“No, no,” Darden protested. “I’ve got to be the one to do it. They’ll be expecting me.”
“They may not even know what you look like,” Don Jasper reasoned. “So why take the chance?”
“Oh, please,” Darden said. “You can Google my name and get a dozen hits just from the Tribune alone.”
“Then he wears a vest and we put a wire on him,” Harvey Bagin suggested.
“And a tracking device,” Keith Sunder said.
“A camera would be even better,” Bagin said. “That way he can broadcast in real time.”
Thacker wasn’t so sure. “If the kidnapper’s a pro, he’ll spot that shit in a heartbeat.”
“What if he’s not a pro?” Jasper said. “What if it’s who we think it is? That crazy doll lady and some guy?”
“We’re still not sure who we’re dealing with,” Thacker said. “From what Mr. Darden has told us, the man he spoke to last night sounded older than the fellow who cold-cocked the babysitter. Somebody a little more slick, a lot more rehearsed.”
“It was a man,” Darden said. “And fairly well spoken at that. I sure as hell didn’t talk to any dumb kid.”
“When’s the kidnapper supposed to call back?” Jasper asked.
“He just said he’d call today.” Darden cast a panicked glance at the cell phone that sat on the table in front of him.
Thacker gazed at him. “Did you get the money together yet?”
“We’ll be doing that in two shakes,” Jasper said. “Going over to First Federal. Talk to . . .” He looked at Darden.
“Bruce Billiard,” Darden said. “VP of their Private Client Group.”
“And you can get the full two million?” Thacker asked.
“Yes,” Darden said.
Max glanced at Afton and wiggled his eyebrows.
“And please tell me we have Mr. Darden’s cell phone carrier on full alert?” Thacker said.
“All that’s been taken care of,” said Dick Boyce, one of the techs.
“I don’t care what anybody says,” Bagin said. “I still think we need to track him.”
“What if the kidnapper wants to make the exchange in the middle of a cornfield out in East Bumbleburg?” Thacker asked.
“Tracking is still tracking,” Bagin argued.
The debates and arguments raged on, with Afton sitting next to Max, both of them following along as if they were watching a tennis match at Wimbledon.
Finally, tasked with technical, financial, and legal responsibilities, people began filtering out of the room until only a handful remained.
Thacker took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes tiredly, and glanced at Afton and Max. “You two still here?”
“What do you need from us, boss?” Max asked.
“Don’t call me ‘boss,’” Thacker said. “I thought you were going to pay a visit to that mystery lady over at Novamed.”
“Just say the word,” Max said. “But she’s not a mystery anymore. Darden spilled everything.”
“Okay,” Thacker said. “Go now. It probably won’t amount to much, but do it anyway. And keep in touch, okay?”
“Will do,” Afton said. Though the stakes were high, she was tingling with excitement. The hunt was shaping up; the dogs were snapping their jaws.
*
THE reception area at Novamed was just as stark and antiseptic as Afton remembered it. Andrew and his same cookie cutter buddy were still officiously manning the front desk, though they seemed somewhat less cordial this time around.
Max, however, was enjoying himself. He dangled a piece of paper in front of their noses and said, “This piece of paper is a subpoena signed by District Court Judge Marsha Folbridge. It gives us complete and total access to Richard Darden’s personnel records as well as to Eleanor Winters, the heretofore unnamed woman in the sexual harassment arbitration that took place here on corporate premises this past October.”
Andrew sighed and punched a button. When his party answered, he said, “We have two detectives here who want to inspect Richard Darden’s personnel records.” He listened for a few moments, and then said, “Yes, they do. It seems to be in order.” He hung up and said, “Sign in, take a badge, and please take a seat. Someone will be down to fetch you.”
“Thank you,” Max said.
Max signed his name, and then passed the pen to Afton.
They waited five minutes, then ten minutes. Afton sensed this might be carefully calculated. To give the Novamed folks a chance to collect their thoughts. Or worst-case scenario, shred their documents.
Finally, a door opened and Betty Randle came bustling out. She was dressed in black once again, a severely tailored skirt suit, and had her blond hair done up in what Afton thought might be an old-fashioned French roll. Or maybe the style had swung back into fashion again as a hip, retro look.
“We meet again,” Randle said. Then, “May I see the subpoena, please?”