Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

“Z has stuff in his belt. All those compartments? There are things there.”

“Not big enough to be a knife or gun.”

“Something!”

Justin smiled. “Fair enough. But even considering their Tasers, how do we make our play? Manage to disarm and somehow overpower both Z and Mick? I haven’t looked in a mirror just yet, but somehow, I don’t think I’m as fit-looking today as I was yesterday.”

Which combined with my own physical limitations…

“Fire,” I tried next. “We start a fire. In the kitchen, I guess. Oil on the stove, maybe something that appears accidental, except we panic and instead of dousing it in flour, fan it with a towel. They’d all have to work together to put out a fire.”

“The entire facility is equipped with a fire suppression system,” Justin said. “Single tap on the control room systems menu, and good-bye, fire. Hello, wet us.”

“Then what?” I asked in frustration. “There has to be a way out. There’s always a way.”

“Ransom,” my daughter said. Justin and I both startled, glancing up. We hadn’t realized Ashlyn was awake. Now, almost as a reflex, we blushed guiltily.

I waited for my husband to soothe. He surprised me, then, by stating calmly, “I don’t think that’s what they want, honey. They seem to be after something else. I’m not sure what.”

“I know,” Ashlyn said bluntly. “I heard that much. But did you tell them about the insurance?” My daughter had a look on her face that gave me a sense of déjà vu. Then I got it. She looked like Justin. She looked exactly like my husband when he was working through a major build crisis, determined to make this latest two-hundred-million-dollar facility submit to his will.

“Yes. But the policy is only four million. Our hosts…”—he used the term dryly—“are a team of three. I don’t think a little over one million apiece is adequate incentive for them.”

“We can pay more.” I spoke up quickly. “From our funds.”

“Honey…” Justin paused. The silence dragged out. “We don’t… We don’t currently have those kinds of financial resources.”

“Excuse me?”

“I haven’t been taking a salary, Libby. For the past sixteen months. There’s been a couple of major bids we haven’t gotten, cash flow’s tight… I’ve been leaving the money in the company, so we can make payroll.”

I didn’t speak right away. Not that Justin’s words scared me. We’d done this before. Justin considered his employees family, too, and he often put their payroll requirements above his own.

No, what silenced me was that he hadn’t said anything before now. Sixteen months. A year and a third. I guess that’s how long we’d really been drifting apart.

“We have resources,” I said at last. “Antiques, jewelry, cars, two homes. We could liquidate…”

“I believe ransom is a cash biz.”

“Maybe the company could pay out from the cash reserves. It’d be a hit, sure, but so would your death, right? I mean…”

Justin gave me a look. Then, in the next instant, his expression changed. “My death,” he murmured.

Ashlyn and I studied him uncertainly. “What?”

“Libby, you’re right. My death. That would do it.”

“Justin,” I ventured, “we’re not going to kill you for ransom funds. No killing, no dying. Ashlyn and I, we forbid it.”

“You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s kind of funny, really.” Justin’s swollen lip twisted. “Z, Mick, they’ve already done the hard part. Fuck ’em. We’re going to ransom our own damn selves. And I know exactly how we can do it.”

Chapter 25

CHRIS LOPEZ LIVED IN SOUTH BOSTON. And not the recently gentrified, up-and-coming part of Southie, but the hard-core, dilapidated triple-deckers with rotting-out front porches and cheap vinyl siding. Walking distance to several neighborhood pubs, of course, but still…

Tessa drove over with Wyatt in her car. The other New Hampshire cop, Kevin, had stayed behind to contact various emergency rooms and methadone clinics in northern New Hampshire for possible Libby Denbe sightings.

Tessa found it unnerving to drive with a guy in the passenger’s seat. Wasn’t sure why. A Lexus SUV had plenty of interior space. And true to her initial assessment, Wyatt wasn’t exactly prone to blather. He sat reasonably relaxed, resting against the passenger-side door, leaving the middle console as neutral territory.

She had to make a couple of quick driving moves. Merging here, tucking in there. He whistled once in appreciation as she veered deftly around a particularly aggressive driver. But Wyatt didn’t comment, or appear unduly tense.

“God bless the mountains,” he muttered once, which she took to explain his feelings on Boston drivers.

She’d selected for her vehicle’s GPS the British butler’s voice. Jeeves, she called him. She’d picked the accent to amuse Sophie, who would then attempt to mimic it, but also because it seemed less grating to be told to make the next available legal U-turn in the Queen’s English. Wyatt had broken into a grin at the first voice command, so apparently he was a man with a sense of humor. She could appreciate that.

He was also freshly showered and in a clean uniform. A man who planned ahead.

She liked that, too.

Okay, so, Chris Lopez.

They parked in front of a local bar, then walked to the corner and inspected the crumbling white triple-decker that served as Chris Lopez’s legal address.

“Fixer-upper,” Wyatt stated, not a question. “Bet he picks on it, when he’s around. Man’s got skills and connections. Might even funnel some ‘extra’ supplies from job sites. Build a little personal equity from corporate overages.”

Tessa nodded. Not a bad bet. Place looked quiet at the moment. Lights off. They’d kept the Denbe crew up late last night, answering questions at headquarters. Even then, she wouldn’t be surprised if the build team had grabbed a few beers afterward, sharing suspicions, fears, guilt over the fate of their missing boss.

Would it be work as usual on Monday, she wondered, flying out to whatever job site? Or would the guys hang closer to home, desperate for word? The FBI hadn’t issued any travel restrictions with regard to Denbe’s core management team.

Maybe, after talking to Lopez, that would change.

Wyatt approached first, testing out the sagging front steps with his heavier weight, gesturing at several spots to avoid. They weren’t approaching with strict caution, and yet Tessa was aware that both of them had fallen silent, Wyatt in the forward position, herself, automatically a couple of steps back, where she could help cover him, even as his larger mass shielded her approach.

Sophie had climbed into her bed at four this morning. Not said a word. Just snuggled up close. Then, when Tessa’s alarm had gone off at six:

“Mrs. Ennis says you’re helping a family.”

Tessa, halfway across the room, focused on getting ready: “Yes.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They…got a little lost.”

Her daughter, sitting up in bed: “Someone took them.”

“We don’t know for sure.”

Sophie, repeating firmly: “Someone took them. Do they have a little girl?”

“They have a big girl. Teenager.”

“Does she know how to fight?”

“I’m told the whole family knows how to fight.”

“Good. They’ll be someplace dark. That’s what kidnappers do. They take you, and lock you up someplace all alone and very dark. You should search those places first.”

Tessa, turning away from her dresser to meet her eight-year-old daughter’s gaze as somberly as her daughter met hers. The therapist had advised a straightforward approach to dealing with Sophie’s trauma: Acknowledge the incident, encourage communication and promote empowerment. No dismissing of fears or placating of nerves.