Best Defense (9 page)

fourteen

Sargent refused to let
us have the DVD, explaining it could carry fingerprints. After some discussion, and Hammonds' blood pressure rising, Sargent agreed to make a copy. We headed into the office where Hammonds booted his computer, then turned the chair over to Sargent.

Sargent said, “If there's anything on this disk, and I screw it up, the chief will have my ass.” There was no accompanying smile.

I understood his thinking. The evidence chain was so tight no policeman dared challenge it. All it took was one foreign print and a good defense counsel would have the whole thing tossed out of court. And in South Florida, judges were quick to look for reasons to side with the accused.

Hammonds' sister walked in, her appearance disheveled. “I couldn't sleep. Will I be in the way?”

I moved aside to make space for her.

“I'm going to make a duplicate,” Sargent said. “Then I'll ship the original off to the lab, and you can do whatever you please with the copy. I only hope it's worth the potential cost to my career.”

“Don't worry about it,” Hammonds said. “No one is going to mess with your life because of this. That, I promise.”

While Hammonds and I stood by, Sargent hit the right keys and
we listened to the whir of the drives. A moment later, he punched the button on drive number two and handed me the disk. “I'll send one of our uniforms downtown with the original. You guys can see what's on this one.”

Sargent stood and left the room.

I heard him say, “Officer Campbell, I want you to get this to our CSU people and don't spare the tires. Tell them I need it analyzed for prints and anything else they can find as fast as they can crank up their magic machines. If they give you any lip, tell them it's Chief Elston's number one priority.”

Hammonds slid into the seat in front of his monitor. “I have to know what's on here.”

“Give it a moment,” I said. “After what Sargent has been through for us, I think he deserves a chance to see it firsthand.”

The sister glanced my way, then nodded. “She's right, John.”

Hammonds cut me a look that left little doubt he considered any delay too long to wait, but lifted his fingers from the keyboard. “Tell him to get in here. I don't have time for this crap.”

Sargent reentered the room. “Did you check it?”

“Waiting for you,” I said, then nodded to Hammonds.

Sargent smiled, his first real smile in my direction since I'd met
him. His behavior over the past hour had gained him a seat with us. He camped out over my shoulder while I sat beside Hammonds. We stared at the monitor as the DVD spun up.

The directory opened. There were three .jpg files and one .rtf file. Their names were
Ashley Watches TV
,
Ashley Eats Pizza
,
Ashley Naps
, and
Instructions.

The titles of the files yanked at my heart, but I tried to stay cool and analytical. My investigative mind said, “Open the instructions,” but Hammonds was a mouse click ahead of me. In retrospect, I couldn't blame him for going for the pictures first. If Ashley had been my child, I'd have done the same.

The first picture showed Ashley seated on a small chair watching TV. She was clean and wore a smile. Her blond hair reflected the flash of the camera. From every indication, she was happy and enjoying the show.

The second put her in the same chair, but with a table to match in front of her. A piece of pizza with bites missing lay on a plate. There was no sign of stress or abuse, and again, she had a big smile for the photographer.

In the third, she appeared asleep on a single bed with a Mickey Mouse coverlet over her. Her face was serene, a small smile playing on her lips, as she cuddled a Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal. There were no outward signs she realized things were not normal.

Studying the images, I fought tears. The pictures were so innocent, yet showed how much under the kidnappers' thumbs she was. I couldn't control myself. Tears flowed, and I sniffled.

Hammonds grabbed a tissue, then passed the box to me. I dabbed my eyes, blew my nose, and concentrated on the last picture. Ashley was a beautiful blond child with an angelic face. Who on planet earth would want to kidnap her and hold her for ransom? The depravity of some people was simply beyond my comprehension. I had to get her back.

Hammonds stared at the screen as if he wanted to climb in and hug his daughter. Moisture pooled in his eyes, threatening to form into droplets.

I said in a quiet voice, “She looks okay. They haven't harmed her.”

“Yes,” he responded, emotion thick in his voice.

“Is that the outfit she wore to school yesterday?”

He blinked, then clicked back to the first picture. “It could be. She has something like that. I was gone when Sabrina …” his voice broke, “… when Sabrina dressed her.” Though he spoke, his demeanor was of one in a stupor.

To keep both of us from getting too morbid, I said, “Let's see the instructions.”

He broke out of his trance. “She looks all right, doesn't she? They haven't hurt her.”

I swallowed words I really wanted to say—like, it looked like the bastards had her convinced her parents approved of her captivity. “She looks fine, but let's find out what they want.”

He clicked on the .rtf file, and it opened in his MS Word program.

Defense Attorney John Hammonds,

If you, and whoever's with you, are reading this, we have passed the first stage of our endeavor. I assume you opened the pictures so you know Ashley is fine. No harm has come to her. If you haven't looked yet, I suggest you do so. I'll wait

.

Okay, let's move on. But first, just so you know, I am not alone. Be assured that someone is with Ashley at all times—no matter how many of us are otherwise occupied. In other words, if you deviate from the instructions one inch, someone will make sure Ashley gets her due.

Your incompetence cost me ten years of my life. I want restitution. Let's say each year is worth $100,000, not much by modern standards. Your total bill is one million. I know you'll have no problem raising that amount. I know several others that you failed. Each reported he overpaid by an exorbitant amount.

You and those with you can ease off. I'm sure you're plotting how you'll capture me during the exchange. It won't be quite that simple. My plan is basic. You won't see Ashley until seven days after you pay. And, if you do anything I don't like before or during that period, she will be lost to you forever.

You have the rest of today to accumulate four million dollars. Yes, four million. Why? you're thinking. Pretty simple. We'll use four different drop sites, one million at each site. I, and only I, will know which is THE site. The other three will not be serviced. If you're lucky, you will recover those funds. Otherwise … Well, that's just something else for you to worry about.

I'm sure you want to know what happens if you don't pay. Again, nothing complicated. Ashley simply disappears. How? you wonder. Keep wondering. You'll have years to live in the agony that I had—years of knowing you're paying for your incompetence.

Last, I have to tell you I am sorry about your wife. All she had to do was cooperate, and she'd be alive to enjoy this with you. Instead, she chose to play heroine. We couldn't allow that, could we? Make sure you don't try to play hero. It won't work any better for you than it did for her. And if you die, what happens to Ashley?

Use your time wisely. The next contact is on my schedule, and I shall expect you to be ready.

_____

The gazebo in Hammonds' front yard drew me after the drama surrounding the DVD and its contents. I needed fresh air and solitude, and I suspected John Hammonds could use some time alone, also. If I left, maybe Sargent and Hammonds' sister would get the hint and clear out, too.

The octagonal structure measured about thirty feet across—
large enough for a living room in most houses, but not out of place
on the Hammonds' lawn. It had five tables with separate cushioned benches. I suspected the tables locked together, creating an area for a large buffet. The construction of the building and its contents was with rich-looking wood, perhaps teak. In other words, it radiated luxury and good taste. The thought crossed my mind to ask Sly if he had partied there.

I sat at the center table. In front of me lay a printout of the message from the kidnapper and the three pictures he included. I stared at the words, trying to squeeze more from them. There had to be something that would tell us who was behind the murders and kidnapping. Something that would help me see between the lines.

I decided to take it apart, but my cell phone interrupted before I could begin. I fumbled it out of my purse and looked at the number. Bob Sandiford. “Hey, Bob, what's up?”

“Just wanted to let you know we have a dozen people on the street with the picture and sketch. They range from Fort Lauderdale up here to Boca. That's not a lot, but if they see anything, they'll let me know, and I'll pass the word to you.”

“Thanks, Bob. I really appreciate this.”

“I expect we'll get more volunteers as the day wears on. Communications is not what we do best. But each of these people can identify with tragedy. They'll step up as soon as they find out what happened. Hang in, Beth. If that woman puts her nose outside, we have a chance of spotting her.”

“Terrific.”

“What was in the envelope? Have you opened it yet?”

“Sorry. I'm so tired my mind isn't functioning like it should.” I told him about getting back to Hammonds' place, the contest with Sargent, and the contents of the envelope. I finished with, “There was a DVD containing the kidnapper's demands.”

“Was there anything that helps?”

“Yes … and no. We know Ashley is okay—well, was okay. He sent pictures showing her in normal situations. I was about to take the note apart when you called, hoping to find something between the lines. In the meantime, we sit and wait.”

“Good luck with your read. If there's anything there, I'm confident you'll find it.”

“Thanks.”

“Call me if I can do anything else. If we come up with the woman
, I'll let you know.” He rang off.

It made me feel better knowing Bob was on the team. With his network of homeless people, we stood a chance of spotting the female who picked up Ashley from school. I hoped she'd have to go to Publix or Winn-Dixie or somewhere to restock the refrigerator.

fifteen

I rubbed my eyes
,
then stood and walked around the table in the gazebo, wondering if I could grab a power nap somewhere. Exhaustion threatened to overtake me. That and the sadness and hopelessness I felt. My eyes fell on the kidnapper's note. I picked it up, sat, and began to read.

If you, and whoever's with you, are reading this, we have passed the first stage of our endeavor. I assume you opened the pictures so you know Ashley is fine. No harm has come to her. If you haven't looked yet, I suggest you do so. I'll wait

.

The smiley face bugged me. Ransom notes were no place for humor—even bad humor. The bum could save that crap for another day.

First stage. Did that mean he lumped the murders of Carmina and Sabrina, the kidnapping of Ashley, and the staging of this message as only the first phase? If so, I shuddered, wondering what would constitute the second phase. Or maybe I didn't want to know.

Okay, let's move on. But first, just so you know, I am not alone. Be assured that someone is with Ashley at all times—no matter how many of us are otherwise occupied. In other words, if you deviate from the instructions one inch, someone will make sure Ashley gets her due.

This bothered me even though I hadn't expected to be dealing with a single person. Kidnapping was difficult for a lone individual to pull off. At a minimum, someone had to watch the victim while another made a pickup. But this time, he wrote
many of us
. Did that mean three, five, ten? Of course, the more of them there were, the worse our chances of bringing them down and rescuing Ashley. Not a pleasant thought, but one I needed to plan for. And what could he mean by
Ashley gets her due
? A strange choice of words that nagged at me.

Your incompetence cost me ten years of my life. I want restitution. Let's say each year is worth $100,000, not much by modern standards. Your total bill is one million. I know you'll have no problem raising that amount. I know several others that you failed. Each reported he overpaid by an exorbitant amount.

The paragraph intrigued me. Had his braggadocio given us a clue that could help us identify him? Our kidnapper said he lost ten years. That could mean he went to prison when Hammonds' efforts were unsuccessful in his defense. Allowing for pre-trial confinement, that meant he hired Hammonds eleven or twelve years ago. Or, allowing for the snail's pace of the judicial system, call the window eleven to fifteen years ago. Since John's success rate was high—he didn't lose many—the number that went against him during that time couldn't have been substantial. A small lead, but the first of the case.

A hundred thousand a year. Was there significance to that amount? Could that be what he paid Hammonds? It could just be a convenient way for him to arrive at one million for a ransom amount. The letter continued.

You and those with you can ease off. I'm sure you're plotting how you'll capture me during the exchange. It won't be quite that simple. My plan is basic. You won't see Ashley until seven days after you pay. And, if you do anything I don't like before or during that period, she will be lost to you forever.

All I read from that was he was a diabolical bastard. Smart, but diabolical. Seven days from the ransom collection could take him almost any place on the planet. He was trying to tie our hands while he made his getaway. However, if he released Ashley a week after receiving payment, someone would have to stay in the area to do it, and that would be stupid. Fat chance.

You have the rest of today to accumulate four million dollars. Yes, four million. Why? you're thinking. Pretty simple. We'll use four different drop sites, one million at each site. I, and only I, will know which is THE site. The other three will not be serviced. If you're lucky, you will recover those funds. Otherwise … Well, that's just something else for you to worry about.

Did he really think Hammonds could put together four million dollars in one day? Could anybody do that? And the use of four drop sites, with one to be
serviced
by the kidnapper? What was that all about? Perhaps he thought he could split our forces. That made no sense. He must know we'd turn out as many people as we needed to watch four sites—or forty-four sites. Strange. Very strange. He must have some special places in mind.

I'm sure you want to know what happens if you don't pay. Again, nothing complicated. Ashley simply disappears. How, you wonder. Keep wondering. You'll have years to live in the agony that I had—years of knowing you're paying for your incompetence.

No threat to kill Ashley. Wasn't that supposed to be the ultimate convincer in a kidnapping? Pay up or your friend/mate/child dies. Often, from what I'd read, there was the additional threat of dismemberment. Could he mean he'd simply keep Ashley? Did he mean he'd dispose of her in a way her body would never be found? I hoped the former. It wouldn't be the first time kidnappers grabbed young people and kept them. However, I couldn't recall any voluntarily released.

There was the Elizabeth Smart disappearance—kidnapped and held for nine months before someone recognized her on the street. The guy who did that was enough of a nut case that he almost got away with it. Fortunately, it was one of those times the justice system worked, and the kidnappers got what they de
served. But I didn't remember there being a call for ransom. Not the same as Ashley's situation. My man was smart and sane
enough to come up with a foolproof plan—at least on the surface.

It felt like a snake crawled over my stomach as I remembered Jaycee Dugard. She spent eighteen years as a backyard captive of a scumbag who was an unimpeachable argument for abortion. His mother failed the world by carrying him to full-term. I could simply pray Ashley had not fallen into the hands of such a creature.

There were other examples of young people disappearing, then reappearing years later. Thinking hard, I couldn't remember any based on revenge. But that didn't mean it couldn't happen.

Last, I have to tell you I am sorry about your wife. All she had to do was cooperate, and she'd be alive to enjoy this with you. Instead, she chose to play heroine. I couldn't allow that, could I? Make sure you don't try to play hero. It won't work any better for you than it did for her. And if you die, what happens to Ashley?

He apologized for killing Sabrina, then blamed her that it happened? Then he threatened Hammonds. That flummoxed me. What kind of sicko could he be?

I reread the note. Possibly, he was a former client, and he had lost. He blamed Hammonds. Of course, he didn't say if he was guilty. He appeared to have a decent education. No street jargon, not even any prison jargon, although the impression he left was he spent ten years in prison. Probably a white-collar criminal. My first thought was that would narrow the suspects. Then I remembered I was in South Florida. No shortage of white-collar crime. Elected officials, lobbyists, and business executives
doing the perp walk no longer make the front page of the local newspapers. Voters just yawned and elected the next set.

Ten years in prison. That didn't really help. It meant he received a sentence of from ten to ninety years. With the revolving door in our prison system, all he had to do was play nice, and they would let him out, no matter what the judge had said.

I shoved the paper aside, my mind numb. I forced his note from my consciousness and reflected on the morning. Whether it was taking my mind off the problem for a moment or what, I don't know. But, I realized the answer might be in Hammonds' office. I checked my watch—seven-thirty—and got up and headed into the house.

My intent was to get a fresh cup of coffee, then talk to Hammonds and Sargent. As I approached the kitchen, I heard a voice I recognized as Bannon. “So, how'd she do? Is she the loose cannon we think she is? How bad is she screwing this up?”

I stopped, then turned to head back outside. Not something I needed to hear. I had enough problems without having my life dissected.

“I'm reevaluating,” Sargent said, then paused.

What could I do? I stopped to see what he would say next.

“So far, she's been straight arrow. Her actions last night were on the nose. I don't envy her. This is going to get tougher. But, you know, I have a gut feeling she can handle it.”

I almost choked, not sure my ears had registered his words correctly. What a change. I'd have to remember to be nicer to him—well, maybe. I didn't want to hear anymore. I walked outside, then circled the house to come in from the rear. I still wanted the coffee.

Sargent and Bannon were still in the kitchen. “Where've you been?” Sargent said, suspicion in his voice.

“Getting my bearings in the gazebo. Mostly thinking about the ransom note. I have an idea if you two are interested.”

“Of course we're interested,” Sargent said. “We value our jobs, and the chief says you're calling the shots.”

Bannon just stared over the top of his cup.

While refilling my coffee, I said, “I think our perp is an old client of Hammonds. I'm guessing he has him in his files. Maybe you could take him downtown and let him dig back ten to fifteen years for clients he didn't get off. Might be one of them.”

Sargent looked at Bannon, pursing his lips. “Yeah, that's what we were talking about before you came in. You want to mention it to Hammonds or should we?”

“You do it. I'm too tired. I'm headed back to the gazebo to rest my head.”

“Yeah,” Bannon said, his first comment since I walked in. “You
look like you need some rest. We'll take it from here.”

I smiled and walked out. Let them take the credit. After the way Hammonds had kicked them around, they deserved it. I dropped onto the bench in the gazebo, the pictures and the message in front of me.

Not long afterwards, Bannon and Hammonds left, headed for Hammonds' downtown office and his files. Sargent left to get some rest so he'd be fresh when he took over later.

I picked up the picture of Ashley watching TV. She was beautiful, and the expression on her face was priceless. She looked so innocent it was hard to believe she was in the hands of unscrupulous thugs, who had already killed two people. No matter how well-written the note, only gutter-slime would do what they did.

As I lay the picture down, I felt more anger flood into me, a bitter taste filling my mouth, bile flaming my throat. My hands hurt, and I discovered I had clinched my fingers so tightly the nails dug into my palms. I grabbed the note and read it again, taking deep breaths to keep from ripping it into shreds. The bastard apologized for killing Sabrina, but made no mention of Carmina, the maid. Wha
t was wrong with me that I hadn't noticed it before? That set off a whole new chain of thought. What kind of man would do that? Did he live in a world where hired help meant nothing, where they were non-persons? Maybe some poor little rich boy? I filed it a
way to mention to Hammonds later. Perhaps it would trigger a memory of a particular client.

“May I bother you a moment?”

I jerked, then spun to my left. Standing outside the gazebo was Hammonds' sister. “Come on in,” I said. “I'd appreciate the company.”

“I brought some coffee. From what I'm hearing, you were up most of the night.”

“Wonderful.” More coffee sounded great. I'd had a couple of cups, but another was welcome. Besides, I did want to talk to the sister. Straining, I tried to remember her name. Something with an M.

“I'm Maddy Hammonds, John's sister.” She set the coffee on the
table along with two packets of Sweet 'n Low and a couple of creamers. “I didn't know how you like it so I tried to come prepared. Now I realize you might prefer sugar.”

“No, this is fine.”

She sat across from me, wearing jeans, sandals, a loose top, and
little or no makeup, her blond hair pulled back with a butterfly clip. She had changed since we stood shoulder to shoulder reviewing the ransom note. I placed her age in mid to late forties—unless she'd had a great cosmetic surgeon. Then she could be in her nineties.

“I appreciate what you're doing for my brother. If he loses Ashley, I don't know how far he'll fall. She and Sabrina were his whole world.”

“I'm doing what I can, but we have a long way to go.” I busied myself preparing my coffee. “He said you and Sabrina hated one another. Is that right?”

She dipped her head, then sipped from her cup. “Hate is a little strong—at least for me. Let's just say I didn't enjoy being around her, and she returned the feeling.”

“Why?” I tasted, then nodded at her. “Excellent coffee. Thanks.”

“It's the least I could do. John is very important to me.”

“So why the bad blood between you and Sabrina?”

“Is it important? Will it bring Ashley home?”

I forced a smile at her duck of my question, then stifled a yawn. I realized how tired I was. If I didn't get a few hours' sleep soon, I might fall off the bench. “Sorry. Since it's not a situation I run into every day, my natural curiosity leapt up.”

She squinted. “If it reaches a point where it will help John and Ashley for you to know, I'll tell you. Otherwise, it's more personal than I want to share.”

I studied her. The crow's-feet at the edge of her eyes said she squinted a lot. “Are you nearsighted?”

“That's a strange question,” she said through a smile. “It'll take me awhile to figure how it fits into your investigation. However, since I refused your other question, I'll answer you. Yes. I wear contacts to correct it, but haven't put them in yet.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I suppose it's the investigator in me. I'm always looking for identifying features. One of yours is the way you're forcing your eyes to focus from across the table.” I sipped my coffee, wondering if she had a reason for joining me.