A Field of Red Read online

  He’d always wanted a big, solid El Dorado. Black, spotless interior, with bench seats and a dashboard that went on forever. Ben Stone had had a friend who owned one, and Frank had gotten a chance to ride in it once. It was like floating on a cloud. A black, armored, tank-like cloud, but smooth. A Cadillac from back when they made Cadillacs for businessmen and stock brokers and not gangsters and rap stars.

  When Frank arrived at the station, King was already conducting yet another press conference, one filled with absolutely no new information other than the news that the kidnappers hadn’t showed up to claim the ransom. More stupid questions were asked. The TV reporters and newspaper guys needed fodder, even if it was nothing more than reassurance from the police that they were “still working around the clock” on the case. Tina Armstrong was there again, still in her sunglasses. Frank watched her but could never tell where she was looking. He wondered about her photophobia, what caused her extreme sensitivity to light, and how it affected her job.

  After the press conference, Frank and King and the other senior staff met again, going around the table once more and reviewing all the active leads, of which there were only a handful.

  Sergeant Graves covered his investigation of the ransom drop this morning and speculated about why the kidnappers hadn’t shown. It still confused Frank. He’d thought it was a ruse, or a distraction, but nothing had come of it, and the money was now sitting in a nondescript cardboard box locked in the evidence room, waiting to go back to the bank and into Nick Martin’s accounts.

  Ted Shale, the FBI liaison, reiterated that neither he nor the FBI contacts he’d reached out to could get any traction on the case. He seemed as frustrated as Frank.

  King covered the psychic involvement and, to his credit, even mentioned the new “information” that the girls might be being held in somewhere dark and cold, surrounded by wood. The others nodded and smiled.

  “That helps,” Sergeant Burwell said, shaking his head. “Now I can stop searching all those sunny, open fields.”

  “Maybe you were looking for unicorns,” Graves said, smiling.

  King looked at Frank. “You got anything?”

  “I’ve spent the last two days interviewing people involved in the case,” Frank said, shaking his head. “But couldn’t come up with anything new.” He kept the information about Glenda and her new career to himself for now. And he looked at each man in turn, trying to see any hint of trouble, but they all looked him back in the eyes. If his hunch was right, and someone was feeding police information to the kidnappers, it couldn’t be one of these people seated around the table. They each appeared to be working hard to break the case.

  Maybe it was office staff or something like that.

  They wrapped up the meeting, and Frank and Chief King headed back to the Chief’s office and were starting to talk when Graves knocked on the door.

  “You guys got a sec?”

  King nodded and waved Graves into his office, but the man shook his head.

  “Let’s go for a walk.”

  They walked through the station, taking the glassed-in walkway over to the government side of the building. Graves kept walking, heading right out the front doors, which faced away from the front of the police station and the gaggle of reporters gathered around the entrance. Sergeant Graves turned and pointed at the McDonald’s around the corner, then started across the wide field that separated the building from the lot. King and Frank hurried to follow.

  “You got something?” King asked.

  “Maybe,” Graves said, glancing around as they walked. “I looked into it, like you asked before the press conference. And Frank might be right—strange things are turning up. Maybe that’s why there have been no breaks in the case. Anyway, I found stuff missing from the case files.”

  Chief King looked at Frank, then back to Graves. “What kind of stuff?”

  “I’m still pulling it together,” Graves said. “But it looks like someone on the staff.”

  “Who?” King demanded.

  Graves shook his head, as they reached the parking lot and weaved between the cars, all of which were covered with white plastic. This parking lot apparently was an auxiliary lot of new cars for the Honda dealership across the street.

  “I can’t say yet,” Graves said. “But it does seem to be someone in the department.”

  “Administration?” Frank asked. “A secretary or janitor?”

  “Sadly, I don’t think so,” Sergeant Graves said, shaking his head. “One thing I did find out for sure was that some of the tip line calls have been deleted.”

  “Dammit,” King said. “That sounds like someone covering his tracks. And those aren’t accessible by just anyone.”

  “Stan is working the tip line, right?” Frank asked.

  King and Graves glanced at each other.

  Graves nodded. “Yes, he is. I’ll look into that. But also, I was thinking about this, Chief. That money this morning, from the ransom—maybe it’s not safe in the station.”

  They walked in silence for another minute, then made it to the sidewalk and crossed Garber Avenue to the McDonald’s, heading inside.

  “You might be right,” King said when they’d gotten coffee and were seated. There was an attached play area, separated from the restaurant by large windows. Seeing the kids inside, playing and sliding on the equipment, Frank thought of Jackson.

  “Should we secure it offsite?” King continued. “One of the banks? Or maybe Shale should take it.”

  “I don’t know,” Graves said. “I’m not sure who to trust.”

  King nodded. “You should take it,” King said to Sergeant Graves. “For now, until we get it figured out.”

  Graves shook his head, smiling. “No, thanks,” he said. “I don’t even like handling that kind of money—too much pressure. I didn’t even like being in charge of it between the park and the station. I like the bank idea.”

  King turned to Frank. “You wanna hold it?”

  Frank was quiet for a moment, and then nodded. “I hate to agree, but if it is someone on your staff, the bank idea won’t fly—the information about which bank will get out. I can secure the money. There’s a safe in my hotel.”

  Graves nodded, agreeing.

  “Offsite is best. And it should be Shale or Mr. Harper to hold the money. We know they both are clean—they came into the case late.”

  Chief King nodded, making up his mind.

  “Good thinking,” he said. “Okay, Frank, we’ll escort you home today and get the money squared away in the safe at your hotel.”

  They sat, continuing to discuss the case before returning to the police station. The hours dragged on—Frank was so bored he even pitched in and staffed the tip line for a while, but nothing came of it. Frank did it mostly to observe Stan, but the man wasn’t working the same shift and wouldn’t be in until later in the day.

  Most of the other police officers were either out on routine patrol or getting set up for the big HarvestFest event taking place that night downtown. As the sun slid down the sky and peeked in the western windows of the police station, King came around carrying a cardboard box.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  Frank nodded. “Yup. Let me grab my stuff.”

  They walked out to the parking lot together, talking casually as they passed through the station. As far as anyone could tell, they were just carrying files out to their cars. A few reporters leaned against their trucks, but after a few “no comments,” they left Frank and King alone.

  They got to the Taurus and King set the box in the passenger seat.

  “Okay,” King said. “Secure that, then come out tonight, if you want—it’s four now. We’ll all be working the HarvestFest, which starts at seven.”

  Frank nodded. “See you there.”

  He drove back to the hotel, glancing over at the box of money several times. It made him nervous to be holding that kind of cash but also a little excited—if someone on the police force was dirty, and the
y found out he had the money, they might make a play for it. They might come for it, and for him. And, if he managed to not get killed, it could be a huge break in the case.

  The first problem occurred when he lugged the heavy box into the hotel and set it down on the front counter.

  “No, I’m sorry,” the young woman behind the counter said. “We don’t have a house safe, just the safes in the individual rooms.” Frank didn’t want to get into the details, or freak out the young lady by saying he had SO much money it wouldn’t fit in the room safe. Instead, he just nodded and carried the box upstairs.

  If someone was coming for the money, they’d have to go through him.

  44

  An hour later, Frank was going through his notes and the mind map again, looking for anything.

  He was also keeping a nervous ear out for footsteps in the hallway. If some dirty cop was coming for him and the money, he doubted the front desk would be calling to inform Frank he had a guest.

  Frank tried to relax and go through the notes. He allowed himself two glasses of the precious Maker’s Mark, trying to ration what he had left.

  He’d added some items from the recent day’s investigations to the large mind map taped to the windows looking out over the parking lot. Frank had begun circling aspects of the case that might indicate a traitor in their midst. He found the reference to Glenda’s photographs and made a note to look into that tomorrow. If she was always taking photos, there was an off-chance she’d been taking pictures the morning of the kidnapping, or in the week before. Perhaps someone had been casing her neighborhood, planning the abduction. Or she might have a big stack of boxes of photos somewhere that Frank could go through. It might not hurt—

  There was a knock at the door.

  Usually, the front desk called up to let him know he had a guest. Which meant either the front desk wasn’t paying attention, or the person had snuck in. Either way, Frank wasn’t taking any chances—he pulled the gun from his holster, then went to the door, standing off to one side.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Peters,” the voice came through the door.

  Frank smiled. Deputy Peters was, unfortunately, at the top of his dirty-cop suspect list.

  The guy knew everyone and everything about the case. But was he just pretending to be klutzy and a little behind the eight ball? And he’d specifically requested to be the one to help out Frank when he joined the case.

  And it made sense that Peters knew about the money—King had probably sent Peters to keep him company. Of course, there had to be someone working from the inside, and the only person Frank could really trust was Chief King. Frank hoped it wasn’t Peters, but there was only one way to be sure.

  Frank pulled the door open.

  “Donuts?” Peters asked, holding up another box from “Tim’s.” “It’s getting later, and I heard you were working on the files again. Plus I need to get to HarvestFest, but I was in the mood for coffee and donuts. You?”

  Frank hesitated. His gun was behind the door, pointed through the wood at Peters’ head. Or maybe the young cop just came to work.

  “Cool,” Frank said. “Come on in.”

  Frank pulled the door open all the way, tucking his gun in his waistband for now. The young deputy entered, smiling.

  “Isn’t that a little clichéd?” Frank asked. “Donuts for cops?”

  Peters smiled and set the box and carrier with two coffees down on the small table by the window next to the stacks of files. “You’re not a cop. And you didn’t complain today at the ransom drop.”

  “True.”

  Frank looked around at the room. It certainly looked different from days before, the first time a local cop showed up at his hotel room and asked for help. It used to be clean, but now it was a mess—pizza boxes, empty coffee drink containers, and stacks of paperwork. He’d asked the housekeeper to just make the bed and leave everything else alone—when he was in an investigation, he needed his stuff just so. Of course, he usually had an office and a desk. The housekeeper had argued with him, insisting she be allowed to at least take out the trash and clean the bathroom.

  “Find anything?” Peters asked, setting down a paper bag next to the donuts and pulling out two coffees. “All that stuff with the psychic was a complete waste of time.”

  “I don’t know—maybe she’s onto something.”

  Deputy Peters scoffed and sat down. “Nope, just blowing smoke up…well, you know.”

  Frank smiled and sat down across from Peters. He slid the gun from his waistband and aimed it under the table at the young cop.

  “Peters, why are you really here?”

  The young cop stopped in the middle of biting into a powdered donut, his eyes wide. There was powdered sugar on his face. It would have been comical if Frank wasn’t prepared to shoot him.

  “What?”

  Frank nodded. “I won’t ask again.”

  Peters set the donut down slowly. “Oh, I get it,” Peters said quietly. “You think I’m here for the money?”

  Frank shook his head. “Can Chief King keep anything to himself?”

  “I don’t know,” Peters said. “But he trusts me, and so should you. I’m here to solve the case, or at least try. Take my gun if you want,” Peters said, raising his hands.

  Frank slid his own hand out from under the table, revealing the gun aimed at Peters. The deputy looked at it, his eyes wide, but made no moves. In fact, he raised his hands even higher. Frank reached around and removed the man’s gun from the belt. The loop had still been strapped.

  Frank checked Peters off the list. If the young Deputy had been here to kill Frank, the kid wouldn’t have had his gun strapped in. It would’ve been ready to pull. But it never hurt to be careful. If Ben Stone had been more careful before heading off to Coral Gables, he wouldn’t have died with his gun still strapped in.

  “OK,” Frank said, putting his gun down.

  Peters shook his head. “Wow, you’re scary.”

  Frank put his gun away. “I’m having a hard time chalking this case up to bad luck,” he said. “I’ve been eliminating theories, one after another.”

  “You think it’s an inside job,” Peters said.

  Frank nodded.

  “Who would you suspect?” Frank asked, watching Peters. This next question could be crucial. “Anyone on the team not trying their hardest?”

  Deputy Peters sat back to think about it, nibbling on his donut. “I don’t know—maybe Stan Garber, but that’s because he’s dealing with a situation of his own.”

  “Hitting your wife isn’t a ‘situation,’ it’s a symptom of something else,” Frank said. “It’s completely under his control.”

  Peters nodded.

  “OK,” Frank said and slid Peters’ gun back across the table. “But think about it. And keep an eye out for anything odd. Now, do me a favor and review the case for me again. Just hit the high points.”

  Twenty minutes later, Peters wrapped up with the discussion he’d had with Chief King only an hour ago about the possibility of a leak in the department.

  “Do you have any ideas?” Frank asked while working on his second donut. Frank had to trust someone. If Peters was in on it, he was some kind of genius. And they were all screwed.

  “No,” Peters answered. “It’s like the Chief said—things are off but nothing solid yet. I’m glad Graves is looking into those missing files and the 911 calls. Either one of those could prove who is dirty, if Sergeant Graves can trace it back to a badge number.”

  Frank nodded at the boxes around him.

  “There is a pattern emerging in the files, a disturbing line of thought that kept popping up, again and again,” Frank said quietly. “The girl was taken by someone she knew, but all of the family members and friends of the family were accounted for. That meant that the girl was taken by a person of authority or someone that she believed was a person of authority, like someone dressed like a cop.”

  Peters nodded. “Or a real cop.”


  “And the kidnappers waited a long time before calling in the ransom demand,” Frank said. “Something that rarely happens. In most cases, the ransom call comes within four to six hours after the initial abduction. Statistically, a ransom call has come in that late in only 3% of cases in the U.S. over the past twenty years. So why did the kidnappers delay the call?”

  Deputy Peters nodded his head. “To get the girls situated,” Peters said. “And to keep us all searching, assuming it was a missing person’s case. Our department, and the volunteers, have combed every square inch of open space in Cooper’s Mill, and every public building and uninhabited home has been searched multiple times.”

  “Which was probably all just a big waste of time to keep you guys distracted,” Frank said.

  Peters nodded.

  “Then there was the ransom drop,” Frank continued. “It was a thing of beauty—for the kidnappers. The distracting girl, the car parked behind a shop with a back door, and the easily-located tracking devices on the money. No train passing through town, and it’s like they knew where all the roadblocks were located. Once they figured out how to remove the money from sight, the kidnappers were essentially home free. No police were stationed on that side of the southern end of town. Then across the tracks and out of town. There is something else going on here, and it all points to an inside job,” Frank said, looking down at the table. “I hate to say it, but someone connected to the police department is involved in the kidnapping.”

  Peters looked at the files in front of him. “It’s a very scary thought.”

  Frank nodded. “I haven’t worked a lot of cases like this, where everything seems to go wrong. Let’s go back through the files again, but this time, look for holes in the information, or places where it looks like things are missing. I’ll add them to the map. And jot down who worked on what pieces of the case. There might be a pattern there, too.”

  Peters glanced at his watch. “I’ve got an hour before I have to leave,” he said, grabbing a stack of files on the table.