The Abduction

18

Harley Abrams arrived in Philadelphia just before 3:00 P.M. It had been his idea to put a nationwide trace on every vehicle that had been rented or stolen in Nashville in the past week. With virtually every law enforcement agency on alert, it had taken less than twenty-four hours to locate them. Only one trace, however, had led to the doorstep of a murder victim. Harley figured this one was worth a trip.

A young female agent from the Philadelphia field office met him at the airport in a four-door Mercury, a typical “Bucar,” the Bureau’s appellation for its vehicles. Harley sat in the passenger seat, deep in thought, jotting down notes on a yellow pad as they headed down the expressway. As they exited near downtown, he looked up, pen in hand.
“I don’t want any snags with any evidence pulled from this apartment,” he said. “You see any problems with the search warrant the Philadelphia police obtained?”
She shrugged, keeping her eyes on the road. “Our assistant U.S. attorney doesn’t think so. The patrolman ran a check on the license tag, confirmed it was reported stolen in Nashville just two hours after Kristen Howe was abducted. Police checked with the landlord, found the parking space was assigned to Diane Combs in apartment two-oh-one. They knocked on the door, nobody answered. They called her work, found out she didn’t show up this morning. Didn’t call in sick, nothing. I think it all adds up to probable cause. Obviously the magistrate thinks so, too, or he wouldn’t have issued the warrant.”
Harley nodded, satisfied.
They turned at the main entrance to Chestnut Apartments, a sprawling collection of beige, low-rent, two-story units with red shingle roofs. A fence surrounded the complex, but it had no security gate. This afternoon, however, a patrolman was posted at the entrance. Harley rolled down his window and flashed his credentials.
“I’m looking for Detective Wyatt,” he said.
The patrolman pointed the way, then radioed ahead to let the crime scene investigation team know Abrams was coming.
Gawkers had gathered in the parking lot, and a police officer split the crowd, allowing the FBI car to pass. They parked at the yellow police tape, near a van marked MEDICAL EXAMINER. Three squad cars and two unmarked cars formed a semicircle around the stolen 1997 Chevy Camaro with Tennessee license tags. Forensic experts were checking for fingerprints and gathering fibers from the seats and carpet. Two men from the medical examiner’s office were wheeling a gurney through the open door to apartment 201.
Harley stepped down from the Bucar and buttoned his jacket, thinking it felt more like January than November. A tall black man wearing a frumpy brown trench coat and a five o’clock shadow approached.
“Detective Wyatt,” he said, introducing himself. “Homicide.”
“Harley Abrams, FBI. I’m the inspector overseeing the Howe kidnapping case.”
“I know who you are. What can I do for you?”
“I’m simply trying to coordinate our efforts. I recognize homicide is your jurisdiction, but this crime scene could yield some important evidence in our kidnapping case.”
Wyatt made a face. “You think the people who pulled off the kidnapping of Lincoln Howe’s granddaughter were actually stupid enough to steal a getaway car in Nashville and drive it all the way to Philly?”
“When you’re dealing with crimes this big, you often see a bravado that makes these guys think no matter what they do, they won’t get caught. Six years ago, we caught the World Trade Center bombers because they went back to the rental agency to claim the deposit on the truck they’d used to blow up the building. Stealing a getaway car doesn’t seem half that stupid.”
The detective nodded in apparent agreement.
“Tell me about the victim,” said Abrams.
“Diane Combs. Worked as a grocery store cashier most of the time, but dabbled in prostitution when she needed drugs. Been in and out of rehab eleven times in six years. If you ask me, she doesn’t seem much like the big-time kidnapper type.”
“You mind if I look inside the apartment?”
“Be my guest.”
Harley followed the cracked sidewalk to the open front door. A forensic evidence squad was scouring the living room carpet and furniture. Harley stepped by them without a word, turned down the hall, and headed straight for the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway.
Diane Combs’s body lay on the floor, still wrapped in a bedsheet, outlined in chalk. Her open eyes were beginning to flatten from loss of fluid. A trail of blood had oozed from the hole in her forehead, covering one eye, ending in a dark crimson stain on the carpet. Harley noticed that the blood had not yet completely dried. He knelt beside the body, laying the back of his hand against her cheek. It was still warm. Her head moved when he touched it, indicating that rigor mortis had yet to tighten her neck muscles. Probably dead less than three hours, he figured. The killer couldn’t be too far away.
Harley rose. “Any sign of struggle or break-in?”
“None,” said Wyatt.
Harley stepped toward the bed and pressed down on the mattress. Soft, he noticed. It retained his handprint. He knelt down so that his eyes were at eye level with the mattress.
“You can still see indentions on both sides of the bed,” he said. “Looks to me like there were two people sleeping here last night.” He rose and glanced at the victim, then at Wyatt. “We know who one of them is. Find out who the other one is, and you’ll solve your homicide. And we may solve my kidnapping.”
“What’s your theory?” asked Wyatt.
“Until now, we’ve favored the notion that this was a well-planned kidnapping by sophisticated criminals. But maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment fling by some small-time loser who smoked a joint, stole a car, got giddy with excitement, and decided he could actually be somebody if he did something important like kidnapping General Howe’s granddaughter. Maybe Ms. Combs is an old girlfriend. He stops here for the night and brings Kristen inside, thinking it would impress the lady. Instead, she freaks out, says she wants no part of it. He freaks at her reaction, kills her. I’m just speculating at this point. But I want to bring an evidence team in to help you. Fortunately, Kristen’s mother had the foresight to use a DNA swab kit, so all we need is a single hair to confirm whether Kristen was here or not. I also want to make sure we gather every shred of evidence that will identify whoever it was who put the bullet in Ms. Combs’s head.”
“Sounds like this could be the break you’ve been looking for,” said Wyatt.
“Let’s hope so,” said Abrams. “In this business, there’s no time for dead ends.”


By Wednesday afternoon, Natalie Howe knew her way around her daughter’s kitchen. She was making tea for Tanya and the three Nashville FBI agents who were monitoring the house when the doorbell rang. Tanya rose from her chair in front of the television, but one of the agents stopped her.
“Let me check it,” he said.
Tanya turned back to the television. She’d been glued to CNN, which had replaced election coverage with frequent updates on the kidnapping.
The agent peered through the peephole. A white van with the familiar blue and red FedEx logo was parked at the curb. The deliverywoman was standing on the porch.
“Just a minute,” the agent said through the door. He pulled out his cellular phone and called FedEx to verify the delivery. It checked out. He opened the door.
“I have a letter-pak for Lincoln or Natalie Howe.”
“We’ll take it,” said the agent. He signed for it and closed the door.
Another agent stepped forward with a hand-held metal detector and passed it over the flat letter-pak. Nothing. He looked at Mrs. Howe and said, “We can run it over to the field office and have it X-rayed for you, even have dogs sniff it for explosives or poisons.”
“How long will that take?” she asked.
“Couple of hours. I strongly advise it.”
“But what if this has something to do with Kristen? We may not have a couple of hours.” Her eyes begged for someone to tell her what to do.
Tanya stepped forward. “I’ll open it.”
“No!” said Natalie. “It was addressed to me and Lincoln. If something’s going to happen, let it happen to us. I’ll open it.”
Natalie took the envelope, then retreated alone to the dining room and sat at the head of the table. She drew a deep breath and ripped it open. She paused, as if expecting a mushroom cloud or burst of cyanide gas, but nothing came. She removed a single sheet of paper. Her eyes darted nervously as she read the typewritten message: ONE MILLION DOLLARS. HUNDRED-DOLLAR BILLS. BY FRIDAY. INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, then flipped the message over. Taped to the backside was Kristen Howe’s identification card from Wharton Middle School.
She shivered, realizing the demand was no hoax.
Across the bottom, someone had scrawled a handwritten message—almost as if it were written as a postscript. “If the cops see this, Kristen dies.”
Her hand shook uncontrollably.
The FBI agent stepped forward. “What is it, Mrs. Howe?”
She pressed the message to her bosom, shielding it from all eyes but her own. “I can’t tell you,” she said in a quaking voice. “Not until I speak to Lincoln.”