Touch & Go

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

  Wyatt shook his head, finished up his coffee. “I want to head over to the Denbes’ residence. So far, we’re taking everyone else’s word for what happened. Nothing personal, but I want to know for myself.”

  “We need contact,” Kevin observed, downing his own cup. “A ransom demand, something. That will get our wheels humming again.”

  “Nah, we don’t need to wait for the kidnappers to find us. We need to use good old-fashioned investigative techniques in order for us to find them. Starting with answering my question of the day.”

  “Which is?”

  “If this is just about money, why take the entire family?”

  “Oh, I can answer that.”

  “Really? Dazzle me, Brainiac.”

  “Economies of scale. You heard the construction team’s description of Justin Denbe. Big guy, handy with a gun, tough in body and spirit. Would you send one person to grab a man like that?”

  Wyatt saw his point. “Guess not.”

  “Except, the moment you get more bodies involved, you’re also slicing up the ransom pie. One guy grabbing Justin Denbe would earn two million. But three guys grabbing Justin Denbe only get six hundred sixty-six thousand six hundred and sixty-six dollars. Not nearly the same payday, given the amount of work. However, add in the wife at one mil and the daughter at another mil, and suddenly, the math becomes attractive again.”

  “Economies of scale. Except, the wife and child add risk, too. Three people to control, transport, house and feed. Seems like you’re back to adding manpower and diluting payoff. Except…”

  And suddenly Wyatt had it. The thought that had been with him since 2:00 A.M. Why you would take a family, and not just a man. Why a case was never about P and Ls, but always about what made people tick.

  “Control,” Wyatt stated, and the moment he said the word, he knew he was right. “Think about it. A guy with Justin Denbe’s reputation—the kidnappers figure they’ll need multiple men to grab him and even then, they’re nervous. Which is an even better reason for taking the wife and daughter. Justin Denbe, on his own, might fight back. But now, with these guys holding his family… Whatever he tries, his wife and only child will pay the price.” Wyatt paused, shook his head. “Man, these guys are good.”

  THEY FOUND THE DENBES’ BROWNSTONE shortly after 8:00 A.M. Wyatt wasn’t an urban guy, but their quaint, tree-lined avenue, featuring row after row of meticulously restored historical town houses, he could get into. This was the face of Boston that tourists paid good money to see. Not to mention an architectural advertisement for how the other half lived.

  The neighborhood was quiet this early on a Sunday morning. The street was completely lined with cars, of course. Porsche Carreras, Volvo station wagons, Mercedes sedans. If this is what the residents felt comfortable parking on the street, Wyatt could only wonder at what they had stashed in private garages.

  He didn’t see any sign of a mobile command center outside the Denbes’ home, wasn’t even sure where there was space for such an immense vehicle to park. He also couldn’t make out the sign of major police presence but figured Boston had ordered roving patrols, that sort of thing. In case the Denbes suddenly resurfaced. Or even luckier for them, the kidnappers returned to the scene of the crime.

  For now, the only sign that something wicked had this way come was a relatively discreet line of yellow crime-scene tape across the top section of the front door. Probably to keep from over-alarming the neighbors. Or, even to maintain good relations within the community. After all, people who paid this kind of money for real estate probably didn’t want any perceived disruptions to their homes’ net worth.

  Kevin circled the block four or five times. They finally parked in a public garage and hoofed it back. Nice morning for a walk. Chilly, as the air carried a late-fall bite. But the sun was out, the redbrick sidewalk warming and the town houses’ various-colored facades glowing as they narrowed in on their target.

  The Denbes’ front door—dark-stained walnut, he thought—was closed. Wyatt started with the basics: He knocked.

  And the door opened.

  For a second, he stood there, slack-jawed. Watching the heavy wood swing open, thinking, My God, they’re back! But then the walnut door completed its inward arc and he found himself staring at Tessa Leoni, in crisp black trousers and a white dress shirt. She could’ve been a Realtor, except for the rather large gun holstered at her hip.

  “Figured you’d pay a visit,” she stated without preamble. “A good investigator always has to see for himself.”

  She took a step back and allowed Wyatt and Kevin to enter the home.

  WYATT FELL IN LOVE WITH THE STAIRCASE. He tried not to stare. Hell, it was all he could do not to run his hands over such richly grained hardwood. Mahogany, he was guessing. Freshly oiled, patina darkened. And, oh, the graceful curve of the lower landing, the hand-hewn craftsmanship of each individual spindle, the hours of meticulous, painstaking labor.

  Except, then he turned away from the staircase toward the front sitting room to discover built-in shelves, a gorgeously restored fireplace mantel, the original crown dentil molding… He gave up. He stood in the middle of the foyer, strewn with crime-scene placards and dusted with fingerprint powder, and he beheld a carpenter’s wonderland.

  “Impressive, huh?” Tessa remained standing next to the door. He noticed she had a thing for personal space. And she wore her dark hair pulled back a tad too tight, as if she cared less for hairstyle and more for control.

  “Holy shit,” he observed politely.

  She smiled, her shoulders coming down a fraction. “By all accounts, Libby Denbe was the hostess with the mostest. Had a degree in creative arts, something like that, which you can see in some of the color choices. At least, they seem very creative to me, given that my own house is mostly white, white and, well, white.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Just bought a little bungalow in Arlington. Small probably by New Hampshire standards, but works for me.”

  “You got a family?”

  “A daughter.” She eyed him thoughtfully, as if slightly surprised. “My husband died two years ago.” Another expectant pause. Wyatt looked around the foyer. Kevin was already busy examining the evidence placards, his brow furrowed in concentration, which meant that Wyatt was on his own.

  “Sorry to hear that,” he drawled politely.

  She smiled again, but it was ironic now. “It’s because you’re from New Hampshire,” she murmured. “I forget, sometimes, that not everyone cares about Boston news. Would you like the nickel tour? The feebies have yet to leave their mobile command center, meaning for the moment, the place is ours.”

  Wyatt drew up short. “Mobile command center? Where?”

  “The back alley that runs behind the townhomes. That’s where everyone has garage access, parking spaces, the less glamorous stuff. That’s how Back Bay works. You get these beautiful scenic streets, say, Marlborough, where you behold the front facade of each town house. Then you get a narrow back alley that runs behind it, featuring the much less glamorous rear of each building. Boston FBI pulled in last night. Big white mobile command center, very pretty on the outside, I’m betting lots of cool toys on the inside. Now, my turn: Is it just me, or do you have a history with the blond agent?”

  “Nicole?” Wyatt fell in step beside Tessa and she led him away from the foyer toward what appeared to be the kitchen. “History is the operative word.”

  “She good?”

  “I’d say so. Smart, resourceful, ambitious. If I were missing, I wouldn’t mind her handling my case.”

  “Good to know.”

  Arriving in the state-of-the-art kitchen, first thing Wyatt spotted was the pile of personal possessions topping the granite island. The FBI had left the items intact, Tessa informed him, as they had some behavioral expert returning today to further study the scene. Not to mention, it wasn’t necessary to remove the mobile phones to analyze the
m; the cellular provider had already faxed over transcripts of messages, texts and call histories.

  There was something about the cache of personal possessions that bothered Wyatt. It was more than simply removing items that could be used to call for help or potentially aid in a victim’s escape; it was dehumanizing. Divesting the fifteen-year-old of her metallic orange cell phone with her Swarovski crystal initials stickered on the back. Stripping off the wife’s engagement ring and wedding band. Taking the husband’s obviously well-used, well-loved, battered red Swiss Army knife.

  It also invoked a sense of déjà vu. He had to think about it, circle the pile for a moment, consider multiple angles. Then, it came to him:

  “Prison intake,” he said.

  Tessa glanced up from her own inspection.

  “When you’re first admitted into jail, they take all your personal possessions,” he continued. “Jewelry, wallets, money, keys, phone, cash, everything. You place it in a pile, slide it over. That’s what this looks like. Prison intake.”

  Tessa nodded thoughtfully. “So possibly one or more of our offenders has a history.”

  “Unfortunately, that doesn’t limit the suspect pool much,” Wyatt said dryly. “We were already thinking professionals, and many of them have logged time. You know, that way they can continue their education with even more experienced felons, while forming new alliances to assist with fresh criminal activities upon release.”

  “But never call you cynical.”

  Wyatt looked at her. “Versus your natural well of optimism?”

  That smile again. Larger, more genuine. Made her look, for a second, like a woman still in her twenties. It occurred to him that Tessa Leoni’s natural state seemed to be almost wary, as if on guard against some danger he hadn’t identified yet. A story there. Definitely a story there.

  “Pessimism is an occupational hazard,” she granted. “So, one of our suspects has probably served time. Most likely, the FBI is already on it, but I’ll mention it when they next emerge from their cocoon. Anything else?”

  “For a crime we keep saying is financially motivated, there’s a lot of financial motive right here. I mean, as long as you’re grabbing a family for ransom, why leave behind the gold and diamonds? The kidnappers don’t want a bonus for their efforts?”

  “Disciplined,” Tessa stated. “That’s my theory. The kidnappers had a plan, and they stuck to it. Which scares me a little as Libby’s diamond alone must be worth an easy hundred grand. If you think about it, when the other guys aren’t looking, you could simply slide it in your pocket…”

  Wyatt saw her point and it worried him a little, too. Essentially, they weren’t just looking for a professional, well-disciplined predator. They were hunting a professional, well-disciplined team.

  “I think they kidnapped the wife and daughter in order to better control Justin,” he said abruptly. “Guy like him sounds like a natural-born fighter. With the lives of his wife and kid at stake, however…”

  Tessa nodded shortly, that tight look back on her face. “Limits his options,” she murmured. “Another argument that the abduction team did their homework and came prepared.”

  “But no ransom?”

  “Nothing yet. Come on. I’ll take you upstairs.”

  Upstairs turned out to be the third floor. A lot more evidence placards and signs of a struggle. Tessa walked him through the scene, the Boston cops’ theories on the chain of events. It all sounded good to him. God knows, he’d never had the occasion to use urine drops to diagram a crime scene.

  They completed their inspection, then Tessa once more headed downstairs. When they came to the second-floor landing, she was still walking, but he paused.

  “What’s here?”

  “Family room, guest bedroom, library.”

  “I mean, in terms of the kidnapping.”

  She shook her head. “There isn’t anything on this level.”

  “And the top level, above the third floor?”

  “Nothing.”

  Wyatt frowned. “Meaning the activity was limited to the third floor, where the intruders got the girl, and the foyer, where they got the parents, then the kitchen, where they stacked the family goods after everyone had been subdued?”

  Tessa nodded.

  Wyatt looked at her. “Pretty precise, if you ask me. This is what, a six-thousand-square-foot town house? How many levels, how many rooms? And yet, to judge by the lack of evidence on certain levels, the kidnappers never wasted a step. In, out, done.”

  She stilled slightly, and he could see the implications sinking in. “We already figure it’s an inside job—or at least, someone the Denbes knew gave out the security codes. But what you’re suggesting…”

  “They’ve been here before,” Wyatt said bluntly. “Either as guests, or the same person who gave out the security codes also gave them a personal tour. Enough so they’d know exactly where to find Ashlyn’s bedroom and precisely where to stand to grab the parents walking in.”

  “For that matter, they were briefed on the family’s habits,” Tessa added. “Because if Libby had driven, she and Justin would’ve entered from the lower-level garage, but he drove, meaning they used the front door.”

  “Who would know such details?”

  “The housekeeper, Dina Johnson. I would guess some close friends and acquaintances. Also Justin’s management team, the crew we met last night. I’m told they were all frequent guests in the home, plus it makes sense Justin might have given them security access in case they needed to fetch something for him, that sort of thing.”

  “In other words, a decent-size pool of suspects,” Wyatt said. “Who’ve already fed us a bunch of stories.”

  They’d arrived back in the main foyer. Kevin was no longer hunched over the floor, having probably worked his way to the kitchen.

  “If this is about corporate gain,” Tessa said, “why kidnap? How does abducting Justin and his family assist with taking over Denbe Construction?”

  Wyatt considered the matter. “Missing its leader, the company goes into crisis mode, meaning the management team can assume emergency control of Denbe Construction.”

  “To what end? Justin is found, he takes it back over.”

  “Unless he’s incapacitated. Hurt.” Wyatt paused. “Killed.”

  Tessa nodded but wore a troubled frown. “It’s possible. God knows, there have been enough cases involving murder-for-hire by disgruntled business partners. It’s not always easy to understand what some people find worth killing over.” A chiming sound came from her pocket. She pulled out her cell, glanced at the screen. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

  Wyatt nodded, wandering to the family room, where he eyed the hand-carved mantel one last time, then pulled out the thick sheaf of papers from his bag, and set about reading.

  Next thing he knew, Tessa Leoni was standing beside him, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  “Got it!”

  “Got what?”

  “The answer to my question. Wait, is that the evidence log?” She pointed to his stack of papers. “You got the FBI to share the evidence log?”

  “Not the FBI. Boston cops. I found their jacket, remember, and now I’m horning in on the FBI who horned in on them. Figured the detective in charge, Neil Cap, might feel like doing me a favor.”

  Her eyes widened. “Well played.”

  “The mountains aren’t all bears and moose,” he assured her modestly. “Sometimes, we deal with foxes, too. Now, your answer to your question?”

  “How did Libby discover her husband’s affair?” she said immediately.

  Wyatt blinked. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought about it. “The daughter? She visited the building to check out the competition, according to Anita Bennett.”

  “Good guess, but according to Libby’s hairdresser, Libby found out about the other woman six months ago, whereas Ashlyn showed up in the lobby only three months ago. So how did Libby find out? Something she saw? Or something someone said?”

>   Wyatt perked up. He could see where this was going now. “Interesting.”

  “This morning,” Tessa continued, “I requested the transcript from Libby’s phone. And get this: She received a text in the beginning of June, telling her she needed to keep a better eye on her husband. Then, two days later, asking her if she knew what he was doing during lunch. Then, a third text, the day after that, telling her to check his phone messages. Now get this: The texts to Libby’s phone come from a prepaid cell, no caller ID available.”

  “Covering his tracks,” Wyatt mused.

  Tessa smiled again. And her blue eyes were definitely brighter, and her face animated, and call him crazy, but he found himself holding his breath.

  “Funny that you should say his tracks, because my first thought was her tracks. And the only woman I could think of who’d be in the know is the other woman, Kathryn Chapman. So I asked one of the research analysts at Northledge to run a full background. And guess what? You were right. I think it was his tracks. According to my brilliant research analyst, Kathryn Chapman’s uncle is none other than Justin’s second in command, Chris Lopez.”

  Chapter 24

  THE FIRST TIME I MET JUSTIN I was working at a friend’s clothing boutique. I helped with customers on the weekend, while tending to my fledgling jewelry business on the side. In return, my friend paid me next to nothing but agreed to display some of my pieces.

  I heard the jangle of the front door opening, looked up from a rack of scarves I was rearranging and Justin walked in.

  I can tell you everything about those first fifteen minutes of our relationship. I remember his brown hair, longer then, darker, the way it fell to the side of his forehead almost boyishly. I remember the size of him, the sheer physical presence of his broad shoulders, the way he seemed to literally block the sun. He wore blue jeans, but not the designer kind. Real honest-to-God, broken-in, clinging-to-his-long-legs jeans, as well as an olive green L.L. Bean barn coat and scuffed-up work boots.

  Then, his smile. Quick, instantaneous. He looked at me, he broke into a huge grin and he declared, “Thank heavens, I’m saved!”