Interference Read online

  Or something like that.

  Really, I got the sense they were just trying to keep us out of the way.

  The Crime Scene Unit had come by to collect samples of Matt’s fingerprints off items he had touched, but that was the last I had heard from law enforcement.

  I could guess what the cops were thinking. Blood would lead to a body, which would lead to a long night, after which they would all go home.

  If they ever thought about that spot in Lyme again, they would just think about that cold, strange night when they found what was left of that poor Dartmouth professor.

  These were the kind of thoughts spinning in my mind on brutal repeat, and I wished I could make it stop.

  But it wouldn’t.

  There are the things the brain anticipates, even if just in the dark crevices where the creepy things live, the things no one wants to talk about.

  But, yes, you prepare yourself to lose a spouse in some horrific way. Whether it’s a car crash, a sudden heart attack, or a terrible act of violence, you think: That could happen, and here’s how I would react, and here’s how I would attempt to move on.

  You might even ponder the unforeseen act of emotional brutality. The affair with the colleague. Some unforgiveable relationship sabotage. A midlife freak-out that involves a commune or a cult. Even if any of those things would be wildly out of character for Matt, they still felt like they were in the realm of possibility.

  This did not. This scenario did not exist in even the creepiest of creepy crevices. The notion that my husband could be . . . just . . . taken.

  And maybe we would hear from the abductors. Or maybe there would never be a word. Or any answers as to what happened.

  Maybe this was the beginning of a long, awful narrative poem that would continue for the rest of my life. And when I drew my last breath, I’d still be wondering:

  What did happen to Matt?

  No, I had to stop thinking like this. Just because there was blood, that could have just been an accident. The wound on his forehead could have reopened. Those things bleed profusely, even when they’re not serious.

  I thought back to the morning, when he kissed me goodbye. Even though it was dark, I could tell he was wearing one of my favorite shirts—a fitted long-sleeve North Carolina T-shirt that hugged his body just so.

  That shirt. I remembered when Matt got it. His beloved UNC was deep in an NCAA tournament run, and he had felt this childlike need to show his colors.

  It was so ridiculous, his college-basketball fetish. But it was also part of the reason I loved him. His thing with basketball was real. And authentic.

  And relatable. There was so much else about Matt that defied my relatively common understanding. Because he was so smart, and he understood concepts that were far beyond the comprehension of most humans. He talked about things like the shape of the universe (why did that matter again?), or how black holes warped space-time (come again?), or how neutrinos carried stories from billions of years ago (huh?), and he just lost me altogether.

  But then he wore his Tar Heels shirt, and moped when his team lost, and made enthusiastic love to me when it won, and suddenly I felt like I understood him.

  And loved him.

  Loved him more than anything.

  Because he wasn’t perfect, but he was mine.

  And this was the thing that was now coming to me at whatever o’clock in the morning, when sleep was impossible, when every thought was grim, when there was a bloody ambulance floating on the backs of my eyelids every time I closed my eyes:

  I would fight for what I loved.

  For him.

  Tooth and nail. Fangs, claws, whatever.

  I would do it for Morgan, who worshipped his father—and, more to the point, deserved to be raised with one, rather than without one.

  I would do it for myself, because giving up on Matt was giving in to a misery that was unimaginable.

  And I would do it for our triangular family, which was the greater unit by far.

  Granted, deciding this didn’t make it any easier to find sleep. My thoughts were jumping wildly about. Part of what makes quantum mechanics so difficult to comprehend—and so different from the simpler models of physics that came before it—is that it’s a world where no one can tell you exactly how something is going to play out.

  There’s no certainty. Just probability.

  Einstein hated this. “Gott würfelt nicht,” he fumed.

  Commonly translated as: God doesn’t play dice with the universe.

  And yet there I was in the dark of night.

  Thinking about dice.

  Hoping God rolled them in my favor.

  CHAPTER 14

  Emmett Webster’s night had included maybe four hours of sleep, most of it poor.

  State police guidelines said that if a detective was more than an hour from home on a case, he could elect to spend the night in a hotel. Emmett always kept toiletries and a few changes of clothes in his car for just such an occasion.

  Not in the guidelines was that Angus Carpenter had already explained to Emmett: that if a three-digit number showed up on his expense report, there’d be consequences.

  Which was fine in some parts of the state. Not in tony Hanover. That’s how Emmett ended up at the cheapest place in the area, an off-brand motel called the Tuck Inn that advertised a “free waffle breakfast” but, judging from the number of overdose calls the local rescue squad had to handle at that location, seemed to attract a crowd that was there for something else.

  In the morning, waking up in a strange place turned out to have an unexpected perk: he didn’t immediately start looking for Wanda.

  That made up for the fact that free waffles turned out to be the frozen variety, heated in a toaster and served with sugar-free imitation maple-flavored syrup, a condiment that tasted only marginally better than the plastic bottle it came in.

  As he sawed through the waffle with a plastic knife distinctly unsuited to the task, he opened his laptop and got to work. Whether the critical window in this investigation was three hours, forty-eight, or something in between, the fact was the clock was ticking.

  The Crime Scene Unit’s report on the scene in Lyme had not given him much to go on. The blood from the ambulance had been sent to the lab for analysis, but that would take weeks.

  The ambulance itself was owned by a company in Manchester. He would attempt to run down who had done the renting as soon as business opened.

  In the meantime, he decided his first move would be on what was, at this point, his lone suspect: Sean Plottner.

  Emmett had dealt with rich guys before and, therefore, knew the perils. Rich guys had rich lawyers who would invent civil rights that had not previously existed; or they would make the administration of Miranda rights last all afternoon, primarily because they were getting paid eight hundred dollars for every hour they could make pass.

  The trick—the only trick, really—was to get the drop on the guy and get him to talk before the lawyers moved in.

  So, first, Emmett had to find him.

  Which turned out to be predictably difficult. Plottner wasn’t in the DMV database. He probably owned homes all over, but his official residence was somewhere like Florida, which had no state income tax.

  Emmett tried state police records next and found some arrests from back in the nineties. Drug possession and DUI.

  In both cases, the address listed was a student box number.

  He looked for property records next. But if Plottner owned anything in the state, it wasn’t in his own name. Rich people had LLCs for that sort of thing.

  Next, Emmett tried googling “Sean Plottner New Hampshire,” and that was where he got a hit. Someone had bought a property—the top of a whole mountain, basically—for $21.9 million. It was one of the largest private real estate transactions in state history, and a reporter had done a little digging and discovered the purchaser was investment billionaire Sean Plottner.

  From there, it got easier. Ther
e weren’t exactly a surfeit of $21.9 million real estate transactions to check. Emmett found the one in question, matched the block and lot number to an address on a rural route outside Orford, and got underway.

  Upon arrival, he was confronted with a formidable iron gate, sturdily anchored by huge stone pillars on either side. He slowed to a stop, rolled down his window, and pressed the button on a call box, aware his every action was being caught on one camera he could see—and probably several he couldn’t.

  “May I help you?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Emmett Webster, New Hampshire State Police, I’m here to see Sean Plottner.”

  “May I ask what this is regarding?”

  “I wanted to ask him some questions for a case I’m working on.”

  Emmett waited for a response. None came at first.

  Then: “Is this about Matt Bronik?”

  So much for getting the drop on the guy.

  “Yes,” Emmett said.

  He was bracing to be told that Mr. Plottner was not available, that an appointment to speak with him could be scheduled at a later time, that questions could be submitted in writing—some kind of rich-guy stall tactic like that.

  But, to his surprise, the gates began opening.

  The woman said, “Drive ahead to the main house, please.”

  Climbing up the side of the mountain through a series of switchbacks, Emmett felt like he had left New Hampshire and entered Switzerland.

  There were occasional breaks in the trees where he’d see a horse barn, or tennis courts, or a rolling field. And then he’d continue his slow ascent through the forest.

  He had traveled at least a mile before he even got a glimpse of the house, sitting all the way at the top of the mountain. It was enormous and fronted by a massive stone retaining wall.

  Like a fortress.

  Emmett continued through the switchbacks until the terrain leveled out. He parked in a roundabout and climbed the front steps, which consisted of seven huge pieces of granite, stacked on top of each other, gracefully carved into semicircles.

  On either side, two stone-inlay columns rose to a section of gabled roof two stories up.

  At the top of the porch—and, really, it was more portico than porch—was a granite tile landing that led to two fourteen-feet-tall double doors made of a handsome dark wood that may have been mahogany. They had been set into a marble archway with exquisite stained glass at the top.

  Emmett had knocked on a lot of doors in his career, none as grand as this one. He lifted a heavy iron knocker and brought it down three times.

  The echoes that came back suggested a house that was every bit as large inside as out.

  Emmett was expecting a butler—maybe several—but the door was answered by Plottner himself. He was wearing corduroys, a button-down shirt, and a V-neck cashmere sweater, all casually elegant and, undoubtedly, more expensive than what Wanda had bought on sale for Emmett at the outlets.

  “Hi, Sean Plottner,” he said easily, extending a hand.

  “Emmett Webster.”

  They shook.

  “Come in, please,” Plottner said.

  He then led Emmett through a grand entryway, underneath a curving double staircase, and down three steps into a sitting area that could have entertained twenty comfortably.

  The focal point of it was a series of broad picture windows with a view that was nothing short of stunning.

  “The real estate agent said you can see five states and Canada,” Plottner said as Emmett gaped. “But I think he was just trying to get a commission. Anyhow, take a seat, please.”

  Emmett lowered himself into a leather easy chair. Plottner flopped on a couch nearby, leaning against the arm and crossing his legs.

  “I heard about what happened to Dr. Bronik,” he said. “It sounds awful. Do you have any leads yet?”

  Emmett deflected the question by asking one of his own. “How do you know Professor Bronik?”

  “I was introduced to him during one of my visits to Dartmouth. I’m an alum, as you probably know. My family has a long history of philanthropy with the college. The development office is always trying to get me excited about what’s going on there so I’ll feel like separating myself from more of my money.”

  “When did you first meet him?”

  Plottner cast his eyes toward the ceiling, decided the answer wasn’t up there, then called out, “Theresa!”

  Emmett felt his phone buzz in his pocket but ignored it.

  A tidy woman with round glasses appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

  “Yes?”

  “What day did we visit Professor Bronik’s lab?”

  She immediately consulted a tablet she was carrying.

  “February third. It was a Monday. The appointment was at nine a.m.”

  “There you go,” Plottner said.

  “And you offered to pay him a million dollars a year based on that one meeting?” Emmett asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Why? You’re not exactly running a physics lab.”

  “No, that’s true. But I just get a feeling about people sometimes—which people are capable of generating revolutionary breakthroughs, which people are worth putting my money behind. They tend to be people who look at problems differently, or have unconventional perspectives. In Matt Bronik’s case, what got me interested was his background. He’s a certifiable genius who grew up in Pig Snout, North Carolina. He thinks of himself as an outsider. He thinks like an outsider. And yet he still has all the knowledge, training, and expertise of an insider. That’s practically a formula for innovation. I’ll back that guy every time.

  “I’m wrong about my feelings sometimes, but I’ve been right an awful lot too. And I’ve learned when I have that feeling, I need to back those people as fully as I possibly can. A million dollars a year—or call it two million, by the time I got him a lab and an assistant and whatnot—was a relatively small bet, from my perspective, with a potentially enormous payoff.”

  Emmett’s phone buzzed again. He again ignored it.

  “Except he turned you down,” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he was having some health issues, though I couldn’t tell you what they were. Beyond that, I got the sense he didn’t like that I would own his work product. He wanted to be able to publish his work, to share it freely with the world.”

  “And you wanted to be able to profit off it,” Emmett said.

  “That’s right. I don’t apologize for that. That’s what I do.”

  “How did you feel when he turned you down?”

  “Disappointed, of course. But . . .”

  He finished the thought by shrugging.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  He smiled and recrossed his legs, automatically smoothing his pants legs as he did so.

  Almost like keeping things smooth was a reflex.

  Emmett felt like he hadn’t asked any hard questions yet. It was time to start, if only to see how Plottner would react.

  “What were you up to yesterday?” Emmett asked.

  “You mean, was I busy kidnapping Matt Bronik?” Plottner asked back. The smile hadn’t left his face.

  “It’s just a question, Mr. Plottner.”

  “I was at Dartmouth, actually. But I didn’t see Professor Bronik. I had some morning meetings with the president and the provost. I’m sure they’d be willing to confirm that. The meetings were over around noon. I had lunch at Latham House in Lyme—I have a weakness for their beer pretzel—then I came back here. Theresa can confirm that. So can Andrew, my chef, who made dinner for us; and Lee, my security director. I can make any of them available to chat with you alone, if you like. I have nothing to hide.”

  Emmett would check with the Dartmouth administrators later. The employees were less useful. He was sure that even if Plottner had something to do with this, he wouldn’t have done the wet work himself.

>   Still, it was interesting that the man would admit to having been near Dartmouth College when the abduction occurred.

  “That’s not necessary,” Emmett said. “Like I said, it’s just a question.”

  “Do you have any leads other than me?” Plottner asked.

  His tone was not passive aggressive, even if the words were.

  “That’s not something I can really discuss,” Emmett said.

  “So that’s a no,” Plottner said, hefting a sigh. “Well, I do hope you manage to find one. In the meantime, here’s my number if you need anything else.”

  He pulled a sleek silver business-card holder out of his pocket and handed Emmett a stiff piece of card stock with his name and phone number embossed on it.

  “Theresa, make sure you put Detective Webster through if he calls.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said.

  “Good. She can be pretty vicious otherwise,” Plottner said, adding a wink. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Emmett’s phone buzzed yet again. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so manhandled during an interrogation he was supposed to be running.

  At the same time, he also knew he had nothing on Plottner, other than a reflexive distrust of smug billionaires.

  And that wasn’t exactly something you could take to a judge to get a search warrant.

  “No,” Emmett said. “Thank you for your time.”

  CHAPTER 15

  No sympathy. None whatsoever.

  If I stopped to pity myself, or to think about Matt, or about Morgan losing his father, I might never have the wherewithal to start moving again.

  Action was my only refuge.

  Aimee had spent the night in our guest room rather than drive back to Queeche, but I declined her offer of assistance with the morning routine and bravely forged ahead, making breakfast for Morgan, then getting him ready for school.

  It wasn’t so strange, doing this part alone. Matt was never around during this time of the day anyway.

  The one moment I faltered was when I made the mistake of fetching the Valley News from the front porch and opening it up to see the headline “Physics professor missing in possible abduction.”