Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
“Not today, Mr. Miller,” I said, walking past the rows of wooden-handled shovels to the glass display case near the back wall.
Among the pocket knives, small brass padlocks, and leather holsters sat three small cardboard boxes. I pointed to the smallest one, a black plastic micro-cassette recorder no larger than a package of cigarettes.
“I need to take a look at that one,” I said. “And a pack of the three-minute tapes to go with it.”
Miller walked over, his boots sounding heavy on the concrete floor, and slid the glass door open. He lifted the small black box with his rough fingers, turning it over to show me the tiny built-in microphone near the top.
“These are good for keeping track of your thoughts when you are out on the tractor,” he said. “The battery holds a charge for about four hours of straight recording.”
“It will do,” I said.
I laid two twenty-dollar bills on the counter, the paper dry and crinkled from being folded in my pocket.
