information about the girls and added a large, fictitious reward.
He needed some photos. Claber probably had some on that small camera he carried everywhere. He'd send Claber to the twenty-four hour drugstore for some pictures, and then run a flyer in tomorrow’s edition of the Toronto Star.
He'd have to pull some strings to get it run with tomorrow's paper, but those would probably be the easiest strings he'd have to pull for awhile.
The sun rose and still Truman hadn’t slept. His phone buzzed on the table next to him, and he gave it a cursory glance before answering. Claber. "Tell me you've got good news."
"Yes," he answered, triumph in his voice. "We found the girls."
Truman straightened, relief flooding through him and making his insides weak. "Finally. Are they with you? Tie them up and gag them." No more Mr. Nice Guy. That had been a big mistake.
"No, I didn't capture them." Claber kept right on talking before Truman could express his displeasure. "They escaped in a car with a Canadian girl. But I got a picture of the car's license plate. We can track her residence. We've got them now."
Yes, that was something. "Good work. Call Fayande and give him that information. Copy me in on it. Did you get that flyer printed?"
“I did.”
“What happens if someone sees the girls?”
"I saw an ad in the paper. Some college kid offering to be a research assistant. I called him, told him I’d pay him big bucks. All he has to do is answer his phone and take messages. I call him every half hour to get the messages."
Truman grunted. "Make it every fifteen minutes. And make sure you block your number when you call. How much you paying him?"
"Ten bucks every call he takes."
Fair enough. "I assume someone is going to the address right now?"
"I sent Sanders and Grey. They're posing as RCMP."
"Excellent." Truman stared at the door to his study. The barren walls mocked him. Nothing to show for his life except a twelve-year-old labrador.
He needed to start planning his next raid. But he couldn't focus. He had to find Sara. That necklace. The Carnicero's daughter.
His phone rang and he snatched it up before it finished. "Yes?"
"Truman? It's Grey."
"Did you find the residence?"
"Yes. The vehicle belongs to Christophe Coton. We found him at home, just returning from work."
Truman glanced at his desk clock. Ten forty-five a.m. blinked at him in digital lines. Christophe must work at night. "And the car? The girls? Were they there?"
"No, sir. He lent the car to his girlfriend, Natalie. We got her address. He also had her cell phone." A smug note entered Grey's voice. "We tapped it."
"Of course." Truman didn't congratulate him. "Are you on your way to Natalie's house?"
"Yes. We will be there in twenty minutes."
"If she's not there, find out where she took those girls."
"Hopefully to the police," Grey said, and he and Sanders laughed loudly.
Truman waited. Their laughter faded off. "Keep me informed."
#
A little after three in the afternoon, Claber called again. "My ‘research assistant’ just contacted me. Someone called the hotline."
Truman moved around the pool table, discarding his solitary game, and leaned over the bar. He tossed aside empty to-go containers until he came across a notepad and pen. "What did they say?"
"It was a woman named Rachel. She said Natalie brought the girls to her house. Grey and Sanders are in route."
"Excellent." Truman swung away from the bar, pen in hand. "Give me her number."
Claber passed along the information.
"As soon as they reach her house, let me know. Where are you now?"
“Sitting at the post office.”
Truman’s phone dinged, and he pulled it back to check the call waiting. "Have to go. Call center's on the other line." He clicked over. "Yes?"
"Truman, I just got a call on one of the lines you tapped." Nigel's voice was barely audible over the sounds of telemarketers and customer support answering and making calls in the background. "I emailed an mp3 to
He needed some photos. Claber probably had some on that small camera he carried everywhere. He'd send Claber to the twenty-four hour drugstore for some pictures, and then run a flyer in tomorrow’s edition of the Toronto Star.
He'd have to pull some strings to get it run with tomorrow's paper, but those would probably be the easiest strings he'd have to pull for awhile.
The sun rose and still Truman hadn’t slept. His phone buzzed on the table next to him, and he gave it a cursory glance before answering. Claber. "Tell me you've got good news."
"Yes," he answered, triumph in his voice. "We found the girls."
Truman straightened, relief flooding through him and making his insides weak. "Finally. Are they with you? Tie them up and gag them." No more Mr. Nice Guy. That had been a big mistake.
"No, I didn't capture them." Claber kept right on talking before Truman could express his displeasure. "They escaped in a car with a Canadian girl. But I got a picture of the car's license plate. We can track her residence. We've got them now."
Yes, that was something. "Good work. Call Fayande and give him that information. Copy me in on it. Did you get that flyer printed?"
“I did.”
“What happens if someone sees the girls?”
"I saw an ad in the paper. Some college kid offering to be a research assistant. I called him, told him I’d pay him big bucks. All he has to do is answer his phone and take messages. I call him every half hour to get the messages."
Truman grunted. "Make it every fifteen minutes. And make sure you block your number when you call. How much you paying him?"
"Ten bucks every call he takes."
Fair enough. "I assume someone is going to the address right now?"
"I sent Sanders and Grey. They're posing as RCMP."
"Excellent." Truman stared at the door to his study. The barren walls mocked him. Nothing to show for his life except a twelve-year-old labrador.
He needed to start planning his next raid. But he couldn't focus. He had to find Sara. That necklace. The Carnicero's daughter.
His phone rang and he snatched it up before it finished. "Yes?"
"Truman? It's Grey."
"Did you find the residence?"
"Yes. The vehicle belongs to Christophe Coton. We found him at home, just returning from work."
Truman glanced at his desk clock. Ten forty-five a.m. blinked at him in digital lines. Christophe must work at night. "And the car? The girls? Were they there?"
"No, sir. He lent the car to his girlfriend, Natalie. We got her address. He also had her cell phone." A smug note entered Grey's voice. "We tapped it."
"Of course." Truman didn't congratulate him. "Are you on your way to Natalie's house?"
"Yes. We will be there in twenty minutes."
"If she's not there, find out where she took those girls."
"Hopefully to the police," Grey said, and he and Sanders laughed loudly.
Truman waited. Their laughter faded off. "Keep me informed."
#
A little after three in the afternoon, Claber called again. "My ‘research assistant’ just contacted me. Someone called the hotline."
Truman moved around the pool table, discarding his solitary game, and leaned over the bar. He tossed aside empty to-go containers until he came across a notepad and pen. "What did they say?"
"It was a woman named Rachel. She said Natalie brought the girls to her house. Grey and Sanders are in route."
"Excellent." Truman swung away from the bar, pen in hand. "Give me her number."
Claber passed along the information.
"As soon as they reach her house, let me know. Where are you now?"
“Sitting at the post office.”
Truman’s phone dinged, and he pulled it back to check the call waiting. "Have to go. Call center's on the other line." He clicked over. "Yes?"
"Truman, I just got a call on one of the lines you tapped." Nigel's voice was barely audible over the sounds of telemarketers and customer support answering and making calls in the background. "I emailed an mp3 to
Similar Books
