"Tread marks! The Mercedes's tread marks."
"There's hope for you after all, boy--if you apply yourself and work real hard. Okay, Counselor, this's gonna take some time. Listen, you sit tight and have some nice hot mashed potatoes. And think of me when you eat 'em."
*
Konnie Konstantinatis's first lesson in police work was to watch his father fool the tax men like 'coons tricking hounds.
The old Greek immigrant was petty, weak, dangerous, a cross between a squirrel and a ferret. He was a born liar and had an instinct for knowing human nature cold. He put stills next to smokehouses, stills next to factories, stills in boats, disguised them like henhouses. Hid his income in a hundred small businesses. Once he smooth-talked a revenuer into arresting Konnie's father's own innocent brother-in-law instead of him and swore an oath at the trial that cost the bewildered man two years of his life.
So from the age of five or six Konnie had observed his father and had learned the art of evasion and deception. And therefore he'd learned the art of seeing through deceit.
This was a skill to be practiced slowly and tediously. And this was how he was going to find the man who'd kidnapped Tate Collier's daughter.
Konnie arranged for a small crane to lift Megan's car out of its spot, rather than drive it out and risk obliterating the Merce's tread marks.
He then spent the next two hours taking electrostatic prints of the twelve tire treads that he could isolate and differentiate--ones he determined weren't from Megan's car. He then identified the matching left and right tires and measured wheelbases and lengths of the cars they'd come from. He jotted all this, in lyrical handwriting, into a battered leather notebook.
He then went over the entire parking space with a Dustbuster and--hunched in the front seat of his car--looked over all the trace evidence picked up in the paper filter. Most of it was nothing more than dust and meaningless without laboratory analysis. But Konnie found one obvious clue: a single fiber that came from cheap rope. He recognized it because in one of the three kidnapping cases he'd worked over the past ten years the victim's hands had been bound with rope that shed fibers just like this.
Speeding back to the office, the detective sat down at his computer and ran the wheel dimensions through the motor vehicle specification database. One set of numbers perfectly fit the dimensions for a Mercedes sedan.
He examined the electrostatic prints carefully. Flipping through Burne's Tire Identifier, he concluded that they were a rare model of Michelin and because they showed virtually no wear he guessed the tires were no more than three or four months old. Encouraging, on the one hand, because they were unusual tires and it would be easier to track down the purchaser. But troubling too. Because they were expensive, as was the model of the car the man was driving. It was therefore likely that the perp was intelligent, which suggested he was an organized offender--the hardest to find.
And the sort of criminal that presented the most danger.
Konnie then started canvassing. It was Saturday evening and although most of the tire outlets were still open--General Tire, Sears, Merchants, Mercedes dealerships--the managers had gone home. But nothing as trivial as this stopped Konnie. He blustered and bullied until he had the names and home phone numbers of night staff managers of the stores' recordkeeping and data-processing departments.
He made thirty-eight phone calls and by the time he hung up from speaking with the last parts department manager on his list, faxes of bills of sale were starting to roll into police headquarters.
But the information wasn't as helpful as he'd hoped. Most of the sales receipts included the manufacturer of the customer's car and the tag number. Some had the model number but virtually none had the color. The list kept growing. After an hour he had copies of 142 records of the sales of that model of Michelin in the past twelve months to people who owned Mercedeses.
He looked over the discouragingly lengthy list of names.
Standard procedure was to run the names through the outstanding warrants/prior arrests database. But a net like that didn't seem to be the sort that would catch this perp--he wasn't a chronic 'jacker or a shooter with a long history of crime. Still, Konnie was a cop who dotted his i's and he handed the stack to Genie. "You know what to do, darling."
"It's seven forty-two on a Saturday night, boss," the assistant pointed out.
"You had dinner at least."
"Lemme tell you something, Konnie," the huge woman said, nodding at the KFC bags. "Throw those out. They're starting to stink."
Dutifully, he did. As he returned to his desk he grabbed his ringing phone.
" 'Lo?"
"Detective Konstantinatis, please?"
"Yeah."
"This is Special Agent McComb with the FBI. Child Exploitation and Kidnapping Unit."
"Sure, how you doin'?" Konnie'd worked with the unit occasionally. They were tireless and dedicated and top-notch.
"I'm doing a favor for my boss in Quantico. He asked me to take a look at the Megan McCall case. You're involved in that, right?"
"Yup."
"It's not an active case for us but you know Tate Collier's the girl's father, right?"
"Know that."
"Well, he did some pretty good work for us when he was a commonwealth's attorney so I said I'd look into her disappearance. As a favor."
"Just what I'm doing, more or less. But I'm gonna present it as an active case to my captain tonight."
"Are you really?"
"Found some interesting forensics." Konnie was thinking, Man, if I could turn the tire data over to the feds . . . the FBI has a whole staff of people who specialize in tires.
"That's good to know. We ought to coordinate our approaches. Do some proactive thinking."
"Sure." Konnie's thinking was: They might be the best cops in the world but feebies talk like assholes.
The agent said, "I'm up at Ernie's, near the parkway. You know it?"
"Sure. It's a half mile from me."
"I was about to order dinner and was reading the file when I saw your name. Maybe I could come by in an hour or so. Or maybe--this might appeal to you, Officer--you might want to join me? Let Uncle Sam pick up the dinner tab."
He paused for a moment. "Why not? Be there in ten minutes."
"Good. Bring whatever you've got."
"Will do."
They hung up. Konnie stuck his head in Genie's office, where she was looking over the warrants and arrests request results. "Everything's negative, Konnie."
"Don't worry. We got the feds on the case now."
"My."
He took the stack of faxed receipts from her desk, shoved them into his briefcase and headed out the door.
Konnie was feeling pretty good. Ernie's served some great mashed potatoes.
Chapter Twenty-two
Aaron Matthews sat at a booth in a dark corner of the restaurant, looking out the window at a tableau of heavy equipment, bright yellow in the dusk, squatting on a dirt hillside nearby.
This was an area that five years ago had been fields and was now rampantly overgrown with town houses and apartments and strip malls. Starbucks, Chesapeake Bagels, Linens 'n' Things. Ernie's restaurant fit in perfectly, an upscale franchise. Looked nice on the surface but beneath the veneer it was all formula. Matthews stirred as the waddling form of Detective Konstantinatis entered the restaurant and maneuvered through the tables.
Watching the man's eyes, seeing where they slid--furtively, guiltily.
Always the eyes. Matthews waved and Konstantinatis nodded and steered toward him. Matthews had no idea what official FBI identification looked like and wouldn't have known how to fake some if he had but he'd dressed in a suit and white shirt--what he always wore when seeing patients--and had brought several dog-eared file folders, on which he'd printed FBI PRIVILEGED AND CONFIDENTIAL with stencils he'd made from office materials bought at Staples. These sat prominently in front of him.
He hoped for the best.
But after gl
ancing at the files the detective merely scooted into the seat across from Matthews and shook his hand.
They made small talk for a few moments--Matthews using his best government-speak. Stiff, awkward. If the fake files hadn't fooled the cop the stilted language surely would have.
The waitress came and they ordered. Matthews wasn't surprised when the detective ordered milk with dinner. Matthews himself ordered a beer.
He said, "I'm afraid we don't have many leads. But from what you were telling me you think there's a chance she was kidnapped?"
"First I just thought she ran off. But there's apparently a tape that shows somebody switching her car with this gray Mercedes around the time she vanished. And maybe hustling the girl into the trunk, unconscious."
"I see," said Aaron Matthews, who felt fire burn right through him. His battleship gray 560 sat in the parking lot, fifty feet from them. Resplendent with its stolen license plates.
A tape? Who'd taken it? He was furious for a moment but anger was a luxury he had no time for.
"You've got this tape?"
"Vanished into thin air. Long story."
"Oh."
"Don't envy you that job," the detective said. "Looking for missing kids all day long. Must be hard." Revealing a sentimental side Matthews wouldn't have guessed he had.
Matthews said in a soft voice, "It's where I feel I can make the most difference." Their drinks came. They clinked glasses. Matthews spilled some beer on the table. Wiped it up sloppily with a cocktail napkin.
"Detective--"
"Call me 'Konnie.' Everybody else does."
"Okay, Konnie. I hate to ask but I don't know this Collier and the question's come up. Do you think there was anything between him and the girl?"
"Naw. Not Tate. If anything, just the opposite."
"How's that?"
"Hell, I didn't even know he had a daughter until we'd been working together awhile. It's not that. I do think somebody 'napped her. No motive yet, though might be a case Tate's working on. He's decided this local real estate guy didn't do it. But I'm not so sure. I also have some thoughts about the girl's aunt--apparently she's pretty jealous of her sister having a child."
Bett's sister . . . How did Konnie know about her?
"I 'statted some tire treads and got a list of a hundred and a half people bought that brand of tire in the past year. Could I give you the receipts"--he patted the briefcase--"have your people check 'em out?"
"Be happy to. Have you done anything with them yet?"
"Just run 'em through the outstanding warrants and arrests. Nothing showed up."
Planning for the kidnapping, Matthews had bought new tires for the car two months ago; he couldn't afford to be slowed up by a flat. At least when he'd taken the car into General Tire he'd given a fake name and paid cash.
"But then I got to thinking," Konnie continued, "on the way over here, what I shoulda done--I shoulda looked at the receipts and found out who paid cash. Anybody who did, I figure it'd be a fake name. I mean, those tires cost big money. Nobody pays cash for something like that. So what your folks could do is check the tags and see if the name matches--on all the cash receipts. If they don't then that's our prime suspect."
Jesus in heaven. Matthews hadn't swapped plates when he'd taken the car in to have the new tires mounted. The tag would reveal his real name and the address of his rental house in Prince William County. Which didn't match the fake information he'd given the clerk at the tire store.
"That's a good idea," Matthews said. "A proactive idea." He sounded casual but he wanted to scream. A dark mood hovered over him.
The food came and Konnie ate hungrily, hunched over his meal.
Matthews picked at his. He'd have to act soon. He flagged the waitress down and ordered another beer.
"You want to give me those receipts?" Matthews nodded at the briefcase.
"Sure, but let's go back to headquarters after. It's right up the street here. You can fax 'em to your office."
"Okay."
The second beer came. Konnie glanced at it for a second, returned to his food.
"This Tate Collier," Matthews said slowly, savoring his microbrew. "Sounds like a good man."
"None better. Best fucking lawyer in the commonwealth. I get sick of these shits getting off on technicalities. When Collier was arguing the case they went to jail and stayed there."
Matthews held up the beer. "To your theory of tires."
The detective hesitated then they tapped glasses. Matthews drank half the beer, exhaled with satisfaction and set it down. "Hot for April, don't you think?"
"Is," the detective grunted.
Matthews asked, "You on duty now?"
"Naw, I been off for three hours."
"Then hell, chug down that milk and let me buy you a real drink." He tapped the beer.
"No thanks."
"Come on, nothing like a nice beer on a hot day."
"Fact is, I gave up drinking a few years back."
Matthews looked mortified. "Oh, I'm sorry."
"Not at all."
"I wasn't thinking. A man drinking milk. Shouldn't have ordered this. I am sorry."
The cop held up a calm hand. " 'S no problem at all. I don't hold with making other folk change their way of life 'cause of me."
Matthews lifted the glass of beer. "You want me to get rid of it or anything?"
As the cop glanced at the beer his eyes flashed--the same as they had when he'd walked through the bar, looking longingly at the row of bottles lined up like prostitutes on a street corner.
"Nope," the detective said. "You can't go hiding from it." He ate some more mashed potatoes then said, "Where you find most of the runaways go?"
Matthews enjoyed each small sip of the beer. The detective eyed him every third or fourth. The aroma from the liquid he'd spilled--on purpose--filled the booth with a sour malty scent. "Always the big city. What a lure New York is. They think about getting jobs, becoming Madonna or whoever the girls want to become nowadays. The boys think they'll get laid every night." Matthews sipped the beer again and looked outside. "Damn hot. Imagine that battle."
"Bull Run?"
"Yep, well, I call it first Manassas but that's because I'm from Pennsylvania." Matthews enjoyed another sip. "You married?"
Or did the wife leave the drunk?
"Was. Divorced now."
"Kids?"
Or did they cut Daddy off cold when they got tired of him passing out during Jeopardy! on weeknights and puking to die every Sunday morning?
"Two. Wife's got 'em. See 'em some holidays."
Matthews poured down another mouthful. "Must be tough."
"Can be." The fat cop took refuge in his potatoes.
After a minute Matthews asked, "So, you a graduate?"
"How's that?"
"Twelve steps."
"AA? Sure." The cop glanced down at his beefy hands. "Been four years, four months."
"Eight years for me."
Another flicker in the eyes. The cop glanced at the beer.
Matthews laughed. "You're where you are, Konnie. And I'm where I am. I was drinking a fifth of fucking bad whiskey every day. Hell, at least that. Sometimes I'd crack the revenue of a second bottle just after dinner." Konnie didn't notice how FBI-speak had turned into buddy talk, with syntax and vocabulary very similar to his.
" 'Crack the revenue.' " Konnie laughed. "My daddy used to say that."
So had some of Matthews's patients.
"Bottle and a half? That's a hell of a lot of drinking."
"Oh, yes, it was. Yes sir. Knew I was going to die. So I gave it up. How bad was it for you?"
The cop shrugged and shoveled peas and potatoes into his mouth.
"Hurt my marriage bad," he offered. Reluctantly the cop added, "I guess it killed my marriage."
"Sorry to hear that," Matthews said, thrilling at the sorrow in the man's eyes.
"And it was probably gonna kill me someday."
"What was your drin
k?" Matthews asked.
"Scotch and beer."
"Ha! Mine too. Dewar's and Bud."
Konnie's eyes grew troubled. "So you . . . what?" The cop nodded at the tall-neck bottle. "What happened? You fell off, huh?"
Matthews's face turned reverential. "I'll tell you the God's truth, Konnie." He took a delicious sip of beer. "I believe in meeting your weaknesses head-on. I won't run from them."
The cop grunted affirmatively.
"See, it seemed too easy to give up drinking completely. You understand me?"
"Not exactly."
"It was the coward's way. A lot of people just stop drinking altogether. But that's as much a failure to me . . . sorry, don't take this personal."
"Not at all, keep going. I'm interested."
"That's as much a failure to me as somebody who drinks all the time."
"Guess that makes some sense," the cop said slowly.
Matthews swirled the beer seductively in his glass.
"Take a man addicted to sex. You know that can be a problem?"
"I've heard. They got a twelve-step for that too, you know?"
"Right. But he can hardly give up sex altogether, right? That'd be unnatural."
Konnie nodded.
Oh, he's with me, Matthews thought. Hell, this is like sex talking your way into a man's soul. He felt so high. "So," he continued, "I just got back to the point where I could control it."
"And that worked?" Konnie asked. The toady little man seemed awestruck.
"You betcha. I stopped cold for two years. Just like I told myself I'd do. This was all planned out. Sometimes it was tough as hell. I'm not gonna sugarcoat it. But God helped me. As soon as I had it under control, two years to the day I stopped, I took my first drink. One shot of Dewar's. Drank it down like medicine."
"What happened?"
"Nothing. Felt good. Enjoyed it. Didn't have another. Didn't have anything for a week. Then I had another shot and a Bud. I let a month go by."
"A month?" Konnie whispered.
"Right. Then I poured a glass of scotch. Let it sit in front of me. Looked at it, smelled it, poured it down the drain. Let another month go by."
The cop shook his head in wonder. "Sounds like you're one of them masochists or whatever you call 'em." But there was a desperation in his laugh.
"Sometimes we have to find the one thing that's hardest for us and turn around and stare right at it. Go deep. As deep as we can go. That's what courage is. That's what makes men out of us."
"I can respect what you're saying."
"I've been drinking off and on for the past six years. Never been drunk once." He leaned forward and rested his hand on the cop's hammy forearm. "Remember that feeling when you were first drinking?"