Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

“Twenty-nine? Shit, that’s barely out of investigative diapers.”

“She seems to be able to make it work,” Kevin said. “Her last employee review was positively glowing.”

“How can you know that? Seriously? From surfing the Internet in the middle of the night?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.”

Wyatt shook his head, finished up his coffee. “I want to head over to the Denbes’ residence. So far, we’re taking everyone else’s word for what happened. Nothing personal, but I want to know for myself.”

“We need contact,” Kevin observed, downing his own cup. “A ransom demand, something. That will get our wheels humming again.”

“Nah, we don’t need to wait for the kidnappers to find us. We need to use good old-fashioned investigative techniques in order for us to find them. Starting with answering my question of the day.”

“Which is?”

“If this is just about money, why take the entire family?”

“Oh, I can answer that.”

“Really? Dazzle me, Brainiac.”

“Economies of scale. You heard the construction team’s description of Justin Denbe. Big guy, handy with a gun, tough in body and spirit. Would you send one person to grab a man like that?”

Wyatt saw his point. “Guess not.”

“Except, the moment you get more bodies involved, you’re also slicing up the ransom pie. One guy grabbing Justin Denbe would earn two million. But three guys grabbing Justin Denbe only get six hundred sixty-six thousand six hundred and sixty-six dollars. Not nearly the same payday, given the amount of work. However, add in the wife at one mil and the daughter at another mil, and suddenly, the math becomes attractive again.”

“Economies of scale. Except, the wife and child add risk, too. Three people to control, transport, house and feed. Seems like you’re back to adding manpower and diluting payoff. Except…”

And suddenly Wyatt had it. The thought that had been with him since 2:00 A.M. Why you would take a family, and not just a man. Why a case was never about P and Ls, but always about what made people tick.

“Control,” Wyatt stated, and the moment he said the word, he knew he was right. “Think about it. A guy with Justin Denbe’s reputation—the kidnappers figure they’ll need multiple men to grab him and even then, they’re nervous. Which is an even better reason for taking the wife and daughter. Justin Denbe, on his own, might fight back. But now, with these guys holding his family… Whatever he tries, his wife and only child will pay the price.” Wyatt paused, shook his head. “Man, these guys are good.”

THEY FOUND THE DENBES’ BROWNSTONE shortly after 8:00 A.M. Wyatt wasn’t an urban guy, but their quaint, tree-lined avenue, featuring row after row of meticulously restored historical town houses, he could get into. This was the face of Boston that tourists paid good money to see. Not to mention an architectural advertisement for how the other half lived.

The neighborhood was quiet this early on a Sunday morning. The street was completely lined with cars, of course. Porsche Carreras, Volvo station wagons, Mercedes sedans. If this is what the residents felt comfortable parking on the street, Wyatt could only wonder at what they had stashed in private garages.

He didn’t see any sign of a mobile command center outside the Denbes’ home, wasn’t even sure where there was space for such an immense vehicle to park. He also couldn’t make out the sign of major police presence but figured Boston had ordered roving patrols, that sort of thing. In case the Denbes suddenly resurfaced. Or even luckier for them, the kidnappers returned to the scene of the crime.

For now, the only sign that something wicked had this way come was a relatively discreet line of yellow crime-scene tape across the top section of the front door. Probably to keep from over-alarming the neighbors. Or, even to maintain good relations within the community. After all, people who paid this kind of money for real estate probably didn’t want any perceived disruptions to their homes’ net worth.

Kevin circled the block four or five times. They finally parked in a public garage and hoofed it back. Nice morning for a walk. Chilly, as the air carried a late-fall bite. But the sun was out, the redbrick sidewalk warming and the town houses’ various-colored facades glowing as they narrowed in on their target.

The Denbes’ front door—dark-stained walnut, he thought—was closed. Wyatt started with the basics: He knocked.

And the door opened.

For a second, he stood there, slack-jawed. Watching the heavy wood swing open, thinking, My God, they’re back! But then the walnut door completed its inward arc and he found himself staring at Tessa Leoni, in crisp black trousers and a white dress shirt. She could’ve been a Realtor, except for the rather large gun holstered at her hip.

“Figured you’d pay a visit,” she stated without preamble. “A good investigator always has to see for himself.”

She took a step back and allowed Wyatt and Kevin to enter the home.

WYATT FELL IN LOVE WITH THE STAIRCASE. He tried not to stare. Hell, it was all he could do not to run his hands over such richly grained hardwood. Mahogany, he was guessing. Freshly oiled, patina darkened. And, oh, the graceful curve of the lower landing, the hand-hewn craftsmanship of each individual spindle, the hours of meticulous, painstaking labor.

Except, then he turned away from the staircase toward the front sitting room to discover built-in shelves, a gorgeously restored fireplace mantel, the original crown dentil molding… He gave up. He stood in the middle of the foyer, strewn with crime-scene placards and dusted with fingerprint powder, and he beheld a carpenter’s wonderland.

“Impressive, huh?” Tessa remained standing next to the door. He noticed she had a thing for personal space. And she wore her dark hair pulled back a tad too tight, as if she cared less for hairstyle and more for control.

“Holy shit,” he observed politely.

She smiled, her shoulders coming down a fraction. “By all accounts, Libby Denbe was the hostess with the mostest. Had a degree in creative arts, something like that, which you can see in some of the color choices. At least, they seem very creative to me, given that my own house is mostly white, white and, well, white.”

“Where do you live?”

“Just bought a little bungalow in Arlington. Small probably by New Hampshire standards, but works for me.”

“You got a family?”

“A daughter.” She eyed him thoughtfully, as if slightly surprised. “My husband died two years ago.” Another expectant pause. Wyatt looked around the foyer. Kevin was already busy examining the evidence placards, his brow furrowed in concentration, which meant that Wyatt was on his own.

“Sorry to hear that,” he drawled politely.

She smiled again, but it was ironic now. “It’s because you’re from New Hampshire,” she murmured. “I forget, sometimes, that not everyone cares about Boston news. Would you like the nickel tour? The feebies have yet to leave their mobile command center, meaning for the moment, the place is ours.”

Wyatt drew up short. “Mobile command center? Where?”

“The back alley that runs behind the townhomes. That’s where everyone has garage access, parking spaces, the less glamorous stuff. That’s how Back Bay works. You get these beautiful scenic streets, say, Marlborough, where you behold the front facade of each town house. Then you get a narrow back alley that runs behind it, featuring the much less glamorous rear of each building. Boston FBI pulled in last night. Big white mobile command center, very pretty on the outside, I’m betting lots of cool toys on the inside. Now, my turn: Is it just me, or do you have a history with the blond agent?”