Chapter Six
When they pulled to a stop in front of the single-story ranch house at the end of a very long lane, a lazy yellow Labrador retriever bestirred itself enough to let out a single warning bark, then lay back down. Apparently, he felt he said enough. No one would ever accuse the big yellow dog of being a Pomeranian.
Wyatt barely switched off the engine before a tall, slender woman with long gray-blond hair woven into a thick braid burst through the screen door and bounded down the stairs.
“You’re here,” she cried, arms flung wide.
Cara fell out of the passenger seat and into the woman’s embrace. “We’re here,” she replied, her voice muffled by an exuberant hug.
Wyatt watched them, arrested by the sight of the two women wound tight around one another. He nearly laughed out loud when he spotted a man wearing a shearling-lined denim jacket just like his and an Arkansas Razorbacks ball cap speeding toward them on an all-terrain utility vehicle. Her father abandoned the battered old gator before it came to a complete stop and hopped the low fence separating yard from pasture.
Wyatt noted the older couple were both strikingly attractive. Looking at them, it was no stretch to see into Cara’s future.
“Hey, there,” Cara’s father said gruffly, pulling his daughter from her mother’s arms and into his own. Like his wife and daughter, he was tall, but James Beckett was anything but willowy. Barrel-chested and burly, the man was more akin to a sprawling live oak tree.
“Hi, Daddy,” she murmured as he crushed her to him.
“Hi, Sugar,” her father grumbled into the top of her head. Without releasing his hold on Cara, he extended a hand toward Wyatt. “You’re with the state police?”
“Yes, sir. Wyatt Dawson.” He supplied his name as he shook the man’s hand.
“I’m Betsy and this is Jim, and in case you haven’t figured it out, we’re Cara’s mama and daddy.”
“I put the pieces together,” he said as he shook hands with Elizabeth. “Pleased to meet you both. Wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Oh, my stars, I know.” Elizabeth Beckett threaded her hand through his arm and propelled him in the direction of the porch. “I can’t even believe this is happening.” She whirled and pinned Cara with an incredulous glare. “Why is this happening?”
“Because the world is a crazy place, Mama,” Cara said with exasperated patience.
By the time they reached the porch the dog had roused itself enough to stand at attention. “Hello, Roscoe,” Cara cooed. “Who’s a very good boy?”
Betsy snorted. “Good for nothing but warming the floorboards,” she said, herding them all up the steps. “Come in. Come in. I have some stew on the stove and a pan of corn bread if you’re ready for lunch. I know Jim’s probably ready to eat his hat.”
Cara’s father pulled the battered Razorbacks hat from his head the moment he crossed the threshold. “I am hungry.”
Wyatt stole a glance at his watch. It was early afternoon, but the Becketts had been hard at work long before the call from his commanding officer woke him. The scent of richly spiced beef stew filled the entry. He tipped his head back appreciatively and Cara’s father chuckled.
“Come on in and have a bowl while you get us all caught up,” he said, gesturing for Wyatt to follow his nose.
Betsy turned to Cara, her forehead crumpled with worry. “Now, I know you don’t eat meat, but I forget whether cheese is okay or not.”
“I, uh, yeah, it’s fine, Mama,” Cara said, her cheeks turning pink. “Don’t worry about me. I can sort out whatever I need.”
“Born to raise beef cattle, but the minute she stepped foot in California she turned vegan on us,” Jim Beckett blustered.
“It didn’t happen the minute I moved to California,” Cara shot back. “Like every other red-blooded college kid out there, I lived on pepperoni pizza and pad Thai for the better part of four years.”
She turned toward Wyatt and rolled her eyes dramatically. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was there to protect her or act as referee.
“But I’m not vegan anymore. I love dairy too much.”
“I should ship you off to the Bakers. They can keep you in milk and cheese if my beef isn’t good enough for you,” her father grumbled as he pulled out a kitchen chair. “Have a seat, Officer Dawson. Tell me what you plan to do to catch the jerk who sent that email,” he ordered.
Wyatt fought back a smirk. Jim Beckett was clearly a very focused man. He wondered what Cara and her father would say if he attributed her ability to maintain balance and stay centered to him. Before he could get himself settled, Cara jumped in, acting as his self-appointed public relations representative.
“Actually, it’s Special Agent Dawson, Daddy. Wyatt is a member of the Cybercrimes Division.”
“Cybercrimes?” Betsy repeated as she ladled up bowls of stew. “Sounds fascinating.”
“Betsy loves watching those crime shows. The ones with all the DNA testing,” Jim said with a nod. “It is amazing what they can figure out with nothin’ more than a few hairs or a drop of blood.”
“You like them too,” his wife shot back.
“Yes, uh, technology has helped in some incredible ways.” He cast a glance at Cara and found her reaching into a high cabinet to pull down a jar of peanut butter. Her sweatshirt rose as she stretched, exposing a couple centimeters of skin, and Wyatt felt compelled to shift his gaze back to her father. “I deal more with the ways it hasn’t helped,” he admitted with a wry smile and apologetic shrug.
“Like the email,” Betsy said, juice flying from her ladle as she pointed it at him.
“Exactly.” Wyatt surreptitiously wiped the droplet of scalding stew from his cheek as he debated what information to divulge. He didn’t want to panic the Becketts, but he also needed them to be on their guard. “And you did exactly the right thing by not replying to or forwarding the email, Mrs. Beckett.”
“Pssht. Call me Betsy,” Cara’s mother said as she plunked a bowl down in front of him. With a quick intake of breath she drew back as if she’d burned her hand, a worried frown bisecting her brows. “I didn’t ask. Do you eat meat, Special Agent Dawson?”
“It’s Wyatt, and yes, ma’am. I love stew.”
“Oh, good,” she gushed, clearly relieved. “I poured tea for everyone, but if you want something different—”
“Tea’s great. Thank you.”
He picked up the spoon Betsy placed on a paper napkin, but waited until Cara and her mother joined them at the table to dig in. Cara darted a glance in her father’s direction and rolled her eyes. James had already depleted half his bowl. By his daughter’s bemused expression, he gathered this was the norm in the Beckett household.
“Help yourself to some corn bread,” Betsy invited, gesturing to a napkin-lined basket she’d placed at the center of the table.
Cara raised an eyebrow, smirking at the basket of warm corn bread as she slathered peanut butter on a saltine. Apparently the presentation of the corn bread was not a part of the norm. He smiled as he helped himself to a wedge of the warm bread, then crumbled some into his stew.
“Thank you. It all smells delicious.”
“If you ask me, everything smells fishy,” James declared, not looking up from the depths of his bowl. “Why don’t you tell us what the heck is goin’ on here?”
“Jim, let them eat their lunch in peace,” Betsy admonished.
Wyatt met Cara’s eyes across the table. She swallowed the cracker she’d been chewing, then washed the crumbs down with a gulp of sweet iced tea. When she was ready, she folded her hands in front of her and angled her body to look her father directly in the eye.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but my partners and I have decided to take our company public. We’ll make a number of shares available for the public to buy on the stock market,” she began.
“I know what goin’ public means,” James growled. “I’m not uneducated, and no matter what you think of this place, your mother and I don’t live under a rock.”
“I know, Daddy,” Cara said with the wary patience of a person who has covered this ground before. “Okay, so I guess you know it means I’ll make a lot of money when it happens. On paper, at least.”
“I told you from the beginning, this whole thing is like a house of cards,” James started. “Monopoly money. It’s all paper printed up in New York City and assigned a value by some...guru who pretends to know the value of air.”
Cara tensed and Betsy cringed. This obviously wasn’t the first time they’d heard his opinion on Cara’s business.
James waved his hand in the air like he was wielding a magic wand. “How can you build anything real without hard assets? Land, buildings, equipment, cattle—”
“Cattle you take to market and sell at a price set by demand on the commodities market,” Cara interjected. “A made-up number conjured by the beef oracle of the sale barn.”
“Actually, companies like LYYF and other web-based businesses do have real assets. Intellectual property, patents, trademarks and copyrighted catalog are all tangible and valuable assets,” Wyatt interjected smoothly. “There’s also licensing, subscription and franchising.” James opened his mouth to argue, but Wyatt shook his head. “But we’re not here to debate the valuation of Cara’s company. We’re here because your daughter has become the target of some very real threats.”
Cara’s father’s jaw snapped shut and a hush fell over the room. Wyatt nodded to Cara. “Go on. Tell them.”
“I started getting messages online. Which, to be honest, is not unusual. Women are not particularly revered in technology circles. There’s a small, but vocal, faction of people out there who don’t believe I should be a full partner in LYYF because I didn’t contribute to the technological side of its development.”
“But it’s your face out there,” Betsy countered. “Your voice people want to hear.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
Cara sighed and reached for another saltine even though the rest of them had stopped eating. She smeared creamy peanut butter onto cracker after cracker, setting them out in a row as she detailed the threats she’d been receiving, the attack on her neighbor and finally her flight to Little Rock and the events of the past twenty-four hours.
“Oh, my Lord, Cara,” Betsy said, pressing one horrified hand to her chest and covering her mouth with the other.
James Beckett sat with his fist clenched tight and his head bowed. Silent. Unmoving. And seething.
“You can rest assured we have our best people working on the case,” Wyatt said, speaking up for the first time since Cara started her recitation.
“Your best people?” James lifted his head, his jaw set and his eyes alight with the need to take action. “What about the FBI? Shouldn’t they be working on this? She was kidnapped, for the love of everything holy,” he cried, shoving his chair back and jumping to his feet.
Wyatt didn’t move. If he were to get up too, it would only stoke Cara’s father’s ire. What they needed now was de-escalation. Calm. Sanctuary.
In other words, they all needed to take a deep breath.
“We are liaising with agents in the FBI field office, but since Ms. Beckett has been recovered unharmed and no one crossed state lines, they are deferring to the state police as lead on the investigation. Of course, we have full access to any resources they have when it comes to the identification and apprehension of the man who abducted her.”
“I have every faith in Special Agent Dawson and his associates,” Cara announced.
Wyatt did his best to mask the surprise and pleasure he took from her endorsement. Still, it was good to hear.
“And I promise you, we have been taking the case quite seriously.” Wyatt glanced over at Betsy and flashed his most winning smile. “Even without the nudge from the lieutenant governor’s office.”
“Lieuten—” James started then stopped on a grunt, shooting his wife a sidelong glare. “Naturally, you called your old pal Paul for help.”
“I told you I called him,” Betsy said, rising from the table. She picked up her own barely touched bowl, then snatched James’s nearly empty one from his place.
“You think I couldn’t have called someone?” James demanded. “Dewey Roarke is a senator, for crying out loud, and we’ve been buddies since we were seven. We could have called him.”
“Dewey is a state senator, and he’s your buddy,” Betsy countered, dropping the bowls into the sink with a clatter. “You were out at the barn when I saw the email, and I called who I knew to call.”
“Good old Paul Stanton, always ready to ride in on his white Cadillac.”
“I called you first,” she shot back. “It took you forty-five minutes to get back to the house.”
“I was in the middle of feeding—”
“Hey,” Cara shouted, cutting through their bickering like a hot knife through butter. “It doesn’t matter who called who. I didn’t need anybody to ride in to rescue me. I’d already rescued myself.”
Mr. and Mrs. Beckett both fell silent. Betsy turned toward the sink, gripping its edges for support. James slumped, his broad shoulders sagging and his hands falling limp to his lap.
“You must think we’re awful,” Betsy whispered, shaking her head side to side.
An awkward beat passed, then Cara asked, “Me or Wyatt?”
A watery laugh escaped Betsy Beckett. “Both.”
“Oh, Mama.” Cara slid out of her chair and went to wrap her arm around her mother. Betsy’s shoulders shook until Cara pressed her cheek against her mother’s back. “I love you even when you’re awful. It must be nice to know Daddy’s still a bit worked up over the guy who took you to a dance back when you all still had a feathered hairdo.”
Betsy choked out a laugh, and James moved to them as if they were magnetized. Soon, both women were engulfed in the larger man’s arms again. “I hate he drives a nicer car than me,” he grumbled into his daughter’s hair.
“I’d buy you whatever car you want,” Cara said, her voice muffled. Gradually, their family knot loosened, and Cara swiped at her cheek. “I’d even shell out for one of those enormous pickup trucks killing the planet.”
“You know I have no use for a truck too pretty to haul hay,” her father answered gruffly. “Let’s sit down. I need to hear more about what started all this.”
Before they could resume their places, Wyatt’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID and saw it was Emma Parker. She was calling instead of sending a message. He could only guess something big was happening. “Excuse me for a moment, please,” he said, scooting his chair back. “I need to take this.”
Wyatt didn’t wait to see if the Becketts were put off by his abrupt departure from their table. Nor did he look back. “Dawson,” he said in a low voice, hurrying back through the living room toward the front door. The screen door didn’t squeak when he pushed it open, and old Roscoe didn’t stir from the patch of sun on the porch. “What’s happening?” he asked as he ran down the shallow steps.
“We know who the guy is,” Emma informed him without preamble.
“What? How?” Wyatt pushed a hand through his hair, all too aware he was firing questions faster than she could field them, but unable to stop. “Are you sure it’s him?”
“We got latent prints off the steering wheel and gearshift, but those could have been anyone’s since it was a rental car. But we had two different prints match with some we lifted from her phone.”
“Is he in the system?”
“He is. Permitted for concealed carry,” she informed him.
“Seems like everyone is these days,” he grumbled. “This joker have a name?”
“Yes. Gerald Griffin. Thirty-eight. Residence Garland County, outside Hot Springs.”
“Okay.” Wyatt gave the back of his neck a squeeze, then let his hand fall as he turned back to take in the scope of the Becketts’ ranch. “I guess we need to start looking for good old Gerry.”
“Found him,” Parker informed him, her tone grim.
Wyatt froze, his gaze locked on the overfed dog napping on the porch. “You answered fast enough to make a guy say uh-oh .”
“I traced a debit card Mr. Griffin used to buy gas at a station near the airport.”
An incredulous laugh burst out of him. “He topped off the rental before he returned it? What kind of a criminal is this guy?”
“A dead one,” Emma said bluntly. “I’m thinking he filled up his own vehicle. It was parked outside his double-wide when the sheriff’s deputies got there a little while ago. They identified themselves when they knocked. Mr. Griffin responded with a single gunshot.”
Grimacing, Wyatt tore his gaze from Roscoe’s sweet face and focused instead on the mud-splattered utility vehicle James Beckett had left parked on the other side of the fence. “He shot himself.”
It was neither a question nor a statement, so Emma’s only response was to expel a long breath.
“Notice anything unusual when you were poking around in his financials?”
“Depends. If you consider a series of deposits under ten K apiece made over the past few days unusual, then yes.”
“I take it Griffin hadn’t been getting regular direct deposits before?” he asked, knowing the question was a mere formality.
“Only his unemployment draw,” Agent Parker responded tiredly.
“So we’re assuming someone paid him to take her.” Wyatt nodded as he allowed the pieces of information gathered to settle into place. “Safe to assume the payments came from encrypted accounts?”
“Yep. Offshore and numbered.”
“And you’re digging into his online activity?”
“Yeah. Nothing directly tying him to Cara Beckett, but ugh, the dude totally suffered from main character syndrome.”
She scoffed in such a derisive way, Wyatt ached to refrain from asking her meaning. He already felt like he was aging out in the cyber world as it was, but he needed to know. “Main character syndrome?”
“Thinks he’s the main character in every story, you know? Reading his posts you’d never guess he was driving a rusty compact and living in a run-down trailer out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Delusional?”
“I’d say more aspirational,” Emma hazarded. “From what I can see, grabbing Cara at the airport wasn’t the only odd job he’s picked up.”
“Other abductions?” Wyatt pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, wondering if this Griffin guy was some sort of kidnapper for hire.
“Nothing I can find. Lots of other things, but nothing this big. Skimming ATM cards, robbery—both commercial and residential—random credit card scams, pretty much a jack-of-all-trades.”
Behind him the screen door opened, and the dog let out a low snuffling sound. He didn’t need to look to know Cara was standing on the porch waiting for him. He could feel her stare.
“Okay, well, keep digging. Thanks for the intel.”
He ended the call, then did a quick search for the term main character syndrome on his go-to slang database. A quick scan of various entries made him wonder when they’d stopped calling people plain old narcissists. He turned and found Cara sitting on the top step, feeding the dog bits of her peanut butter crackers as he gazed at her adoringly.
“News?”
The knowing trepidation in her tone told him she’d seen or heard enough to be wary. “Yeah. We identified the man who carjacked you.” He crossed back to the porch, but stopped when his foot came to rest on the bottom step. “Unfortunately, when officers went to his home to speak to him, he, uh...” He hesitated for a moment, then decided there was no good way to break the news. “He killed himself before he could be questioned.”
She dropped the sandwich, and her hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes squeezed shut as she murmured, “No no no no no,” against her fingertips.
Wyatt scooped up the remains of the sandwich before old Roscoe could get his paws under him, then took a seat on the step beside her. “You know it is not your fault,” he said, pitching his voice low.
“I know,” she whispered. But it was clear from the rigid set of her shoulders she didn’t truly believe what she was saying.
“I’m not even going to go into all the ways this man’s choices were not your responsibility,” he continued, steamrollering whatever internal meltdown she was currently experiencing. “You need to get there yourself.”
“I know,” she repeated, sounding the slightest bit steadier. “Who was he?”
“A guy out of Garland County named Gerald Griffin. Sound familiar?”
She shook her head. “I’m not even sure where Garland County is.”
“Hot Springs,” he answered, giving her a geographic touchstone.
She shook her head some more. “No. I don’t know anyone from Hot Springs. I went right from here to California for college. We only went to Little Rock to shop or catch a flight. If we vacationed, we went north to the Buffalo or sometimes Branson or Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri.”
“We have to fill your parents in.”
“No.” The word was little more than a croak, but the stubborn set of her chin reminded him of the spat he’d witnessed at the kitchen dining table. The Becketts were fighters, it was clear. And they were tough. Resilient. Like their daughter.
“They need to know. You can’t keep them in the dark. Not only is it not fair, but also it could be dangerous. For you and them.”
Her eyes flew open. “What do you mean?”
“Someone paid this man to take you, Cara.” Gripping her upper arms, he bent until he looked her straight in the eyes. “He was paid to take you and do what with you...? We don’t know.”
“You think someone will come for me again,” she concluded.
“We have to assume they will. And until we have the instigator in custody, I think we have to believe they are not going to be satisfied with a job half done.”