She had been studying her phone. She glanced up at him suddenly.
“The meteor display,” she said.
“You mentioned that, but it’s a meteor shower, up in the sky,” Jackson reminded her. “If it were a massive fireworks thing—”
“No, no, Jackson. There’s a huge thing going on at Jon Michaelson’s estate in two days. Jon Michaelson is CEO of Michaelson Corporation—they’re one of the biggest stockbrokers in the area—in the country, I think. He has five acres of lakefront property and the ballroom there can accommodate hundreds, though the main party is taking place outside on the grounds by the pool so guests can enjoy the sky’s performance that night—if you wanted to blow something up . . .”
“You’re right. That could well be a target. People can make fortunes on stocks. They can lose fortunes, too,” Jackson said thoughtfully. “I’m sure Adam is invited. Get him on thephone; let him know unless we get this wrapped up, the event must be cancelled.”
“Jackson—”
“Still, children first. I know.”
They arrived at the scene. Police cars still covered the street and the drive. Crime scene units were working and one of the techs they knew, Craig Naughton, hurried over to him.
The spirit of Herbert Lansing stood quietly by them, listening.
“We’ve been inside and out. I would swear they never entered the house; they had to have known the couple was outside by the pool, and I think they came around from two directions. Vivian has told the lead detective at the hospital she believes there were four men. They came around the sides of the house in twos and . . . Vivian said she saw nothing more because they whacked her and took Bobby. We’ve found a few footprints and, of course, they’re being analyzed now.”
“Great Craig, thank you,” Jackson told him. “We need anything that you receive as fast as possible. And what about the men at Vivian’s folks’ home?”
“Now, we have a little more description from the parents. They wore gloves. Same black attire from the tip of the head to the feet. But Vivian’s mother saw one thing—one of the kidnappers had green eyes and the bit of skin she could see around them was pale. Another had dark eyes and darker skin. She believes they were all between five-eleven and six-one.”
“That’s something. No prints, of course. DNA possible anywhere?” Angela asked.
“We’re still working,” Craig assured her. “But they’re smart and savvy—and seem to know something about law enforcement and crime scene abilities. But we heard about the car; patrols all over are on it and—”
Jackson’s phone was ringing. He gave a nod, excusing himself to answer it.
The car had been found. Empty, of course. And, naturally, it had been reported that it was stolen two days before it had been used for the abductions.
Angela frowned. “Reported stolen—by the owner, I’m assuming. And . . . where, Jackson, where was it found?”
He looked at his phone and told her, “Reportedly stolen from the driveway of one Mark Henry Thompson—not too far from here.”
“Mark Henry Thompson . . .” she murmured, and she was quickly at work on her phone. “And where was it found?” she asked him.
He gave her the address, and she added that information. Then she looked at him and said, “I think Mark Henry Thompson might be one of our kidnappers.”
“At one time he worked for the stockbrokerage company?” Jackson asked her.
“You got it. He was suspected of embezzling and he wasn’t fired—just given the chance to resign. No charges were filed, but, apparently, the CEO didn’t want to cause anyone real damage; Mark Henry Thompson was even given severance pay. And then there’s this . . . he owns a cabin in the woods that isn’t far from where the car was found!”
“Let’s go,” Jackson said.
“Should I call in for backup?” Craig asked.
“No, we go in quiet. See the lay of the land. We’ll have some of our people out on the road and can call if necessary. I don’t want to take a chance of anyone panicking and killing our victims,” Jackson explained.
“Let’s do this; let’s go!” Herbert’s spirit said.
They parked a distance from the crime scene unit and officers who were still examining the stolen car.
They’d slipped into the woods before. They knew how to hug the trees, avoid rustling in the leaves and shrubs, and to train their flashlights in a manner that didn’t announce their presence for miles.
It was truly a little stretch of beautiful Northern Virginia forest where, long ago, locals had been allowed to have hunting cabins. The law allowing such things was no longer in practice, but the cabins that stood in the late eighteen-hundreds and early nineteen hundreds had been “grandfathered-in,” meaning as long as heirs to the original owners claimed them, they were allowed to stand. Jackson thought there were probably about six of them still in existence, but he didn’t need to explain anything to Angela; she’d checked it all on her phone’s computer and knew just where they were heading.
They’d even worked cases with such cabins before.
