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Trapped. Chris Jordan
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“Then we’re in agreement?”
“I guess,” I say. “Does that mean we go to the cops? Tell them what we suspect?”
Shane shakes his head. “We’re not quite there. We need to know why Manning hasn’t called in the Feds. Why he’s so terrified that he’s prowling his own yard in camouflage. Once we’ve resolved that, once we have an indication that your daughter is in danger, we’ll notify the local authorities and they’ll contact the FBI. That’s how it’s done.”
“How do we find out? He won’t talk to us.”
In the dark his smile is tight, resolute. “I’ve got an idea,” he says.
Second time around, getting inside is easy. Shane’s idea is to push the button on the intercom and say, “Let us in, Mr. Manning, or I’ll call my colleagues at the FBI. The assistant director in charge of kidnapping is Monica Bevins and I have her on speed dial. Count of three. One … two.”
And just like that, the gates slid open. As we roll up the long, curving driveway, I ask Shane if he really has a Monica Bevins on speed dial, and if she’s really an agent-in-charge.
“Yes to both,” he says. “And yes, I’m fully prepared to make the call.”
“And they let you assist clients like me? The FBI?”
“Can’t stop me. I’m a civilian.”
“But you’ve got, like, all these connections to the agency, right?”
“Some useful connections, yes.”
“And this is what you did before you retired, you found missing children?”
His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. He gives me an odd look, like I’m a kid asking too many questions at the wrong time. “No,” he says, “not exactly. I assisted with a number of kidnap cases as an agent on general assignment. At the time it wasn’t my specialty.”
At this point I’m too numb to be shocked by this revelation. “No? What did you do?”
“Electronics, surveillance gear, mostly hardware stuff. Gear and gizmos. Later I helped develop a software program for rapid fingerprint recognition.”
“You really were a computer geek? That’s what you did in the FBI?”
“Pretty much,” he admits.
What was I thinking, that he’d shot John Dillinger and smoked out terror cells? “So how’d you get into this line of work?”
“Long story,” he says. “Maybe later.”
Secrets. Apparently Randall Shane has a few of his own.
We’ve arrived at what appears to be the main building, having passed several low, modern outbuildings. Carriage house, guest cottage, maintenance shed, all very Long Island estate. Lush, illuminated landscaping that looks au naturel but isn’t, believe me. It’s all very tastefully planned, very big money.
The main structure is an artful arrangement of steel beams and smoked glass and daring architectural angles. Must be a million precisely weathered cedar shingles keeping out the rain. The property taxes probably exceed my yearly income. No wonder the owner has, apparently, been targeted for extortion—he’s got a lot to give.
Kelly’s boyfriend or flight instructor, whatever the hell he is, how did this happen? How did she find herself in this particular world?
Shane sets the parking brake and we get out. Lights come on, illuminating a wide, elaborately shingled portico. The oversize door opens—opaque green-glass panels set in a brushed-steel frame—and Edwin Manning staggers out, dressed more or less as we last saw him, with the exception of his face, which has been recently washed.
“Who are you?” he wants to know. Then he adds, in a voice so faint it seems to fade away, “Leave me alone. Just please leave me alone!”
He trips, falls to his knees, his skinny chipmunk face slick with tears. The poor man is a mess. Shane and I help him to his feet, each taking a black-clad arm. He doesn’t weigh all that much and I can feel his pulse pounding, as if his whole body is being struck like a gong.
He is, I realize, scared nearly to death, and that makes me even more frightened.
“My daughter,” I tell him urgently. “That’s all we want, my daughter back. Whatever else happened, I don’t care.”
Manning staggers like a drunk but there’s no smell of alcohol. He’s exhausted and stressed to the point of falling down. Not quite there yet myself, but I can see it coming if Kelly isn’t home by, say, this time tomorrow.
Once when Kelly was about ten, a year or so after her last treatment, she accompanied me on a house call, what I call a catalog call because it’s all about looking at photos of designs and fabric samples—satins, silks, laces and finishes. Lots of catalogs, lots of possibilities. Long drive to Montauk, a very successful novelist’s waterfront “cottage.” Won’t mention her name because I don’t want to be sued, but the bride-to-be (marriage number three) made all of her money writing sexy stories about rich divas and had either become one herself or started out that way. A very unpleasant person to deal with, unless you happened to be a fellow celebrity, in which case it was kiss-kiss-oh-I-missed-you-so-much.
Anyhow, Kelly’s eyes got big when she saw the house and the beautiful setting on the grassy dunes, and I could tell she longed to live in a place like this rather than in boring old suburban Valley Stream. Couldn’t blame her. The writer’s cottage looked like a Laura Ashley catalog cover, the one where Ralph Lauren is visiting, and all the children are perfectly chic. Not that there were any children present other than Kelly. The rich bitch had kids from earlier marriages, but they were all grown-up and not speaking to her.
Kelly wandered from room to room as the bride-to-be-again checked out flattering designs and bosom-enhancing brocades. As I soon discovered, the lady liked to vent on the “little people,” meaning employees or contractors, and she included me as one. Contractors were scum, painters were scum, plumbers and electricians were scum. Everybody who worked on her house was scum or stupid or worthless. She said so on David Letterman. Failing to mention that she changed her mind every other minute, made ridiculous demands, then complained when it took longer, cost more. I had already decided that I’d have a scheduling conflict that would prevent me from adding her to my client list, but didn’t quite know how to get out of there without having my head bitten off. So I went along, going through the motions, suggesting possible ensembles that might work—most every suggestion dismissed as “stupid”—absorbing abuse from a woman I’d just met and hadn’t said boo to.
When we finally escaped, a mile or so down the road, Kelly touches me on the hand and asks why that lady is so horrible. All I can do is shake my head and tell her that for some people money is like a poison. It makes them sick in the head. Kelly, ten years old, she looks me in the eye and goes, “That woman was always horrible, Mom. She was born that way. Tell her to take her wedding gown and put it where the sun don’t shine.”
Ten. I laughed till I cried. Right now, exhausted and shaky and ready to fall apart for at least the third time, I’m wondering if she ever set foot on the Manning estate, and if so, what she thinks of it, of them.
“Are you alone, sir?” Shane wants to know.
We’ve entered something like a glass hut with a high, cathedral ceiling vented with skylights. Canvas-bladed ceiling fans hang like monstrous white bats. Manning staggers to the right, bringing us to a living space. Cherry floors set in a herringbone pattern, stark leather couches, steel-and-strap chairs, lots of bookcases filled with books. Look like real books, too, not designer touches.
“Anybody here?” Shane asks, persisting. “Family, staff? Anybody at all?”
Edwin Manning has collapsed into one of the custom designer chairs,