Jeffery Deaver - The Never Game

“Oh, you betcha, Chief. You betcha.”

At the Quick Byte Café, Tiffany greeted him with a troubled nod.

It was she who’d just texted, asking if he could stop by.

Important! …

“Colter. Come here.” They walked from the order station to the bulletin board on which Frank Mulliner had tacked up Sophie’s picture.

The flyer was no longer there. In its place was a white sheet of computer paper, 8½ by 11 inches. On it was an odd black-and-white image, done in the style of stenciling. It depicted a face: two eyes, round orbs with a white glint in the upper-right-hand corner of each, open lips, a collar and tie. On the head was a businessman’s hat from the 1950s.

“I texted as soon as I saw, but whoever it was might’ve taken it anytime. I asked everybody here, workers, customers. Nothing.”

The corkboard was next to the side door, out of view of the camera. No help there.

Tiffany gave a wan smile. “Madge? My daughter? She’s pissed at me. I sent her home. I don’t want her here until they find him. I mean, she bikes to work three, four times a week too. And he was just here!”

“Not necessarily,” Shaw said. “Sometimes people take Missing posters for souvenirs. Or, if they’re after the reward themselves, they throw it out to narrow the field.”

“Really? Somebody’d do that?”

And worse. When the rewards hit six digits and up, reward seekers found all sorts of creative ways to discourage competition. Shaw had a scar on his thigh as proof.

This eerie image?

Was it an intentional replacement, tacked up by the kidnapper?

And if so, why?

A perverse joke? A statement?

A warning?

There were no words on it. Shaw took it down, using a napkin, and slipped it into his computer bag.

He looked over the clientele, nearly every one of them staring at screens large and screens small.

The front door opened and more customers entered, a businessman in a dark suit and white shirt, no tie, looking harried; a heavyset woman in blue scrubs; and a pretty redhead, mid-twenties, who looked his way quickly, then found an empty spot to sit. A laptop—what else?—appeared from her backpack.

Shaw said to Tiffany, “I saw a printer in your office.”

“You need to use it?”

He nodded. “What’s your email?”

She gave it to him and he sent her Sophie’s picture. “Can you make a couple of printouts?”

“Sure.” Tiffany did so and soon returned with the sheets. Shaw printed the reward information at the bottom of one and tacked it back up.

“When I’m gone, can you move the camera so it’s pointed this way?”

“You bet.”

“Be subtle about it.”

The woman nodded, clearly still troubled about the intrusion.

He said, “I want to ask if anybody’s seen her. That okay?”

“Sure.” Tiffany returned to the counter. Shaw detected a change in the woman; the thought that her kingdom here had been violated had turned her mood dark, her face suspicious.

Shaw took the second printout Tiffany had made and began his canvass. He was halfway through—with no success—when he heard a woman’s voice from behind him. “Oh, no. That’s terrible.”

Shaw turned to see the redhead who’d walked into the café a few minutes ago. She was looking at the sheet of paper in his hand.

“Is that your niece? Sister?”

“I’m helping her father find her.”

“You’re a relative?”

“No. He offered a reward.” Shaw nodded toward the flyer.

She thought about this for a moment, revealing nothing of her reaction to this news. “He must be going crazy. God. And her mother?”

“I’m sure. But Sophie lives here with her father.”

The woman had a face that might be called heart-shaped, depending on how her hair framed her forehead. She was constantly tugging the strands, a nervous habit, he guessed. Her skin was the tan of someone who was outside frequently. She was in athletic shape. Her black leggings revealed exceptional thigh muscles. He guessed skiing and running and cycling. Her shoulders were broad in a way that suggested she’d made them broad by working out. Shaw’s exercise was also exclusively out of doors; a treadmill or stair machine, or whatever they were called, would have driven a restless man like him crazy.

“You think something, you know, bad happened to her?” Her green eyes, damp and large, registered concern as they stared at the picture. Her voice was melodic.

“We don’t know. Have you ever seen her?”

A squint at the sheet. “No.”

She shot her eyes down toward his naked ring finger. Shaw had already noticed the same about hers. He made another observation: she was ten years younger than he was.

She sipped from a covered cup. “Good luck. I really hope she’s okay.”

Shaw watched her walk back to her table, where she booted up her PC, plugged in what he took to be serious headphones, not buds, and started typing. He continued canvassing, asking if the patrons had seen Sophie.

The answer was no.

That took care of all those present. He decided to get back to San Miguel Park and help the officers that Detective Dan Wiley had sent to run the crime scene. He thanked Tiffany and she gave him a furtive nod—meaning, he guessed, that she was going to start her surveillance.

Shaw was heading for the door when he was aware of motion to his left, someone coming toward him.

“Hey.” It was the redhead. Her headset was around her neck and the cord dangled. She walked close. “I’m Maddie. Is your phone open?”

“My—?”

“Your phone. Is it locked? Do you need to put in a passcode?”

Doesn’t everybody?

“Yes.”

“So. Open it and give it to me. I’ll put my number in. That way I’ll know it’s there and you’re not pretending to type it while you really enter five-five-five one-two-one-two.”

Shaw looked over her pretty face, her captivating eyes—the shade of green that Rand McNally had promised, deceptively, to be the color of the foliage in San Miguel Park.

“I could still delete it.”

“That’s an extra step. I’m betting you won’t go to the trouble. What’s your name?”

“Colter.”

“That has to be real. In a bar? When a man’s picking up a woman and gives her a fake name, it’s always Bob or Fred.” She smiled. “The thing is, I come on a little strong and that scares guys off. You don’t look like the scare-able sort. So. Let me type my number in.”

Shaw said, “Just give it to me and I’ll call you now.”

An exaggerated frown. “Oh-oh. That way I’ll have captured you on incoming calls and stuck you in my address book. You willing to make that commitment?”

He lifted his phone. She gave him the number and he dialed. Her ringtone was some rock guitar riff Shaw didn’t recognize. She frowned broadly and lifted the mobile to her ear. “Hello? … Hello? …” Then disconnected. “Was a telemarketer, I guess.” Her laugh danced like her eyes.

Another hit of the coffee. Another tug of her hair. “See you around, Colter. Good luck with what you’re up to. Oh, and what’s my name?”

“Maddie. You never told me your last.”

“One commitment at a time.” She slipped the headphones on and returned to the laptop, on whose screen a psychedelic screen saver paid tribute to the 1960s.

Shaw couldn’t believe it.

Ten minutes after leaving the café he was pulling onto the shoulder of Tamyen Road, overlooking San Miguel Park. Not a single cop.

Alrightyroo. We’ll look into it, Chief …

Guess not.

Shaw approached the only folks nearby—an elderly couple in identical baby-blue jogging outfits—and displayed the printout of Sophie. As he’d expected, they’d never seen her.