Gone (8 page)

Rainie lay in the dark. She didn’t think of Astoria anymore. She didn’t think of her situation. She didn’t even think of Quincy. She just wished she had a beer.

13

Tuesday, 1:43 p.m. PST

T
HE MINUTE THE JET
’
S WHEELS
hit the ground at Portland International Airport, Kimberly was digging for her cell phone. The flight attendant caught the motion, took a disapproving step forward, then saw Kimberly’s expression and did an abrupt about-face. Mac chuckled. Kimberly hit speed dial for her father.

Quincy answered on the first chime.

“We’re at PDX,” Kimberly reported. “You?”

“Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife.”

“You’re going fishing?”

“Setting up central command in their conference room. Apparently, they have more space.”

Kimberly absorbed that news—that the situation had evolved to setting up headquarters for a task force—and asked more quietly, “Rainie?”

“Appears to be an abduction-for-ransom situation, possibly a crime of opportunity.” Her father’s voice was eerily calm. “The local paper received a note this morning. Following its instructions, we discovered proof of life, as well as further instructions for the money drop.”

“Proof of life?” Kimberly wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The plane had just arrived at its gate. Mac sprang up, grabbing their bags from the overhead bins. He muscled his way down the aisle, Kimberly hot on his heels.

“Her gun,” Quincy reported on the other end of the phone.

“Okay.” No fingers or other extremities, which was what Kimberly feared. Her father had probably thought the same. “How are you doing?”

“Busy.”

“And the officer in charge?”

“Sergeant Detective Carlton Kincaid, OSP. Seems competent.”

“Wow.” Kimberly turned to Mac. “My father just rated a member of the state police competent.”

“Must be the grief talking,” Mac said. “Or that detective’s a rocket scientist.”

The plane’s door finally pushed open; Kimberly and Mac stepped out onto the jetway.

“So where’s Oregon Fish and Wildlife?” Kimberly needed to know.

“Third Street, by the fairgrounds.”

“We’ll be there in an hour.”

“Good. Next contact is two hours twenty.”

Tuesday, 1:52 p.m. PST

T
HE
O
REGON
F
ISH AND
W
ILDLIFE
D
EPARTMENT
in Bakersville seemed to be a fairly new building. Very outdoorsy. Big open lobby with giant exposed beams. An entire wall of windows, looking over verdant pastureland, framed by the coastal range. Quincy’s first thought was that Rainie would like the place. His second was that he’d work a lot better if he didn’t have a giant elk head watching his every move. Then there was the otter. Stuffed, mounted on a log, peering at him through dark, marble eyes.

Roadkill, one of the wildlife officers had proudly proclaimed. Real nice specimen. Amazing to find the otter in such great shape.

That simply made Quincy wonder what else the man had in his freezer, and given Quincy’s line of work, that thought wasn’t very comforting.

The front doors of the building swung open. An older, solidly built woman marched in, wearing the tan uniform of the Bakersville Sheriff’s Department. Wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her eyes, black utility belt slung around her waist. She moved toward Quincy without hesitation and grabbed his hand in a startlingly firm handshake.

“Sheriff Shelly Atkins. Good to meet you. Sorry about the circumstances.”

Shelly Atkins had deep brown eyes set in a no-nonsense face. Quincy pegged her age close to his, with the lines crinkling her eyes to prove it. No one would call her a looker, and yet, her features were compelling. Strong. Frank. Direct. The kind of woman a man would feel comfortable buying a beer.

“Pierce,” Quincy murmured, returning the handshake. Preliminaries done, the sheriff released his hand and moved to the oak conference table. Quincy remained watching her. He was still wondering why he had said Pierce, when he had always gone by Quincy.

“Where are we?” the sheriff asked.

At the head of the table, Kincaid finally looked up from the stack of paperwork he was sorting. The room already contained numerous state and local officers. With Sheriff Atkins’s arrival, however, their party could apparently get started. Kincaid picked up the first pile of papers and started passing.

“All right, everyone,” Kincaid’s voice boomed around the room. “Let’s have a seat.”

Since no one had said otherwise, Quincy took the empty chair closest to Kincaid and did his best to blend in.

The handouts included copies of the first two notes from the UNSUB, as well as a typed transcript of the caller’s conversation with Quincy. In addition, Kincaid had worked up a rough time line of events and a pitifully small list of what they currently knew about “UNSUB W.E.H.”

Nothing in the handouts was new to Quincy. He skimmed the four pages briefly, then turned his attention to the task force instead.

With the operation ramping up, Kincaid had been busily summoning his troops. In addition to him, Detective Ron Spector, OSP Portland Office, had arrived, along with a young female, Alane Grove, who operated out of Tillamook County. Detective Grove appeared barely a day over eighteen in Quincy’s opinion, but he probably appeared just a shade younger than dirt in her eyes, so he supposed the bias was mutual.

The PIO—public information officer—Lieutenant Allen Mosley, was also at the table. Older, solidly built with short-cropped silver-blond hair, the lieutenant wore the uniform of the OSP and would serve as the official mouthpiece of the investigation. Quincy already understood that kidnappings were rare enough and sexy enough to spark the public’s appetite for coverage. Given that this kidnapping involved a former FBI profiler’s wife, the case would be nothing short of sensational. Forget the investigation; Quincy should hire an agent and start negotiating book and movie deals.

Quincy wished he didn’t feel quite so angry. He didn’t want to be sitting here, discussing insignificant details of a thus-far insufficient investigation. Mostly, he wanted to plant both hands on the wooden table and scream at Kincaid, “Stop fucking around and
find my wife
!”

He reshuffled the papers and worked hard on taking deep breaths.

Kincaid took up position in front of a whiteboard. More uniforms were arriving—OSP troopers, county officers, Bakersville deputies—and the sergeant seemed genuinely jazzed.

“So this is what we got,” he was explaining. “At approximately two this morning . . .”

Had Rainie gone to a bar? That’s the thing Quincy didn’t understand. Given the storm, the conditions. Had she been that desperate for a drink? He had hoped his absence would shock her into sobriety. He hadn’t fully contemplated that it might simply push her over the edge.

Maybe it wasn’t an ambush. Maybe she’d never had to fight. Maybe it was merely a case of a lonely woman, sitting in a lonely bar, then seeing the right/wrong kind of man.

Quincy pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. He didn’t want to think these things. He didn’t want to have these pictures in his head.

“So upon finding proof of life,” Kincaid was intoning, “we also discovered a second note enclosed in a GladWare container. This second note includes instructions for an upcoming money drop. If you will please take a moment to read.”

Quincy obediently shuffled Exhibit B to the top of the pile. The note said:

Dear Police:

If you have made it this far, then you know how to follow instructions. Good. Keep following instructions, and you will find the woman alive. I am not a monster. Do as I say, and everything will be all right.

The contact must be a female. She will bring $10,000 to the fairgrounds. Cash. Nothing larger than a twenty.

She must carry Pierce Quincy’s cell phone. I will make contact. The moment I get the money, you get the hostage. 4 p.m. Don’t be late. Failure to follow orders will be fatal.

Remember, I am a man of my word.

Sincerely,
Bruno Richard Hauptmann

Detective Grove was the first to finish the note. She looked up with a frown. “He signed his name?”

Quincy was about to open his mouth, but Sheriff Atkins surprised him by beating him to the punch. “Not unless you believe in reincarnation. Hauptmann was executed in ’36. After being found guilty of kidnapping and killing Charles Lindbergh’s son.”

“Hauptmann was the one who stole the Lindbergh baby?” Lieutenant Mosley this time, sounding equally shocked.

Sheriff Atkins nodded, looking at the first note again, then pinning Quincy with her stare. “This first note—the Fox. Was that somebody, too?”

“Yes. William E. Hickman. Also a fairly notorious kidnapper.”

“From the thirties?” Detective Grove queried.

“The twenties. There were a series of high-profile ransom cases during the twenties and thirties. All involving wealthy families. All ending in tragedy.”

Everyone absorbed that news.

“Maybe he thinks by using other names, it will throw us off track,” Grove speculated, the young detective sounding tentative. “We’ll waste time chasing ghosts.”

“Maybe he’s obsessed with the past,” Mosley offered. “Misses the good old days.”

“It’s gamesmanship,” Quincy said abruptly. He was aware of Sheriff Atkins, still regarding him frankly. “He’s taunting us, trying to show off what he knows. On the one hand, he does things that make him appear amateurish—handwritten notes, crude maps. On the other hand, he wants us to know that he’s done his homework.”

“He knows your name,” the sheriff said.

“I gave it to him. First time he called, I introduced myself.” Quincy faltered, realizing too late how much information he had needlessly given away to the kidnapper. Rookie mistake; he was ashamed.

“Is he experienced?” Sheriff Atkins asked steadily.

“I don’t know.”

“Leaving a handwritten note isn’t so bright. Gives us something to trace.”

“It’s not his handwriting. It’s the victim’s.” Quincy’s voice cracked on the word. He said more softly, “It’s Rainie’s.”

At the front of the room, Kincaid cleared his throat. All attention returned to him, and Quincy was grateful for the distraction. Kincaid flipped to the last page of the handouts, Exhibit D, holding it up for all of them to see.

“We’ve already started compiling information about the perpetrator. As you can tell, not much is known. We’re talking a male, probably twenty to thirty years of age. He claims to not be from around here, but the postmark is local, so I don’t think we can make any assumptions just yet. Given the crudeness of his approach, I would guess a limited educational background, certainly nothing beyond high school. And given the relatively low ransom demand, I’d speculate that he’s someone living at below-average income. In terms of bulletins, we need people to keep an eye out for a lone male, particularly a stranger, driving an older-model pickup truck . . .” He paused, glanced at Quincy.

“Cargo van,” Quincy provided. “A subject such as this needs a cheap mode of transportation that also has room to transport a victim, and double as lodging for when the UNSUB is on the hunt. In these cases, we see a lot of used cargo vans. Nothing fancy. Say a vehicle someone could pick up for a grand or two.” His gaze switched to Sheriff Atkins. “I would have your people check camping grounds. This time of year, that would be a particularly inexpensive and relatively private place to stay.”

“We can do that,” the sheriff said. “’Course, you’re missing the obvious.”

Kincaid arched a brow. “Which is?”

Atkins shrugged. “A roundup of the usual suspects. The guys we already know are money-grubbing hustlers who wouldn’t think twice about selling out their own mama, let alone snatching a woman off the streets. You said yourself you can’t be sure this boy isn’t from around here. Sounds to me like we should shake some local trees, see what falls out.”

“What are you going to do?” Kincaid said dryly. “Go door to door and ask the good old boys if they’ve kidnapped someone recently?”

Sheriff Atkins didn’t blink an eye. “Personally, I think I’d take a little tour of their property, see if I happen to notice any brand-new pickup trucks or ATVs that might put someone in the hole ten grand. Then maybe I’d make myself known, ask for a little tour of the home. Check out the rooms, the outbuildings, see if I can make ’em sweat. Who knows, I might even rustle up a few more meth labs for you fine folks to process.”

The last comment was a dig at the state police’s current efforts—or lack thereof—to contain the growing methamphetamine problem in the county. Kincaid took the barb in the spirit in which it was intended.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” the sergeant said tightly. “I’d recommend that your people travel in pairs and exercise due caution on your tours, though. Surprise someone with a hostage and things can get very dicey, very quick.”

“Well, thanks, Sergeant. We’ll try to remember how to do our jobs.”

“Fine.” Kincaid cleared his throat again, rustled his papers. “That leaves a canvass of the local hotels and motels, plus retracing the victim’s last steps. I want a detailed profile of every person Lorraine Conner has seen in the past twenty-four hours, plus every place she’s been. Detective Grove, why don’t you handle that? Determine how many troopers you need, I’ll make it happen.”

“Yes, sir.” Alane Grove sat up smartly. Assigned a meaningful task, she was glowing.

“That leaves Detective Spector to coordinate the scientists. Both Latent Prints and two primary examiners from the Portland lab should be here at any time now. We have the car still to process, not to mention two notes, an envelope, a plastic container, and the gun. Should be a wealth of information right there. Which brings us to the final immediate task—managing the
Daily Sun.
In the good-news department, the owner, Owen Van Wie, has promised us complete cooperation. He also assigned his best news reporter, Adam Danicic, to work with us on coverage of the case.”

Lieutenant Mosley nodded, picking up his pen. “We’ll need to hold a press briefing ASAP. Better that the media hear the details from us than from wildly speculative rumors. Of course, the first question will be,
Are
we calling in the FBI?”