Lisa Gardner - Gone

“We can do that,” the sheriff said. “’Course, you’re missing the obvious.”

Kincaid arched a brow. “Which is?”

Atkins shrugged. “A roundup of the usual suspects. The guys we already know are money-grubbing hustlers who wouldn’t think twice about selling out their own mama, let alone snatching a woman off the streets. You said yourself you can’t be sure this boy isn’t from around here. Sounds to me like we should shake some local trees, see what falls out.”

“What are you going to do?” Kincaid said dryly. “Go door to door and ask the good old boys if they’ve kidnapped someone recently?”

Sheriff Atkins didn’t blink an eye. “Personally, I think I’d take a little tour of their property, see if I happen to notice any brand-new pickup trucks or ATVs that might put someone in the hole ten grand. Then maybe I’d make myself known, ask for a little tour of the home. Check out the rooms, the outbuildings, see if I can make ’ em sweat. Who knows, I might even rustle up a few more meth labs for you fine folks to process.”

The last comment was a dig at the state police’s current efforts-or lack thereof-to contain the growing methamphetamine problem in the county. Kincaid took the barb in the spirit in which it was intended.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” the sergeant said tightly. “I’d recommend that your people travel in pairs and exercise due caution on your tours, though. Surprise someone with a hostage and things can get very dicey, very quick.”

“Well, thanks, Sergeant. We’ll try to remember how to do our jobs.”

“Fine.” Kincaid cleared his throat again, rustled his papers. “That leaves a canvass of the local hotels and motels, plus retracing the victim’s last steps. I want a detailed profile of every person Lorraine Conner has seen in the past twenty-four hours, plus every place she’s been. Detective Grove, why don’t you handle that? Determine how many troopers you need, I’ll make it happen.”

“Yes, sir.” Alane Grove sat up smartly. Assigned a meaningful task, she was glowing.

“That leaves Detective Spector to coordinate the scientists. Both Latent Prints and two primary examiners from the Portland lab should be here at any time now. We have the car still to process, not to mention two notes, an envelope, a plastic container, and the gun. Should be a wealth of information right there. Which brings us to the final immediate task-managing the Daily Sun. In the good-news department, the owner, Owen Van Wie, has promised us complete cooperation. He also assigned his best news reporter, Adam Danicic, to work with us on coverage of the case.”

Lieutenant Mosley nodded, picking up his pen. “We’ll need to hold a press briefing ASAP. Better that the media hear the details from us than from wildly speculative rumors. Of course, the first question will be, Are we calling in the FBI?”

Kincaid didn’t miss a beat. “No. There’s no indication the victim has crossed state lines, and nothing here our own crime lab can’t handle. Naturally, we appreciate the assistance of local and county investigators with our efforts.”

“Aw, shucks,” Sheriff Atkins said.

Kincaid flashed her an equally gracious smile.

Quincy, however, had had enough.

“Final immediate task?” he asked incredulously. “What about securing the fairgrounds? What about procuring the ransom money? What about wiring a female officer? The tasks you just outlined will take days to complete. We have two hours.”

Kincaid wouldn’t look at him. Neither would Mosley. The room took on a sudden, expectant hush. And in that silence, Quincy finally understood. He slammed his fist on the table.

“I’m going to pay the money,” he said harshly. “Goddammit, you cannot stop me from paying that money.”

“Mr. Quincy-”

“She is my wife! She is a fellow member of law enforcement, how dare you-”

“We are going to make every effort in our power to find your wife.”

“Except follow his instructions!”

“We’re not going to disregard them either. Lieutenant Mosley and I were discussing it earlier; I think it’s highly appropriate to open a two-way dialogue-”

“No! It’s too big a risk. We don’t know enough, I won’t allow it.”

Kincaid fell silent again. Lieutenant Mosley, too.

And then Quincy got the rest of it. He had been so pleased Kincaid had let him participate in the investigation. He had never stopped to wonder about Kincaid’s motives. For example, did he really value Quincy’s help, or did he just want to keep the former investigator busy?

When Quincy spoke again, his voice wasn’t angry anymore. It was deceptively quiet. “When?”

Kincaid glanced at his watch. “The special edition of the Daily Sun is probably rolling off the presses as we speak.”

“Who crafted the message?”

Kincaid didn’t flinch. “I did.”

“You’re not qualified. Call the FBI. Get a profiler. Do things right.”

“I would never heedlessly endanger the life of the hostage,” Kincaid said firmly. “Our message is simple and clear. We will absolutely pay the ransom, we just need more time. That works in all of our favors, Mr. Quincy, including Rainie’s.”

“You don’t understand yet. It’s not about the money, Sergeant Detective Kincaid. It’s about power: his desire to have it and hold it over our heads-”

“Thank you, Mr. Quincy.”

“One wrong word from you and he’ll kill her out of spite.”

“Thank you, Mr. Quincy.”

“You need to bring in a professional-”

“It’s done, Mr. Quincy. It’s done.”

In the silence that followed, Quincy felt those words like a blow to the chest. The breath caught in his lungs. He could feel his heart race, adrenaline, anger, anguish. Thirty years. Thirty years of building a knowledge base, of honing an instinct, of earning a reputation for being the best of the best. And now, when it mattered most, when Rainie was out there, helpless, vulnerable, needing him…

He gathered up his things. He made it out the front doors just as the skies opened up and it once more started to rain.

Tuesday, 2:38 p.m. PST

SHELLY ATKINS CAUGHT UP with him in the parking lot. She ran up behind him. Quincy turned at the last minute, shoulders hunched, lips thinned. He wasn’t in the mood and felt no need to disguise it.

The sheriff came to a halt several feet back. She didn’t speak right away. The rain pelted between them, running in rivulets off Shelly’s hat and forming puddles at their feet.

“Long night,” she said at last.

Quincy shrugged. They’d all been up since the early hours of morning; it wasn’t worth discussing to him.

“State likes to run their own show,” the sheriff tried again.

“They always do.”

“I talked to Luke Hayes this morning. He had a lot of nice things to say about your wife. As a person, as an investigator. He was real surprised to find out she’d gone missing. He said he’d do some asking around on his own.”

“I appreciate that.”

“He also said you used to work with the bureau, that you’re pretty good at these things.”

Quincy merely shrugged again.

“Do you think he’s local?” she asked abruptly. There was no need to define who.

“I think the UNSUB knows this area,” Quincy stated carefully. “I think he’s either lived here in the past, or at least visited enough to be very familiar with the terrain. Kidnappings entail complicated logistics; an UNSUB would want to be somewhere he feels comfortable.”

“I read somewhere,” Shelly said, “that most ransom cases have a personal connection. A business partner, a family member, or hell, even a loan shark, looking to get back something owed to them.”