His phone hummed. He looked at the screen: Frank Mulliner. They weren’t scheduled to meet for an hour.
“Frank.”
“Colter.” The man’s voice was grim. Shaw wondered if the young woman’s health had taken a bad turn; maybe the fall had been worse than it seemed originally. “There’s something I have to talk to you about. I’m... I’m not supposed to but it’s important.”
Shaw set down the cup of superb coffee. “Go ahead.”
After a pause the man said, “I’d rather meet in person. Can you come over now?”
26
A white-and-green Task Force police cruiser sat like a lighthouse in front of the Mulliners’. The uniformed deputy behind the wheel was young and wore aviator sunglasses. Like many of the officers Shaw had spotted in the HQ, his head was shaved.
The deputy had apparently been told that Shaw was soon to arrive, along with a description. A glance Shaw’s way and he turned back to his radio or computer or — after Shaw’s indoctrination into the video gaming world yesterday — maybe Candy Crush, which Maddie Poole had told him was considered a “casual” game, the sort played to waste time on your phone.
Mulliner let him in and they walked into the kitchen, where the man fussed over coffee. Shaw declined.
The two men were alone. Sophie was still sleeping. Shaw saw motion at his feet and looked down to see Luka, Fee’s standard poodle, stroll in, sip some water and flop down on the floor. The two men sat and Mulliner cupped his mug and said, “There’s been another kidnapping. I’m not supposed to tell anybody.”
“What’re the details?”
The second victim was named Henry Thompson. He and his marriage partner lived south of Mountain View, in Sunnyvale, not far away. Thompson, fifty-two, had gone missing late last night, after a presentation at Stanford University, where he was speaking on a panel. A rock or a brick had crashed into his windshield. When he stopped, he’d been jumped and kidnapped.
“Detective Standish said there weren’t any witnesses.”
“Not Wiley?”
“No, it was just Detective Standish.”
“Ransom demand?”
“I don’t think so. That’s one of the reasons they think it’s the same man who kidnapped Fee,” he said, then continued: “Now, Henry Thompson’s partner got my name and number and called. He sounded just like I did when Fee was missing. Half crazy... Well, you remember. He’d heard about you helping and asked me to get in touch with you. He said he’d hire you to find him.”
“I’m not for hire. But I’ll talk to him.”
Mulliner wrote the name and number on a Post-it: Brian Byrd.
Shaw bent down and scratched the poodle on the head. While the dog wouldn’t, of course, understand that Shaw had saved his mistress, you might very well think so from its expression: bright eyes and a knowing grin.
“Henry Thompson.” Shaw was typing into Google on his phone. “Which one?” There were several in Sunnyvale.
“He’s a blogger and LGBT activist.”
Shaw clicked on the correct one. Thompson was round and had a pleasant face, which was depicted smiling in almost every picture Google had of him. He wrote two blogs: one was about the computer industry, the other about LGBT rights. Shaw sent the man’s web page to Mack, asking for details on him.
The reply was typical Mack: “’K.”
Shaw said to Mulliner, “Can I see Fee?”
He left and returned a moment later with his daughter. She wore a thick burgundy robe and fuzzy pink slippers. Her right arm was embraced by quite the cast, pale blue. And there were bandages on the back of her other hand.
Her eyes were hollow, red-rimmed.
Sophie leaned into a gentle hug from her father.
“Mr. Shaw.”
“How does it feel? The break?”
Expressionless, she looked at her arm. “Okay. Itches under the cast. That’s the worst.” She walked to the refrigerator and poured some orange juice, then returned to the stool and sat. “They put you in a police car. I told them you saved me.”
“Not a worry. All good now.”
“Did you hear? He kidnapped somebody else?”
“I did. I’m going to help the police again.”
A fact the police did not yet know.
Shaw told her, “I know it might be tough but would you tell me what happened?”
She sipped the orange juice, then drank half the glass down. Shaw guessed she was on painkillers that made her mouth dry. “Like, sure.”
Shaw had brought one of his notebooks and opened it. Sophie looked at the fountain pen, again without expression.
“Wednesday. You got home.”
In halting words, Sophie explained that she’d been angry. “About stuff.”
Frank Mulliner’s mouth tightened but he said nothing.
She’d biked to Quick Byte Café for a latte and some food — she couldn’t remember what now — and called some friends to check on lacrosse practice. Then to San Miguel Park. “Whenever I get pissed or sad, at anything, I go there to bike. To shred, rage. You know what I mean ‘rage’?”
Shaw knew.
Her voice caught. “What Kyle used to do on his board. Half Moon Bay and Maverick.” Her teeth set and she wiped a tear.
“I pulled onto the shoulder of Tamyen to tighten my helmet. Then this car slammed into me.”
The police would have asked and he did as welclass="underline" “Did you see it?” Shaw thinking gray Nissan, though he’d never lead a witness.
“No. It was, like, boom, the fucker slammed me.”
She’d lain stunned at the bottom of the hill and heard footsteps coming closer. “I knew it wasn’t an accident,” she said. “The shoulder was really wide — there was no reason to hit me unless he wanted to. And I heard the car spin its wheels just before it hit, so he was, like, aiming. I got my phone to call nine-one-one but it was too late. I just threw it, so they could track it maybe and find me. Then I tried to get up but he tackled me. And kicked me or hit me in the back, the kidney — so I was, like, paralyzed. I couldn’t get up or roll over.”
“Smart, tossing your phone. It’s how I found out what happened to you.”
She nodded. “Then I got stabbed in the neck, a hypodermic needle. And I went out.”
“Did the doctors or police say what kind of drug?”
“I asked. They just said a prescription painkiller, dissolved in water.”
“Any more thoughts about their appearance?”
“Did I tell you...? I was telling somebody. Gray ski mask, sunglasses.”
He showed her the screenshot from the security video at the Quick Byte.
“Detective Standish showed it to me. No, I never saw anybody like that before.” She rose, found a chopstick in a drawer and worked it under the cast, rubbing it up and down.
“If you had to guess, a man or a woman?”
“Assumed a man. Not tall. It could’ve been a woman but if it was she was strong, strong enough to carry me or drag me to the car. And, I mean, kicking me in the back when I was down? You wouldn’t think a woman would do that to another woman.” She shrugged. “I guess we can be as messed up as a man.”
“Did they say anything?”
“No. Next thing, I woke up in that room.”
“Describe it.”
“There was a little light but I couldn’t see much.” Her eyes now flared. “It was just so fucking weird. I thought, in the movies, somebody’s kidnapped and there’s a bed and a blanket and a bucket to pee in, or whatever. There was a bottle of water. But no food. Just a big empty glass bottle, this wad of cloth, a spool of fishing line and matches. The room was really old. Moldy and everything. The bottle, the rag — that stuff was new.”
Shaw told her again how smart she was, breaking the bottle to make a glass blade and cutting through the Sheetrock.