Gone

CHAPTER 32

Wednesday, 4:28 a.m. PST

QUINCY HAD SET HIS ALARM FOR FIVE. He rose at four thirty instead, threw on nylon shorts, a runner’s shirt, and lightweight jacket, then hit the road. He ran for three miles down the twisty back road where he and Rainie lived. Rain pelted his face, rolled down his cheeks, splashed his legs.

His sides ached. His stomach rumbled. He ran down the empty road, around the winding corners. He startled two deer, who responded to his bright yellow coat by crashing into the woods.

He hit the three-mile marker, swung around and headed back, jogging uphill now and making his legs burn.

Five fifteen a.m., he was back home and in the shower.

Five thirty, Supervisory Special Agent Glenda Rodman returned his call. An experienced agent as reserved and overworked as Quincy, she didn’t bother with pleasantries:

Andrew Bensen had enlisted in the Army three years ago and served one year in Iraq. His unit had been recalled six months ago, but he had failed to show, and was now considered AWOL. She had already spoken to a contact in the Pentagon; they had no leads.

Andrew was six foot two, brown hair, brown eyes. On his upper left shoulder, he sported an American Chopper tattoo. He liked his Harley and was known to frequent biker bars. His military record had been clean, if unimpressive, before he’d gone AWOL. His fellow grunts liked him, his officers found him to be quick and cooperative. The tour in Iraq had not been great for him. At least one officer noted that Bensen exhibited signs of post-traumatic stress disorder. Bensen, however, had never followed up with his local VA.

And that’s all she could tell him about Private Andrew Bensen.

Quincy thanked Glenda for her time, hung up the phone, and got dressed. Navy blue suit, starched white shirt, a Jerry Garcia red, orange, and turquoise tie. Rainie had given him the tie one Christmas as a joke. He wore it anytime he felt he needed luck.

Five forty-five a.m., he headed for the task force room.

Kincaid was already there.

Kimberly was up at five. She showered for what felt like an hour but was probably only five minutes. Her shoulders were already tight, her body pumping with unfocused adrenaline. She felt like going for a run. She harnessed the energy for later, when she would need it most.

Five twenty, she rolled Mac out of bed. He landed on the floor with an “Oomph” and still refused to open his eyes. She went with the time-honored approach and tickled him. Who knew a grown man could be so ticklish under his chin?

That, of course, led to some earnest groping on Mac’s part. She swatted his hands away and sent him to shower.

Alone in the room, she sat on the edge of the bed and once again studied the engagement ring. She put it on, she admired it in the light. She thought of her mother, who hadn’t lived to see this day. And of her older sister, Mandy.

Then she closed the ring box, hid it in her duffel bag, and packed up her clothes.

Five fifty, she and Mac were checked out and loading up the car. He wasn’t a morning person, so she did the driving. They had just closed the doors when he started to speak.

“I’ve been thinking about the Astoria case,” Mac said. “The double murder in August.”

“The case that upset Rainie.”

“Exactly. I was wondering if it was purely coincidental that Rainie should be kidnapped after working such a disturbing case.”

“Unless the fact she’s been so upset made her a more vulnerable target.”

“It’s possible. I asked your father some questions yesterday.”

“And?”

“And they think they know who did it. The victims lived in a duplex maintained by a local kid named Charlie Duncan. Duncan’s a twenty-one-year-old high school dropout. Known for being good with his hands, but not so into bodily hygiene. Lives on his own in a studio apartment in another unit owned by the same landlord. Neighbors consider him to be quiet, if perhaps a little creepy. He has a tendency to show up at female tenants’ units unannounced and let himself in with his master key. The landlord said he’s been working with Duncan on his ‘communication skills.’”

Kimberly rolled her eyes.

“Here’s the deal,” Mac said. “Duncan’s fingerprints were all over that crime scene. Same with his bloody shoe prints. But he had a built-in alibi-he’s the maintenance man. Of course his fingerprints are in the unit, and he’s the one who called in the bodies-claimed he discovered them when he went over to change a lightbulb.”

“Change a lightbulb? Because a young, single mom is so helpless she calls the maintenance man to fix a broken bulb?”

“The guy’s not brilliant,” Mac conceded, “but he gets the job done. Which makes me wonder, of course, if he hasn’t moved on with his crime spree.”

“He doesn’t fit the profile,” Kimberly said immediately.

“He’s lower socioeconomic class, has a connection with Rainie.”

“You’re assuming he knows she’s involved with the investigation.”

“Duncan likes to drop by the duplex, remember? Including showing up one day when Rainie and Quincy were reviewing the crime scene. He asked all sorts of questions about the investigation, including their role.”

“Like they told him anything.”

“They didn’t have to. Their job is implicit in their presence at the unit. Plus, Rainie is beautiful, which gets any man to pay attention.”

Kimberly shot him a look.

“You’re prettier,” he said immediately.

“Nice save.”

“Look, Duncan’s not a perfect fit. According to Quincy, we’re looking for a white-trash anal-retentive. Duncan’s clearly not anal-retentive, and way too socially stunted to snag a girlfriend. But still. The guy is smart. Sounds like he’s already getting away with two murders. Maybe we shouldn’t underestimate him.”

“The murder of the little girl bothers you,” Kimberly said softly.

“The mom fought hard. She had to know what he’d do next.”

“It’s a sucky world,” Kimberly murmured.

“Quincy devised an interview strategy. Tried to trick Duncan into saying what he’d done. Didn’t work. They installed cameras at the grave sites. Nothing. Only hope they have now is if the guy confesses to someone. Unfortunately, the only person Duncan hangs out with is his mom, and apparently, she thinks he walks on water.”

“It’s only been a few months,” Kimberly said more philosophically. “They’re still processing evidence at this stage. You never know what might turn up.”

“What would it matter?” Mac grunted. “Hair, fiber? His job still explains it away. Only thing that would help now is if he was caught cold turkey on film. If the unit had a security camera, or hell, even a nanny cam stuck in a toy bear.”

“No such luck?”

“No such luck.”

They were turning into the parking lot of Fish and Wildlife, Kimberly’s mind already moving to the day ahead.

“Unless,” Mac said abruptly.

“Unless what?”

The other officers were also turning into the parking lot. They saw the PIO, Lieutenant Mosley, as well as Sheriff Atkins, both heading briskly for the conference room.

“Showtime,” Mac muttered.

They got out of the car and prepared for the day ahead.

Wednesday, 7:02 a.m. PST

KINCAID ’S DEBRIEF WAS SHORT AND SWEET. They reviewed the twenty thousand dollars, procured by Mac, now inventoried and neatly stacked inside a duffel bag. They reviewed the electronic equipment, including the GPS device Kimberly would be wearing, as well as the surveillance equipment that would be used to follow her. Sheriff Atkins and Mac would be inside the unmarked white van that would be in charge of tailing Kimberly’s footsteps. Their job would be to keep Kimberly in sight at all times. Kincaid, Lieutenant Mosley, and Quincy would be back in the op center, working with Candi on the phone call. Their job would be to keep the UNSUB calm and talking at all times.

The sheriff confirmed that Dougie Jones had not been magically found overnight. Her deputies had also narrowed the persons of interest down to an even dozen.

Candi accepted a profile of each person, complete with bullet points. Lieutenant Mosley supplied her with a tray filled with bottled water. He looked the most alert of all of them, with his buzz-cut hair, crisply pressed state trooper uniform, and camera-ready face. He had arrived with a dozen copies of the Bakersville Daily Sun, the morning edition blaring news of the kidnapping across the front page: “LOCAL BOY FEARED KIDNAPPED; Police still searching for missing woman. ” Next to the banner headline were two photos, a head-and-shoulders shot of Rainie and a school portrait of Dougie.

It gave Quincy an eerie feeling to see the grainy mug shot of his wife, blown up to huge proportions on the newspaper’s front page. To have her eyes peering back at him.

Adam Danicic’s story ran three pages. He included Rainie’s name, description, and details concerning the discovery of her car. He mentioned the task force, their desire to work with the kidnapper, and their fear that a local boy had also been kidnapped. Then, much to Quincy’s dismay, Danicic included bits and pieces from Rainie’s past, including her former position with the Bakersville Sheriff’s Department, and that she’d “recently” been found innocent of killing Lucas Bensen when she was sixteen years of age.

“Which pieces of this story did we control?” Quincy asked wryly, after skimming the article.

“No mention of the maps nor proof of life,” Mosley replied seriously, ticking off his fingers. “Oh, and Danicic was kind enough not to mention that Dougie Jones was probably kidnapped because we fucked up. I give him some credit for that.”

“He sold out Rainie easily enough.”

“We couldn’t stop him from using her name. And once he’s included her full name…”

“Everything about her is just an Internet search away,” Quincy murmured.

“Danicic isn’t an idiot. The fact that the victim is former law enforcement with a troubled past makes for a great story. On the other hand, he left out that she was serving as Dougie’s advocate, which did us a slight favor.”

“Give with one hand, take away with another.”

“It’s a game,” Mosley said with a shrug. “The media are the biggest players around. Speaking of which…” The beeper on the public information officer’s waist was going off for the sixth time in the past thirty minutes. Mosley glanced at the screen, grimaced. “We’re gonna have to talk about a morning briefing. The AP wire has picked up the story, and if my beeper is anything to go by, everyone wants a piece of the action.”

“Not till after the ransom drop,” Kincaid said immediately.

“We could use them,” Mosley pushed. “Deliver the profile Mr. Quincy’s developed. Get the public looking for our man.”

“And scare the UNSUB into thinking he’s going to be caught at any minute, so he might as well kill both victims to cover his tracks.”

“The longer we go without a briefing, the more the press will dig on their own. And the more they discover on their own, the less I have to bargain with.”

“Not till after the ransom drop,” Kincaid repeated. And that was the end of the discussion.

Eight a.m. They fidgeted, reread the UNSUB’s past communications, and in general, worked themselves into a state.

At nine, Mac took a call on his cell phone. The Portland recruiting branch of the Army confirmed that they had record of Private Andrew Bensen, currently listed as AWOL.

Quincy offered the information to Kincaid. Kincaid ranted for twenty minutes about Quincy daring to impede an official police investigation by deliberately withholding a vital lead, not to mention the importance of trust in a multijurisdictional investigation. Sheriff Atkins issued an all-points bulletin for a man fitting Bensen’s description. Lieutenant Mosley muttered about the number of press agents who monitored police radios and that they had just added fuel to the fire.

Then, for the most part, everyone retired to their separate corners and fumed.

Quincy’s phone sat in the middle of the conference room table. It was hooked to a speakerphone, all incoming calls being recorded and traced-not that anyone held out much hope for locating the origin of the caller. Cell signals bounced off towers in random patterns, making it virtually impossible to trace back a signal. But they went through the motions, because sometimes, that’s all a task force has left.

Nine fifty-nine a.m.

The phone rang.

Candi put on the headset.

Lieutenant Mosley hit the Record button.

It began.