James Grippando - The Abduction

Allison entered the relatively modern J. Edgar Hoover Building through the employee entrance on Pennsylvania Avenue. An escort directed her to an interior office near the lab, the visiting agent’s office that Harley Abrams used when away from his home base in Quantico. She found the stark surroundings about as aesthetically pleasing as the old CASKU offices in the underground facilities back at the academy. Beige walls with no artwork. A potted plant in the corner that had seen better days. Abrams was busy behind the basic government-issue metal desk with wood veneer top.

“I need five minutes of your time,” she announced, standing in the doorway.

Abrams looked up from his desk, surprised. He rose, then offered the only chair with a wave of his hand. “Please, come in.”

Allison entered alone and closed the door, leaving her escort in the hall. Abrams discreetly slid the list he was preparing-the list of those who would be privy to the ransom demand-into the top desk drawer.

“Afraid I might see something?” she asked.

He smiled awkwardly as he closed the drawer. “Oh, this? Just, uh-personal.”

“Yeah, I’ve been catching up with all my letter writing in the past twenty-four hours, too.”

“Touché,” he said, his smile fading.

“Look, I recognize you’re in a tough spot. You work for an FBI director who, even though he technically reports to me, has determined that the attorney general should be excluded from this investigation.”

He raised his hands. “Please, if this is a power struggle, I really wish you would have this conversation with Director O’Doud.”

“This is not about power. It’s about a twelve-year-old girl. Tragically, that fact has been lost in all the political maneuvering over the past thirty-six hours.”

“Which is exactly the reason Director O’Doud thinks you should stand aside and let the FBI do its job.”

She nodded wearily, as if tired of the party line. Part of her wanted to stand up and scream, The FBI works for me, damn it! But Abrams was the right man for the job, and she needed his respect, not his resignation. She dug in her purse and removed a small cassette player. “I’d like you to hear something. It’ll just take a minute.”

She laid the cassette player on the desk and hit the PLAY button.

Abrams stared at the machine, never making eye contact. A cooing sound came from the small speaker. Gurgling, broken sounds. It lasted about fifteen seconds before Allison hit the STOP button.

As it ended, their eyes met.

Her lip quivered as she struggled with her emotions. “That was my four-month-old daughter, Emily. She was abducted from my house eight years ago.”

He nodded with some difficulty. “I’d heard about that.”

“This is the tape her abductor put in her crib. It played over the baby monitor, so I wouldn’t know she was gone. Until it was too late.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “What happened to you in the past is terrible. But your conflict of interest stems not from your past, but from your present status as a presidential candidate.”

Her tone sharpened. “My alleged conflict of interest stems from the assumption that I would use Kristen Howe’s abduction to my own political advantage. After hearing that tape, do you honestly believe I would ever exploit the abduction of any child for any purpose?”

His expression answered for him. “What are you asking me to do?”

“I’m asking you to look at reality, not the rhetoric. When Emily was abducted eight years ago, people told me exactly what Lincoln Howe and Director O’Doud are telling me now. ‘Step aside,’ they said. ‘You can’t be objective. Leave it to the experts.’ Like an idiot, I listened to them. It hurt like hell, but for the good of the investigation I stood on the sidelines and let them do their jobs. And you know what?”

Abrams shook his head slightly.

“They never found my daughter,” she said in a hushed voice. “They never came close to finding my daughter. No leads, no motive, no suspects. Vanished.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. But I didn’t come for sympathy. I came to state my case. I would no more divulge the details of this investigation than would Tanya Howe. As the attorney general I feel a moral responsibility to make sure everything that can possibly be done is being done to save Kristen Howe. And as a woman I bring something of value to the process. Experience. Personal experience.”

She rose, then stopped and looked him in the eye. “There’s one other thing you should know, Inspector.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s killing me to be made into a bystander all over again.” She turned and opened the door, never looking back as she headed for the elevator.

At six-thirty Wednesday evening Harley Abrams was at a table by himself in the FBI cafeteria, gobbling down a tuna fish sandwich as he revised his written profile of the kidnappers in light of the day’s events. A television set in the corner was tuned to the evening news, but Harley was only half listening.

“Good evening,” said the evening news anchorman. His shoulders squared to the camera, filling television screens across America with his handsome face. “In a late-breaking story, ABC News has obtained confirmation through an exclusive source that Kristen Howe’s kidnappers have presented a ransom demand of one million dollars.”

Harley coughed, nearly choking on his sandwich.

“Details are scarce,” said the anchorman. “But the one-page, typewritten note is the first communication from the kidnappers since the twelve-year-old granddaughter of presidential hopeful Lincoln Howe disappeared yesterday morning on her way to school. With more on the story from Washington is-”

Harley’s cellular phone rang, but his focus was on the television until he heard Director O’Doud’s voice on the line.

“Have you seen tonight’s lead story?” snapped O’Doud.

“Yes, sir.”

“You told Leahy, didn’t you.”

Harley grimaced. “No, sir.”

“I know you two met this afternoon.”

“I met with her, yes. But I didn’t tell her anything.”

“It had to be Leahy, or someone in her camp. They must have cut a deal-give up the exclusive today for some favorable press coverage tomorrow. I’ll bet my right arm that by tomorrow morning we’ll see some hogwash story showing Allison Leahy on top of every phase of the investigation.”

“Sir, I didn’t breathe a word of it to anyone. Unless-”

“Unless what?”

“I suppose she could have seen something on my desk. But I don’t think so.”

“Well, if it wasn’t Leahy, then who in the hell was it?”

“Probably the same people who have been playing politics with the kidnapping all along.”

“And who would that be?”

“I’ll say this much,” said Harley. “The list of suspects is narrowing.”

At 8:30 P.M. Lincoln Howe arrived at the studio, dressed in a dark suit befitting a funeral. Secret Service agents flanked his sides. The general showed no expression as he marched down the hall to the backstage area. He stood to the side, surveying a set that normally served a local talk show in Arlington, Virginia. The interviewer’s desk had been moved to the center of the room, with a large projector screen behind it. Two men were carrying a couch off stage. A tangled mess of wires and cables lay around the perimeter. Hundreds of floodlights dangled from the ceiling. Five cameras were in position.

Buck LaBelle approached. “Just about ready, General,” said the campaign manager.

Howe nodded. “What about coverage?”

“From the technical standpoint it’s like the debates. CNN will serve as the pool organization, and anybody who wants to pick up the broadcast can subscribe. All the major networks are covering it, and some international. You could have a hundred million viewers.”