Proof Positive: A Joe Gunther Novel (Joe Gunther Series) (18 page)

Neil did make an attempt. “A little, ’cept we’re not sneaking around a house.”

“No,” agreed Frank. “But we
are
trying to tag Rachel Reiling, thanks to the suddenly talkative Nancy Filson. The cops know that’s our goal, since they were heading for Rachel’s dorm room at the same time we were, complete with backup. By doing that, they showed us their hand.”

Neil was again confused. “Showed their hand? We’re the bad guys, Frank. It’s their job to catch us. That’s no mystery.”

“Yes,” Frank resumed patiently. “But how? Our all bumping into each other was just bad luck. They were actually there to either stake out the room, or take something out of it, like we wanted to before we were rudely interrupted. Either one tells me they have Rachel in protective custody.”

“Okay,” Neil said slowly, still trying.

“Well, if you were them, wouldn’t you take advantage of seeing the so-called bad guys’ cards and set up a decoy to lure them out? To use a different image, it’s like Rachel’s the cheese and we’re the rats and they’re gonna try to catch us by putting out a piece of cheese that looks just like her.”

“You think they’ll dress up a cop for that?”

Frank laughed. “I have no idea, but I’ll almost guarantee that we’ll somehow be allowed to hear about quote-unquote ‘Rachel’ being hidden by the cops in such-and-such a location, with them hoping we’ll take the bait.”

“But we won’t, right?” Neil asked.

“Right. We might tease ’em just for fun, but that depends on the setup.”

Neil scratched his neck. “Okay, fine. I still don’t get why we care. If they’re gonna plan a trap and we’re not gonna bite, what do we gain?”

“What we gain,” Frank told him, his eyes bright, “is that once they think the trap’s failed, they’ll retreat to consider what to do next. That’s when we’ll follow them—just as if we’d spotted them in the dark and snuck up behind them.”

Neil looked at him, his expression cleared. “But they won’t know we’re right there, doggin’ their heels. That’s cool, Frank. You think we can maybe grab the real Rachel that way?”

Frank sat back and crossed his legs contentedly. “I do.”

*   *   *

At that same moment, less than a mile away, Joe Gunther also stood at a window, enjoying a far more restricted view of Lake Champlain—in fact, barely a sliver between two of Burlington’s downtown buildings. Still, the allure of the water’s ever-changing leaden hues, along with its pure enormity, never failed to impress him.

“Special Agent Gunther?”

He turned at the voice—having been told of its owner’s arrival at the VBI office—and replied in a neutral tone, “Daniel Reiling?” He approached the man with his hand outstretched. “Glad to meet you.”

Beverly Hillstrom’s ex-husband was dressed in an upscale lawyer’s three-piece, pin-striped version of a uniform, which to Joe seemed ostentatious for a place like Burlington. This was a town that—despite its major-city status—encouraged a more off-the-rack look. Of course, Joe had heard—including from sources other than the man’s disaffected ex-wife—that Reiling had the reputation of being a big fish in a small pond. He was very bright, very good at his job, and very successful at attending to the legal needs of Vermont’s movers and shakers. This was a man who consciously hobnobbed with the mighty, with no apologies, and had by now earned his place alongside them in both status and income. Gunther had honed a talent over the decades of keeping his body language and expressions neutral, but he was the first to admit that the entitled rich aggravated a prejudice that he’d never bothered explaining to himself.

He was also ill inclined to like anyone who’d ever mistreated Beverly Hillstrom—as this man had by cheating on her before abandoning her and his two daughters.

It actually embarrassed him to be thinking all this as he motioned Reiling to a chair, and made him more mindful to treat the man first and foremost as the father of a young woman in danger.

“I am sorry to be meeting for the first time under these circumstances, Mr. Reiling,” Joe therefore began. “Your daughter has been extraordinarily helpful, and we are committed to her safety until we bring this case to a successful conclusion.”

Reiling crossed his tailored legs, revealing expensive tasseled loafers, and gave Joe a frown. “Spare me, Special Agent Gunther. I hand out one-liners like that for a living. I want to know precisely what is going on.”

Joe ignored the rudeness. “Feel free to call me Joe. We’ve placed Rachel into a protective setting, based on certain evidence that leads us to believe that she may be in jeopardy.”

“As in someone taking a shot at you after rifling through her dorm room? I happen to know about that,” he said sarcastically, not returning the courtesy about how to address him. “You take a lot of believing if you’re calling that ‘certain evidence.’ In my language, that constitutes a lethal threat. What are you doing to safeguard my daughter?”

Joe felt his face warm and hoped the reaction wasn’t apparent. “We’ve got her under wraps, Mr. Reiling, with her full understanding and cooperation. And while I know this may be awkward to hear, as part of that protection, we are not releasing the details of the arrangement, even to her parents.”

Now it was the attorney’s turn to get hot under the collar. The elegant legs untangled as Reiling sat forward. “You can’t do that.”

“Actually, we can. Your daughter’s becoming of age a few weeks ago legally makes her an adult. All we need is her blessing.”

“This is bullshit. I bet you told Beverly. You people are always playing favorites in these things. I’ve seen it before.”

Joe had calmed considerably, now that the man’s true measure had surfaced. He’d morphed quickly in Joe’s mind from being his lover’s ex-husband to just another pissed-off member of the public—a creature with which Joe was all too familiar.

“I would recommend that you call your ex-wife,” he therefore counseled, “and discuss that with her. You’ll find her as ignorant as you, and by her own preference.”

Reiling maintained what he hoped, no doubt, was an intimidating expression, but his accompanying silence revealed an underlying hesitance. Joe remained quiet to see what developed.

Reiling took a breath, and his shoulders sagged slightly. “I’m being an asshole,” he said softly. “Sorry.”

“You’re under stress,” Joe suggested, relieved. “I’d react poorly if my daughter were being targeted.”

Now torn between gratitude and lingering suspicion, Reiling studied Joe before saying, “You’re being kind.”

“Maybe,” Joe admitted. “Which doesn’t mean it’s not true. I will promise you,” he said with more meaning than he guessed Reiling knew, “that your daughter will receive the protection I’d give my own child. This is not routine to me. I can’t grant what you asked for just now, but I will give you that much.”

The lawyer considered it briefly, as if he had options, before getting to his feet and shaking hands once more. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The Willy Kunkle part of Joe’s brain was tempted to respond,
Whatever,
to match Reiling’s own tinny bravura, but instead he kept it to, “I expect nothing less,” and escorted him out of the office.

He was still standing in the lobby, reviewing his impressions of the man who’d shared Beverly’s life for almost twenty years, when a soft voice asked behind him, “My dad gone?”

He turned to see Rachel standing with the inner door held open in her hand, the look on her face hovering between quizzical and vulnerable.

He ushered her back into the office, surprised by the emotional lurch he felt in his chest at her appearance. “Yeah. Did you want to talk to him? I should’ve asked.”

“I’m fine.”

They walked over to a small side room where the squad kept the coffee machine, a microwave, and a fridge.

Joe poured them both coffee. “You two get along?” he asked lightly, guiltily hoping for a negative response.

“Okay,” she said. “We’re not buddy-buddy. Anne and I aren’t important enough.”

Joe silently stirred in his usual startling amount of cream and sugar.

“He was never around much,” she told him.

Joe stated the obvious as they returned to the room where they were keeping her until they set up alternative quarters. “He was building a pretty big career.”

“So was my mom,” she said simply.

That was true. Beverly had turned the medical examiner’s office into an enviable institution—to the point where she and members of her small staff were often asked to share their methods and practices with other state OCMEs across the country.

“She was home every night,” Rachel finished as they reached her door and entered. “Close enough, anyhow.”

They sat opposite each other as they had hours earlier, when her mother had been with them.

“Did the guys bring you everything you asked for from your dorm room?” Joe asked. “Clothes, books, iStuff?”

She finished sipping her coffee. “Yes, thank you.”

“We’ve almost set up where you’re going to be staying. We’re just putting the final touches on the security. I hope today hasn’t been too wearing.”

She didn’t answer, and the makeshift bedroom became awkwardly quiet. Joe considered what to say next.

“I know about you and my mom,” she said.

He focused on her face. “I’m sorry?”

She smiled, holding her mug in both hands. “It’s okay. I’m happy she’s found someone. So’s Anne. We talked about it.”

Joe rubbed his cheek. “Thanks.”

“You’re a nice man.”

“So are you,” he replied, and they both laughed as he tried to cover with, “for a girl, I mean. I mean, a woman. A young woman.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very smooth.”

“Enough.” He waved at her. “I surrender. But I appreciate the vote of confidence. I’ll do everything I can to keep earning it. Your mom totally floats my boat.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Norwich University is the nation’s oldest private military college, created in Norwich, Vermont, in 1819 as the American Literary, Scientific and Military Academy, and since moved to Northfield. Its founder—Joe always relished this fact—was a local man who’d been thrown out as superintendent of West Point for advocating a citizen soldiery over the aristocratic officer class favored at the time. It was yet another indicator for Joe of his beloved state’s stubborn devotion to common sense and pragmatism over trendiness, fashion, or elitism.

But he’d not traveled to this hilly, austerely designed campus to pay homage to tradition. He was here to see Marcus Perry, who, according to Lester, had served with Ben Kendall’s outfit in Vietnam and at about the same time. In a team discussion earlier, they’d agreed that interviewing Perry might be a stab in the dark, but better than losing more time searching for other Signal Corps alums farther afield.

Based on every statistic available for similar kidnappings, each hour that passed ate into the Filson family’s chances of survival.

Joe parked near the library and began heading uphill on foot toward Jackman Hall, where, during a phone call an hour earlier, he’d been told to meet Perry in his office. Jackman anchored one end of a large, green, rectangular commons that formed the campus’s primary parade ground on top of a mesalike hilltop. The parade ground was lined by two severe if photogenic rows of opposing buildings. It was built to impress—and succeeded, if your tastes ran to authoritarian. As Joe trudged nearer to the building blocking the far end, with its columns, cupola, and carillon tower next door, he easily imagined the cadenced display of cadets across the central green expanse, wheeling in lockstep to shouted commands. On the basis of that memory alone, he drifted back in time to his own days at boot camp, and being hectored and disciplined into becoming an integral part of a fighting force.

He finally reached Jackman Hall, passing several cadets who were saluting a professor in passing, and climbed the interior staircase. He came to a large, dark, wooden door labeled
COL. PERRY—HISTORY
, knocked, and entered without waiting for a response.

The white-haired uniformed man who looked up at him from his desk fixed him with a disapproving stare. “And you are?” he asked.

“Joe Gunther. VBI. We spoke on the phone.”

Perry nodded once, stood, and circled the desk to greet Joe as an equal, ushering him into one of two leather guest chairs and taking the other for himself. The office appeared airlifted from central casting, its walls lined with battle flags, portraits of men in uniform, assorted weapons of yore, and boxed awards and medals. Every flat surface was littered with military paraphernalia, from dummy hand grenades to scale models of jeeps, cannon, and even a motorcycle. It was comfortable, lived-in, and as male as an old sleeping lion.

“Thank you for meeting on such short notice,” Joe began.

“Not a problem,” Perry replied. “I’ve accommodated the spontaneous all my life. It’s part of the job and something I like anyhow. Keeps me on my toes.”

“The plaque on your door says ‘History’,” Joe continued. “That what you do now? Teach history?”

“Not military history, like most people think,” Perry explained. “U.S., although I admit that my students don’t have much difficulty derailing me into telling war stories when they think I’m getting boring. I get my revenge come exam time. It balances out.”

Joe pointed to several decorations and insignia on the wall. “And you were in Vietnam,” he said.

“I was. Three tours. You serve?”

Joe nodded. “Not there.”

The tone of his response ended further inquiry. Old combatants have an instinct for whether fellow vets want to talk or not. This was clearly a case of the latter.

“You said you had a problem,” Perry said instead. “How can I help?”

“My research told me you served in the Signal Corps.”

Now Perry nodded. “Yes. It’s called COMCAM nowadays, for Combat Camera. Very catchy, and it gives them another acronym to abuse, so who could resist?”

“But the unit’s duties were to photograph the war, is that correct?”

“Basically, yes. But it didn’t usually consist of taking the fancy portraits we saw in
Life
and
Look
magazines. Those were mostly shot by photojournalists, not that we didn’t contribute a few. First and foremost, we were the eyes and ears of theater command. That meant a million pictures of buildings, facilities, roads and railways, basic infrastructure—you name it.