Текст книги "The Missing"

Автор книги: Chris Mooney

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter 24

Darby had set up a temporary work space in her old bedroom. The bed was gone, replaced by her father’s desk. It faced the two windows overlooking the front yard.

Before leaving work, she made copies of the evidence report and the pictures. She tacked the pictures on the corkboard above the desk and then settled into the chair with the evidence file.

For awhile, she was aware of every sound – the tick of the grandfather clock from downstairs, her mother’s soft snoring from down the hallway. Then she was lost in the file.

Two hours later, her head felt crowded, thoughts tripping over one another. It was closing in on eleven. She decided to take a break and went downstairs to make some tea.

The box of clothing was still by the door. She saw the pink sweater and had a new memory – alone in the house at fifteen, the weekend after her father’s funeral, his down vest with its smell of cigars pressed against her face.

Darby pulled the sweater from underneath the pair of ripped jeans and sat on the floor. The hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. She rubbed the cashmere between her fingers. Soon this would be all that was left of her mother – her clothes with their fading whispers of perfume, memories frozen in pictures.

Darby stared at the spot where Melanie had stood begging for her life. She stared at the wall with its coat of paint that hid Stacey’s blood. Victor Grady was sealed between these walls, now and forever, along with memories of her father, and Darby couldn’t understand how Sheila could move through these rooms day after day competing with these two totally separate but equally powerful ghosts.

A car raced by, blaring rap music.

Darby found she was standing. Her hands trembled as she bent to pick up the sweater. She didn’t know why she was sweating.

It was closing in on midnight. Best to get some sleep. Tomorrow morning she and Coop were going to head out early to the Cranmore house. With a few hours of sleep and a fresh eye, she was hoping to find something she might have overlooked or missed.

Upstairs, Darby laid in the recliner, cold beneath the comforter. When sleep finally came, Darby dreamed of a house with mazes of dark hallways and shifting rooms, doors that opened to black holes.

Carol Cranmore was also dreaming.

Her mother stood in the doorway of her bedroom, saying it was time to wake up and get ready for school. Carol could still see the smile on her mother’s face when her eyes fluttered open to pitch-black darkness. She felt the itchy blanket wrapped around her and then remembered where she was and what had happened to her.

Panic flared and then, oddly, disappeared. And as strange as it sounded, she still felt sleepy. The last time she had felt this exhausted was last summer, at Stan Petrie’s all-weekend party down in Falmouth where they drank all night and played touch football all day at the beach.

Carol wondered about the food again. Was it drugged? The sandwich had left a slight chalky taste in her mouth – it had tasted funny even when she was eating it – and some time later, after the man with the mask shut the door, she had grown real tried, which surprised her. She shouldn’t be tired. She should be wide awake with fear, but she could barely keep her eyes open. And she needed to pee again. Badly.

She crawled out from underneath the cot, stood and immediately swung her right hand out, feeling for the wall. There it was. How many steps until the wall ended? Eight? Ten? She staggered forward, blinking, eyes wide open in the darkness that wouldn’t go away. This must be what a blind person felt like.

She found the toilet and sat down. For no reason at all, she saw the desk in her room with its window view of the ugly street and the trees with their beautiful leaves having turned gold, red and yellow. She wondered what time it was, whether it was day or night. Was it still raining?

By the time she flushed, Carol felt better. Awake. Now she had to deal with the fear.

Carol knew she had to come up with a plan. The man who had brought her here would be coming for her again. She couldn’t fight him off with her hands. Maybe there was something in here she could use – the bed. The bed was made with these steel rods. Maybe she could try and dismantle it, grab one of the rods and use it as a bat and knock him unconscious.

Carol felt her way through the darkness, thinking about the person who was trapped down here with her. She hoped to God it was Tony. Maybe Tony was awake, wandering around his room right now, looking for something to use to defend –

Carol bumped headfirst into something solid, a scream escaping her lips as she stumbled backward, almost tripping.

Not a wall, it definitely wasn’t a wall, didn’t have its hard, rough flatness. What was it then? Not the sink either. This was something new and different. What was it? Whatever this thing was, it was blocking her path.

A tiny green light glowed in the darkness, directly in front of her.

The man with the mask was standing behind a camera.

The flash went off, the bright white light piercing her eyes. Blinded, Carol stumbled back. She bumped into the sink, tripped and fell to the floor.

Another flash.

Carol crawled away, bright spots of lights dancing and fading in front of her eyes. Another flash and she bumped her head against the corner of the wall. She was trapped.

Chapter 25

Darby drove out early the next morning, while it was still dark.

Half a dozen patrolmen were busy redirecting the traffic on Coolidge Road in order to accommodate the swelling numbers of state police cruisers, unmarked detective cars and news vans that were clogging up the streets near Carol Cranmore’s house. Small armies of volunteers were gathered, getting ready to canvass the neighborhood with fliers bearing Carol’s picture.

Darby’s attention turned to the state troopers holding the leashes of search and rescue dogs. She was surprised to see them. Because of statewide budget cuts, search and rescue dogs weren’t ordinarily called out to the scene of missing or abducted people.

‘I wonder who’s picking up the tab for the dogs,’ Coop said.

‘The Sarah Sullivan fund, I bet.’ Sarah Sullivan was the name of a Belham girl who was abducted from the Hill several years ago. Her father, Mike Sullivan, a local contractor, had set up a fund to cover any additional expenses related to a missing person’s investigation.

Darby had to wait for the cops to move the blockades out of the way. When she turned the corner, the crowds of reporters and TV crews saw the crime scene vehicle and descended on them, shouting questions.

By the time they finally reached the house, her ears were ringing. Darby shut the front door and placed her kit in the downstairs foyer. The copper smell of blood grew stronger as she climbed the stairs.

Dianne’s bedroom was in the same neat, tidy condition as it had been the other night. One of the dresser drawers was half open, as was the closet door. On the floor was a safe, one of those portable fireproof models people used to store important documents.

Carol’s mother had probably come here to pack-up some clothes while the house was being processed as a crime scene. Darby remembered standing in her own bedroom, packing up clothes for her stay at the hotel while a detective watched from the doorway.

Darby stepped into Carol’s room. A gold, predawn light was visible through the windows. She looked at the surfaces covered with fingerprint powder, trying to tune out the sounds of dogs barking and reporters shouting questions over the constant blaring of car horns from Coolidge Road.

‘What are we looking for, exactly?’ Coop asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Good. That should help us narrow down our search.’

The teenager’s clothes hung on wire hangers inside the closet. A few shirts and pants were marked with the kind of stickers and price tags often used at thrift stores and yard sales. The shoes and sneakers were arranged in two neat rows by the season: the summer sneakers and sandals in the back, and in the front row, the fall and winter boots and shoes.

The window set up by the desk overlooked a chain-link fence and the neighbor’s yard with its clothesline stretched from the back porch to a tree. Below, in the overgrown weeds, was a wooden ladder half-buried in the dirt. Crushed beer cans and cigarette butts littered the ground. Darby wondered what Carol thought of this view, how she managed to push it aside so it wouldn’t get to her.

The top of the desk was clean and neat. An assortment of colored pencils was organized in glass jars. The middle drawer contained a decent charcoal sketch of her boyfriend reading a book in the brown chair from downstairs. Carol had left out the duct tape in the drawing.

The folder underneath the drawing held magazine and newspaper clippings of biographical profiles of successful women. Carol had underlined several quotes in red ink and made notes in the margins like ‘important’ and ‘remember this.’ Written on the inside of the folder, in black marker, was a quote: ‘Behind every successful woman is herself.’

A three-ring binder contained articles on beauty secrets. The section marked ‘Exercise’ was devoted to dieting tips. For inspiration, Carol had pasted a picture of an extremely thin quasi-celebrity wearing big, round sunglasses.

‘As fun as this is, I’m not much use to you up here. I’m going to take a look at the kitchen again. Holler down if you find anything.’

Carol’s bedding had been stripped and bagged. Darby sat on the sagging mattress and looked out the window at the television cameras. She wondered if Carol’s abductor was watching.

What was she looking for, exactly?

What common trait did Carol Cranmore share with the other missing women?

Both Carol and Terry Mastrangelo were average-looking at best. In her picture, Terry had a frumpy, exhausted look Darby had seen in lots of single mothers. Carol was five years younger, a senior in high school. She was the better looking of the two, razor thin, with sharp blue eyes set against pale, freckled skin.

No, it wasn’t a physical attraction; Darby felt sure of that. The trait these two youngwomen shared was something beyond the surface, something she couldn’t see.

The problem was that Darby didn’t know Carol beyond the framed pictures on the hallway and the pieces of evidence collected in bags – she didn’t know Terry Mastrangelo at all. At the moment, both women were snapshots frozen in pictures.

Terry Mastrangelo was a single mother.

Dianne Cranmore was a single mother.

Was Carol’s mother the intended target?

Granted, Dianne Cranmore was a full decade older than Terry, but age didn’t seem to be a factor in the abductor’s selection process. The idea was still turning over in Darby’s mind when she stood and headed back to the mother’s bedroom.

Dianne had spent good money on the comforter and sheets. She had some decent jewelry, but nothing worth stealing. Wellworn clothes hung inside the closet. It looked like she splurged a little on nice shoes.

Across from the bed was a cheap bookcase holding framed pictures of Carol as a baby. Two shelves were crammed with paperback romance novels plucked from library book sales. The books and trinkets on the bottom shelf were coated with dust – except for the three black leather-bound albums. Those had been moved.

Had Dianne pulled them out last night? If she did, why had she returned them? Maybe she wanted another picture of Carol – the one that was printed on the flyers.

Darby snapped on a pair of latex gloves and settled on the carpeted floor to examine the bottom shelf.

Mounted underneath the shelf, tucked in the far corner so it was safely out of view, was a small black plastic box half the size of a sugar packet. Sticking out of one side, a quarter inch in length, was an antenna.

A listening device.

Grabbing the penlight from her shirt pocket, Darby lay on her back and examined the black box. It was secured to the wood by a Velcro mounting strip. No wires, so it was most likely battery operated.

There were devices on the market that could be turned on and off remotely to save battery power; some were voice activated. They all had different transmitting ranges. What she needed to know were the specifications of this device.

Darby leaned in closer, hoping to find the manufacturer’s name and model number. She didn’t see it. The manufacturer’s stamp was most likely located on one of the sides flush against the wood, or on the back of the unit. In order to find it, she’d have to tear the device away from the Velcro strip. There was no way to do that quietly.

And if he’s listening right now, he’ll hear it and know we’ve found the listening device.

Darby stood up, legs fluttering, and hustled back to search Carol’s room again.

Chapter 26

Darby found a second listening device underneath Carol’s bed, mounted against the frame. Like the first device, this unit had been placed in such a way that she couldn’t find the manufacturer’s name or model number.

Two listening devices. She wondered how many more were inside the house.

Here was something else to think about: If Carol’s abductor had taken the time to install listening devices inside the house, was he was also monitoring police radio and cell phones? They sold police scanners at Radio Shack, and cell phone frequencies were just as easy to pick up, if you had the right equipment.

Coop was in the kitchen. She caught his attention, pressed a finger to her lips, then wrote what she had found on his clipboard.

He nodded and started to search the kitchen. Darby went outside.

Bloodhounds and their handlers were searching the woods, their barks echoing through the pleasantly warm air. Standing on the front porch, she dialed Banville’s number and watched a man limp his way over to a telephone pole and use a staple gun to tack up a leaflet holding Carol’s picture. She wondered if Carol’s abductor was sitting in his car right now, listening.

Darby remembered the monitoring equipment the feds had used in a case she and Coop had worked on last year. The equipment was big and bulky. If Carol’s abductor was using similar equipment, it would need to be placed in something like the back of the van.

Banville picked up.

‘Where are you?’ Darby asked.

‘On my way back from Lynn,’ Banville said. ‘I got a call early this morning about our boy LBC. He’s been crashing at his girlfriend’s house for the past two months. He’s got a size nine foot, doesn’t own any boots, and we have two witnesses who will swear LBC was with them the night the Cranmore girl was taken. I think we can safely scratch him off our list. We’ve rounded up all the local pedophiles. They’re at the station right now.’

‘How soon before you’re back in Belham?’

‘I’m already here. What’s going on?’

‘Tell me where you are.’

‘I just stopped off for coffee at Max’s on Edgell Road.’

Darby knew the place. ‘Stay put. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

Before she left, she checked in with Coop. Darby headed back out, deciding to walk to the diner. It would be quicker than driving through all the traffic, and she could use the time to organize her thoughts.

Daniel Boyle stood across the street, watching Darby McCormick walking fast down Coolidge, head down and hands stuffed in her windbreaker pockets. He wondered where she was going.

For the past hour, while he had been papering the nearby houses with fliers, tucking the sheets underneath windshield wipers and inside mailboxes, he had been listening to Darby and her partner’s movements inside the house over his headphones. The iPod tucked in his pocket was actually a six-channel receiver that allowed him to switch between the six listening devices he had planted inside the house.

He had listened to the chatty conversation between Darby and her partner inside Carol’s room. After her partner left, Darby had rustled about the bedroom for a bit, opening drawers, before heading back to the mother’s bedroom. Lots of movement in there, especially near the bottom shelf of the bookcase where he had placed one of the listening devices.

Then Darby headed back to Carol’s bedroom again, and after half an hour or so of searching, she went back downstairs to the kitchen. There was no conversation between Darby and her partner. A few minutes later, she was standing on the front porch, making a call on her cell phone.

Why did she have to come outside to make the call? If she had found something interesting, some new piece of evidence, why not make the call from inside the house? Why did she have to step outside?

Boyle had placed the listening devices in strategic locations where no one should be looking. Had she found them?

Clearly, she had discovered something. When she was on the phone, she had seemed either nervous or excited – and she kept looking around the street as if she knew he was here, mixed in with all the volunteers. She had watched him limp his way over to the telephone pole and put up a flier. He had adopted the limp because he wanted to stay close to the house. The cop handing out the fliers had no problem with it.

Boyle watched Darby take a right onto Drummond Avenue. He wanted to follow her and see where she was going.

No. Too risky. She had seen him. He should leave, just to be safe.

Boyle switched the receiver to the listening devices inside the kitchen and limped his way back to his car. All he heard was the echo of footsteps.

The reception on the iPod grew dimmer. The receiver inside his car had a much broader range. The police were no doubt looking for a van, so he had opted for his recent purchase, an old Aston Martin Lagonda, the same car his grandfather/father had owned. The car’s engine and transmission were brand new, but the outer shell was in desperate need of a new paint job. The paint had started to fleck and peel in several places, especially around the pockets of rust.

Boyle picked up his new BlackBerry phone. Richard had given it to him last night. It was equipped with encryption technology so it couldn’t be overheard by the police or anyone trying to listen in on a scanner. The stolen phone had been reprogrammed so the calls couldn’t be traced by the phone company.

‘What’s Darby doing?’

‘She’s still walking,’ Richard said. ‘I wonder if she found the bugs you left in the house.’

‘I’m wondering the same thing. What do you want to do?’

‘I think we should assume she found them. Where did you buy them?’

‘I didn’t. They’re homemade.’

‘Good. She can’t trace them. Do you have any extra ones?’

‘I do.’

‘We should plant some of them inside Slavick’s house.’

‘Do you still want to go ahead with the plan?’

‘Absolutely,’ Richard said. ‘We need to throw them off the scent. I’ll call you later.’

Boyle started his car and drove away from the commotion to find a quiet street.

Twenty minutes later, he was driving through a more upscale neighborhood. No cars sitting on blocks here, no welfare mothers sitting on their porches. This neighborhood had lots of nice lawns and neatly painted houses.

As Boyle examined the homes, he recalled how he wasn’t that far away from where Darby used to live. He wondered if her mother was still living there. That was easy enough to find out.

There, the white house. The door behind the screen door was open. Someone was home.

Boyle drove to the end of the street. He put on a pair of gloves and reached under the seat for the padded mailer. He rolled the window down, turned the car around and tossed the mailer onto the porch steps of the white house.

By the time Boyle reached the highway, he felt relaxed and in control. The plan was in motion. Now all he needed to do was to get himself a FedEx or UPS truck and a body.

Chapter 27

Darby found Banville sitting in a red vinyl booth in the back corner, nursing a cup of coffee. No one else was around him. Taped to the window facing the small parking lot was a poster board holding Carol Cranmore’s picture.

‘I found listening devices inside Carol’s house,’ Darby said after she sat down. ‘I don’t think they’ve been there that long, since none of them are coated in dust.’

‘You said listening devices. How many did you find?’

‘At the moment, four – one in the mother’s bedroom, one in Carol’s room, the other two mounted on top of the kitchen cabinets. I don’t know the make or the model number of the bugs. That information is most likely stamped on the back, and I can’t examine them because each one is mounted by Velcro. There’s no way to rip the bug off without making any noise.’

‘And if we try to do that and he happens to be listening in, he’ll know we found the bug.’

‘That’s the problem. If I try to remove the bugs, he’ll hear us. If I dust it for prints, the fingerprint brush will make noise against the mike and he’ll hear us. And if I did happen to find a print, I’d have to use a tape lift to transfer it.

‘The other problem is the power source,’ Darby said. They run on batteries. He can’t leave them on all day, so there’s a good chance they’re remotely operated. He can turn them on and off to conserve battery power. If I had the device’s make and model, I could do a simple Google search and find the product specs. It would give us an idea of how long the batteries last, if it’s remote-operated, and the transmitting range. Some have a radius as much as half a mile, and almost every one of them can transmit through walls and windows with crystal-clear clarity.’

‘How do you know so much about bugs?’

‘One of the first big cases I worked on was a mob case. Thanks to the feds, I got a crash course in listening devices. Judging by what I saw at the house, I doubt these devices are that sophisticated. They may even be homemade.’

‘Funny you should mention the feds. I got a message this morning from the Boston office. The site profiler here in town wants to talk to me.’

‘What did he want?’

‘I haven’t talked with him yet.’

‘I think our guy took Carol out of the house and put her in the back of a van – only when he opened the doors, he found that Jane Doe wasn’t there. He searched for her, couldn’t find her, and at some point decided he had to leave. But before he did, he went back inside and planted the bugs in strategic locations so he could listen to us as we moved through the rooms. I think it’s safe to say he was listening to us last night. How many people do you have guarding Jane Doe’s room?’

‘At the moment, just one.’

‘Increase it. And make sure they check the ID of every person who comes inside the ICU.’

‘I’m already doing that. The press found out she’s at Mass General. They did a live news feed outside the hospital. It was all over the news.’

‘And Jane Doe?’

‘As of nine this morning, she was still sedated.’

‘I think it would be a good idea if you have someone put together a list of names of every volunteer helping search for Carol Cranmore. Check licenses, too, see if you have anyone from out of town. Any luck locating Terry Mastrangelo’s family?’

‘We’re working on it.’ Banville returned the coffee cup to its saucer. ‘About these devices you found,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea about the kind of monitoring equipment our guy would be using?’

‘Depending on the bug’s frequency strength, it could be something as simple as an FM receiver. I’ve heard of receivers disguised as a Walkman, but again, the range would be rather short. If he was using something like that, he’d have to be close to the house. To listen from a longer range, you’d need more sophisticated equipment – bulky stuff that’s not so easy to conceal.’

‘So right now our guy could be sitting in his van parked somewhere near the Cranmore house.’

‘Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of having patrol cars do a sweep of the area,’ Darby said. If Carol’s abductor spotted patrolmen stopping people in their cars, he wouldn’t hesitate to leave the area. He might even panic and kill Carol.

‘It’s tempting, sure, but it’s too risky,’ Banville said. ‘No, what I was thinking was how we could use this to our advantage.’

‘You set up a trap.’

‘You sound like you’ve already got something in mind.’

‘First, we need to figure out the frequency range of the listening devices. Then we set up roadblocks – we lock down every possible way he can escape. You put me in one of the rooms with Coop, and as we’re talking about made-up evidence, you track down the frequency.’

‘That’s not a bad plan. Tracking down the frequency, though, we’re not set up for that.’

‘The feds are. They come in, they’ll find out what frequency those devices are transmitting on, and they can narrow it down. We need to move on this soon. I’m pretty sure those listening devices operate on batteries. We might have a day or two before they die.’

Banville stared out the window, at the people heading into the diner. She couldn’t read anything in his face. Every emotion, from surprise to sadness, was carefully sealed behind the same blank mask he always wore.

‘This morning a reporter from the Herald cornered me and asked if I’d like to comment on the connection between Carol Cranmore and a missing woman by the name of Terry Mastrangelo.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Tell me about it. So now, in addition to everything else, I’ve got to deal with a leak.’ He was looking at her now. ‘Who else knows about Mastrangelo?’

‘Everyone at the lab,’ Darby said. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ve tried to keep that information locked down to a few key people. The problem is, in a missing person investigation, especially one of this size, it creates a real competitive environment. Reporters want to be the first to get the inside scoop, and they’re willing to pay for it. You’d be surprised at the kind of money they offer.’

‘Someone approached you?’

‘Not me. They know better. But there are plenty of guys in the department who need extra cash for child support payments or maybe they got their eyes on a new set of wheels. Who else at the lab knows about the bugs?’

‘At the moment, just me and Coop.’

‘Keep it that way.’

‘My boss wants me to update him,’ Darby said. ‘You’re putting me in an awkward position.’

‘As far as he’s concerned, I was the one who found the listening devices. You don’t know anything about it.’

‘What about using the reporter? Have him plant a story about how the crime lab is planning on going through the house, say, tomorrow night because we’re looking for certain key evidence. That way we can guarantee he’ll be listening.’

‘I was thinking the same thing. Let me make some calls, and I’ll get back to you. You want a ride back to the house?’

‘I’m going to grab some coffee and then I’ll walk back. The fresh air helps me think.’

Darby’s phone rang as she was standing in line. It was Leland.

‘AFIS came back with a hit on Jane Doe’s prints at one a.m. this morning. Her name is Rachel Swanson, from Durham, New Hampshire. She was twenty-three when she disappeared.’

‘How long has she been missing?’

‘Almost five years. I don’t have the details yet, just some preliminary stuff. Any luck at the house?’

‘I struck out.’ Darby didn’t like lying to Leland, but this was Banville’s investigation, and he had decided how he wanted to play it out.

‘I found Neil Joseph in the squad room and asked him to pull up the case file, see what’s listed on NCIC,’ Leland said. ‘I’ve already talked with someone at the state lab in New Hampshire. They’re going to fax over what they have for evidence.’

‘I’m on my way.’