“Safe now,” she said. “You can get up.”
She walked to him, fishing in her pocket. Shaw wasn’t surprised when she displayed a gold badge. What he didn’t expect, though, was what came next: “Mr. Shaw, I’m Detective LaDonna Standish. I’d like to have a talk.”
30
Shaw collected his computer bag from the clump of grass where he’d dropped it.
As he and Standish approached the Winnebago door, an unmarked police car squealed to a stop in front of the camper. Shaw recognized it. It was the same vehicle that had lit him up after the dramatic U-turn on his way to Henry Thompson’s condo. Officer P. Alvarez.
Shaw looked from the detective to the cop. “You were both following me?”
Standish said, “Double team tailing. The only way it works. Ought to be triple, but who can afford tying up three cars these days?” She continued: “Budget, budget, budget. Had to follow you myself last night. Peter here was free this morning.”
Alvarez said, “I didn’t want to have to pull you over but it’d been more suspicious if I didn’t. Was an impressive turn, Mr. Shaw. Stupid, like I said, but impressive.”
“I hope I don’t need to do it again.” He cast a dark glance toward Standish, who snickered. Shaw nodded to the bushes. “So, who’d you spot?”
“Don’t know,” she said with some irritation in her voice. “Had a report of somebody near your camper, possible trespasser. Smelled funky to me, all things considered.”
Her radio clattered. Another officer, apparently also cruising the area, had not spotted the suspect. Then came one more transmission, from a different patrolman. She told them to continue to search. She told Alvarez to do the same. When he drove off, she nodded toward the Winnebago. After Shaw unlocked the last lock, she preceded him inside.
The word warrant glanced off his thoughts. He let it go. He closed and locked the door behind them.
“You’ve got a California conceal carry,” she said. “Where’s your weapon? Or weapons?” She walked to his coffeepot and poked through the half dozen bags of ground beans in a basket bolted to the counter.
“The spice cabinet,” he said. “My carry weapon.”
“Spice cabinet. Hmm. And it’s a...?”
“Glock 42.”
“Just leave it there.”
“And under the bed, a Colt Python .357.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Must be doing well in the reward business to afford one of those.”
“Was a present.”
“Other CCPs?”
A concealed carry permit in California is available only to residents. The California ticket doesn’t let you carry in many other states. He had a nonresidence permit issued by Florida and that was good in a number of jurisdictions. Shaw, though, rarely went around armed; it was a pain to constantly pay attention to where you could and couldn’t carry — schools and hospitals, for instance, were often no-gun zones. The laws varied radically from state to state.
Shaw said, “You thought I might be the kidnapper.”
“Crossed my mind at first. I confirmed your alibi, what you told Dan Wiley. Didn’t mean you weren’t working with somebody, of course. But snatching some soul and hoping her daddy’ll hand over a reward? Well, there’s stupid and then there’s stupid. I checked you out. You’re not either variety.”
He then understood why she’d been tailing him. “You were using me as bait.”
A shrug. “You went and ruined a play date for the perp. Got Sophie home safe. Pissed that boy off in a large way, I’m thinking. Pissed him off enough that he went out and did it again — with Henry Thompson.”
“That was the kidnapper following me?” A nod outside.
“Big mug of coincidence if it wasn’t. And if it’s like Sophie’s case he’d just leave Thompson on his own. Have himself plenty of free time to come visit you. If he was so inclined. As maybe he was. Unless you have other folks might want to have a few words with you? As I suspect might be the case, given your career.”
“Some. I’ve got people who keep an eye on that. And no reports of anything.”
Shaw’s friend and fellow rock climber Tom Pepper, former FBI, ran a security company in Chicago. He and Mack kept track of those felonious alumni of Shaw’s successful rewards jobs who’d threatened him.
He continued: “Description of the perp here?”
“Dark clothing. Nothing else. Nothing on the vehicle.”
“You said him.”
“Ah. Him or her.”
“Is Detective Wiley at Brian Byrd’s condo?”
She paused. “Detective Wiley is no longer with the Criminal Investigations Division of the Task Force.”
“He’s not?”
“I rotated him to Liaison.”
“You rotated him?”
Standish angled her head slightly. “Oh, you thought he was the boss and that I worked for him? Why would that be, Mr. Shaw? Because I’m” — there was a fat pause — “shorter?”
It was because she was younger but he said, “Because you’re so bad at surveillance.”
The touché moment landed and her mouth curved into a brief smile.
Shaw continued: “Wiley’s gone because he arrested me?”
“No. I would’ve done that. Oh, his grounds for the collar were wrong — like you told Cummings. Tampering with evidence we missed and you secured? My oh my, the JMCTF would look mighty bad if you mentioned that to the press. Which you would have done.”
“Maybe.”
“I would’ve taken you in as a material witness and not behind Plexiglas, thank you very much. Just till we checked you out properly. No, Dan got kicked down ’cause he didn’t follow up on that memo of yours. You’ve got good handwriting. Bet you’ve heard that before. He should’ve jumped on the case with both feet. You ever work in law enforcement?”
“No. What’s Liaison? That you sent him to?”
“We’re a Task Force, right? We come from eight different agencies and there’s a lot of back-and-forth. Dan’ll get reports to where they belong.”
A messenger. Shaw thought, Tough break, Chief.
Standish said, “Dan’s not a bad guy. Had a bad spell recently. He was admin for years. Good at it, real good. Then his wife passed away. It was sudden. Thirty-three days from diagnosis to the end. He wanted to try something new. Get out, away from the desk. He thought the field would help. Man sure looks like a cop, doesn’t he?”
“Central casting.”
“He was out of his league on the street. Insecurity and authority — bad combo. There were other complaints too.”
What’d you find, sweetheart?...
Standish was looking over a map of a trail in the Compound. “That’s...?”
“My family home. Not far from Sierra National Forest.”
“You grew up there?”
“I did. My mother still lives on the family place. I was heading there for a visit until this happened.”
Her finger followed a red marker line on the map.
He said, “Was going for a rock climb there.”
Standish exhaled a brief laugh. “You do that for the fun of it?”
He gave a nod.
“Your mom? Lives there? Middle of nowhere?”
Shaw didn’t give Standish too much history, just explained that Mary Dove Shaw had become a sort of Georgia O’Keeffe — both in spirit and, with her lean sinewy figure and long hair, in appearance. With her background as a psychiatrist, med school professor and principal investigator, she had turned the Compound into a retreat for fellow doctors and scientists. Women’s health was a popular theme of the get-togethers. Hunting parties too. One needs to eat, after all.
Shaw added that he made it a point to visit several times a year.