Sara's Game Part 8

24 HOURS. IF YOU THINK HARD, THE ANSWER WILL COME.

Confusion. I'm supposed to lock myself up for twenty-four hours. What am I supposed to think about for twenty-four hours? And the kids? Just sitting there waiting for me. I'm so sorry, guys. So sorry that Mommy got you into this.

The driver started the car. Drove out of the lot.

Sara reached into the bag and removed the small, square container, examining it as they pulled onto the street, heading east. Charcoal gray, hinged on the back side. A jewelry box. She held it up to her ear and shook. Something rattled inside.

She held her fingers to the lid, waiting, not knowing what to expect. Perhaps some clue, something to help her remember, something to remind her of what she was supposed to think about for the next twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours. It seemed impossible. Undoable. But that was what he wanted. The torture of being helpless. The torture of making her sit idly, locked in a cage, unable to do anything. Waiting, waiting, waiting while he controlled the game, controlled her fate, controlled her children's fates. How afraid they must be without their mother, hoping she would save them soon, not knowing why they were trapped in a room with a stranger, not knowing why she hadn't come yet.

The guilt was settling in already, and she wasn't even inside the cage yet.

She looked down at the box, her hands poised, ready to open it.

Did you take this from my house, too, Teddy? What did you find in there to torture me with?

She squeezed, pried the lid back, then slammed it shut when she saw the object inside.

CHAPTER 11.

DJ.

DJ marched out of Jim Rutherford's office.

What had started out as a pleasant, helpful conversation had disintegrated into a muddled mess, turning his mood foul. But it left him with two leads. The husband theory had its structure built on sand and speculation, while Rutherford's son, Teddy, had just become the prime suspect. The exact phrase match, coupled with his convenient disappearance to an unknown golf tournament, was enough to pursue.

Yet it wasn't as concrete as he would've liked, because it was missing motive, and he wanted a measure of rea.s.surance before he issued an APB for the guy and brought him in for questioning. He didn't want to risk a lawsuit if Teddy Rutherford were standing on the 18th fairway over at Riverside or Heron Lakes.

He called the station, asked them to check up on golf tournaments in the area. "Call me if you find any. Call me faster if you don't."

DJ approached the nearest employee, a sc.r.a.ppy looking kid with a greasy, unwashed mop and pimpled skin. He went into Barker's version of 'steamroller mode': a tactic he used to overpower and intimidate someone that might offer more information when confronted with a bigger presence. Bees with honey, DJ, but p.i.s.s and vinegar when necessary.

DJ said, "Name and rank, soldier."

The kid looked up from his laptop. "I'm sorry?"

"I said name and rank, soldier."

"My rank?"

Doesn't work on the clueless, Barker. He said, "Forget it. What's your name?"

"Jeremy. And you're...?"

"Detective Johnson," he said, flas.h.i.+ng his badge. "Where can I find Sara Winthrop's a.s.sistant?"

Jeremy recoiled. He gave a simple, "Whoa," and added, "Not sure. I think she's gone for the day."

"Gone?"

"Yeah. Pretty sure."

"How sure is pretty sure?"

"Well, I mean, very, I guess."

"You guess?"

He pointed toward the front door. "I heard her tell somebody over there that she'd see them tomorrow."

"You heard? Did you actually see her leave?"

"Kinda."

"Kinda?" What's he hiding? "Come on, you either did or you didn't-which is it?"

"I did."

"And you're positive?"

"Positive," Jeremy said, and then added with some reluctance, "She's got a tight body. I checked out her a.s.s when she left. So yes, I saw her leave. You got me. Guilty as charged."

Jesus. He's just embarra.s.sed. "Not exactly a crime, Skippy. When was this?"

"Ten-ish," he said, pausing to think. "Wait, yeah, ten o'clock. She and Teddy both left right before the group meeting."

DJ put his hands on his hips, examined him for any signs of malfeasance. No twitching, no avoided eye contact, no hint of deception in his body language. He seemed legit. A goofy dork who happened to be admiring an untouchable a.s.s from a distance. Right place, right time.

So the girl who knows the most about Sara and the guy who has a connection to the note are both gone, and they left around the same time. Coincidence?

Jeremy said, "Anything else? I'm kinda behind here, dude."

"You said you heard her say she'd see somebody tomorrow? Any idea who she was talking to?"

"There's like, forty-five people here. Best guess would be Sara."

DJ sighed. "Not likely." Dead end. Not that observant when he wasn't checking out somebody's a.s.s. "What do you know about Mrs. Winthrop?"

"Is she in trouble?"

"Not with us. How would you describe her?"

Jeremy thought for a second, said, "About five-eight. Brown hair, brown eyes-"

"Not physically. Her personality. She get along with people here? Any reason to think someone might hold a grudge?"

"Not that I know of. She's kinda like a bowl of ice cream. Cold but sweet at the same time."

"A bowl of ice cream, huh? You come up with that all by yourself?"

"I write some of the creative storylines for our games. Keeps me thinking in metaphors."

"Sounds like a fun job. And Teddy Rutherford? What kind of dessert is he?"

"Um...a sugar cookie?"

"How so?"

Jeremy looked around, wary of prying ears. "Promise you won't tell him I said this?"

"Promise."

With a hint of a smile, he said, "He thinks he's delicious, but in reality, he's just small and boring."

DJ drove away from LightPulse, wondering where he should go next. Maybe catch up with Barker, see if he had gotten anything solid from the witnesses at the Rose Gardens, let him know about Teddy Rutherford and the absent a.s.sistant. Question Sara's friends and neighbors, which they should've been doing hours ago, instead of wasting precious minutes on half-c.o.c.ked theories about Brian Winthrop.

d.a.m.n. We're blowing this one. Big time.

The remainder of his conversations with some of the other employees proved to be as insignificant as Jeremy's sugar cookie. The general impression of Sara around the office was exactly as Jim Rutherford had described. She was fierce but encouraging, down to earth but revered. They had witnessed her heated encounters with Teddy, but it was nothing more than putting him in his place, like the rest of their management did on a daily basis.

The ones that had interacted with her outside the office talked about how great she was with her children and how well she'd coped when her husband disappeared. DJ sensed that the hat she wore at LightPulse was completely different than the one she wore at home, which wasn't unusual for anyone juggling a high-profile career and family life.

And from what he got based on their answers, Teddy was universally disliked around the office but either knew and didn't care, or floated along in this oblivious state of being G.o.d's gift to humanity. A Napoleon complex wasn't enough to make the guy a suspect, but his connection to Sara's note and the timing of his absence was, and it was close enough to make DJ suspicious.

But what about his dad? He knew where the phrase came from. Is he involved?

Jim Rutherford was a remote possibility, but he had too much to lose and too little to gain from kidnapping the children of his s.h.i.+ning star.

"Don't chase, DJ," he said. "Stay focused."

His cell rang. He whipped into the nearest parking lot, stopped and answered. "Johnson."

"Got some info on those golf tournaments, JonJon."

"Seriously, Davis? You, too?"

A chuckle, followed by, "Too easy, DJ. Couldn't resist."

"Whatever. The tournaments?"

"Bupkis. None scheduled until the weekend."

That's a game-changer. "What do you have on Teddy Rutherford?" he asked, then spelled out the last name for clarification.

"Hold on a sec."

DJ heard the clacking of a keyboard as Sergeant Davis pulled up the information. While he waited, he asked, "Barker check in yet?"

"Yep. Said he tried your cell. Wants you to call him ASAP. Okay...Theodore Alan Rutherford, last known address...1848 Graystone. Wow. Guy must have a gold-plated toilet seat."

"Any priors?"

"Two. Nothing major. One speeding ticket and one a.s.sault, six years ago. Looks like it might've been a bar fight."

"Send a car over to his house."

"Want us to bring him in?"

The phrase match, no golf tournaments. It was the best he had. "If he's there. If not, start looking."

He called Barker next.

Barker answered with a perturbed, "Where the h.e.l.l have you been?"

"LightPulse. Asking around. I think we may have something."

"Good. I didn't come up with much here. Some of the witnesses said they saw a naked woman. Said she threw on some clothes and hightailed it down the hill."

"On foot?"

"Like she was in a big d.a.m.n hurry to get somewhere. But h.e.l.l, who wouldn't be if they'd been standing around naked in front of a hundred strangers?"

"Right. Sara left the school in a hybrid Sienna. Beige, I think. Any sign of it?"

"d.a.m.n, cowboy, you might've mentioned that. Had a lady tell me she recognized the naked woman from the parking lot. Light brown minivan, she said, but it ain't there now. Not where she said it was."

"If she left on foot and didn't come back to get it, where'd it go?"

"Better yet, who took it?"

"Get somebody on it, then meet me at 1848 Graystone. Davis has somebody on the way, but I think you and I need to go have a look."

"Residential? You got a possible?"

"Heavy on the possible, but no motive yet."

"Anything to do with the husband?"

No, Barker. Jesus, would you give it up?