Internet porno site. She's wearing a beaded tank top with skinny spaghetti straps that hugs her chest and shows us she's definitely reached puberty.
You can read the fear in her eyes.
Below her small breasts and bare midriff, she holds this morning's newspaper. The one with the big photograph of her mom crying on the front page.
The Polaroid proves Ashley was alive this morning when the paper came out.
What's scribbled beneath the picture proves Squeegee is totally twisted:
BRING ME MY MONEY OR
I'LL MAKE HER PAY
IN SOME OTHER WAY.
XXXOOO
“SQUEEGEE”
P.S.
SEND THE MONEY WITH CEEPAK
ASHLEY SAYS I CAN TRUST CEEPAK
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“You need to be the one on TV,” the chief says to Ceepak. Ceepak nods.
We're standing around the police cars parked higgledy-piggledy in front of the Sea Spray Hotel. Several state police and some local guys are scouring the beach, looking for clues.
Our man was here. Not so long ago. Popped in through the patio door and helped himself to the inn-fax. Who knows-maybe Squeegee even ordered room service. Anything's possible with this screwball.
There's a long line of tourists standing next to suitcases and luggage carts outside the lobby doors. The line snakes back inside, past the concierge desk. Everybody's waiting for the valet parking guys to bring their cars up from the garage so they can get the hell out. Squeegee seems to have that effect on people. So does seeing a SWAT team running through your hotel lobby. It's only July 11th, but summer might be over in Sea Haven.
The chief checks his watch.
“We were supposed to do the press conference at 1100.”
“Let's do it at 1130,” Ceepak says.
He's talking to the chief but looking up and down the road, searching for any sign of the enemy. The picture of Ashley was the last straw-this thing is extremely personal now.
“The FBI should be at headquarters….”
“Yeah.”
Ceepak scans the horizon.
“Let's wait to see what they say,” the chief suggests.
“Yeah.”
“They deal with these kidnapper loony-tunes all the time. And we need some goddamn specifics. Where the hell do we make the drop and pick up the girl? The scum is pretty damn vague about the goddamn particulars.”
Ceepak is only half-listening.
He turns to the chief.
“There's only one way to be certain,” he says quietly.
“Yeah. I know. You need to take him out, John. Eliminate his potential to do more damage.”
Ceepak stares across the road at a plastic bag blowing in the branches of a tree.
“I have an M23 SWS in my office,” the chief says.
“How's the scope?”
“Dead on.”
“That'll work.”
I figure SWS must be military mumbo-jumbo for some kind of rifle, because I remember one of Ceepak's many medals.
Marksmanship.
“I'm Christopher Morgan.”
This big man in a dark suit is waiting for us when we return to headquarters.
“FBI Critical Incident Response Group. You Ceepak?”
“Yes, sir. This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”
“Boyle.” Morgan nods in my general direction but fixes his attention on Ceepak. It's easy for these two guys to see eye to eye because they're both six-two and look like they play on the same football team. If Morgan wasn't black, he could be Ceepak's brother.
“We're here to help,” Morgan says.
“Appreciate that.”
“The FBI's primary objective in these instances is always the safe return of the victim. Once Ashley Hart is home, we'll move on to phase two: nailing the bastard who did it.”
“That'll work.”
“Any idea why the bad guy wants you involved?”
“I'm not sure.”
Morgan flips through some pages in his yellow legal pad.
“You talk to her mom?” Ceepak asks.
“Yeah.”
“How's she holding up?”
“Good. All things considered. I told her to grab some air, take a quick walk around the block.”
“What about the reporters?”
“She can handle them,” Morgan assures us. “Used to be in TV, herself. Told me she carries a wig and an ugly-ass floppy hat in her handbag at all times. Helps her avoid her adoring public when she's not in the mood to be adored.”
“Smart lady.”
“Well,” Morgan says, “the media awaits. You ready for your close-up, Mr. Ceepak?”
“Sure. Right after you tell me what I say.”
Morgan hands him a sheet of paper. “Make it your own, but those are your talking points. This guy Squeegee? He'll be watching. Or listening. They usually do. It's how they get their rocks off. They like to watch you squirm a little before their big payday.”
“So I'm talking directly to him?” Ceepak says, his eyes skimming the page of notes.
“Right. Just look him in the eyes and let the son of a bitch know you're his best friend in the whole damn world.”
* * *
There are about a hundred microphones set up in front of our porch steps.
Mayor Sinclair, Chief Cosgrove, Christopher Morgan (very FBI with his Ray-Ban sunglasses and suit), and Ceepak stand on the second step, looking like some kind of four-man boys’ choir.
The TV people are all over our lawn. Thank God it's gravel. If it were grass, it'd be dead. Behind the circle of reporters is an army of big guys lugging video cameras and fuzzy microphones on poles. Behind them are the
