Neil’s investigative efforts thus far had been quick but thorough:
Initial police canvassing of the neighborhood had yielded no sightings of any member of the Denbe family. Calls to relatives, friends and known associates hadn’t produced any member of the Denbe family. Same with all outreach to local businesses, area hospitals and nearby establishments.
Justin Denbe’s vehicle had been located four blocks down, empty. Libby Denbe’s Mercedes was still tucked in the garage, empty. All cash, credit cards and ATM cards appeared to be sitting on the family’s kitchen counter. According to the local bank, no financial activity had occurred on any of the family accounts since 4:00 P.M. on Friday, when two hundred and fifty dollars had been withdrawn from an ATM in Copley Square (video from the bank pending). Likewise, no member of the family had placed an outgoing call or text on a mobile phone since 10:00 P.M. on Friday (faxes from cellular provider pending).
At this time, all three members of the Denbe family appeared to have been missing for the past fourteen hours. The investigator’s only lead: Justin Denbe’s outdoor jacket, which was now broadcasting a GPS signal from the wilds of New Hampshire.
In an aggressive move that surprised Tessa, Neil Cap got out his phone, pulled up a New Hampshire map and translated the missing jacket’s GPS coordinates to a local law enforcement agency.
Then, without waiting for the FBI’s official blessing, Neil made what would probably be his last call as Boston’s lead investigator: He contacted the New Hampshire sheriff’s department and asked themto track down the signal on the coat. A quick and efficient move to glean the most amount of information in the shortest amount of time. The FBI would hate him immediately for stealing their thunder.
Tessa took that as her cue to exit stage right.
Best she could tell, she’d seen what there was to see. Boston had control of the crime scene where the family used to be. Some local cops, too far north for her to assist, would handle the investigation of the next location where the family might be. Which left her with one central question: Who would’ve wanted to abduct and/or harm the Denbe family to begin with?
She decided it was time to learn more about her new client, Denbe Construction.
Chapter 10
WYATT FOSTER WAS A COP who wanted to be a carpenter. Or maybe a carpenter who wanted to be a cop. He’d never completely figured it out, which was just as well. In this day and age of constant budget crises, the going rate for protecting and serving the good citizens of North Country New Hampshire made two jobs a necessity for himself as well as most of his fellow officers. Some guys picked up refereeing. Other guys bartended on weekends. Then there was him.
This fine Saturday morning, sun shining, air brisk with late-fall chill, he was staring at a collection of old pine boards, reclaimed from his neighbor’s hundred-year-old barn, and trying to put together a design for a rustic bookshelf. Or maybe a kitchen table, the kind with bench seats. Or a wine cabinet. People paid good money for wine cabinets. Hell, he wouldn’t mind a wine cabinet.
He’d just made up his mind, reaching for the first board, when his pager went off.
Early forties, buzz-cut hair that used to be a dark brown but these days held a fair amount of silver, Wyatt had served the county sheriff’s department for the past twenty years. First as a deputy, then as a detective, now as a sergeant in charge of the detectives unit. Best part of being a sergeant was the hours. Monday through Friday, 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. ’Bout as regular as one could get in a profession not known for its regularity.
Of course, like any county officer, he served on call a couple of nights a week. And, yeah, things happened, even in the wilds of New Hampshire, perhaps especially in the wilds of New Hampshire. Drugs, alcohol, domestic violence, some interesting embezzlement cases
Initial police canvassing of the neighborhood had yielded no sightings of any member of the Denbe family. Calls to relatives, friends and known associates hadn’t produced any member of the Denbe family. Same with all outreach to local businesses, area hospitals and nearby establishments.
Justin Denbe’s vehicle had been located four blocks down, empty. Libby Denbe’s Mercedes was still tucked in the garage, empty. All cash, credit cards and ATM cards appeared to be sitting on the family’s kitchen counter. According to the local bank, no financial activity had occurred on any of the family accounts since 4:00 P.M. on Friday, when two hundred and fifty dollars had been withdrawn from an ATM in Copley Square (video from the bank pending). Likewise, no member of the family had placed an outgoing call or text on a mobile phone since 10:00 P.M. on Friday (faxes from cellular provider pending).
At this time, all three members of the Denbe family appeared to have been missing for the past fourteen hours. The investigator’s only lead: Justin Denbe’s outdoor jacket, which was now broadcasting a GPS signal from the wilds of New Hampshire.
In an aggressive move that surprised Tessa, Neil Cap got out his phone, pulled up a New Hampshire map and translated the missing jacket’s GPS coordinates to a local law enforcement agency.
Then, without waiting for the FBI’s official blessing, Neil made what would probably be his last call as Boston’s lead investigator: He contacted the New Hampshire sheriff’s department and asked themto track down the signal on the coat. A quick and efficient move to glean the most amount of information in the shortest amount of time. The FBI would hate him immediately for stealing their thunder.
Tessa took that as her cue to exit stage right.
Best she could tell, she’d seen what there was to see. Boston had control of the crime scene where the family used to be. Some local cops, too far north for her to assist, would handle the investigation of the next location where the family might be. Which left her with one central question: Who would’ve wanted to abduct and/or harm the Denbe family to begin with?
She decided it was time to learn more about her new client, Denbe Construction.
Chapter 10
WYATT FOSTER WAS A COP who wanted to be a carpenter. Or maybe a carpenter who wanted to be a cop. He’d never completely figured it out, which was just as well. In this day and age of constant budget crises, the going rate for protecting and serving the good citizens of North Country New Hampshire made two jobs a necessity for himself as well as most of his fellow officers. Some guys picked up refereeing. Other guys bartended on weekends. Then there was him.
This fine Saturday morning, sun shining, air brisk with late-fall chill, he was staring at a collection of old pine boards, reclaimed from his neighbor’s hundred-year-old barn, and trying to put together a design for a rustic bookshelf. Or maybe a kitchen table, the kind with bench seats. Or a wine cabinet. People paid good money for wine cabinets. Hell, he wouldn’t mind a wine cabinet.
He’d just made up his mind, reaching for the first board, when his pager went off.
Early forties, buzz-cut hair that used to be a dark brown but these days held a fair amount of silver, Wyatt had served the county sheriff’s department for the past twenty years. First as a deputy, then as a detective, now as a sergeant in charge of the detectives unit. Best part of being a sergeant was the hours. Monday through Friday, 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. ’Bout as regular as one could get in a profession not known for its regularity.
Of course, like any county officer, he served on call a couple of nights a week. And, yeah, things happened, even in the wilds of New Hampshire, perhaps especially in the wilds of New Hampshire. Drugs, alcohol, domestic violence, some interesting embezzlement cases
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