Jeffery Deaver: The Burial Hour

So far, so good.

And now to add one more sound, one of his own making. He played a melody on the Casio. He was not an exceptional musician but, given his love, his addiction, his obsession, he knew his way around a keyboard. He ran through the music once, then twice. These were good renditions. He tried it again.

Stefan didn’t pray, as such, but he did send a thought of thanks to Her for the inspiration to pick this composition.

Now he rose and walked to the blindfolded man, who was wearing dark business slacks and a white business shirt. His jacket was on the floor.

Stefan was holding a digital recorder. ‘Don’t say anything.’

The man nodded and remained silent. Stefan gripped the noose and pulled it taut. With his other hand, he held the recorder in front of the man’s mouth. The choking noise issuing from his lips was delightful. Complex, varied in tone and modulation.

Almost, you might say, musical.

Kidnappings and other serious investigations are generally run out of the Major Cases operation at 1PP, and there was a series of conference rooms reserved for task forces running such cases in that nondescript building not far from City Hall in downtown Manhattan. Nothing high-tech, nothing sexy, nothing out of binge-worthy TV shows. Just plain rooms.

Because Lincoln Rhyme was involved, however, and his condition made commuting troublesome, his parlor — not One Police Plaza — was serving as HQ for the noose-kidnapping case.

And the Victorian-era dwelling was buzzing.

Lon Sellitto was still here, along with two additions: A slender, tidy, academic-looking middle-aged man in tweedy, blue clothes that might be called, at best, frumpy. Mel Cooper sported a pale complexion, a thinning crown and a pair of glasses that were stylish only thanks to the Harry Potter franchise. On his feet were Hush Puppies. Beige.

The other newcomer was Fred Dellray, senior special agent in the FBI’s Southern District office. With skin the shade of the mahogany desk he now half-sat on, half leaned against, the tall, strikingly rangy man was dressed in an outfit that you wouldn’t see... well, anywhere. A dark-green jacket, an orange button-down shirt and a tie that a bird-lover might say was too canary to be true. A pocket square was purple. His slacks were modest, by comparison, navy-blue houndstooth.

While Cooper was sitting patiently on a lab stool, awaiting the evidence that Sachs was soon to return with, Dellray pushed off from the desk and paced, juggling two phone calls. The boundary between state and federal jurisdiction in criminal investigations is as gray as the East River in March but one undisputed area of joint authority is kidnapping. And for this offense, there was rarely any bickering over who wanted to run point. Saving the life of a person taken by force deflates egos fast.

Dellray disconnected one then the other phone and announced, ‘Maybe got ourselves an ID of the vic. Took a bit of funny-doing, putting Part A together with Part B. But s’all coming down on the pretty side of probable.’

Dellray had advanced degrees — including psychology and philosophy (yes, one could philosophize as a hobby) — but he somehow fell naturally into a street patois of his own making, not gang-talk, not African American Vernacular English. It was, like his clothing and his penchant for reading Heidegger and Kant to his children, pure Dellray.

He mentioned the phone that Sellitto had told Rhyme about, the one that the kidnapper had possibly flung out the window of his car, to keep from being traced, as he sped away from the scene with the victim in the trunk.

‘Our tech brain boys were all super ’cited ’bout trying to crack it — always a challenge those Apple folk give us. It’s like playing Angry Birds to our team. When, lo and behold, there’s no password! This day and age! They’re prowling through the call logs, when, what happens, it rings. It’s some business-soundin’ fella waiting for Phone-Boy to show up for breakfast, grapefruit getting hot, oatmeal cold.’

‘Fred?’

‘My, we are impatient this morning. Phone belongs to one Robert Ellis, head of a teensy start-up — my own description — in San Jose. In town lookin’ for seed money. No record, pays his taxes. Profile’s as booooring as a corset salesman’s. And when I’m saying start-up don’t be thinkin’ Facebook, Crap-Chat, anything sexy and lucrative. His spec-i-al-i-ty’s media buying. So it’s not looking like a competitor snatched him.’

‘Associates or family hear from the taker? About ransom?’ Sellitto asked.

‘Nup. Phone logs show calls to a mobile registered to a woman lives at the same address he does. So, status ‘o’ girlfriend’s a solid guess. But the provider says her phone’s, of all things, way, way over in Japan. Presumably in the company of said lady, one Ms Sabrina Dillon. My ASAC called her but hasn’t heard back. Other numbers aren’t remarkable. Just a guy in town for business. Doesn’t seem to have much else in the way of family we could find.’

‘Domestic issues?’ Mel Cooper asked. He was a lab specialist, yes, but also an NYPD detective who’d worked cases for years.

Dellray: ‘Nothin’ on the radar. Though, even if so, I’m thinking a bit of cheatin’ nookie doesn’t really make you trunk-worthy.’

‘True,’ Sellitto said.

Rhyme said, ‘No OC connection.’

‘Uh-uh. Boy is not a gangbanger, ’less they’re teaching that now at UCLA. His alma mater. A coupla years ago.’

Sellitto said, ‘So, we’re leaning toward some crazy.’

There was the noose, after all...

‘May be agreeing with you there, Lon,’ Dellray said.

‘Speculation,’ Rhyme grumbled. ‘We’re wasting time.’

Where the hell were Sachs and the evidence collection teams?

Cooper’s computer made a cheerful noise and he looked it over.

‘From your evidence folks, Fred.’

Rhyme wheeled forward. The federal crime scene unit — the Physical Evidence Response Team — had analyzed the phone carefully and found no fingerprints. The perp had wiped it before pitching it out of the car.

But the techs had found some trace — smudges of dirt and, wedged invisibly into the OtterBox cover, a short, light-colored hair. Human. There was no bulb attached, so no DNA analysis was possible. It was dry and appeared to have been dyed platinum blond.

‘Picture of Ellis?’

A few minutes later Cooper downloaded an image from California DMV.

A nondescript man of thirty-five. Lean face. His hair was brown.

Whose head had the paler hair come from?

The kidnapper himself?

The aforementioned Sabrina?

The door opened and Rhyme could tell that Amelia Sachs had returned. Her footfalls were distinctive. Before she even breached the doorway, he was calling, ‘Sachs! Let’s take a look.’

She entered through the archway, nodded a greeting to all. Then handed over the milk crate, containing evidence bags, to Cooper, who set them aside. He now dressed in full protective gear — booties, gloves, bonnet and splash guard, which mutually protected examiner and evidence.

He set the items out on examination tables, which were in a separate part of the parlor, away from where the others, dressed in street clothing, clustered, to avoid contamination.

The pickings were sparse. Rhyme knew this, as he’d been ‘with’ Sachs, via video feed, as she’d walked the grid at the scene. All she’d found was the noose, random trace from where the abduction had occurred and shoe print and tire mark evidence.

But even the tiniest of substances can, in theory, lead directly to your perp’s front door.

‘So?’ Sellitto asked. ‘What’d the munchkin say?’

Sachs: ‘I’d trade the girl — Morgynn — for two of her mothers. She’ll be in politics someday. Maybe a cop. She wanted to hold my gun. Anyway, the unsub was a heavyset white male, long dark hair, full beard, wearing dark casual clothes and dark baseball cap, long bill. A little taller than me. Same age as her tennis coach, Mr Billings, who is — I checked — thirty-one. She didn’t know the kind of car except it wasn’t a Tesla, which her father drives — and tells everybody he drives. Morgynn didn’t catch any distinguishings, but he was wearing blue gloves.’