Nothing Left (Jack Widow Book 16), page 10
I removed my hands from her arms and reached one out and clamped it over hers and the camera. I squeezed it gently, and said, “I know. Me too.”
She whispered, “It’s horrible.”
I pulled the camera away from her, like that could take it all back. She didn’t fight me. I looked at the viewer screen again and the dead teenager. I swiped my finger across the screen and scanned back to the picture of the first girl. I stared at it. Nothing in the shot gave away clues where she was except that it was some place dark, probably a basement, but nothing definitive. She might not have even been in the same spot as the dead girl. The background was slightly different, and yet similar. Plus, the first girl wasn’t dead. There was a bed and similar piping and lighting, but the sheets were clean. There was no blood. The photo was pointed at a different angle, which didn’t allow me to see if the farmer’s sink was in the other corner or not. It could’ve been the same basement, but there was no way to tell for sure.
Voss pulled closer to me and looked as well. She wiped a single tear off her cheek, and asked, “Do you think the first one is still alive?”
I didn’t answer.
She said, “If this is the only picture of her on here and she’s alive in it, then she might still be alive now.”
“That’s the assumption we should work on. Until we know otherwise, this girl is alive.”
“Okay. So how do we find her?”
I said, “I think she’s near Angel Rock. Somewhere. They’d want her to be nearby. She’s the motive.”
“Saunt killed Aragon and Broome over this girl. So did they tell him she was dead?”
“They could’ve lied to him. Maybe he didn’t have the full ransom. Maybe they wanted to motivate him. Or hurt him. Make him suffer a bit. She could be alive. In fact, I bet she is alive.”
“How do you know?”
“Because why tell him she’s dead and then let him walk away? They’d kill him too. Sure as anything. No sense letting him live unless it was a trick.”
Voss nodded along but said nothing.
I asked, “What do we know about Saunt?”
“He tried to kill himself.”
“What else?”
Voss stared down at the floor as if she were counting the threads in the carpet. She said, “The obvious questions are: why did he try to kill himself and why is the girl motive?”
“We saw the money. We have the fingerprint and the memory card with the photos. They must be proofs of life. The obvious answer is: it was ransom money because they have this girl. At the crime scene, they told him she was dead, maybe.”
Voss nodded and looked back at the camera. She looked at the viewer and saw the living girl’s face again. She asked, “Who is she?”
“If you look closer into Saunt’s background, I bet you’ll find he has a teenage daughter or niece or something like that.”
“The daughter angle makes sense.”
“I think so too.”
Voss said, “If his daughter is missing, there might be a report or an amber alert.”
“That’s if it was reported to begin with.”
“I just can’t believe that two state detectives would do something so horrible. Even if Aragon and Broome were assholes. Still, kidnapping for ransom?”
I said, “I know, it’s evil. But it adds up. The murder scene. The meetup. The way he snapped. That Aragon and Broome underestimated Saunt. They probably staked him out for months and thought he was a good candidate.”
Voss asked, “What if they’ve done this before?”
“We know they have. The dead girl is probably real. Probably from the same evil racket. They’ve probably been doing this for years. If we research, we probably could uncover a host of dead or missing children and their fathers.”
Voss’s face changed back to the hardened cop. She said, “We should confirm the girl is Saunt’s teenage daughter.”
“I agree. Can you find out?”
Voss nodded, and asked, “You really think she’s still alive?”
“We should alert the FBI. Kidnapping is their thing.”
“That could endanger her.”
“How so?”
“Not saying we can’t trust the FBI, but if we tell them, someone else who might be involved in their department might get wind of it. Aragon and Broome are cops. If they’re committing these horrible crimes, there could be a third man.”
I said, “We should tread carefully.”
11
Voss and I returned to her police car after she bagged the laptop—which we couldn’t access without Saunt’s password—the empty magazine, a shell casing we found on the floor from Saunt’s suicide bullet, Saunt’s boots, the bloodstained envelope, the extra memory card, and the camera, which had a dying battery. I squeezed the clothing spillage from Saunt’s suitcase together and closed it and carried it out first. Then I went back in for a power cord I presumed was for the camera. It had a tiny, flat end which appeared to fit into the camera someplace. I wasn’t sure if it was the right cord or not, but I had seen no other loose power cords in the room and, as far as we could tell, there was no cell phone. Saunt’s cell phone was maybe in his vehicle, but more likely in a pocket of his jacket or his pants. Both items were at the hospital.
Voss also took the motel room key off one of the nightstands. The key was clearly marked by a round metal badge that had the motel’s name and room number written on it in small letters and numbers. Next to the motel room key, underneath a lamp, she also found a set of keys to Saunt’s vehicle.
At her police car, Voss popped the trunk and tossed in the bagged evidence. I watched as she shifted them around to make sure they were stationary and not in danger of being tossed about in the car while we drove. She kept the car keys out and in her palm. She slammed the trunk shut without giving me time to toss the power cord in.
I stuffed the cord into one of my pockets.
Voss took her gloves off and stuffed them into her pants pocket. I did the same. She jingled a set of car keys in her hand, Saunt’s car keys. She asked, “Can you drive Saunt’s car?”
“Sure. But I don’t have a license.”
“If you don’t tell, then I won’t,” she said, and tossed me the keys underhanded.
I caught them and held them with my pinkie finger going through the key ring. It was a tight fit. The keys were attached to a fob with buttons on it. I asked, “Which car is his?”
“It’s the Silverado,” Voss said, and pointed at a maroon-colored Chevy Silverado with New Mexico plates.
“How do you know?”
“Click the alarm button.”
I looked at the fob. There were two buttons: one marked with an icon of a lock and one with a red button. I pressed the red button and a vehicle in the lot screeched and the lights flashed. I looked up.
I looked down at the key and reversed it. On the back, there was a Chevy emblem. I pressed the red button again, and the alarm stopped. Then I pressed the lock button and the truck’s dome lights lit up, slowly and laggardly. The door locks clicked as they unlocked and fog lights on the front of the truck lit up the pavement in front of the tires.
I looked around the parking lot. There were two other Chevys in the lot, a Malibu and a blue Camaro. I asked, “How did you know his was the Silverado? Why not the other two Chevys?”
Voss smiled, and said, “I’m smarter than you think.”
“Was it because the key has no open trunk button, and the Silverado is the only Chevy without a trunk?”
She moved around to the driver’s door of the police cruiser. She said, “Damn. I didn’t think of that. I knew it was his because of the color. It’s maroon.”
“So?”
“When a man picks a maroon truck, it means nothing on its own. But did you see his clothes? Did you check out his socks next to his boots?”
I shook my head.
She said, “Saunt is colorblind. His clothes didn’t match. His jacket and his shirt were both gray.
“How do you know? They look like they match to me. They’re both gray. Ugly, but gray.”
“Colorblind people often wear gray because they don’t know it’s gray. They think it’s different colors.
“Okay.”
Voss said, “His socks are two different shades of white and two completely different pairs of cotton socks. It’s probable that he’s colorblind. My dad was like that. He always picked out maroon or dark red or gray-colored vehicles. He thought they were blue. My first car was gray. He thought it was black. I never had the heart to tell him.”
I nodded again, but I wasn’t sure if I bought the colorblind thing or not. She mentioned her dad. I thought back, tried to think if a colorblind guy with a beautiful daughter meant anything to me. It didn’t. I still wasn’t sure how she knew me.
Voss said, “Follow me. We’re going to the station.”
“Lead the way.”
She got into her cruiser and shut the door and fired up the engine.
I got into the cab of the truck and felt around under the front seat for the bar to set it back, but I couldn’t find it. Then I switched my hunt to the door, with no luck. I looked over at the console in the middle and found it, nice and neat next to the seat adjustment controls for the passenger seat. The interior of the truck had a lot of aftermarket stuff. Maybe that’s why the seat adjustment was there? It had to be moved to accommodate something else that was added. I wasn’t sure. I was no mechanic.
I hit the little lever all the way back and my seat started moving slowly, automatically. It stopped when it went as far back as it would go. I released the lever and sat upright. It was comfortable. I had plenty of leg room and enough room between my lap and the steering wheel. I reached out and grabbed the door handle and pulled it shut. I jammed the key into the ignition and turned on the engine. I gave it some gas. The engine roared to life.
The radio blasted a country music station. Music boomed over the truck’s speakers. I didn’t recognize the song, but it was a male’s voice, and it was on a chorus. I listened to the words. The song was about his wife leaving him, which seemed to be just about every country song that’s ever been played anywhere. Today’s country music was a lot about sorrow and lost loves, like the new blues. I looked for a knob to turn it off, but there wasn’t one. Instead, there was a touch screen that lit up the center of the dash. I looked at it. There was a menu which led me along a string of choices such as map, connect Bluetooth to phone, radio, and status. I ignored all the choices except radio and pressed it with my index finger. The screen flashed and changed quickly over to a choice of preset stations and scanning and volume controls.
I didn’t see an off button, so I pressed the volume control and held my finger there until the volume was all the way down and the country singer’s whiny chords faded into silence.
Voss reversed her cruiser and straightened it out and got in front of me. I pulled out of the space and stopped behind her. She led me to the end of the lot, where she stopped and exchanged a couple of words with Clark through the open window of her car. Then she headed out to the road, turned right, and slowed to allow me to stay close.
I followed about a car-length away. Heavy clouds overtook the sky overhead, and the moon vanished behind them. We drove, staying at a speed comparable to the speed limits in small towns all over America. Although I never saw a speed limit sign posted.
I followed her through another turn to the right. At a stoplight with no other cars, she shrieked her sirens to warn oncoming drivers that we were passing through and not stopping. We barreled through the light as it changed to red. We drove on for another three blocks, and then, she flipped on her right turn signal and pulled into a parking lot.
The parking lot was shared among four different departments, all shared in one government building. One was the Angel Rock Police, which was clearly marked at the top of a sign near the road. The government building also housed the local district attorney, the city clerk, and a public library. They all shared the same building and the same parking lot. The police department took up the lion’s share of the building. It had the entire first two floors and the district attorney’s office was on the third. The library shared the top floor with the city clerk’s office.
Public libraries were one of my favorite places to visit because the books were free. Unfortunately, you needed a library card to check them out. I hadn’t had a library card in decades.
I pulled into the parking lot behind Voss. She parked her cruiser up front, near the entrance to the building, which, ten to one, was her own designated parking spot. I kept on driving through the lot and parked the truck far away from the line of police cruisers. I didn’t want to block parking spaces designated for official vehicles.
After killing the Silverado’s engine, I hopped out and shut the door and clicked the lock button. The alarm beeped, and the lights went off.
Voss waited for me behind the trunk of her cruiser. She popped it open and began taking out the bagged evidence. She handed me the heavy stuff, including the suitcase and the boots, which were too large for her bags. She also handed me the bag with the camera in it. She scooped up the rest and closed the cruiser’s trunk. She headed into the police station, and I followed.
The first-floor lobby was occupied at the entrance by a night guard seated next to a metal detector. He wore a brown uniform, freshly shined boots, and a polished badge on his left breast pocket. He had a clean shave, a jarhead haircut, and a military-look in his demeanor and face. He was even more militarist and steadfast to his station than Gene, the guard from the hospital. This guy lacked the obvious crush on Voss that came standard with Gene.
The guard stood straight up as Voss entered, like she was his commanding officer in a military unit. He did everything but salute.
Voss said, “Franklin, this is Widow.”
He nodded and gave me a half smile that said he was required to be polite. It also was a warning that he had his eye on me. This was his domain, and I was the newbie. Any seasoned centurion will tell you that the newest faces are the first ones you automatically suspect as possible threats to the peace.
“Hi, Franklin,” I said.
He said, “Pleasure. Walk on through, please.”
Voss didn’t wait for his permission; she walked through the metal detector, and it sounded. I went through after her, and it sounded again.
Franklin gazed at me, but said nothing about it. He didn’t know if I was carrying a weapon or not, but I wasn’t. The camera in the evidence bag or the Silverado keys in my pocket or something in the suitcase had set off the metal detector.
There was no loose change in my pockets and no belt buckle or belt. I got lucky with this set of gas station clothes. The pants fit snug on my hips. The only metal on me were the keys and the camera, the prongs on the plug to the camera, and the small button on my pants, which was too small to set off the detector, anyway.
I ignored Franklin’s suspicion and followed Voss down a short hall and through an empty counter, where the daytime secretary probably sat as well as the night desk guy Voss had sent off to a long dinner. He wasn’t back yet.
We walked past the empty counter and through a swinging half-door.
The station was a basic bullpen setup with two offices at the far back of the wall. The first office had a frost-glass window on the door, which read: Chief Voss. The other office was empty and had nothing written on the window in the door.
Voss opened her door, which wasn’t locked, and walked in and set the evidence bags on her desk.
“Put the suitcase down over there,” she said, and pointed at the corner of the room. I did as instructed. Then she said, “And the camera here.” She pointed at the desk.
I set the camera, still inside the evidence bag, down on the desk and reached into my pocket and dug out the charging cable and the plug. I set them down as well, and I said, “We should plug the camera in. The battery is low.”
“Go ahead. There’s an outlet behind that chair,” Voss said, and pointed at a gray leather lounge chair that looked like it belonged in a man cave and not in the chief's office. I stepped over to it and pulled it away from the wall and saw the outlet. I picked up the evidence bag with the camera in it and unzipped it.
Voss said, “Use gloves.”
I said, “I won’t touch it.”
I didn’t use gloves. I reversed the plastic in the bag and held the camera with it, pinched it tight in one hand and held the power cord in the other hand. I slid the USB into a port on the bottom of the camera. Then I shoved the plug into the wall outlet. The screen came to life and showed a glimpse of the last image we had seen. The dead girl and the gloved hand reached out toward her. The camera screen shifted to a large battery icon. It flashed green, showing that the camera was charging.
I turned and dumped myself down in the lounge chair and left the camera half in the bag and lying on the chair’s arm.
Voss took a deep breath, sighed, and said, “I gotta call the FBI. We can’t sit on this anymore.”
“I agree. If we don’t call them now, they might find out. And that’s bad for you. Bad for the case. Bad for the girl. The FBI will know what to do and how to get her back. Hopefully.”
“If we can get her back.”
I nodded.
Voss sat straight in a black swivel desk chair with no arms and a low back and small wheels on the bottom.
The office wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small. It was the same chief’s office that was in thousands of police stations in thousands of small towns with budget restraints across the country. This one was better than many. Voss was lucky to have an office, I supposed, but not lucky enough to have a window with a view, or a window at all. Instead, there was a wall with exposed brick. It was old and painted white. Not sure if it was a design choice, or they built the floor over something else, like an old industrial factory. There was a lot of fine detail. Each individual crack and line was etched out to showcase the architecture. On the other wall, the one that separated the two offices, there were multiple hanging photographs and framed achievements—all Voss’s, I suspected.
