Free Out of Reach: A Novel by Patricia Lewin Page A

was your idea to bring me along, so I’m coming.”
    He looked ready to argue, then obviously thought better of it. Maybe he thought the man she’d seen this morning was inside the overblown house. Or else he just realized she wouldn’t be left behind.
    “Okay,” he said. “But let me do the talking. Having you here isn’t exactly Bureau policy.”
    “I understand.”
    The police officers who’d followed them stayed with their car while Erin accompanied Donovan to the door. A maid answered and went for her employer only after Donovan flashed his badge. Roger Kauffman appeared a few minutes later, obviously displeased by the unexpected visitors.
    Again, Donovan held up his identification. “Mr. Kauffman, I’m Special Agent Alec Donovan with the FBI, and this is Dr. Baker. We need to speak with you for a moment.”
    “What about?”
    “May we come in, sir?”
    “This isn’t a good time, Officer . . . What did you say your name was again?”
    “It’s Agent Donovan.”
    “Well, Agent, I have a house full of company, if—”
    “It’s important,” Donovan assured him.
    Kauffman looked past them to the uniforms waiting at the curb. Frowning, he opened the door. “All right, but just for a minute.”
    As they stepped inside, a rail-thin, middle-aged woman emerged from a formal living room alive with people. “Roger, what’s going on here? Our guests are asking for you.”
    “I’ll be just a minute, dear.” He shot Erin and Donovan an annoyed look. “I need to speak with these people.”
    The woman looked unhappy but didn’t challenge her husband, who led them into an expensively appointed study and closed the door.
    “Now, what’s this about?” he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.
    “We’re looking for a man who works for you. He was in Jamestown Park this morning, selling ice cream from one of your carts.”
    Kauffman choked out an abrupt laugh. “My company runs two dozen ice-cream trucks, a dozen hand-rolled carts, and we employ almost twice that many drivers and operators. I have no idea who worked that route today.”
    “We need a name, Mr. Kauffman.”
    He shook his head. “Sorry, but I can’t help you. I don’t keep any records here. Everything’s at the office.”
    “We’ll drive you.”
    Donovan’s politeness impressed Erin, who wanted to shove Kauffman up against his mahogany bookcases and tell him they didn’t have time for his bullshit. A little girl’s life was at stake.
    “Not tonight,” Kauffman said. “Come in to the office tomorrow—”
    Donovan interrupted, his patience obviously stretched to the limit. “Mr. Kauffman. A child was kidnapped this afternoon, and your man is a potential suspect. I need his name and address. And I need it now. So, either you cooperate, or I’ll have the officers outside escort you down to the precinct.”
    “Don’t try and intimidate me, Agent.” Kauffman drew himself up to his full height. “You have no right. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
    “Maybe not,” Donovan said, “But at the moment, the only rights I’m concerned with belong to a five-year-old girl.”
             
    Twenty minutes later, Kauffman unlocked the main doors to Kauffman Farms and ushered Erin, Donovan, and the officer named Lamont inside. He flipped a switch, and the ceiling stuttered to life with harsh fluorescent light.
    The room was cramped. A reception counter crossed the space a half-dozen steps into the room. Behind it, two desks sat sideways, face-to-face. A row of gray filing cabinets lined the wall in back of one, while behind the other was a long table with a fax and copy machine. On the far side of both desks was a large picture window that opened onto the warehouse beyond.
    Erin saw ice-cream trucks and carts parked across from a large, industrial freezer. The office might be shut down for the day, but the warehouse buzzed with activity. Laughter and rowdy male voices reached through the glass as men in silly white coats and hats