Lisa Gardner - Gone

“And how does it look?”

“I mean, I had no choice!”

“Because you’re not wearing a pair of handcuffs or a gun?”

“He said he would only come with us if he could make some calls. And then once we got here, he said if we didn’t give him a phone, he would use his cell phone, and of course, we wouldn’t want him tying up his cell phone.”

“Because the kidnapper wouldn’t be able to get through.”

“Exactly, sir!”

“Tell me, Officer, do you really think a reporter would jeopardize his chance of speaking directly to the man who has abducted two people?”

The officer’s eyes darted from side to side, which Mosley took as a no.

“Do you really think he would do anything to risk his airtime on the nightly news, or the number of copy inches he can command on the front page?”

“I was told we needed him to cooperate. And I wasn’t given anything to charge him with.”

“Then you find something, Officer. Obstruction of justice. Expired license. Broken taillight. You were at the man’s home, standing in front of his car, for God’s sake. You can always find one little infraction. Even the Pope has committed some sort of misdemeanor in his life.”

The officer didn’t answer anymore, which was answer enough.

Lieutenant Mosley returned to the front of the small field office, where Danicic was still jabbering away on the phone. Mosley hit the line-one button with his index finger and the phone went dead.

“Hey, that was my lawyer!”

“You feel you need a lawyer?” Mosley asked levelly.

“In the entertainment industry, you bet. I’ve already gotten called by Larry King, not to mention the Today show. But then you also have to figure in the possible book deals. I mean, I tell everything up front, who’s gonna be left to buy the hardcover? I need a strategy.”

“Sit up,” Mosley snapped. “Feet off the desk. Show some respect.”

Danicic arched a brow but did as he was told. He uncrossed his ankles. Straightened in the chair. Dusted off his gray jacket, which up close was not as nice a fabric, nor as tailored a cut, as it had looked on TV. His shirt was too big around the neck. His tie a bit too harsh a shade of pink.

The cameras had given him a certain level of mystique. Now he looked exactly like who he was, a small-town reporter trying desperately to make it in the big leagues.

“You ever meet Rainie Conner in person?” Mosley asked.

“No.”

“Dougie Jones?”

“Am I a suspect? Because if you’re thinking of me as a suspect, then I am calling my lawyer.”

“I’m trying to think of you as a person. Trust me, every minute it’s becoming more difficult.”

Danicic scowled, but looked away.

“Those are real people somewhere out there,” Mosley said. “A woman and a child fighting for their lives. Have you ever been to a crime scene, Danicic? And I don’t mean standing behind a string of yellow tape. I mean up close, personal, where you can see it’s not some Hollywood special effects. Ever sat through an autopsy? Ever read a medical examiner’s report? Do you really know what a bullet, what a knife, can do to the human body? Get up,” Mosley said abruptly. “I have something to show you.”

Mosley jerked Danicic to his feet. The reporter was too stunned to react. Mosley marched him to the back, sat him in the interrogation room, which was a former janitor’s closet and still looked it.

Back in the front office, Mosley pilfered the first gray filing cabinet he came to. He took only cases marked closed and adjudicated. If the past two years had taught him anything, it was that you could never be too careful with the press.

He stormed into the interrogation room and started slapping the photos down onto the table. “Teenager, hanged. Woman, gutted. Man, hit by a freight train. Body, sex undeterminable, dragged from a river. Hands, covered in marijuana leaves. Eighteen-month-old boy, drowned. Still thinking of book deals, Mr. Danicic? Because there are plenty more where these came from.”

Danicic picked up each photo. Studied them. Carefully placed them back down.

He looked up at Mosley. He shrugged.

“The world is filled with bad things, yada yada yada. I’m not an idiot, Lieutenant. I’m not even that different from you. Your job is to give these people justice. My job is to tell their story. Today, we have a story. You can’t stop me from telling it.”

“And if it puts the victims further at risk?”

“Further at risk?” Danicic snorted. “Tell me how. You people are the ones playing games. I’m at least making an attempt at salvaging a very precarious relationship. Face it, the kidnapper doesn’t trust you. And if he gets too nervous, Rainie and Dougie are dead. I’m offering a viable alternative. Kidnapper calls me, everybody wins. And yeah, so maybe that means I get a book deal. As long as they’re found alive, I don’t think Rainie or Dougie will mind.”

“You are messing with the lines of communication in a time-sensitive case. He calls you, we have to wait to get the news. We don’t have time to wait. Sometimes, law enforcement is war. And in war, you need a single line of communication.”

“On the other hand, every time the kidnapper contacts me, he has to surface. More times he surfaces, better chance you have at catching him.”

“More manpower it takes to cover all angles,” Mosley countered.

“Then it’s a good thing you have so many jurisdictions involved.” Danicic leaned forward. “Lorraine Conner is a former FBI profiler’s wife. You want quid pro quo? You tell me, is the FBI involved? Is this now officially an FBI case? And I still want to know about the other guy I saw on the fairgrounds, the one wearing the windbreaker from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. Seems to me, there’s a lot going on here you still aren’t telling the public. Think how that’s gonna play when two people turn up dead.”

“ When? That doesn’t sound like positive thinking.”

“Current investigative efforts have done nothing to convince me otherwise.” Danicic pushed back the chair, stood up. “You arresting me?”

“Not yet.”

Danicic arched a brow. “That doesn’t sound like positive thinking,” he deadpanned. “I’m outta here.”

The reporter took a step forward. Mosley grabbed his arm. The look Danicic gave him was harder than Mosley had expected. More calculating. Apparently, once enough was at stake, even a fairly inexperienced journalist learned fast.

“If we find out that you received information and didn’t share it with us, that would make you a coconspirator,” Mosley said softly. “Which would make you party to the crime. Which would mean you cannot profit from anything related to the crime-no book deals, no paid appearances, nothing. Think about that.”

“You know,” Danicic said impatiently, “not all journalists are the bad guys. Or-let me guess-you voted for Nixon.”

“He’s using you, Danicic. Why send a letter to the editor, why leave a ransom note on the windshield of your car? You want to be an objective reporter, then start asking yourself the hard questions. This subject is driven by his lust for celebrity. You can quote me on that. Except we can’t make him infamous; only the media can. You can quote me on that, too. The more coverage you give him, the more you’re rewarding his efforts. And the more you make him like it…”

Danicic jerked his arm free, just as the police radio crackled to life on the sergeant’s desk. The trooper picked it up, but in the small space, Danicic was still standing close enough to hear.

Mosley watched the reporter’s face, waiting for some kind of reaction. If the guy was an actor, then he was good.