‘By all accounts, Shelby Royce was an unexpected part of the Whaley family’s weekend away,’ said Ren. ‘They could not have known that she would be their babysitter — she was not on any agency’s books, despite what the desk clerk first told us.’
Owens sat down, but kept writing.
He stood back up again. ‘Could the babysitter have taken the little girl?’
‘That’s a possibility,’ said Ren.
‘Maybe Laurie Whaley didn’t want to stay overnight with her father,’ said Owens. ‘There could be an abuse issue. And things could have gotten violent …’
‘That’s a possibility,’ said Ren.
‘What if the little girl was injured and ran?’ said Owens. ‘The sitter would have followed her — she was in charge of her. If the little guy was asleep, she would have thought he was safe in the hotel.’
Ren nodded. ‘In that case, with none of their warm clothes on, they wouldn’t have made it too far from the hotel.’
‘But wouldn’t Shelby Royce have gotten in contact with someone if the little girl ran away?’ said one of the female officers. ‘Wouldn’t she call her own parents? I know my daughter calls me if she’s babysitting and something happens, or she’s not sure what to do …’
‘My boss has spoken with the Royces, so we’ll see what they say,’ said Ren. ‘OK, moving on: with regard to vehicles in and out of Breck, there are almost ten thousand extra visitors here this weekend. Because of this, and because of a charity fundraiser on Saturday night, there were no road closures when the authorities were alerted, and without confirmation of a kidnapping, and without any license plates to go on, we don’t know what we’re looking for on the highway cameras, so until that changes, there’s not a lot of point in pulling the tapes.
‘On the Whaleys’ finances, there’s no indication that the family’s going through any financial difficulties — they have $55,000 cash, $3 million in liquid assets, $2 million in a 401k, plus their paid-off $1.1 million-dollar home, and, at today’s rate, $2.3 million in stock options with MeesterBrandt.’
Ren handed the briefing over to Paul Louderback.
‘Thank you, SA Bryce. Good morning, everyone. I’m SSA Paul Louderback and I’m with CARD — the FBI’s Child Abduction Rapid Deployment Team. For those of you who don’t know, CARD works alongside agents from the BAU — Behavioral Analysis Unit — the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, and the Crimes Against Children Unit. We’re here as a resource to you all, so if there is anything you need, please, let us know.’
Ren had drifted from his explanation — she knew who Paul Louderback was, she knew why he was there. She knew more about him than anyone else in the room. So, she just watched. She had an opportunity she had not had since she was at the Academy — to stand in a room, and study Paul Louderback.
He was dictionary-definition handsome, the type who comes from a long line of handsome men, men who wear chinos and button-down shirts, and smart shoes. He was too classically good-looking for other men to get Ren’s attraction to him. They would think ‘nah — he’s too straight for her’.
The thoughts that used to run through Ren’s head were trying to run their course again.
Part of Ren resented Paul Louderback. He should have known better. She was hardly the first student to have a crush on him.
When they first met, she was with someone else, someone her own age, her hometown boyfriend, someone she really cared about. And what hundreds-of-miles-away twenty-four-year-old Catskill boyfriend could compete with a thirty-four-year-old FBI PT instructor? Especially when he didn’t even know a starting pistol had been fired. The guilt had consumed Ren. She left her boyfriend, not because he had done anything wrong, but because she didn’t know what to do with her feelings for Paul Louderback.
She took her eyes off Paul, physically shook her head as if that would get rid of the thoughts.
Gary Dettling caught Ren’s eye, holding her gaze until she focused back on the top of the room. Gary had asked her once was she sleeping with Paul Louderback, and she was able to truthfully answer no, but … well. The important thing was that she had let the friendship slide, and she wanted to keep it that way.
Ren zoned back in when Gary Dettling took over and delivered what he knew about the Royces.
‘Shelby Royce’s parents are Cal Royce, sixty-five years old, and Connie Royce, forty-six years old. They’re married twenty-eight years, and have lived for the past sixteen years in Blue River, four miles outside of Breckenridge. Shelby is their only child. Cal runs The Miner on Main Street. Connie works in Happy Days creche, also on Main Street.
‘Cal Royce is ex-Sons of Silence, a motorcycle gang — a one percenter. As it was famously said — ninety-nine percent of motorcycle gangs are good guys, any outlaw gangs are called one percenters. Sons of Silence are a hardcore gang — but Cal Royce straightened himself out, got married, moved to a nice house in a nice town, no trouble since. On Saturday night, he and his wife were eating together at the South Ridge Bar and Grill in town and stayed there until two a.m. Multiple witnesses confirm this.
‘The Sheriff will be holding a press conference in an hour’s time,’ said Gary. ‘But we’re keeping details of this investigation at a minimum. It is crucial that the correct information is out there, so please, if you are approached by the media for a comment, refer them to our media team. I don’t need to stress the importance of discretion here.’
Everyone moved into the hallway.
Gary came up to Ren. ‘We’ll meet in Bob’s office, go through what we’re going to say to the press.’
Bob walked over to them. ‘There’s already shit getting out there,’ he said. ‘It’s not good, particularly for Erica Whaley — drunken step-mom. I just spoke with everyone’s favorite dimwit-reporter, Casey Bonaventure: “is it true the Whaley step-mom was drunk?”; “did the Whaleys have a screaming match in the restaurant?”; “did the husband grab her by the arm?” “is Cal Royce a member of a violent gang?”; “was Shelby Royce drinking that night?”’
‘And I’ve seen it’s already on Twitter,’ said Ren, ‘“OMG two girls kidnapped in Breck!” And “OMG such a cute town, v safe” and “OMG was going to stay in that hotel for the Dew tour”. Shocked Smiley face.’
17
Taber Grace was wakened by a sharp slice of early morning sun beaming through his bedroom blinds. His dreams had been a mess he could barely untangle, shafts of faces and places, the vague sense of fear and pain. His hands were clenched, his palms sore from where his fingernails had been buried into them. The client file had fallen from the bed where he had left it, and was fanned out across the floor.
He checked his phone. There was a voicemail from his ex-wife, Melissa.
TJ had gotten into a fight. TJ had no business getting into a fight. This was worth more than a phone call or a text. He checked his watch. He would pay TJ a visit. At nine a.m. on a Sunday morning, that would wake him up.
Melissa and TJ Grace still lived in the home that Taber once shared with them in Stapleton, North East Denver. Melissa’s car was in the drive when he arrived. The drapes were closed. Taber walked up the path and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. He smelled burning. He ran to his car and grabbed the spare house key from the glove box. Things had never gotten that bad that Melissa had changed the locks.
He walked into the hallway, but stopped when he heard raised voices in the kitchen. They hadn’t heard the doorbell. They hadn’t heard him open the door and come in. The smell, he realized, was burnt pancakes. There were no flames, there was no smoke. He started to move toward the kitchen. He could hear Melissa’s voice, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. He walked closer.
‘You screwed up my entire life!’ TJ shouted.
Taber stopped dead.
