Torn (17 page)

“FBI Assistant Director Monica Bevins.”

“Yeah, her. I left a message. Assistant Director, that’s a really high-ranking individual.”

“That’s right. She reports to the Deputy Director.”

“I’m impressed. Thing is, she hasn’t got around to returning my call. So either she doesn’t know you, doesn’t respond to inquiries from state investigators, or she’s busy with some really important FBI stuff and can’t be bothered. Which pretty much leaves us back where we started.”

“Me reporting a crime.”

“You reporting your suspicion—I believe you called it a ‘gut instinct’—that a woman was abducted from this airport.”

“Or nearby.”

“The car-rental lot, yeah. Happens to be on airport property.”

“Have you found her vehicle?”

Instead of answering, Chumley chews on a torn cuticle, spits it out. Cuticle chewing in public is, in Shane’s opinion, a felony offense, but the investigator doesn’t seem the least ashamed of his rude, disgusting behavior. Probably talks on his cell while urinating; he’s that kind of guy.

Shane tells himself to cool it, that the more personal this gets, the less he’ll accomplish. What matters here is Mrs. Corbin, not minor bruises to his own ego.

“If you think I’ve been interfering in an investigation, I apologize,” Shane says. “It won’t happen again.”

Chumley shrugs lazily. “Oh yeah? I know how you operate. You’re all over the Internet. Testimonials from grateful parents. Very moving.”

“Don’t believe everything you read on the Net.”

“Oh, I don’t. All that stuff about Randall Shane never giving up, taking the law into his own hands, gathering evidence without warrants, impersonating a law officer, making local investigators look like clowns. You really did all that, you’d have been prosecuted and I checked—you haven’t. So the testimonials are bull. The big deal former FBI Special Agent, that’s bull, too, isn’t it, Randy?”

“If you say so.”

“I mean, come on, it’s not like you were out there recovering kidnap victims when you were with the agency. You weren’t exactly kicking down doors, right? You were, quote, developing print recognition software, unquote.”

“That’s right.”

“A computer geek. Big guy like you? My guess, they discovered you were useless in the field so they stuck you back at the lab, gave you your very own pocket protector.”

Shane nods agreeably. “I still have it. The pocket protector. Better than a flak jacket.”

“My point exactly,” says Chumley, attempting to loosen his collar with a plump pink finger, bleeding around the torn cuticle.

“It’s true,” Shane says, shamefaced. “I’m a complete fraud. I’ve been taking credit for work done by real police. I’m completely out of my depth. That’s why I reported Mrs. Corbin missing, because I didn’t know what else to do.”

Chumley’s piggy little eyes brighten. “So you admit
you misrepresented yourself to the attendant at the car-rental lot?”

“Not intentionally, no. I’d never do that. But he may have gotten the impression I was an active agent, rather than retired.”

Chumley sits up straight. “You badged him?”

“I don’t have a badge. I showed him a leather folder holding my business card. You have that, along with my wallet.”

“Guy thinks he saw a badge.”

“It was snowing. I woke him up. He fell asleep listening to the shopping channel. There was alcohol on his breath. You probably noticed that, being a senior investigator and all.”

“Don’t smart-mouth me, pal. Yeah, the guy is a drunk, that doesn’t mean he didn’t see a badge.”

“Double negative, I think.”

“What?”

Shane sighs, tries to look ashamed. “You got me, Trooper. I put all that stuff on the missing children forums myself, the testimonials, the pictures of kids reunited with their families. I’m in it strictly for the money, taking advantage of grief-stricken parents. When I was with the agency I hid behind a desk because I was afraid to kick in doors. I faint at the sight of blood. I suck.”

“I knew it,” says Chumley. He has the hungry, can’t-wait-another-moment expression of a man about to gobble up a big juicy jelly doughnut.

“But in this particular instance I didn’t break any laws,” Shane adds, almost sorrowfully. “I did not impersonate an officer of the law. I no longer own a badge, not even a com
memorative or courtesy badge, and if I did I wouldn’t use it because that would be illegal and I’m a coward and afraid to go to jail.”

The trooper sucks his teeth, looking irritated. “She’s rich and crazy and you took advantage of her. How much you get?”

“Nothing yet. We hadn’t agreed on a fee.”

“Oh yeah? Is that your story? Maybe I never worked for the feds, but we got our sources, and I happen to know that Haley Corbin withdrew ten grand in cash within the last few days.”

“Wouldn’t give it to me,” Shane says. “Showed me the cash, said I had to produce results. Very hard-nosed lady, Mrs. Corbin.”

“It’s illegal to pose as a private investigator.”

“I’m a consultant. That’s legal.”

“Where I sit? All you fake P.I.s and unlicensed P.I.s and so-called consultants, all you do is take advantage of folks don’t know better. Vultures.”

“You got me. I’m scum of the earth. Did you locate her vehicle?”

“I’m asking the questions here, and so far—”

He’s interrupted by a brisk knock on the door. A young, uniformed trooper leans in. “Sir? Major Seavey on the landline.”

Chumley scowls, gets to his feet. “Stay where you are, please,” he says to Shane, exiting.

The lock on the door clicks.

Shane leans back with his fingers laced behind his neck, feeling much better, thank you. From the sound of it Major Seavey would be Chumley’s boss at the Bureau of Criminal
Investigation, the troopers plainclothes division. A wiser mind, no doubt, or he wouldn’t have risen to such a high rank at the BCI. At that level he’d have had many dealings and links with various federal enforcement agencies, be less inclined to react like S.I. Chumley, nursing his resentments.

That, or he’d order Shane be formally held on a trumped-up charge until the BCI boys could sort it out. Fifteen minutes tick by with the alacrity of paint drying on a rainy day. Shane studies his fingernails. Wishing he had his laptop, or failing that something to read. Newspaper, magazine, novel, cereal box, whatever.

Centuries pass. Eventually S.I. Chumley reenters the room with a new attitude. From his expression, one might assume the new attitude has been achieved by having his fingernails extracted.

Shane relaxes.

“Follow me,” says the newly forlorn investigator.

Shane follows him out of the interrogation room, down a series of narrow, windowless hallways, to a room not much larger than the one he’s just vacated. Chumley holds the door, says nothing as Shane passes. The room is crammed with small surveillance screens, floor to ceiling. Flat-screen LCD monitors, and most have been divided into four separate feeds from video cams positioned throughout the airport. He doesn’t bother counting but there have to be more than a hundred cameras in the system.

“Impressive,” Shane says to his silently brooding host.

It isn’t particularly impressive, but he’s trying to be nice. No sense rubbing the man’s nose in the mess he made. The practice rarely works with puppy dogs, never with humans.

Without meeting Shane’s eyes, the burly investigator
explains. “Assistant Director Bevins has requested that you be afforded full cooperation. My supervisor has ordered me to comply.”

“I do appreciate it,” says Shane.

“Figured you for a fake,” Chumley continues, pulling the words out as if they’re as deeply imbedded as bullets. “Feds say you’re not…my mistake.”

“Not a problem. What did you find?”

Chumley heaves a deep sigh, nods at the surveillance screens. “The vic’s vehicle. Ground level in the long-term parking garage. Empty.”

“You conduct a search?”

“Not without a warrant, no. But we did a thorough visual. It’s a wagon, fully visible, no place to hide a body, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Shane admits, the clench in his belly relaxing somewhat. “You get her on film, parking the car?”

“No film,” says Chumley, a little huffy. “This is a fully digital operation.”

Shane waits. Film is just a figure of speech, and Chumley knows it.

“Not her,” the inspector finally explains, words thick in his throat. “The kid who parked it.”

Shane is instantly fully alert, blood humming. “Show me,” he says.

Chumley cues up the MPEGs, indicates that Shane can run the little joystick if he so desires. The first segment, four seconds or so in duration, is from the automatic ticket dispenser at the south entrance to the long-term parking garage, across the street from the terminal. As the driver
runs down the window he averts his head. Down jacket with the hood up, total concealment of the face. Shane gets the same youthful impression Chumley mentioned, but all he can really identify with any certainty is the slim hand plucking the ticket from the dispenser.

“Caucasian.”

“White guy, yeah.”

“He knows about the cameras.”

“Anybody who pays attention knows about the cameras. We don’t hide ’em.”

“Maybe he’s an employee.”

“Maybe.”

Shane takes his time, plays the file through in slo-mo, and then one frame at a time. Nothing pops. Nobody in the background behind the driver. Passenger seat appears to be empty. No indication Haley Corbin is on board. No revealing reflections in any surface, glass or mirror. He scrolls forward to the next file segment. The main feature, fourteen seconds in duration. Opens as Mrs. Corbin’s Subaru wagon wheels into a compact car slot. Seen from the rear at a distance that takes in the entire row of cars. The Subaru door opens almost instantly, but the driver has trouble exiting the vehicle because he’s parked too close to the next car.

Drumroll, Shane thinks, expecting the panicked driver to do something stupid. But what he does is smart, in that situation. He backs out of the door butt first. Obviously keenly aware of camera placement, because not only is he backing out, he’s using his left hand to hold the hood in place. Manages to keep his head fully averted from the camera.

“Watch for it,” Chumley cautions.

In that instant a gust of wind invades the parking garage and blows back the hood. For a moment the young man remains frozen, as if uncertain of what to do, but it doesn’t matter: he’s wearing a ski mask. Once free of the car, the masked and hooded man quickly vanishes into the shadows, out of camera range.

“Hood and mask,” says Chumley. “That’s a perp wears rubbers over his boots. Mr. Careful.”

Mr. Paranoid, Shane thinks as he plays the little movie to death, but again nothing pops.

“What is with the way he walks?”

“Hip-hop,” says Chumley. “Lots of white boys adopt the hip-hop walk.”

“That explains it,” says Shane with a nod. “Like he’s a little bouncy. I assumed it was nerves, but you’re right. He moves like a rapper.”

“Very common,” says Chumley, sounding pleased with himself. “Half the kids in Rochester, the white kids, I mean, they stroll like Kanye.”

“Who?”

“You never heard of Kanye West?”

“If I did, I forgot.”

“Yeah, well.”

“I’m more Van Morrison, J. J. Cale, Bonnie Raitt,” Shane explains. “Although I do like a couple of Amy Wine-house songs. That old R & B feel, you know?”

“Not exactly. I got a fifteen-year-old thinks Kanye is God. That’s why I know.”

“Okay then,” Shane says, getting back to it. “We both agree he’s young, twenty-five or under, white, probably likes hip-hop. That about it?”

“He didn’t steal the car,” Chumley points out, sounding a defensive note even as he posits a worthwhile statement. “Means he was part of it.”

“The probable abduction of Haley Corbin?”

“What I said. He comes upon an abandoned car, he’s got a couple of options—report it or steal it. Putting the vehicle out of plain sight by hiding it in a parking garage, that’s more like he’s following orders.”

“Part of a conspiracy.”

“I hate that word. The grassy knoll and all that shit.”

“A small, contained criminal conspiracy to abduct a woman. She’s lured to a particular destination, probably the car-rental lot she mentioned, they grab her and get rid of her car. Wouldn’t take more than two or three people if they were well organized.”

“Conspiracy in the legal sense.”

“Exactly,” says Shane. “You, me, and our buddy Kanye agree to rob a bank. That’s conspiracy, agreed?”

“Sure, yeah. So who took her, if indeed she got snatched?”

Shane thinks carefully, decides not to share more than necessary. Not at this juncture, and not with S.I. Chumley. “Unknown. She believed she was meeting with someone who had information about her son.”

Chumley has recovered enough to look Shane in the eye. “This is the fatality in Humble, right? The school?”