Dolled Up for Murder (13 page)

“Good. That all sounds good,” I said, meaning it. I thought for a moment. “Is there any way you can have her bring me one of those untraceable phones? I could use it just to call you, and no one would know I have it, so no one would think to tap it.”

He smiled. “Smart thinking, Josie. I'll take care of it.”

“Come on, kids, let's go,” Zoë instructed from the hallway.

She poked her head into the kitchen and blew Ellis a kiss. He smiled at her, his eyes softening. She turned toward me.

“If you need me for anything, Josie, I'll be back in about fifteen minutes. I'm just running the kids over to school.”

“Thanks, Zoë,” I said. “Sorry to take over your house like this.”

She smiled and touched her hand to her chest, her heart. “Mi casa es tu casa.”

We listened to them file out; then Ellis glanced at his watch. The time display on the microwave read 7:20.

“We need to establish a communication policy,” he said. “If the kidnapper calls on your cell phone or landline before we get the tap installed, take copious notes, listening for an accent or a dialect, paying attention to his tone of voice and background noises, and writing down as close to his exact words as you can. Then go into your warehouse and call me immediately from the new disposable cell phone.”

“Why my warehouse?” I asked.

“Technology is such that it's possible your home or work phones have been tapped by the bad guys without your knowing it. While it's possible to pick up cell phone conversations using triangulation, it's not easy if there are obstructions. Inside your warehouse, with those concrete walls, there's no way they can do it. I may not know the ins and outs of criminal profiling, but when it comes to this sort of thing, technology's effect on law enforcement, I keep up.”

“Will the cell phone work there?”

“It should. Until then, if we're talking on your current phone, be circumspect. Also, copy any text messages you get into the new phone and send them on immediately, from the warehouse.” He rubbed his nose, thinking. “When I speak to the Farmington sisters, I'll explain that I need to talk to them privately, that I can't talk to them on the phone, and they can't come to the police station. I should imagine they'll be mighty curious, but that can't be helped. Which means we need to figure out how we can consult them without raising any red flags. Could you meet them at a colleague's? Another dealer?”

I shook my head. “Too much potential for gossip.”

“Your bank?”

“Too open, with too many people observing comings and goings.” I paused, considering and rejecting options. “I know—Blackmore's Jewelers. I'm sure Mr. Blackmore would let us use his back office. You can get there first, maybe even enter through the back door.”

He nodded. “I like it. When I get to the office I'll call Mr. Blackmore and set it up. Assuming he okays it, I'll send you an e-mail with ‘Yes' and the time in the subject line.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Thank you, Ellis. Everything you've said makes sense.”

He shifted position. “I know you know this, but I need to remind you. Don't tell anyone that you've received a ransom message. Not your staff. Not Grace. Not anyone.”

“Except Ty.”

“Except Ty.”

“I should respond to the text, right?”

He handed over my phone. “Yes. What are you going to say?”

I hit
REPLY
and tapped in:
OK

I showed it to Ellis, and he nodded. “Simple. To the point. Responsive.”

“Here goes nothing,” I said. I hit
SEND
and watched the check mark appear. The message had been sent.

I walked alongside Ellis to the front door and told him good-bye. After he left, I stood off to one side, peeking through the side windows, seeking out a sign that someone was nearby, watching.

I couldn't see the street except where the driveways opened onto the road; the rest of the view was blocked by a thick privacy hedge that ran the length of the property. I walked back into the kitchen, scanned the meadow, then shrugged and walked home through the thickening mist. If someone was out there watching, he was well hidden.

Upstairs in my bedroom, I started the shower, leaving my phone on the edge of the sink. If another communication came in from the kidnapper, I didn't want to miss it.

Ellis called as I was toweling off.

“That message I mentioned,” he said. “I just got a call back. Her cell phone battery was low, so she'd turned off her phone and didn't turn it on again until it was done charging. She called as soon as she got the message. She's agreed to stand by. You remember what I said I'd do?”

“Yes,” I said. “You'll send an e-mail.”

“Right. Hold tight, okay?”

I told him I would and hurried into the bedroom. As I got dressed I felt a surge of confidence. We had a plan, a good one, and I was ready to act.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As soon as I rounded the corner after leaving the interstate en route to my office, I saw a caravan of media trucks and vans, some with satellite hookups. Six of them had parked along the grassy shoulder on either side of my company's entrance. Three others had parked in my lot. Reporters were milling about, including one from my New York days: Bertie. Bertie worked for
New York Monthly,
and I despised her.

During those tumultuous months, while I was waiting for my boss's trial to begin, she'd lied to try to get me to confide in her, and when her efforts failed, she painted my whistleblowing as a Machiavellian ploy to advance my own career. Now, here she was again, standing in my parking lot chatting with a network TV reporter. I sailed on by and turned into the church parking lot. I drove around the back, rolling to a stop by the back door, out of sight of the street.

I was shaking, as impotent anger mixed with an unfamiliar kind of fear. The rage-fueled terror snaking through my veins turned my blood to ice and caused my teeth to chatter as if I had a dangerously high fever. I spun the heat dial to high, hoping the warmth would quiet the fear as it warmed me, leaned my head against the steering wheel, and closed my eyes. I recalled the long lonely months I'd spent in limbo. Bertie had made bad times worse. I'd tried to reason with her. I'd begged for privacy. I'd refused to answer her questions. Nothing had worked to slow her down. She'd been as relentless and merciless as a killer bee. Now she was back. I needed to talk to Ellis.

I couldn't call him, not out in the open. I sat up and looked west, toward my place. I could see the path curving into the forest, and I was tempted to try to sneak into my building, but I knew better. Once I popped out the other end, I'd have to cross the parking lot. Bertie and the other reporters would see me easily, and I'd be dead meat.

I knew Ted Bauer, the preacher, started his day early—his wife, Maggie, a tag sale regular, was a nurse. Their routine had her dropping him off at the church en route to her 7:00
A.M.
shift at Rocky Point Hospital, so the fact that the parking lot was empty didn't mean Ted wasn't there. I stepped out of my car and shivered, this time from the dank cold rain. With a glance over my shoulder to be certain no one had followed me, I hurried to the door and rang the bell. I heard melodious chimes sound.

Ted swung the door wide. “Josie,” he said. He stepped back so I could enter. “Come in, come in. Maggie and I were shocked and so sorry to hear about what happened—both about Alice and Eric. Do you have any news?”

We stood in a square entryway. The floor was old linoleum, white with green flecks. The off-white walls were scuffed from years of traffic. I knew that the corridor in front of me led to a row of administrative offices. The church's commercial-grade kitchen was on the left.

“Not yet, thank you, Ted.” I smiled, or tried to. “I know this sounds bizarre, but may I use your phone?”

His face registered surprise, but only for a moment. “Of course. Come this way.” He set off down the hallway. “Can I get you a cup of coffee first?”

“Thank you, no.”

“I saw the reporters when Maggie and I drove up. Looks like you're getting some national exposure.”

“A kidnapping following a murder is certain to appeal to people's worst instincts. I guess the media is just doing its job, but I hate it, Ted. I hate everything about it.”

He tut-tutted as he waved me into his office, a comforting, empathetic sound.

“I have some work to do in the basement. Stay as long as you want. Louise should be in soon. If I'm not back and she's not here when you're ready to go, feel free to let yourself out. The back door locks automatically when you close it.”

“Thanks, Ted. I appreciate your hospitality.”

I was glad he was leaving me alone. I was glad his secretary, Louise, wasn't in. I didn't want to be fussed over, not even by people I cared for and respected like them.

The overhead light fixture had an ocher-colored globe and cast a warm yellow glow throughout the room, an appealing contrast to the gray dreariness outside. A red-and-blue-patterned Oriental rug covered most of the hardwood floor. Ted's desk was huge, a walnut beauty with beadwork detailing. Built-in bookshelves lined two walls and were packed with periodicals, files, books, and miscellaneous knickknacks. I sat in Ted's oversized leather chair, dialed Ellis's cell phone, and swiveled to face the window. Rivulets of water ran down the glass. The drizzle had turned into a light but steady rain.

“Ellis,” I said when he answered, “I'm glad I got you. I'm holed up in the church down the road from my place calling on their landline. My parking lot, along with a chunk of the roadside, has been taken over by the media. I was going to ask you to send someone to keep them off private property, but then I got worried. If the kidnapper is watching and sees police around, no matter why, he might freak out. How would you feel about making an on-air statement to the media? You could say you're there to keep the press off private property and slip in, maybe in response to one of the questions the reporters are certain to ask, that you haven't had any contact with me. What do you think? Would that work to reassure him?”

“There's no way of telling, Josie, but it's a solid idea. I like it. I'll leave here in about a minute.”

I thanked him, hung up, and sat for a moment watching the rain. I wanted to give Ellis time to clear the press before I ventured back. I guesstimated that twenty minutes should be enough. While debating whether to find my way to the kitchen to snare a cup of the coffee Ted had offered, I checked my work voice mail. I had one message. It was Jamie asking me to call. I used the landline to return the call.

“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, Josie,” Jamie said. “I have a question … you probably don't know the answer, but you might. Chief Hunter called earlier and asked Lorna and me to meet him at Blackmore's at eleven. Isn't that strange? Then I read the
Seacoast Star
article about the dolls … I thought you might know if there's some connection.”

There was nothing I could tell her, not on the phone.

“I don't know,” I said.

“We heard about Eric. It's just shocking … terrible. Do you have any news?”

“No,” I said, closing my eyes for a moment, “not yet.” I opened my eyes.

“Why did you give all those photos to that reporter?”

“The police thought it might produce a lead or two.”

“Has it?” she asked.

“I don't know.”

She said something sympathetic about Eric, and I said something polite in response, and she ended the call. I placed the receiver in its cradle and noticed that Ted's computer, a laptop, was on. I figured he wouldn't mind if I did a quick check of the
Seacoast Star
's Web site. I wanted to see what Wes had written about the dolls.

The doll photos and one-line descriptions ran down the left side, next to a short report saying Pennington Moreau was the big loser playing blackjack on an evening cruise to nowhere out of Portsmouth, a crushing defeat since earlier in the evening, he'd won more than anyone else in the history of the ship. Wes's article was on the right. The headline read
WHAT'S SPECIAL ABOUT THESE DOLLS?
Wes reported that someone close to the investigation—me, I suspected—had revealed that something related to the dolls had led to Eric's kidnapping. He then solicited the public's help in figuring out what it was. He also asked if anyone had any information that might suggest a connection between the dolls and Alice's murder.

I exited the browser, took a blank sheet from Ted's memo cube and wrote, “Thanks, Ted. See you soon,” and placed it on his chair. Louise popped her head in as I was approaching the door to leave. I hadn't heard her arrive.

“Ted told me you were here, Josie,” Louise said, “and maybe in some trouble. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Louise Dietz was about Cara's age, but she looked more earth mother than grandmother. She wore her long gray hair in a single braid; her earrings and bracelets were designed with leather, beads, and feathers; and she wore a brown organic cotton skirt, bone-colored loose knit sweater, and Birkenstocks. She and I had shared many a cup of tea over the years.

“Thanks, Louise. I'm okay. Better since I know I can sneak in here and be safe.”

“Good. I'm glad you're using us as a sanctuary.”

I thanked her again and left the same way I came in.

*   *   *

In my car, I tuned to the local radio station and heard Ellis telling the reporters to stay off private property. Someone asked where I was, and he said he had no idea, that he hadn't spoken to me, that one of my employees had reported the trespassing.

Reporters started swarming when I was fifty feet from the parking lot entrance. Wes, standing off to the side, was smart enough and experienced enough to know that the more aggressive the approach, the less likely it would be to work with me. I recognized Bertie, the network TV reporter who'd been chatting with her earlier, an on-air reporter from the Manchester TV station, and a journalist from a Boston paper. The others were all strangers to me.