The year She Fell (58 page)

“Yeah, and boys are all so peaceful. Especially those who kidnap by force.” I was getting mad again. I’d never been any good at suppressing my emotions. I could hide them, but I couldn’t make them go away. And here this kid came to
my
town and made this mess and wasted all that money and officer time and endangered every last volunteer who went searching down those caves and in those hills— and he left me with this stupid PR problem, having to release a not-quite honest statement about the lost guy being found and returned to his family. Yeah, the local newspaper editor was the civic-minded type, and the last thing he wanted was anyone thinking that there was a dangerous felon loose in town, or something rotten in the family
Wakefield
, so he printed what I told him. But that felt like a sellout to me, a sellout to this family that wanted to keep its secrets.

But the alternative was worse, I supposed. It was a family matter, weirder than most, but no one ended up dead, and that was a better ending than most family matters in this county.
 
I gave it up.

Except . . .
 
Laura, my Laura, who trusted me with her body and spirit, didn’t trust me with those secrets.

“So we’re okay?” Laura’s voice was hopeful. Her face was luminescent in the golden late afternoon light.

“Sure. Case closed.”

“Can I stay tonight?”

I got up off the swing, and went to my front door. “I don’t think so, Laura. You go be with your family. That’s what’s important. Everything locked up tight. No tabloid’s going to be investigating the TV star’s family secrets, don’t need to worry about that. No headlines about your man-trading sisters. No research into your past, turning up that teenaged marriage, right?”

She was regarding me warily, but reached out her hand as if to draw me back. “Jack, let’s—”

“No need. You got what you wanted from me the other night, and you got what you wanted today. I think our case is closed too.”

I walked into the house, closed the door behind me, went to the kitchen and poured myself a shot of JB. Listened hard. The window was open, and I could hear the porch swing creak, and then a car door slam. She’d given up. Good.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

When I got to the station the next morning, my secretary Sheri rolled her eyes and mouthed,
Trouble
. In a normal tone, she said, “Mrs. Wakefield is waiting for you.” She inclined her head to the little waiting room off the lobby, outfitted with cable TV and Kleenex boxes, as it was used mostly by those waiting for their husbands or sons to be released from the drunk tank.

Ho-kay. I didn’t waste any time speculating about what information she would demand I reveal or conceal in regard to her son-in-law’s abduction. I just called her into my office.

She was weighted down not just with the usual old-lady big handbag, but also a laptop case. I reined in my speculations again as she sat down, and just waited for her to speak.

Finally, once she’d gotten the laptop case arranged on her lap, she did. “Chief McCain. I was hoping you had the result of that DNA test.”

Hmm. Not what I expected. “Sure,” I said, getting up and locating the file in the cabinet. I didn’t bother with the caveat about how I shouldn’t be doing this for a private citizen, and all that. This was the town, after all, that let the previous police chief smuggle heroin for ten years. I figured I was okay spending $50 on a city-councilwoman’s vanity DNA research. “Not sure what you’re going to make of it, without another sample to match it to,” I said as I handed the VNTR sheet over.

“Thank you,” was all she said. She read through the text as if it made sense to her. Maybe it did. Even when she finished scanning it, though, she didn’t stand up.

She didn’t ask about her son-in-law. She’d been out of town, I recalled. “Have you been home yet, Mrs. Wakefield?”

She slid the report into the pocket of her laptop case. “No, not yet. I’ve just come back from a visit. Now can I show you something?”

“Sure,” I said, hoping it wasn’t more dental floss.

She pulled out her laptop, set it on the case, and booted it up. “I saw you on the news, that interview, when you spoke of Internet predators. I did some of my own research . . .” She rose and with an unexpected awkwardness, shuffled with the open laptop to my desk. She set it down on the edge then turned it around so I could see.

What I saw was an Instant Messenger dialogue box, the type I used to keep in touch with my daughter during the week, you know,
so how was school today; did you finish your math project; oh, dad, come on, that’s not due for a week.
I found myself unwillingly impressed that Mrs. Wakefield, of all people, would know about this technology.

The cursor was blinking beside the user name: justinfan222.

Mrs. Wakefield had resumed her seat, and was regarding me expectantly.

“Okay,” I said. “You did some research on Internet predators. And?”

“And I learned that they approach teenagers in chat rooms. And then they approach them using this Instant Message program.”

I told myself to be patient. She had a point. She must have a point. And even if she didn’t have a point, she would soon be out of my office and I could get back to my own Internet research— cheap last-minute flights to
New York
. “Yes, that’s one way they approach the kids.”

“So I got an account. Those technical support people are really quite helpful.”

I didn’t know what was going on, but I felt dread. “So what did you do with this account?”

“I went to some of those chat rooms. I pretended to be a teenage girl. Successfully. It is,” she added, “more a matter of poor punctuation than anything else.”

Dread spread. “So what happened?”

“As I expected. I was approached by a predator. He thought I was a fourteen-year-old girl. And he suggested that I meet him.”

I found myself struggling to keep up. “The problem is, Mrs. Wakefield, you’re not a fourteen-year-old girl.”

“He didn’t know that.”

“But—” But it’s not your job. But this is nuts. But—“What do you need from me?”

“Well, I need you to arrest him, of course.”

Right. “There might be jurisdiction problems.” I pulled my thoughts back together. “It might be a federal offense. More FBI than
Wakefield
PD.”

That’s what we always used to do, back at the Bristol PD, when the local schizophrenics would call and whisper that the mayor was trying to break into their bathroom or that space aliens were sliding probes through their dryer vent and stealing their underwear.
The mayor? Well, sir, that’s official corruption, and the state police handle that. Space aliens? Hey, Joe, aren’t space aliens counter-terrorism? Yeah? Okay, ma’am, that kind of complaint goes to the FBI. Here’s the number of the field office in
Knoxville
.
The fibbies just loved that.

“What if it’s a local man?”

So much for passing the buck. I wondered if she’d really snared a local guy, or if it was all feverish imagining. Why she’d be imagining Internet predators, I couldn’t say. “Is it?”

She just gazed back at me, like a suspect who knew her rights because she watched
Law and Order
.

I sighed. “I don’t know if it’s a crime if there’s no actual child involved. I’d have to check with the prosecutor about that.”

“The policewomen who pose as prostitutes aren’t really prostitutes either, and yet you can arrest the men that approach them.”

She was crazy, but she was sharp. I said, “Soliciting for prostitution is itself a crime. Maybe soliciting this way is a crime too—the prosecutor will know. Why don’t you email me the logs of your messages, and—”

“The logs?”

“You did keep a log of the messages back and forth?”

She pursed her lips. I took it that the answer was no. Maybe she didn’t get that far with the helpful technical support people.

“Okay. No log. Well, why don’t you give me his name, and I’ll see what—”

She rose and closed up the laptop. “I will provide you with logs.”

“Mrs. Wakefield, you know, the FBI has special agents who—”

“As I said, Chief McCain, I will get you those logs. Within the week.” She slid the laptop into the case and set it down on the chair. “What else do you need to start an investigation?”

I resisted the impulse to rub my aching forehead. “The name of your suspect, if you know it. His Instant Messenger ID. The chatroom you found him in—”

“Very well.” She gathered up her purse and left my office.

I thought of calling her back and explaining about the whole son-in-law abduction thing. But then I decided Laura and Ellen could do it themselves. Introduce her to her new grandson, all that.

I went back to work. That is, I called my first lieutenant and switched a few shifts with him, and went online to reserve a flight to La Guardia. Then I unbuckled my holster and locked it away in the safe in the wall. I was legally allowed to carry a gun on a flight, as long as I registered, but that would mean an hour or more of delay at each airport. Best leave it behind. Not like I meant to shoot anyone.

A quick trip to the training supply locker, and I was ready to go.

But as I was closing my office door, I noticed Mrs. Wakefield’s laptop case, still there in the armchair, the folder sticking out of the front pocket. I sighed and went to the phone.

Laura answered. It took me a moment to remember why I called. I did remember it wasn’t to beg for another chance. “Yeah. Look, Laura, your mother was just here. Tell her she left her laptop here.”

“She was there? At your house?”

“Office.”

“Why?”

I thought about disclaiming any understanding of it. But if Mrs. Wakefield was going senile, her daughters probably ought to know. “Look, she’s not really making any sense. She came in with some story about some Internet predator she’s trying to attract by pretending to be fourteen.”

Laura’s silence had that stunned quality. Finally she said, “You’re— no. You’re not kidding. Okay.”

“There’s something else weird. Few weeks ago, she wanted a DNA sample analyzed. She picked up the report today. Only she left it here with the laptop.”

In a whisper, Laura said, “Whose DNA?”

I had a sudden attack of discretion. “It’s just a report. No names.” I glanced at my watch. I had a long drive to the airport. “Look, I got to go. Just tell her my secretary will have the laptop.”

“Okay. Thanks. Jack, listen—”

“I’m on my way out. Talk to you later.”

I hung up, and headed out the door.

I’d done my research
at peoplemagazine.com and other star-chasing websites, and so I showed up at the Poison Club in
Soho
around
midnight
. The suspect was known to hang out there every evening after taping of his lousy inauthentic NYPD cop show. (Among other things, he keeps a machine gun and grenades in the trunk of his squad car. Right.)

A quick search of the block and I located his vehicle—a steel-gray Hummer sitting squarely and illegally in the dark alley behind the club. I walked along the driver’s side, using the floodlight over the club’s back door to see inside. The lock was the kind easily jimmied by someone who knew what he was doing. And I knew what I was doing. I pulled on a pair of light cotton gloves and popped open the driver’s door lock in about 20 seconds. When I retired from the police force, I’d have all the skills needed for another job.