The Vanishing Point

49

Nick Nicolaides was willing to bet he had one crucial advantage over his American counterparts. He did not believe any of them could have his degree of familiarity with the inner wheels of the music business. He was a good enough guitarist to have been enlisted several times by professional musician friends as a backing player on recordings, and he’d spent a fair few long nights sitting in studio control booths watching producers and sound engineers at work. He was at home in their world. He understood how to communicate with them. How to avoid pissing them off and how to win them over.

Nick fitted a hands-free phone headset and laid out notebook and pen. A few keystrokes and clicks of the mouse and he had a phone number for South Detroit Sounds. It was early evening there. Chances were the band was still working. Time to find out whether Pete was there or not. Nick keyed in the number and held his breath.

The phone was answered by a man with a slow drawl and a friendly tone. ‘South Detroit Sounds, we are here to make music for you. How can I be of assistance?’

‘I’m hoping you can help me,’ Nick said in the sort of clear and polite English voice that makes Americans swoon. He was never going to sound like a TV toff, but after all these years in London, he could draw a veil over most of his Northern vowels when he had to.

‘That would be my pleasure, sir. What can I do?’

‘I believe one of my friends is running the desk for the Style Boys. Pete Matthews?’

‘Sure, I know Pete. He’s not here right now. They’re taking the day off. He’ll be in tomorrow, you want to call back then.’

Strike one for Pete Matthews, Nick thought. ‘You’re kidding me? I’m only in Detroit for one night. I’ve got a flight to St Louis in the morning.’

‘That sucks. Maybe you can call him, fix up to get together.’

‘I tried that first. But he doesn’t seem to be using his UK cell. It’s not even going to voicemail. Have you got another number for him?’

‘Sure. Hold on, I’ll be right back.’

Nick finger-picked the desk silently, listening to Bert Jansch in his head. In a few moments, the American was back on the line, reading out a mobile number. Two strikes. So far, so good. Now it was just a question of whether Nick could pull off the final finesse. ‘That’s brilliant, I appreciate it. Now, can I be really cheeky? My phone’s getting low on juice, and if I can’t get hold of Pete straight away, I’m worried he won’t be able to get back to me. I don’t suppose you’ve got an address for him? Then if I can’t get through, I can go and check if he’s home. If he’s not around, at least I can leave a note.’ There was no immediate reply. ‘It seems a pity to be here and miss the chance to see him. Look, I totally get it that you don’t want to hand out his address. If I can’t get hold of him, I’ll swing by the studio and leave a note.’

‘No, you’re OK. Let me see what I got.’

This time, the wait was longer. And the voice on the phone was different. More authoritative. ‘You looking for Pete, yeah?’

‘That’s right. We’re old pals.’

‘How do you know Pete?’

‘I did some fill-in guitar on the last Pill Brick set,’ Nick said as nonchalantly as he could manage. But his spirits were sinking. ‘We kind of knew each other before, but that’s when we really became mates. Look, if it’s a problem, I don’t want to put you on the spot.’

‘It’s OK, you sound like the real deal,’ the man said. ‘And I don’t think Pete’s hiding out from anybody. You got a pen?’

And there it was. Strike three. An address for Pete Matthews. Something concrete to pass on to the people on the ground.

Vivian ended the call and tamped down the desire to jump out of her seat and do a little dance. It wasn’t generally considered an appropriate response to positive news in the FBI, where high-fiving was barely acceptable. Stephanie had perked up during the conversation, even though Vivian had done her best to keep her end non-committal. Now she smiled. ‘Detective Nicolaides is quite the operator,’ she said. Seeing Stephanie’s blush, she added, ‘I’m talking professionally, of course. Stephanie, he’s come up with a very exciting piece of information for us. Pete Matthews is not in London. He’s not even in the UK. He’s here, in America. Not only is he in America, he’s in Detroit.’ She sat back, a picture of determined delight.

Stephanie looked as if she hardly dare hope. ‘I’m not very good on American geography. How far is that from here?’

‘About five hours’ drive up the interstate,’ Vivian said, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet. She glanced at her watch. ‘If it was Matthews who snatched Jimmy, he’s had plenty of time to make it back to Detroit and send out for pizza by now.’

‘I can’t credit it,’ Stephanie said. ‘A few minutes ago, I felt like I was in the middle of a nightmare. A completely baffling mystery. And now . . . It could really come down to that evil bastard? All this, because I said no to a bully?’

Vivian assumed a gentle expression and softened her voice. ‘It’s not your fault, Stephanie. You did the right thing in all of this. He’s the one who carries the blame.’

‘What now?’

‘Detective Nicolaides really delivered the goods. He got us a cell phone number, and the address where Matthews is living. Now, what I propose is that we get on the road. I want you to come with me, because if we recover Jimmy tonight, as I hope we will, it’s important that you are there to make him feel safe and secure again.’ She made a scooping motion with her hands, indicating that Stephanie should get up and prepare to leave. ‘Lia, I know Stephanie and Jimmy’s bags have been scanned and searched. Can you have someone bring them to my office? We need to get going as quickly as possible.’

Lopez scowled. Clearly she didn’t appreciate being treated like a bag handler. But there was no time to lose. A child’s life could be at stake. She grunted and picked up Stephanie’s carry-on then tramped out of the office, her feelings clear from the set of her shoulders.

‘Follow me,’ Vivian said, heading out the door and down the hallway. Her phone was already at her ear. ‘Abbott, we’re rolling. I’ve got an address for our prime suspect . . . Detroit. Meet me at my office. I need you to drive us, I’m going to be making calls . . . Sure. Thanks.’

Until this point, Vivian had only been able to demonstrate her people skills. And she had plenty of those. But what she loved was when events started to unfold and she could follow her instinct for action. Now, there were people to be organised, directives to be issued, a quest to be followed to its natural outcome. And kudos to be won along the way. That wasn’t why she did her job. But it didn’t hurt.

They’d barely made it to the office when Abbott appeared, rumpled and cheerful like a kid on the brink of a promised outing. Vivian walked Stephanie to her car then they drove back to the terminal kerbside, where Abbott was waiting with the luggage. He threw the bags into the back of the SUV, evicted Vivian from the driving seat and roared off towards the highway. ‘We should have missed most of the traffic,’ he said, gunning the engine and flashing the car in front to pull over.

‘Just so long as you keep missing it,’ Vivian said, phone in her hand again. Her first call was to her boss. Succinctly she outlined what they had and where they were going. ‘I’m going to need local law enforcement to check out the scenario ahead of our arrival,’ she said. ‘And local tech support. We need to know if Matthews is there and, if so, whether he’s alone. We might need listening devices . . . Yes, sir. Five hours, maximum. I have the mother with me.’ She ended the call and let out a huge breath. Turning to look at Stephanie through the gap between the seats, she said, ‘My boss is talking to the local FBI office and the local cops. They’re going to check out whether the house is occupied. If there’s anybody home, they’ll use listening devices and thermal imaging to see how many there are and where they are in the house. And if we think Matthews is there with Jimmy, we’ll have a SWAT team mount a rescue.’ Vivian spoke quickly, brimming with confidence. She could see her assurance leak into Stephanie, buoying her up and bringing her hope.

‘Did you say we were headed for Corktown?’ Abbott said, not taking his eyes off the road.

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘If we need a rendezvous, there’s a great barbecue restaurant there.’

Vivian rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not always about your stomach, Abbott.’

‘I’m just saying.’

Stephanie cleared her throat. ‘I’m sure the barbecue in Detroit is lovely and I don’t want to be difficult, but if we’re going to be driving for five hours, I could use something to eat. It’s been a long time since I ate anything other than a cold cheeseburger.’

‘It’s not an unreasonable request,’ Abbott said. ‘Soon as we hit an exit with some fast-food joints, we’ll swing through and get supplies.’

‘I’m sorry, Stephanie,’ Vivian said. ‘I should have been more considerate.’

‘She gets carried away,’ Abbott said. ‘In a good way, I mean. We’ll get you fed and watered, and with luck, we’ll have your boy back in your arms tonight.’