The Goliath Run, page 23
“This is his daughter,” Bell said.
She started to reply then stopped, forcing herself to be quiet. Bell had seen her do that once before. She was edgy, her knee bouncing, eyes darting about the park. He decided to tell her about where he’d been the past two days. She sat huddled in the windbreaker, listening, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip.
“I’ve been to the Williamsburg market,” she said when he finished. “Vanessa and I went there to buy flowers a couple of times. So this is the woman? You’re sure?”
“Put it this way,” Bell said. “If I was absolutely certain, I’d ask the state police to put out an APB on that truck right now, assuming it’s traveling from Cooperstown back to—well, we don’t know to where. But all I have is a vague description of a green truck, maybe a GMC, and no plate number. And keep in mind I’ve been removed from the case.”
“It’s too coincidental though,” Rachel said. “Are you going to tell the FBI this?”
“I’ll tell them if they want to listen. But that doesn’t solve the problem with your husband. He needs to change his thinking.”
Rachel shook her head. “You have to understand. He doesn’t operate as a person. He operates as a persona. I don’t think he knows how to separate the two. And now, with this campaign—”
“He feels like he can’t back down,” Bell said.
“I hate to say this but I really believe he’d prefer that this would end in a confrontation. The FBI against the kidnappers.” She looked at Bell. “Because that would be a big news story. And it would be a victory for Sam.”
Bell got to his feet. “I hope you’re wrong about that.” He hesitated, thinking of what he was about to say. Thinking that maybe he should leave it alone. But he couldn’t: he needed to know so he could better understand the situation. “By the way, we still need Sam’s DNA for the lab work. You remember Lynn asked you for it?”
Her face went blank and she looked away from him. He kept waiting for something but it never came. It seemed as if she would rather sit there forever than respond. In the end it was Bell who broke the silence.
“Does he know?”
“I didn’t think so.” As she spoke, she was watching the kids playing football. “Now I’m not sure.”
“Who’s the father?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “A guy I knew. A guy I saw…briefly.” Only now did she look at him. “I have a shitty marriage, Mr. Bell.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I picked up on that.”
She didn’t smile back. “I have a shitty marriage and I’m not a good person. I told you before that I haven’t been a good mother. But I am going to change that. If I get a second chance, I’m going to change. Do you believe me?”
“I believe you.”
She nodded. “I need a second chance. I need to have my baby back. I don’t fucking care about my marriage. This is the straw that breaks it. I’m a weak person to have put up with him for so long. I know that.”
Bell stood there a moment longer before he nodded. “Okay. But you are not a weak person, Rachel.”
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
“Try and find your daughter.”
SIXTY
Sam had no problem convincing the network to give him a spot on Rivera’s show again, especially after he promised to identify the people responsible for his daughter’s disappearance.
Agent Dugan went with him to the taping and this time Molly tagged along. As for the appearance, Sam was obviously working off an agenda. He didn’t shave beforehand and he wore dark pants and a blue chambray shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He looked like a reporter working a story or a cop who’d been on a stakeout for days. Or—more to the point—a grieving, sleepless parent. He always kept his hair neatly combed and now, minutes before going to tape, Molly saw him run his fingers through it, mussing it just slightly.
Rivera, once again the stick figure in the act, led off by asking Sam if there were any new developments. Sam squinted at him, feigning fatigue, and when he began to speak his voice was hoarse and strained. Molly had no idea how he managed that.
“We are now in contact with the terrorists who took my daughter from me. As I have suggested all along, they are a bunch of spineless cowards. But now we know what their goals are, these cowards. They are the individuals determined to take away our Second Amendment rights. They’ve decided that they need a spokesman for their aims and that I should be that man.”
“Hold on,” Rivera said. “What are they asking for?”
“What are they asking for?” Sam repeated. “Well, first of all they want twenty million dollars. That’s predictable enough. But they also want me to go on TV and tell my fellow Americans that they have to give up their guns.” Sam looked directly into the camera now. “How do you like that? They want me, Sam Jackson, to go on television and tell each and every one of you to turn in your firearms. They want Sam Jackson to tell you that the Second Amendment is a piece of garbage. Now, I know we have a drug problem in this country but whatever these guys are taking is beyond the pale.”
“Who are these people?” Rivera asked.
Sam shrugged. “You need to ask somebody on the other side of the aisle that question, Ronald. Because these people are definitely in the employ of somebody who wants to take me out, politically speaking. Like I said before, the timing of this is the key. What these idiots, these cowards, don’t realize is that they’ve chosen the last man in this country who would knuckle under to them. Keep in mind my campaign slogan—No Surrender. That they would choose me for this clumsy piece of extortion just shows you how imbecilic these people are.”
“Are you still talking to them?”
“Oh, we’re talking,” Sam said. “We’re talking all right.”
“Some pretty inflammatory things you’re saying,” Rivera said. “Aren’t you afraid of angering the individuals who are holding your daughter?”
“Did you just ask me if I’m afraid?” Sam demanded. “I’m afraid of nothing. But these people are afraid. Cowards are afraid by nature. And they’re growing more afraid every day. Which is why I think you’re going to see them hand my daughter over. Deliver themselves to the mercy of the law. As we used to say when this country still had some backbone—the jig is up.”
“You have to admit that you have no proof that this is political,” Rivera said.
“I do have proof.”
“And…that proof is?”
Sam paused a moment. “I spoke to one of these individuals less than an hour or so ago. A woman. That’s another thing—these cowards choose to hide behind a woman’s skirts. They won’t come at me man-to-man. Anyway, I was talking to this…addled woman…and I asked her just what she hoped to accomplish. And she told me that her main goal was to deny me a seat in our Congress. In those very words.”
Molly was in the green room, with Dugan and a half-dozen people, staffers and others. As Sam issued the last falsehood, she looked over at Dugan. He stared straight at the screen, refusing to meet her eyes. She had the impression that he was okay with all that Sam was saying. Molly got to her feet and went outside to call Bill Ford. She needed to tell him what was going on.
Although she was pretty sure Bill Ford would be okay with it too.
SIXTY-ONE
Bell walked into the captain’s office and sat down. Gardner was reading something in the newspaper. It could have been police-related or it could have been an opinion piece about the Jets being one and seven on the season. Bell waited until Gardner set the paper aside and looked over at him.
“Detective Bell. Spending your vacation here at work, I see.”
Bell told him about his road trip to Greenfield and Elmira and Hershey. He told him about the woman. He told him his theory about the market at Williamsburg.
“We need to go over the street videos again from that day. I have a rough description of the truck.”
“Where are we going to get the manpower for that?” the captain asked. “You know how much work that is.”
“Well, I’m here,” Bell said.
“Yeah, and I also know that the union’s going to squawk if they hear you’re working your vacation.”
“Then I’ll end my vacation.”
“That’s fine,” the captain said. “Then I’ll remind you that you’re off the case. Why not just drop this in the FBI’s lap? They have more money than we do. They have more of everything.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You not getting along with the feds?”
“We have philosophical differences.”
“Get past them. We need to cooperate. You need to cooperate.”
“Right.”
“Now go fishing or something,” Gardner said. “You’re on holidays, for fucksakes.”
When Bell left the precinct, he realized he hadn’t eaten since getting up that morning. He went to McGee’s for a steak sandwich and a beer. It was mid-afternoon and the place was largely empty. Two middle-aged men, both sporting huge bellies, shot pool on a coin table in the back. Bell thought about the limo driver McIlroy and his buddy, the fictional Bill Driscoll, shooting pool across town. That’s how it all had started. A chance meeting that was anything but that.
He drank his beer and went back through his notes while he waited for the sandwich. His phone rang as he was eating. It was Agent Dugan.
“Rumor has it you need some help.”
“Rumor has it my captain has a big mouth,” Bell replied.
“We need to see what you have,” Dugan said. “You’ve ID’d a truck?”
“I have a lead on a truck,” Bell said. “I don’t have an ID on a truck.”
“I need to see whatever you have,” Dugan said. “We’re at Jackson’s house. Get your ass over here.”
“I’m having a beer.”
“Drink it and get over here.”
“I’m pretty thirsty,” Bell said. “I might have two beers.”
“Don’t make me send a couple agents after you.”
“I guess I can relax,” Bell told him. “I’ve seen how good you are at finding people.”
He hung up and ordered another beer and went back to his notes. He read what he had written the day he’d visited the Williamsburg market. Afterward he’d called the guy in Connecticut who made the furniture and ruled him out as a suspect. Further down the page he’d written the word “pictures” with a question mark. Now he picked up his phone and called the market manager, the woman with the dolphin on her arm. When she answered he reminded her who he was.
“You said you were going to check to see if anybody had any cellphone pics from the market that day.”
“Right.” She paused. “You know, I couldn’t find anything. Sorry.”
The pause suggested to Bell that she hadn’t followed up. “Well, keep asking. Maybe do another round of the regulars?”
“I will,” the woman said. “Absolutely.”
“Sure you will,” Bell said when he hung up. He found the number of the artist named Lily and called it. She answered on the first ring.
“Lily Walker.”
Bell told her why he was calling.
“Oh, I found some pics but nothing that can help, I’m afraid,” she said.
“None of the woman?”
“I have a couple but you can’t see her face. One is where she’s lifting a hamper of something from the back of the truck. Her head is turned. And I think there’s one more but I cut her head off completely. You can see her torso. Does that help?”
Probably not, Bell thought. “I’ll come by and have a look. It’ll be in a couple of hours. I have another stop first.”
SIXTY-TWO
The scene at the Jackson house was the same. Heyward with his laptop, Dugan his attitude. Sam Jackson was in the den-turned-studio with Molly, the campaign manager. Rachel Jackson was not in sight but a few minutes after Bell arrived she came downstairs. Maybe she heard his voice.
As Bell began to give Dugan his story Sam Jackson came out from the den to listen, remaining on his feet and regarding Bell like he was selling something door-to-door. Bell sat at the dining room table while he talked. Rachel brought him a cup of coffee without asking and then sat down across from him.
“And that’s about it,” Bell said when he finished. He refrained from telling Dugan about Lily and the photos. There was probably nothing there anyway, and he didn’t want Dugan sending someone to talk to the woman in place of Bell. She was his contact.
“Tell me again what you have on the truck,” Dugan said.
“I know it’s green and at least two witnesses said it was a GMC,” Bell said. “Big van, probably a seven-ton.”
“No plate number?” Dugan asked. He’d already asked before.
“If I had a plate number, I would have run it by now.”
“You say you got back in the city last night?” Dugan said. “If we had this information five hours ago we would have had choppers in the air after the woman called from Cooperstown. In all likelihood we’d have this truck in our possession right now. The driver too.”
“There was a call from Cooperstown?” Bell asked. He could feel Rachel’s eyes on him.
Dugan stalled a moment, caught. “Yeah, there was.”
“Too bad I didn’t know that,” Bell said. “I’ve been out of the loop. But you knew that, didn’t you, Agent Dugan?”
Dugan gave Bell a look before turning to Sam Jackson and shrugging. Now it was damage control. “Could be something. Could be nothing more than coincidence. What did he come up with—a green truck and a woman nobody can identify.”
Sam nodded, as if agreeing on what to order for lunch. “But next time she calls, I want somebody in a chopper looking for that truck.”
Bell stood up. “I guess my work here is done.” He saw now that the campaign manager was in the room, leaning against the doorway to the den and watching him with a wry expression. Rachel stood as well. It seemed as if there was something she wanted to say before he left.
“Leave your notes,” Dugan told him.
“Then they wouldn’t be my notes anymore,” Bell said. “I told you what I know.”
Dugan stepped forward and tapped Bell on the chest with his forefinger. “We can’t stop you from digging around but you’d better goddamn well keep us informed, pal.”
Bell grabbed the agent’s finger and twisted it backward before pushing it away. Rachel stepped forward and interrupted them, offering a folded piece of paper to Bell.
“Keep us all in touch. Here’s my cell number.”
Bell hesitated. He had her cell number, and so did the FBI and everybody else in the room. He glanced at the number and saw it was different than the one he had. He put the paper in his pocket.
“You find this woman, you’d better hand her over to us,” Sam told him. “I’m not sure I like the way you operate.”
“Well, we don’t have to impress each other,” Bell said. “I don’t care what you think of me. And, since I’m not a resident of Wyoming, you don’t care what I think of you.”
He noticed that Molly was smiling as he left the room.
SIXTY-THREE
Lily Walker’s house smelled of patchouli oil. It was located on a narrow gravel road north of the city, a few miles from West Point. There were chickens in the fenced-in back yard. Bell had knocked on the front door and the woman yelled for him to come around back, where he opened the wooden gate and waded through the hens to walk up onto the porch. She met him there and let him in.
“Front door’s got a broken hinge,” she said. “You can open it but it’s a pain in the ass to close.”
They sat at a narrow harvest table while she showed him the pictures on her laptop, but not before she went through a gallery of her paintings first. She was drinking gin in a highball glass when Bell had arrived—he could smell the gin—and she’d offered him a beer, or glass of wine, and he had declined both. He was looking at the visit as a quick side trip, one that wouldn’t produce anything but one that he had to make. After a couple dozen pictures of flowers on easels he spoke up.
“The woman in the green truck.”
“We’re getting to that,” she said. “I just thought you’d enjoy seeing some of my work.”
Bell made a show of looking at his watch. The woman, not to be outdone, made a production of searching for the pictures, even though she’d been expecting Bell’s visit. She finally brought the first one up. Bell was looking at a shot of André the sausage-maker, standing proudly in front of his display of meats, hanging from their racks. In the background Bell could see a woman, slim, dressed in khaki pants and a tan work shirt, standing up in the back of a truck. Her head was cut off in the photo.
“Okay,” he said.
Lily clicked the mouse and found the second picture. The same woman, her back turned partly to the camera, was lifting a hamper basket of acorn squash from the truck. Her face was obscured; Bell could make out a couple of strands of light brown hair beneath a navy baseball cap. He was about to ask Lily if she could print the two photos for him, even though there was very little to see of the woman in question.
Before he could speak, Lily scrolled the picture upward slightly and, in that instant, Bell lost all interest in the woman because there, clearly at the bottom of the photo, was the truck’s license plate. It was not the number the woman had given the dolphin lady.
Bell wrote it down, thanked Lily Walker and headed back to the station.
SIXTY-FOUR
Molly left the Jackson house that afternoon and headed back to her hotel. Sam Jackson and agent Dugan remained at the residence. Dugan seemed to think that the kidnappers would call after they saw Sam on the Rivera show that evening. Molly wasn’t quite so sure. If she was a kidnapper, she doubted that any of the lies Sam told would encourage her to make contact; in fact, the opposite would be true. But then she wasn’t a kidnapper, she reminded herself. She was just an employee of Bill Ford, undertaking an increasingly unpleasant task. The only satisfactory part of the relationship was that she was being wellcompensated. Which sounded like something a prostitute would say. She tried not to think about it.
