16

Crews had already set up cameras in front of the senator’s house when Kenzie arrived. She pulled around back, parked her Bureau car in the alley, and started walking toward the house. Then she heard Crow’s voice.

“Kenzie!” He caught up to her and touched her arm.

“Scott’s waiting for me!” she said, quickening her pace.

Crow kept up with her. “Why didn’t you wait? I thought we were interviewing Talmadge together.”

With each footfall, her head pounded. “You were late. I wanted to get it done,” and as she jerked open the back door, she heard him mutter something under his breath—in Navajo.

“Let’s go in the senator’s office,” Scott suggested.

The senator, dressed in a dark blue suit and white shirt, had already had his on-camera makeup done and was tying his tie. He looked nervously at Kenzie, searching her eyes as if to seek reassurance that this plan would really work, and as a result of this personal appeal, his daughter would be in his arms again, laughing and tugging at his tie.

“Senator,” Scott said, “we want to be sure to do this right. We may only have one shot at it.” Kenzie sat down next to him. “This is where Kenzie can really help us, so let’s listen to her plan.”

“All right.”

Kenzie looked at Scott. “Is Mrs. Grable going to appear with you?”

Scott shook his head. “She isn’t back.”

“And she ran out without her cell phone,” the senator added, “so we haven’t been able to find her.”

Kenzie shot Scott a look. Not knowing Beth’s whereabouts was a mistake. His eyes told her he understood that. Turning to the senator, she began. “Senator, I believe the kidnapper knows you. And I believe he has psychopathic tendencies. Practically speaking, that means appeals to his conscience won’t work. We have to frame everything in terms of his self-interest. It’s important that you not appear to be weak—it would only strengthen him. You have to think of this as a business deal. Here’s what you want, here’s what I’m offering, that sort of thing.”

The senator swallowed hard. He blinked and looked away, as if the reality of the situation unnerved him.

Kenzie shifted in her chair, drawing his eyes back to her. “We don’t want to reveal too much information,” she said, continuing. “It could preclude a positive identification of the kidnapper later. For instance, we’re not going to release details about the note. Understand?”

He nodded.

“Here’s what I want you to do: Emphasize Zoe’s illness. Not for sympathy’s sake, but because if she dies, his plan is thwarted. No kid, no ransom.” Kenzie saw Grable flinch at the word dies, but then he tightened his jaw and kept listening. “It must be in the kidnapper’s self-interest to get on with this, to communicate with us again, to make the deal happen. You understand?”

“Sure.”

Kenzie looked at Scott. “Nothing on the fan page yet, right?”

“Right.”

“OK. We’ve got to push this guy. So here’s what you’re going to say.” She outlined the points the senator needed to make and she saw him make some notes on a three-by-five card, a good sign. He was used to the press, used to public speaking, used to getting his message across, used to managing his image.

“Are we allowing a Q&A?” he asked.

“A couple of questions, that’s all,” Scott responded.

“What if the reporters go a different direction?” the senator asked.

“You control the interview,” Kenzie said. “Divert back to your topics. You can do this. You’re good at it. I’ve seen you, Senator.”

His mouth twitched. “This is different. This is my kid.”

“I have confidence in you.” Kenzie looked deeply into his eyes.

And he blinked hard and nodded. “OK.”

Scott made some other clarifications, then Kenzie checked her watch. “It’s 4:50. You’re going to have maybe two minutes on air. Let’s role-play for a minute.”

And so, assuming the part of reporter, she and the senator went over and over his part until a knock on the door announced his moment had come.

The horde of reporters outside included the national press, Kenzie noted, peeking out from an upstairs bedroom window. Scott, reminding her that the unsub knew her identity and had attacked her, had told her to remain inside, and although she chafed at that restriction, she knew it was wise. Behind her a television aired the final commercials leading up to the five o’clock news. She had a DVR set to record.

Already the station had promoted the live press conference from the senator’s house. Of the top field reporters clustered on the senator’s front lawn, Kenzie recognized most of them. A gaggle of microphones extended from their hands and behind them stood cameramen with their equipment trained on the front porch, ready for the signal to start. Along the edge of the crowd stood Crow, dressed casually, his gun covered by a chambray denim shirt. When she saw him, she felt a tingle run up her spine. He looked good standing there in the sun, his coppery skin and dark hair setting him apart from the crowd. Anybody would be attracted to him, she thought. Anybody.

The television stations’ remote trucks jammed the street, their transmission antennae stretching into the sky like giraffes, their heads pointed all different directions.

Although she couldn’t see them, Kenzie could tell when the senator and Scott emerged from the house as every eye turned toward the front porch. Faintly through the closed window she could hear a producer counting down, “Three, two, one . . . GO!”

Scott took charge of the multi-station event. She wondered if they’d get his name spelled right on the supers. He looked so good, so professional, so FBI-like talking to them. “Sometime between 6:30 p.m. and 10:30 p.m. on Tuesday,” Scott said, “an abduction took place at this address. An unknown subject took a five-year-old child, Zoe Grable, daughter of Senator Bruce Grable and his wife Elizabeth, from her bedroom.”

Kenzie listened to the television, but turned to watch the street below carefully. The kidnapper could even be in the crowd. They couldn’t rule that out. Anyone brazen enough to enter the senator’s property to leave a note could do just about anything. That’s why Crow stood down there. That’s why, even now, he scanned the crowd, his eyes obscured behind dark sunglasses, his face a mask.

Scott finished speaking. Without looking at the television, she could envision what he was doing—stepping aside and letting the senator have center stage. “Stay strong,” she said quietly, coaching the senator in absentia. “Don’t appear vulnerable.”

His voice emerged from the television behind her. “As Agent Hansbrough said, two days ago, our daughter disappeared from our home.” His voice wavered. Kenzie gritted her teeth. He continued, stronger. “Whoever took her may not realize she is very ill. The day she was abducted, tests revealed she has diabetes, insulin-dependent, Type I diabetes. Unless she receives medical attention immediately, she will die. They could charge the abductor, then, with a far more serious crime than simple kidnapping. Zoe requires special care, care most strangers would not know how to give. We are waiting for further instructions and are prepared to cooperate for the sake of my daughter.”

He held up a portrait. “Zoe is a beautiful little girl. Like all little girls, she likes ponies, dolls, and pink. Pink anything. But her appearance could have changed. Here is the police artist’s sketch of what she would look like as a boy. I know someone has seen her. I just need your help in getting her back. That’s all.”

Good job, Kenzie thought. Good job. He’d played it just right.

“Senator! Senator!” numerous reporters called out as he stepped away from the microphones.

But Scott took control. “A twenty-five thousand dollar reward has been posted for information leading to the recovery of Zoe. We have set up a direct telephone line for tips: 1-800-FINDZOE. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children will also take calls related to this case.” He gave their phone number. “Thank you.”

As he stepped back, reporters called out questions. “Senator, is it true you were under investigation for bribery when this occurred?” the Channel 4 newswoman yelled.

“No comment,” the senator responded.

“Has there been contact with the kidnapper? A note or anything?”

“We’ve been in contact; we await further instructions.”

“Senator, does an ethics violation have anything to do with this crime? Did you bring this on yourself?”

Kenzie groaned.

“I would never put my daughter at risk. She’s an innocent child. What we should be concentrating on is getting her back. Someone out there has seen her. I’d appreciate your help.”

Scott intervened. “That’s all the questions for now. Thank you.”

As if choreographed, the reporters below turned toward their own cameras to make a final comment. Within seconds, crew members were wrapping up wires, putting away microphones, and reinstalling cameras in their cases. The show was over.

Kenzie flipped off the television and went downstairs.

“How’d I do?” the senator asked her.

“Perfect,” she said. “Want to look at it?” She held up the disk. “Where’s Scott?”

Before he could answer, there was a knock on the front door and an attractive, blonde woman stuck her head in. “Senator? How ’bout an interview? You owe me, remember?”

Kenzie froze. Reporter Peggy Tripp had breached security.

Grayson Chambers stood in the living room of his dead mother’s house, sipping a cup of coffee, and watching the television. The five o’clock news hour was approaching and he felt curious. Would Zoe’s disappearance be made public?

If so, he’d have to be even more careful. Already a neighbor in the seedy little community in which his mother had lived had recognized him and asked about the child and the woman who were with him. “She’s my girlfriend,” he’d said, smiling, “and that’s her kid.”

He hated the fact someone had recognized him. Why did his mother have to be so social? She wasn’t really, not by any stretch of the imagination, but you don’t live somewhere for twenty years without getting to know the people around you. Unfortunately, that now worked against him.

Inheriting her little gem of a house didn’t exactly thrill him. The one-story, two-bedroom frame rambler sat beside a large pond. Although neat and trim, the house would be a pain for him to sell. The privately maintained roads in the community were deteriorating, filled with potholes and ruts. Apparently, his mother had no concern about how easily the house could be sold. It was just perfect for her, she’d said when she’d bought it, with room for flowers and a grassy lawn for her little dog. Always thinking of herself. When she’d died suddenly of a heart attack a year ago, the first thing he’d done was take the little mutt to the pound. Good grief. He got stuck with the house; he refused to be saddled with her yappy Chihuahua.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Zoe sitting on a chair in the kitchen, swinging her legs and eating jelly beans from a bag. Great. As long as she stayed occupied. The lead up to the news was beginning, with lots of yada-yada and swooshing graphics. Pressing a button on the remote, Grayson turned up the volume. His heart quickened as he heard the promo for the lead story.

Better not let her see or hear her father, he thought. He reduced the volume and stepped closer to the TV, blocking the line of sight from the kitchen. His pulse pounding in his ears, he focused on the television.

Some suit did the introduction. Had to be an FBI agent. Grayson had seen plenty of them around Washington. Fit, trim, wearing good suits and Italian leather shoes. He hated their sharp confidence. Even the women had it. He smiled to himself. But I got at least one of them, he thought. I took one FBI female down.

“As Agent Hansbrough said, two days ago, our daughter disappeared from our home.”

The senator stood before the crowd of reporters. Grayson scanned that familiar face, the boyish good looks, the black, neatly trimmed hair, those brilliant blue eyes. Could it be fatigue edging their corners? Worry? Fear, maybe?

Yeah, you should be scared, Grayson thought. I got your little girl. I got the only thing you really care about in this world.

You sure didn’t care about me, Grayson continued. Didn’t matter how I saved you over and over on the Hill. You didn’t care how I covered for you when I knew people were slipping you thousands and thousands of dollars. The thought didn’t even cross your mind to give old Grayson a little pat on the back or credit for all your brilliant legislative moves, much less a cut of the cash. No. You let me do the job, while you took the glory.

“The day she was abducted,” the senator continued, “tests revealed she has diabetes, insulin-dependent, Type I diabetes.”

What? Grayson’s attention snapped into focus.

“Unless she receives medical attention immediately, she will die. The abductor, then, could be charged with a far more serious crime than simple kidnapping.”

Holy . . . Grayson broke out into a sweat. He wiped his hands on his trousers. Diabetes? His mother’s heart attack had come from diabetes. What did she take for it? Medications? Insulin shots? He’d never paid much attention. Maybe if he looked around he’d find some leftover meds.

“We are waiting for further instructions and are prepared to cooperate for the sake of my daughter.”

Just his luck! He finally pulls off his plan and gets a sick kid. If she died, things would get complicated. Mess him up completely. He’d have to dispose of the body, yet maintain the ruse long enough to get the ransom money. How would he do that? And Sandy—good grief, Sandy would freak. Irritated, he watched the rest of the press briefing and snapped off the television. When he turned toward the kitchen, he saw Zoe with a mouthful of jelly beans. Sugar! He strode toward her, grabbed the bag from her hands, and yelled at Sandy. “Stop feeding her all this candy!” he roared. “You’re going to make her sick!”

Peggy Tripp’s blonde hair and bright smile had helped gain her entry to many a home and office around town. A political reporter for a local news station, she specialized in gotcha journalism. She claimed as one of her recent trophies the head of a Virginia senator defeated in his last election after a misstatement in a Peggy Tripp interview.

“Peggy!” Senator Grable said, giving her a hug.

He looked relieved that the TV news conference had finished, but Kenzie, seeing the reporter’s forwardness, worried that he would drop his guard. “Senator,” she said, but the man wasn’t looking in her direction at all. Kenzie moved to intervene. “Excuse me, Ms. Tripp, the senator . . .”

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Grable said, taking the reporter by the arm and bringing her further into the house. Clearly, he knew her. Clearly, they had a history.

Kenzie rolled her eyes. Where was Scott? She looked toward the kitchen. Nowhere in sight. She grabbed the senator’s arm. “Senator. Sir.” She waited until his eyes had turned to her. “I don’t think . . .”

“Bruce, you owe me. You said that yourself,” the reporter said sweetly, folding herself toward him, diverting his attention. “Besides, it could help.”

“I don’t suppose it could hurt.”

Oh yes, it could hurt! Kenzie screamed inside. It could ruin everything! “Senator, wait . . .” but the senator began moving toward his office, the reporter on his arm, and the best Kenzie could do was follow them in.