Fifteen

As soon as she got to work, Nicole went onto the bank’s website and downloaded a withdrawal slip. She filled it out and considered how she was going to ask Joanne to carry out this secret mission. She and Joanne were friendly, even though they rarely socialized outside of work. Nicole was sure that Joanne was honest and could be trusted with a secret.

She quickly dashed off a note authorizing Joanne Bates to pick up the money, put the note and withdrawal slip in an envelope, and wrote Kevin’s name on it. Then she went into Joanne’s office and closed the door. “I need to ask a favor, and I’d be eternally grateful if you’d do it without asking questions. I’ll explain everything when I can, which might not be for a day or two.”

“Now you’ve really piqued my curiosity,” Joanne said. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just take this envelope to the bank downstairs and give it to the assistant manager, Kevin James. He’s expecting it. He’ll give you a package, and you’ll bring it to me.“

“Of course,” Joanne said. “And I’ll keep my questions to myself.” She gestured zipping her lips.

Ten minutes later, Joanne was back with a box about the same size as the one that had been left at Nicole’s door that morning.

“Thanks so much, Joanne. I really owe you. As soon as I can, I’ll explain. I promise.”

Nicole took the box, went into her office and closed the door. She’d just finished locking the money in the cupboard where she kept her purse and jacket when she thought of something. Why had the kidnappers failed to show up at the first two drops? After the first drop failed, Arnault asked her if she’d told anyone. She hadn’t, and the police took extra care on the second drop, when they’d used the drone to keep watch. Somehow the kidnappers still found out the cops were involved.

Suddenly it dawned on her. The bank had records of her withdrawals. If the kidnappers had access to that information, they’d see she’d taken out only two thousand dollars, not the twenty thousand dollars they’d asked for. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that someone, most likely the police, was setting a trap. Had the kidnappers hacked into the bank’s computer system? It had been done at other financial institutions. She thought of her conversation with Kevin that morning, his nonplussed attitude when she asked for thirty thousand dollars. How often did people withdraw that much in cash? Wouldn’t he have expressed a little curiosity or sounded surprised? She remembered his tone of voice when he’d said, “For you Nicole, anything.” It was as if he’d been expecting her call.

She sat down at her desk and was about to type in Kevin’s name for a background check when there was a knock at her door. She called, “Come in.”

To her surprise, it was Arnault, carrying a cardboard tray with two cups of coffee and a white paper bag with the logo of the pastry shop across the street. He gave her a big smile. “You couldn’t do lunch, but I knew you’d have to take a morning break. At least ten minutes; it’s the law.”

“How kind of you to come and personally enforce it.” She gave him a smile, feeling relieved on two counts. She’d already gotten the cash to pay the kidnappers. She’d also been lucky that Arnault hadn’t arrived a few minutes earlier. If he had, he’d have come up in the elevator with Joanne and seen her hand the box to Nicole. How could that have not aroused his curiousity?

“So, what did you bring me?” she said.

He unfolded the top of the bag and held it out to her. She reached in and pulled out a jelly donut. It looked delicious. She took a bite, and it was. “Yum,” she said. “Thanks.”

They talked companionably for a short time, which turned out to be ten minutes, when Nicole glanced at her watch. He must have noticed because he stood and said, “Party’s over. Back to work. Give me a call if—”

“You know I will,” she said.

She stayed in at lunch, picking up a turkey sandwich from Charlotte, the woman who called each morning with her basket of luncheon fare, fruit, and cookies. Nicole realized she wouldn’t be able to stop at the grocery store after work, not with all that cash in the car. Instead, she bought a salad and some banana bread to bring home for dinner. Nicole got her purse out to pay, careful to relock the cupboard. After Charlotte left, Nicole dug into work again, leaving her purse sitting on her desk.

Despite everything that was going on, Nicole was able to focus on work for the first time since Stephanie disappeared. She wondered if it was because she’d regained control of the situation and was no longer under the thumb of the police. Around three o’clock, she was startled by a knock on her door. It was Arnault again, this time carrying two tall cups from Ringo’s coffee house.

“No word yet,” she said, before he had a chance to ask.

“We’ve had a tip about an abandoned house in Laurel Canyon that’s suddenly seeing a lot of activity,” he said. “We sent a team up there to take a look.”

“You don’t sound very hopeful.”

“People call in tips that usually come to nothing, but we’ve got to check them out. I have to confess I’m worried you haven’t heard anything by now.”

“I know,” Nicole said quietly. She had to play dumb, but she wasn’t sure she was giving a convincing performance. She grabbed a tissue from the box on the shelf behind her and dabbed at her eyes.

“Dinner tonight?” he said.

She hesitated, trying to think of an excuse. “I’m afraid I won’t be very good company.”

“That’s why I’m asking. I know how hard it will be for you to wait by yourself.”

“All right,” she said. “I haven’t been sleeping, so I’m hoping to grab a nap when I get home. Why don’t you come around nine o’clock, and we’ll go out for something to eat.” Even as she said this, she knew that by the time he arrived to pick her up, she’d have left to deliver the ransom.

He set the coffee drinks on her desk, pushed one over to her, and sat down.

She took a sip of hers. “This is yummy. What is it?”

“Caramel macchiato,” he said. “My favorite.”

“Thanks for bringing it. That was really thoughtful.”

He smiled. “You’re very welcome.”

They lapsed into an awkward silence. After a few moments, Arnault picked up the ball, filling her in on the latest news—an exposé about the city’s continuing failure on the issue of homelessness. When Nicole glanced at her watch, Arnault stood up. “I guess it’s time for me to go,” he said.

As she walked him to the door, he said, “Keep your spirits up. This game ain’t over yet.” They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment before he turned and, after a brief goodbye, left.

She closed the door after him and leaned against it, thinking how mad he’d be when he learned she’d skipped out on him, that she was doing exactly what he’d warned her not to, dealing directly with the kidnappers. The money might well allow them to sneak out of the country. Arnault’s case would be blown, and it would be her doing. But what did it matter. She’d probably never see him again. In a way, she was sorry. But she felt sure that, even if she’d met him under different circumstances, it wouldn’t have worked out.

When quitting time arrived, she was calm and focused on what was about to happen. She took the box out of the cupboard and set the food she’d bought on top. She carried the load down to the garage to put in the trunk of her car. After arriving at her condo building, she carted everything to the second floor.

Stepping off the elevator, she glanced out the big window that offered a view of the street. The glass was tinted so no one could see in. A gray sedan had just pulled up to the curb across the street. Instead of getting out, the driver rolled down the window. She watched while he lit a cigarette and settled back in his seat. He’d parked so he had a view of her building’s front door as well as the entrance to the garage. She had no doubt he was a cop and that Arnault had sent him to keep an eye on her. It was just what she’d expected. Her next challenge would be to leave the building without being seen. She’d figured out a plan but had yet to make the arrangements.

She carried her things into her place. Her calm had somehow evaporated, along with any appetite she might have had. She stuck the salad and banana bread in the refrigerator and went into the living room to turn on the news. All at once she remembered something she’d intended to do that afternoon, before Arnault arrived and distracted her.

She went into her office, turned on the computer and typed Kevin’s name, first into her search engine, then her office database. He’d had a DUI when he was a 19, a serious offense since he wasn’t old enough to drink. He’d had his license taken away for a year and was sentenced to community service. Other than that, his record was clean. But under financial information, the picture wasn’t exactly rosy. His credit rating was borderline at 400. If it were much lower, he would have been considered a bad credit risk. The worst news was that, four years out of college, he owed two hundred twenty thousand in student loans. He’d only begun to pay them back the previous year, when he’d started as a management trainee with the bank. Even with these financial problems, it was hard for Nicole to believe that meek-mannered Kevin James would get involved in a crime as serious as kidnapping.

She took a look at his social media page. He was given to posting cartoons and snapshots of meals he’d had at restaurants. Some photos showed him with people who, for the most part, weren’t identified. But two were consistently tagged with their names: Ryan Holich and Matthew Bissell. In one shot, they were wearing suits and ties. It looked like some kind of graduation event. A banner behind them said “Congratulations Olympia Bank Management Trainees.”

Nicole’s scalp tingled with the thrill of discovery. They all worked for the same bank. She’d never seen Kevin’s buddies before, so she figured they worked in other branches. The threesome were also shown in the same apartment. Either they hung out a lot at one guy’s place, or they were roommates.

She switched to Ryan’s Facebook page. It showed some of the same photos that were on Kevin’s. His posts talked about his work. She was surprised to learn that Ryan, like Kevin, was a management trainee with Olympia bank, but at a different branch. Looking farther, she saw that Ryan’s credit rating was no better than Kevin’s.

Matthew was also with the same bank at yet another branch. He held a similarly low credit rating. All three were burdened with student debt. Of more interest were two photos Matthew had posted of himself with a woman. In one they had their arms around each other. In the other they were cheek to cheek. The woman had short, wildly curly, dark hair and big, round, black-rimmed glasses. It was Ashley Rexton in disguise. The dark hair, curls, and glasses had completely changed her look. Nicole hovered her cursor over the photo to see if her name appeared, but she wasn’t tagged. What had she been thinking, allowing someone to take her photo? Obviously, she had no idea Matthew would be dumb enough to post it on social media.

Nicole thought about the bank connection. The three men—Kevin, Ryan, and Matthew—all worked for Olympia Bank. It would have been easy for them to find out about her withdrawals. How had they chosen the other victims? Was it through their bank accounts? The name of the first victim had never been made public. Nicole looked up the second victim, Victoria Reina, and found she and her husband shared a wealth management account with Olympia Bank. And finally, Nicole checked Ashley herself. She also banked with Olympia. There it was, she thought, the link between all three kidnappings that Arnault had talked about.

Just then, Nicole heard the neighbor she’d been waiting for arrive home. She got up and went over to knock on the door. Michelle was a legal secretary, pale and prim with fair hair worn in a chignon. She’d seemed unfriendly when Nicole first moved in, but later Nicole realized the woman was extremely shy. One evening, Michelle showed up at Nicole’s door in her bathrobe and explained, between bouts of coughing, that she had the flu. She’d timidly asked if Nicole would mind picking up her prescription. She’d had her doctor phone it in to a drugstore a few blocks away, only to discover that it didn’t deliver. She was too sick to go herself.

Nicole had not only gotten the prescription, but she’d picked up groceries for Michelle until she recovered, about a week later. That had sealed their friendship. Michelle was now in the habit of dropping by to talk to Nicole, whom she seemed to regard as some kind of guru on relationships. Michelle had none. At the age of twenty-nine, she was eager to find someone but was too shy to sign up for Internet dating.

When Michelle’s door opened, Nicole said, “I wonder if I could ask you a favor.”

“Of course, of course,” Michelle said, waving her in. “How about a glass of wine? It’s that time of day.”

“Sure,” Nicole said. “I could use it.”

When they each were seated with their drinks, Michelle said, “You needed a favor. Tell me what I can do.”

“I’m being stalked,” Nicole said.

Michelle’s eyes widened and her mouth rounded into an ‘O’ before she said. “Stalked? By who?”

“This guy I met through the Internet. I said ‘no’ to a second date, but he wouldn’t listen. When I ghosted his messages, he started stalking me.” Nicole was making this up as she went along. “Tonight he followed me home from work.” She got up and beckoned Michelle to follow her down the hall to the elevator alcove. They stopped at the big window. The cop was still sitting in his car across the street.

“That’s him in the gray car,” Nicole said.

“Have you called the police?”

“Every time I call them, he just ducks out of sight until they leave. It’s hopeless. If this keeps up, I’ll have to move.”

“Oh, Nicole, don’t do that. What can I do to help?”

Observing Michelle’s distress, Nicole wondered if she’d overdone it. She’d worked hard to encourage Michelle to sign up for online dating. This might make her think she’d end up with a stalker, too.

“I need a ride, that’s all,” Nicole said. “I’ll move in with my sister until this guy gives up. But he knows my car, so I’ll have to get to Steph’s another way. I’m wondering if you’d drive me to the Metro Station at Wilshire and La Brea. I’ll duck down so he won’t be able to see me leave in your car.”

“You don’t have to take Metro,” Michelle said. “I’ll be happy to drive you to your sister’s.”

“That’s not necessary,” Nicole said quickly. “Traffic is terrible at this hour. The subway will be quicker. I just need a few minutes to change and pack an overnight bag.”

“Come back whenever you’re ready.”

Nicole went back to her place, put the money in her overnight bag, and changed into jeans, an old t-shirt, and, since the nights were still cool, a warm jacket. She took her cell and the burner phone out of her purse and set them on her bureau. She could be tracked, she knew, by her cell. She wasn’t sure about the burner phone. But since she’d used it to communicate with Arnault, there was the possibility he could use it to locate her whereabouts. No sense taking chances. Looking in the mirror, she pulled her hair into a ponytail and covered it with a faded blue baseball cap with the word “chill” on it. It had belonged to Josh, her ex-fiancé. Somehow, she hadn’t been able to part with it.

Michelle seemed genuinely spooked as she accompanied Nicole to the elevator and down to the garage. She kept looking around, as if she expected to be accosted by the stalker. As they drove out of the garage, Nicole bent down so she couldn’t be seen. After several blocks she sat up and looked out the back window. There was plenty of traffic but no sign of the gray car.

Nicole had to wait just a few minutes before a train arrived. She boarded, and it silently headed east toward downtown. It was rush hour on a Friday, and every seat was taken. She had to hang onto a pole with her free arm wrapped tightly around her overnight bag. After a short time, however, a young man got up and offered her his seat. From his clothes, soiled from construction or yard work, she could see he was a working-class Latino like many others on the train. He looked beat. Ordinarily, she would have refused the seat, but her bag was getting heavy, and if someone grabbed it, she’d be unable to hold onto it with only one hand.

It was a relief to sit down with a firm grip on the bag of money. After another fifteen minutes, the train arrived at Union Station. Some years before, it had been restored to its original art deco glory. The refurbished complex included several upscale restaurants, as well as a garden and big rooms for weddings and other events.

Clasping the bag against herself, she passed countless men and women making their way to and from the trains. When she reached the Amtrak ticket office, there was a long line, snaking back and forth in a Z, along a rope divider. With a sigh, she fell into step at the end. Looking around at the people crowding the station, she did a double take at the sight of perhaps thirty Amish in their old-fashioned outfits with bonnets and hats. They ranged from babes in arms to old timers with long white beards, making their way from the trains to the street. She wondered what would have impelled them to travel by train, since they usually went to great lengths to avoid modern conveyances.

At last it was her turn at the window. She bought the cheapest train ticket on offer, a one-way to San Diego. She checked the bag with the ticket agent, who passed it to a baggage handler. He put the bag on a trolley brimming with luggage.

She turned and, following the note’s instructions, hurried through the door that bore a sign reading, “South Patio.” Walking in the direction of the entrance, she stopped at the front-most planter box, which held a blooming crepe myrtle. Its magenta blossoms were just beginning to fade. She was about to put the claim ticket in the tree’s planter box when she spotted a manila envelope sitting on top of the soil. In big block letters, it said, “Nicole.” She picked it up.

There was a paragraph printed beneath her name. It said, “Go back and reclaim your bag immediately. This was a test to make sure you didn’t bring the cops. You are being watched. Hurry before they put the bag on the train.”

Nicole arrived in the lobby just as the baggage handler was wheeling his trolley into a long corridor that led to the train platforms. She ran after him, shouting “Wait, wait!” But the din of the station drowned out her voice. She was almost upon him before he heard her and turned around. She held out her claim stub, almost too breathless to speak. “I’ve changed my mind,” she gasped. “I’m not taking the train after all.”

The man was young, slightly built, and not much taller than Nicole. He didn’t look strong enough to be in the business of lifting heavy bags. Hearing her request, his face colored and registered an expression of extreme annoyance. He grabbed her ticket and began digging through the pile of bags on his cart, tossing some on the floor as he searched for hers. When he found it, he thrust it into her arms.

“Next time, think before you pull a stunt like this. Now these bags will probably miss the train. I hope you’re happy.” He scrambled to stack the tossed bags back on the trolley and took off at a run.

The envelope she’d retrieved from the planter was crumpled in her hand. She went over to a bench, placed her bag on her lap, and smoothed out the envelope. Her stomach was knotted with anxiety. As she read the kidnapper’s instructions, it struck her that whoever was choreographing this ransom drop had no idea what he was doing.