James Grippando - The Abduction

He parked his car two blocks from Allison’s townhouse, the closest spot he could find. He walked briskly down the shady, colder side of the street. Most of the reporters were on the sunny and warmer side, a fair indication that the media weren’t complete idiots. He was a half block from Allison’s doorstop before he was recognized.

“Mr. Abrams!” someone shouted from the across the street.

Harley kept walking, same pace. Media crews jumped into action, dashing into the street like unruly Mardi Gras revelers. In seconds he was surrounded. The first question hit him like hot shrapnel. “Do you agree with Ms. Leahy’s suspension?” Others fired queries to the same effect.

Harley never broke stride. Reporters fought with each other for strategic position, trampling plants and statuettes on neighbors’ doorsteps. They lumbered down the sidewalk in one cohesive mass, a ravenous species of carnivores unto themselves. Harley stopped at the iron gate outside Allison’s townhouse. He rang the bell and waited.

Another reporter shouted, “Is this meeting business or personal?” Others picked up on the same theme, each one trying to outshout the next.

The buzzer rang and the gate unlocked electronically. Harley opened the latch and stepped inside the small, secured courtyard. The mob surged forward. He turned and spoke firmly but civilly. “You’re on private property. Please stay behind the gate.”

They backed off, cameras rolling. Harley closed the gate and headed for the front door. It opened before he could knock. The housekeeper rushed him inside and quickly shut the door.

“This way,” she said. She took his coat and led him to the family room in the back of the house. Allison was dressed sharply in a blue suit, ready for her morning news conference.

Harley did a double take, surprised. “You look-good.”

She managed a meager smile. “What were you expecting? Tattered robe, fuzzy slippers, and a fistful of cyanide tablets?”

He blushed with embarrassment. “I don’t know what I was expecting, really. Anyway, I did want to tell you I think it’s wrong the way they’re treating you.”

“Worse things have happened to me.”

He blinked, knowing how true that was. “I also wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“For the way you stood up for me last night. I saw the statement you gave to the press at the airport. You could easily have pointed the finger at me for the botched arrest. Instead, you took responsibility.”

“I just hate to see the media trashing good people. There’s a big difference between incompetence and a talented FBI agent who’s hamstrung by outsiders who keep manipulating the investigation for their own political benefit.”

“Still, what you did took guts.”

She smiled faintly. “It took guts for you to come over here, too. I appreciate the gesture. But if you stay here much longer, we’ll only be making more problems for each other.”

“I suppose that’s true. But there is one problem I’d like to solve before I go. How do you and I stay in touch?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know-how do I keep you informed?”

“Harley, I’ve been suspended.”

“All that means is you’re no longer my boss. But I’m still in charge of the investigation, and I still haven’t ruled out the possibility of a link between Kristen’s kidnapping and your daughter’s abduction. To that extent alone, I need your input. Layer on top of that the fact that you and your husband have agreed to pay Kristen’s ransom and I’d say you’re an indispensable player-suspension or no suspension.”

“Harley, my suspension is a direct order from the president of the United States. You’re jeopardizing your career.”

“Not much of a career, is it, if I just stand by and let someone else take the fall for my mistake? I know there’s nothing I can do to make the president reverse the suspension. But there’s plenty we can do to make sure this investigation runs the way it should.”

“How intriguing, Mr. Abrams. I’ve never seen your devilish side.”

He blushed again. She seemed to have a knack for making him do that. “Twenty-two years with the FBI, I didn’t know I had one.”

Her smile faded as she turned more serious. “Peter and I were actually talking about this whole situation earlier. Do you think the kidnappers are still after a ransom?”

“Hard to say. Our voice analysts are positive that the man who called yesterday and let Tanya talk to Kristen is definitely not the man who called you and Tanya on Friday. The guy said he would keep Kristen safe until after the election, but with all the media hoopla about yesterday’s botched arrest, he might not be feeling so protective.”

“What’s your best guess as to what’s going on?”

“The confusion suggests a pretty volatile situation, which heightens the risk of harm to the child. I see two likely scenarios, both bad. One, Kristen’s already dead and we’ll never hear from either of those two callers again. Or two, they’ll keep her alive at least until tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, when the guy who called on Friday said he would call you for the ransom. We hope it’s the second. If they make contact for the ransom, we at least have a shot at catching them before they kill her. If they don’t make contact-well, you get the picture.”

“It doesn’t sound like you think there’s much chance they’ll let her go, even if we pay.”

He sighed, unsure. “Paying the ransom at least buys a little time, maybe gives us a chance to stall. I’d say the twenty-four-hour period between Monday at eight A.M. and the opening of the polls on Tuesday morning is Kristen’s primary danger zone. If they’re going to kill her, they’ll want to maximize the impact on the election, probably dump her body on the Justice Department steps or some other dramatic setting. If you wanted to narrow the time frame even further, I’d say between eight A.M. and six P.M. Monday, in time for her murder to be the lead story on the evening news on election eve and the headline story in every election-day newspaper in the country.”

“So, you’re saying that even if we pay, we’ve got at most thirty-six hours to find her.”

“Basically, that’s it.”

“And if we don’t pay?”

“She’s dead for sure in twenty-four.”

Allison looked away, thinking how little progress she’d made toward finding Emily in more than eight years of effort. “Thirty-six hours,” she said softly, her eyes drifting back toward Harley. “God help us.”

Allison didn’t watch Harley leave. She knew, without watching, that he was walking into a First Amendment frenzy outside her townhouse. Reporters started shouting the minute the front door cracked open. Closing it barely muffled their cries. Allison refilled her coffee cup at the kitchen counter, dreading the thought of venturing outside.

The phone rang, startling her. It was her personal private line, which narrowed the possible callers to a handful-even less than a handful, since Peter was upstairs and Harley was right outside being drawn and quartered by a pack of hungry coyotes. She answered with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“Hello.”

“Ms. Leahy, this is Tanya Howe.”

Allison felt relief, then embarrassment-she really should have called Tanya. “I’m glad you called. I was meaning to call you.”

“You told me to call if I ever needed anything. Well, I’m in need of some answers.”

Allison settled onto the bar stool at the counter. The edge to Tanya’s voice was alarming. “You mean about last night?”

“No, I mean this morning. I found an FBI agent in my bathroom plucking a hair sample from my mother’s brush, rummaging through her cosmetic bag.”