Джеффри Дивер – Captivated: A Colter Shaw Short Story (страница 1)
Captivated
A Colter Shaw Short Story
Jeffery Deaver
HarperCollins
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins
Copyright © Gunner Publications, LLC 2019
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollins
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
Jeffery Deaver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © MARCH 2019 © ISBN: 9780008346898
Version: 2019-02-12
Contents
“She’s been gone for a month. And two days.”
The man’s troubled expression suggested that he could easily have added the number of hours.
“No contact with you at all?”
“None.” The voice stumbled. He cleared his throat. “No, sir.”
The two men were sitting in an Asian fusion restaurant—self-billed as such, though to Colter Shaw it resembled any other Chinese place. He was having wonton soup, concocted with homemade chicken stock, Shaw believed. It was good. The man across from him in the booth was ringed by a parapet of bowls and plates—some tofu thing, sauces, soup, egg roll and rice. One of the lunchtime combos. The man had taken two bites of the rice and set down his chopsticks.
“I know—in my soul—I know she’s in danger. Somebody’s kidnapped her. We have to do
“You’ve gone to the police?” Shaw asked, his voice a monotone, in contrast to Ron Matthews’s oscillating timbre.
“Yes, of course. I called them a day after she didn’t come home. I was worried it was too soon. But the detective said there’s no waiting period or anything.”
In most states you can report somebody missing ten minutes after they don’t show up. But unless it’s a child or there’s evidence of a crime (the standard police term really is the quaintly Sherlockian “foul play”), the authorities don’t jump on board right away.
Matthews confirmed that this was true in his case. “They weren’t gung ho, you know. There are a lot of missing persons, he told me.”
Thousands upon thousands, Shaw knew.
“He asked—you’re probably going to ask me the same thing—if she’d been in touch with
Always a good plan.
Well, usually.
“But I think the kidnapper
Shaw took a sip of pungent Tsingtao beer. Another spoonful of soup.
Matthews had been sniping furtive glances at him since the businessman had joined Shaw here. He did so again, taking in Shaw’s short blond hair, lying close to the scalp, his broad but compact build, just shy of six feet. An oval face, complexion light. Eyes blue with gray influence. A few women had said he resembled this or that actor, usually some action-movie hero. Most of them he’d never heard of, since, growing up, he’d seen only two or three movies or TV shows a year—and then not until he was ten or eleven. Now, that sort of entertainment was not a major part of his life.
The clothing he now wore was his usual when on the job: jeans, dress shirt open at the collar—today’s was navy blue—and a dark-checkered sports coat. Respectful, to put offerors and witnesses at ease. On his feet, black Ecco slip-ons. Which were comfortable. And offered good traction. Just in case.
The businessman, of course, was interested in teasing more out of Colter Shaw than just his appearance. But all he got in this department, for the time being, was straight posture, constant eye contact, no smiles or frowns, no small talk, just undistracted attention to every word Matthews said. The message was the intended one:
Shaw asked, “Did
“No. She said Evie’d called, and that was it. She didn’t pick up again when I called back, once or twice.”
Or dozens of times. Matthews would have called until the friend blocked his number.
“Tell me how she disappeared,” Shaw said. “Details.”
“Evie went to an artists’ retreat outside of Chicago—Schaumburg—last month. Weekend thing. She went to some retreat almost every month, all around the country.” His lips tightened. “Sunday night, she didn’t come home. She was supposed to but she didn’t.”
“She drove?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve been married a year?”
“Thirteen months. Was our anniversary July tenth.”
“Phone?” Shaw asked.
“Not in service.”
Shaw asked, “Private eye?”
“Cost me more than I could afford, got me zip.”
With a few exceptions, PIs were great for background security checks and poring over computer records to see if your fiancée had ever poisoned a prior husband or misbehaved more than one usually misbehaves in Cabo. The “investigation” part of the job title—as in, pounding pavement—usually wasn’t a stellar performance.
That explained why, two weeks ago, Matthews had posted a reward—$10,000—in an Indianapolis newspaper and online for information about Evelyn Fontaine’s whereabouts. Shaw’s business associates in Florida had spotted the announcement and relayed the info to Shaw, who happened to be in Chicago finishing another job.
The $10K wasn’t much for a missing spouse believed to have been kidnapped. But for Shaw, the reward was never about the money; it was a flag flying over a problem that, so far, no one else had been able to solve. The sort he lived for.
Colter Shaw was restless in mind as well as restless in body.
He now asked the standard question: Had anyone else been in touch about the reward? Yes, Matthews said. Some people had contacted him but it was clear they had no helpful information and were simply hoping for a windfall. There’d been no calls in the past week.