Lisa Gardner - Gone

“I want a raunchy ruling analysis of the note,” Quincy said abruptly, “testing the paper for signs of indentation. Can your QD people do that?”

“They’ve been known to be competent.”

“You’ll ask for the test?”

“I’ve been known to be competent, too.”

“All right.” Quincy ignored the other man’s sarcasm. “I think the author of the note is lying. I think he’s telling us what he wants us to believe, but not what’s necessarily true.”

“Ah, so your first instinct is rampant paranoia. Do tell.”

“He claims he’s a professional. He claims it’s about money. But have you ever heard of a ransom case where the victim was random? Around here, given the demographics, you’d stand a decent chance of kidnapping someone who didn’t have the kind of resources necessary to meet the ransom demand.”

“Ten grand isn’t that much,” Kincaid protested.

“Exactly,” Quincy said. “Why ten thousand dollars? That’s not a lot of money for holding a person hostage.”

“He has to make the amount accessible. You said it yourself, this isn’t the richest part of the state. Plus, don’t get me wrong, but for some of us, a quick ten grand isn’t doing so badly.”

Quincy merely shrugged. “Why invite in the police? Don’t most ransom notes specifically state not to contact the authorities? For someone trying to score a quick ten grand, in your own words, he’s just bought himself a bigger headache.”

“Ah, but see, given this guy’s system, he has no choice. Without us affirming that it’s a ransom note and verifying proof of life, the family of the missing person wouldn’t know to take the letter seriously. And if the family of the victim doesn’t take things seriously, Señor Fox doesn’t get paid.” Kincaid had finished copying the two pages. Now he laid the envelope across the glass.

“Now let me tell you what I think. Point one-I actually agree with you. I think the note is a big ball o’ lies. But here’s where we differ. You think if the guy is lying, he must be devious. I think the guy is lying because he’s a rank amateur.”

“Ah, so your first instinct is basic stupidity.” Quincy spread his hands. “Do tell.”

“Okay, get this. Our guy-”

“The UNSUB.”

“Yeah, that’s right. In the feebie world, gotta have an acronym for everything. Okay, so our UNSUB . He needs to make some money. Now, I’m assuming this guy isn’t so bright and isn’t so together in this world. For that kind of mutt, ten grand can be a lot of dough. Maybe pay off a gambling debt.” Kincaid’s look was pointed; there were a number of casinos along the coast, and they brought with them the requisite casino issues, including gambling, loan-sharking, alcoholism. “Or maybe just pay off his new ATV. I don’t know. Thing is, for this guy, ten grand is enough, especially for a day’s work.”

“Day’s work?”

“Yeah, which brings me to point two: our UNSUB, he’s not sophisticated enough for a big operation. He needs something quick and easy. So instead of, say, identifying a target, tailing her for days, and then trying to figure out how to kidnap her from her home or at work, he goes with a crime of opportunity. Something easy. Say, a woman, who may have been drinking, pulled over in her car in the middle of the night.

“Of course, not knowing who this woman is or anything about her background, how can he make contact? Simple, use the local paper. And maybe in this case, we weren’t moving fast enough-I don’t know-so he decides to make direct contact as well. We’re still not talking anything that complicated. He has the victim’s cell phone, he uses a voice distorter any idiot can buy from Radio Shack. Boom, done.

“Now, if he’s watched any movies at all, he knows the first thing that’s required in these cases is proof of life. Well, he’s making this all up on the fly, so again, how to communicate? Hey, I know, bury it in the middle of a cemetery. That’ll get the job done, plus he can have a good chuckle, picturing a fine, handsome state detective trying desperately not to dig up any bones. God knows I’m gonna have to laugh about it.

“Then the UNSUB introduces a few deadlines, ’cause this yokel can’t afford for things to get drawn out. He sends the note before five p.m. the day before to ensure we’re called first thing in the morning. Gives us a deadline to find proof of life, to make sure we’re moving. I bet you now, we get to the cemetery, and we’ll find the drop details for the money, along with another deadline, in probably one, two hours. Hell, it’ll probably include another map. Stick money beneath tombstone A, find a map to tree B, where we’ll find the girl.

“Quick, clean, and not a bad way to make ten grand.” Kincaid whipped the envelope off the glass, picked up the duplicates, and closed up the copy machine. “Now let me ask you something: Do you have ten grand?”

“Yes.”

“Would you pay it to ransom your estranged wife?”

Quincy didn’t bat an eye. “Yes.”

“There you go. It’s gonna be a good day. Let’s go hunt a fox.”

“I don’t think it’s about money,” Quincy insisted quietly.

“More rampant paranoia?”

“Maybe. But I know something you don’t know.”

“And what’s that, Mr. Profiler Man?”

“I know who the Fox is.”

Tuesday, 9:45 a.m. PST

DOUGIE WAS OUT IN THE WOODS. Dougie was always out in the woods. He didn’t mind the rain, the wind, the cold. Outside was good. Outside meant trees and pine needles and green moss that felt nice to the touch, but didn’t always taste so good. This morning, he’d tried three different shades of moss. One had tasted like dirt. One had tasted like tree bark. The third had made his mouth tingle curiously.

He hadn’t eaten any more of the third.

Now, Dougie was excavating the remains of a dead tree. The thick trunk had fallen probably ages ago, at least before Dougie had been born. Now it was a great, big rotted-out log, sprouting interesting fungus and housing loads of bugs. Dougie had a stick. He was digging, digging, digging. The more he dug, the more interesting bugs ran out.

Dougie was seven. At least that’s what people told him. He didn’t remember his birthday. Maybe sometime in February. His first “second family” had made up a date for him, his “homecoming day.” That had been in February, and they’d fed him cake and ice cream.

His first second family had been okay. At least he couldn’t remember anything bad. But one day the lady in the purple suit had arrived and told him to pack his bag. He was going to a new second family, but don’t worry, they would love him lots, too.

“Dougie,” the lady in the purple suit had told him quietly when they were out the front door, “you can’t play with matches like that; it makes people nervous. Promise me, no more matches.”

Dougie had shrugged. Dougie had promised. While behind them, the garage of his first second family’s home lay in smoldering ruins.

The second second family hadn’t celebrated birthdays or “homecoming days.” They hadn’t celebrated much of anything. His new mom had a thin, stern face. “Idle hands are the devil’s playmate,” she’d tell him, right before ordering him to scrub the floor or scour the dishes.

Dougie didn’t like doing chores. That meant being in a house and Dougie didn’t like being inside. He wanted to be outside. In the trees. Where he could smell the dirt and leaves. Where there was no one around to look at him funny or whisper about him behind his back.

He’d made it three weeks with his second second family. Then he’d simply waited until they went to sleep, went out to the fireplace, and had a ball with the great big long matches. Those suckers could burn.