Stolen Power

“You’re Jack Valentine, the private investigator?” he said, rasping.
“I am.”
“My daughter’s been kidnapped.” There was a tear in his eye. “And I need your help.”

Chapter 3


Sometimes, posh is an understatement. The penthouse apartment of Chase Martin was enormous, sitting on top of a high-rise in the upscale suburb of the Gold Coast. On one side the vista from the floor to ceiling windows stretched far out onto Lake Michigan, and on the other, a spectacular view of Downtown Chicago, the architecturally designed buildings shining in all their glory. The kitchen was decked out in all the latest top-brand gadgets, but it was pretty obvious they got very little use, Chase Martin was not the kind of man to make his own coffee, let alone cook his own dinner. The shiny mixer, blender, espresso machine, grinder, and juicer were all for show, not function. As for furniture, the minimalist white leather couch looked pristine, as though it was hardly ever sat on, leaving me to wonder where his daughter played when she stayed over. No doubt she spent plenty of time parked in front of the TV or iPad. The expensive show home and her father’s rich lifestyle were not to be disturbed by a child’s natural need for play and mess.
Clearly, Chase Martin tried his best to dress down when he came into the bar.
Even though it was approaching 8pm, my assistant Casey May arrived not long after I called her, only a few moments after we arrived at Chase Martin’s apartment. Casey was always on call, always ready to take the message, always ready to spring into action. Blonde, smart, sexy; her smooth demeanor was the perfect foil to my gruff.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Chase gestured to a well-stocked upscale liquor display. “I’m not sure I have your drink of choice though Jack, I’m afraid,” he added with an ever so slight snobbish condescension.
Sensing my disgust at the flashy display of wealth, Casey jumped in and answered for both of us.
“No thanks, we’d rather just get on with it.”
That was my cue.
“So why us, why not the cops?”
“I couldn’t go to the cops, not after what happened in Florida. And I’ve already had a few run-ins with the FBI with my business, and I wouldn’t trust them not to bungle it like they did down south.”
“So you came looking for a private investigator.”
“I spent the whole day trying to think of what to do. Trying to see if I knew anything before I got someone else involved.” He shook his head. “I researched the best investigator in Chicago and your name kept coming up, but I couldn’t call you. I had to come see you in person. I’m scared that my phone is bugged.”
Holding his phone, a modern piece of technology if there ever was one, I read the message:
*****
I have your daughter. I want one million in cash. In a bag. You have five days. I’ll contact you with the drop point. No cops involved or your daughter gets hurt. You’re being watched.
*****
“It’s short and sweet. To the point,” Casey said. “They haven’t given anything away from their language.”
“It’s someone you know,” I said to Chase. I stood at the window, apparently looking out at the view but watching for Chase’s reaction in the reflection, hands behind my back. “And they know your daughter.”
He was definitely surprised by that.
“What makes you say that?”
“Five days is too long for a typical kidnapping. Usually, a kidnapper wants the transaction over and done with as quick as possible. If you say that you can’t get the money in that time, then they’ll give you an extension, but they don’t want it to drag on. So what that says to me is that they know your daughter and are comfortable looking after her for five days.”
“Or they’re good with kids,” Casey added.
“Perhaps,” I responded. Casey liked to keep an open mind, I preferred to follow my instincts. “They’re not panicking anyway, and they also know that you have the money to deliver.”
“I’ve heard that you’re the best.” Chase smiled. “That’s why I came looking for you.”
“This isn’t a time for smiles.” I grunted my response.
“Yes.” He nodded. “Sir. Sorry.”
I was often called Sir, not because of my fashion—black t-shirt, leather jacket, jeans and boots— but usually for my size, as an attempt to appease my character. I’d never wanted to be a real Sir, knighted by that there queen they had over in London, England; but hey, I’ll take it.
“Talk us through the whole day.” I came back to sit on the white leather couch. It was more comfortable than my bed and probably cost ten times as much. “Tell us what happened.”
“I took Millie, my five-year-old daughter, to Lincoln Park at 9:30 on Saturday morning. I—”
“Is that your usual routine?” Casey interrupted, taking notes on her electronic tablet.
“It is. That’s what we do every Saturday morning. I share custody of Millie with Tanya, my ex-wife, and I pick her up on Saturday morning, and drop her back to her mom’s on Sunday night. We always start the weekend with a play at the park, and then an ice-cream. Her Mom’s pretty strict on sugar, actually she’s obsessed with it, says nonsense like it’s pure white and deadly, but I don’t believe that claptrap, so it’s our special treat.”
“And she just vanished from the park, right under your nose?”
“No.” He looked down. It was the first time I saw him look embarrassed. “I was on the phone, taking a work call. Millie was playing and there were probably around ten or so other people in the park. I stepped away from the playground as the conversation got heated, I didn’t want to disturb the other people, or to