Finding Sarah (22 page)

Randy entered the room. Carpeted
in taupe or mauve or whatever you called those non-colors, the office held a
massive oak conference table surrounded by twelve chairs. A bank of cabinets
and empty shelves adorned one wall, with a counter and more cabinets below.
Randy saw a phone on the wall. He looked at Gary.

“No, that phone number is active
and it’s not the one you gave me. That’s a house phone so they can call and
complain that it’s too hot or too cold in here, or they’re out of grub during
one of their meetings.”

“There’s an empty jack,” Randy
said. “Could someone plug a phone in there and use it?”

Gary lifted one shoulder. “Suppose
so, assuming they could bypass the lock. Of course any suit’s key would work
here, and the maintenance crew has masters, and so does Security. Dozens of
people could get in if they wanted to.”

Randy began opening cabinets. He
found an old city telephone directory, a lot of dust, and three ballpoint pens.
When he opened the last cabinet door, his heart jumped. “What about this?” he
asked, pointing to an old-model answering machine.

Gary stepped over. “What the—” He
reached for the machine.

Randy grasped Gary’s arm. “Please.
Don’t touch anything.” He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and moved the
answering machine, revealing another set of electrical outlets and telephone
jacks.

“Wait a minute,” Gary said. “Now
I remember. Five or six years ago, before I came on board, this office was used
for a big research project. They hired a dozen temps to handle the data entry.
It was rewired to handle the extra equipment, and then when the job was done,
they redesigned the space as a boardroom, which is hardly ever used. I totally
forgot about the extra outlets.”

“I’d like to take this machine
back to Pine Hills,” Randy said.

“I don’t think I’m authorized to
let you do that. Let me make a quick call.”

While Gary used the house phone,
Randy fought the temptation to push the “play” button on the machine. This
would be done by the book, one page at a time. Hell, one paragraph at a time.
No way would this case get tossed because of some sloppy work on his part. They’d
record the messages, and Connor would run the machine through the fuming closet
to raise any latents. Much as he wanted to do it here, now, himself, he knew
fingerprint powder would wreak havoc with the machine.

“Do you have a warrant?” Gary
asked.

“No, but I can get one.” Randy
waited as Gary returned to his call.

“The boss says no problem.” Gary
said.

Randy exhaled, almost audibly. “Thank
you. After I have this fingerprinted, I’ll return it. I should be back this
afternoon. Would you have another answering machine to plug in here while this
one’s gone?”

“No, we use voice mail now. But
why not let me plug in a phone that rings directly to voice mail?”

More options to weigh. An
incoming caller likely wouldn’t notice—or care about—a different answering message.
But what if his suspect came by to pick up his messages? “Is there any way to
ensure that nobody gets in here until I get back?”

Gary smiled. “I can create a
little electronic problem with the lock so nobody can get in, although like I
said, this place isn’t used much. Besides, if there’s a problem, it would be me
they’d call to fix it, so nobody would ever know I created the glitch in the
first place.”

“Thanks.” That should cover
everything but the guy calling the machine to retrieve messages remotely and
deleting them. All he could do now was hope that didn’t happen. It was a
gamble, but he should be back within a few hours. A risk he was willing to
take.

“Thanks. I appreciate it. I
imagine whoever is behind this does his work after hours, but I’d rather be
careful. And, please, don’t let word of my visit get out.”

“Not a problem,” Gary said. “I’ll
speak to Security as well.”

Randy picked up the machine. “Thanks.
I’ll be back as soon as I can.” This time, the elevator seemed to move in slow
motion. Randy tapped his foot as he waited for the doors to open in the lobby.

Back at the station, Randy
dropped the answering machine off with Connor and got busy running Mr. Yamaguchi’s
list of Med-Tekke employees though NCIC looking for anyone with a criminal
record.

Sensing that someone had entered
the office, Randy looked up, expecting Connor. Instead, Kovak dropped a paper
sack on Randy’s desk.

“I brought you a sub,” he said. “Meatball.”

Randy mumbled a quick thank-you
and reached into the bag, still reading the screen. His eyes burned, and the
aroma of the sandwich persuaded him to take a break.

“Get anything from Consolidated?”
Kovak said.

Randy nodded, swallowing a
mouthful of meatballs and bread. “Answering machine. Connor’s got it.”

“And Connor’s done,” came a voice
from the hall. Connor came in with the answering machine. He set the machine on
Randy’s desk.

“And?” Randy said.

“Sorry—no prints. Wiped clean.”

“Fuck,” Randy said. “What about
messages?”

“One.”

“Dammit, Connor. Play the damn
thing for me.”

Then a beep and the incoming
message—”Mr. Steiglitz? This is Rose. I have done what you asked. The package
is on its way. I expect payment in full tomorrow, in cash, and the negatives,
as we agreed.”

“Any help?” Connor asked. “You’re
the detectives, but that doesn’t sound like much to me.”

“Sounds like you’ve got someone
expecting payment for a job. Nothing too incriminating there,” Kovak said. “The
negatives might mean blackmail, though. Would have happened a while back before
almost everyone went digital. You know this Steiglitz guy?”

“No.” Randy pushed his sandwich
aside and added Steiglitz to his growing list of names. “Play it again,” he
said.

Connor punched a button and the
message repeated. Randy concentrated. The woman’s voice had a hint of an Asian
accent. His brain buzzed. He reached for the Med-Tekke list. Scanning the
pages, he found the name he was looking for. Rose Tanaka. Better than nothing.
He picked up the phone and called Mr. Yamaguchi. The man wasn’t in, but when Randy
identified himself as a cop, a secretary told him Rose Tanaka had worked for
Med-Tekke for six months, but she hadn’t reported for work in several days.

“She did it,” Randy said. “Steiglitz,
or someone using the name, paid her to steal the toxin. She did the job, took
the money, and ran.”

“No proof,” Kovak said.

“I’ll get some. Meanwhile, I’m
going to take this machine back to Consolidated.” He was halfway out the door
when Connor’s voice stopped him.

“Don’t you want the remote code?”

He swiveled. “You mean so I can
call in myself?”

“Well, duh. Yeah. Whoever this
machine belongs to never reprogrammed the factory default.”

Shit. He was really losing his
focus. “Yes, of course. Thanks. I owe you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I won’t
forget.” Connor said.

The darkness lifted, and Sarah’s
memory returned. Braving a peek through barely opened eyelids, she found
herself alone in the bedroom. She lay still, trying to make sure Chris thought
she was asleep. At least twice she was aware of the door opening and closing.
The third time it opened, it didn’t close again, and she heard faint footsteps
and then the quiet sounds of breathing from the end of the bed. She counted to
one hundred and her visitor remained. Chris wasn’t leaving this time. She might
as well find out as much as she could about where she was and what he planned
to do to her. She turned over and raised her eyelids.

“Hello again,” Chris said with a
smile. “I think I know what’s the matter. Wait right here.” He darted out of
the room, locking the door behind him.

The man was totally out of touch
with reality, but she was too weak to do anything about it now. She sank into
the pillows and closed her eyes again.

Chris returned, carrying a tray
and set it on the nightstand. “You’re hungry.”

Sarah contemplated the tray with
its bowl of cereal and Styrofoam cup of milk along with some toast and jam. The
Chris she remembered wouldn’t hurt her. But then, he wouldn’t have kidnapped
her, either. He was bringing her breakfast, not coming at her with a knife.
Knife. She checked the tray again. Only a plastic spoon.

“Eat something. Please,” Chris
said. “I remember how you would get if you skipped meals.”

“Why should I trust you? You
kidnapped me. You drugged me. You poisoned cats.” Her stomach tightened as she
spoke the words.

“I told you before, we’re not
talking about that now, Sarah. Eat.”

Her stomach rumbled. She would
have to play along until she got her bearings.

“I swear, there’s nothing in the
food,” he said.

As reluctant as she was to comply
with any of Chris’ fantasies, she knew he was right about eating. She’d already
passed out once. If she was going to figure a way out of here, she’d need all
of her faculties intact.

“Why am I here?” she asked. “And
where’s here, anyway?” Every instinct told her to run like hell, but something
told her to keep him talking, keep things normal, keep her tone nonchalant.
Drugs in the food or not, she decided to take her chances and eat something.

Chris took a seat on a padded
trunk under the window. He crossed one leg over the other knee, revealing
lightweight hiking boots on his feet. “We’re at my uncle’s summer cabin. He won’t
be using it for a while. And you’ll see why we’re here soon enough. Now eat.”

Sarah reached for the toast,
spooned some jam onto a slice and began nibbling at it, trying not to gag. The
first bites were cardboard, but as the sugary jam worked its way into her
bloodstream, she managed to choke down the rest. Watching Chris all the while,
she took the bowl of cereal and poured some of the milk over the flakes. He sat
there, a pleased expression on his face. Almost devotion. She suppressed a
shiver and handed him the cup. “Here. You drink the rest.”

“Of course,” he said and gulped
the milk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he finished. “I told
you, I drugged you to get you here. We’re together now, and I’ll never hurt you
again.”

Sarah spooned up some cereal.
Trying her hardest to stay calm, she spoke to Chris between bites, studying his
expression for any reaction. “You didn’t answer my question. Where exactly is
this cabin?” She struggled to remember. Had she walked into the house, or had
she been carried? Was it day or night when they arrived? They could be
anywhere. Would Randy be able to find her? She had no recollection of anything
other than waking up briefly in the back of a car. A big car. More like an SUV.

He smiled and sat on the edge of
the bed, just beyond her reach. “I can’t tell you that yet. But, I can tell you
there’s not another cabin around for more than a mile in any direction, and we’re
at least five miles from the main highway. My uncle likes his solitude.”

“What about my clothes? I can’t
exactly wear this all the time.” She tugged at her jersey.

“The dresser is full of clothes
for you to wear. You finish eating. I’ll run you another bath. And before you
try to get out again, the front door’s locked.” Chris stood and went into the
bathroom.

She heard the water running in
the tub, and Chris came back into the bedroom. He began rummaging through the
dresser. “I’ll lay your clothes out. You can come out to the front room when
you’re done. It’s warmer.”

“I’m not doing anything of the
sort.”

She pushed the covers away and
swung her legs over the bed. The dizziness had passed. She stood. Chris turned
and took her arm. “Your bath is ready.”

Sarah pulled away. “I don’t want
to take a bath.” Heartened by her returning strength, she struggled against his
tightening grip and swung her free palm at his face. He clasped her wrist
before the blow landed. His eyes narrowed. His lips compressed into a thin,
white line.

“It will be different with us,
Sarah. Not like the bad girls. We won’t have any hitting. We’ll have true love.”

She tried to kick out, but Chris
dodged.

“I said we wouldn’t have hitting,”
he growled. He twirled her and shoved her against the wall, arms above her
head, holding both her wrists. “I don’t like it when there has to be hitting.”

“Stop, Chris. You’re hurting me!”
He didn’t seem to hear—his eyes were slits.

He forced his body against hers
and she felt his rising erection, his pelvis thrusting. She tried to bring her
knee up to his groin, but he jerked his hips out of reach, took half a step
backward. Keeping her wrists pinned to the wall with one hand, he brought the
other up as if to strike her. “Don’t. Make. Me. Hit,” he said, each word a
small explosion.

“Chris! Wait. Please. You’re
right. No hitting.” She went limp against the wall and he released his hold.
She dropped to her knees, covering her head with her hands. When Chris said
nothing, Sarah peeked up at him. Her brain spun, trying to make sense of what
he was saying. “Tell me what you want. I’m not a bad girl. You know that.”

He gazed down at her. She watched
his face relax and a blank smile return.

“Not with David,” he said. “It
was a mistake to marry him instead of me, but you were married. It’s that
overgrown cop. You spent the night with him. You need to cleanse yourself.
Otherwise you’ll be like those others, and I might have to hit you. Please don’t
make me.”

He guided her into the bathroom. “You
need a bath,” he said again. “You need to be cleansed. Take your bath, get
dressed and come out to the living room where I have a fire.”

“I’m not taking a bath with you
in here.”

“Of course not. I’ll be waiting
in the living room.” Chris’ voice returned to its matter-of-fact tone, as if he’d
asked her what she wanted for dinner.

“I want your solemn promise you
won’t come back in here until I’m done.”

“I promise. You’ll have all the
privacy you want until afterwards.”

“After what?” A chill ran down
her spine.

“Why, after we’re married, silly.”

She gaped at him. He left the
room, the click of the lock piling despair on top of the chill.

* * * * *

Randy sat at his desk and stared
at the LUDs Victoria had faxed over. No outgoing calls from that number. So,
Mr. Consolidated hadn’t plugged his own phone into the jack. No real surprise.
Seven numbers had called in. Tony Mazzaro and Rose Tanaka were two of them.
Likewise Sarah’s Gertie. Three pay phones and one nameless number from Oregon
Trust. His pulse quickened. He jotted down the number and grabbed his
windbreaker. Enough driving for one day. The exercise would do him good.

The wind had picked up. He zipped
his jacket and hastened his pace on the four-block walk to Oregon Trust. The
receptionist checked the phone number Randy gave her and informed him that Bob
was the man he needed, but he wasn’t due back from lunch for another twenty
minutes. Randy turned down her offer of coffee and was halfway through a
National
Geographic
article about walruses when she informed him that Bob was back.

Bob, thin and bony, with a
receding hairline, sat at his desk in a cubicle, almost identical to every
other cubicle Randy had ever visited. Only the pictures on the desks varied.
Randy touched a framed photo of a beaming adolescent wearing Pine Hills High
School graduation attire. “Your daughter?” Randy asked.

“Yes. She’s a freshman at Rutgers
now. What can I do for you, Officer?”

“It’s Detective, and you can tell
me why you called this number last January.” Randy dropped a slip of paper in
front of the man.

Bob looked at the paper. “January?
How should I remember? Who was I supposed to have called?”

“Let’s say it’s someone at
Consolidated. Maybe about an electrical fire at a gift boutique? That Special
Something? Ring any bells?”

Bob’s smile faded. He rooted
through his Rolodex and compared the number on the slip to a card in his files.
He slumped down in his chair. “Are you going to tell my boss? They promised me
that nothing would happen. I did everything exactly like they asked.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“He, actually. Name’s Mr.
Meierbridge or something like that.” Bob stood up, shrugged and sat down again.
“He said that if I’d slow down the payments on an insurance claim, he’d pull
some strings at Rutgers and my daughter would be admitted on a scholarship. All
I had to do was say the paperwork needed more information, or there was a
computer glitch. Heck, those things happen all the time.”

Randy leaned in, taking
satisfaction from the way Bob inched away. “I assume you investigated the
possibility of arson?”

“Of course—it’s an old building.
She overloaded the system with a coffeepot, hotplate and a space heater in the
back office. Fire department agreed—I can show you the reports.”

Bob’s story matched what he’d
seen in Sarah’s files. “I believe you. Have you ever met Mr. Meierbridge?”

“No. Everything was done by
phone. Consolidated is a big client. I need this job, and he said if I didn’t
cooperate, he’d pull the account.”

“I’m going to need that in
writing,” Randy said.

Bob picked up the picture of his
daughter. “I’m not sure I should do that.”

“We could do it at the station.”
Randy started to rise. “Or I could report it to the Insurance Commission.”

“No, no need for that, Detective.”
Bob sat up straight and put his fingers to his keyboard. “I can type it up now
if you’d like.”

“Why don’t you. I’ll sit right
here while you work.” Randy pushed his chair back so he could extend his legs
in front of him, sat down and crossed his arms across his chest.

Fifteen minutes later, Bob had
produced a signed statement, which he placed in an Oregon Trust envelope and
handed to Randy. “I hope this will be enough.”

“One more thing.”

Bob peered at him. “Yes?”

“I need the file for the Tucker
car accident—happened a year ago. Suicide.”

“I’ll get it.” He stood and Randy
saw his eyes widen and his mouth drop. “Tucker. We’re talking about the same
woman here, aren’t we? I don’t handle life insurance, so I never connected the
two cases.” He crossed behind Randy. “I’ll be right back.”

Bob returned, a sickly expression
on his face. “We don’t seem to have a hard copy of the file. Must have gotten
lost in the mix-up after the break-in.”

“Or deliberately stolen,” Randy
said.

“Hey, you can’t think I had
anything to do with that.”

“What I think is immaterial. Can
I get a printout of the computer version?”

Bob stepped around his desk and
got busy with his computer. He perused the pages as they came off the printer.

“Anything strike you as unusual?”
Randy asked.

“No—police did their report. Our
investigator agreed. But you know as well as I do that the police report takes
precedence over our investigation no matter which way it turns out.” He handed
the pages to Randy. “She got the value of the car, plus a five grand death
benefit from the car insurance policy. But we couldn’t pay off on the life
insurance—not on a suicide with a policy under two years old.”

“I understand,” Randy said. “I’ll
be in touch if I need more. And if Mr. Meierbridge calls you again, I want to
know about it.” He handed Bob his business card.

Randy half jogged back to the
station. Maybe he had enough to get a warrant for phone records for all the
numbers that had called the machine. Somewhere, there had to be one number that
had called all of them back. And give him his first concrete lead to Mr.
Consolidated.