Where's Ellen? (Mystery) (MPP A JOE MCFARLAND / GINNY HARRIS MYSTERY Book 1) (10 page)

CHAPTER 21

A
nd now the worst period of waiting began for Steve. He found himself checking his work and personal e-mail accounts for messages what seemed like every five minutes. Similarly, his cell phone for voice mail or text messages and his home phone for voice mail. He walked to the end of the driveway to check the mailbox several times a day. He had expected, or at least hoped, that he’d hear something and that Ellen would be released soon after the ransom payment was made. But nothing. Not the rest of that day or evening. Not the next day. Not the rest of the week. Or the next. Or the next. Now, it was almost two months since Ellen disappeared and almost a month since the $5 million ransom had been paid — and not a word.

Steve was on the verge of losing it. He took a leave of absence from work. He tried to keep up his daily jogging habit, but very quickly became so lethargic that he stopped even bothering to try. Early spring had blossomed into full spring, which then started transitioning into summer. But Steve barely noticed any of this. He couldn’t sit still and yet he had no interest in going any place or doing anything. He couldn’t concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes at a time, be it work, reading a book or watching TV. Steve found himself increasingly focusing on the negative: Ellen was either dead or being subjected to terrible acts of torture. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could think of and almost see was Ellen undergoing the most vile and deviant torturous acts, interspersed with episodes of gang rape.

Other than his intermittent calls and e-mails with Ellen’s parents, Steve limited his contacts with others to periodic phone calls with the FBI and, to a lesser extent, the Jasper Creek police. At least twice a week, one of the FBI agents would call Steve. Despite these calls offering no new information and repeatedly asking Steve the same questions about whether he had learned anything new, Steve found the calls somewhat encouraging as they at least implied that Ellen’s disappearance was still an active case. The FBI agents continued to say that they were making progress in tracing the bank accounts used by the kidnappers, but the work was tedious and progress was slow. Each of the bank accounts was owned by a different shell corporation. Each corporation was owned by another corporation, which was in turn owned by another corporation. It was like unwinding a large ball of twine. Most of the listed officers and directors turned out to be fictitious names.

Steve became more and more depressed, becoming increasingly convinced that he’d never see his wife again. He assumed that the kidnappers had killed her, either because she could identify them or because they saw this as safer or easier than arranging her release once they had received the ransom payment. Or, given her super-competitive nature and her need to always win, she had said or done something that had pissed off the kidnappers enough to have killed her.

The FBI was, in fact, continuing to trace the money flows and the various corporations and individuals, mostly fictitious, associated with each bank account. An Interpol Blue Notice, a request to locate, identify or obtain information on a person of interest in a criminal investigation, was distributed to member countries enlisted to assist the FBI in its efforts. But none of this led to any useful information regarding the identity or location of the kidnappers or the location of Ellen or her body. Although not officially so classified, for all intents and purposes this became a cold case for the local FBI. The local FBI team let their Washington colleagues continue working on the money trail, but the Cincinnati office labeled this an unsolved kidnapping, and Martin and Florio moved on to other cases.

At the Jasper Creek Police Department, Joe and Ginny pretty much put the case aside as well; there was nothing useful for them to follow up on and this was, technically speaking, the FBI’s and not their case. But Joe didn’t completely give up. One Tuesday morning in September, after discussing it with Ginny, Joe went to see the chief. “Chief, gotta min?”

“Yeah. Sure. Come on in, Joe.”

“Chief, I realize that the Sanders’ case has been going nowhere fast, and that we shouldn’t be working on it in any event because it belongs to the FBI.”

“So tell me something I don’t already know.”

“Well, Chief, if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep my finger in this one. Totally on my own time. It won’t take any time or resources from the department.”

“Why are you so hung up on this one, Joe?”

“I don’t know. I just still have this gut feeling it’s not the so-called normal kidnapping that it seems to be. I still smell something fishy with the husband, and I wanna keep an eye on him just in case my gut is right. Hell, maybe the Feds are onto something with their espionage theories. I’m not even sure that the wife didn’t fake her own kidnapping or murder.”

“OK with me. But two conditions. One, you do this totally off the books and on your own time. And, two, you don’t do anything, and I mean
anything
, to piss off our FBI friends.”

“Works for me. And thanks, Chief.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

CHAPTER 22

F
or Steve, time continued to drag on. One month had slowly rolled into two months, and then two months had rolled into three. Contrary to the popular cliché, time did not heal anything for Steve. It made him a bit more numb to the pain, but it did nothing to relieve his anger, loneliness, sadness or bewilderment
.
Day and night, he couldn’t turn off the questions swirling through his mind.
What happened to Ellen? Is she still alive? Had they hurt her? Had they killed her? What did they do with her body? Will I ever find out what happened? When?

Although now down to perhaps twice a month, Steve continued to call or be called by either Martin or Florio. He also occasionally received a call from the local police, almost always Ginny. They were always friendly and sympathetic, but the authorities clearly had not made any progress nor developed any new leads. Although they never confirmed it to him, Steve was certain that both organizations had filed the case away, most likely someplace in their basements, and moved onto more current ones. He always ended the calls by pleading with them to keep working on the case and to contact him as soon as they found out something. Not surprisingly, he was always assured that they were and they would.

Mostly out of some inexplicable feeling of guilt, as well as wanting to treat them well because they had always been pleasant to him and he knew Ellen would want him to, he kept in somewhat closer contact with Ellen’s parents, calling them perhaps once every 10 days or so and e-mailing them once or twice a week. The calls and e-mails were short because of their limited English and they stuck to the same few statements: “How are you doing?” “Have you heard anything?” “We have to hope that she is OK and will be returned to us.” “Please let us know the minute you learn anything.” “Take care of yourself.” “Thanks and good-bye.”

But then during one Friday evening phone call, the script changed. “Steve, please you come to visit us?” asked Ellen’s parents.

“Well, uh, I ….”

“Please come, Steve. We would come to you, but it is not possible to make such a long plane trip. We are too old. We think your visit will help you to adjust and to accept things. We know it will help us.”

After a few minutes of further dancing around the question, Steve agreed: “Yes, sure, OK. I’ll come to visit you. It might, in fact, be good for all three of us. Give me a few days to check the flights and make my reservations and I’ll e-mail you the details. My visit will probably be the week after next, and only for a few days.”

“That is very excellent, Steve. Thank you. We wait to hear about your flight details and then to see you. Good-bye and take good care of youself.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks. You too. See you both soon.”

Steve normally hated to travel and did so only a few times a year: a very occasional business trip, once or twice each year for vacations with Ellen and every Christmas through New Year’s to Belgium for festivities with Ellen’s extended family there. He was not afraid of traveling; he just hated the hassle. He usually was fed up with the trip by the time he’d researched all the airlines, their schedules, their fares and their unintelligible charges for taxes, surcharges, baggage fees and preferred-seat fees. Then it normally was similar battles selecting the hotel and the rental car. And only then did the physical hassle of getting to the airport, winding through the security checkpoint and being subjected to the airline’s sardine-like seating get underway. And that assumed no flight delays or cancellations.

But this time was a bit different. On leave from work and sitting home with nothing to do, Steve had all the time in the world to fuss. In fact, it gave him something to do and, for a few minutes, it took his mind off Ellen. Plus, as he’d be spending his few days in Europe with Ellen’s parents, he didn’t need to research rental cars or hotels.

Once he determined the dates and flights he wanted, he called both the Jasper Creek Police Department and the FBI.

“Hello. Jasper Creek Police. How may I help you?”

“Hello. Detective Harris or McFarland, please.”

“Hold on a second. I’ll transfer you.’

“Thanks.”

“Hello. This is Detective Harris.”

“Hello. This is Steve Sanders.”

“Hello, Mr. Sanders. It’s nice to hear from you. We hope that you’re holding up as well as can be expected. What can I do for you? We don’t have anything new to report. Have you checked with the FBI recently? Perhaps they’ve made some progress.”

“Yes, I do stay in touch with the FBI. They remain optimistic but say it’s a very slow process. But the reason I’m calling is that I’m planning to go to Belgium for a few days to visit my wife’s parents.”

“Yes, and …?”

“You had told me not to leave the area without telling you first and I ….”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Sanders. I remember that. Thank you for remembering to notify us, but that’s no longer necessary now that the case has ….”

“Has what? interrupted Steve, “Were you going to say ‘gone cold’? Jesus, you keep assuring me that you’re still actively working on finding my wife — or finding out what happened to her.”

“No, Mr. Sanders. I was going to say that now that the case has entered another phase.”

“What the heck does that mean?”

“It simply refers to the fact that the FBI is focusing on trying to identify and locate the kidnappers by tracing the ransom money. As you know, the FBI is running lead on this case. Therefore, although you should tell the FBI, you no longer need to advise us when you plan to travel.”

“Uh. OK then. Bye.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Sanders. I hope you have a nice visit with your in-laws. You and they should be able to provide some comfort and support to each other.”

After a similar discussion with Martin at the FBI, during which Martin thanked Steve for informing him of his travel plans, Steve booked his flights and e-mailed the trip details to Ellen’s parents.

Despite what he had expected, he actually found himself looking forward to the trip. As a minimum, it would give him something to do for a few days, and he came to believe that the visit might very well be healing for him as well as for Ellen’s parents.

CHAPTER 23

T
he day of Steve’s flight finally arrived. He drove to Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport, took the short flight to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, and was soon in seat 23C on United flight 972. Contrary to his expectations, the international flight took off right on time at 6 p.m. and actually landed a few minutes before its scheduled 9:05 a.m. arrival the next morning at Zaventem Airport right outside the Brussels city limits. With only carry-on luggage, Steve was quickly through Passport Control and Customs. As he had done several times with Ellen, he took the escalator to the level below the main terminal and got on one of the frequent trains into the city center. Less than 20 minutes later, he was taking the 15-minute walk from the station to Ellen’s parents’ home.

It was almost a year earlier that Steve had last been in Brussels with Ellen to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s with her family. Yet, the previous visit seemed very recent. Many things seemed — actually were — the same. When he stepped out of the station, the late fall weather felt just like the last holiday season’s cold dampness — a typical Belgian cloudy day, not raining but threatening to at any moment. But of course it wasn’t the same. There was no Ellen at his side.

Steve took a few blocks detour in order to walk through Grand Place, his favorite location in Brussels. A large rectangle, in which cars were not allowed, Grand Place was the central plaza of Brussels. Steve recalled the many times he and Ellen strolled through the plaza.
Will I ever be able to visit here again with Ellen?
With a heavy heart, Steve surveyed the mostly 17th Century buildings, which once had contained various guild houses and now included city hall, with its massive bell tower, and the City Museum, along with many restaurants, cafes and shops, several, of course, offering “The Best of Belgian Chocolates.” It was early enough in the morning that the daily flower market was still active, with dozens of vendors selling bundles of flowers in every color imaginable from their trucks and kiosks. Steve recalled the early morning visits he and Ellen used to make to Grand Place, often returning to Ellen’s parents’ house with a bunch of fresh flowers for her mother.

Steve stood in the center of the square, noticing the large number of people sitting at the outdoor cafes despite the poor weather, sipping their coffees and, in some cases, early morning beers. He fondly — and sadly — recalled sitting at these cafes several times, sometimes only with Ellen and other times also with her parents, chatting about nothing and watching all the people walk by.

On previous visits, Steve had enjoyed observing the wide variety of people in Grand Place, from children in their school uniforms wearing their backpacks on their way to school, to businessmen on their way to the office to a large number of tourists, many with a map or guidebook in one hand and a camera in the other. Several tour group leaders were carrying umbrellas, not so much for the possible rain, but for keeping their herd of tourists together. But Steve felt no enjoyment from his people-watching on this visit. All he felt was despair and grief at not having Ellen with him. In the square he heard again the mix of so many different languages that the sounds became almost musical to him, full of the memory of his first visit here with Ellen. Steve recalled how Ellen’s multilingual abilities allowed her to understand what a large portion of the visitors to the plaza were saying to each other. Now, of course, Steve was limited to understanding only those speaking English.

After a few minutes, Steve left Grand Place and made his way to Ellen’s parents’ house. A narrow, three-story stone house attached to the neighboring houses on both sides, it looked exactly as it had 100 years earlier: heavy shutters and a flower box at each window and six concrete steps leading up to the large, heavy wooden door set into the thick stone front wall. Ellen’s father opened the door as Steve was reaching for the knocker. He must have been standing by the window, watching for Steve.

“Hallo. Hallo,” he said. “We are most happy you come here.” They were immediately joined by Ellen’s mother, who uttered almost the exact same words.

“I am glad to be here. Thank you for inviting me. And insisting that I come.”

“Oh. It is a pleasure to us. Come to the kitchen. We eat breakfast.”

“Oh, thank you. But that’s not necessary; they served breakfast on the plane.”

“You eat something. We waited to eat breakfast with you. Come.”

As they entered the kitchen and sat down around the small, rectangular wooden table, Ellen’s father put his finger to his lips in the international signal for silence and handed Steve an envelope. Confused, but obeying the silence signal, Steve took the envelope, tore it open and took out a short handwritten note. He couldn’t believe what he was reading.

The note was clearly in Ellen’s neat handwriting.

Steve, please stay silent. We think the police, at the request of the FBI through Interpol headquarters here in Brussels, may have bugged my parents’ house.

Meet me at Le Grand Hotel (Rue de la Loi 242) at 4:00 PM. Don’t be followed. Come to Room 308.

I am so sorry and love you so much. I will explain everything this afternoon. E

Steve was in shock. He couldn’t even guess what was going on, except that Ellen was alive. Beyond that, he had no idea what was happening or why.

All Steve could do was sit there watching Ellen’s parents alternating between smiling while nodding their heads up and down and eating their breakfast. They clearly knew what was going on. His first reaction was that this was some kind of trap, that Ellen had been forced to write the note, perhaps weeks or months ago. But the smiles on her parents’ faces quickly squashed any such fears. He politely ate a roll with jam, drank a cup of thick, strong black coffee and soon excused himself and went to the guest bedroom. This was the same room and the same bed that he and Ellen stayed in whenever they visited her parents. A wide range of emotions flowed through him. He lay down and tried taking a nap, but his brain was much too active to allow any sleep. All he could do was toss and turn.