Touch & Go (8 page)

“I was right at the start,” D.D. grumbled.

“Not your case,” Tessa agreed.

Neil put it more succinctly. “Damn feds.”

THE BOSTON DETECTIVES did not pack up their toys and go home.

Jurisdiction was a legal distinction. Basically, federal laws carried stiffer penalties than state laws, meaning the US Attorney’s Office packed a bigger punch than the Suffolk County DA when prosecuting suspected kidnappers.

Given that it was in everyone’s best interest for accused criminals to face the largest legal hammer possible, the Suffolk County DA would call the US Attorney’s Office, District of Massachusetts, and inform them of a crime that most likely crossed state lines. The US Attorney would then contact their investigative body of choice, the FBI. At which point, FBI agents from the Boston field office would promptly deploy to the Denbe residence, arriving in ten minutes if they chose to drive, or twenty if they chose to walk.

The local field agents wouldn’t expect the Boston detectives to simply disappear. Instead, the federal agents would politely but firmly redirect all evidence collected—the urine samples, the vomit, Taser confetti, scuff markings—from the Boston PD lab to the federal crime lab. Next, they would form a multi-jurisdictional task force, where conveniently enough, they would serve as the brains of the operation, while the Boston cops became the brawn.

Neil grumbled, D.D. and Phil sighed philosophically. Tessa remained indifferent. Her job was to locate the Denbe family. She would work with whichever playmates she was given, though she was already guessing the Boston cops were better at sharing their sandbox than the feds. And given D.D.’s notoriously cranky temperament, that was saying something.

Tessa pushed back from the computer. She made one last pass of the upstairs crime scene, while D.D. checked in with the efforts of the uniformed officers, Phil returned to working local contacts and Neil made a last series of calls. While they were distracted, it was possible that Tessa also reentered the kitchen, powered up all three family cell
phones and jotted down the contacts that appeared in their various favorites lists. She could go through official channels, of course, but this was more expedient.

Then, the Boston squad reappeared and, gathered around the pile of family possessions, began the summarization process. To give the rookie lead detective credit, Neil’s investigative efforts thus far had been quick but thorough:

Initial police canvassing of the neighborhood had yielded no sightings of any member of the Denbe family. Calls to relatives, friends and known associates hadn’t produced any member of the Denbe family. Same with all outreach to local businesses, area hospitals and nearby establishments.

Justin Denbe’s vehicle had been located four blocks down, empty. Libby Denbe’s Mercedes was still tucked in the garage, empty. All cash, credit cards and ATM cards appeared to be sitting on the family’s kitchen counter. According to the local bank, no financial activity had occurred on any of the family accounts since 4:00 P.M. on Friday, when two hundred and fifty dollars had been withdrawn from an ATM in Copley Square (video from the bank pending). Likewise, no member of the family had placed an outgoing call or text on a mobile phone since 10:00 P.M. on Friday (faxes from cellular provider pending).

At this time, all three members of the Denbe family appeared to have been missing for the past fourteen hours. The investigator’s only lead: Justin Denbe’s outdoor jacket, which was now broadcasting a GPS signal from the wilds of New Hampshire.

In an aggressive move that surprised Tessa, Neil Cap got out his phone, pulled up a New Hampshire map and translated the missing jacket’s GPS coordinates to a local law enforcement agency.

Then, without waiting for the FBI’s official blessing, Neil made what would probably be his last call as Boston’s lead investigator: He contacted the New Hampshire sheriff’s department and asked them
to track down the signal on the coat. A quick and efficient move to glean the most amount of information in the shortest amount of time. The FBI would hate him immediately for stealing their thunder.

Tessa took that as her cue to exit stage right.

Best she could tell, she’d seen what there was to see. Boston had control of the crime scene where the family used to be. Some local cops, too far north for her to assist, would handle the investigation of the next location where the family might be. Which left her with one central question: Who would’ve wanted to abduct and/or harm the Denbe family to begin with?

She decided it was time to learn more about her new client, Denbe Construction.

Chapter 10

WYATT FOSTER WAS A COP who wanted to be a carpenter. Or maybe a carpenter who wanted to be a cop. He’d never completely figured it out, which was just as well. In this day and age of constant budget crises, the going rate for protecting and serving the good citizens of North Country New Hampshire made two jobs a necessity for himself as well as most of his fellow officers. Some guys picked up refereeing. Other guys bartended on weekends. Then there was him.

This fine Saturday morning, sun shining, air brisk with late-fall chill, he was staring at a collection of old pine boards, reclaimed from his neighbor’s hundred-year-old barn, and trying to put together a design for a rustic bookshelf. Or maybe a kitchen table, the kind with bench seats. Or a wine cabinet. People paid good money for wine cabinets. Hell, he wouldn’t mind a wine cabinet.

He’d just made up his mind, reaching for the first board, when his pager went off.

Early forties, buzz-cut hair that used to be a dark brown but these days held a fair amount of silver, Wyatt had served the county sheriff’s department for the past twenty years. First as a deputy, then as a detective, now as a sergeant in charge of the detectives unit. Best part of being a sergeant was the hours. Monday through Friday, 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. ’Bout as regular as one could get in a profession not known for its regularity.

Of course, like any county officer, he served on call a couple of nights a week. And, yeah, things happened, even in the wilds of New Hampshire, perhaps especially in the wilds of New Hampshire. Drugs, alcohol, domestic violence, some interesting embezzlement cases as an employee sought new ways to fund his or her drug and alcohol issues. Lately, the murder rate had been spiking uncomfortably. Death by hatchet. A disgruntled employee who’d brought his high-powered bow to his former job site at a sand and gravel company. A number of vehicular manslaughter cases, including an eighty-year-old woman who swore she ran over her eighty-five-year-old husband by accident. All three times. Turned out he’d been cheating on her with their seventy-year-old neighbor. Hussy, the wife had declared, which came out more like
fuffy,
because before “accidentally” running over her husband three times, she hadn’t bothered putting in her teeth.

Certainly, the job was never boring, which Wyatt appreciated. A quiet man by nature, he liked a good puzzle, followed by a just resolution. And, as crazy as it sounded, he liked people. Interviewing them, investigating them, arresting them, people never failed to fascinate. He looked forward to his work, just as he looked forward to coming home from work. Build a case, craft a wine cabinet. Each project was compelling in its own way, and each, on a good day, yielded tangible results.

Now Wyatt checked his pager, sighed a little and hoofed it back inside his cabin to grab his cell. Missing Boston family. Fancy jacket with a built-in GPS emitting a signal forty miles to the south. He knew the area. Long on trees, short on people.

Wyatt asked a few questions, then started in on his next list.

No more wine cabinet. Instead, he prepared to assemble some manpower and go snipe hunting in the woods.

ON WYATT’S FIRST DAY AS A COUNTY OFFICER, the sheriff had given him the lay of the land: Basically, there were two New Hampshires. There was the New Hampshire south of Concord, and there was the New Hampshire north of Concord. The New Hampshire south of Concord served as a Boston suburb. The neighborhoods featured either 1950s ranch houses for the working class, or 1990s McMansions for the wealthy Boston executives. That New Hampshire, being a small geographic area with a dense, tumbling-over-each-other population, was entitled to a police force where multiple officers worked every shift, with backup never being more than a couple of minutes away, and each department boasting its very own collection of modern forensic tools to better facilitate criminal investigation.

Then, there was the New Hampshire north of Concord. Where the remaining one-third of the state’s population sprawled helter-skelter over the remaining two-thirds of the state’s terrain. Where entire towns were too small to justify their own police force, and even the towns that did generally deployed one officer at a time, patrolling vast expanses of rural roads, woodland forests and lake borders all alone. Backup could be an easy thirty to sixty minutes away. And heaven help you if you had a complex investigation involving real forensic tools; chances were you would have to borrow them from another department, maybe even two or three other departments, in order to get the job done.

New Hampshire south of Concord had city cops. Whereas New Hampshire north of Concord had basically the Wild, Wild West. City cops traveled in packs and could go an entire career without ever drawing their weapons on the job. Wild West cops handled entire shoot-outs alone, and drew down at least a couple of times a year. Hell, Wyatt had been on the job for all of four hours when he’d pulled his sidearm for the first time. Called to a scene of a domestic disturbance. Getting out of his patrol car just in time to be charged by a knife-wielding drugged-out lunatic. Wyatt had kicked the guy in
the stomach first, so shocked by the sudden attack he actually forgot for a second that he was a cop and had a whole duty belt complete with Taser and pepper spray, and, oh yeah, a Sig Sauer P229 .357 semiauto.

Sky-High Guy popped back up, which was the problem with drugged-out lunatics—they just didn’t feel the pain. This time Wyatt had his act together enough to produce his weapon. At which point, Sky-High Guy, staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, sobered up record quick and dropped his steak knives.

By the time backup finally arrived—a mere thirty minutes later—Wyatt had the first druggie secured in the backseat of his car, plus a second who’d tried to bolt from the rear of the property. He’d also taken a witness statement from the owner of the residence, the druggies’ mother, who now swore she never wanted to see either of her sons again as they were good-for-nothing pieces of shit that owed her at least twenty bucks, or a dime bag, whichever they could get their hands on first.

Definitely, never a dull moment in the wilds of New Hampshire.

BEING A SHERIFF’S DEPUTY involved more than practicing the art of the quick draw, of course. County officers were empowered to write their own search warrants and even arrest warrants, a logistical necessity as the nearest courthouse could be fifty hard miles away, meaning by the time a detective spent two hours driving there and back, the suspect had either split town or covered his tracks. New deputies were generally enthralled by this unparalleled example of police power. Then, inevitably, the full implications would come crashing down—by virtue of writing up legal documents, they each needed to become mini lawyers. Because, sure, they could write up any old damn thing they wanted, and search the property, or arrest the suspect, at which time a judge would review the warrant and if it
wasn’t absolutely, positively to the letter of the law, throw the whole thing out, leaving the county detective with no one to blame but him- or herself.

Wyatt read law magazines in between woodworking publications.

The final distinction of the sheriff’s departments was that they had jurisdiction over the entire state. Even the New Hampshire state police had to ask for permission to patrol various town and county roads. Not the sheriffs, though. Wyatt could drive anywhere in the state, policing his heart out while displaying his superior knowledge of legalese. Of course, most of his part of the state was populated by bears and moose who could care less, but a man liked to feel good about these things. His powers were considerable, his grasp of law enviable and his domain vast.

It helped him fall asleep late at night. Assuming his pager didn’t go off.

Now Wyatt headed for the county sheriff’s department. Normally, he’d work out of his cruiser, especially in a matter that warranted some urgency. But his cruiser’s GPS could only take him as far as the nearest road. Given the working theory of an abduction scenario, odds were their target would involve more rugged terrain, possibly the deep woods. Hence, he wanted the handheld GPS tracker, two of his fellow detectives and at least a couple of uniformed officers.

Inside, the three guys and one gal were already suited up and ready to go.

He briefed them on the situation, a Boston family, missing since 10:00 P.M. last night, signs of foul play discovered in the home, biggest lead currently being the GPS locator in the husband’s jacket, which had approximately thirteen hours of battery life remaining.

Wyatt entered the GPS coordinates first on his main computer, and they all gathered round the monitor to see. Good detectives appreciated the stalking power of the Internet as much as any serial killer, and with a few clicks of the mouse, Wyatt was able to bring up satellite
images of their target coordinates. He zoomed in on snapshots of a rural road, then a large dirt parking lot surrounding a much smaller, dilapidated building, bordered heavily by deep woods. The exact coordinates appeared to be a spot just beyond the cleared parking lot in the woods.

“I’m thinking that’s the old Stanley’s diner,” Wyatt said.

Gina, one of their new deputies, nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. Drove by it just a couple of days ago. Boarded up tight.”

“Not a bad place to hide hostages,” Jeff commented. The forty-five-year-old father of two was one of the county’s best detectives, with a knack for financial crimes. “Near a road for easy access, but also isolated. Sure as hell aren’t that many other people or residences around.”