The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [77]
“A Christmas present. English,” Jenny said. “How can we help, Nikola?”
The scene was set to his satisfaction. Nikola rested his drink on the tray and straightened. “I have pored over the kids’ files.” Kids had a nice paternal ring. “Their behavior—breaking and entering a fireworks factory and trying to steal explosives—was stupid and unnatural.”
“Unnatural?” Sean asked.
“Please, allow me.” Nikola waved a hand. “Nothing in their background accounts for their foolishness. I mean, all three have fine families and have benefited from a sound upbringing and a sounder education.” He paused to let the compliment sink in. “Bad company? I’ve explored that angle, and the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced someone tricked them into acting rashly. Perhaps they didn’t even know the fireworks factory also made high explosives.”
Sean wrung his hands. “Yes, but how can we help?”
“By telling me everything you know about your daughter—her friends, hobbies, her adolescence, childhood, her relationship with you and the rest of the family. The works.”
The air thickened. Just a fraction, but it did. Nikola could have kicked himself for being sloppy. Any decent interrogator knows questions must be dosed one at a time, never bunched like grapes. The pair tensed, an almost imperceptible and fleeting reflex, now gone. Something in his exposition, his shopping list of requests, had triggered a defensive response.
Sean cleared his throat and opened with a lengthy piece about Laurel’s lawyer friends. “We didn’t agree about Laurel sharing a house with another girl and two men, mind you, but you know how stubborn young people can be.”
Nikola nodded, looking at the photographs.
Jenny took over, and for thirty minutes she bared Laurel Cole’s uneventful life, most of which Nikola already knew and a few precious bits he didn’t, like her heartbreak with a young Latino Artificial Intelligence doctor by the name of Luis Cano. He made a mental note to pay a visit to Dr. Cano. Nikola only half listened as Jenny talked; Dennis would be recording their conversation from the van parked outside the house.
A large blackbird landed on the paved patio next to the sliding doors in a flurry of spidery clicks as its claws fought for purchase. Once landed, it strutted about, pecked at something between the paving stones, then took wing. The distraction must have triggered his lazy synapses, for Nikola panned the photograph display again as the incongruity that had troubled him suddenly rushed to the forefront of his mind. Sean and Jenny had alternated stories, details, and anecdotes covering most of the items from his list of suggestions. That was it—most but not all. Nikola nodded when Jenny offered to brew a fresh cup of tea and tried to marshal his thoughts in her absence.
Sean gripped his knees and leaned forward. “Please, Nikola, help us.” He darted a glance toward the kitchen. “She’s going through hell. I know she hides it well, but our daughter’s sentence has taken the life out of her. Please?”
“I will make it my priority to return your daughter.” Nikola didn’t lie. Sean nodded, and Jenny, approaching again with the tray, smiled for the first time.
Nikola waited until Sean and Jenny had settled down to nurse their drinks before closing his eyes to clear his mind of everything but sounds. “Tell me about Laurel’s childhood.”
His statement was met by silence.
Most interrogators overestimate the possibilities of detecting deceit by watching someone’s behavior and underestimate the chances of catching liars by listening to what they say. They believe liars give themselves away by what they do; Nikola believed the verbal content of what people said, and the way people articulated what they said, betrayed lies.
“Er …” Sean opened after clearing his throat. “She was a quiet