Touch & Go (39 page)

Last visit by Anita Bennett was for fourteen days.

“My husband was still recuperating from open-heart surgery. The time away was good for him.”

Paid off one hundred thousand in hospital bills.

“And if you’ll look at my savings account, you’ll see the hit!”

Which was true. While it would’ve been nice to magically discover Anita had eleven million dollars sitting in the bank, her finances were currently depleted. Then again, according to Ruth Chan, the embezzlement money had been sitting in a bunch of fake corporate accounts in the Bahamas until just five days ago. A defrauder who’d been smart and disciplined enough to keep the illicit gains at arm’s length was hardly going to dump them into personal savings now. Most likely, the funds had been moved to a single new account under an alias, probably at another offshore bank. The FBI would work on tracking that next, but such things took time, not to mention a bit of luck.

Poker or blackjack?

“What?”

Receipts. Ten years of receipts for the Mohegan Sun Resort and Casino?

“I was entertaining clients! I don’t gamble. I work in construction. That’s risky enough!”

Brand-new 2008 black-on-black Lexus. Cash.

“My oldest son. His college graduation present.”

New 2011 Cadillac Escalade.

“For Dan. His other vehicle was seven years old!”

Which brought them to a Florida condo in 2010, a Mazda Miata just four months ago. On and on Levesco went. Fake billings here. New purchases for Anita there. Tessa had thought the COO would grow more defensive. Clam up. But instead, Anita picked up her own tempo, until she was matching the younger FBI agent beat for beat. Which was impressive, really. Not just the amount of money that Denbe Construction had paid out to fake vendors each year, but how
unapologetically Anita spent her own income. She made a good living, as she informed her interrogators again and again. Salary, bonuses, lawfully declared on her taxes year after year. And, yes, she spent her money on her family. Houses, cars, vacations. She worked hard, they lived well. She had nothing to be ashamed of.

Around and around they went. Consistent denials of embezzlement, full admissions of major purchases. Finally, Tessa glanced over at Special Agent Adams and nodded once. Nicole had been expecting the signal. She picked up the phone and buzzed the room next door.

Two agents appeared in the hallway. They had Daniel Coakley, picked up fifteen minutes after his wife, between them. Now they led him past the interview room, just as the older FBI agent, Bill, opened the door, ostensibly to get something to drink.

Anita looked up. Spotted her frail husband walking past, and froze.

“What…what is he doing here? You didn’t tell me!”

“Eleven million dollars stolen,” Mark stated crisply. “A family of three, vanished. Do you really think we’re going to leave any stone unturned?”

“But Dan’s health! You can’t interview him. His heart. He gets tired, he needs to rest.”

“And we need answers, Anita. By three P.M. tomorrow. We’re going to keep going till we get them.”

In that instant, watching through the two-way glass, Tessa felt bad for Anita Bennett. She even felt guilty, as bringing in Dan had been her idea. But if she’d expected the older woman to cave, to magically confess all, she was mistaken.

Instead, Anita Bennett simply shook her head. “But I can’t give you answers. I didn’t steal from the company. I didn’t even know funds were missing. And I don’t know what happened to Justin. I didn’t do this. Justin is like family to me. And I take care of my family. Just look at my financial record. That is what I do. Work hard and
tend to the ones I love. You can’t squeeze blood from a stone, Agent. You can’t squeeze blood from a stone.”

She stared up at both FBI agents beseechingly.

And in that moment, Tessa, who never trusted anyone, believed her.

“Damn,” she murmured.

Wyatt, who was seated beside her, seconded the motion.

THEY KEPT ANITA BENNETT TILL MIDNIGHT. Then, when her story and her husband’s story never wavered, Nicole Adams personally escorted both back to their home. The task force remained at the conference room table, but no one had anything to say.

“We’ll keep digging,” Nicole’s partner, Special Agent Hawkes, offered at last. “Get an agent down to the Bahamas, see if we can get a description of the person who closed out all the shell accounts. It’s a new lead; we just need more time to chase it.

No one stated the obvious: They didn’t have more time.

“Let’s talk three P.M. phone call,” Wyatt suggested.

Hawkes obliged: “I’m thinking the call to Justin Denbe’s cell will come from a restricted number, probably from another iPhone, given the FaceTime feature. We have Justin’s cellular company on standby to assist us with tracing the source of the call through triangulation of cell towers. That takes time, however, so we’ll want to keep the caller on the phone as long as possible. Ask questions, maybe get confused about the wire transfer numbers, require clarification.”

“We have ten minutes max,” Tessa pointed out. “Remember the instructions: By three eleven the ransom funds must be transferred, or the first member of the Denbe family…”

“You’re thinking of taking the call in the Denbes’ town house?” Wyatt asked Hawkes.

“That’s our current plan.”

Wyatt was quiet for a moment. “Why?”

Hawkes frowned. “Why not?”

“I’m thinking the action is up north. The jacket tossed in central New Hampshire. The requirements of the hideout location, given the logistics of housing that many people while remaining out of sight of cops, locals, et cetera. You take the call here, and odds are, you’re at least three hours away from the party. Or, say, you bring Justin Denbe’s iPhone to my offices. Still take the call, no problem, but now be closer to the heart of the matter.”

Tessa perked up. She hadn’t thought about that, but she liked it. “Their instructions don’t cover where we or the phone have to be,” she pointed out. “Nothing stopping us from heading north.”

Nicole Adams had returned, was standing in the doorway. “I wouldn’t want to spook them,” she said cautiously. “This is the one contact we get. If we do something unexpected, even if not explicitly against their instructions…” She let the rest of the warning go unsaid.

“Nine million dollars is a lot of reason not to spook too easily,” Wyatt commented.

“Or we do what they’ve been doing,” Tessa interjected with growing excitement. “They’re sending us video with tight focus, little background, right? We can do the same. We’ll grab artwork from the Denbes’ town house, say…the big print of the red flower that hangs in the family room. Stick it on a wall in your office”—she glanced at Wyatt—“and take the call there. Just enough background to be familiar. Might be interesting, actually, to have the kidnappers think the task force is safely tucked in Boston, when really, we’re three hours north.”

“Steal a page from their book,” Wyatt murmured. “I like it.”

“Unless their demands involve activity down here in Boston,” Hawkes warned.

Wyatt shrugged. “You have a whole field office of agents five minutes from the Denbes’ town house. What can’t they handle?”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

They all looked at one another.

“Makes me feel like we’re finally doing something other than play catch up,” Wyatt said at last. “All along, the kidnappers have been calling the shots. They say jump, we say how high. Now, I don’t know how much this will help us in the end, but…it’s something. I’d like to feel as though we’re doing something.”

They agreed.

Tomorrow, 8:00 A.M., they’d reconvene at the Denbes’ town house. Take the phones, borrow a painting and stage their own video conference call at the North Country sheriff’s department.

Tessa liked it. Less than fifteen hours now. Then the task force would take on the kidnappers. At stake, an entire family. Including fifteen-year-old Ashlyn Denbe, reading her own ransom instructions, the look on her face when she reached the death clause…

They would do this. Wire the money, receive the Denbes’ location, then rescue the family safe and sound.

Unless of course, this whole thing was really about the embezzled 11.2 million dollars.

In which case, they would never see the Denbes alive again.

Chapter 36

THEY DIDN’T COME FOR US first thing in the morning. The sky lightened through our narrow outer window. I woke up, tossed and turned. Dozed back off, only to dream of striking cobras and orange pill bottles. The second time I awoke, I forced myself to sit up, confront the cinder-block reality of my jail cell. I could hear Ashlyn above me, also thrashing in her sleep, murmuring something low and agitated under her breath.

Justin wasn’t in his bunk, but sat on the floor, his back against the steel door as if keeping guard. I wondered if he’d passed the whole night there. He was awake now, head up, arms resting on his hiked-up knees, but he appeared lost in thought, one finger tapping absently against his other hand, as if working out a problem.

I played my morning game of guessing the hour. The day seemed fully under way. Eight A.M., nine A.M., ten A.M.? Maybe if we survived this afternoon, I’d sign up for a survival course. Become the world’s oldest Girl Scout, learning how to pinpoint compass directions based on the moss growing on trees, or the hour of the day based upon the shadow that same tree cast upon the ground. I could learn some new skills. Certainly, my old ones weren’t doing a whole lot for me.

I crossed to the toilet. Justin gave me his back, the closest we could get to privacy.

Afterward, when he remained preoccupied and Ashlyn continued
to thrash on the top bunk, I scrubbed my face, using only my hands because we didn’t have any soap or towels. Then, acting on impulse, I picked up our empty plastic jug and worked on filling it with water from the sink. I leaned my head over the tiny sink, pouring half the water jug over my hair, then worked at my scalp furiously with my fingertips. I could feel myself spraying water everywhere, but I didn’t care. I just couldn’t take one more second of the rank smell of my own hair, the constant itch of dirt and grime on my skin.

I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Maybe I was trying to slough off my own skin, shed my miserable existence. Or maybe, a year from now, this would become the DNA evidence that would be used to convict Z and his team on all charges. The castoff cells of my dead skin, sprayed over this tiny sink in this tiny cell in this much too big prison.

I missed soap, the soft feel of lather, the reassuring scent of cleanliness. But I continued scrubbing, pouring the second half of the jug slowly over my head, down the fine strands of my shoulder-length hair. Finally, I splashed more water onto my neck, then shoved up the jumpsuit sleeves and scoured at my arms. By the time I finished, I was soaked, my jumpsuit was soaked and the cinder-block wall was thoroughly sprayed with water. And I felt better. Prepared for the day. As ready as I was going to get.

“Can I have a turn?” Ashlyn, now awake and watching me from the top bunk.

Wordlessly, I began to refill the jug.

“Beautifying yourselves for your rescuers?” Justin drawled from the floor.

“We are women.” I handed my daughter the water jug. “Now hear us roar.”

THE MORNING WORE ON, slowly and surely eroding our nerves. My hair dried as I took up pacing between the bunk beds. My jumpsuit, too. I still wouldn’t call myself clean. Just…less dirty.

Justin gave his swollen face and short hair a quick douse. Then, when the vast common room remained quiet, just the never-ending hum of fluorescent lights, he started a light regimen of push-ups, followed by sit-ups, then finally pull-ups using the top bunk.

Ashlyn watched us both as if we were insane. She had assumed the fetal position, curled up in the corner of the top bunk where she could see everything while remaining carefully tucked away. She reminded me of a feline. Not at all relaxed. Just waiting for the first excuse to spook or pounce.

I forced her to drink water, given that she was still recovering from yesterday’s miscarriage. I wished I had food for her as well. I finally had my own appetite back, my stomach actually growling as I prowled around the narrow cell. It seemed fitting that I would finally be ready to eat the day our kidnappers stopped feeding us.

Did they want us weak, fatigued, uncertain? All part of Z’s campaign of psychological warfare. By the time 3:00 P.M. rolled around, we’d do whatever he wanted just as long as he tossed us a bread crumb.

Or had something else happened? Our kidnappers had become sick, or were otherwise impaired? They wouldn’t just leave us, would they? Drive off, disappear? No one knew we were here. We would rot, literally die like forgotten animals trapped in a cage. Sure, the water would keep us going for the first week. But after fourteen, fifteen days of no food…

A new sound. A snap, then a flicker of the lights as the hum died out, taking the overhead lights with it. Our cell went from overbright white to shades of gray, illuminated only by a sliver of window, while the common area went to immediate shadow, a stage suddenly devoid of spotlights.

“Powering down,” Justin murmured.

And I got it. What our captors were doing. Preparing to leave the prison. Preparing to end the game, make their getaway.

What was the time? I couldn’t figure it out based on the angle of the sun.

But it was coming. Three P.M.

The hour of reckoning.

I stopped pacing, climbed up to the top bunk and held my daughter’s hand.

After another moment, Justin joined us. We sat together, arm in arm, and waited for whatever was going to happen next.

TESSA WOKE UP AT FIVE THIRTY. Her room was still dark. She’d been asleep three, four hours tops and couldn’t figure out what had woken her. Then, she watched her door soundlessly open, Sophie’s pale form appearing.

Her daughter drifted into the room, moving so quietly Tessa wasn’t even sure she was awake. Sometimes Sophie sleepwalked. Sometimes, she also talked in her sleep. Or, more like sleep-screamed.

Now Sophie materialized at the edge of Tessa’s bed, her eyes round and alert in her face.