thirteen

The envelope lay on the passenger seat of my car, tugging at my attention like a burning fuse. I tried to focus on the road, but couldn’t keep my eyes off the package. I was fortunate traffic was sparse, or I might have plowed into someone.

My cell phone sang its ditty, startling me. I fumbled it out of my purse and answered with a nervous, “Hello.”

“Bob here. Are you on your way back to Hammonds with the envelope?”

“Yes. Wait a minute. How did you know I found an envelope?”

“I just got off the phone with one of my people. He was covering you.”

“Where was he? I didn’t see him.” Even though my crisis was over, the knowledge that Bob had my back reassured me.

“Beth, you have to understand the homeless learn fast to be invisible, especially in the middle of the night. There are too many punks out there who think it’s good sport to beat up on someone sleeping on a park bench. No way you or anyone else would ever spot him. What’s in the envelope?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet. I figure I owe Hammonds the first look.”

“Yeah, probably so. Just for your info, my man saw no one in the area. Whoever left the envelope didn’t hang around to see if you picked it up. Either that or he was really good. And, before you ask, we’re very good at spotting others. It’s called survival.”

“Thanks, Bob. I should have remembered. Who was it? I’d like to thank him the next time I see him.”

“You don’t need to know. He prefers to stay in the background. Just pretend he’s any homeless person you meet. Treat them with kindness, and he’ll be happy.”

“You know I will.”

_____

Even if I had been lost and never been to Hammonds’ house before, the moment I turned onto his street his address would have been obvious. Light blazed across the yard, from the gazebo, and from each window. I pulled into the driveway, coasted close to the garage, and killed the engine.

I felt safer than I had since heading for the soccer field. It was nice to be back in the cocoon of society. I let out a deep breath, my lungs complaining like I’d held it for the past hour.

Before getting out of the car, I picked up the envelope, glad I hadn’t removed the latex gloves. Time to get it inside to Hammonds. I got out of the car and walked up the driveway.

The garage door swung upward, startling me.

Sargent stood inside, his eyes bloodshot—from lack of sleep, I assumed. His gaze locked on the package I carried. He had loosened his tie and taken off his jacket. The stubble covering his jaw was black with traces of gray, like his hair.

“Is that what they left?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Mr. Hammonds is waiting for us.”

He turned and headed into the house with me hot on his heels, hitting the garage door button as he went. If chivalry had to depend on him, its reported demise was indeed true. When we reached the hallway, he stopped and pointed. I took that to mean Hammonds was in his office. Apparently, the two of them would not exchange Christmas cards. Two Type A personalities clashing, but Sargent had to back away or risk his career.

I found Hammonds at his desk, sitting in semi-darkness, only a small lamp for illumination. Even under the poor lighting, I could see he looked as tired as Sargent. No, more so, more tired than any person I’d ever seen. If I hadn’t known he was only forty-two, I’d have sworn he was in his seventies. The attractive professional I met had deteriorated into an old man filled with grief. My heart went out to him, wishing I could offer peace, but knowing only the return of Ashley could do that—and then, only partially.

His head came up, and he attempted to smile. It didn’t work. He still wore the blue polo shirt he had on when I left, but now it looked bedraggled, which pretty much summed up his whole appearance. He reflected a man hovering on the edge of collapse. He stared at me as if I were his last hope—which, as phony as it might sound, I guess I was.

I scanned his desk to see what he was drinking, but saw only a half-filled coffee cup, and that looked cold. As far as I could tell, he had not sought solace in a bottle. That must have taken strength—strength I’m not sure I would have had in the same situation. I’m not much of a drinker, but there are times I crave a smooth scotch. Had I been in Hammonds’ position, I might have been reaching for the bottle.

Further scrutiny revealed that everything was in its proper place. The office was spotless, not one loose paperclip. I assumed he spent his time sprucing up the office, burning off the nervous energy that threatened to consume him. My heart went out to him.

Still wearing my gloves, I placed the envelope on the desk. “This is what they left.”

“Don’t touch that.” It was Sargent.

The voice came as a surprise because I hadn’t realized he’d followed me. My first thought was he looked different, fresher somehow. Then it registered that he’d put on his suit jacket and tightened his tie.

“We need to have our crime scene techs go over it first,” Sargent said. “There could be evidence that’ll lead us to the kidnappers. Or,” he frowned, his eyes hard, “it could be a bomb. In any case, let me handle it.”

I stared at Sargent, knowing he was right. We needed to follow set procedure. On the other hand, we needed to know whatever message it contained—and every minute could be critical. More damned dilemmas.

I swallowed hard, looking at Hammonds. The uplift I’d seen in his chin when I placed the envelope in front of him was gone. His hands hovered in the air, frozen by Sargent’s words. They trembled, and the tiredness had returned to his face. Then, stubbornness moved in. “I have to know what’s in here.”

“I know, sir,” Sargent said, compassion in his tone. “But we can’t risk destroying evidence—evidence that might lead us to your daughter.”

“Damn—”

“Maybe you could open it,” I injected, my comment directed at Sargent. Both of them were right, and the last thing we needed was a pissing contest. “It appears to be sealed with the clasp, no glue. I’m sure you can empty it without messing it up.”

Sargent chewed on his bottom lip.

“C’mon,” I said. “You know we have to see the contents. Take a chance. Where’s your heart?”

Sargent glared at me, then looked at Hammonds. “Alright. But not in here. I’ll take it out by the pool—me, just me. You two remain right here. If it’s a bomb …” His voice drifted away, but a stubborn look claimed his face, reminding me of the stony countenances carved into Mount Rushmore.

“It can’t be an explosive,” I said. “They didn’t kidnap Ashley to blow somebody away. They want money, probably lots of it.”

“I’m not as prescient as you,” Sargent said. “One of my many shortcomings.” His sarcasm hovered in the air as he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and worked his hands into them. He picked up the envelope like it held one of the dead sea scrolls—one that had not been deciphered. “Stay here. I’ll bring the contents back … if I can.”

After Sargent left the room, Hammonds rose, came around the desk, and headed for the door. “No way I can sit here and wait. We can at least keep an eye on him.”

“We can watch from the patio,” I said. “Sargent is right. It’s his play, and he’s taking a big chance for us. You and I are bystanders until he’s ready to show us what’s in the envelope.” To myself, I added, Please don’t be a bomb.

When we stepped outside, I pretended to stumble and saved myself by grabbing Hammonds’ arm. I feared he’d keep following Sargent. He cut me a look, but stopped. I may or may not have sighed with relief. Part of me said we had to stay back and let Sargent do his job, while the rest yelled for me to stay with him. But I was responsible for Hammonds, and I needed to keep him safe—and under control.

Forcing my emotions down, I said, “We may as well sit,” indicating a couple of comfortable-looking lounge chairs. “It’s going to be a long day, no matter what he finds.” I settled onto the cushion and leaned back. To my surprise, but not to my surprise, my eyelids threatened to close. It had been a long, tough night, and my adrenalin flow had slowed. The thought of sleep came uninvited to my mind.

“I suppose you’re right.” Hammonds voice sounded as tired as I felt. He sat beside me.

Along the edge of the pool, Sargent knelt and placed the envelope on a snack table. From his briefcase, he took out a recorder and rested it on a chaise lounge a few feet away. He was about thirty feet from us, but I had no problem seeing his every move. Hammonds had enough pool lights to support an Olympic high-diving event.

Sargent removed his suit coat, folded it in half, and lay it beside the recorder. He loosened his tie, then reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a clasp knife. He swiped his forearm across his forehead, opened a blade on the knife, then pushed a button on the recording device.

His lips appeared to form words as he began working on one wing of the clasp, moving at the speed of an arthritic snail. I assumed he chose to record every motion he made, leaving me to wonder if the recorder was bombproof.

The predawn hour wasn’t hot. In fact, for South Florida, it was pretty cool, low seventies, maybe. But sweat ran down my cheeks, defying the weather. When I glanced at Hammonds, he wiped his face, his palm coming away wet. The external temperature had nothing to do with our perspiration. Our internal thermostats were registering well above sweat production. We were victims of tension. But only Sargent was in a position to physically feel it, especially if things went bad.

For a long moment, I saw strain on Sargent’s face, then he relaxed. He sat back on his haunches and wiped his face again. Several deep breaths later, he walked to the other side of the table and repeated his act on the second wing of the clasp, moving no faster than before. I stared as his lips continued to move, forming words for the recorder. His professionalism and courage forced me to upgrade my opinion of him—but not much. He was still a horse’s ass.

After what seemed an eternity, while my racing heart waited for an explosion, he leaned back and flexed his neck and shoulders. I realized I had been holding my breath, or as close thereto as one can come. My eyes hurt from squinting. I could picture every hair on his fingers. That’s how closely I watched as he worked. I imitated his stretching, taking deep breaths, forcing myself to relax. I couldn’t imagine the stress he felt, but my neck hurt. Sargent was a better man than I had given him credit for.

Rubbing the back of his head, he stood and circled the table, his eyes glued to the envelope. I hoped he saw whatever he sought. Or maybe I hoped he didn’t see it. I wanted the darn thing to be innocent so we could get the message that might be inside.

After three or four trips around the table, Sargent knelt again, grasped the end of the envelope, and gently shook it. Something slid out and he froze, I froze, and I’m sure Hammonds beside me froze. Then Sargent smiled and picked up the object and held it in the air for us to see.

A DVD.

As if it was an omen, the first hint of daybreak peeked at us above the trees bordering Hammonds’ back yard. The world looked brighter, in more ways than one.