Dead in a Week (Forensic Instincts 7)

Aidan’s brows lifted. Terri never failed to impress him. “Go on.”

“Lauren hasn’t returned any of her parents’ calls, nor has she initiated a single phone call to them,” Terri replied. “That’s the first anomaly. As for her text messages, they’ve diminished in frequency from many times a day to one per day, delivered at precisely the same time. I’m also seeing a marked change in linguistic patterns. Up until three days ago, the language pattern suggested a US-educated, college-aged female.”

“And now?”

“Now the words are more typical of a Balkan male, in his thirties—a person who’s trying very hard to appear female and American.”

“So two different people composed the messages.”

“Yes.” Terri folded her arms across her chest, looking troubled. “I took it upon myself to contact Philip in London. I asked him to do some local reconnaissance on Lauren in Munich, using his former MI6 contacts. Philip confirmed that she was last seen having a beer and pretzel at the Hofbräuhaus, flirting with some Euro trash. Her apartment’s been empty for days. Every piece of her matching set of luggage is accounted for. Her backpack is hanging on a hook. Her birth control pills, makeup, and pharmaceuticals are still in her medicine cabinet. Philip and I agree. Lauren’s not traveling in Europe. She’s been kidnapped.”

Aidan nodded. “It’s no coincidence that the victim is the daughter of NanoUSA’s VP of Manufacturing. All that’s required now is a simple barter transaction—NanoUSA’s trade secrets in exchange for Lauren.”

“My guess is that the Chinese aren’t even doing their own dirty work.” Terri sank down on the edge of her desk. “They’ve hired a Balkan crime group—probably the Albanians—to handle the kidnapping. This is now a High Priority.”

Aidan didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll set up a meeting with Vance Pennington.”

He reached for the phone on the desk and dialed his office. He knew that his personal assistant was still at her desk at this ungodly hour, addressing a situation with the Far East. Then again, a quarter of Heckman Flax’s staff was still in the building, hard at work.

“Melissa, sorry for the hour and the short notice. I need you to book me on tomorrow’s six a.m. flight to San Francisco, returning the following day. Have a rental car ready for me at the airport. I need to drive down to Santa Clara for a meeting in Silicon Valley.” A pause. “Good. Also, I need to speak to John Reams. Right, our analyst who covers the technology space. He was there when I left. Phone is fine. Thanks.”

Aidan hung up and turned to Terri. “I’m going into my home office for a teleconference,” he told Terri. “I’ll contact you tomorrow after I meet with Pennington. Lock up on your way out.”

* * *

Aidan’s teleconference with John Reams had been illuminating.

Heckman Flax’s technology expert had explained that the breakthrough electronics technology NanoUSA had developed would significantly reduce labor required for electronics assembly. Implementation of the technology would result in massive unemployment in the Asian electronics industry.

To make matters worse, Robert Maxwell, the CEO of NanoUSA, was a patriot and was determined to revitalize electronics manufacturing in the US. In a seismic shift, cell phones, tablets, laptops would all be made in the US. The Chinese leaders were running scared. Millions had migrated from rural China to urban areas in order to fill factory jobs. If NanoUSA had its way, those Chinese factories would be empty. For the first time, Chinese workers would experience what their American counterparts felt in the Rust Belt as Chinese manufacturing eviscerated their manufacturing jobs. Now the tables would be turned.

John made the call to Vance Pennington’s secretary and got Aidan an appointment on Pennington’s calendar for tomorrow. So everything in California was set.

John deserved a huge thank-you. Aidan planned to give him one—something that Terri would relish arranging.

He texted her, asking her to finagle a table for two at Rao’s East Harlem restaurant for John and his girlfriend. Then, he chuckled, thinking of what her reaction would be. She’d wallow like a pig in shit. Terri loved nothing more than to screw over a rich, entitled SOB. She’d hack into Rao’s computerized seating list with great relish and replace the name of some Hollywood diva with John Reams.

You couldn’t just get a table at Rao’s. Tables had owners. Owners let you sit at their table.

Well, some asshole or other wouldn’t be eating at Rao’s tomorrow night.

Aidan had one last task left to complete the arrangements—an imperative task, since he’d given Joyce the rest of Saturday and Sunday off.

Abby would be thrilled.

He couldn’t speak for her Uncle Marc and Aunt Madeline.

Farmhouse

Slavonia, Croatia

24 February

Saturday, 10:00 a.m. local time

Lauren paced around the bedroom, pausing to stare out the windows that overlooked nothing but acres and acres of lightly snow-covered land punctuated only by the occasional ice-glistening tree. Flat. Barren. It was the same in every room of the house—windows with views of nothingness. No signs of life or roads or activity.

Even after four days…God only knew where she was.