She whimpers, recoils. In the dark, I can feel her snatch her hands back.
“Hey,” I try to reassure her. “It’s okay. Whatever he promised, whatever he threatened . . . He can’t hurt your family. That’s just something these guys say to control you. Trust me. It’ll be okay.”
“I’ll do what you want! Please. I already told you that.”
“What do you mean, you already told me that?”
“I’ve been good. I’ve been so good. I’ve done everything you said.” In the dark, she moves suddenly, seizes my hand. “Please. I did exactly as you said. Ever since you brought me here. I’ve done everything you told me to. Now, please, let me go home. I won’t tell anyone if you’ll just let me go home again.”
Chapter 30
TEN THIRTY MONDAY MORNING, D.D. finally arrived at HQ. She felt slightly breathless, mind still whirling from her conversation with the Atlanta FBI agent and the circumstances surrounding Flora Dane’s rescue from Jacob Ness. D.D. was also acutely aware of how behind she was in her supervisor duties. Actually working the case, check. Processing paperwork and managing leads, on the other hand . . .
She would be good today, she promised herself as she hammered up the stairs, coffee in one hand, leather messenger bag in the other. She would sit. She would focus. She would behave like an actual supervisor of homicide, butt glued to her chair, eyes on the stack of files on her desk. She would skim reports, dot i’s, cross t’s, and, you never know, make a groundbreaking discovery that would blow the case wide-open. Who said desk jobs didn’t matter?
Her resolution lasted as long as it took to round the corner to her office, where she found BPD’s newest detective, Carol Manley, waiting for her. The petite blonde was wearing yesterday’s clothes and was nearly bouncing in place, hair standing on end.
“Have you been here all night?” D.D. asked with a frown. Then: “Wait a second. You were going through the videotapes. Did you find footage of Flora’s abduction?”
“No. I found the building inspector.”
“You mean the kidnapper disguised as a building inspector?”
“No, the actual building inspector. Turns out, he’s for real!”
*
DETECTIVE CAROL MANLEY had definitely not slept the night before, and apparently she’d compensated with many, if not dozens, of cups of coffee. D.D., who prided herself on speaking caffeine, had to ask her to slow down several times to get the story out.
Carol had reviewed the footage pulled from various cameras in the vicinity of Flora’s apartment. But she hadn’t made any significant discoveries.
“There’s too many images,” she explained in a rush. “Too many locals, too many cars, too much foot traffic. Each frame, each camera, there are dozens and dozens of people. And since I don’t know who I’m looking for, how do I sort that out?”
“You start by looking for Flora,” D.D. interrupted.
“Sure. Flora. Except what Flora? She was gone Friday night, Saturday morning. I think I found a traffic cam clip of Dr. Keynes’s car turning down her street, but that’s it. No Flora walking the streets after that, and it’s not like I have direct video of her building. Best I can do is check traffic cam footage of cars passing through the intersection near her apartment to see if she’s in any of them. But again, so much traffic, so many cars, and so many windows.”
D.D. rubbed her forehead, conceding the point. Pulling local video always seemed like an excellent idea until, of course, you were the detective wading through it.
“So I got to thinking,” Carol continued in a rush. “What I needed was more information, another visual clue. Then it occurred to me, the landlords, Mary and James Reichter, had said the building inspector had visited on Tuesday.”
“Except the Housing Inspection Division has no record of that.”
“Exactly! But why not start with traffic cams from Tuesday, right? Generally speaking, there’s less traffic midmorning on a Tuesday than, say, a Saturday night. Plus, we know the suspect is a big guy, which would make him easier to see on camera. I figure maybe I can get us a video shot of the actual kidnapper or, if I’m really lucky, his vehicle and license plate.”
D.D. couldn’t help herself: She was impressed. Searching for images of the suspect from his visit to the apartment on Tuesday did make more sense as a starting point. And, yeah, a license plate . . .
“But you didn’t find him?” she asked Manley now.
“Oh, I found him. Riley Hayes. Except he’s not some guy pretending to be a building inspector. He’s an actual subcontractor who inspects buildings.”
“What? But the department—”
“Hasn’t seen his report yet. Hayes is still writing it up, that’s why there’s no record. But the traffic cam captured a vehicle passing through the intersection on Tuesday with a logo on the side: Hayes Inspections. I copied down the plate, made some calls, and voilà. Inspector Riley Hayes, who did visit the Reichters’ building on Tuesday.”
“But . . .” D.D. frowned, took a slug of coffee, frowned again. “I want to speak to him.”
Manley beamed, bounced up and down on her toes again. “I know. Which is why I have him waiting for you in room six.”
*
D.D. HAD TO TAKE A MINUTE. She stashed her messenger bag beneath her desk, shrugged out of her jacket, took a few more hits of caffeine. Her mind was whirling again, and not in a good way. The building inspector couldn’t be an actual inspector. Because that wouldn’t make any sense. A suspect checking out the building as a ruse to access keys would explain how the same person was able to enter Flora’s locked-tight apartment. But a real building inspector actually doing his job . . .
What were the odds?
Carol was waiting for her outside the meeting room. The detective was armed with a fresh cup of coffee, apparently oblivious to the twitch developing in her right eye. An experienced overcaffeinator, D.D. recognized the symptoms of a dark-roasted high, soon to be followed by an excruciating ice pick to the temple, low. Good luck with that, she thought, then opened the door to the interview room.
The BPD’s headquarters was a modern glass monstrosity that you either loved or hated. Either way, it wasn’t the dilapidated, leaky-pipe, stained, dropped-ceiling affair featured on so many cop shows. The homicide unit’s offices could’ve passed for an insurance company’s digs, with an expansive bank of windows, tasteful gray cubicles, and a blue sweep of commercial-grade carpet. Keeping with that theme, the department included several smaller rooms for private chats with families, quieter conversations between detectives.
Room six was really just that. A small room featuring a modest table, a couple of chairs. A viewing window that could be accessed from the hall. It was neither intimidating nor welcoming, which made it perfect for conversations like this: where D.D. was interviewing either a possible suspect or a fellow civil servant.
The inspector glanced up as D.D. opened the door. At first look, he was younger that D.D. would’ve thought. Close-cropped dark hair. Square jaw. Block shoulders. Big guy, the kind who would leave an impression on elderly landlords such as Mary and James Reichter. In his dark blue dress shirt, name embroidered in white thread on the left side, he also struck the right chord of confidence. Strong, competent professional.
No wonder Mary and James had handed him the keys to their building. D.D. imagined many female tenants and home owners would’ve gladly done the same.
“Riley Hayes?” she asked now, entering the room.
He nodded, not quite meeting her eye. Nervous, she thought. On the sketchy side of honest.
Then again, so were many people when summoned to HQ for official police questioning.
Carol Manley followed D.D. into the room, closing the door behind them. The room wasn’t that big; D.D. and Carol took a seat at the table, across from their person of interest, and there was just enough space left over to breathe.