While current-day Donovan noticed all the articles and posts about Carmen Drouin’s abduction in the search engine results, he was reminded that Elizabeth had been alive in those days. There had been hope back then. With the FBI’s DNA tests confirming that the remains were Elizabeth’s, he no longer had a reason for hope. His daughter was dead. His wife was dead.
It was time to deal with that.
Clicking through to the Boston Herald’s piece about Carmen’s ongoing investigation after her last day (May 8, 2005) on a nearby park’s teeter-totter, he wondered how her family would feel if they knew their daughter had returned from captivity. Not just recently, but almost a decade ago. The press was still publishing occasional pieces about how her mother cried every day when she walked past the park where her daughter had gone missing, even though it had been refurbished and updated twice since, and how her father had teamed up with a local kickboxer to begin a neighborhood initiative that educated young girls on self-defense and survival strategies.
Her parents looked old, Donovan observed, but would that premature aging reverse if the young girl in the paper’s image came back with the same big eyes that didn’t shine so bright and a big smile that didn’t stretch so far across her face? Because as much as Monica’s face had narrowed and lost its baby fat since the pictures in the paper were taken, and as much as she’d lost that carefree innocence, their daughter was still alive, still the same soul, right?
With a sad sigh, Donovan reversed out of the Herald’s piece and read some older articles about how Carmen had been abducted. She’d gone to the park, unsupervised. A friend had been there with her, just the two of them. When the friend was called in for lunch, Carmen remained behind. At some point in the next ten minutes, Roger, or some equally bold monster, somehow plucked her from that park and disappeared with her forever.
The May 10 on his screen article suggested the young girl had wandered off in search of a candy store, because she’d recently lost a tooth and the Tooth Fairy had left some change for her. That suggestion had prompted an unsuccessful neighborhood effort to search for the missing child. Amber Alerts were issued. The search had expanded out toward other neighborhoods and, eventually, the water. By the time the FBI was actively involved, the family had lost hope—not according to the article, but Donovan knew this from his own firsthand experience.
Realizing that he was sweating, Donovan wiped a sleeve across his forehead. He scrolled through some of the other results.
And then he moved over to Facebook. Monica Russell’s profile no longer existed (still). He found Leo Fletcher’s, but the psycho seemed to limit the subject of his pictures to himself (usually flexing or letting his tongue hang out of his mouth in a style that imitated the bass player from the band Kiss), his Mustang, and his gym routine. The night Donovan had texted him about Monica being at Barney’s, Leo had posted a pic of a bench press, the bar weighed down by four forty-five-pound plates on each side. Apparently, that night, he was to set a new personal best.
Leo had 423 friends, roughly 424 more than Donovan would’ve guessed. Most of those friends were women who looked like they spent more time at a dance club than at a job. Very pretty, but also very young. Maybe Donovan had one of those young women to thank for Leo’s current lack of interest in whether he found Monica/Carmen.
There were several other so-called friends who stood out to Donovan. They looked like they came from Monica’s side of the relationship, people who’d accepted Leo’s friendship requests only because they liked Monica too much to tell Leo to go suck a donkey’s testicle and stop creeping on them.
Donovan started with those outlier friends. All of them had posted pictures of Monica, likely tagging her, but those tags had disappeared along with her entire profile. But one of those friends, Michelle Elysé, who was also part of the public group of École Privée Renée Levêsque in Lafayette, Louisiana, had used a different tag to identify Monica.
That tag was Rodrigo Alvarez. Although it seemed odd to Donovan that Michelle would tag Monica using a man’s name, he learned two more things from Google. One was that the Urban Dictionary claimed that Rodrigo was the name of someone you could trust anything with. Like a confidante. The other thing—and possibly the more important detail—was that the name Rodrigo, in Portuguese, stood for “famous ruler.”
Which got Donovan thinking, especially as he clicked through to Rodrigo Alvarez’s profile and saw that it went back ten years and had just one friend. Yup, that one friend was Michelle Elysé.
This profile was the one Monica/Carmen had begun the moment she escaped or soon thereafter!
As he scrolled through those photos, he saw just how drastically Monica’s appearances had changed since that escape. From a narrow, undernourished body ten years ago to a bulkier one with muscle definition a few months back. From recessed, lost eyes a decade ago to the ones that were filled with life and ambition in the photo from—
Blinking hard, Donovan couldn’t believe the date associated with the photo. In it, Monica wore a big smile, baring her bright white teeth and sporting a light pink color in her hair. Her big, ambitious eyes had a glow to them, something that didn’t always shine through for young women with thick lines of dark eyeliner. But in Monica’s case, there was a life in those eyes he’d never seen before.
She was happy.
She was, more importantly, alive.
She was outdoors.
And in the background of that photo, Donovan saw something that looked awfully familiar. He recognized it so quickly and easily that he navigated to Google Maps and typed in the address he knew by heart. When he zoomed in to street view and activated the 3D function, he rotated the angle and virtually duplicated Rodrigo Alvarez’s photo with the glass walkway in the background. That walkway linked a nine-level parking garage to an office building across the street. The only difference was the Google Maps version was overcast and Rodrigo’s post from a couple of hours ago was so sunny that the sunlight caught a blinding angle from the walkway’s glass windows.
Yes, Monica had appeared in a photo from a couple of hours ago.
And if Donovan kept rotating that view, he saw the words he knew he’d find: Casino Valet.
Monica Russell was currently at the MGM Grand Detroit.
His skin crawled at the coincidence, because that was the same hotel where Donovan was supposed to meet RodgeDam roughly six years ago but instead got busted by the Wayne County sheriff.
Although he didn’t quite know what to make of all this, Donovan abandoned his computer, grabbed the Second City canvas money bag from the front closet, and hurried out the back door.
He needed to make a big deposit to keep his cash safe, and then it was time for another road trip.
CHAPTER 42
Although the drive to Detroit from Chicago was absolutely uneventful, it was nearly eight o’clock when Donovan parked his Impala in the self-park garage on Third. From his parking spot on the nearly vacant sixth level, he could see all the way to what had once been one of Detroit’s seedier neighborhoods, an area that was not only a lot safer now but considered trendy. The old architecture that had survived the city’s urban self-destruction now stood out as beautiful, even from the MGM Grand’s parking garage.
Because it was starting to get late, he didn’t waste too much time admiring the far-off architecture. If he had an opportunity tomorrow, he decided he might take a walking tour. But for now, he left the only thing he’d brought—the money, because Brenda hadn’t been able to see him until next week, according to the virtual greeter—in the Impala’s trunk and walked toward the hotel lobby.
When he entered, he noticed just how busy it was, as if a tour bus had just rolled up, even though the only vehicle outside the front doors was a fancy Camaro. Looking around, Donovan wasn’t sure what to do or where to go. He hadn’t booked a room, although he was sure he could get one if he needed it. But what for? He wasn’t much of a sleeper these days, so he expected he could sit in the lobby all nigh
t, pretending to read a paper while waiting for Monica/Carmen/Rodrigo to show up.
Heading to the sitting area, Donovan settled for one of the high-back chairs in front of the modern-looking fireplace that spanned the length of the wall behind him. From his vantage point, he could watch the crowd coming and going, even if it meant attracting a few creeped-out stares from the people sitting on the sofa opposite him. But those people didn’t stay for long anyway; he barely noticed them.
While he waited and watched, Donovan remembered the last time he’d been at this hotel. The way he’d been incredibly nervous when he had checked in with a carry-on suitcase, the kind with wheels at the bottom. He’d gone to the room, poured himself a drink, and then spent the next hour at a slot machine in the casino.
As he’d burned through the first twenty dollars, he watched the people around him. A lot of them were older, with gray hair and walkers. But there had been the occasional young person or group. Back then, Donovan had been in his late thirties, so seeing someone his age in a black suit caught his attention. He’d wondered if those two or three people he’d seen were part of some branch of law enforcement, but he’d dismissed it because there was no reason to suspect the black suits were there for him.
Seated in the MGM Grand’s hotel lobby with the fireplace behind him, Donovan watched another rush of people enter the lobby and wander up to the check-in counter. Then the group walked past him to get to the elevators, pulling along their own rolling luggage.
He was especially keen on spotting Monica. He knew she’d changed her hair color to pink from the photo she’d posted as Rodrigo this morning. But he also knew that once he spotted her, he would recognize her as easily as if he were looking at his own daughter’s eyes.
Six years ago when he’d been at the MGM, he’d arranged to meet RodgeDam at eleven o’clock. The pedophile was to bring a seventeen-year-old girl who matched what he felt was his daughter’s description—slim, blue eyes, brown hair, freckles, and a scar of some sort, preferably behind her ear. RodgeDam hadn’t even hesitated; right away, he said he knew of such a girl, warning that, at seventeen, she was more of a woman than a girl.
Through their chat room messenger service, Donovan had explained to RodgeDam that he didn’t care; it was his first time actually “being” with a girl, and he felt someone who’d achieved the age of sexual consent would help him more easily transition to the kinds of girls in the photos and videos that RodgeDam had sent him. He’d assured RodgeDam he wanted to “play it safe” for the first time.
All these years, Donovan had figured that he’d been too specific. The part about the scar behind the ear had probably alerted RodgeDam that he wasn’t a pedophile, that he was someone looking for a very specific young woman.
Shaking his head, Donovan noticed that he’d been seated in the lobby chair for well over ninety minutes now. It was getting dark outside, and the people who came and went were wearing fancier clothes now, the kind of outfits meant for dinner dates, heavy-duty gambling at the casino, or high-flying parties.
It was another hour and a half when he spotted the eyes he’d been waiting for. And if he hadn’t been sitting already, he surely would have collapsed at the sight of her.
CHAPTER 43
Sitting straighter in the chair, Donovan noticed how Monica had changed her appearance yet again. The pink color was completely gone, probably just some sort of tactic Monica had used to see if Roger would follow her here. Because, in hindsight, Donovan realized that “Rodrigo” didn’t have a locked-down profile; anyone could access it, including Roger.
Now, Monica’s hair was completely black, matching the loose-fitting pants and her lace-trimmed blouse. She wore bright red lipstick and so much jewelry on her fingers that it looked like she might be carrying a set of brass (or silver, in this case) knuckles. She looked elegant, no longer the Monica that worked at Maple Tree as a housecleaner but an advertising executive or a highly paid actress or madam.
When she passed the sitting area among a herd of other hotel guests, Donovan thought he caught her gazing toward him, but even if she had, she kept walking. So he rose out of the chair and followed her and half a dozen other people onto an elevator.
Being that he was one of the last to board, Monica herself asked, “What floor, mister?”
“Um, I think I’m good,” he said, pretending to struggle to see around and over the people who separated him from the panel.
He tried to attract Monica’s attention by staring at her. But even as the elevator kept stopping and dumping handfuls of people out onto their respective floors, she either refused to acknowledge him or genuinely didn’t feel his eyes digging into the side of her face.
After the fourth stop, it was just the two of them. Surely, Monica could sense him staring now, but she maintained her forward-facing stare.
Clearing his throat, Donovan said, “Hey, Monica. Or is it Carmen? Or Rodrigo?”
Slowly, Monica turned to face him. The utterly disinterested look in her eyes made him wonder if Elizabeth would’ve grown into this type of young lady, the kind who refused to acknowledge him or who might be embarrassed by him in public.
When he took a step closer, her disinterest turned into a stern warning. Her lips pursed, and one hand reached underneath the edge of her shirt to reveal the handgun she’d lodged there.
“Jeez, you’re going to get me killed,” Donovan said, reeling back the panic in his voice. “That boyfriend of yours—”
“He hasn’t bothered you, Mr. Glass.”
She was right. He frowned, wondering how she knew that.
“And he won’t bother you ever again, I assure you.”
Frowning, Donovan glanced up at the display that told them they were rising past the eighth floor. The last lit button on the panel said they were headed to the tenth.
“Monica—what’s your name anyway? I don’t know how to address you.”
Still utterly disinterested. “Monica is fine, Mr. Glass. Whatever suits you.”
“Okay, fine, Monica. So tell me, what the hell are you doing here, exactly?”
The elevator stopped at the tenth floor, and Donovan started to follow her. Monica stopped abruptly and turned around to face him.
“This is none of your business, Mr. Glass.”
“Like hell it isn’t.” Not only was this dangerous, but it was always his mission to lure the bad guys out. He couldn’t let her get hurt, his daughter’s last friend and his last link to her. Not only did Donovan feel at least a little responsible for her but he didn’t want her to get into any kind of trouble.
She stared back at him. “Unless you’ve booked a room here, on the tenth floor, I’m going to ask you to kindly get back on that elevator and return home, Mr. Glass. This doesn’t concern you.”
“It does,” he said, stepping closer until she reached for that handgun.
“No offense, Mr. Glass, but I made a promise to your daughter before she died. I fulfilled that promise as best as I could, and now it’s time for you to return home.”
Donovan rolled a hand down the front of his face. She was right, wasn’t she? They were never friends; Monica was nothing more than a messenger for his dead daughter. He shifted his weight from one foot to the next, trying to slow time to a crawl so he could think everything through and put together the missing pieces to this puzzle.
“You need to go home before you get us both killed, okay?” Now her face had softened; she lifted an eyebrow and looked a little sad for him. He didn’t understand that, didn’t quite get it.
At last, Donovan shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until you tell me what’s going on, why you’re here, who you’re meeting, and what you expect to get out of it.”
“What does it matter?” she asked, groaning the way a teenager might, with a whiny impatience and frustration. “This really doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“I think I know what you’re up to, Monica.” And this time, when Donovan took a step toward her,
the motion of her hand reaching for the handgun didn’t intimidate him. He kept his eyes narrowed, making sure he spoke carefully and deliberately so she could understand him. “And the reason you’re here has everything to do with me.”
Monica seemed to think about what to say; her eyes jumped from one side of Donovan’s face to the other. But her deliberative silence didn’t last long. She withdrew the handgun and pointed it straight at Donovan’s forehead.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, but the cold metal against his skin didn’t frighten him. In fact, since Elizabeth had been abducted and Amelia had cut her wrists, Monica showing up on his front porch had been the closest thing to a comeback to real life that he’d experienced. Still, he raised his hands in an effort to calm her down. “If you think that scares me—”
She sneered, twisting the barrel as if it were corkscrew and she could get into his head. “When I was locked up in Roger’s dungeon for all those years, do you know how many times I wished someone would do this to me, Mr. Glass? Just pull out a gun and put an end to all of it?” She twisted some more, her eyes glassing over as she remembered that pain.
He raised his hands even higher. “But you’re a survivor. You didn’t have an easy escape. You survived, and now you want vengeance.”
Her sneer deepened. Donovan noticed how she blinked in the half second before she let the gun fall away. “Not for me,” she said, shoving the gun back into the waistband of her pants again and turning away.
“I know,” he said before gulping back the anxiety. It wasn’t from the gun but from the anticipation of what was ahead.
Behind them, the elevator doors opened, and a drunken couple poured into the hallway. They turned the other way, not even paying attention to them.
“It’s for the others,” she said, her voice quiet as she walked toward the far end of the hall.
“And there are lots of others,” Donovan said, realizing too late that his voice came out as a plea. “You know, the FBI thinks I was involved with all of those graves, Monica.” He felt odd calling her a name that he knew not to be hers, but Carmen didn’t feel right, and Rodrigo was completely wrong.
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