Shaw knew the road where Thompson had been taken. He drove past it. The car had been towed but a portion of the shoulder was encircled by yellow tape. It was a grassy area; probably picked by X to avoid leaving tire prints, like at the factory. There were no houses or other buildings nearby.
Then there was the Walmart that Byrd had said Thompson had driven to. Why had the blogger’s research taken him to a superstore?
He set the GPS for the place and piloted the Malibu in that direction. Over the wide streets of sun-grayed asphalt. Past perfectly trimmed hedges, tall grass, sidewalks as white as copier paper, blankets of radiant lawns, vines and shaggy palms. He noted the stylish and clever buildings that architects might put on page one of their portfolios, with mirrored windows like the eyes of predatory fish, uninterested in you . . . though only at the moment.
Then, just as had happened on his drive from his camper to the Salvadoran restaurant, Shaw left behind the mansions and glitzy corporations and suddenly entered a very different Silicon Valley. Small residences, stoic and worn, reminiscent of Frank Mulliner’s house. The owners had made the choice between food and fresh paint.
He now pulled into the parking lot of Walmart, a chain with which he was quite familiar. A dependable source of clothing, food, medical supplies and hunting and fishing and other survival gear—and, just as important, last-minute presents for the nieces—his sister’s children, whom he saw several times a year.
What could have brought Henry Thompson here?
Then he understood the blogger’s likely mission. In a far corner of the parking lot were a number of cars, SUVs and pickups. Sitting in and around the vehicles—front seats and lawn chairs—were men in clean, if wrinkled, clothing. Jeans, chinos, polo shirts. Even a few sport coats. Everyone, it seemed, had a laptop. Ninety years ago, during the Great Depression, they would have gathered around a campfire; now they sat before the cold white light of a computer screen.
A new breed of hobo.
Shaw parked the Malibu and climbed out. He made the rounds, displaying Thompson’s picture on his phone screen and explaining simply that the man had gone missing and he was helping find him.
Shaw learned to his surprise that none of these men—and it was men exclusively—was in fact homeless or unemployed. They had jobs here in the Valley, some with prestigious internet companies, and they had residences. Yet they lived miles and miles away, too far to commute daily, and they couldn’t spare the money for hotel or motel rooms. They’d stay here for two, three or four days a week, then drive back to their families. At night, Shaw learned, the camp was more crowded; this group worked evening or graveyard shifts.
This would be why Henry Thompson had come here: to interview these men for his blog about the hardship of owning or renting property in the Valley.
A lean, wiry Latino living out of his Buick crossover told Shaw, “This is a step up for me. I used to spend all night riding the bus to Marin, then back. Six hours. The drivers, they didn’t care, you buy a ticket, you can sleep all night. But I got mugged twice. This’s better.”
Some were janitorial, some maintenance. Others were coders and middle management. Shaw saw one young man with an elaborate hipster mustache and filigree gold earrings drawing on a large artist’s pad, sketching out what seemed to be a trade ad for a piece of hardware. He was talented.
Only one man remembered Henry Thompson. “A couple days ago, yessir. Asked me questions about where I lived, the commute, had I tried to find someplace closer? He was interested if I’d been pressured out of my house. Had somebody tried to bribe me or threaten me? Especially government workers or developers.” He shook his head. “Henry was nice. He cared about us.”
“Was anybody with him or did you see anybody watching him?”
“Watching?”
“We think he might’ve been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped? Are you serious? Oh, man. I’m sorry.” He gazed around. “People come and go here. I can’t help you.”
Shaw surveyed the lot. There was a security camera on the Walmart building itself but too distant to pick up anything here. And there was the No Tiffany factor.
He climbed back into the Malibu. Just as he did, his phone hummed and he answered.
“Hello?”
“Oh, Colter. It’s Brian Byrd.”
“Have you heard anything?”
“No. I did want to tell you I looked everywhere and couldn’t find any more notes of Henry’s. You know, where he might’ve been if that guy was watching him. Henry must’ve had everything with him. You had any luck, anything at all?”
“No.”
“Who does something like this?” Byrd whispered. “Why? What’s the point? There’s no ransom demand. Henry never hurt anybody. I mean, Jesus. It’s like this guy’s playing some goddamn sick game . . .” Shaw heard a deep sigh. “Why the hell’s he doing this? You have any idea?”
After a moment Colter Shaw said, “I might, Brian. I just might.”
29.
Shaw sped back toward the Winnebago. He kept an eye out for cops but at the moment he didn’t care about a ticket.
Once in the camper he went online and began his search.
He was surprised that it didn’t take very long to find what he hoped he might. And the results were far better than he’d expected. He called the Joint Major Crimes Task Force and asked for Dan Wiley.
“I’m sorry. Detective Wiley’s not available.”
“His partner?”
“Detective Standish’s not available either.”
The message of the woman at the JMCTF desk was getting as familiar as her voice.
Shaw hung up. He’d do what he did before: go to the Task Force in person and insist on seeing Wiley or Standish, if either of the men was in the office. Or Supervisor Cummings, if not. Better in person anyway, he decided. Getting the police to accept his new hypothesis of the case would take some persuasion.
He printed out a stack of documents, the fruits of his research, and slipped them into his computer bag. He stepped outside, locked the door and turned to the right, where he’d parked the Malibu. He got as far as the electrical and water hookups and froze.
The gray Nissan Altima had blocked in his rental. Its driver’s seat was empty, the door open.
Back to the camper, get your weapon.
Dropping his computer bag, he pivoted and strode to the door, keys out.
Three locks. Fastest way to get them undone: slowly.
Never rush, however urgent . . .
He never got to the last lock. Twenty feet in front of him, a figure holding a Glock pistol stepped from the shadows between his Winnebago and the neighboring Mercedes Renegade. It was the driver of the Nissan—yes, a woman, African American, her hair in the ragged ponytail he’d seen in silhouette. She wore an olive-drab combat jacket—of the sort favored by gangbangers—and cargo pants. Her eyes were fierce. She raised the weapon his way.