Abandoned: A Thriller Read online

  Burns squints at Alan. “I heard rumors about you. You’re supposed to be some kind of ass-kicker when it comes to interrogation.”

  Alan shrugs. “It’s all just science, really. Body language, eye movements. Anyone can learn it.”

  “Anyone can play golf too,” Burns says, “but there’s only one Tiger Woods.”

  “Putting him on the defensive is good,” Alan says, “but our vocal tones need to be soothing. Body language, nonconfrontational. Like we’re coming to give him some bad news, not as if we think he’s any kind of a suspect.” He glances at Burns. “You think you can handle that?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll try to look contrite.”

  “Good. We get him to let us in. I’ll do all the talking. Let me sit closest to him. I need to be able to watch him when I tell him that his wife is alive. The most important reaction is the one he has right after I deliver the news.”

  We walk up to the door. It’s a simple gray concrete walkway. The driveway, I notice now, had been redone. Laid with brick or something like that. A number of the houses in my neighborhood have done something similar, but I hate the look. Paint your house, plant a tree, put in a beautiful garden. Driveways? They’re for getting your car from the garage to the street.

  “Let me knock,” Alan says.

  He raises a huge fist and pounds the door so hard it shocks me a little, and I was half expecting it. He waits a moment, winks at me and Burns, and then knocks again, practically bending the door inward.

  More time passes than I would have expected. I’m watching the front windows; no one’s pulled back a curtain to see who’s knocking. I have no sense of anyone staring through the peephole.

  Alan shrugs. “Nothing to do but knock again.”

  I brace myself as I see him getting ready to really lean into it. He hammers the door so hard I almost laugh out loud, except that none of this is funny.

  Alan lifts his fist again, but Burns holds his hand up. “Wait. You hear that?”

  I don’t hear anything, but maybe Burns has bat ears. Then I hear it. The soft swish swish sound of socks against a wood floor. We all straighten. The sound stops and the peephole darkens.

  “Yes?” It’s a man’s voice.

  Alan glances at me. We want to make him nervous, but later, after he’s let us into the house. A woman’s voice will be better for now.

  “Mr. Hollister?” I ask.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Special Agent Smoky Barrett, from the FBI. We need to talk to you, sir.”

  A long pause.

  “Sir?” I query.

  More silence. Then:

  “Hang on.”

  We hear the deadbolt turn. The door opens and Douglas Hollister stands before us. He has some gray in his hair now, and weight has settled into his face and around his middle, but not too much. If anything, he looks more fit than in the hotel photo. Perhaps, before today, he looked happier too.

  But not right now.

  Right now he reminds me of Al Pacino in Scarface. He looks like he just buried his head in a gigantic pile of pure cocaine and breathed deep. His eyes bounce from me to Alan to Burns, then back to me. There are bags under those eyes. He’s unshaven and, from the brief scent I catch, unbathed as well. I glance down and see something stranger: One of his feet is missing a sock.

  He smiles, but it’s a parody, something hideous, as though it had been commanded at gunpoint.

  “Can I help you?” he asks, his voice squeaking a little. He clears his throat, gives us the death’s head grimace again. “Sorry. Can I help you?” A little better this time, but he’s started to sweat. A line of small, fine beads has formed at the hairline.

  I show him my ID, as does Alan. “My partner, Alan Washington. And you know Detective Burns.”

  The slightest hint of a new emotion breaks through the barely suppressed terror. It shows only in his eyes, and only for a moment, but I catch it before it’s gone. Resentment, a brief petulance, the this is all your fault of a four-year-old child.

  “What’s this about?” he asks, turning his attention back to me.

  “We have some important news, sir. May we come in? I’d prefer if you were sitting down for this.”

  His eyes widen, and he wrings his hands. For some reason, it seems contrived. “Is it Dana? Did something happen to her?”

  I reassure him with my reassuring smile, well honed. “No, sir. Can we come in?”

  The nonthreatening and deferential manner of my approach seems to be working. He’s relaxed a little. He runs a hand through hair that’s probably needed to be washed for days. “Sure. Sorry. Of course.” He steps aside so we can enter, which we do. “I’m a little out of it. I’ve been ill and I was napping. I thought the pounding on the door was from a dream.”

  “Sorry about that, sir,” I say, giving him my “shrug” smile, the one that says, What can you do? “It’s a habit we develop. You see, if we knock hard enough and no one answers, we can assume they’re either hurt or dead or possibly drugged.” I’m making this up on the spot, but right now it’s all about feeding Alan’s observation machine. I know he’s watching every tic and eye movement Hollister makes.

  Hollister stares at me, taking in the idea of needing to learn to knock hard enough to determine if someone’s dead or just sleeping. “Wow,” he says.

  “Where can we talk, sir?” I ask, prodding him gently.

  “This way,” he says, turning and walking toward the back of the house.

  We follow, and I take in the surrounds. It’s a beautiful home in that SoCal way. Light-hardwood floors polished to a mirror sheen. Vaulted ceilings with no acoustic popcorn. Recessed lighting. A stairway with wood railing and beige carpeting leads up to a second floor. It’s a big house. I’d guess five bedrooms. Probably three up top, including the master, and two downstairs. Nice.

  We pass the kitchen, which is spacious and gleaming; granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances shine. It’s not cold, though, I notice. There are knickknacks and plants and mismatched doilies. It’s not the kitchen of a neat freak. The refrigerator door is covered with various things held down by various magnets. A God Bless This Home plaque hangs on the wall.

  We reach the living room, which matches the rest of the house. A fifty-inch plasma TV faces a large sectional couch. I see an Xbox and a stack of games. A DVD shelf is filled with DVDs stored in agreeable disarray. A fine layer of dust covers the coffee table, probably three or four days’ worth.

  I recognize this house. It’s the home of busy people, doing their best to balance time in the fight against entropy, and not doing a bad job. Sloppy imperfection is everywhere, but it never overwhelms, and the place is never dirty. I find the same thing every night when I get back to my own house.

  Hollister indicates that we should sit on the couch. Alan puts himself in the position closest to Hollister. Burns sits next to him. I stay standing. Nothing like a little unevenness to keep things uncomfortable.

  I glance into the backyard as Alan begins speaking. It’s a big backyard, devoid of trees but filled with lush green grass.

  “Something happened yesterday, Mr. Hollister,” Alan says. “Do you remember what day your first wife went missing?”

  “Heather?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hollister thinks about it, still sweating away. “Um … let’s see. It was after her cardio class. Middle of the week. Wednesday. Yes. Wednesday. Why?”

  “Where were you at the time?”

  A flash of anger passes over Hollister’s face, but he answers without hesitation. This is solid ground for him. “I was at home.”

  “What were you doing at the time?”

  Hollister’s quiet, remembering. “I was watching a movie. My sons were asleep. I was watching … Dirty Harry.”

  Alan smiles. “Clint. My man. What’s your opinion? You think he was better as an actor or a director?”

  Burns gives me a sideways look. I ignore him. He doesn’t know what Alan’s up to.
I do.

  Hollister seems as mystified but answers. “I think he’s better as a director. I love the Dirty Harry movies and the westerns, but he really came into his own as a director.”

  “I agree. Which do you think is his best movie? As a director, I mean?”

  Hollister considers it. Of course, the fact that he’s answering any of these questions at all makes me almost certain he’s guilty. The guilty, when confronted with an interrogation situation, jump at any chance to bond. They think being friendly will make us trust them more. Hollister is too desperate to be liked by Alan to wonder why the subject is Clint Eastwood.

  “Mystic River, I guess.”

  “Your wife Heather was found alive.” Alan shifts gears without bothering to acknowledge Hollister’s answer.

  You could hear a pin drop. Hollister stares at Alan. He swallows once, a huge, nervous gulping, like a gagging fish. “She was found?” he finally says. “W-where?”

  I frown. Found? Not found alive? Odd choice of words.

  “She was pushed out of a car into a hotel parking lot. My colleagues and I were attending a wedding there. We think he chose that location because of its proximity to a large group of law enforcement.”

  “Large group? What do you mean?”

  Again, Hollister’s questions are very, very strange.

  “Almost everyone attending was either FBI or LAPD.”

  Hollister looks away. His eyes find me and then dart in another direction. He’s sweating more profusely now. I peer closer. Sweat stains have actually appeared on the underarms of his shirt.

  “Wow,” he manages. “I don’t know what to say. This is kind of shocking.”

  Kind of?

  He points a finger at Burns, and his face twists in righteous indignation. “See! I told you I didn’t kill her. You kept persecuting me, but she’s alive. She’s fine.”

  My mouth almost falls open. “I wouldn’t say she’s fine, sir. We think she’s been held in isolation for eight years. She’s in a psychotic state. Fine? I’m not sure that’s the best selection of words.”

  I sense Alan’s eyes on me, warning me off. I rein myself in.

  “You’re right,” Hollister says, holding a hand up in commiseration. “I’m sorry. I feel like a pinball in a pinball machine right now. It’s just …” He puts his hands together between his knees and looks down at them. “Eight years is a long time. When Heather disappeared, it nearly killed me. Then I was accused of being the one responsible for her disappearance and maybe her murder.” He looks at Burns. “I know you were just doing your job. I apologize for my outburst.”

  “No problem,” Burns says, playing along, though I can sense his tenseness.

  “Where is she?” he asks. “Is she injured? Can I see her?”

  All the questions now that he should have asked from the start.

  “She’s still being examined,” Alan says. “So far, she doesn’t show any signs of permanent physical harm, but her mental state is another matter. The doctors would prefer that she have no visitors right now.”

  I’m always amazed at how simply Alan can change his mode of speaking. In normal situations, he’s very easygoing. A little bit of slang at times, a peppering of profanity. Man on the street. Now he sounds so formal, almost stilted.

  “I understand,” Hollister says, agreeing a little too quickly for my taste. “Do you have any idea yet? About who might have done this to her?”

  This is the question he really wants answered. Alan waits, letting the pause hang a little too long as he stares at Hollister. “No,” he finally says. “I’m afraid not. We’re hopeful that Ms. Hollister can shed some light on things when she is ready to start talking again. If she’s ever ready.”

  Hollister leans forward, ever so slightly. It’s an almost imperceptible eagerness. “And?” he asks. “Do you think she’ll ever be ready?”

  God, I marvel. Either this guy is the world’s worst liar or he’s still too shook up to get his bearings.

  Again, that too-long pause from Alan. He lets it go long enough now that one of Hollister’s eyes twitches with tension. “That’s an unknown at the moment, I’m afraid.”

  “I see,” Hollister replies. He smiles again, that awful, desperate grin. “Does anyone want a beer?” he asks. “I sure could use a beer!”

  It’s utterly incongruous. Alan takes it in stride.

  “We can’t, sir, but thank you. We’re almost done with what we came to find out—I mean, to do here. If I could just ask you to be patient a little while longer.”

  Alan’s “slip of the tongue” was anything but. Hollister’s eye twitches again at the words find out.

  “Uh, okay,” he says, staring at Alan. His mouth sounds as though it’s filled with cotton, overdry.

  “Is there anything you can think of that might help us, sir? Heather’s reappearance is obviously a new development. Has anything happened in your life recently that might correspond to that? Has anyone contacted you, emailed you, left strange messages?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Hollister says.

  “Anything at all you can think of?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. That’s the strange thing. Three days ago, everything was like it always is. Now everything has changed.”

  This is the truth. I can hear it in his voice. The problem is, again, in his choice of words. Three days ago is too long a window. Heather showed up yesterday.

  Alan nods in sympathy. “That’s how it goes sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes we’re sure we have all the bases covered, and then we make a mistake.”

  “Uh-huh,” Hollister agrees, staring at Alan with a kind of dreadful fascination.

  “Mr. Hollister, you have two sons, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Avery and Dylan.”

  “How do you think they’re going to react to this?”

  “I have no idea.” Douglas Hollister’s affect has changed. His eyes have gone colder. His voice is flat. Why?

  Alan’s picked up on this as well. “Mr. Hollister, where are Avery and Dylan right now?”

  “At a friend’s.”

  Alan stares at the man and I know something is up. For the first time since we’ve arrived, he breaks eye contact with Hollister. He looks at me. He is very, very troubled. He turns back to Hollister. “Let me just confer with my boss for a few moments, sir, and then we should be out of your hair. You and Detective Burns can catch up in the meantime.”

  Hollister eyes Burns dubiously. “Yeah. Sure.”

  Alan gets up and walks me into the kitchen. “We have a problem,” he says. “What?”

  “He’s lying about Avery and Dylan being at a friend’s. Why? Who needs to lie about where their kids are?”

  I’m slow to arrive at the answer he wants, but when I do, I freeze. “You think they’re here?”

  Alan is quiet for a moment. “I think it’s a possibility, which is not good. Hollister’s obviously off the deep end. Something or someone’s got him bugalooed. Last time I saw behavior like this with a suspect while questioning him in his home, it turned out he’d killed his wife just before we arrived. Took a long time to answer the door, just like Hollister. Know why?”

  “He was hiding the body?”

  “Close. He was washing the blood off his hands. The body was stuffed behind the couch while we were interviewing him.”

  “Jesus.” I feel my hackles go up at the pure creepiness of this. “What do you want to do?”

  I focus my attention on Hollister, who’s holding up his end of a terse conversation with Burns. Probable cause is the name of the game. He invited us into his home, but we’re not here on a warrant. Evidence we can use is limited to what we can actually see.

  “It’s time to turn up the heat,” I tell Alan. “We don’t have a legal reason, yet, to search his home. If we do it anyway, we run the risk of whatever we find being inadmissible. Somehow, we need to crack him here and now.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  I study Alan. “What�
�s your gut? Are the boys alive or dead?”

  “Dead.” He says it without hesitation. “He emptied out when I brought up Avery and Dylan.”

  “If you don’t break him, I’ll think of something.”

  Alan cracks his knuckles, watching Hollister again. “I think the direct approach is the one to take at this point.” His voice is thoughtful. “I’ll start by explaining neurolinguistics to him. Then we’ll see.”

  We head back out to the living room. Alan takes his seat again. I remain standing.

  “Sorry about that,” Alan says.

  “No problem,” Hollister replies. He looks relieved not to have to continue his conversation with Burns.

  “I want to talk to you about neurolinguistic interviewing, Mr. Hollister.”

  Hollister frowns. “Neuro what?”

  “Neurolinguistic interviewing. There’s a lot of technical jargon, but I’ll simplify it for you. It’s a way of finding out when someone you are interviewing is using their cognitive process and when they’re remembering something. By cognitive process, I mean thinking. Creating an answer to a problem. Like, when I asked you earlier what movie was Eastwood’s best directing effort, you had to review the movies you’d seen and then come up with an answer based on the data you have. You follow?”

  “I guess.”

  “When you remember something, you don’t have to use the cognitive process. It’s a memory. You have to locate it. We access different parts of the brain for each function, and we have specific physiological reactions when we do that.” He leans forward. “It’s in the eyes.”

  The tic in Hollister’s own eye starts again. “The eyes?” he repeats, somewhat moronically.

  Alan nods. “Yes, sir. Most people, when they are remembering something, look up and to the right. When they’re solving a problem, they generally look down and to the left. It varies, but you ask each kind of question and establish a baseline. You know why?”

  “So you can tell when they’re lying,” Hollister whispers, hollow-eyed and dreadful again.

  “That’s right. If you ask them for a memory, and they access the cognitive function of their brain, that means they’re lying. When I asked you to remember what day your wife was abducted, for example, you weren’t lying. You were remembering.” He shrugs. “There’re other indicators, of course. Nervousness is an obvious one.” Alan smiles. “You were already nervous and sweating like a pig when we arrived. You said you were sick and napping, but I don’t think so.”