Lisa Gardner - Gone

“Not till after the ransom drop,” Kincaid repeated. And that was the end of the discussion.

Eight a.m. They fidgeted, reread the UNSUB’s past communications, and in general, worked themselves into a state.

At nine, Mac took a call on his cell phone. The Portland recruiting branch of the Army confirmed that they had record of Private Andrew Bensen, currently listed as AWOL.

Quincy offered the information to Kincaid. Kincaid ranted for twenty minutes about Quincy daring to impede an official police investigation by deliberately withholding a vital lead, not to mention the importance of trust in a multijurisdictional investigation. Sheriff Atkins issued an all-points bulletin for a man fitting Bensen’s description. Lieutenant Mosley muttered about the number of press agents who monitored police radios and that they had just added fuel to the fire.

Then, for the most part, everyone retired to their separate corners and fumed.

Quincy’s phone sat in the middle of the conference room table. It was hooked to a speakerphone, all incoming calls being recorded and traced-not that anyone held out much hope for locating the origin of the caller. Cell signals bounced off towers in random patterns, making it virtually impossible to trace back a signal. But they went through the motions, because sometimes, that’s all a task force has left.

Nine fifty-nine a.m.

The phone rang.

Candi put on the headset.

Lieutenant Mosley hit the Record button.

It began.

Wednesday, 10:01 a.m. PST

“THIS IS OFFICER CANDI. Can I help you, sir?”

The sound of mechanical laughter filled the room. “You sound like a Time-Life operator. What’s next, a free subscription with my twenty grand?”

“You requested a female officer, and as you can see, we aim to please.” Candi’s voice was easygoing, just a neighborhood girl shooting the breeze. The approach was exactly what they had discussed and immediately it made Quincy nervous. He rose, pacing a small circle, as Candi continued, “Now, personally, I always like to know with whom I’m speaking. As I said, my name is Candi. And yours?”

“You can call me Bob.”

“Bob, huh? And here you sound more like an Andy to me.”

It was a thinly veiled reference to Andrew Bensen. The UNSUB didn’t bite.

“I want my money,” the caller said. “I get my cash, you get to play a little game. Here’s the deal-”

“We have the money,” Candi cut in amiably, trying to slow the conversation, exercise her own form of control. “Twenty thousand dollars. In cash. As you requested.”

“I don’t like to be interrupted,” the caller said. “Interrupt me again, and I will kill the kid. Do you want that on your conscience, Miss Candi? The death of a seven-year-old boy?”

Candi’s gaze flew to Kincaid. She said evenly, “I’m sorry, Bob. I didn’t mean to offend you. Like I said, I’m here to cooperate.”

“There is a pay phone on the corner of Fifth and Madison, another at the Wal-Mart on Highway 101, a third at the cheese factory. I assume you know these locations.”

Kincaid started furiously scribbling down the instructions. Candi said, “Actually, Bob, I’m from out of town, so I might need a little help with this. You said three pay phones, the first being at the corner of Fifth and Madison. Which corner? North, south, east, west? I don’t want to miss it.”

“You’ll see it.”

“Okay, Bob, I’ll trust you on that. Now, the second pay phone is at the Wal-Mart. I’m assuming it’s a big Wal-Mart. Can you tell me which entrance?”

“To the left,” the caller conceded, “as you’re facing it.”

“All right, and the third phone at the cheese factory?”

“Right out front.”

“Thanks, Bob, I appreciate you clarifying things for me. So we’re talking three pay phones: one at the intersection of Fifth and Madison, one at the left-side entrance of Wal-Mart, and one right outside the cheese factory. Those are the phones you’re talking about?”

“Go.”

“Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

“You have fifteen minutes.”

Candi glanced back and forth. “You want me to be at three different locations in fifteen minutes? I’m sorry, Bob, I’m trying to help you, but I honestly don’t understand. And to tell you the truth, before I do anything, you know I’m going to need to talk to Rainie and Dougie-”

Bob didn’t care. “You have fifteen minutes,” he said again.

Then the connection went dead.

Wednesday, 10:06 a.m. PST

CANDI WHIPPED THE HEADSET from her ears. “Well, fuck! He didn’t even give us a chance. No explanation, no proof of life-”

“Time,” Quincy interrupted crisply.

“Ten-oh-six.” Kincaid was already writing it down, studying his watch. “Those pay phones are on a linear track, Fifth and Madison being only three minutes from here, then shooting north to the farthest point, the cheese factory, which is probably an eight-minute drive.”

“Then we have seven minutes for strategy.”

Quincy turned to Shelly Atkins. “As Candi put it, we’re fucked. We need you to get people in street clothes in unmarked cars to each of those locations right now.”

“It’s gonna take us longer than that to change-”

“Got any people still at home?”

“Five-”

“Then pull the three closest out of bed and have them drive their personal vehicles to those locations right now.”

“What do I say-”

“Now!”

Shelly went wide-eyed, grabbed the walkie-talkie from her utility belt, and headed for the lobby to contact dispatch.

“We’re going to need audio on those pay phones.” Kincaid was already thinking out loud. “No way we can tap ’em in fifteen minutes. Walkie-talkie. Kimberly can hold it up to the receiver when he calls and air the conversation for the rest of us. Then we can advise her over a second channel set on her earpiece.” He shook his head. “I don’t get it. Is she supposed to run from phone to phone? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“He’s going to make it impossible,” Kimberly murmured. “He’s seeking an excuse to kill.”

“We send three officers,” Quincy said flatly. “One to each pay phone. Whoever gets the call takes it from there.”

“We only have one GPS,” Lieutenant Mosley protested.

“Then we have a thirty-three percent chance of using it. If not, we do it the old-fashioned way. Follow the contacted officer on the ground and in the air.”

“Because he certainly won’t notice a chopper,” Kincaid commented dryly.

“Then on the ground. But we can’t leave a phone uncovered-it’s too dangerous.”

Kincaid seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “We’ll split the money; that gives each officer some hope of negotiating payment. Of course, now we’re going to need two more duffel bags.”

“Got ’em,” Mac declared. “Just give me sixty seconds to dump our clothes and they’re yours.” He went running for the parking lot.

“I’ll take the Fifth and Madison phone,” Kincaid said, ticking off the locations on his fingers. “Detective Spector can do Wal-Mart. Kimberly will handle Tillamook Cheese Factory. That leaves Sheriff Atkins to handle the ground crew, and you”-Kincaid nodded toward Quincy-“to coordinate communication strategy here.”

“No.”

“You’re not handling the ransom drop-” Kincaid began.

“And neither are you or Spector.” Quincy’s gaze went to Detective Grove, then to Kimberly. “The UNSUB’s first request still stands-the officers have to be female. Anyone else will simply piss him off.”

“I’ll go,” Candi said, rising to her feet.

Kincaid shot her a look. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re a negotiator-”