Wrecked (Josie Gray Mysteries #3)(46)
Otto also found notes that Dillon had typed in response to his first meeting with Beckwith over a year ago. Unbelievably young, wealthy, and arrogant. Must be constantly stroked. Discuss his home—2 million. Youngest millionaire in Houston. Calls himself the most hated millionaire in Houston. Proud of it. From what Otto could tell, Dillon apparently completed this standard report after every client meeting. He figured that Dillon reviewed the notes before every subsequent meeting in order to appear tuned in to the client’s specific needs.
Otto’s office phone buzzed. “Agent Haskins is on line one for you,” Lou said.
Otto thanked her and picked up line one. “This is Otto. Can I help you?”
“Yes, sir, this is Agent Haskins calling with an update on the Reese kidnapping. Any contact from the kidnappers today?”
“No, sir. Five o’clock is the deadline. She’s not heard anything today.”
“The cell phone is monitored. We should get a ping off a cell tower to at least confirm the general location of where the message is coming from. If it’s the same location as Mr. Reese’s iPhone location when that text was sent, it should narrow down even more.”
“I didn’t realize you’d picked up his phone,” Otto said. “What’s the location?”
“I’ll ask you to keep this within your department.”
“Of course.”
“We picked up a GPS signal in Piedra Labrada, but since then the signal disappeared. I’m sure they’ve destroyed the phone at this point.”
Otto sighed, discouraged to hear confirmation that Dillon was being held in Mexico. He could only hope that they wouldn’t take him farther south of the border region.
*
Still sitting across from each other at Josie’s kitchen table, at 5:30 P.M. they received contact. She picked the phone up and looked up at Nick. He nodded and she opened it to find two messages.
The first text read, You don’t follow directions. See what happens to your friend.
She then opened the second text, which said, Check your e-mail.
She passed the phone to Nick, who said nothing as he reached out and slid Josie’s laptop in front of him. He clicked on the e-mail icon and opened the attached video clip. Josie watched Nick’s face, which was calm and expressionless. From across the table she couldn’t see the video. Nick had prepared her for several different scenarios, but she hadn’t been prepared to hear Dillon’s voice.
“Why didn’t you send money? They’re going to kill me. Don’t you love me? I’m wrecked unless you do something.” And then came the horrifying scream. Josie gripped the seat of her chair and listened until the clip stopped, her heart pounding in her chest.
Nick looked up at her, reached across the table, and squeezed her hand. “Just what I said. A knife wound. They’ll stitch him up, put some antibiotic on it. He’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
She nodded and gritted her teeth, unable to speak.
“This was strictly for you. To set the parameters, let you know they mean what they say. Got it?”
“Can I?” She hesitantly nodded toward the laptop.
“You don’t need to see this. Not yet.”
Chester suddenly began barking in the living room.
They both stood and Josie stepped into the pantry to pull her firearm from her gun belt. Nick put a hand up for her to follow him. She bristled at the idea of following someone else’s lead through her own home but complied. As they walked into the living room she saw the tail end of a white cargo van parked outside.
She whispered to Nick, “There was a white van that a witness described in the neighborhood where we believe Dillon was abducted. But I also have a security team coming from Stinson Security to set up the house with an alarm system. The company sent me a text to confirm installation and said the installer would be Becka Houser.”
Nick approached the door and looked out the sidelight window. “The side of the van says Stinson.” He put his left arm out to the side and motioned her back behind him.
Josie bent down and pulled Chester against her to get him to quit barking. The woman approached the door and Nick yelled, “Place your company ID and your driver’s license up against the window so I can see them.”
The woman did as instructed. Both IDs read Rebecka Houser.
Nick opened the door and Becka walked inside, nodding hello to both of them. She seemed calm, not at all surprised by the request for ID and the barking dog. She was a short, stout woman with a no-nonsense appearance, wearing cargo pants and a navy blue T-shirt with STINSON SECURITIES embroidered across the pocket, beige work boots, and a tool belt that clanked with gear every time she moved.
After introductions were made, and Josie explained the break-in and her fears about vulnerabilities in her home, they all walked around the perimeter of the house, poking around its windows and doors and locks and latches.
“You’re actually in a good place, wide open like this. The places we worry most about are tucked into woods with a thousand hiding places for someone to observe you unnoticed. You don’t have that here,” the woman said. Then she smiled. “I guess you know that, being a police officer.”
Josie tilted her head in return. “Everything feels a little off center when you’re talking about your own home.”
FOURTEEN