Abandoned: A Thriller Read online

  “Was she ever declared dead?” James asks.

  Callie flips through the folder pages. She finds nothing in the first or second folder, then stops near the end of the third. “There’s a note, newer than the rest. From a year ago. The husband had her legally declared dead seven years after her disappearance. And get this: He collected on the life insurance just two months ago. Seven hundred thousand dollars plus.”

  “And then she reappears?” I say. “Some coincidence.”

  It’s not, of course. I walk over to the board and write: Wife held until life insurance payout/then reappears. I circle it. Twice.

  “Did the husband get remarried?” I ask.

  “Yes indeedy,” Callie says, smiling a shark smile. “To she of hotel-room-photo fame. Three years after his wife went missing.”

  Husband marries mistress, I write, then: PATIENT in big block letters. I circle it two times as well.

  “He did it,” I say, “or he’s in collusion with whoever did.”

  “Amen to that,” Alan says.

  Follow the line of inquiry, the note had said. That’s starting to make sense.

  “James, Callie, I want you to go through these files with a fine tooth comb. Put together a detailed timeline and a database of all the relevant information. I’m looking for something that will give us the basis for a new warrant.”

  “This is so much better than Bora-Bora,” Callie mutters.

  “Alan, you and I are going to go and see Douglas Hollister. Somehow I don’t think the reappearance of Heather was a part of his plans. Let’s drop that bomb on him and see how high he jumps.”

  “Good idea.”

  My cell phone rings. “Barrett.”

  “Smoky.” It’s AD Jones. “I need you to come up to my office. Pronto.”

  “Yes, sir.” I hang up. “Okay,” I say, “who has answers for me about the whole strike-team scenario? Alan, you and I have already talked. James?”

  He scowls at me. “Were you deaf last night? I already said: The reasoning is sound, and whatever you decide is fine with me.” He goes back to the file he’d already begun to dig through.

  I mime a neck-wringing gesture in his general direction. “Callie?”

  “I talked to my new husband. After softening him up with my—”

  “Hey!” Alan warns.

  “—cooking,” Callie says, batting her eyelashes at him. “Why, what did you think I was going to say? Anyhoo, we both agreed, I’m in at the beginning. If it comes to moving to Quantico, we’ll have to reevaluate.” She tilts her head and eyes me with speculation. “What have you decided?”

  “I don’t know. Thanks, though. All of you.”

  “As if we’d leave you to flounder on your own,” Callie chides. “You should know better than that.”

  “Well, thanks.” I turn and head to the door leading out of the office.

  “Cooking?” I hear Alan say. “My ass.”

  “Actually,” Callie purrs, “it was my ass that was cooking, honey-love.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Sit down,” AD Jones tells me.

  He’s already seated. It’s the same battered leather chair he’s had since I’ve known him. It matches the man. If forced to come up with a single word to describe my boss, it would be workhorse. He lives to do what he does, to plow the fields. He doesn’t do it for the glory. He does it for the pleasure of a well-placed furrow.

  “I thought I had forty-eight hours, sir,” I say, once seated.

  He waves his hand. “I wanted to talk to you myself. Without the director here. Sorry to blindside you like that, by the way.”

  “I figured you were probably as surprised as I was, sir.”

  He bobs his head. “I was. The director showed up, serious-faced and sans entourage, aside from that grim reaper he calls an assistant.” He hesitates. “I put the screws to him on this, Smoky. I wanted to make sure it was on the up and up and not just a political power play on his part.”

  “And?”

  “At his position, everything is political to some degree. But I’m convinced his motives are what he said they were. He wants to preserve what we can of the NCAVC network. You can take it relatively at face value.”

  “Okay.”

  “The reason I wanted to see you, though, is to give you a little primer. Some schooling. If you decide to take him up on his offer, and I think you probably should, he’ll be running you personally. There will be things about that that are good, and there will be things that are bad. Then there’ll be things that you’ll need to watch out for.”

  “Let’s start with the good, sir.”

  He grins. The AD has always had a great smile; it takes at least ten years off his face. “Well, no one’s going to want to fuck with you. The resources of the FBI will be open to you. The director is going to have a vested interest in the success of the team, and I can guarantee you that everyone will know that ahead of time. Expect red-carpet treatment and a better budget than you’re used to.”

  “Sounds pretty good so far.”

  “You’ll have a lot more altitude in general. That pays dividends in many ways. Power is power. Which leads us into the bad.”

  “I was really enjoying the good, but okay.”

  “Power and position bring envy. There will be people who resent you and your team being given what they’ll view as a plum assignment. They’ll be rooting for your failure and watching you very closely. Misstep, and I can guarantee you that someone will be there to report it. On the darker side, you should watch out for actual sabotage of your efforts. I’m not talking about big, destructive stuff. Think death by a thousand cuts. Little fuckups or bumps in the road of coordination that are designed to make you look bad.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You’ve been lucky enough to work in a good environment, with a good team and a good boss. You haven’t had to deal with enemies on the job. That’s going to change, and if you don’t accept it and watch out for it, you’ll get eaten up.”

  I sit back and consider this. It’s a lot to take in, but I know better than to doubt the AD. He’s rarely, if ever, given me bad advice.

  “What else?” I ask.

  “The director might be the most ruthless man I’ve ever met. He’s a political animal, but I can tolerate him because he’s a cop too. He knows the reality of what we do, and I admire what he’s trying to put together here. But you need to remember one thing, Smoky. If it ever comes down to a him-or-you proposition, he’ll give you up in a heart beat. Gunshots at dawn and no cigarette.” He leans back. “Which is why you need to keep an eye on him and put aside a little leverage if you can find it.”

  “Leverage? You mean blackmail.”

  “No, I mean leverage. This is the FBI, Smoky. We don’t blackmail anyone.” He winks at me. “Let’s just say, if you’re lucky enough to witness the director bending the rules or cutting corners, however frivolously, it’s my opinion you should document it and stick it in a floor safe somewhere.”

  I stare at him. “Jesus, sir. What kind of world do you live in?”

  He sighs, rubs his face with both hands. “Not all sociopaths are serial killers. Some of them are politicians and administrators. Granted, the director doesn’t fall into that category, but there are plenty at that level who do.”

  From a purely psychological standpoint, it makes sense. Narcissists are drawn to positions of power and prestige.

  I venture a smile. “Appreciate the reassurance, sir.”

  The youth-creating grin returns. “You’ll be fine. You’re tough enough, smart enough. I never expected you’d work under me forever. You’re overdue to move on up.”

  “Well, I haven’t decided yet, sir.”

  He squints at me. “Save the bullshit for those who don’t know better.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He extracts a hundred-dollar bill. “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks you take the position. If you don’t, I pay up.”

  I glance down at the bill h
eld out in offering. I look away. “No thanks,” I mumble.

  He cups a hand to his ear. “Sorry? What’s that?”

  “Give me a break, sir.”

  He puts the bill away and returns the wallet to his back pocket.

  “Last thing, and then on to current business.” There’s a change in his demeanor, a slight softening that’s rare to see in this man. AD Jones is an old-school guy, strong and silent, share your feelings with the mirror, hide them from everyone else. “If you ever need anything—advice, someone to talk to—come and find me.”

  “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”

  “Of course, when the time comes, you’ll have to stop calling me ‘sir’ and start using my first name.”

  “That’s a tough one.”

  “Start practicing. Now, bring me up to speed on the woman who crashed Callie’s wedding.”

  I tell him everything. He’s silent throughout, as he usually is, listening to the whole story before asking questions of his own.

  “You haven’t told anyone yet who she is?”

  “No, sir. Alan and I are planning to go and drop the bomb on the husband this afternoon.”

  “Negative. You go and brief this detective—what’s his name?”

  “Burns.”

  “See him first. He has personal connections to both your victim and your suspect. He might be able to help you get both of them talking.”

  It’s good advice. “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep me in the loop. And let me know when you’re ready to give the director your decision.”

  Back in the office, Callie and James are buried in the files. James is on the computer while Callie dictates a timeline to him.

  “Ready to go?” Alan asks me.

  “Change of plans.” I explain.

  He nods his approval. “The AD’s right. It makes sense.”

  “Yes. But I’d prefer to meet him outside the precinct. I want to keep this under the radar. Heather’s ordeal is going to be a huge story, and the last thing she needs right now is a pack of media wolves baying at her hospital-room door.”

  “True. I’ll get him on the phone. Maybe we can meet him for waffles.”

  Alan’s love of waffles is as pure and constant as Callie’s love of miniature chocolate donuts.

  As he makes the call, I walk over to the whiteboard and ponder the facts we know. Heather Hollister has lost everything. Eight years have passed. Her husband is remarried; her sons are three years away from being teenagers. The world has changed. When she was abducted, September 11 had not yet happened. We were not at war in Iraq. There were no hybrid vehicles on the road. Most people still accessed the Internet via dial-up.

  Which would I prefer, I wonder? Eight years trapped in darkness and coming out to find Matt remarried and Alexa in college? Or what I have now?

  I shift from one foot to the other, uncomfortable that my answer is not immediate. If I am a selfless mother, shouldn’t I wish Alexa alive under any circumstances?

  Her face comes to me, the morning of the day she died. It was at breakfast. She was eating her cornflakes. Matt had woken up late and was still in the shower.

  “Daddy’s lazy this morning,” she said.

  “Late’s not the same as lazy, honey. And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  A mischievous look passed over her face, and she suddenly grinned, so that streams of milk and bits of cornflakes ran from the corners of her mouth. “Garrrr!” she cried.

  “Gross!” I said, laughing in spite of myself.

  She got the giggles, resulting in milk coming out of her nose, resulting in howls of laughter. We were still snorting by the time Matt got downstairs.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, bemused.

  “Nothing,” I said. “We were just talking about how lazy you are.”

  “Laaaaaaaaaazy Daddy,” Alexa said, giggling some more.

  Pragmatism had taken over not long after that. Matt and I needed to get to work; Alexa needed to get to school. A day like any other. But I like to think I would have remembered that morning, whether it was the last one we all shared or not. It was a good memory, whatever the context of time.

  Alan puts down the phone. “He’s going to meet us at the IHOP in Hollywood in an hour. Best waffles so far, there.”

  I follow him out, glancing one final time at the whiteboard.

  Yes, I think, happy to find certainty in my answer. I’d take eight years of isolation if it meant Alexa was still alive. I really would.

  I can only hope that Heather Hollister will find a similar comfort.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “She’s really alive?”

  Daryl Burns is sixty years old and looks every minute of it. He’s got short, thinning white hair and a jowly, hound-dog face, which is pockmarked with acne scars. Nature dealt him a sloppy look; he’s countered by being a neat, impeccable dresser. The suit is off-the-rack quality—no surprise on a detective’s salary—but he’s obviously had it tailored. His shirt is pressed and his shoes are shined. He’s about five-nine and has kept himself in shape. I look for a wedding ring. The finger is bare.

  “We ran her fingerprints, Detective,” I reassure him. “It’s her.”

  He leans back against the booth seat and runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus,” he says. He takes a sip from his coffee. We’d both declined the waffles, but Alan got a stack of four and is downing them while he watches Burns.

  “I have to warn you. She’s not in good shape. It’s one of the things we could use your help with.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her experience has left her in a psychotic episode. She’s awake, but she’s uncommunicative and we’re not really sure if she’s aware of her environment. Agent Washington and I tried to talk to her but got nowhere. You have a personal connection.”

  His eyes sharpen. “Why me? Why not the ex-husband?”

  “Like you, we think the husband was involved. The fact that she’s appeared just two months after he collected on her life insurance can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It’s not. He did it or he had it done. That’s one thing I’ve been certain of from day one.” It’s said in a flat tone, a statement of fact.

  “We’re going to go scare the shit out of him shortly,” Alan says after swallowing a mouthful of syrup-soaked waffles.

  Burns’s grin is unpleasant. “I’d love to see that.”

  “Come along, then,” I say. “But I’d like to keep things quiet for now.”

  “I can agree with that. Heather doesn’t need any cameras in her face.”

  Alan pushes away his now-empty plate somewhat wistfully. “I worked in LAPD,” he says to Burns. “Ten years.” Burns nods. “I heard of you. Good things.”

  “I’d like to take the lead on questioning Douglas Hollister, if that’s okay with you.”

  We don’t really have to include the LAPD at this point. AD Jones had agreed with my original assessment—Heather was basically an unsolved kidnapping, and the fact that she’d been brought to Callie’s wedding was an arguable threat to FBI personnel—but from the beginning, my team has always taken a cooperative stance with local law enforcement.

  “Appreciate you asking. As long as I get to watch him sweat, I’m happy.”

  This dance aside, Alan dabs his lips with a napkin, crushes it into a ball, and tosses it onto his empty plate. “What can you tell us about everything?”

  Burns laughs. “Everything?”

  “You’ve known her and her family since she was twelve,” I say. “You were the lead in the investigation when she was abducted at the age of thirty-six. You probably have the longest continual relationship with her of anyone besides her mother.”

  “Including her mother, actually. She died three years ago.”

  One more thing she’s lost forever.

  “Point is,” Alan continues for me, “we don’t know what’s going to end up being important. We take everything we can get and sort out the good from the bad
.”

  “I understand.” Burns takes a sip from his coffee. His gaze is fixed on something from the past. “I met Heather when she was twelve. I was twenty-eight at the time. I’d been in homicide for two years, on the force for eight.”

  “Quick rise,” Alan observes.

  “I had a hook,” Burns agrees. “My father was a cop. His ex-partner headed up robbery-homicide.” Another sip of coffee. “The thing I remember is how different she was from her mother. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but the mom was always weak. It was just one of those things you could tell, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not Heather, though. She was strong. She was grieving, but she was also angry. Got in my face from the get-go. Didn’t want to know if I was going to get the guy who shot her father, but when. Asked for my card and my number and told me she’d be calling regularly—which she did.”

  “What did you tell her when she called?” Alan asked.

  He sighs. “A whole lotta nothing. We didn’t have anything to go on. Her dad owned the store and was working alone. No witnesses. It was a robbery gone wrong, probably by a jumpy amateur, so I was hopeful. Someone comes in to steal a few bucks and ends up committing murder, they’re going to feel guilty. But nothing ever came of it. None of the local skells or my usual informants knew anything. Not word one.”

  “Unusual,” Alan says.

  “Yeah. Made me think maybe it was someone from out of town, passing through. Regardless, I never gave up, but I never got anywhere either. One day, about two years later, Heather calls me. She asks if we can meet. I say sure. I have her come to the station and then I take her for a Pink’s hot dog. She’d never been there. I thought if I wasn’t going to give her good news, I could at least give her a legendary hot dog at a famous location.”

  Pink’s is an LA institution. It’s a slice of history. Paul Pink set up a hot-dog stand—a large-wheel pushcart—in 1939, at the corner of La Brea and Melrose. Back then, that location was considered to be “in the country.” In 1946 he constructed a small building on the same spot where the hot-dog stand had stood, and it’s still there today. The walls inside are covered with photos of all the movie stars and other famous people who’ve come there over the years.