T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality by T. Lynn Ocean
Authors: T. Lynn Ocean
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million dollars. His personal net worth was estimated to be somewhere in the neighborhood of seven hundred and fifty million. There were several buildings purchased in the name of his company, including the Bellington Complex, and I hadn’t bothered to look up the estimated value of Chesterfield Financial.
The thought of having so much money boggled my brain. I couldn’t even imagine possessing that kind of wealth. How much of it were the kidnappers going to ask for, or was it something other than money that they wanted? For that matter, did the kidnappers exist? It was entirely possible that Jared staged his own disappearance.
Although the note instructed not to bring in any uniforms, it was time to do so and I explained why to Chesterfield. Ninety-five-plus percent of the time, ransom notes instructing not to bring in the authorities were an empty threat. Obviously, if the kidnappers murdered Jared, they’d lose their bargaining power. Chesterfield agreed.
I began by notifying Dirk, who had been promoted to lieutenant in charge of investigative services. The title sounded nice, but he was simply one of the Wilmington Police Department’s high-paid detectives. Within hours, the New Hanover County Sheriff’s Department and the State Bureau of Investigation were involved. This type of news traveled fast and it was just a matter of time before the Feds were notified. Everyone in law enforcement would want a piece of the action and a piece of the potential glory. A power struggle was already brewing between the local and the state boys, and when the Feds appeared, it could very well turn into a circus.
The ransom note I’d collected had already passed through several pairs of hands and been examined by two different crime labs. Chesterfield’s penthouse suite had been thoroughly swept for prints and hair and fiber samples. Unmatched hair and fiber samples would be held as evidence to match with the felons’, if they were ever caught. Residents of the building, delivery people, maintenance workers, and surrounding area neighbors were being questioned. A list of anyone who had anything to do with Jared, from his barber to his physician, was being compiled for scrutiny and questioning. It was the typical information-gathering effort that would fuel the upcoming plan of action.
My plan of action was to stay out of everyone’s way and pursue my own leads. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any at the moment.
It was a sun-drenched Wednesday afternoon and the Fahrenheit reading threatened to move uncomfortably high. I was on my way to pick up groceries and the chilled air pumping through my car’s vents felt delightfully good on my skin. Later, after I reloaded my and Spud’s refrigerators, I would spend the rest of the afternoon digging. But my plan for the evening entailed a bottle of creamy chardonnay and a bag of Chinese takeout. Bill was back from Vegas and would meet me at the marina, along with the copper thong he’d managed to appropriate. We’d go for a sunset cruise before anchoring in the secluded cove I’d discovered months earlier, and we’d spend the night on the gently rolling boat, doing our own rocking above deck.
NINE
I’d showered and changed after jogging six, maybe seven miles. It was more than I usually ran, and the last mile had tested my willpower. Running was cleansing, though, and erased the clutter from my mind. Ox called on the spirits to meditate; I ran.
Attempts to keep news of the Chesterfield kidnapping from the media were futile, and once a whiff got out, the story spread like raging wildfires. It was the lead story on the three major networks. It hit the Associated Press wire, and was the front-page centerpiece for most dailies. Lolly had resurfaced after spending a few days at a health spa and handled all the media attention like a seasoned pro, with just the right mix of vulnerability and determination to help her husband. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed the
The thought of having so much money boggled my brain. I couldn’t even imagine possessing that kind of wealth. How much of it were the kidnappers going to ask for, or was it something other than money that they wanted? For that matter, did the kidnappers exist? It was entirely possible that Jared staged his own disappearance.
Although the note instructed not to bring in any uniforms, it was time to do so and I explained why to Chesterfield. Ninety-five-plus percent of the time, ransom notes instructing not to bring in the authorities were an empty threat. Obviously, if the kidnappers murdered Jared, they’d lose their bargaining power. Chesterfield agreed.
I began by notifying Dirk, who had been promoted to lieutenant in charge of investigative services. The title sounded nice, but he was simply one of the Wilmington Police Department’s high-paid detectives. Within hours, the New Hanover County Sheriff’s Department and the State Bureau of Investigation were involved. This type of news traveled fast and it was just a matter of time before the Feds were notified. Everyone in law enforcement would want a piece of the action and a piece of the potential glory. A power struggle was already brewing between the local and the state boys, and when the Feds appeared, it could very well turn into a circus.
The ransom note I’d collected had already passed through several pairs of hands and been examined by two different crime labs. Chesterfield’s penthouse suite had been thoroughly swept for prints and hair and fiber samples. Unmatched hair and fiber samples would be held as evidence to match with the felons’, if they were ever caught. Residents of the building, delivery people, maintenance workers, and surrounding area neighbors were being questioned. A list of anyone who had anything to do with Jared, from his barber to his physician, was being compiled for scrutiny and questioning. It was the typical information-gathering effort that would fuel the upcoming plan of action.
My plan of action was to stay out of everyone’s way and pursue my own leads. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any at the moment.
It was a sun-drenched Wednesday afternoon and the Fahrenheit reading threatened to move uncomfortably high. I was on my way to pick up groceries and the chilled air pumping through my car’s vents felt delightfully good on my skin. Later, after I reloaded my and Spud’s refrigerators, I would spend the rest of the afternoon digging. But my plan for the evening entailed a bottle of creamy chardonnay and a bag of Chinese takeout. Bill was back from Vegas and would meet me at the marina, along with the copper thong he’d managed to appropriate. We’d go for a sunset cruise before anchoring in the secluded cove I’d discovered months earlier, and we’d spend the night on the gently rolling boat, doing our own rocking above deck.
NINE
I’d showered and changed after jogging six, maybe seven miles. It was more than I usually ran, and the last mile had tested my willpower. Running was cleansing, though, and erased the clutter from my mind. Ox called on the spirits to meditate; I ran.
Attempts to keep news of the Chesterfield kidnapping from the media were futile, and once a whiff got out, the story spread like raging wildfires. It was the lead story on the three major networks. It hit the Associated Press wire, and was the front-page centerpiece for most dailies. Lolly had resurfaced after spending a few days at a health spa and handled all the media attention like a seasoned pro, with just the right mix of vulnerability and determination to help her husband. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed the
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