by Lisa Gardner
“Dougie Jones?”
“Now how many out-of-towners could make that connection? And he delivered a particularly personal token with the news.”
Kimberly watched Luke steel himself, stomach muscles tightening, jaw clenching, as if preparing for a blow. If he was acting, then he was very, very good.
She said, “The UNSUB cut off Rainie’s hair.”
“No!”
Kimberly nodded thoughtfully. “If this guy’s watched too many movies, you’d think he’d go for a finger, or maybe an ear. Hair is almost too innocuous. Except . . .”
“Rainie has the most beautiful hair,” Luke filled in softly.
“Her one vanity. It seems like a particularly intimate thing to do.”
“Ah, Jesus.” Luke sat down again, hard, on the edge of the table. Coffee sloshed over the edge of his cup, splattering his jeans. He didn’t seem to notice. “So you’re searching for a man, probably local. Somebody who’s looking to make a quick buck—”
“Not necessarily. Quincy thinks the ransom may be incidental. The UNSUB’s goal isn’t a conclusion—receiving money—but the process itself and the feeling of control it gives him over Rainie and the task force.”
Luke closed his eyes. He sighed heavily, and when he opened his eyes again, he looked to Kimberly as if he’d aged years. “Then Quincy is missing the obvious.”
“The obvious?”
“You’re looking for a man who knows Rainie. Someone with a personal reason to hurt her and the Bakersville Sheriff’s Department.”
“The sheriff’s department?”
“Oh yeah, most definitely. You’ve been looking at recent changes in Rainie’s life, the most obvious being that she’s resumed drinking. And that’s diverted your attention, had you looking at seedy bars and drunken strangers. But what’s the other major change? Rainie and Quincy returned to Bakersville. Rainie came home and now she’s in trouble.”
Kimberly shook her head. “I still don’t get it.”
“Didn’t she ever tell you she killed a man?” Luke’s tone was even.
“Oh no . . .”
“Lucas Bensen was listed as missing for nearly fifteen years. It was only eight years ago that Rainie confessed to killing him when she was sixteen and burying his body. The case officially went to trial, and Rainie was found innocent due to the mitigating circumstances—Lucas had raped Rainie, then shot her mother when she tried to intervene. Naturally, next time Rainie saw Lucas looming outside her door, she shot first and questioned later.”
“I’ve heard the story. It’s still not something that’s easy for her to talk about.”
“Point is, Rainie confessed, Rainie produced the body, then Rainie left town.”
“You think now that she’s returned, Lucas has risen from his grave?”
He looked at her curiously. “Not Lucas, of course. But didn’t Rainie ever tell you? The man had a son.”
24
Tuesday, 8:26 p.m. PST
SHELLY ATKINS HATED COFFEE. This was not something one admitted in law enforcement. Stakeouts, long nights, early mornings, bitter, foul coffee was always the brew of choice. Frankly, it didn’t look the same when you whipped out your box of herbal tea.
Shelly couldn’t afford to look different. She was a woman commanding in a male-dominated world. In the good-news/bad-news department, at least she wasn’t pretty. She had broad shoulders, muscled arms, and stocky legs. She could plow a field, churn a vat of butter, and heft a calf. Around these parts, men respected that sort of thing.
She still wasn’t wife material, however. Or maybe she hadn’t met the right man. Who knew? But Shelly had given her youth to farming. Her adulthood, she was keeping for herself.
Now, she left the command center in the conference room, walking out into the main lobby. This time of night, the building was deserted, doors closed to the public, Fish and Wildlife officers done for the day. She moved into a corner dominated by a slab of tree trunk and a beautifully mounted rack of antlers. There, she fished around in her chest pocket for her packet of chamomile tea, then plunked it into her cup of hot water. She put the lid back on, ripped off the dangling tag from the tea bag, and no one was the wiser.
Everyone had their little secrets, Shelly thought wryly, then was somewhat saddened that this was as good as hers got. She was nearly fifty years old, for God’s sake. Sometime soon, she was going to have to run off to Paris and sleep with a painter, just to keep herself from being totally boring in old age. Maybe in Paris, she would be considered exotic. Their own women were so pale, wraithlike. Surely there was a painter somewhere on the Left Bank who would enjoy the challenge of painting the last of a dying breed—the quintessential American farm wife. She would strap a plow to her back. She would pose nude.
It would give her something to remember during all the sleepless nights to come. I, Shelly Atkins, once sipped from the cup of life. I, Shelly Atkins, for at least one moment, felt beautiful.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Quincy’s voice came out of nowhere.
“Holy shit!” Shelly exclaimed. She jerked the cup of hot tea away from her body, so at least she only sprayed it on the floor. Her heart thundered in her chest. She had to take several deep breaths before her hands would stop shaking.
“Sorry,” Quincy said contritely. He moved into view and she realized he had followed her from the conference room. He looked better now than he had an hour ago. Composed again, some color infusing his cheeks, his posture erect. Hell, he looked downright handsome, which was not a thought Shelly wanted to be having right now.
Shelly knew more about Quincy than he’d want her to know. She was a bit of a true-crime junkie, and when she’d heard through the grapevine there was a genuine retired profiler in her community, naturally she’d dug up everything she could find on the man. Gruesome cases, fascinating stories. She’d spent the past few weeks trying to work up the courage to approach him. She would love to hear about his work, pick his brain on major cases. She didn’t know how to introduce herself, however, without coming off as some kind of FBI groupie. Which maybe she was.
Truthfully, Shelly didn’t really want to travel to Paris. But she’d sell her soul to attend the National Academy for police officers at Quantico. If only the Bakersville Sheriff’s Department had those kinds of resources . . .
Shelly sighed heavily. She was hopeless, and there would be no good stories for the old folks’ home after all.
“How are you feeling?” she asked roughly. Quincy was standing beside her now. Tall, lean, distinguished, with the silver streaking through his dark hair. He smelled of rain, mud, and fir trees, a walking advertisement for the great outdoors. She wished she’d stop noticing these things.
“Apparently not well enough for people to stop asking me that question,” Quincy answered dryly.
“You gave us a good scare. I’ve never seen a man collapse like that.”
“When did you arrive?”
“Just as you picked up the metal folding chair and simultaneously tried to rip Kincaid limb from limb.”
“It was sublimation. I’ve secretly been plotting to maim Sergeant Kincaid ever since he decided not to meet the first ransom demand. Going insane about my missing wife simply gave me the chance.”
“That young guy moves quick.”
“Mac? He’s a good man.”
“How long has he been with your daughter?”
“Couple of years.”
“Think this is the real thing?”
“I don’t know. Kimberly rarely talks of matters of the heart.” Quincy nodded thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t object. Not that any father feels that any man is good enough for his daughter, but in this case . . .”
“Seems like he can handle her,” Shelly filled in for him.
“Something like that.”
“She’s beautiful,” Shelly said. “You must be very proud.”
“She’s beautiful, intelligent, and stubborn to a fault. I’m enormously proud. And yourself?�
��
“Never done it. No husband, no kids.” Shelly jerked her head toward the conference room. “I gotta keep all those yokels in line. That’s enough mothering for me.”
“Well said.”
Shelly took a sip of her tea. The steam wafted out and Quincy inhaled the fragrance.
“Chamomile,” he commented.
“I’ll pay you fifty bucks not to tell.”
“Your deputies are morally opposed to herbal tea?”
She scowled. “Men. You know what it’s like.”
Quincy smiled. It lightened his face, bracketed his eyes. She felt his grin in her chest, which only made her twenty times a fool.
“Indeed I do,” he said.
Shelly turned away from him. She studied the antlers, the tree stump, the dust that was collecting around the edges of the displays. Hell, she was no good at these things, had never been any good at these things. This was the real reason Shelly was still single: honest to God, she only knew how to talk shop.
“I looked up Nathan Leopold,” she said.
“And?”
“Same as the others. Famous abduction case from the twenties. Leopold was a rich kid who saw himself as some sort of criminal mastermind. He convinced his friend Richard Loeb, also rich and spoiled, to kidnap and murder a fourteen-year-old young boy ‘for the experience.’ The two drafted a ransom note but, like the other cases, never planned on returning the boy alive. After the police discovered the body, Leopold inserted himself into the investigation. Didn’t take long for the cops to figure things out, however. For one thing, brilliant Nathan dropped his spectacles near the body. Turned out there were only three frames like them made in the whole United States. Ah, the good old days before everything was mass-produced from LensCrafters.”
“A partner crime,” Quincy mused softly, “with elements of a thrill kill.”
“Yeah, but Leopold was clearly the instigator, the alpha partner, no doubt about it. Similarities I see between the names given by our guy are that all are from infamous cases and none of the abductors ever planned on returning the hostage alive.” At the last minute, Shelly realized how blunt she sounded. “Sorry,” she murmured awkwardly, and hastily sipped more tea.
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“It’s just . . . She is your wife. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this must be.”
“I doubt it’s ever easy.”
“You could go home, you know, get some sleep. We can handle this.”
“If you went home, Sheriff Atkins—”
“Shelly, call me Shelly.”
“If you went home, Shelly, would you sleep?”
“Probably not.”
“It’s easier to be here. It’s even easier to discuss theories on what kind of psychopath took my wife. At least that’s doing something. And maybe, if I keep busy now, I won’t go insane thinking of all the things I should have done earlier. The signs I ignored, the conversations I didn’t have, the symptoms I didn’t recognize. You know—all of the ways in which I probably failed my wife.”
“Coulda, woulda, shoulda,” murmured Shelly.
“Rainie’s an alcoholic,” Quincy said abruptly. “Yet in all the time I’ve known her, she’s never attended AA. If you asked her about it, she would say, ‘I was an alcoholic.’ It sounds very forthcoming, honest, and yet . . .”
“She’s using the past tense.”
“As if she’s magically cured, as if it’s no longer an issue in her life. Which of course—”
“Is denial of its own kind.”
“I never pushed her. I never asked her about it. Rainie always accused me of wanting to fix her. I disagreed, of course, but maybe that was my own version of denial. Because how else could I accept her statement so readily, as if she had been broken but was now repaired? The human psyche is not that simple. Addictions are not that kind.”
Shelly didn’t know what to say. She drank more tea.
“I’m sorry,” Quincy said abruptly.
“For what?” Shelly looked around, honestly confused.
“For talking so much. I didn’t intend to come out here to run off at the mouth. I’m sorry. You’re . . . you’re a very good listener.”
Shelly shrugged, sipped more tea. Yeah, that was her lot in life. To be a good listener.
“I’m supposed to be informing you that Sergeant Kincaid will be holding a briefing at nine p.m.,” Quincy said. “Please be prepared.”
“Briefing on what?” Shelly snorted. “That my deputies still haven’t found Dougie Jones? That we still don’t know who abducted your wife? Hell, I only wish I had something to prepare.”
“I don’t think the sergeant is planning on using the meeting to recap what we haven’t done.”
“Well, praise be and hallelujah.”
“I believe he’s going to use the meeting to discuss what will happen next.”
“And that would be?”
“The ten a.m. ransom drop. No more fooling around. We tried things Kincaid’s way. Now we’ll let the UNSUB call the shots.”
“Ahh shit,” Shelly said tiredly.
“Quote of the day.”
Shelly pulled herself together, belatedly trying to remember that this was the husband of the victim and he could use more from the local sheriff than profanity. “We’re working hard,” she rallied. “We’re going to find her. It’ll work out.”
Quincy merely smiled again.
“First rule of thumb in this business, Shelly,” he murmured quietly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
25
Tuesday, 8:33 p.m. PST
KIMBERLY HAD ONE LAST STOP to make before she headed back to the command center. Luke did her the kindness of looking up the name and address. She took it from there.
Bakersville didn’t have a lot of apartment complexes, and those that existed weren’t in the best state of repair. This building in particular appeared to sag on its foundation, the second story tilting dangerously over the first. The establishment looked like it might have been a cheap motel once—the cracked asphalt parking lot, the dismal attempt at a playground where a swing set still remained, though devoid of swings, a pool that had been hastily filled with dirt. As Kimberly pulled in, her headlights picked up peeling white paint and cockeyed red shutters. There was very little about the property to call home.
She checked the numbers on the doors until she found 16. Light knock. The curtain over the window next to the door was drawn back, and a young woman peered out at her.
Kimberly flashed her creds. “My name is Kimberly Quincy, FBI. I have some questions about Dougie Jones.”
That did the trick. The curtain fell back into place. The door swung open.
Peggy Ann Boyd appeared to be about Kimberly’s age, with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. This time of night, her face was scrubbed free of makeup. Her suit had been traded in for a pair of gray sweatpants and a black and orange sweatshirt that proudly proclaimed Go Beavs! That meant she’d either attended Oregon State University or was a fan of its football program. Without a pro team to call their own, most Oregonians took college ball very seriously.
“I’m sorry to bother you after hours,” Kimberly said as she entered the apartment. The one-room studio confirmed her earlier assumption of a motel that had been converted into rental units. Same drab brown carpet and gold floral drapes. A back wall that boasted a one-counter kitchenette, adjacent to the bathroom. Kimberly couldn’t help thinking that if anyone could benefit from ten grand, it would be Peggy Ann Boyd.
“What did Dougie do this time?” the social worker asked tiredly.
“It’s not what he’s done. It’s where he may be.”
“He’s run off?”
“He’s missing.”
Peggy Ann sat down heavily on the edge of the double bed. That left one chair in the room. The young woman gestured toward the old wingback and Kimberly took a seat.
“At least he didn’t burn anything down this time,�
�� Peggy Ann said wryly. “In its own way, that’s progress.”
“How well do you know Dougie?”
Peggy Ann smiled; it did not diminish the strain on her face. “I’m not sure anyone knows Dougie. I’ve tried. Others have tried. But if there was ever a resistant subject. Oh, that poor boy. I honestly don’t know what to do with him next.”
“I understand that he’s been through four different homes already, even had a stay in juvie. I’ll confess, given his history of theft and arson, I’m surprised you were able to place him again. I’m surprised you tried.”
Peggy Ann didn’t answer right away. She was twisting her hands in her lap, this way and that, as if trying on her own fingers for size. “As a federal agent, you must work a lot of cases,” she said abruptly.
“Yes.”
“Some are just the job, I’m sure. You do what you’re supposed to do, go through the paces.”
“Sure.”
“Dougie wasn’t just the job for me. He wasn’t just a case file. I wanted . . . I still want, to get this case right. Yes, he has problems. Yes, he has issues. But . . . But you had to see Dougie Jones four years ago. Dougie Jones four years ago was a truly great, very well loved, little boy.”
Kimberly frowned, now confused. She hadn’t seen Dougie’s official case file; she’d have to wait until morning to subpoena those records. But according to what she’d been able to piece together, Dougie hadn’t even entered the system until three years ago.
“How did you first meet Dougie?” she asked carefully.
“I’ve known Dougie since the day he was born.”
Kimberly’s eyes widened. “You’re not . . . That wouldn’t be appropriate—”
Peggy Ann laughed. “I’m not his mother, not even his relative. I’m his neighbor. Dougie was born in this apartment complex right here. Unit number twenty-two. That’s where Dougie started his life.”
“You knew his parents?”
“Yes and no.” Peggy Ann shrugged. “My path would cross with his mother’s from time to time. We’d both be picking up mail, or maybe I’d pull in while she was unloading groceries, that sort of thing. First you smile, then you say hi, and by the third or fourth time, it’s not so strange to have a conversation or two.