they want you or both of you, right now, you're the target.”
I nodded absently, struggling
with the inevitable question that no one had asked yet. I was aware that Alex
was on the phone, asking someone in the forensics lab to come to his office. He
hung up and I looked at him.
“We haven't discussed it yet.
And I appreciate you not bringing it up. But it needs to be said.”
Alex laid the envelope down
on his desk, took the gloves off, dropped them in his waste
basket , and sat down. I walked to his eleventh story window and stared
out toward the ocean miles away.
After a moment, I said, “They
may have killed her already.”
Alex remained silent.
“But I don't know that,” I
said, “and my gut says she’s still alive.”
I turned back to Alex.
“So I have to keep looking.”
Alex got up and came over to
me. He put his hand on my shoulder. “ You don't have to keep looking. We have
to keep looking. And we won't stop until we find her. I believe she's still
alive. And I believe we'll find her.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I
was on an emotional roller coaster, either too angry or too frightened and
worried.
Alex said, “The hard part
will be keeping them from killing you while we're rescuing Monica.”
“I need to go to Utah,” I
said, “to see Gretchen Petersen. Can you focus on who sent the shooters until I
get back?”
“Of course. But the note said
we were looking in the wrong place. That could mean that people from Monica’s
past is the wrong place.”
“It might,” I said. “But it’s
an ambiguous message at best. The note doesn’t define the parameters of the
wrong place or tell us where the right place is. We have to continue to follow
up on all the possibilities.”
Alex nodded and then said,
“If you were making a list, who would you put at the top?”
“Either Esposito or someone
related to Pipestone,” I said.
“Be on my list, too,” he
said. “But while I'm looking into that and you're questioning Petersen, we also
need to try to figure out what the note means.”
“Sure,” I said. “If we've
been looking in the wrong places, where's the right place?” It was a rhetorical
question.
Alex ran his hand through his
hair and down his neck, squeezing and rubbing his neck. “Maybe the kidnapper
will take pity on us,” he said, “and send us some additional clues.”
I thought about that for a
moment and then asked, “Have you thought about how the kidnapper knows we've
been looking in the wrong places?”
“He's been watching?” Alex
said.
“How?” I asked. “How close is
he? How does he know where we've been looking?”
“Good question.”
I called Mildred and asked if
I could bring Wilson back by. She said I could. Then I called and booked a
flight to Salt Lake City, Utah. From there I could rent a car and make the hour
drive to Provost. I found a flight that left LAX at seven p.m. That would put
me in Salt Lake City at nine. I called Alex and asked if he could get me a gun
in Salt Lake City. He made a couple of calls and got back to me. He knew a
place where I could pick up a . 357 and some ammo.
Since I had a Utah permit to carry, having the gun wouldn't be a problem. Then,
on my way back, I could drop it off with the FBI in Salt Lake City and they
could ship it to Alex. He and I had done that sort of thing before.
I put my Kevlar vest and my
empty shoulder holster in my carry-on and once through security, went into the
men's room, took off my sport coat and shirt, put on my vest and shirt, and
slipped into my shoulder rig.
Once the small jet took off,
I tried to read to distract myself. But thoughts of Monica kept intruding. I
remembered the first time we’d worked together. She was working a case that
involved the recovery of personal property. There had been a divorce and early
on in the disintegration of the marriage the husband had made off with a number
of expensive items: paintings, jewelry, an old manuscript, some antique
pottery, a couple of
I nodded absently, struggling
with the inevitable question that no one had asked yet. I was aware that Alex
was on the phone, asking someone in the forensics lab to come to his office. He
hung up and I looked at him.
“We haven't discussed it yet.
And I appreciate you not bringing it up. But it needs to be said.”
Alex laid the envelope down
on his desk, took the gloves off, dropped them in his waste
basket , and sat down. I walked to his eleventh story window and stared
out toward the ocean miles away.
After a moment, I said, “They
may have killed her already.”
Alex remained silent.
“But I don't know that,” I
said, “and my gut says she’s still alive.”
I turned back to Alex.
“So I have to keep looking.”
Alex got up and came over to
me. He put his hand on my shoulder. “ You don't have to keep looking. We have
to keep looking. And we won't stop until we find her. I believe she's still
alive. And I believe we'll find her.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I
was on an emotional roller coaster, either too angry or too frightened and
worried.
Alex said, “The hard part
will be keeping them from killing you while we're rescuing Monica.”
“I need to go to Utah,” I
said, “to see Gretchen Petersen. Can you focus on who sent the shooters until I
get back?”
“Of course. But the note said
we were looking in the wrong place. That could mean that people from Monica’s
past is the wrong place.”
“It might,” I said. “But it’s
an ambiguous message at best. The note doesn’t define the parameters of the
wrong place or tell us where the right place is. We have to continue to follow
up on all the possibilities.”
Alex nodded and then said,
“If you were making a list, who would you put at the top?”
“Either Esposito or someone
related to Pipestone,” I said.
“Be on my list, too,” he
said. “But while I'm looking into that and you're questioning Petersen, we also
need to try to figure out what the note means.”
“Sure,” I said. “If we've
been looking in the wrong places, where's the right place?” It was a rhetorical
question.
Alex ran his hand through his
hair and down his neck, squeezing and rubbing his neck. “Maybe the kidnapper
will take pity on us,” he said, “and send us some additional clues.”
I thought about that for a
moment and then asked, “Have you thought about how the kidnapper knows we've
been looking in the wrong places?”
“He's been watching?” Alex
said.
“How?” I asked. “How close is
he? How does he know where we've been looking?”
“Good question.”
I called Mildred and asked if
I could bring Wilson back by. She said I could. Then I called and booked a
flight to Salt Lake City, Utah. From there I could rent a car and make the hour
drive to Provost. I found a flight that left LAX at seven p.m. That would put
me in Salt Lake City at nine. I called Alex and asked if he could get me a gun
in Salt Lake City. He made a couple of calls and got back to me. He knew a
place where I could pick up a . 357 and some ammo.
Since I had a Utah permit to carry, having the gun wouldn't be a problem. Then,
on my way back, I could drop it off with the FBI in Salt Lake City and they
could ship it to Alex. He and I had done that sort of thing before.
I put my Kevlar vest and my
empty shoulder holster in my carry-on and once through security, went into the
men's room, took off my sport coat and shirt, put on my vest and shirt, and
slipped into my shoulder rig.
Once the small jet took off,
I tried to read to distract myself. But thoughts of Monica kept intruding. I
remembered the first time we’d worked together. She was working a case that
involved the recovery of personal property. There had been a divorce and early
on in the disintegration of the marriage the husband had made off with a number
of expensive items: paintings, jewelry, an old manuscript, some antique
pottery, a couple of
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