so you don’t really need me. Just follow the money, and it should work out.”
Sergeant Burwell didn’t answer.
“Have the Chief look into everyone’s background that has regular contact with the family,” Frank continued, suddenly feeling weary and old. Frank knew he should stop talking, but the cop looked like someone had just shot his dog. “It’s often a family friend or accountant or someone like that, someone with ties to the family but without the loyalty of being part of the group.”
The cop jotted down what Frank was saying. But just talking about it made Frank start to feel weary, remembering all the cases he’d followed and how few of them ended well. He remembered the kid in downtown Atlanta, buried in that cardboard box by the highway. Frank had gone through all the steps, done the work, just like he was telling this sergeant to do. Follow the leads, check the family. Cross the “i’s”, dot the “t’s,” as Williams, the arson investigator, liked to say with a wry smile.
But if this case was like the one in Atlanta, they could do everything right and still not get there in time. Frank remembered that poor little boy—
The sergeant stared at Frank, waiting for more words of wisdom, but Frank had none.
The room grew quiet.
“So, you’re not going to help—” the sergeant began.
“No,” Frank said.
“Why not?”
“You don’t need me,” Frank said, his voice coming out harsher than he wanted. “Just investigate the case and everyone involved. The kids will turn up.”
It was cold. And a lie. They both knew it. The chances of recovering the girls alive diminished with each passing hour. But Frank didn’t want to go down this road again.
Ever.
Another long moment of silence, with the burly cop staring at him, hands on his hips.
Frank shook his head and stood slowly. He always stood slowly when he was around angry, armed men. Frank walked to the hotel room door and pulled it open.
The burly cop hesitated and then shook his head and walked toward the door.
“You know, I would think you would want to help,” Burwell said as he passed Frank. “Two young girls’ lives are at stake,” the sergeant said, stopping on the carpet out in the hallway and looking at him angrily.
“Don’t you even care?”
Frank looked down at the carpet at the man’s feet. Boots, clunky, good for running through muddy fields. Cop boots.
Frank resisted the overwhelming urge to say something nice. To get involved. To get back on that horse and have something in his life that didn’t come out of a bottle. But he couldn’t. He was here to see Laura and that had to be the only thing in his life right now. Laura, and Jackson, and getting his shit together. Not getting involved in another messy case that would probably end badly.
Frank looked up at Burwell.
“Sorry,” Frank said. “But I can’t help you.”
Burwell looked at him. His face was hard, disappointed.
“Those girls are going to die,” the sergeant said quietly, just between the two of them. Two professionals, standing in a hotel hallway late at night and assessing the case and the likelihood of a positive outcome. To Frank, it sounded almost like a plea.
He nodded somberly.
“Well, it’s always something,” Frank said, and slowly closed the door.
11
It was Tuesday morning, and Frank was back in his booth at the Tip Top Diner.
He was trying to read his free copy of the Dayton Daily News. There was a big article on the front page about the ransom call and the kidnapping case and another article out of D.C. about an assassination plot to kill the Saudi Arabian ambassador to the United States.
He’d tried to read both articles three or four times now, but his mind kept wandering back to the conversation last night with Sergeant Burwell. Frank knew that not getting involved was the right thing to do, and yet, it still bothered him.
The restaurant door jingled again. Frank forced himself to keep his eyes on
Sergeant Burwell didn’t answer.
“Have the Chief look into everyone’s background that has regular contact with the family,” Frank continued, suddenly feeling weary and old. Frank knew he should stop talking, but the cop looked like someone had just shot his dog. “It’s often a family friend or accountant or someone like that, someone with ties to the family but without the loyalty of being part of the group.”
The cop jotted down what Frank was saying. But just talking about it made Frank start to feel weary, remembering all the cases he’d followed and how few of them ended well. He remembered the kid in downtown Atlanta, buried in that cardboard box by the highway. Frank had gone through all the steps, done the work, just like he was telling this sergeant to do. Follow the leads, check the family. Cross the “i’s”, dot the “t’s,” as Williams, the arson investigator, liked to say with a wry smile.
But if this case was like the one in Atlanta, they could do everything right and still not get there in time. Frank remembered that poor little boy—
The sergeant stared at Frank, waiting for more words of wisdom, but Frank had none.
The room grew quiet.
“So, you’re not going to help—” the sergeant began.
“No,” Frank said.
“Why not?”
“You don’t need me,” Frank said, his voice coming out harsher than he wanted. “Just investigate the case and everyone involved. The kids will turn up.”
It was cold. And a lie. They both knew it. The chances of recovering the girls alive diminished with each passing hour. But Frank didn’t want to go down this road again.
Ever.
Another long moment of silence, with the burly cop staring at him, hands on his hips.
Frank shook his head and stood slowly. He always stood slowly when he was around angry, armed men. Frank walked to the hotel room door and pulled it open.
The burly cop hesitated and then shook his head and walked toward the door.
“You know, I would think you would want to help,” Burwell said as he passed Frank. “Two young girls’ lives are at stake,” the sergeant said, stopping on the carpet out in the hallway and looking at him angrily.
“Don’t you even care?”
Frank looked down at the carpet at the man’s feet. Boots, clunky, good for running through muddy fields. Cop boots.
Frank resisted the overwhelming urge to say something nice. To get involved. To get back on that horse and have something in his life that didn’t come out of a bottle. But he couldn’t. He was here to see Laura and that had to be the only thing in his life right now. Laura, and Jackson, and getting his shit together. Not getting involved in another messy case that would probably end badly.
Frank looked up at Burwell.
“Sorry,” Frank said. “But I can’t help you.”
Burwell looked at him. His face was hard, disappointed.
“Those girls are going to die,” the sergeant said quietly, just between the two of them. Two professionals, standing in a hotel hallway late at night and assessing the case and the likelihood of a positive outcome. To Frank, it sounded almost like a plea.
He nodded somberly.
“Well, it’s always something,” Frank said, and slowly closed the door.
11
It was Tuesday morning, and Frank was back in his booth at the Tip Top Diner.
He was trying to read his free copy of the Dayton Daily News. There was a big article on the front page about the ransom call and the kidnapping case and another article out of D.C. about an assassination plot to kill the Saudi Arabian ambassador to the United States.
He’d tried to read both articles three or four times now, but his mind kept wandering back to the conversation last night with Sergeant Burwell. Frank knew that not getting involved was the right thing to do, and yet, it still bothered him.
The restaurant door jingled again. Frank forced himself to keep his eyes on
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