Opening Moves Read Online Free Page B

whoever was on the other end said nothing, so I did: “It’s done.” I kept my voice low and tried to sound out of breath so that whoever was on the other end wouldn’t recognize that I wasn’t Vincent. “The cops came, but I got away.”
    No answer.
    “They found the black guy,” I said.
    “Yes.”
    “You said you’d let Colleen go.”
    “Who is this?”
    “Vincent,” I lied. “I did it. I swear. Let me talk to—”
    I heard a gasp and then a scream on the other end of the line, and then nothing at all.
    “Colleen!” I yelled.
    A blank silence, and then a rapid beeping sound. The man had hung up.
    I redialed, nothing. Called the station: “Get me a trace on 888-359-5392. Now!”

4
     
    We were unable to trace the call, found no one at the Hayes residence, didn’t learn anything helpful from the bartender at New Territories, and when I met up with Vincent at police headquarters in interrogation room 2A thirty minutes later, I had no good news to share with him.
    It was possible that the woman I’d heard scream on the phone wasn’t Colleen Hayes, and it was also possible that the scream was staged, that no one had even gotten hurt. I found that unlikely, but all too often premature assumptions end up needlessly derailing investigations and I wasn’t about to let that happen in this case. Facts need to establish hypotheses, not the other way around.
    Right now Vincent didn’t need to know anything about someone screaming on the phone.
    I found him seated at a metal table bolted to the floor, his hands and feet shackled. If his story was true, he’d been coerced to commit tonight’s crimes and theoretically might not pose a risk or need to be cuffed. But he had drugged and kidnapped a young man, resisted arrest, assaulted an officer of the law—in fact I wasn’t even sure how many laws he’d broken in the last two hours. We still hadn’t confirmed his story. Cuffed was good.
    And what about that phone call? Somebody answered. Someone screamed.
    “Okay, Mr. Hayes.” I took out a notepad and a miniature cassette recorder. “We were rushed earlier when I asked you to tell me what happened tonight. I need you to fill me—”
    “Is Lionel okay?”
    “Yes. He’s still at the hospital. They’re keeping him overnight.”
    On the ride here, the officers with Vincent had grilled him on what kind of drugs he’d given Lionel, how much he’d used, when and how they’d been administered, how many drinks he’d seen Lionel have. “He’s okay for now,” I said, “but you gave him some pretty potent stuff.”
    “And you got nothing on Colleen? Nothing?”
    “We’re still looking for her.”
    It struck me that he’d asked about Lionel first, rather than his wife.
    Vincent was quiet. “Can I have some coffee?”
    His request seemed a bit out of the blue, and was possibly a sign of interrogation avoidance, but on the other hand, it’s not uncommon for people to act unpredictably during times of intense stress.
    Folks have been known to start cleaning their homes while the place is on fire, desperately trying to straighten things up or get the dishes in the dishwasher before leaving. Mothers who’ve lost their babies will sometimes hold the child to their breast and rock the corpse gently, even kiss its forehead as they would if the baby were still alive, though they would never think to snuggle with or kiss a corpse under any other circumstances.
    Before life squeezes us to the limit, we can never be sure how we’re going to respond, so even though I found it odd that Vincent didn’t immediately ask any more questions about his wife, I gave him a pass.
    “Alright.” Protocol called for me to offer him something to eat, which I did, and which he declined.
    Outside the interrogation room I found a young female officer whom I didn’t recognize. Her name tag: GABRIELE HOLDREN . Slim build. Black hair. Bright eyes. I asked her if she could get some coffee for Mr. Hayes.
    “Would you like some