Stolen(12)

Hatcher led Caity and him to a round, linoleum table that looked like it belonged in his granny’s kitchen. Carrot-colored sofas out front, pea soup tables in the war room—it seemed someone had brought in additional furniture from the local rental center. Another indicator of extra budgetary resources.

Hatcher pointed out a group of files and documents piled haphazardly on the table. “I don’t know if you’ve been briefed already . . .”

“Just the bare minimum—we packed our bags and flew in from Dallas right after wrapping up our last case,” Caity said.

“Then, I’ll start at the beginning.”

“Great.” They knew only basic details from what the director of the FBI told them on the way to the airport. But of course they’d heard of Laura Chaucer before. She’d been kidnapped as a child, and it had made national news—a cold case that confounded police and provided fodder for the gossip rags even to this day. “As I understand it, Laura Chaucer was last seen at the Wildflower Café on Monday evening, October 21.”

“That’s right. She had dinner with Ronald Saas, the editor of the Mountain Times—that’s a local newspaper here in Denver. Saas is also a community advisor to the Holly Hill Gazette, the campus newspaper. Laura enrolled as a freshman at Holly Hill College in late August. By all accounts, she was eager to score a spot as a cub reporter. Not sure what you know about the college, but it’s not only pricey, it claims one of the top journalism programs in the country.”

“So the editor of a local newspaper . . .” Caity scribbled something in her pocket-sized notebook.

“Ron Saas,” Hatcher repeated.

“Was the last person to see Laura before she went off the radar?”

“No. He was the last person to be seen with her. Her bodyguard, Ty Cayman, was the last person, as far as we know, to see her before she disappeared.”

“I didn’t know Laura had a bodyguard.” Spense tugged his lower lip. This was quite a wrinkle. If she had protection . . .

“What the hell was the bodyguard doing while Laura was busy disappearing?” Caity finished his thought for him.

Hatcher swept some of the strewn papers together and tapped them into a neat pile. “I misspoke. Technically, Cayman isn’t her bodyguard anymore. But he says he followed her to the Wildflower Café where he observed her having dinner with Saas and engaging in animated conversation. Afterward, Cayman tailed her back to her off-campus apartment. After watching her enter her home, he continued to stand sentry until all the lights went out, and she was, presumably, in for the night. Then Cayman headed home with the plan to return around five a.m.—per his routine.”

“Okay, so she was last seen by Cayman on Monday night, entering her own apartment. He kept watch until she turned out the lights. Did he check in with her by phone to make sure she was good for the evening?” Spense asked. The dots didn’t connect.

“He made no contact with her.”

“Why not?”

“Because he wasn’t supposed to be following her. As I said, technically, he wasn’t her bodyguard. He used to be, but she told him to take a hike before she moved from DC to Denver.”

“Then why was he following her?” Caity frowned.

“He worked for Daddy—not Laura. The senator kept him on the payroll as a secret watchdog. Chaucer wanted protection for his daughter whether she liked it or not.”

Caity leaned forward, a look of comprehension on her face. “And she didn’t like it. I’m guessing this Cayman had been on her for a long time. That she may have been fed up with being kept on Daddy’s leash.”

“The Chaucer family hired Cayman as Laura’s personal bodyguard after the first time she disappeared, at age eight.” The flush on Hatcher’s face suggested discussing that old kidnap case made him uncomfortable. He’d better learn to deal with it. Laura’s disappearance, once it was made public, would bring it all back into the spotlight.

From what Spense knew of the matter, the Piney Trails police had indeed screwed up. At the time, Whit Chaucer, a wealthy businessman and city council member was already highly regarded among the town’s elite, including the police chief—and the uniforms at the scene had been deferential rather than commanding.

After calling 911, Chaucer summoned a caterer to bring in food for the family and the officers. With people traipsing, unsupervised, through the home, the crime scene had been contaminated. But that flotsam had floated too far out to sea to be dragged ashore now. Spense said nothing about it, and pasted on a neutral expression. “You were one of the first uniforms on scene. What can you tell us about the kidnapping?”