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“I’m sure this is supposed to look just like that. Charleston is how far?”
“About three hours.”
“Beware the obvious,” she cautioned. “Back then we were right about the location, but not the perpetrator. This time it has to be Morcos pulling the strings, but I don’t know where the hostage is.” She cracked her knuckles. “I want this guy on a platter. What happens if we tell them to go look for Matheson in Charleston?”
“They won’t let you tag along, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No. Ross made that clear.” She shook her head. With a swipe and click, she brought up her email inbox again. “I’m just brainstorming here. If we tell them we think the hostage is in Charleston, Ross will go. Someone from the FBI will go—uh oh.”
“What now?”
“The FBI dork just made the Charleston suggestion.” She pointed to the small instant messaging window in the corner of her screen. “Creepy and annoying.”
“Finish your thought.”
“First Bart, from the mission that night. Now Matheson.”
“He was on the mission too?”
She nodded.
“You think the perp is targeting everyone who failed to save the hostage?”
“My personal theory is the perp then is the same perp this time around. Bakr Morcos has no more concern for this hostage than he did for his nephew.” She waved her hand as if erasing a board. “One issue at a time, please. Think like a bad guy. If the ‘queen’, assuming that’s me, is your goal, then sending the people organizing her protection out of town gives you better access.”
“Divide and conquer.”
“It’s a proven strategy.”
“They have to get through me first.”
“Thanks,” she said absently. “Whoever did the kidnapping had to have the holding site staged and ready, just waiting for the order to grab a hostage. I think Matheson is being held closer to Haleswood than Charleston.”
“But no matter who goes to Charleston, no one’s calling off the security team guarding you. You’re safe as long as you’re in the house.”
She gave a snort. “We’re not dealing with people who play fair and stand down just because there’s an obstacle. You’re talking to a woman who ran analysis and gave operational support to a covert strike team. There are several quick and effective ways to get me out of this house if necessary.”
He hoped they wouldn’t have to put any evasive tactics into action. “Well, I know the area if we do get flushed out.”
“Great. Do you know where this kind of place might be in your area?”
“The iron work bugs me.”
“Why?”
“Because it looks like a shut off valve. The flooring and the joinings remind me of an old railroad box car.” He used the mouse to zoom in again on the pipe. “It doesn’t make sense. Who mounts a length of iron pipe in a box car?”
He studied the picture while she grumbled a monologue as she typed responses—and likely directions—to whoever was on the other end of the instant messaging window.
There was no evidence of natural light. Matheson’s chair was positioned under a bare bulb. Box cars and containers were just that—boxes—not usually wired and outfitted unless they’d been repurposed. He did a mental run though Haleswood and the immediate area, trying to think like a kidnapper.
There was the old textile mill on the other side of Bishopville. Less chance of being seen out there, unless the kidnapper wanted witnesses. He slid a glance at Eva. With this case it felt like anything was possible. As a department, they’d been called out to deal with some drug issues and derelict behavior at the edge of the rail yard a couple years back, but he didn’t remember an upright pipe in any of those out of service box cars.
“Idiots,” she said, leaning back and smacking her knees. “They’re sure it’s a shipping container.”
“It’s not.” It finally dawned on him. The drive-in had repurposed some of the old rail cars when they lost a chunk of the building in a summer storm almost ten years ago. He reached for the phone and dialed the sheriff. “This is local.”
“You’re sure?”
