark; ex-military man. Tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, I believe.”

Stark nodded dispassionately. He stood a little shorter than Jerome at around six feet four inches, but was just as muscular and looked a little younger. On his forearm was a tattooed insignia with something written underneath, but Leopold couldn’t quite make out the words.

“And this is Viktor Baikov,” continued the senator. “He reports directly to Stark and takes care of the day-to-day running of things around here.”

Viktor grunted in response but otherwise made no sign that he had heard what the senator had said.

“I decided to hire a third party to keep an eye on me,” Logan continued. “The police and the FBI can only do so much to keep me safe, and I’d rather put my life in the hands of someone earning more than minimum wage.”

“Keep you safe from what, Senator?” said Leopold.

“We both know what’s going on here, Mr. Blake. I know what they’re peddling in the news, but I didn’t get to where I am today without having contacts in all the right places.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Let’s just say the FBI should listen more carefully to your theories.”

“And just what would those theories be?”

“Don’t underestimate me, Mr. Blake,” said Logan. “I found out about Wilson before you even got the call, and I had Stark’s team installed last week after reading your reports on Carrera and Hague. There’s clearly a pattern, whatever the FBI might think.”

“That’s very prudent of you,” said Leopold.

“I checked Stark’s references and hired him on the spot. He’s certainly impressed me so far. Isn’t that right, Stark?”

“It’s my job, sir,” said Stark, keeping his eyes on Leopold.

They left Viktor and Stark on the stairs, and the senator led the group through a wide hallway that separated the entrance hall from the rest of the house. On the walls hung numerous framed photos, mostly from publicity events and press appearances the senator had attended through the years. Leopold noticed one in particular and stopped to look closer.

“Ah, a personal favorite of mine,” said Logan.

Leopold looked at the black-and-white photograph of the senator shaking hands with the president of the United States at a birthday celebration. The two men were both grinning with wide, bright smiles. A half-eaten cake was on the table in front of them, and a large banner was hanging in the background, the number fifty-three written in large, glittering letters across its width.

“Whose party was this?” asked Leopold.

“Oh, the president and I go way back. This was taken at his fifty-third birthday a couple of years ago. Most people notice that one; I’ve seen Stark staring at it a few times. Follow me.”

Logan ushered them through to a large room, with several empty armchairs arranged around the fireplace. Mary Jordan sat in the corner, dressed in civilian clothes, a look of impatience on her face. An enormous blond security guard stood by the window.

“Sorry we’re late,” Leopold offered. “Traffic was murder.”

Mary didn’t reply. The consultant settled himself into one of the armchairs and Jerome sat down near Mary, his weight straining the delicate sofa’s wooden frame. The senator took a seat in the remaining armchair opposite Leopold, took an unopened bottle of scotch and a crystal tumbler from the nearby cabinet, unsealed the whisky, and poured himself a healthy measure. He kept the bottle with him, leaving the drink cabinet empty save for a spare glass that had accumulated a thin layer of dust.

“Senator, I need to ask you some questions,” said Leopold, waiting for Logan to fill his glass. “Do you know of anyone who would have a motive to harm to you or your family?”

“No doubt the same person who killed Carrera, Wilson, and Hague,” said Logan, taking a short sip of scotch.

“Why kidnapping? The other victims were murdered. It’s unusual to see a killer change their approach like this.”

“That’s why Stark and his men are here,” said the politician, gesturing at Dolph. “With a team of eighteen highly trained security personnel on standby, nobody would be stupid enough to try coming after me direct. Instead, they come at me through my daughter. Like the cowards they are.”

“Do you have any idea why someone would want to get to you?” said Leopold.

“Could be anything. A man in my position makes a lot of enemies. Clearly money is a motive here.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The kidnapper asked for money. I would have thought his motivation would be obvious,” said Logan, the pitch of his voice raised in irritation.

“Not all kidnappings are financially motivated,” said Leopold. “And we know that the call came in a full two hours before Christina was seen leaving the nightclub early this morning. How do you explain that?”

“I can’t speak to the mind of a lunatic,” said the politician, drinking deeply from his glass of scotch. “Maybe he thought he wouldn’t have any issues grabbing her and wanted to catch me before I fell asleep for the night. Set the wheels in motion. Thirty-five million dollars is a lot of money to get hold of; it takes time.”

“Tell me about the arrangements for the exchange. Were the police notified?”

“Of course. In order to arrange for that much cash to be delivered, I had to inform my insurance company. I have a specific policy in place for situations like this, and they’ll cover any ransom money paid over to the kidnapper, on the condition that the authorities are informed,” said Logan, draining the last of his scotch. “Fortunately I have enough pull at the mayor’s office to get the NYPD to back off; otherwise, they’d insist on leading the investigation themselves. I’ve allowed Ms. Jordan to be present, on the condition that she bring you too. I made it clear I wanted a specialist to look into this, which is why you’re here.”

“What happened next?” asked the consultant, arching his fingers and leaning forward.

“I told the kidnapper that I could deliver the cash anywhere he wanted, but that I needed to speak to my daughter first, to prove she was alive. He agreed and we arranged to speak again by telephone to organize the exchange. The call was supposed to be at five this morning, but it never came. And now they’ve both disappeared off the face of the Earth.”