Hostage

4

Retro got the call from Ashton at 8:07.

She called him on his cell phone instead of the police radio.

“I didn’t want this to go out over the airwaves yet,” she said.

Nervously.

Informally.

More like a friend-to-friend exchange instead of official police business, as if she suspected that something was very wrong but wasn’t quite ready to admit it yet.

“What’s going on?” Retro said.

“I need you to swing by the diner. Vaughan called and said she was on her way to the station with a subject in custody. That was twenty minutes ago, and she hasn’t shown up yet.”

“Why didn’t she call for backup?”

“It was nothing. Public intoxication and destruction of property. She said the guy was cooperative. What really worries me is that she’s not responding to my calls. I’ve tried the radio and her cell phone.”

“Did you get a description on the perp?”

“Yes. Caucasian with brown eyes and brown hair, approximately thirty-five years old. No ID.”

“I’m on my way over there,” Retro said. “She probably walked back inside and bought the guy a hamburger or something. You know how she is.”

“But why isn’t she answering her phone?”

“Maybe the battery went dead.”

“Okay. Give me a call when you know something.”

“I will.”

Retro switched on his light bar and headed over to Second Street, going a little faster than the posted speed limit and pulsing his siren through the red lights, trying to reach Vaughan on the radio every thirty seconds or so.

No answer.

He turned the corner and parked on the street, climbed out and saw the writing on the sidewalk and the blotches on the fire hydrant and the can of spray paint that had rolled into the gutter. He would need to call in a clean-up crew to deal with the mess, but first he wanted to find out what happened to Vaughan.

He walked around the block, didn’t see her car anywhere.

He entered the diner, which was still busy with the breakfast crowd. There was a waitress wiping down one of the tables in front, a young lady Retro didn’t recognize. He motioned for her to come up to the counter.

“Have a seat,” she said from across the room, gesturing toward the booth reserved for the Hope Police Department.

“I need to talk to you,” Retro said.

She left her bottle of spray cleaner and her roll of paper towels on the table and hurried to the front of the restaurant.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she said.

“Was there a female officer here about an hour ago?”

“Yes, sir. I served her. She ordered eggs and bacon and hash browns and toast, but then she walked outside and arrested some guy before she had a chance to eat much of it.”

“She never came back inside?”

“No, sir. I saw everything through the window over there behind the drink station. Guy was staggering around with a can of spray paint over by the fire hydrant. Looked really drunk. The officer was trying to talk to him at first, and then she patted him down and handcuffed him and led him away, toward the parking lot. She never came back into the restaurant. In fact, I still have her guest receipt. She never paid me.”

Retro pulled a ten dollar bill out of his pocket.

“Will this cover it?” he said.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right back with your change.”

“That’s okay. Keep it.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope everything’s all right.”

Retro nodded. He walked outside, looked up and down Second Street, wondered what could have happened. He pulled out his cell phone and called the station.

Ashton answered right away.

“Did you find her?” she said.

“No. Go ahead and put out an APB. I want to get the state police in on this as soon as possible. And I’m sure Commander Bailey will want to schedule a press conference right away and set up a tip line. Maybe offer a reward. I’m going to tape off the area where Vaughan arrested the guy, and I’ll bag the can of spray paint he was using. Maybe we can get some prints off of it. After that I’m going to check the possible routes Vaughan might have taken from the diner to the station, and then I’ll check her house. I’m trying to stay optimistic, but I’m pretty concerned at this point.”

“Me too,” Ashton said.

Retro walked back to his cruiser, opened the trunk and grabbed a pair of nitrile gloves and a zippered plastic evidence bag and a roll of yellow crime scene tape. No telling how long it might take for the state police to show up with a forensics team, he thought. Best to secure the area and get everything started.

He picked up the can of spray paint first, dropped it into the bag, placed the bag in the back seat of his car.

As he taped off the sidewalk, a few of the shop owners walked outside and expressed their concern, wondering what had happened and worrying about how it might affect their business. Without going into any details, Retro told them that it was potentially a very serious situation, one that might require a great deal of patience from them. They walked back to their stores, grumbling about how difficult it was to make a living these days.

When Retro finished what he was doing, he climbed into his cruiser and drove toward the station, veering onto the route that Vaughan liked to take from this part of town, the shortcut down Old Slaughterhouse Road. Most of the other officers-and most of the other citizens of Hope-preferred to use First Street when traveling east and west through the business district, even though it was a little bit further in distance, and even though there were several intersections with traffic lights to deal with.

First Street was properly maintained by the county, new and smooth and well-lit at night, whereas Old Slaughterhouse Road was bumpy and crumbling and eerily quiet and dark. It was desolate and creepy and some of the older people in town said you could still smell the blood sometimes when the wind blew the right way.

Vaughan insisted that the gasoline she saved paid for the department’s Fourth of July picnic every year. She claimed that she knew the old thoroughfare well enough to dodge all the potholes blindfolded, but her police car always looked like it needed to be washed and it was frequently in the shop for one thing or another. Retro didn’t mind using the shortcut occasionally, but he avoided it for the most part. First Street was just so much more pleasant, and the job was hard enough without having to rattle down three miles of grit and grime multiple times every day. Not that he would have to worry about it much longer. After twenty years of service as a police officer, his retirement had been approved, and he would soon be moving to Florida and leaving Hope behind. He was forty-two years old and single, and he would be getting a nice paycheck for the rest of his life. No more cold winters, no more twelve-hour shifts. He looked forward to fishing and playing tennis and watching the ocean from a hammock with a tall drink in his hand.

He drove slowly. As he approached the meat processing plant, he saw something off to the shoulder, a bright white rag or something, stark and incongruous against the sandy black dirt.

He stopped and got out to take a closer look.

It wasn’t a rag.

It was a sock.