The Never Game

Shaw had been keeping an eye on the car when the driver blew through a red light to make a turn in his direction. He caught a glimpse of a silhouette through the driver’s-side window. He saw again the short stature and frizzy hair tied in a ponytail. Not exclusive to women, of course, but more likely F than M.

You wouldn’t think a woman would do that to another woman. I guess we can be as messed up as a man...

Shaw made two unnecessary turns and the gray car followed.

Eyeing the street, the asphalt surface, measuring angles, distances, turning radii.

Now...

He slammed on the brake and skidded one hundred and eighty degrees, to face the pursuer. He earned a middle finger or two and at least a half dozen horns blared.

A new sound joined the salute.

The bleep of a siren. Shaw hadn’t noticed that he’d U-turned directly in front of an unmarked Chrysler.

A sigh. He pulled over and readied license and rental contract.

A stocky Latino in a green uniform walked up to him.

“Sir.”

“Officer.” Handing over the paperwork.

“That was a very unsafe thing you did.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

The cop — his name was P. ALVAREZ — wandered back to his car and dropped into the front seat to run the info. Shaw was looking at the space where the gray car had been and was no longer. At least he’d confirmed that it was the same vehicle as at the Salvadoran restaurant — a Nissan Altima, the same year, with the same dings and scrapes. He hadn’t caught the license tag.

The man returned to the driver’s window and gave Shaw back the documents.

“Why’d you do that, sir?”

“I thought somebody was following me. Was worried about a carjacker. I heard they go after rental cars.”

Alvarez said slowly, “Which is why rental cars don’t have any markings to indicate they’re rental cars.”

“That right?”

“You troubled by something, call nine-one-one. That’s what we’re here for. You’re from out of town. You have business here?”

A nod. “Yep.”

Alvarez seemed to ponder. “All right. You’re lucky. It’s my court day and I don’t have time to write this up. But let’s not do anything stupid again.”

“I won’t, Officer.”

“Be on your way.”

Shaw restowed the papers and started the engine, driving to the intersection where he’d last seen the Nissan. He turned left, in the direction where she would logically have escaped. And, of course, found no trace.

He returned to the GPS route and in fifteen minutes was at the complex where Henry Thompson shared a condo with his partner, Brian Byrd. A police car, unmarked, sat in front of the building. Unlike with Sophie’s kidnapping, the Task Force, or whoever was running the disappearance, would know for certain that Henry Thompson had been kidnapped, having found the man’s damaged car. The officer — maybe the elusive Detective Standish — would be with Byrd, waiting for the ransom demand that Shaw knew would never come.

His phone hummed with a text. He parked and read it. Mack had discovered no criminal history in the lives of Thompson or Byrd. No weapons registrations. No security clearances or sensitive employment that might suggest motive — Thompson was the blogger and gay rights activist that Wikipedia assured Shaw he was. Byrd worked as a financial officer for a small venture capital firm. No domestic abuse complaints. Thompson had been married for a year to a woman, but a decade ago. There seemed to be no bad blood between them. Like Sophie, he appeared to have been picked at random.

Very wrong time, very wrong place.

After leaving the Mulliners, Shaw had texted Byrd to make sure he was home, asking if they could meet. He immediately replied yes.

Shaw now called the number.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Byrd?”

“Yes.”

“Colter Shaw.”

Byrd was then speaking to someone else in the room: “It’s a friend. It’s okay.”

Then back to Shaw: “Can we talk? Downstairs? There’s a garden outside the lobby.”

Neither of them wanted the police to know that Shaw was involved.

“I’ll be there.” Shaw disconnected, climbed from the Malibu and strolled through manicured grounds to a bench near the front door. A fountain shot mist into the air, the rainbow within waving like a flag.

He scanned the roads beyond the lovely landscaping looking for gray Nissans.

Byrd appeared a moment later. He was in his fifties, wearing a white dress shirt and dark slacks, belly hanging two inches over the belt. His thinning white hair was mussed and he hadn’t shaved. The men shook hands and Byrd sat on the bench, hunched forward, fingers interlaced. He arranged and rearranged the digits constantly, the way Frank Mulliner had toyed with the orange golf ball.

“They’re waiting for a ransom call.” He spoke in a weak voice. “Ransom? Henry’s a blogger and I’m a CFO, but the company’s nothing by SV standards. We don’t even do tech start-ups.” His voice broke. “I don’t have any money. If they want some, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”