“Rainie?”
“Appears to be an abduction-for-ransom situation, possibly a crime of opportunity.” Her father’s voice was eerily calm. “The local paper received a note this morning. Following its instructions, we discovered proof of life, as well as further instructions for the money drop.”
“Proof of life?” Kimberly wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The plane had just arrived at its gate. Mac sprang up, grabbing their bags from the overhead bins. He muscled his way down the aisle, Kimberly hot on his heels.
“Her gun,” Quincy reported on the other end of the phone.
“Okay.” No fingers or other extremities, which was what Kimberly feared. Her father had probably thought the same. “How are you doing?”
“Busy.”
“And the officer in charge?”
“Sergeant Detective Carlton Kincaid, OSP. Seems competent.”
“Wow.” Kimberly turned to Mac. “My father just rated a member of the state police competent.”
“Must be the grief talking,” Mac said. “Or that detective’s a rocket scientist.”
The plane’s door finally pushed open; Kimberly and Mac stepped out onto the jetway.
“So where’s Oregon Fish and Wildlife?” Kimberly needed to know.
“Third Street, by the fairgrounds.”
“We’ll be there in an hour.”
“Good. Next contact is two hours twenty.”
Tuesday, 1:52 p.m. PST
T HE O REGON F ISH AND W ILDLIFE D EPARTMENT in Bakersville seemed to be a fairly new building. Very outdoorsy. Big open lobby with giant exposed beams. An entire wall of windows, looking over verdant pastureland, framed by the coastal range. Quincy’s first thought was that Rainie would like the place. His second was that he’d work a lot better if he didn’t have a giant elk head watching his every move. Then there was the otter. Stuffed, mounted on a log, peering at him through dark, marble eyes.
Roadkill, one of the wildlife officers had proudly proclaimed. Real nice specimen. Amazing to find the otter in such great shape.
That simply made Quincy wonder what else the man had in his freezer, and given Quincy’s line of work, that thought wasn’t very comforting.
The front doors of the building swung open. An older, solidly built woman marched in, wearing the tan uniform of the Bakersville Sheriff’s Department. Wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her eyes, black utility belt slung around her waist. She moved toward Quincy without hesitation and grabbed his hand in a startlingly firm handshake.
“Sheriff Shelly Atkins. Good to meet you. Sorry about the circumstances.”
Shelly Atkins had deep brown eyes set in a no-nonsense face. Quincy pegged her age close to his, with the lines crinkling her eyes to prove it. No one would call her a looker, and yet, her features were compelling. Strong. Frank. Direct. The kind of woman a man would feel comfortable buying a beer.
“Pierce,” Quincy murmured, returning the handshake. Preliminaries done, the sheriff released his hand and moved to the oak conference table. Quincy remained watching her. He was still wondering why he had said Pierce, when he had always gone by Quincy.
“Where are we?” the sheriff asked.
At the head of the table, Kincaid finally looked up from the stack of paperwork he was sorting. The room already contained numerous state and local officers. With Sheriff Atkins’s arrival, however, their party could apparently get started. Kincaid picked up the first pile of papers and started passing.
“All right, everyone,” Kincaid’s voice boomed around the room. “Let’s have a seat.”
Since no one had said otherwise, Quincy took the empty chair closest to Kincaid and did his best to blend in.
The handouts included copies of the first two notes from the UNSUB, as well as a typed transcript of the caller’s conversation with Quincy. In addition, Kincaid had worked up a rough time line of events and a pitifully small list of what they currently knew about “UNSUB W.E.H.”
Nothing in the handouts was new to Quincy. He
“Appears to be an abduction-for-ransom situation, possibly a crime of opportunity.” Her father’s voice was eerily calm. “The local paper received a note this morning. Following its instructions, we discovered proof of life, as well as further instructions for the money drop.”
“Proof of life?” Kimberly wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The plane had just arrived at its gate. Mac sprang up, grabbing their bags from the overhead bins. He muscled his way down the aisle, Kimberly hot on his heels.
“Her gun,” Quincy reported on the other end of the phone.
“Okay.” No fingers or other extremities, which was what Kimberly feared. Her father had probably thought the same. “How are you doing?”
“Busy.”
“And the officer in charge?”
“Sergeant Detective Carlton Kincaid, OSP. Seems competent.”
“Wow.” Kimberly turned to Mac. “My father just rated a member of the state police competent.”
“Must be the grief talking,” Mac said. “Or that detective’s a rocket scientist.”
The plane’s door finally pushed open; Kimberly and Mac stepped out onto the jetway.
“So where’s Oregon Fish and Wildlife?” Kimberly needed to know.
“Third Street, by the fairgrounds.”
“We’ll be there in an hour.”
“Good. Next contact is two hours twenty.”
Tuesday, 1:52 p.m. PST
T HE O REGON F ISH AND W ILDLIFE D EPARTMENT in Bakersville seemed to be a fairly new building. Very outdoorsy. Big open lobby with giant exposed beams. An entire wall of windows, looking over verdant pastureland, framed by the coastal range. Quincy’s first thought was that Rainie would like the place. His second was that he’d work a lot better if he didn’t have a giant elk head watching his every move. Then there was the otter. Stuffed, mounted on a log, peering at him through dark, marble eyes.
Roadkill, one of the wildlife officers had proudly proclaimed. Real nice specimen. Amazing to find the otter in such great shape.
That simply made Quincy wonder what else the man had in his freezer, and given Quincy’s line of work, that thought wasn’t very comforting.
The front doors of the building swung open. An older, solidly built woman marched in, wearing the tan uniform of the Bakersville Sheriff’s Department. Wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her eyes, black utility belt slung around her waist. She moved toward Quincy without hesitation and grabbed his hand in a startlingly firm handshake.
“Sheriff Shelly Atkins. Good to meet you. Sorry about the circumstances.”
Shelly Atkins had deep brown eyes set in a no-nonsense face. Quincy pegged her age close to his, with the lines crinkling her eyes to prove it. No one would call her a looker, and yet, her features were compelling. Strong. Frank. Direct. The kind of woman a man would feel comfortable buying a beer.
“Pierce,” Quincy murmured, returning the handshake. Preliminaries done, the sheriff released his hand and moved to the oak conference table. Quincy remained watching her. He was still wondering why he had said Pierce, when he had always gone by Quincy.
“Where are we?” the sheriff asked.
At the head of the table, Kincaid finally looked up from the stack of paperwork he was sorting. The room already contained numerous state and local officers. With Sheriff Atkins’s arrival, however, their party could apparently get started. Kincaid picked up the first pile of papers and started passing.
“All right, everyone,” Kincaid’s voice boomed around the room. “Let’s have a seat.”
Since no one had said otherwise, Quincy took the empty chair closest to Kincaid and did his best to blend in.
The handouts included copies of the first two notes from the UNSUB, as well as a typed transcript of the caller’s conversation with Quincy. In addition, Kincaid had worked up a rough time line of events and a pitifully small list of what they currently knew about “UNSUB W.E.H.”
Nothing in the handouts was new to Quincy. He
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