“My wife thought those are items or toys you’d buy for a young girl, especially one who might be bored.”
Kate’s concentration sharpened on that point and she agreed.
“Then my wife noticed another one. That’s number twenty-two, a small ripped receipt from a drugstore for sanitary napkins and whatnot, excuse me, but see?”
Kate moved her mouse to number twenty-two and opened it.
“Yes.”
“Now, I looked into this and most American girls get their period when they turn twelve or so, and this Canadian girl, who could’ve been your sister, was about ten when she was abducted, right?”
“Actually, my sister would’ve been closer to eleven and a half.”
“Those two factors were kind of disturbing, but I said to my wife, Fell could’ve had a girlfriend, who had a daughter, you know? There could be explanations. Besides there are privacy issues and I was thinking, how do I challenge him? So I gave it some thought over the next few weeks, thinking the best thing to do was talk to Ned.”
“What happened?”
“Ned suffered a heart attack and stroke. That was a big scare for my family and it took me away from things for a while. By the time I went back to check on Fell a month or so later, he’d moved away. I couldn’t get a new address for him.”
“What about the Realtors, neighbors, his employer, the post office?”
“I tried them all, Kate, and got nothing. It was like he’d vanished.”
Kate sat there staring at the items on her monitor. Several moments of silence passed before she thanked Goodsill and hung up.
For the next hour or so, Kate clicked on every attachment, examining each one for clues, anything Goodsill missed. But he’d been thorough. He’d done everything that she would’ve done and as she clicked from item to item, she considered herself lucky he’d helped her.
When Kate came to pictures of Jerome Fell’s house, her thoughts darkened.
Was Vanessa held captive here? Was Fell actually Carl Nelson? Or was she chasing another mirage?
Kate pulled up the FBI photo of a Nelson Wanted poster and positioned it next to the Jerome Fell’s Colorado driver’s license. There was about fifteen years of time between the two images. Kate placed her notebook against her monitor so that only the eyes and top of the head of each photo were visible.
Are his eyes the same?
In both cases they had the icy veneer of a deep-seated resentment. Definitely a guy who wouldn’t return your misdirected mail, Kate thought before looking at the miscellaneous attachments again, the invoices, the bills and what appeared to be a misdirected invoice or note.
What’s this?
Something from Chicago about a burial site of Krasimira Zurrn.
What could that be? Who is Krasimira Zurrn?
She’d check that out later. It was 3:45 a.m. She had to get to bed.
CHAPTER 33
Rampart, New York
A large dry-erase board stood at one end of the Investigative Unit of the Rampart Police Department.
Ed studied it over the rim of his mug as he took another hit of black coffee. His concentration shifted to Carl Nelson’s photo.
Inch by inch, we’re getting closer to you.
Tire impressions found at the scene were made by 10-ply radials, LT245/75R16, load range E. The same tires were on the silver Chevy 2013 Class B camper van that Carl Nelson bought in Utica. We can place that van at the scene. Now we have to locate that van.
So far, nothing had surfaced from the alerts.
Brennan rubbed his eyes. He’d been up much of the night, padding through the house, watching over his wife and son, contending with the weight of the case.
What’re we missing?
He took another hit of coffee while reviewing the board. He stood among the half-dozen empty desks. All the unit’s detectives had been assigned to the case.
They were out following leads.
Rampart headed the task force, supported by Riverview County, the state police, the FBI and other agencies. The case was divided into several parts. Rampart and the county had most local aspects arising from Carl Nelson. The FBI had the fugitive element. State and the FBI had the crime scene, which was still being processed. Other components crossed jurisdictions, depending on expertise and resources.
There was an update on the necklace from the manufacturer via the FBI. The model in question was no longer made and sold. During the period it was marketed, 600,000 units were sold in the US and another 700,000 units were sold globally. The maker said engraving names on the charms was common and examination of the damaged piece and the comparison piece, obtained from Kate Page, showed that both were made by the company. But insofar as to the two pieces being the exact two pieces Kate’s mother had bought, the finding was inconclusive.
Brennan continued to survey the board.
All work to date was up there: the pictures, names of the victims, case numbers, color arrows and the latest notes showing if warrants had been issued. There were summaries of areas canvassed, neighbors to be reinterviewed and security cameras to be checked or rechecked.
So far, eighty-three tips had been followed, prioritized or closed.
And nothing ever came of that coworker who claims he saw Carl online looking at real estate and taking notes. That one’s eating at me.
The FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit was developing a profile of the suspect, looking at motivation, methodology and the psychology of his actions and personality.
Brennan turned from the board. Dickson had just ended a call with the FBI.
“Well, it’s official,” Dickson said. “That was the FBI’s Cyber Crime team. They’ve been working with the Secret Service and two forensic teams at the DataFlow Call Center.”
“Did Nelson compromise their system?”
“Big-time. He devised and installed some type of software that allowed him to siphon everything from the company’s payment processing network. He stole Social Security numbers, PINs, addresses, telephone numbers, bank and credit card information.”
“How many people are we talking?”
“Forty million.”
Brennan ran his hand over his face.
“The company’s
