exactly did it say?”
My brow furrows. “I mentioned the note?”
“Not exactly. You mentioned a promise to call. I assumed
that promise was in the form of a note, but I suppose it could
have been a voice mail.”
“It was a note,” I tell him. “I’ve got it right here.”
As I read him Kelly’s note, part of me concludes that
we’ve been in conversation for, at best, a few minutes, and
already he’s established that he’s paying attention. Listening.
Which is not what I carried away from my conversation with
Jay Berg, the Nassau County detective, who let me run on
more out of professional politeness than actual interest. As
far as Berg had been concerned, my daughter took off with
a guy, end of story. Whereas Mr. Shane seems to be taking
me seriously. Or at least taking the situation seriously.
“Okay,” he says. “Got it.”
I can hear him taking notes, the mouse squeak of a felt-tip
pen. He reads it back, and I agree he’s got it, word for word.
“Now the call,” he says, “As best you can remember.”
“‘Mom, I need your help, please call.’”
“That’s it?”
“Last word was cut off.”
“And what was her tone? Excited, worried?”
“She was whispering. Like she’d didn’t want anyone to
hear. Whispering and worried and maybe a little afraid.”
“Please call as in ‘please call back,’ or ‘please call for help.’”
I think about it, Kelly’s voice replaying in my head. “Not
please call back. It was like she had a lot to say and had to
tell me in as few words as possible. So it was more like
‘please call for help.’”
58
Chris Jordan
“Or please call someone specific?”
“Maybe.” I rack my brains, reliving the call, but that’s all
I get, a maybe.
“You mentioned computer files.”
I must have, but have no recollection. Unless, of course,
he’s a mind reader. “That’s why I called. To see if you know
anyone who can get into protected files.”
“How protected?” he wants to know.
“I don’t know her password.”
“So not necessarily encrypted? Just password protected?”
“I’m not really sure. All I know is I can’t into the files. So,
do you know anyone who can?”
The man called Shane chuckles, warming my ear.
He says, “Matter of fact, I do.”
13. Bingo He Says
Two hours later, Randall Shane arrives in a gleaming black
Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows. Is it a cop car thing,
or a retired FBI thing, or does he moonlight as a chauffeur?
Or does he just prefer a car the size of a boat? As it pulls into
my driveway, the big Lincoln looks like it could eat my little
Mercedes wagon and spit out the chrome.
Standing in the open door—I’ve been chewing my nails and
watching the street for at least an hour—I give a wave of
greeting as Mr. Shane unfolds himself from the driver’s seat.
He nods in my direction—right place, obviously—and pops
the trunk lid with his key. Retrieves a bulky briefcase and a
laptop, secures the trunk, and strides up the walkway, all
business.
There’s a lot of him. Very tall, six feet four or five. Wide
Trapped
59
shoulders, long muscular arms, and a purposeful, no-
nonsense way of walking. Not a walk exactly, certainly not
a strut—more of a march. Fern’s joke comes to mind—can’t
think of anyone who looks less like Johnny Depp. He could
put Johnny Depp in his pocket and still have room for lint.
No, there’s nothing wistful or soft or feminine about Randall
Shane. More the Liam Neeson type, if you have to pick an
actor. He’s all angles, with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper
goatee that gives him a long, slightly gaunt face. Deep-set,
utterly serious sky-blue eyes that are already studying me.
Age, somewhere in his forties. Surely not old enough to be
retired, and obviously not the elderly gent I’d been expect-
ing, even if he does drive a car associated with seniors.
His attire is less formal than I expected. Crisply pressed
khaki
My brow furrows. “I mentioned the note?”
“Not exactly. You mentioned a promise to call. I assumed
that promise was in the form of a note, but I suppose it could
have been a voice mail.”
“It was a note,” I tell him. “I’ve got it right here.”
As I read him Kelly’s note, part of me concludes that
we’ve been in conversation for, at best, a few minutes, and
already he’s established that he’s paying attention. Listening.
Which is not what I carried away from my conversation with
Jay Berg, the Nassau County detective, who let me run on
more out of professional politeness than actual interest. As
far as Berg had been concerned, my daughter took off with
a guy, end of story. Whereas Mr. Shane seems to be taking
me seriously. Or at least taking the situation seriously.
“Okay,” he says. “Got it.”
I can hear him taking notes, the mouse squeak of a felt-tip
pen. He reads it back, and I agree he’s got it, word for word.
“Now the call,” he says, “As best you can remember.”
“‘Mom, I need your help, please call.’”
“That’s it?”
“Last word was cut off.”
“And what was her tone? Excited, worried?”
“She was whispering. Like she’d didn’t want anyone to
hear. Whispering and worried and maybe a little afraid.”
“Please call as in ‘please call back,’ or ‘please call for help.’”
I think about it, Kelly’s voice replaying in my head. “Not
please call back. It was like she had a lot to say and had to
tell me in as few words as possible. So it was more like
‘please call for help.’”
58
Chris Jordan
“Or please call someone specific?”
“Maybe.” I rack my brains, reliving the call, but that’s all
I get, a maybe.
“You mentioned computer files.”
I must have, but have no recollection. Unless, of course,
he’s a mind reader. “That’s why I called. To see if you know
anyone who can get into protected files.”
“How protected?” he wants to know.
“I don’t know her password.”
“So not necessarily encrypted? Just password protected?”
“I’m not really sure. All I know is I can’t into the files. So,
do you know anyone who can?”
The man called Shane chuckles, warming my ear.
He says, “Matter of fact, I do.”
13. Bingo He Says
Two hours later, Randall Shane arrives in a gleaming black
Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows. Is it a cop car thing,
or a retired FBI thing, or does he moonlight as a chauffeur?
Or does he just prefer a car the size of a boat? As it pulls into
my driveway, the big Lincoln looks like it could eat my little
Mercedes wagon and spit out the chrome.
Standing in the open door—I’ve been chewing my nails and
watching the street for at least an hour—I give a wave of
greeting as Mr. Shane unfolds himself from the driver’s seat.
He nods in my direction—right place, obviously—and pops
the trunk lid with his key. Retrieves a bulky briefcase and a
laptop, secures the trunk, and strides up the walkway, all
business.
There’s a lot of him. Very tall, six feet four or five. Wide
Trapped
59
shoulders, long muscular arms, and a purposeful, no-
nonsense way of walking. Not a walk exactly, certainly not
a strut—more of a march. Fern’s joke comes to mind—can’t
think of anyone who looks less like Johnny Depp. He could
put Johnny Depp in his pocket and still have room for lint.
No, there’s nothing wistful or soft or feminine about Randall
Shane. More the Liam Neeson type, if you have to pick an
actor. He’s all angles, with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper
goatee that gives him a long, slightly gaunt face. Deep-set,
utterly serious sky-blue eyes that are already studying me.
Age, somewhere in his forties. Surely not old enough to be
retired, and obviously not the elderly gent I’d been expect-
ing, even if he does drive a car associated with seniors.
His attire is less formal than I expected. Crisply pressed
khaki
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