The Vanished (15 page)

Dammit! He should have kept his mouth shut.

Trying to come up with an answer, Vincent scanned Camp’s legs, arms, neck, and face for prison tattoos. There were no tattoos on the visible parts of Camp’s body, so he decided to tell the truth. “I did a background check on you.”

“A background check? Why?”

“Because you’re the owner of the house.”

“For your information, my conviction was overturned.”

A few weeks ago Vincent had seen an ad in the PI Magazine for a .22 caliber single-shot pen gun. Harmless as they might seem, pen guns were powerful enough to kill a human being. Now Vincent wished he had one on him.

“Who sent you?” Camp asked. “And don’t give me that bullshit about the infidelity case.”

“Listen, this is all just one big misunderstanding. Let me go, and I promise you’ll never see me again.”

“Do you work for the cops? Did you plant something in the house?”

“No, I don’t work the cops and didn’t plant anything. I just wanted to take a look. And this house turned out to be the wrong place to look. Please accept my apologies, and let’s get on with our lives.”

“First you need to answer my question. Who sent you? What were you looking for?”

“You’re not the subject of this investigation, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Here’s what I’m going to do: I’ll turn you in to the cops.” Camp pulled his cellphone from his pocket, dialed a number, and a few seconds later said, “Hi, I’d like to report a burglary.”

He gave the operator the address. There was a pause, and then Camp said, “I’ve arrested him. He had a gun, but I took it away from him.” Another pause. “When are they going to get here?”

Vincent’s uneasiness began to give way to cautious optimism.

It appeared that Camp wasn’t going to kill him. Also, the fact that Camp had called the police suggested that Annie wasn’t in this house (assuming Camp was capable of understanding the risks of involving the cops).

“Okay, thank you. Bye.” Camp hung up and pocketed his phone. “The cops will be here in ten minutes.”

“Good.” 

Vincent believed he’d be able to avoid a burglary charge, so the worst that could happen to him was that he’d be convicted of criminal trespass, which was a misdemeanor. Since he was carrying a pistol, he could be punished by a fine of up to four thousand dollars or confinement in jail for up to a year or both. Vincent fully expected to get off with a fine and no jail time. He might lose his private investigator’s license, but that didn’t worry him much at the moment.

“This is a nice gun,” Camp said.

“You want to keep it?”

If Annie wasn’t in this house, then where was she? Was she in some cabin in the woods? Was she dead?

“No. What I want is for you to go to jail.”

Did Camp realize he might tell the police that Camp had kidnapped Annie?

Perhaps Camp didn’t think he was looking for Annie.

Or maybe Camp was sure that he had gotten rid of all incriminating evidence and therefore wasn’t afraid to attract the attention of the police.

Did he forget the saying: “You can’t be too careful”?

Maybe Camp really had nothing to do with Annie’s kidnapping?

“I’d let you go if you told me who sent you here and why.” Camp looked at his watch. “You’ve got about eight minutes to start talking, bro.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Do you work for a gang?”

“No.”

Camp tapped his foot a few times, and said, “Show me your business card.”

“The cards are in the inner pocket of my jacket.”

Camp stood up, picked up Vincent’s suit coat, then fumbled in its inner pocket and brought out a business card. Examining the card, he said, “So you’d rather go to jail, huh?”

“This is not about you. You have nothing to worry about.”

Camp slipped the business card into his pocket and said, “Tell me who sent you, Vincent. I won’t tell anyone, I give you my word. I can keep secrets very well.”

“My employers are not after you, Michael.”

“Who are they after?”

Vincent looked at his watch. The cops should be here in about five minutes.

When seconds count, the police are minutes away.

Vincent pressed his lips together to suppress a smile.

“I’d rather go to jail,” he said.

“Why can’t you tell me who your employers are? Are they going to kill you if you do?”

“No.”

“Are they going to beat you up?”

“No. They’ll sue me. They have very good lawyers.”

“Sue you?” Camp began to drum his fingers on his left knee.

A long silence followed. Vincent started to wonder if Camp was having second thoughts about turning him over to the police.

“Get up,” Camp said at last.

Vincent rose to his feet. With the Glock pointed at Vincent, Camp opened the door, backed out of the room into the hallway, and said, “Go to the front door. Slowly.”

Was Camp taking him to the shed? Had Camp decided to kill him?

When they were in the living room, Vincent asked, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see. Would you like to tell me who sent you? It’s your last chance, Vincent. You don’t have much time left, you know.”

Vincent stopped at the front door. “I’ll tell you who sent me if my clients give me permission. Can you wait till tomorrow?”

“No, I can’t. Open the door and step outside. Don’t try to run.”

Vincent went out onto the porch and looked at his watch. The police were going to come any minute now.

Maybe Camp wanted to lock him up in a cellar in the shed?

“Now go to the car,” Camp commanded.

“Which car?”

“Yours.”

Camp wouldn’t kill him in broad daylight, would he? The guy couldn’t be
that
crazy.

Actually, he doesn’t seem crazy at all.

Vincent walked up to his Ford and turned to Camp.

“Get in the car,” Camp said.

Vincent opened the driver’s door and climbed behind the wheel.

“What now?” Vincent asked. He saw that Camp’s hands were empty and that his Glock was in the pocket of Camp’s shorts now.

Was Camp letting him go?

“Are you letting me go?” Vincent asked.

“Can you tell me who sent you and why?”

This must be a goodwill gesture on Camp’s part. Camp probably hoped he would be more cooperative if his life wasn’t in danger.

That was not the behavior of a psychopathic child abductor, was it?

“I’ll tell you what I was looking for in your house.” Vincent stuck the key in the ignition. Camp didn’t react in any way to this move.

“What is it?”

“I was looking for Annie Miller.”

Vincent was fighting the urge to start the engine and floor the gas pedal. He was sure he could get the car moving before Camp was able to fire a shot.

“Who’s that?”

“It’s David Miller’s daughter. She’s five years old.”

Vincent held his right hand three inches from the ignition key, ready to start the car at the first sign of danger.

“Why were you looking for her in this house?”

Vincent hesitated, then said, “I thought you kidnapped her.”

Camp didn’t reach for the gun.

“You thought I kidnapped this girl?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t kidnap anyone.” Camp scowled. “Why did you think I kidnapped this girl?”

“Because her father put you in prison.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sure you remember that David Miller was the prosecutor in your case.”

Camp looked at the Camaro that had just rushed past them in the oncoming lane, and then said, still making no move to draw the gun, “Yes, I remember that.”

Vincent glanced down the road in both directions. No police cars. What was taking the cops so long?

“Are you mad at him?”

“No.”

“You don’t want to punish him for putting you in prison?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then why did you search for David Miller’s address on the Internet?”

Camp raised an eyebrow. “How do you know I searched for David Miller’s address? Have you been in my house in Houston?”

“Yes.” Vincent chose to lie to save time. “So what did you need his address for?”

“The last time I checked it wasn’t illegal to search for other people’s addresses.”

“Did you want to pay him a visit?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“You were innocent. You spent six years in prison for a crime you didn’t commit, and you’re not mad at David?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were.” Vincent meant it.

“I’m not mad at him, okay?”

“Why did you move to Texas?”

“My dad lived here. He found me a job. This house belonged to him. You probably know that, too.”

Vincent looked at his watch and said, “The cops here are pretty slow, aren’t they?”

“The cops? They’re not coming. I didn’t call 911.”

“You didn’t? You tricky bastard.” Vincent smiled. “So what did you need David Miller’s address for?”

“I was curious.”

Vincent flicked the keys hanging from the ignition. “I’m sorry about breaking into your house.”

Camp was not the kidnapper, Vincent was convinced of it.

One down, two hundred and twenty-three to go.

“When was she kidnapped?” Camp asked.

“In early May.”

Camp shifted from one foot to the other and said, “This past February some guy called me and asked if I’d ever thought of getting even with the prosecutor.”

“What’s his name?”

“He said his name was Ted. I don’t know if it’s the guy that kidnapped Annie or not. But I think it could be him.”

“Did he ask you to meet him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you meet him?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to look for trouble.”

“But you looked up David’s address.”

“I told you I was curious. Do you work for David Miller? I guess he doesn’t trust the police to find his daughter.”

“Did that man call your cell or your home phone?”

“My home phone.”

“What was your number then? The number you have now?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember the exact date of the call?”

“No. I think it was before the fifth of February.”

“What time did he call?”

“Sometime between seven and ten pm.”

“Did he call you again?”

“No.”

“Did he have an accent?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Michael.” Vincent started the engine.

“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you on the spot.”

“Yeah. Why didn’t you shoot me on the spot?”

“I wasn’t in the killing mood.”

“Can I have my gun back?”

“No. I’m keeping it. Report it lost, and don’t mention my name, okay?”

“All right.”

“When you see David, tell him he was wrong. Tell him I was innocent. If I’d had a better lawyer, I wouldn’t have gone to prison.” Camp shifted his gaze toward his house. “That’s what pisses me off. It’s not about the truth, it’s about who can play this fucking game better.”

“That’s how it’s always been. In every damn corner of this world.”

Camp nodded. “Well, see you later, Vincent.” He held out his hand, and Vincent shook it.

“Take it easy.”

Vincent turned the car around and drove off. Only when he was a mile away from Camp’s house did he realize that he had forgotten to retrieve his suit coat, which he had last seen on the bedroom floor. He decided to let Camp keep the coat.

6

Suppose it was the kidnapper who had called Michael Camp last February. Why had he done it? Had he wanted to join forces with Camp?

When Vincent returned to the hotel, he called Paul Sibert and asked if Paul could help him get a log of Michael Camp’s incoming calls from February 1 to February 5. Paul promised to see what he could do.

Then Vincent told Jerry Aversten that he didn’t need Camp’s email password anymore.

On Friday afternoon Vincent received an email from Sibert saying that he had been able to obtain the log of Michael Camp’s incoming calls. The log was attached to the message. Vincent opened it and saw that Camp had received only two calls on his home phone in the first five days of February. The first call had come on February 2 at 8:11 am and the second on February 3 at 7:52 pm. Since the February 3 call was the only one received between seven and ten pm, Vincent figured it was the call Camp had told him about.