Dead River (8 page)

Valerie stumbled through a confusing description of the phone call as they made their way downstairs. Adam helped stabilize her, holding her arm as they descended the staircase.

After her convoluted account of the phone call, she could concentrate on only one thing that was said: Sara Ann will be returned to you.

Dawn followed her parents, not uttering a single word.

In the living room Peter Carillo was on speakerphone.

“Yes, he beat the trace. Another thirty seconds and we’d have had the bastard.”

He stroked his thick mustache as he talked and motioned the Rileys to sit. His shiny head reflected the light from his table lamp.

“I have the Rileys here now.”

Averly’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Could you hear anything in the background?”

“Not really,” Carillo answered.

“Something that might indicate where he was calling from?”

“No. There’s nothing I could hear. But we can have the tape run through analysis.”

“We may do just that.”

“You should hear his voice though.”

“Why?”

“He had to be using a distortion device.”

“So he was masking his voice.”

“Yeah, and he told Mrs. Riley he sent a letter. They’re supposed to receive it today.”

“A letter?”

“Yes, he said: You will get a letter. Today. Then: I will call again.”

“Okay, listen, there are several things we need to do.”

“I’m listening.”

“First of all, it’s almost three and I’m not going to get any more sleep, so I’ll be on the road in about an hour and should be there around five. I want you to call Glenn Wilkerson.”

“Now?” asked Carillo.

“Yes, now. When you hang up, call him. Tell him he needs to contact the town’s postmaster immediately.”

“Okay.”

“And then get him and a few officers into the post office and find that letter.”

“What if it hasn’t arrived at the post office yet?”

“We’ll never know if we don’t look.”

Carillo sighed. “I suppose.”

“I want that letter. Another thing, I’m going to try to get help from the FBI.”

Carillo slowly sat back in his metal folding chair. “The FBI? But there hasn’t been a federal crime committed.” His Brooklyn accent was now breaking out heavily.

The Rileys sat on the couch, hanging on every word.

“I know, but I think they should get involved anyway.”

“I suppose, if they’re willing.”

“I know the supervisory senior resident agent here in Orlando.”

“Who’s that?”

“Sidney Harrington.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Very well. I think I can convince him to help us out on this one.”

“Isn’t there an FBI office in this area that we should notify?”

“Yeah, I’m sure Sid will contact them after I talk to him. I believe it’s in Melbourne. I’ll call Sid after I get there.”

 11

ADAM APPROACHED Carillo’s equipment table with his arms folded over his chest. “What do we do now?” he demanded.

“Hold on. One more call, then we’ll talk.”

Carillo got Wilkerson on the phone and arranged for the postmaster and two officers to start searching through the mail immediately. He hung up and turned to face Adam. “Mr. Riley.” He motioned toward the couch. “Please sit with your family.”

“I don’t want to sit. Besides, only part of my family’s here. I want some answers!”

“Please calm down.”

“To hell with calm, I want to know what’s going on.”

“What are you doing to catch this person?” Valerie shouted.

Carillo jumped to his feet. “Hold on!” Less than five feet from Adam, he looked up at him. “I know you won’t like this, but we wait.”

“Wait?” Adam shouted.

“Hear me out.”

“Do something!” Dawn screamed.

Carillo’s face tensed as he threw both of his arms upward. “Goddamn it! Shut up!”

Adam took one step back. Valerie and Dawn eased back down on the couch.

Carillo lowered his arms and pointed around the room. “Set—tle down. Understand?”

The room was silent.

“Okay. Here’s what’s going on. The postmaster and police will search the post office for the letter. As soon as I hear something I’ll let you know.”

Adam took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then slowly released the trapped air. “This guy’s using some sort of vocoder system to distort his voice, isn’t he?”

“He’s using something,” Carillo said, still visibly irritated. He then lowered himself onto the flimsy seat of the folding chair. The metal frame creaked under his weight.

The mail-sorting room at the Cocoa Beach post office had a familiar stale scent that Wilkerson recalled from his college days working in the student union building post office.

The postmaster had set up a simple system with four large wooden tables placed side by side, and two plastic bulk-mail carts positioned in front of them. Each of the four men snapped on rubber gloves, took one of the canvas bags from the stack in the corner of the room, and dumped it on a table. Letters of no interest went into the gray plastic cart and packages into the blue one. They worked fast but carefully, checking each piece of mail. Packages and letters crisscrossed each other en route to their destinations.

It took less than an hour to find it. The postmaster held up a letter with his latex-gloved hand. “Got it,” he shouted.

The envelope was white and addressed in printed letters to the Rileys. There was no return address. Wilkerson gently took the envelope from the postmaster, slipped it into an evidence bag, and headed for the police station.

It almost felt too easy. The envelope lay in its clear plastic bag on the seat beside him. I wonder what’s in the letter. He wanted to pull over and rip it open. Instead he popped a toothpick in his mouth and punched in Carillo’s number on his cell phone. The display said 5:27 am. He glanced over again at the letter in the plastic bag, mesmerized by overpowering anticipation.

“Carillo.”

“Peter, this is Glenn Wilkerson.”

“Did you find the letter?”

“Yup,” Wilkerson said, glancing at the seat beside him to make sure the letter was still there.

“Great. Where are you now?”

“Almost to the station.”

“No! Bring the letter here. Averly will be here by then, and we can open it immediately.”

Wilkerson grunted. Averly was one thing, but where did Carillo get off telling him what to do?

He heard Carillo catch his breath. “We’ll have the lab analyze it after we see what it says. Time’s working against us here. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Wilkerson grumbled. He snapped the phone shut and yanked his car into a tight U-turn back toward the Rileys.

 12

WILKERSON WHEELED his car up the Rileys’ driveway and parked. Peter Carillo was right. Wilkerson spotted a dark blue Crown Victoria with an Orange County license plate. It had to be Averly’s.

Inside, Averly introduced Wilkerson to Dawn and Valerie. Valerie stood alone by the couch, her eyes locked on the plastic bag Wilkerson held with the letter inside. Adam watched her face turn pasty white.

“Val, sit back down on the couch,” Adam said, as he walked over and helped lower her beside him on the soft cushion. Dawn joined them on the opposite side, leaning on the armrest.

“Detective Wilkerson, do you have a pair of latex gloves?” Averly asked.

“Don’t go anywhere without them.”

“Then put them on and open the letter.”

With his gloves on, he slid the letter out of the evidence bag and ran his index finger carefully under the flap. He gently pulled two handwritten pages out and glanced up at Averly.

“Read it,” Averly said.

Adam watched Wilkerson’s lips move, but no words came from his mouth. He was standing in the middle of the goddamn room reading the letter to himself.

“Out loud,” ordered Averly.

“Sorry.” Wilkerson shuffled the two sheets of paper. “It’s entitled Last Will and Testament.”

Valerie let out an ear-piercing cry and slumped over on Adam’s shoulder.

Wilkerson looked up at the Rileys, then over toward Averly, who gave him a sharp nod. Wilkerson continued:

I love you Mommy, Daddy, Dawn, and Brad, and everyone else, and all my friends and relatives. My thoughts will always be with all of you . . . (it’s almost over). I tried to be good, and I hope I never disappointed any of you. If I did, I’m very sorry. I only wanted to make you proud of me because I’m very proud of my family and everyone I know. Please do not be afraid, Gabriel and God will watch over me.

Wilkerson paused, coughing to his side to clear his throat, and added:

With all my love always, Sara Ann Riley.

Wilkerson again looked at the Rileys sitting on the couch. Adam stared back at him with wide, vacant eyes, one arm around his sobbing wife. Dawn slid over and held onto her mother with both arms.

Averly went and stood in front of the Rileys, waving for Wilkerson to bring the letter. “Is this your daughter’s handwriting?” he asked, as Wilkerson held out the letter.

Valerie didn’t lift her head from where it was buried in Adam’s shoulder. Adam studied both pages for several minutes.

“Yes.” Adam’s voice caught in his esophagus for a second. “I think so.”

“Are you sure?” Averly asked, adjusting his glasses.

Adam grunted to clear his throat. “Her ‘t’s—” Adam had to stop again. He took a deep breath and through pursed lips slowly let it out. “The small ‘t’s have loops. She does that.”

“Show him the envelope,” Averly ordered Wilkerson.

Wilkerson flipped the envelope out from behind the first page of the letter.

“Is that her handwriting?” Averly asked.

Adam studied the envelope, then finally gave an affirmative nod.

Averly turned toward the equipment table where Carillo sat quietly, then spun back. “And Brad’s her boyfriend?” he asked.

“Yes,” Adam replied.

“Thanks, Mr. Riley,” he said and started for the equipment table.

Averly had Wilkerson refold the letter. Wilkerson slipped it and the envelope back into the evidence bag. Averly then motioned for Carillo and Wilkerson to join him in the far corner of the room.

Averly spoke in a quiet but certain tone. “Look, I’m satisfied it’s the girl’s handwriting. I’m going to call Sid Harrington. We need the FBI on this right away.”

“The FBI? Who’s Sid Harrington?” Wilkerson asked.

“Yes, the FBI,” Averly said, his volume rising slightly.

Averly saw Adam shoot a glare in the direction of their huddle. He lowered his voice again. “Sid Harrington heads the FBI office in Orlando,” he whispered. “I want his help. We need all we can get.”

“But—” Wilkerson began.

“But what do we have for the feds?” Carillo interrupted. “So far it’s a straight kidnapping, not even across state lines.”

Wilkerson’s face pruned up, frowning at Carillo.

Averly grimaced, his teeth gritted, but he kept his voice low. “I know that, but we don’t have a clue what’s happened to this girl. Face it, gentlemen, we may have a killer on our hands. He said he didn’t want ransom money, and the letter never mentioned it.”

“Okay,” Carillo conceded in a whisper.

Wilkerson stayed silent, breaking off from the group and shaking his head with disapproval.

 13

AVERLY STEPPED outside the front door of the house, flipped open his cell phone, and keyed in Sid Harrington’s office number. It was a little before 8:00 am, and already the heat of the day felt heavy, hanging in the still air. A few birds chirped their approval of the clear blue sky. Harrington wasn’t in yet but his secretary expected him shortly, so Averly left his cell phone number.