Lisa Gardner - Gone

“Georgia Bureau of Investigation? What, you got out of bed this morning and took a wrong turn?”

“I’m with him,” Mac supplied easily, nodding toward Quincy. “Technically speaking, I’m dating his daughter.”

“The FBI agent,” Kincaid filled in.

“That’s the one.”

Kincaid’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And where is she right now?”

Mac shrugged. “I don’t ask too many questions. She’s really good with a gun.”

Kincaid looked dangerously close to throttling someone. Mac was used to it by now. Seemed anytime he hung out with Kimberly and her father, someone tried to kill him.

“You look like shit,” Kincaid told Quincy.

“Wearing a lot of it, too.”

“Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not helping.”

“True. Actually shooting the reporter would’ve been much more satisfying.”

“I know you consider yourself an expert in these matters, Mr. Quincy, but you’re also family. Surely a man of your intelligence can realize that there is no way for you to be clearheaded and objective about this investigation.”

“She’s a number to you,” Quincy said softly. “A statistic passing across your desk. Solve it, and your life goes on. Don’t solve it, and your life goes on. There’s no difference.”

Kincaid leaned down. While Mac had expected the OSP sergeant to launch into another tirade, his voice was surprisingly solemn. “All the cases you worked were statistics, too. Did that mean you slept in late, took weekends, went home to have dinner with your family every night? Yeah, I thought as much. I have a wife, Mr. Quincy. I have a beautiful baby boy and there’s nothing I would rather do right now than wrap up this case and go home to them. Hey, let’s hand over a boatload of cash, get your wife, and call it a day. I can take a hot shower, change into dry clothes, and put my feet up in my favorite recliner with my boy on my chest. Sounds good to me. Let’s go.”

“You’re the one who refused to pay,” Quincy said steadily. “You’re the one making things difficult.”

“Because I’m trying to do it right, dammit! Because I listened to you, the expert, and what you had to say. What was your professional opinion, Mr. Quincy, what did you tell me when we were having a grand ol’ time digging up a graveyard?” Kincaid didn’t wait for an answer, but counted off the points on the fingers of his right hand. “One, these kinds of cases are almost always personal. Two, the majority end with the victim found dead. You know why I’m dragging this out, Mr. Quincy? You know why I’m busting my balls writing message points to some UNSUB kidnapper when even I know I’m in over my head? Because I’m afraid the minute we agree to pay the ransom, Lorraine is dead. I’m not trying to get home to my wife, Mr. Quincy. I’m trying to save yours.”

Quincy didn’t reply. His lips, however, were set in a thin, stubborn line.

“If we drag things out,” Kincaid said more calmly, “the kidnapper has to keep her alive for proof of life. And maybe, just maybe, we can finally make the link between her and him. I got the scientists working the car and the notes. I got good people retracing your wife’s last steps. We got Sheriff Atkins shaking the local felony tree. This case is still in its infancy. We’re going to get some leads yet.”

“Any calls to the hotline?”

“No.”

“But given that he didn’t show here, you’re assuming he read the paper.”

“Maybe he needs a little time to think about things. Form Plan B.”

“Do you have a Plan B?”

“Yes, sir, I do. He’s going to call, we’re going to be as accommodating and cordial as we can be. It’s his game, we just want to follow instructions. We would love to give him money, we just need a little time. And then”-Kincaid took a deep breath-“we’re going to suggest a show of good faith. He supplies more proof of life, and we respond with a down payment. Not the whole ransom amount, because the bank needs more time, but the first couple thousand, so he’ll know we’re cooperating.”

Mac closed his eyes. He saw through the thinly veiled statement immediately, and so did Quincy. The former profiler was already on his feet.

“You’re not going to pay him the ransom amount?”

“It’s a down payment-”

“You’re shortchanging him. We see that, he’ll see that.”

“Not if it’s handled right-”

“By whom? An overworked state detective who’s never negotiated a damn thing in his life?”

Kincaid flushed, but didn’t back down. “As a matter of fact, I made arrangements to bring in a professional negotiator from our tactical unit. Candi, with an ‘i.’ I’m told she’s brilliant.”

“Oh my God,” Quincy said. He had his hands held to his temples, didn’t seem to be able to come to terms with the news.

“This kind of strategy has been done quite successfully before. A case out of Britain-”

“Oh my God,” Quincy said again.

Kincaid plowed on as if he hadn’t heard him. “They had a perpetrator threatening to poison pet foods if certain manufacturers didn’t make hefty payments. Rather than pay up all at once, the task force strung the perpetrator along, making a series of small cash deposits. Naturally, this increased the amount of contact the extortionist had with the companies, as well as the number of times he had to surface to receive payment. Catching him was always only a matter of time.”

“This isn’t an extortion scheme targeted against nameless, faceless victims.”

“Which makes it all the better. The more our guy has to talk to us, the more information he’ll give away. I’m not going to drag this out forever. Game plan is a good-faith down payment of a couple thousand, assuming he can show us proof of life. We’ll even consider it a bonus, given how patient he’s being. Arrange that for late tonight, with a setup for the full ten grand tomorrow afternoon. Meaning that he can walk away with twelve thousand instead of the original ten.”

“Play to his greed,” Mac commented.

Kincaid flashed him a glance. “Exactly.”

Mac looked at Quincy. The profiler appeared ashen. He sat down wearily on the metal chair and Mac wondered once more about the physical toll this must be taking.

“It’s a matter of presentation,” Kincaid said steadily. “We make him feel like he’s maintaining control of the situation while being rewarded for his efforts. We keep him focused on the future payoff, not the change in plans.”

“There’s only one problem,” Quincy said.

“What?” Kincaid asked warily.

A faint chiming sound suddenly emanated from Quincy’s pocket. “I doubt the UNSUB is stupid enough to call your hotline.”

Quincy pulled out his phone, checked the number, then showed them both the screen. Rainie’s name flashed across the display. “Why call you, Sergeant Kincaid, when it’s so much easier to call me?”

“Ahh shit.” Kincaid motioned furiously to the other detective as Quincy flipped open his phone and prepared to speak.

Tuesday, 5:05 p.m. PST

SHERIFF SHELLY ATKINS WAS TIRED. She wanted a steaming cup of hot chocolate, a hot shower, and her bed, though not necessarily in that order. She’d had long nights before; her parents ran a cattle farm out in eastern Oregon. You didn’t run a farm without some sleepless nights. But the last sixteen hours had taken their toll. Her boots were soaked, her socks were soaked. Her first shirt, her spare shirt. Every time she ran the heater in the car, she steamed up the windows from all the moisture evaporating off her body.

And her hands were starting to ache now, that bone-deep throbbing that bit into older, long-abused joints. She was trying not to rub her knuckles too much. Not that she thought her deputy, Dan Mitchell, would notice. Dan had been on duty since nine p.m. last night. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, he was already slumped down with his eyes at half mast. If she drove much longer, he was going to nod off completely.