Free A Field of Red by Greg Enslen

the Bureau assists.” Frank could see Willie listening intently.
    Frank turned to the young man who had been sobbing. He was quiet now but still had his head down.
    “Then there will be an exchange of some sort,” Frank said. “After that, hopefully, the girls come home.”
    “Huh,” Willie said, laughing. “Not sure about that, my friend. I don’t think they’re coming home.”
    Frank looked up at the reflection of Willie in the mirror. Willie stopped trimming for a moment and looked at him.
    “You’re serious, aren’t you?” Willie continued. “You really investigated stuff like this?”
    Frank nodded.
    “What are the chances the girls are OK?” Chuck asked.
    Frank glanced at the sobbing kid again.
    “Well, I’d say 80-20 right now they’re alive.”
    The kid glanced up, his eyes red.
    “Really?” the kid asked.
    Frank nodded.
    He should’ve never opened his mouth.
    “Yeah, I think so,” Frank continued. He thought about it for a moment. “But I have to be honest. Based on my experience, those numbers will start to drop quickly, as soon as the ransom is delivered.”
    The kid smiled. It wasn’t really a smile, more of a grateful nod.
    Frank expected more questions, but the barbers both moved on to another topic of conversation—some kind of big downtown construction project that was coming up next summer or the year after that would shut down the whole downtown. After a few minutes, Frank was done. The hair was trimmed and tidy, and he looked ten years younger. Combined with the shave from this morning, he was looking almost presentable.
    When Willie removed the barber cloth, Frank stood and fished in his wallet, taking out enough money to cover the haircut and a tip. Frank thanked Willie, but he could feel all eyes in the place on him. They were all probably wondering if Frank would say anything else about the kidnapping case. But Frank didn’t have anything to add. He wasn’t involved and didn’t want to be.
    So, instead of bullshitting them or giving them false hope or making something up to make them all feel better, he did what he’d been trying to do lately—not lead people on. Frank nodded to Willie and Chuck and the others, and left.
    On his way out, the little bell above the door jingled brightly. The sound was out of place, not matching in any way his somber mood.
     

8
     
    They were in the Martin’s living room.
    Chief King looked down at the legal pad on the ornate coffee table in front of him. He always took all of his case notes on the pads. Yellow, lined. Not that big legal size but the regular, 8 1/2 by 11 size. It was a habit he’d picked up early in his career: write it all down, no matter how trivial. You never knew what detail would break a case open.
    But Chief King wasn’t feeling too confident about this case.
    Agent Ted Shale, the kid from the Bureau, had gotten here early and set up the phone-tracing equipment, although Chief King had needed to step in and help with some of the connections. Clearly, this was the first time the young agent had set it up on his own. He was “book smart,” as they used to say, usually about someone who didn’t have a lick of common sense.
    So Chief King and the others sat in the Martin’s expansive living room, waiting. Large, framed photos of beautiful landscapes decorated the walls, and, above the huge fireplace, a heavy wooden mantle was covered with photos of the family in a variety of exotic locales. In most, little Charlie could be seen at various ages, enjoying a day at Cooper’s Mill Pool or riding a horse. In one frame, Charlie wore an oversized hard hat, jauntily tipped to one side; she was evidently visiting a construction site with her father, who smiled in the picture with her.
    Glenda’s cell phone sat in the middle of the ornate coffee table, cords running from the bottom of the phone for power and into the FBI equipment, ready to run the trace. Everyone in the room was seated and staring at the cell phone,