Trapped. Chris JordanЧитать онлайн книгу.
and I do, in fact, feel almost absurdly safe. A meteor the size of Texas could strike, devastating all life, and we’d survive somehow, me and Randall Shane and his sturdy Lincoln Town Car. I feel—and this is pure craziness—that if I can get this man close enough to Kelly, she’ll be safe, too. Like the opposite of kryptonite, radiating strength and safety.
Like I said, crazy. Hours of anxiety and worry have addled my brain.
Once he’s on the thruway, Shane clears his throat and explains, “Statute 2252 is a federal law, Internet Crimes Against Children, ICAC for short. There’s an ICAC Task Force headquartered in Albany, under the state police, and Detective Berg indicated he would contact them.”
“Crimes against children?” Just saying it makes my stomach clench. “He can be arrested for crimes against children?”
“Probably not,” Shane concedes. “I made a point invoking the statute in hopes that he’d go on the watch list. ICAC has a nationwide reach, and that may be useful. But it doesn’t mean that if apprehended he’ll necessarily be prosecuted. Mostly the law concerns soliciting sex by transmission of indecent images. We didn’t see anything like that on Kelly’s computer. But there’s another part of the statute that covers endangering child welfare. Acting in any manner that is likely to be injurious to the physical, mental, or moral welfare of a child.”
“You’re saying he could be prosecuted, maybe.”
“Very tough to make that case,” Shane cautions. “Your daughter is technically a minor, but the courts are loath to invoke the law in teen romance situations.”
“He’s not a teenager!” I snap. “He’s grown man. Also he’s a flight instructor, that makes him like a teacher, right? With a teacher’s responsibility?”
“Agreed,” says Shane. “Absolutely. He had no business responding to a sixteen-year-old girl. The fact that she was, ah, somewhat deceptive about her revealing her age might or might not be a mitigating factor.”
I fold my arms across my chest, feeling stubborn. “They always say that, don’t they? ‘She said she was older. Showed me a fake ID.’ Or whatever.”
“They always do,” he agreed. “But let’s keep our priorities straight. The important thing is to locate your daughter. That’s our goal. After that, let the law take care of itself.”
“You think he’s in Oyster Bay? That he took her home?”
He glances at me in the rearview. “It’s a place to start. The Nassau County Police will make a drive-by, checking tags. I figure we’ll get a jump start, actually ring the doorbell.”
“A private investigator can do that?” I ask.
“Ring a doorbell?” He chuckles. “Most of them. But just so we’re clear, Mrs. Garner, I’m not a licensed P.I. I’m a consultant. And we consultants can ring doorbells like nobody’s business.”
An hour or so later—would have taken me forty-five minutes, tops—the big Lincoln finally rolls into Oyster Bay, heart of the so-called Gold Coast. North shore of the island, facing the Sound. Heading for the village, not the city. We’re not far from the inner bay, the local claim to fame, but it’s midnight and all I can see is a swath of the shore road illuminated by headlights. That and the moonless silhouettes of majestic trees and huge, estate-style homes nestled along the cove.
Randall Shane, clever devil, has an on-board navigation system.
“Teddy Roosevelt used to live out this way, did you know that?” he asks.
“I heard.”
“You do business here?”
“We’ve done a few weddings on Cove Neck. Amazing affairs, believe me. Twenty grand for a bridal gown, every stitch by hand. Two thousand just for the pearl embroidery. Anyhow, if you’re lucky enough to live out here you probably call it ‘the Neck’ or ‘the Village.’ That area to the west, along the shore, that’s ‘the Cove’. All very different from the city, where the working stiffs live. Out here on the Neck some of the residents tend to talk about Teddy like he lives next door. Like you might run into him at the next catered barbecue.”
“No kidding?” He glances at the navigation screen, slows for the next intersection. “So this area we’re heading into, the Mannings are likely to be wealthy, is that correct?”
“On the Neck? Super wealthy. Megabucks.”
“They may have security,” he points out.
“They all have security,” I tell him.
“Could be a problem this time of night.” He reaches into the glove compartment, takes out a small leather case.
“Gun?” I ask.
“Cell phone,” he says, deadpan. “In case some gung ho rent-a-cop picks us up.”
The navigation screen bongs gently. Shane applies the brakes, bringing the Town Car to a full and complete stop. “This is it,” he announces.
Headlights pick up a locked, black-iron gate and a long, curved driveway beyond, paved with finely crushed oyster shells. Appropriate, given the location. Costs a fortune but makes a nice, satisfying crunch when the Rolls rolls up the driveway. Or the Bentley, or the Ferrari. Whatever the vehicle of choice on any particular day.
Shane presses a button and the windows slide down to the smell of the sea, a whiff of cut grass coming to us out of the dark. For some reason I think of a song my mother used to hum, or maybe it was a poem she’d had to memorize for school. All I get are fragments from childhood memory: by the shore of something-or-other, where the sacred waters run. Xanadu, not Oyster Bay. But “sacred waters,” that has to be right. Any place this expensive, it has to be sacred, at least to the wily gods of real estate.
“How do we get past the gate?” I ask.
“Don’t you remember?” says Shane, grinning as he reaches a long arm out the window. “We ring the bell.”
17. The Man In Black
The gate never opens. Shane keeps pressing the button, speaking into the lighted intercom, announcing our presence.
“This is in regard to Seth Manning. Seth is in legal jeopardy, please respond,” and so on, never varying his authoritative tone. Sounding very much like a federal agent.
Legal jeopardy. Up to me, I’d say Seth Manning is in deep shit.
We’re both out of the Town Car, stretching our legs and checking out the heavy gate. In movies the hero simply mows the gate down, but this one has electronic locks that slip into a sturdy concrete footing and I’m not at all sure even the mighty Lincoln could get through. Plus we’re under surveillance by at least three cameras, one of which is night vision equipped, according to Shane. Try to monkey with the security gate and the local cops, rented and otherwise, will be on us long before we pry it open.
I know this because I’m the one who advocated the mow-it-down theory of making ourselves known.
“Can’t help you if I’m under arrest,” Shane points out, nixing the idea. “Antagonizing the authorities won’t help.”
Very rational, but I’m not feeling particularly rational. I’m exhausted, anxious and cranky. I’m acutely aware of wearing the same skirt and cotton top donned for my visit to the county cops, hours and ages ago. Clothing that now smells sour. I need a hot shower. I need a warm meal and a good night’s sleep. I need to brush my teeth. I need my daughter home, my life returned to normal.
“Doesn’t this just prove that he’s gone?” I fret, gesturing at the locked gate. “Or that he’s in there with Kelly and won’t come out?”
Shane studies me, runs a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. “Seth Manning is in his early twenties,” he says. “I’m assuming this is the family home. The