that we’re dealing with something other than a run-of-the-mill kidnapper who’s looking for some kind of ransom. What we have is a sociopath who’s looking to toy with this woman. He’s playing a game—for lack of a better word—and if it means what I think it means, he’s smarter than your average wannabe who’ll make mistakes.”
“What do you think it means?”
“He created the game, he can change the rules. That, cowboy,” he said, “does not bode well for us, nor for Mrs. Winthrop, I’m afraid.”
“You think it’s the husband? Is that why we’re sitting here going through this useless report?”
“Patience, Speed Racer. What I know is that when it comes to cases like this—”
“‘ Coincidences put the bad guys behind bars and keep the paychecks coming. ’” DJ huffed, and then laid the note back down on the desk. He stared at it, thinking about the interview with Sara, and the call that came for her. “One question.”
“One answer.”
“You keep saying he , but how do we know it’s not a she ? The receptionist at the school said a woman was calling for Sara.”
“ Mrs. Winthrop . Don’t get too close. Could’ve been an accomplice. You should know that. And besides, the statistics say the ratio is something like eight-to-one, male to female. Numbers don’t—”
“‘ Numbers don’t lie, people do. ’”
“And the sooner you learn that, the easier my job will get. Get back to Mr. Winthrop’s file. We’re missing something.” He leaned back, repositioned his glasses, and resumed reading. The only way he could’ve looked more relaxed would be with the addition of a pipe, a smoking jacket, and a pair of expensive slippers. Throw in a roaring fireplace and a mahogany bookshelf for good measure.
Sniffing down the wrong path, Bloodhound. We’re wasting time .
But he let it go. With zero solid leads and an absent mother who wouldn’t answer her phone, they had nowhere to rush off to. He and Barker both complained about how unhelpful the interviews were with the staff at both schools. And the babysitter, Willow Bluesong, wasn’t answering his calls, either, and hadn’t been home when they’d stopped by on their way back to the station.
DJ resigned himself to giving the file one more pass and decided that when he was done, he was going to LightPulse. With or without Barker.
***
Brian Jacob Winthrop had just turned 38 at the time of his disappearance on a Friday morning in May. He was two years older than his wife Sara, and a father to twin girls and one boy. He’d worked reasonable hours as a financial analyst for a small investment company, operating his own storefront out of the east side of Portland, which was open from 8 to 5, every weekday. He ate lunch at the sub shop next door and played softball on the weekends, when the absence of familial obligations allowed for it. Athletic center records indicated that he swam for an hour each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and he hadn’t missed a workout on those days in five months. The week he’d missed before that was the result of a conference in San Diego, according to his wife.
He had no prior record, except for two speeding tickets. Had no outstanding debts, no mortgage, and they were financially comfortable, if not well to do, in some respects. He’d struggled to gain new customers during the recession, but invested his existing clients’ money wisely. No lost money, no bad blood to be found there, either.
No gambling addictions, no transaction records from strip clubs. No reason to be involved in the shadier side of society. His wife, Sara, had admitted that they’d smoked marijuana once, on their honeymoon, and hadn’t touched anything since. Drugs weren’t a factor, and they rarely drank, so alcoholism and its detrimental effects weren’t a likely culprit. They had disagreements over finances and obligations like most couples, but
“What do you think it means?”
“He created the game, he can change the rules. That, cowboy,” he said, “does not bode well for us, nor for Mrs. Winthrop, I’m afraid.”
“You think it’s the husband? Is that why we’re sitting here going through this useless report?”
“Patience, Speed Racer. What I know is that when it comes to cases like this—”
“‘ Coincidences put the bad guys behind bars and keep the paychecks coming. ’” DJ huffed, and then laid the note back down on the desk. He stared at it, thinking about the interview with Sara, and the call that came for her. “One question.”
“One answer.”
“You keep saying he , but how do we know it’s not a she ? The receptionist at the school said a woman was calling for Sara.”
“ Mrs. Winthrop . Don’t get too close. Could’ve been an accomplice. You should know that. And besides, the statistics say the ratio is something like eight-to-one, male to female. Numbers don’t—”
“‘ Numbers don’t lie, people do. ’”
“And the sooner you learn that, the easier my job will get. Get back to Mr. Winthrop’s file. We’re missing something.” He leaned back, repositioned his glasses, and resumed reading. The only way he could’ve looked more relaxed would be with the addition of a pipe, a smoking jacket, and a pair of expensive slippers. Throw in a roaring fireplace and a mahogany bookshelf for good measure.
Sniffing down the wrong path, Bloodhound. We’re wasting time .
But he let it go. With zero solid leads and an absent mother who wouldn’t answer her phone, they had nowhere to rush off to. He and Barker both complained about how unhelpful the interviews were with the staff at both schools. And the babysitter, Willow Bluesong, wasn’t answering his calls, either, and hadn’t been home when they’d stopped by on their way back to the station.
DJ resigned himself to giving the file one more pass and decided that when he was done, he was going to LightPulse. With or without Barker.
***
Brian Jacob Winthrop had just turned 38 at the time of his disappearance on a Friday morning in May. He was two years older than his wife Sara, and a father to twin girls and one boy. He’d worked reasonable hours as a financial analyst for a small investment company, operating his own storefront out of the east side of Portland, which was open from 8 to 5, every weekday. He ate lunch at the sub shop next door and played softball on the weekends, when the absence of familial obligations allowed for it. Athletic center records indicated that he swam for an hour each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and he hadn’t missed a workout on those days in five months. The week he’d missed before that was the result of a conference in San Diego, according to his wife.
He had no prior record, except for two speeding tickets. Had no outstanding debts, no mortgage, and they were financially comfortable, if not well to do, in some respects. He’d struggled to gain new customers during the recession, but invested his existing clients’ money wisely. No lost money, no bad blood to be found there, either.
No gambling addictions, no transaction records from strip clubs. No reason to be involved in the shadier side of society. His wife, Sara, had admitted that they’d smoked marijuana once, on their honeymoon, and hadn’t touched anything since. Drugs weren’t a factor, and they rarely drank, so alcoholism and its detrimental effects weren’t a likely culprit. They had disagreements over finances and obligations like most couples, but
Similar Books
