When Alan didn’t return from his morning walk, Marjorie wasn’t immediately concerned. But when the lunch hour arrived and there was still no word, she decided to track him down. Calls to the lawyer, Hare, and the police department were unproductive. Sheriff Carter, she was tersely informed, was not in the office and not expected until the evening shift officers arrived for duty. The woman at the county office apparently thought Marjorie would know what that hour was.
Marjorie called her cousin, Edie, who said she hadn’t heard from Lockem. Edie offered to drive down to the hotel to be with Marjorie but she declined, preferring to spend some time electronically searching for her missing companion. On line her probes revealed no activity by phone or computer. She reached out to several of their common research and other sources throughout North America, people and organizations in a loose network of specialized talents they rarely but occasionally utilized. Had Alan texted or emailed or talked to any of them? All reported no contacts. As a result of Marjorie’s digging, their network, quiescent for days, awoke like a dozing dragon, shook off the residue of sleep and began to search. Where was Alan Lockem and why was he out of touch?
By one-thirty that hot afternoon, concern over the missing man had risen significantly so Marjorie decided to find the sheriff. Alan never went this long without contacting her, except in special circumstances, none of which were in play at the time. The telephone was a useful tool, but she knew the personal approach was a better motivator. She took a cab to the county center and marched into the Sheriff’s Department. Leaning over the rail, she presented her considerable bosom to the startled view of the deputy who sat there. He’d been looking at a manual of some sort. When he raised his head, Marjorie’s prominent nipples were clearly visible through the fabric of her top and the shadowed valley of her cleavage was front and center.
“Yes, ma’am,” he gulped. “Can I help…help you…in some way?”
Marjorie flashed her Minnesota driver’s license picture ID at him and said in a low and intense voice, “I am here in town at the behest the attorney John Hare. My partner, Alan Lockem, appears to have gone missing. I wish to see Sheriff Carter forthwith.”
The deputy gaped at her, raised his eyes to her face and picked up the phone. Rapidly regaining his equilibrium, he punched in two numbers, repeated her message and said to Marjorie, “Sheriff Carter will be right out, ma’am.”
Marjorie smiled sweetly and nodded. As she stepped back, a door opened off to her left and Sheriff Carter walked into view and waved her in. The deputy electronically opened the gate and Marjorie walked back to the sheriff’s office. It was a big, airy, well-lit room with several potted plants and a large wooden desk that had obviously seen a lot of wear over the years. Behind the desk, shoved tight against one wall was a long plank table. Files and papers in apparently random order lay on the table. A large map of the county hung on the wall to Marjorie’s left and an old-fashioned hat tree stood in one corner.
“Sit down, Mrs. Lockem—Marjorie.” Sheriff Carter gestured her to a chair in front of the desk, one of two. He took the other. He listened intently while she explained her growing concern. When she finished she concluded, “I realize I’m being premature. Under normal circumstances you’d have to wait twenty-four hours, correct? But these aren’t normal circumstances, are they.”
Sheriff Carter rose, went to his desk and took up the phone. He ordered two patrol cars to the hotel to begin a site search immediately. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll drive you back and we’ll start from there.”
When they reached the hotel, Marjorie saw two young uniformed deputies in the lobby talking with hotel employees. Two patrol cars, rotating lights blinking in the afternoon sun, sat in the driveway and other deputies could be seen walking along the sidewalks, staring intently at the ground while they stopped and questioned passersby. There was a hail from the short narrow street at the side of the hotel. A deputy was squatted at the curb photographing an object on the ground. It was an old-fashioned fountain pen. Marjorie recognized it with a jolt to her heart.
“Yes, I recognize the pen. He’s carried it for years.” There was no need to explain who “he” was.
“Look here,” said the deputy. “These tire marks look fresh. I think a vehicle came up on the curbing here.”
Sheriff Carter squatted and peered at the dark marks on the curb. “I expect they were waiting, observing your hotel and when Mr. Lockem showed up they grabbed him.”
“What can we do?”
The Sheriff looked into Marjorie’s face for a long silent moment. Then, “The hardest thing. We have a BOLO out. The local police will be here any minute and you should tell them everything, exactly what you told me. Then stay close. Since you have a cell phone you aren’t tied to your hotel room. But kidnappers might call.”
“But you don’t think this is a run-of-the-mill kidnapping, do you?” Marjorie asked. An approaching siren covered conversations among nearby deputies.
“I think this abduction, if you will, is tied directly to Sam Black’s case. And if we’re right, that raises some interesting questions. Did he tell you about our side trip to the county data center?”
She shook her head.
“I’ll fill you in after we deal with this.” He turned away to watch the driver of a city patrol, lights flashing, that rolled to a stop in the entrance to the side street. The driver who emerged was a large man with a closely shaven head, dark-rimmed glasses who walked with a small swagger. He was dressed in civilian clothes, jeans, scuffed boots, a straw wide-brimmed cowboy-style hat and a toothpick. “Detective Carlson,” said the Sheriff. His voice was uninflected.
“Sheriff. Care to fill me in? Are you Mrs. Lockem?”
Marjorie acknowledged the introduction. Nobody shook hands. The Sheriff carefully but tersely explained everything they now knew.
“And you all are certain this is a kidnapping. Lockem didn’t just wander off somewhere and has forgotten the time?”
Marjorie shook her head. “Not possible, detective. When we’re working, we have a rule about that. Plus we’d talked about lunch just as he went out the door. Finally there’s this.” She plucked Lockem’s pen, now in a plastic baggie, from Carter’s hand and displayed it for the detective. “This is Alan’s favorite pen. We just found it lying here in the gutter beside these tire tracks.” Detective Carlson looked at the pen but didn’t reach for it.
Marjorie was still holding it together, but in the face of time passing and no answers, she began to experience a mild vertigo. “Unless you still need me, gentlemen, I’m going to our room.” She waved her cell phone at the men and went back inside.
Detective Carlson, watched her go. “She has sure aged well.”
“You know her?” queried Sheriff Carter.
“Well, know is not accurate. I’ve seen her before. Years ago. A strip club in Boise. She was a dancer there for a while.”