A Field of Red (18 page)

Thursday morning, Chief King was waiting for him in the Vacation Inn parking lot. His head was killing him.

“Morning,” King said.

Frank nodded, grumbling. “Am I gonna get this kind of treatment every day?”

He didn’t remember going to sleep at all. The bourbon had washed his night away. The last thing he remembered was watching Craig Ferguson. All he knew for sure this morning was that every drop of alcohol in his place was gone, even all the little mini-bottles from the mini bar.

Frank had awakened in the same clothes he’d been wearing Wednesday night. He’d barely gotten changed and cleaned up after the call had come in that King was picking him up.

 “Nah, I just wanted to chat with you before we meet with the others,” King said as Frank got into the police cruiser. Frank was jealous—King’s car was spotless, with exactly zero pieces of ceiling fabric hanging down like tattered curtains. Frank glanced over, but the Taurus was still there—he guessed they didn’t have a lot of cars getting stolen around here.

“Plus,” King continued, “there are more reporters at the station, and I need to make a press statement this morning. Find anything?” King asked, as he drove out of the hotel parking lot.

Frank shook his head and then stopped immediately—it made his headache that much worse. He reached up and steadied himself with the dashboard.

“I didn’t go through the files,” Frank said, barely shaking his head. “I was—after reading them all yesterday morning, I needed to just absorb for a while. I’ll sit down and go through them again this evening—can I borrow Peters? He’s handy.”

King nodded, unhappy. “Sure.”

They drove on in silence for a minute until King spoke up.

“Look, Frank? Can I call you Frank?”

Frank nodded.

“Sure.”

“I need you sober on this,” King said, staring at the road. A light rain fell, and leaves blew across the lanes and swirled around the wet gutters.

Frank looked at him. “Look, I’m fine—I had a couple last night—”

“I know what a drunk looks like,” King said quietly, pulling the car out onto Main. “My career has been full of high-functioning drunks—bosses, friends, coworkers. I don’t really give a shit what you do to yourself,” he said. “But for the duration of this case, no alcohol. None. Got it?”

Frank didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t a fan of ultimatums, but the guy was taking a chance on him.

“Okay,” Frank said quietly. The bumping of the car threatened to make him vomit. “I can do that. It won’t be easy—”

King looked at him. “I’m serious. We’re already screwed on this case. But I can’t have you making it worse.”

Frank nodded, already wondering how he would get through the next few days—assuming they closed the case soon. He could already feel his insides craving a drink. Now that he was thinking about it, he wanted one, even with the headache still pounding.

“Okay, got it,” Frank said, unsure of what else to say. He felt like a kid in class, getting reprimanded. No one had spoken to Frank like that in a long time, maybe not since Trudy left. She’d ripped into him time and time again over the drinking, and his career, or what was left of it. But at the end, when they’d spoken that last time, all the anger was gone from her voice. There was only disappointment and regret.

Somewhere along the line, she’d given up caring.

“And I’ll go through the files again,” Frank said. “Today.”

King nodded, as they crossed the highway into Cooper’s Mill. Frank saw banners on the lampposts advertising “HarvestFest 2011,” an event coming up downtown Saturday night. The banners whipped in the wind and rain. Fall was coming in earnest, Frank could see. They didn’t get a lot of “fall” down in Louisiana, but he’d seen more of it after moving to Alabama. But growing up, they’d never had falling leaves, or this cold rain that never seemed to let up. It had snowed a few times in his youthful winters, but only during the rare cold blast. But here, the rain was cold, and the raw wind didn’t help. He didn’t even want to imagine winter.

“Does it ever stop raining?” Frank asked, rubbing his head. He was trying to use sheer willpower to make his headache go away. But at least getting called on the carpet by Chief King had sobered him up a little, helped him focus.

King looked over at him and smiled.

“Yeah, it’s been wet lately. Played hell with the searches last week. Oh, and to your earlier question, ‘yes,’ Peters can help you out. He knows all the players and sat in on a bunch of the interviews.”

“He’s a good kid,” Frank smiled. “And he knows where all the coffee is in town.”

As they pulled up in front of the police station, Frank saw the group of reporters.

“You do a lot of these?” Frank asked.

“Not if I can avoid it,” King said, frowning. “They used to show up only when we called a press conference, but after that first ransom call came in, they’re here every day.”

“Really?” Frank said, looking at King. “They can be a hassle, that’s for sure, but you can also turn them into a tool.”

 “What?” the Chief said, glancing at his watch as they crossed the wet parking lot. “I don’t have anything new to report anyway, so why bother? They just want to see us sweat.”

Frank smiled. He had an idea, a sudden and glorious idea that cut through his brain fog like a knife.

“Introduce me,” Frank said.

The Chief stopped walking and looked at him.

“What? Why? I thought you wanted a low profile.”

“Normally, yeah,” Frank agreed. “But this is good—fan the flames. We’ve got nothing new to go on, and we could use a break,” he said, looking at the gathered crowd waiting for them in the lobby of the station. “Just say you’ve brought in an outside expert on kidnappings, and I’ll take a few questions.”

Chief King looked skeptical, pulling his hat down to keep the rain out of his eyes. “You sure?”

“Trust me.”

A high-pitched voice shouted out to them, as they approached the station. One of the reporters ventured out into the rain.

“Any word yet, Chief?”

Frank turned to see a young woman talking to King as he approached the open doors of the police station. She was holding a tape recorder up to the Chief, trying to get him to comment. Oddly, even in the falling rain, she was wearing a large pair of sunglasses that completely covered her eyes.

“A couple of developments, Tina,” King said, not slowing down. “We’ll cover it inside.”

As they walked inside the police station, Frank asked about the young woman reporter.

“Tina Armstrong. Runs the local paper,” the Chief said under his breath. “She’s loving all the press. They’re all following her around, asking about behind-the-scenes stuff here in town.”

“What’s with the shades?” Frank asked.

King shook his head. “Photophobia—she’s very sensitive to light, I heard.”

Minutes later, Frank found himself before the cameras, listening to Chief King. There were five TV reporters and camera operators and lights, along with another half-dozen print folks, all crowded into the small lobby of the police station. Around the walls were wooden cases and display shelves filled with memorabilia from the department’s history. Strangely, one display case contained a small metal riding car that was shaped like a miniature soapbox derby vehicle.

The Chief was talking.

“…and we’re making progress. Our latest searches have not turned up any additional evidence, but we’re confident that we will find the kidnappers and recover the two girls safe and sound. To that end,” the Chief said, glancing at Frank, “we’ve brought in an outside expert. Frank Harper is a retired police officer with over twenty years’ experience, including a background in child abduction and kidnapping cases.”

Frank nodded to the Chief and stepped up to the microphone.

“Hi, thank you for coming. I’m Frank Harper, and I was with the New Orleans Police Department for twenty-one years, retiring in 2010.” He paused, giving them time to write it all down. Frank glanced over at Chief King, who had been joined by Sergeant Graves and Detective Barnes. He also saw Officer Stan Garber, cradling a cast. Evidently, the suspension was over. The guy glared at Frank, who ignored it. Served him right.

Frank turned back to the press.

“First, just let me say that I’m happy to be assisting the Cooper’s Mill Police Department with this investigation,” Frank said. “I’m getting up to speed and going over the facts in the case. We are starting to re-interview people involved, and, as soon as we have anything, we’ll get it out to you. There have been a few developments, which we are aggressively pursuing. Questions?”

All of their hands went up. He recognized one of them, the fat guy from Channel 4, and nodded to him.

“Scott Bumpers, Channel 4. How do you spell your name? And what is your background with cases like this one?”

Frank spelled his name. He’d forgotten how that was always the first question, or the last. Or maybe the reporter just hadn’t been paying attention.

“As Chief King said, I’ve got extensive experience in abduction cases, both child and adult,” Frank said. “I worked many abduction cases in Louisiana and Mississippi and liaised with the FBI and NCMEC on many occasions.”

Frank nodded to the young woman in the front. He recognized her sunglasses, which she was still wearing even though they were inside.

“Tina Armstrong, Cooper’s Mill Times,” the woman said. He couldn’t tell if she was looking at him or not. “What is NCMEC? And have you had any more contact with the kidnappers, since the ransom was paid?”

Frank shook his head.

“NCMEC is the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, based in Virginia,” he said. “I’ve worked with them in the past to publicize information nationally on missing children and young adults. I can tell you that we plan to reach out to them for assistance on this case,” he said, pausing to let that sink in. All the print reporters were scribbling to write it all down. “And no, nothing yet, other than the fact that the kidnappers exited Cooper’s Mill to the east and then headed south, in the direction of Huber Heights.”

He paused a moment, and then pushed forward.

“And we’ve identified the two suspects who picked up the ransom,” Frank said, smiling.

The gaggle went silent for a second, and then they all shouted at once. He put up his hands and continued.

“I can’t give you their names, obviously, because it’s an active investigation,” Frank said. “But I can say that one is a 25-year old male, and the other is a 22-year old female, both from the area. We’ll get the names to you later today, if we can. But we’re petitioning for search warrants now. As soon as we have pictures, we’ll get those out to our friends in the press.”

The print reporters were scribbling it all down, but the TV folks didn’t bother. Frank remembered why the TV folks were looking up and around when the print folks were writing: the TV reporters always taped everything in the field, then replayed the video back in the studio, taking their notes from the recording.

Frank nodded at another reporter.

“You say you have their names?”

 “Yes, they’ve been ID’ed,” Frank said, nodding. “We got lucky and found footage from a security cam at a nearby restaurant. The FBI office in Cincinnati has positively identified them through facial recognition software.”

More scribbling, more hands in the air.

Frank glanced at Chief King, who was staring at Frank, his eyes wide. Graves was next to King, looking at the ground and shaking his head. Bumpers put his hand back up.

“Any more news on the family? There are reports that they have brought in a psychic.”

Frank shook his head.

“That’s the first I’m hearing about that,” Frank said, lying again. “The family is holding up as best as can be expected. And for the record, the family and their circle of immediate friends have been eliminated as potential suspects. This is clearly the work of an outside party attempting to extort money from the Martins. OK, last question.”

Tina Armstrong didn’t wait to be called on. She leaned forward and shouted out her question.

“Have you lost any kids?”

The room grew quiet.

Frank looked at her. “What do you mean?”

She looked around at the other reporters and soldiered on, her glasses reflecting Frank’s image back at him.

“In your time on the job, how successful were you?” she asked loudly, holding up her tape recorder. “What was your track record, and how many cases did you fail to solve?”

Chief King started to step up to the podium, but Frank waved him back and smiled.

“I understand your curiosity, Ms. Armstrong,” Frank said. “I obviously can’t get into operational details, but I’ve solved many cases, and I have recovered many kidnapping victims. But yes, I’ve lost a few, too. And those stick with you. Each one is an eye-opening and painful learning experience.”

Frank stood at the podium for a long moment, trying to forget about that empty patch of land in Atlanta and that buried cardboard box. After a moment, he looked back up at the woman in the sunglasses and the other reporters and cameras around her.