Kidnapped

Jan Burke

Kidnapped

The tenth book in the Irene Kelly series

For the Incomparable

Marysue Rucci

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

MANY individuals deserve thanks for their help with this book and, as always, I ask readers to understand that these experts are not responsible for my errors.

Wayne Bowlby, who worked for many years for San Diego County Child Protective Services, patiently answered my many questions when I first began working on Kidnapped. Conversations with Detective (Ret.) Ike Sabean, Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department Homicide Bureau Missing/Abducted Children, regarding a subplot in Bloodlines led to the questions that began this book.

Additional help with forensic science and police procedural matters came from other members of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, especially Detective Elizabeth Smith, Homicide Bureau; Barry A. J. Fisher, Director of LASD Scientific Services Bureau; and David Vidal, Senior Criminalist, LASD Scientific Services Bureau.

Carolyn Rollberg kindly spent time talking to me about the experiences of those who visit prisoners in California, and her ope

Forensic anthropologists Paul Sledzik and Marilyn London have once again provided invaluable assistance with those aspects of the book.

Major (Ret.) John F. Mullins took time from his own writing to provide helpful advice and encouragement.

Laura Rathe, Beth Barkley, and other dog handlers on the SAR-DOGS list were generous with their time and expertise.

Dr. Ed Dohring has faithfully provided medical information for every book, and has my thanks for that, for daring to hold conversations that gross out other people in restaurants and, most of all, for his friendship.

S.G., Sandra Cvar, Eileen Dreyer, Jerrilyn Farmer, Tonya Fischer, Julie Herman, Sharan Newman, Timbrely Pearsley, John Pearsley, Jr., Twist Phelan, Christopher Rice, and Gillian Roberts have my thanks for their additional support and help above and beyond the call of friendship and family.

Marysue Rucci, David Rosenthal, and Carolyn Reidy-your patience and support have meant so much, as has the support I’ve received from Micki Nuding and Louise Burke at Pocket Books. Thank you for that and so much more. Thanks also to the sales reps at Simon amp; Schuster, especially Laura Webb, who will probably never know how terrific her timing with encouragement has been. Rebecca Davis, Tara Parsons, Alexis Taines, and all the others who have worked with me these past two years have my sincerest gratitude. Many thanks are due to Philip Spitzer.

Timothy Burke, I want to share the return-address label with you for a long, long time to come.

ONE

CHAPTER 1

Tuesday, May 9

8:07 A.M.

FLETCHER GRAPHIC DESIGN

LAS PIERNAS

CLEO SMITH firmly believed that neatness counted, especially if you were going to get away with murder. Which was why she now stood completely naked, save for a pair of plastic booties and a pair of thin rubber gloves, in the office of the man she had just killed.

She calmly gathered the clothing she had worn to do the job and placed it in a plastic bag, along with the trophy used as the weapon. The trophy was a heavy, curving metal shape, about ten inches in height. An award her victim, Richard Fletcher, had won for excellence as a graphic artist.

A second bag contained the hypodermic needle she had used in the first few moments of the proceedings. To this bag she added the gloves.

She placed both bags inside a large canvas duffel. This she took with her as she went back to the studio area, admiring but not touching the works in progress in the large, open room. She walked quickly past the windows (blinds closed at this hour) and into the bathroom off the back of the studio.

Richard had designed everything about this office and studio, including the full bathroom and changing area. He had needed a place where he could clean up and change clothes before meeting clients or heading home for the day. This worked admirably for her purposes as well. Taking her own soap, shampoo, and towels from the duffel, she stepped into the shower. She removed the booties, placing them in the plastic bag that held the gloves and needle. She turned on the water, unfazed by the initial coldness of it, and began to cleanse off the inevitable biological debris that resulted from the chosen method of murder. Soon the water warmed. She leaned into the hard spray.

She did not fear interruption. Richard had been a free spirit in many ways, but his days followed a set, personally defined routine. His first three hours of the workday never included any appointments, and he was known for not answering the phone during those hours. She had placed a portable locking and alarm device on the front door, just in case. She had altered it slightly-if someone should try to get past it, it wouldn’t screech the kind of high-decibel alarm that would draw unwanted attention. Instead, a remote, much quieter but audible alarm would sound in her nearby bag.

She scrubbed her long, lean, and muscular body. She prided herself on her peak physical condition. Her light brown hair was no more than half an inch long anywhere on her head; she had completely depilated the rest of her body. Her breasts were small-she would readily agree that she was flat-chested, had anyone had the nerve to say so to her face. Her nails were cut very short.

She was proud of the fact that she could easily imitate a male gait or stance, and with the slightest bit of disguise could fool anyone who was not a trained and attentive observer that she was male. With almost equal ease, she could signal femininity. These were just a few of her gifts.

She contemplated the murder, trying to identify any imperfections. One of the highest priorities had been that the victim feel no pain.

He had certainly not felt the blows that killed him. The last sensation he had known while conscious was most likely bewilderment. Perhaps a little stinging at the time of the injection, but there had been so little time for Richard to react before the drug took effect, he did not register much more than surprise. And maybe a bit of dismay.

Cleo Smith frowned and silently conceded that there were moments of anxiety-he did try so hard to move toward the door and did manage to say, “Je

Still, he was unable to give more than minor resistance as Cleo steered him back to the desk. A second wave of worry came over Richard just after that, but the drug took full effect-he passed out cold while trying to stand up. It was Richard’s final act of courtesy-there would be no need to reposition him.

So. Anxiety, to some degree, but not pain.

Cleo had made sure the blows demolished the point of injection. There was some chance that a toxicology report would be ordered, but even if the tests included the substance she used (highly unlikely), the result would not lead anyone back to her. The clothing she had worn during the murder did not belong to her.

Cleo stepped out of the shower and dried herself, put on a pair of men’s socks, then used a new set of towels-never before used by her-to wipe down every surface of the shower and anything she might have touched in here.