The Cornwalls Are Gone (Amy Cornwall #1)(5)

I thought, Driver makes a mistake, heads in with the front, then turns around so whatever they’re doing can be blocked from view from most neighbors.

“Was there one guy, or two?”

“Two,” she says. “Wearing those gray…what do you call them, jumpsuits.” A pause. “Amy, is everything all right?”

Good God, what a goddamn question.

“Things are fine,” I say. “Did they stay long?”

“Now, funny you should say that. No, they didn’t stay that long at all. I just saw them come out with two of your Oriental carpets and put them in the back of the van.”

It feels like there’s a giant hand in the center of my chest, squeezing, and squeezing hard.

Tom and I don’t own any Oriental rugs.

“Well, I hope they do a good job,” I say. “I bet they wrapped them up nice and secure.”

Mrs. Gaetz smiles and nods. “That’s what struck me, when they left. They opened the garage door and came out with the rolled-up rugs between them, and they put them in the van, real careful like, one by one. Like those two rugs were very precious.”

I manage to say, “You have no idea,” before hustling by her and getting into my Jeep.





CHAPTER 6



I STOP at the intersection, waiting for the light to change. Our house is on a cul-de-sac, meaning there’s only one way in and one way out.

One way out.

Before me is the busy traffic of Kingstowne Boulevard, which eventually leads into the extremely busy traffic of I-95 if you make a left-hand turn. If you were kidnapping a dad and young child from this neighborhood, heading to I-95 would be your best bet. Get buried in traffic, lots of options north and south to make your escape…

Escape where?

Just across the street is a Sunoco service station and minimart.

The light changes.

I hit the accelerator.

Drive across the street and behind the service station.

I take a deep breath, step out.



Inside the service station there’s a coffee setup, a pastry cabinet, and the usual narrow aisles filled with overpriced junk food, from chips to cupcakes—and I shouldn’t be a wiseass, because there have been a number of times when I’ve stopped here with Denise to pick up something to drink or munch on while going on an errand or a school trip.

At the left is a counter with two register stations with piles of cigarettes in shelves on the rear wall, and there are lines of three people each in front of the registers.

Busy day.

I’m wearing my class B service uniform with a short zippered dark-blue jacket, and that has the benefit of not displaying my name tag. Good enough.

But the lines aren’t moving.

Any other time, any other day, I’d be patient.

By God, this sure as hell isn’t any other time or day.

I push my way forward, saying, “Excuse me,” in a low but brisk voice, and I pull out my military ID—making sure my thumb is covering my name—and I come up against a cashier named Sarah, plump with brown hair and a silver nose ring.

I flash my ID at her. “Ma’am, I need to see the manager. Right now.”

“Ah.” Her eyes widen. “That’s Tommy…he’s on break.”

“Then who’s in charge?”

She looks over to another woman, older, with long pink fingernails and bright blond hair. Her name is Tina, and she shrugs and says, “It’s you, hon. You’ve been here longer than me.”

Sarah nods, takes her new responsibility well, puts up a sign saying USE NEXT REGISTER PLEASE with a little arrow pointing to Tina’s station, and leads me around to the side office as the three good Americans in line quietly join the other one.

I don’t waste time. “Sarah, I’m investigating a matter of national security. Can I look at your surveillance camera system, please?”

“Sure,” she says, pointing to a wall that has a bank of six small monitors, with a larger monitor nearby, and a computer and keyboard. The wall is cluttered with tacked-up greeting cards, notices from the Virginia Department of Labor and Industry, and sloppy photocopies of memos from the home office, warning workers about the latest phone scams.

There’s a counter below the keyboard and two chairs, and I take one and Sarah takes the other, and I look at the six monitors and oh my God, yes, yes, yes, monitor number 4 shows the entrance to the Sunoco station, Kingstowne Boulevard, and the very beginning of our street, Jackson Street.

“Sarah, I know you have lots of questions, but I’m sorry, I can’t answer them,” I say. “But I need for you to go back and review the footage for monitor number four.”

She scoots the chair closer, starts working on the keyboard. “How far back do you want to go?”

I check my watch. It’s six p.m. Mrs. Gaetz said the supposed carpet guys were at our house “a few hours ago.” Call it four hours, just to be safe.

“Starting at two p.m.,” I say.

“All right.”

She works with a wireless mouse, and on the large monitor, a menu appears. After a series of clicks, we’re watching the video feed from monitor number 4, and the time stamp is for two p.m.

“Great, Sarah, that’s just great,” I say. “Now…can you fast-forward it for me, please?”