Dead in a Week (Forensic Instincts 7)

Wednesday, 4:05 p.m. local time

Lauren swallowed hard as she settled herself behind the simple wooden table that served as a desk.

She was in an empty bedroom that she’d never seen before. The entire room was bare—walls, floor, and ceiling. The only items present were the desk, a wooden chair for her to sit on, and a laptop computer.

Bashkim was standing just off to her left, positioned where he couldn’t be seen on camera but where he could reach her in two long strides. He gripped the handle of a frighteningly long knife—one that could slit her throat in a heartbeat, and the tightness of his grasp was a reminder that he would do just that if provoked.

Lauren had now been given the precise details of what she must say. She must assure her father that she was being well-cared for by informing him that she was provided with three meals a day, with her own bedroom, use of a bathroom, and with the freedom to move about as she pleased. Not a word about the dwelling she was in, how many people might be here, or what language they might be speaking. Just her care and comfort—and the most imperative part—a plea for her father to supply whatever he was being asked for. If he didn’t cooperate, she was to assure him that she’d be killed.

She interlaced her fingers tightly in front of her, chilled despite the royal blue turtleneck sweater she was wearing. She’d chosen it carefully, hoping she looked as much like her usual self as possible. Sweater and jeans, her customary winter attire.

But no sweater could alleviate this internal chill.

“Just a few more minutes,” Bashkim told her. “The computer is on. Now we wait.?

??

Starbucks

Northstar Drive, Lake Tahoe

28 February

Wednesday, 7:10 a.m. local time

Vance connected to the videoconference using the link he’d been provided.

The next few seconds felt like an eternity.

Abruptly, he could see himself in the large window in the center of his screen. Thirty endless seconds later, another window appeared, replacing his larger image and reducing his to a smaller one in the lower right-hand corner. As the new center screen image took form, he could make out Lauren’s face and the bright blue sweater she was wearing. The vibrant color did nothing to ease his pain or his worry. Because what he saw wasn’t the exuberant, vivacious daughter he loved. It was a shell of her—a terrified young woman with an ashen, haunted look on her face and an equally determined attempt to conceal her fear.

Vance’s throat clogged up. But he knew better than to make reference to her deteriorated condition. “Hi, honey,” he began, fighting to keep his voice steady as he mentally counted down the few precious minutes he had.

“Daddy?” Lauren’s voice was high and thin. She hadn’t called him Daddy in years.

“Yes, Lauren, it’s me. We only have five minutes. So tell me how you are. I need to know. I’m sick with worry.”

“I’m okay.” The words were forced, and she tightened the grip of her interlaced fingers as if to anchor herself for the façade of a conversation they were about to have.

“They haven’t hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Not at all.” She sounded like a parrot, reciting a memorized speech. “They’ve been very respectful. I have my own room, I’m offered three meals a day, and I’m allowed to walk around”—a brief pause as she searched for the acceptable phrase—“inside the place where I’m being held.”

Fully aware of what Aidan wanted him to do, Vance jumped on his opportunity. “Offered three meals a day?” he reiterated. “Or eaten three meals a day?”

Lauren’s gaze darted quickly to her left. Vance didn’t have to guess why. One of the kidnappers, no doubt armed, was monitoring her every word and providing her with instructions on what she could and could not say.

Evidently, her eating habits was a safe topic, because Lauren replied, “I eat all my meals.”

Vance leaned forward, knowing that his daughter’s claim was pure bullshit. “You know how much I worry about your eating—specifically your non-eating when you’re under stress. I have to be sure you’re not starving yourself. So tell me what you mean by ‘all your meals.’ What have you eaten today?”

Lauren drew in a sharp breath and then continued with her recitation. “A hot roll and coffee for breakfast, and bread, soup, and kulen for lunch. It’s not dinnertime here yet, but last night I ate pasta and tomato sauce.”

Abruptly, her shoulders began shaking with sobs, as if the burden of all the pretense was too much for her. “They haven’t hurt me, Daddy,” she wept. “Not yet. But they will if you don’t cooperate. They said so. Whatever they want, please just give it to them. Please.”

She broke down completely, lowering her head and twisting a knife in Vance’s heart as he saw the streams of tears falling onto her clasped hands. “I want to come home. I don’t want to die. Please, please, make this nightmare end. Do what they ask. Give them anything. Bring me home.”

Vance’s soul was splintering into nothingness and he could barely breathe. “I will, baby,” he vowed hoarsely. “I’m giving them exactly what they want. You’ll be home with us soon. I promise. It’ll be okay.” His voice broke. “I love you, Lauren.”