Lisa Gardner - Gone

“Seven is a bit young to be considered an accomplice.”

“You know what I mean.”

Kimberly hesitated. She did know what he meant and it wasn’t a pleasant thought, but one that bore considering. “It’s possible Dougie’s aiding whoever took Rainie,” she said, after a moment. “He’s angry, isolated, young. Clearly, that would make him a target for coercion.”

“I’d like us all to keep our minds open when it comes to Dougie Jones,” Kincaid said briskly. “There are two pieces of this puzzle that continue to trouble me. One, that Dougie Jones seemed to know Rainie was missing before anyone else did. Now maybe it was purely coincidence, maybe he asked if she was missing because he wanted her to disappear. As Sheriff Atkins so eloquently put it, who the hell really knows when it comes to kids. However, that brings me to the second point: It appears more and more that Rainie was a targeted victim. Furthermore, that whoever took her knew a great deal about her and her life. Now, according to Mr. Quincy, Rainie was a private person with a very small inner circle. So who could have learned so much about her without getting on her radar screen? I’m beginning to wonder if these two pieces don’t fit together. Someone knew all about Rainie, because Dougie Jones told him. And Dougie Jones knew Rainie had disappeared because…”

“He helped set her up,” Quincy filled in quietly.

Kincaid nodded. “At this stage, it’s just a theory, of course, but one we can’t rule out. Hence my desire to search Dougie’s room.”

“Not his room,” Kimberly said abruptly, eyes narrowing. “In Dougie’s world, that house is clearly controlled by Stanley, it’s enemy domain. The outdoors, in the woods, that’s where Dougie feels most comfortable. If he wanted a place to stash his treasures-say, a special rock, or his beetle collection, or who knows, notes from a new ‘friend’-that’s where they would be. In a tin can stuck in a tree or buried under a boulder. You know, someplace secretive, but accessible to a seven-year-old.”

“More quality time outdoors,” Shelly deadpanned.

“Maybe your deputies, as long as they’re there, searching the grounds…” Kincaid suggested.

“Getting soaked to the bone.” Shelly rolled her eyes. “I’ll get to work on the warrant. Chances are something like that isn’t going to be lying around in plain sight.”

She sighed, made a note on the pad in front of her, and the debriefing moved on.

Detective Ron Spector from the OSP had an update from the two primary examiners who’d arrived from the Portland Crime Lab-which, interestingly enough, was located in Clackamas.

“It’s good news, bad news,” Spector reported. “Car is in the process of being towed to the lab to be worked overnight. At the scene, they did a cursory exam of the interior with high-intensity lights. In the good-news department, no sign of blood, plus they discovered an imprint of a shoe tread pattern on the brake pedal, as well as a variety of fiber, trace, etc. So they anticipate plenty of evidence to process-whether any of it is helpful remains to be seen. Bad news is-this rain is killing us. Nothing is conclusive until the car dries out, but the scientists aren’t optimistic about recovering anything from the exterior of the vehicle. Needless to say, recovering trace evidence from around the vehicle is also considered hopeless.

“Latent Prints also plans on spending more quality time with the vehicle tonight. In the interest of speed, they printed the rearview mirror, interior door handle, and gearshift, which are the most likely places to get results. The mirror yielded a full thumbprint. They’re running a comparison of it now against the victim and her family.” The detective glanced at Quincy, cleared his throat, then continued.

“The first note has already arrived at the lab. It’s taking a quick spin through Latent Prints and DNA, before QD-Questioned Documents-does their thing. Bad news here is that DNA in particular is going to take some time, plus we happen to have a big load in-house at the moment. We’re looking at weeks, if not months, for the finished report, not tomorrow at ten a.m.”

Spector glanced at Kincaid. The lead detective shrugged. It wasn’t even worth arguing this was a high-priority case. They were all high-priority cases.

“Finally, the victim’s gun has also been printed and sent to the lab. One of the primary examiners, Beth, is already on her way back. She’ll test it for trace evidence tonight, then get it to Ballistics. They have a report they’re going to need you to fill out”-Spector nodded toward Quincy-“about your wife’s gun habits. Does she always clean it after firing, etc., etc.? It’ll help them determine if the gun had been fired recently.”

“She does always clean it,” Quincy answered. “And it hasn’t been fired recently. We would’ve been able to tell from the smell.”

Spector shrugged. The lab needed to do what it needed to do, and it was not the detective’s place to argue. “In conclusion, there’s plenty to process. Unfortunately, a great deal of it is periphery evidence. The primary crime scene-the roadside where the victim was most likely abducted-has been destroyed by the elements. And sure, we can send the scientists to the woods where Dougie Jones lives, but I think they’ll tell you the same thing. Trace evidence simply can’t survive these conditions. It’s a fact of life.”

Kincaid nodded glumly, the detective’s report not telling any of them anything they didn’t already know. In a case such as this one, with no suspect and a thirteen-hour window before the next contact, it was assumed that any evidence report would arrive too late to be of use to them. Instead, the information would be leveraged later, by a DA building a case to go to trial. What remained to be determined by Kincaid and the task force was what kind of trial it would be: one for kidnapping, or one for murder?

Kincaid cleared his throat, turning toward Mac for an update on procuring the ransom money, when the conference room door burst open. Alane Grove pushed into the room, still shaking out her umbrella and looking positively wired.

“Sorry I’m late,” she announced breathlessly, “but I have news.”

Kincaid arched a brow at his young detective. “Well, by all means.”

She barely waited for the invitation, tossing down her wet umbrella and now working furiously on her raincoat. “I’ve been retracing Lorraine Conner’s past twenty-four hours. No bars, from what I can tell, which I guess is good, but I discovered something else: She had a doctor’s appointment at three p.m. yesterday.”

She looked squarely at Quincy. Kimberly did, too. He slowly shook his head. He obviously had no idea where this was going.

“It was a follow-up appointment. Naturally, the doctor didn’t want to talk about it-doctor-patient confidentiality and all that. But the moment I said she was missing, he became very concerned. Apparently, he prescribed a drug for Rainie starting three months ago. The appointment today was to adjust the dosage. It’s an antianxiety medication-”

“Oh no,” Quincy whispered.

“Paxil,” Detective Grove volunteered brightly. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Oh no.”

“Exactly. According to the doctor, this isn’t a drug that can be quit cold turkey-you have to be weaned off of it. As of yesterday, Rainie was up to sixty-two milligrams a day, which is the highest dosage. According to the doctor, she’s gotta keep taking it or the withdrawal symptoms will be pretty horrible-confusion, headache, nausea, hypomania, sensory disturbances. Some people have reported being unable to stand up, feeling like there were constant electric shocks going off in their brain. It’s really not good.”