James Patterson - Worst Case

“Okay, question one: Tell me about fair trade coffee prices and their effect on South American coffee growers.”

Oh, my God, Mary Beth thought excitedly. I actually know this. It was last month’s topic from her Political Awareness committee at school.

“The modern fair trade movement began in ’eighty-eight in Holland,” she said. “It came about because of the horrendous exploitation of the Southern Hemisphere fieldworkers. It’s basically an economic partnership that protects small coffee growers and gives consumers a choice to pay a little more for their joe while providing a living wage for the workers. The summer I was fifteen, I actually went on a fair harvest trip to Nicaragua.”

For a moment, it looked like the cigarette was going to drop from the gray-haired man’s lower lip. He recovered quickly.

“You’re right,” he said, taking a drag. “Now let’s shift gears to global warming: How many gallons of gasoline are consumed by Americans each year?”

“One hundred forty-six billion gallons,” Mary Beth said without hesitation. She knew this answer because of the mock United Nations project she’d completed at school. She’d been given the role of representative from Darfur on their global-energy-issues debate.

For the first time, the man with the gray hair seemed to genuinely smile. He crushed his cigarette under his shoe. He even took the razor off the table and put it back into his pocket.

“Correct again,” he said. “That’s good, Mary Beth. You’re doing well. So far, at least. But we have many more questions to get through. Now, question three. The subject: abject hunger in the world’s richest nation.”

We sat there, staring at the phone. It just didn’t make sense. The kidnapper should have called back by now. Every other time, he’d called to let us know where the body was. Was not telling us and leaving the parents hanging his latest method of torture? If it was, it was working like a charm.

The only whiff of a lead came when Verizon Wireless called back with a cell site triangulation of his first call. It had come from somewhere in the vicinity of Gateway National Beach, on the south shore of Staten Island. But not surprisingly, when detectives from the 122nd Precinct had raced to the scene, they found nothing but gulls. The killer could have been in a car when he’d called-or who knew? A boat maybe. Another stone wall. Another dead end.

When I went to the window for about the thirtieth time, I noticed a funny thing happening on the sidewalk out in front of the Haases’ brownstone. A crowd had formed. It looked like a block party.

I went outside, thinking at first it was the press, but then I spotted a Brearley sweatshirt. Mary Beth’s friends. They were holding candles beside a pile of teddy bears and flowers and a signed volleyball. Almost every member of the Brearley senior class showed up to the vigil. They were crying, smoking, holding pictures of her.

I thought about breaking it up but then decided, why? If the kidnapper was watching the house, maybe the outpouring of love might make him see Mary Beth as a flesh-and-blood valuable person instead of the symbol of his hate.

I stared at the young, solemn faces as a guitar started playing. The vigil was oddly beautiful. The flickering flames from the candles seemed to merge with the lights of Manhattan across the dark bay. Mary Beth was obviously a great kid who had affected many lives.

It set my teeth on edge that I couldn’t find her. Even after all this time, we were as baffled by everything as anyone, completely useless.

Ann Haas came outside and was embraced by her daughter’s friends. She ordered pizza. Emily and I joined her in handing it out. I have to say, I was pretty overwhelmed by the emotional reactions of everyone, the genuine outreaching to comfort one another. Too bad it so often has to take tragedy to bring out the best in people, I thought.

Emily and I used the opportunity to learn more about Mary Beth. Ann Haas introduced me to Kevin Adello, a tall, mop-headed basketball player from Collegiate, Brearley’s exclusive brother school. He told us he’d dated Mary Beth off and on.

“She’s going to Bard, and instead of going to Princeton, I decided to go play for Vassar so we could be near each other. She isn’t like any other girl at Brearley, I’ll tell you that. Mary Beth is real. She’d puke seeing all these debutantes here in their just-so Seven jeans. I’m sorry. I’m being too harsh. I guess it’s nice that they showed. I just wish I could do something.”

I wheeled around as a cab slowed in the street. The crowd converged on it. My blood went cold as a ragged cry rang out.

“Move!” I yelled as I forced shocked teenagers aside.

A scared-looking girl in a wrinkled Brearley hoodie opened the door of the cab as I arrived beside it.

“It’s okay,” Mary Beth said, holding her hands up. “I’m okay.”

What? I couldn’t believe it. Another twist. The first one in the case that was actually welcome. Mary Beth’s bowled-over friends clapped and whistled as I guided her toward the brownstone stairs and her joyfully crying mother.

He’d let Mary Beth live?

Back inside under the kitchen high hats, Emily and I stood back as the mother and daughter embraced. I couldn’t tell which of them was crying the hardest. It even looked like Emily was about to join in.

“Something in your eye there, Detective Badass?” she teased.

“Hey,” I whispered to her, blinking back the moistness. “I guess I must have a heart or something, huh? You breathe a word about it to Schultz or Ramirez, we’ll be exchanging gunfire.”

“Toss me a block now, Mike,” Emily said, taking a deep breath. “We need to debrief the girl while she’s still fresh. I need to get Mary Beth alone.”

“Mrs. Haas? Can I talk to you for a moment?” I said, tapping the mother on the arm. “We need to start thinking about a media strategy. It’s very important.”

“Now?” she said as I ushered her into the hall. “Can’t it wait? I have to get my daughter cleaned up now. She needs me. Nothing is more important than that. In fact, why are you still here? I’d like you to leave so we can all get back to normal.”

“Mom!” Mary Beth yelled. It was the first time she’d spoken since she’d come inside. “They need to talk to me. Is that so insane? Ugggh. Stop treating me like I’m three. I’m fine.”

Ann Haas’s eyes widened in surprise as I was finally able to get her out into the hall. I was starting to like the feisty teen more by the minute. Emily began questioning the girl.

“Hi, Mary Beth. My name is Emily Parker. I work with the FBI. I can’t tell you how happy we are that you’re okay. But right now, I need you to answer some questions to see if we can catch the person who abducted you.”

“If you’re going to give me a speech about rape kits and stuff, don’t bother. He didn’t touch me.”

“Good. That’s very good. In that case, Mary Beth, can you describe him? How old is he? What does he look like?”

“He’s in his late fifties maybe. Broad-shouldered, about six feet tall. He has salt-and-pepper hair. He’s actually pretty handsome. He reminded me of that actor, the father from The Day After Tomorrow. Dennis Quaid. Only paler and with glasses. He also wore an expensive suit.”

Parker scribbled it down. Why wouldn’t this guy wear a mask or something if he was going to let her go? she thought. Was it sloppiness? Another trick?

“He’s actually not that bad a guy,” Mary Beth continued. “I know it sounds weird, but he cares about stuff. Probably too much. After everything, I guess I feel sorry for him more than anything else.”