Gone(27)

Rondeau waited for the voice to resume. After a few seconds, he took the phone from his ear and glanced at the screen. The call had ended.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. His heart was really slamming. He held the phone out in front of him like it was contaminated. He was still staring at it, thinking, when Mindy reached him.

“Detective? Something I can—”

He held up both hands, one holding the phone. “Stop,” he said. His thoughts were running in several directions. One of those routes challenged him not to involve anyone else at this point. Keep it contained. “Sorry,” he said, and dropped his arms. He tried to put on a warm smile. “My mistake, Mindy.”

“It’s Cindy.”

She folded her arms in front of her, purse dangling from her wrist.

“Cindy, right, of course. False alarm.”

She continued to stand there and frown.

If you do not comply with these instructions, we will be forced to retaliate.

Who talked like that? Or, moreover, who programmed a computer to talk like that? It was an odd form of military talk, or some kind of terror group. He needed a forensic linguist, maybe. If only he’d been fast enough to record the incoming call.

He stared at the phone.

Destroy all forensic evidence.

Was it a bluff? A hardball overture for hostage negotiations?

Maybe, but it sounded like the kidnappers didn’t want to negotiate anything. It wasn’t a profit crime, or a crime to achieve political aims. A message like that sounded more like murder. Like the Kemps were gone.

Then why would they communicate? Was he close to discovering something? He had to be.

Mindy — or, Cindy, rather — turned and walked back towards the office, shaking her head as she went.

Rondeau stayed grafted to the spot. Hutchinson Kemp’s editing gear had been taken — when the TV and other valuables remained — that was obviously something. It indicated that what Kemp was working on had a definite role to play. Either his current film, Nothing Disappears, or the last one, Citizen Farmer.

One thing was certain, the message confirmed foul play. And that the perpetrators were at least sophisticated enough to place a phone call to the lead detective via computer. Any attempt to determine the call’s origin would likely find its route bounced all over the internet, untraceable.

Why reveal their sophistication? Why not let the cops chase their tails for a few days, maybe even weeks, let the case grow cold? It hadn’t even been designated a high risk disappearance yet.

It would be now.

You have twenty-four hours.

There was nothing in the handbook for this. Nothing in the pages of the Best Practices Protocol that touched on the subject of Perpetrators Place Computer-Generated, Highly Threatening Phone Call. This wasn’t in any playbook, really, anywhere, for a detective with the local Sheriff’s Department. This was federal territory.

Rondeau suddenly headed toward his truck, parked at the far end of the lot. He slipped his phone into his pocket. He was very aware of it there, the weight bouncing against his chest with his quick steps, like it was now a live explosive, ticking off a countdown.

He didn’t trust Ninth Street. And it wasn’t just his brother in-law, prattling on about government corruption and end times — but because he’d seen some things first-hand. Things he hadn’t shared with anyone, lest he be tossed into the same crackpot category as his late sister’s husband. Things that led to catching a couple of bullets in his midsection and shoulder, if you wanted to get right to the meat of it.

That was hard to slough off. Harder when the threat clearly indicated that ramping up the investigation from here would only result in . . .

Retaliation.

Whatever that meant.

Rondeau walked faster, the problem circling in his mind. Maybe he didn’t know what to do about it just yet, but his gut was informing him on a few moves. And he trusted his gut. His gut had scar tissue, and scar tissue was tougher than regular tissue. Millard had taught him that.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN / Conspiracies

“Here are some facts for you today,” Millard said, riding shotgun. Rondeau sped through the countryside. He had an idea where he wanted to stash his brother-in-law for a few hours. He’d picked him up from the house. He couldn’t leave him alone now, not the way he’d been behaving lately, not after the threatening phone call.

He’d tried Connie Leifson twice, but she either wasn’t back from her trip yet, or just not answering. He would do the next best thing: go to her parents. Millard would be near the Kemp home where Rondeau planned to do some more exploring. CSI had gone over most everything by now, with their lights and dustings and potions, and he could be alone.

“Not now, Millard.”

The big man stunk of being in bed half the day — body odor and bad breath. Rondeau cracked both front windows and cranked up the heat. The wind thundered through the gaps.

“This year,” Millard carried on regardless, “the US Government will appropriate over a hundred and fifty billion dollars into the ‘black budget.’ The Pentagon has misplaced trillions of dollars, you know. And bank fraud, like the mortgage fraud of 2008? Cost taxpayers hundreds of billions. But people complain about welfare.”

Rondeau was trying to think, and Millard was irritating him more than usual. Debating with the man was pointless and he usually avoided it. But they had five miles before they got to the Leifsons. It may not have been the best idea, it may have been taking advantage, but he felt he had no other choice at the moment. He needed to stash Millard. He needed an hour — just one free hour — to think, focus, and decide how to respond to the call.