“Three out of four. Not bad.” Paul paused for the space of a breath, then went on in a suspiciously casual voice. “Can I see you up here for a minute?”
Savannah grew alert. She knew Paul DeBarr well, knew the meaning of each of the tones he used. She could accurately predict, simply from his voice, whether he’d been upset by an article in theJournal,whether he’d won a case or lost another to a lawyer on appeal, or whether his wife was sick again. The tone he used now, though, was odd.
“Trouble?” she asked.
His only response, still too casual, particularly in light of his words, was, “How soon can you be here?”
She hesitated for only a minute. Even if Paul hadn’t been her boss, she would have been unable to resist. He sounded mysterious. Clearly he was not alone in the room, and she wanted to know what was happening. She’d been in the attorney general’s office long enough to be conditioned to respond to unforeseen developments. The adrenaline was already flowing.
Stepping back into her shoes, she said, “I’m on my way.” While one hand replaced the telephone receiver, the other reclipped her earring. Grabbing her blazer, she swept out of the office. As she passed Janie, she said softly, “You know where I’ll be,” then headed down the hall to the bank of elevators.
Three floors up, Paul DeBarr was perched on the edge of his desk looking far calmer than he felt. He, too, was conditioned to respond to extraordinary happenings. He shared the adrenaline flow and the sense of anticipation that made the heart beat faster. Moreover, he knew what this case was about, and if ever there were one with a potential for a political bonus, this was it.
Seated before him and to his left, elbows braced on the rib-high mahogany credenza, ankles crossed, was his first assistant, Anthony Alt. Before him and to his right, sitting tensely in a side chair, was William Vandermeer III.
Paul was looking at Will, who was staring blindly at the plush cranberry carpet. Anthony, whose eyes were aimed at the window, was drumming his fingers on the edge of the credenza and looking bored. An uneasy silence filled the room.
Paul’s gaze shifted to the oddly shaped paper that lay on his desk. He studied it for a minute, then checked his watch. Very slowly, he straightened his legs, stood, and crossed to the door. He opened it just as Savannah traversed the reception area and he closed it the instant she was in his office.
Her eyes met his, repeating the question she had asked on the phone. Then she noticed Anthony and Will. She had anticipated Anthony’s presence; he was Paul’s strategist and was always around at critical times. Will’s presence, though, took her by surprise. She knew that he had contributed to Paul’s reelection campaign and that he had even hosted a fund-raiser, though that had been three years before, when things had been going better for Megan and him. She knew that he and Paul were political friends, but she hadn’t thought they were personally close.
Savannah knew Will mostly through other people. Fifteen years her senior, he partied more in her father’s circles than her own. Though his marriage to Megan had created another link between them, she’d never gotten any closer to him. She had always found him aloof.
Now Will seemed heavily preoccupied. He was an attractive man—tall, slender and, though graying, of generally fair coloring. Today he looked positively ashen. Puzzled, she went to his side and touched his shoulder. “What’s wrong, Will?”
Paul answered, lifting the piece of paper from his desk and handing it to her. “Take a look.”
Savannah stared down at what looked to be a cutout from a brown paper grocery bag. An assortment of letters, cut from newspapers and magazines, had been neatly aligned and carefully glued across the creased surface:NICE WIFE. KICK IN A COOL THREE MILLION TO GET HER BACK. DO NOT CONTACT POLICE OR SHE DIES. WILL BE IN TOUCH.
Savannah’s first thought was that the message was a joke. One look at Will’s ravaged face suggested differently. Her gaze flew to Paul, but his expression was grim. Incredulous, she read the note again. By the time she’d finished, her own composure had slipped. “Kidnapped?” she whispered. Her heart tripped on the word.
“Looks like it,” Paul answered quietly.
Weak-kneed, Savannah lowered herself to a second side chair. Perched on the edge of its leather seat, she quietly asked Will, “When?”
“This morning.” He waved a jerky hand. “Sometime last night.” He was a shadow of his former, assured self.
“How?”
“I don’t know,” he exclaimed in bewilderment.
“He was sleeping,” Anthony offered, making only a token effort to hide his disdain, then his skepticism, when he added in an undertone, “If you can believe that.” His fingers drummed on.
Paul held up a cautionary hand to his assistant.
Savannah was less subtle. While she respected Anthony’s political and administrative abilities, she had no faith whatsoever in his skill as a trial lawyer. He had no feel for cross-examination, and, in this case, he had a built-in prejudice toward the witness. Of all the questions there were to ask, Savannah suspected Anthony most wanted to know how William Vandermeer could possibly remember to neatly fold and insert a moss green handkerchief in the breast pocket of his natty navy blazer when his wife had just been kidnapped.
Though she didn’t know him well, Savannah understood Will. She had been reared with dozens of Wills. She knew where he came from, understood what it was to habitually do something simply because it had been so ingrained thatnotdoing it required true effort. But she had no intention of lecturing Anthony Alt on the subject just then. There were more immediate things to consider.
“At this point,” she told Anthony, “I’d like to hear Will’s story without editorial comment. According to the note, there’s been a kidnapping. The victim has been a friend of mine for years.” With a dismissing glance, she returned her attention to Will, who was looking more miserable by the minute.
“I sleep soundly,” he said. “Megan doesn’t. She has insomnia. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So she’s often up in the middle of the night. She soaks in the jacuzzi, listens to the radio, reads.”
“How do you know that,” Anthony asked, “if you’re sleeping?”
