Gone(13)

Silas reached the bottom and gave him a look.

Downstairs was an office, a laundry room, a family room. An evidence tech was dusting the TV, which had been turned off. Aside from the office, the floors were concrete. Rondeau looked over the framed pictures in the office. One showed the entire family in the sun. Not a beach resort, though — pine trees in the background — it could’ve been taken on this very property. The kids were adorable. Healthy-looking baby boy, pink cheeks, in his mother’s arms. The girl was by her father, her hair in pig-tails.

Other photographs showed Kemp with people Rondeau didn’t recognize. He took out his phone and started snapping shots. “We’ve got all that,” Silas said. He took another pic, despite her. He wanted to know who these people were. Like this guy, here, weighing in at probably three hundred pounds and wearing overalls. Kemp had his arm around the farmer, wearing a huge grin. Rondeau would bet this was from the cow documentary.

“Where’s all his stuff?” Rondeau glanced at the large oak desk. There were a few papers there, a mason jar of pens and pencils, a couple of balled-up used tissues, but no computer, no big screens, or whatever editors and filmmakers used. Just some square patches where the dust had yet to settle.

“That’s the million-dollar question,” Silas said. “Here.” She held out a smaller, 4x6 photo. “Pulled this from the shelves over there.”

It was a candid shot, one taken by the wife, maybe, Kemp sitting at his desk, turned halfway around, that same big grin. The man had large ears. A bit of a funny hair cut the way it was all crazy like that. But boy, did he look content. And behind him at the desk, there were the screens Rondeau had pictured. Two of them side by side, along with a laptop, a computer tower, extra hard drives, and a camera.

He kicked at something on the floor while studying the picture. A cable, not connected to anything.

“Well,” he said, “whatever happened, whoever had a hand in it, they took all his gear. So much for the court order to have a peek at Hutchie’s stuff.”

“Hutchie?” Silas cocked an eyebrow.

“What his sister calls him.” Rondeau stood back and crossed his arms. “And you haven’t found anything else, equipment-wise?”

She shook her head. “Not a single device. I agree, everything looks like this family left in a big hurry. Or they were taken. But not a phone or tablet was left behind.”

He nodded, his interest piqued. What did Hutchinson Kemp have that was so important? Maybe his sister had some of his stuff. A sample, a video, something.





CHAPTER NINE / Hiding in the Shadows

Addison Kemp was scheduled to complete blood and DNA samples in the morning, and to have her phone calls and emails analyzed — all correspondence with Hutchinson pored over by CSI. She had gotten a room at a local motel.

He met her at the Boars Head Inn, the one restaurant in Hazleton. She was drinking a beer at the bar, and she’d changed out of jeans into a pair of slacks, opting for a white blouse that resembled a tuxedo shirt. In fact, as he came up closer upon her, that’s exactly what it was. A man’s tuxedo shirt.

She took her leather jacket from the back of the stool and they let the hostess lead them to a table. Rondeau was ravenous. He hadn’t eaten all day. They discussed the weather and the mountains and things people did in the Adirondacks if they weren’t looking for missing families. And then as the food was delivered, the talk came around to the search.

“We’ve established an Incident Command at the Public Safety Center. If we need to widen out, we’ll move over to the civic center, plenty of space there,” he assured her.

“How does it work?”

“Search parties go out, form bump lines, use GPS; they scour miles of woods. Deputies go door to door with photos of the m . . . of your family. Troopers assist, and paper the areas outside the county. Websites are up, and your family is listed in a bunch of databases. By tomorrow morning, everyone with a badge from here to Florida and California will know that they’re missing.”

“And when do you go to the press?” She had ordered another beer and drank it down pretty quick. She knifed into her eggplant dish for the first time. Rondeau was already halfway done with his steak, chewing while he talked, manners be damned. She didn’t seem to mind.

“Soon. Typically, there are a few days from the start of the investigation before we provide public information. We can’t control what leaks — usually the conference is more to clarify things as it is to put out the word.”

“And to congratulate all the law enforcement and volunteers.”

He raised his eyebrows at her.

“I’ve seen some missing persons’ press conferences,” she said. “Lots of congratulating.”

It seemed a challenging remark. He set down his cutlery and decided how to best respond.

“You’ve seen a lot of missing persons’ press conferences?”

“I was, you know, online all afternoon. Looking around.”

“Then you know it’s a monumental effort. Working round the clock, lots of people involved.” Sometimes, he thought, too many. FBI, District Attorneys, press — everybody eager to get in on things. Rondeau liked simplicity. Good old-fashioned investigation.

“Where’s your experience coming from?” she asked. “You handled missing persons’ cases before?”