Grady turned to Spense. “Forgive me. Caitlin and I know each other well. I was simply trying to respect her privacy, not knowing how much of her personal life she’d want aired in a public setting.”
Some things never changed. Grady had just taken the upper hand by letting Spense know, before she had the chance to tell him herself, that they’d been more than colleagues. In a flood of unpleasant memories, she recalled how manipulative Grady could be. The only way to deal with him was to refuse to play his games. “Consider my private life officially off limits. As you suggested, I’d like to keep things professional. I presume you had some sort of medical involvement with Laura Chaucer.”
“I wouldn’t dream of making you uncomfortable, Caitlin. Let’s talk about the business at hand.” The barest hint of condescension threaded its way into his polite words. “I was Laura’s psychiatrist from the time she was eight years old until a little over a year ago when Whit—Senator Chaucer—got elected to the senate and the family moved to DC.”
“Isn’t that privileged doctor-patient information?” Spense asked.
“Not when the patient in question may be a danger to herself or others. In that case I have a duty to act in my patient’s best interests, and in the best interests of the public. Whit’s asked me to provide any insight I can into Laura’s disappearance—and I consider it my responsibility to do all I can to help find her.”
Spense arched one eyebrow. “A danger to herself or others. Which is it and why?”
Up until now, she and Spense had understood Laura was believed kidnapped or worse.
“Let’s get into that at the interview so I don’t have to repeat myself for the task force.” Grady slid his eyes toward the driver. The privacy window was closed, but he had a point. This probably wasn’t the place.
Spense tapped the window, signaling Jasper, and the limo pulled away from the curb.
Glad she’d chosen a conservative button-up blouse instead of a V-neck sweater, Caitlin crossed her arms over her chest. She could feel Grady’s eyes on her. Her stomach soured like it used to do when she was one of his students.
Long after she’d ended things with this man, whom she’d once considered her mentor, he’d continued to behave as though he had exclusive rights to her body. He’d touch her bottom during rounds and stare openly at her breasts in front of the other psych residents. It was all so miserable she decided to transfer to a different teaching hospital. But in the end, it hadn’t been necessary. A beautiful young intern arrived at Rocky Mountain Memorial and Grady turned his interest to her.
Caitlin tried to warn Inga, but she said she could handle herself, insisting Caitlin mind her own business. And despite Caitlin’s concerns, Inga had seemed very happy to be on the receiving end of Grady’s attentions.
Then, six months later, when one of his colleagues questioned the appropriateness of the chief of psychiatry dating an intern, the couple married, and Inga transferred to another hospital, thereby putting an end to any accusations of moral turpitude on Grady’s part.
“How’s Inga?” Caitlin asked, genuinely interested. Inga was bubbly and sweet and smart, and Catlin had always liked her.
Grady stared out the window, then back at her with moist eyes. “I’m afraid Inga passed a few years back.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in a hard swallow. “Terrible thing—she went out hiking one morning and didn’t come home. Fell off a cliff and broke her neck—I lost the love of my life in a freak accident.”
Chapter 6
Afternoon
Somewhere in the Rocky Mountains
She had to get out of there.
On shaky legs, sometimes grabbing the cool log walls for support, Laura made her way around the cabin’s perimeter, searching for her clothes and more importantly, her shoes. If he came back, and she had to make a run for it, she wouldn’t make it far in bare feet. Then she spied her pumps and willed her legs to carry her toward them. Over in a corner, stood her favorite navy blue high heels, side by side, toes perfectly aligned. Next to them, the green dress she’d worn to her dinner with the editor from the Mountain Times lay neatly folded, her bra and underwear on top, all very ladylike.
Though she had little time to lose, she was too weak to move quickly. She lifted her dress, preparing to slip it over her head and cast her eyes down at the soiled sheet draped across her shoulders.
She froze.
Her torso was stained with blood. Her skin was pale and cool to the touch. And though it seemed to her that her heart might stomp straight out of her chest, when she pressed her fingers to her wrist, her pulse was strangely weak—barely detectable.
A painful, wet breath rattled out of her chest.
She could barely stand.
It hurt to breathe.
Her stomach seemed to be cannibalizing itself.
Why was she so very sick?
The cuts on her neck couldn’t have bled much, or else she’d be dead by now.
She hadn’t taken any meds . . . yet she felt as though she were in a trance.
At dinner on Monday, the last clear thing she could recall, she hadn’t even had a beer—only tea. She swiped her tongue back and forth across her teeth, trying to scrape away the bitter flavor embedded in her taste buds. Had he used a knockout drug on the rag he stuffed in her mouth?
Her head tilted up and just that slight stretching threatened to rip the skin on her neck apart. Still, she kept her gaze upward, as if the answer might descend from above—but in her heart, she knew heaven would not save her.
She had to figure a way out of this on her own.
She brought her chin level again, easing the pain. Her feet rooted themselves to the floor, and she gazed helplessly out the window like a ruined mannequin, waiting for someone to come and either mend her broken body or dump her in the trash.
Move!
She took a step forward.
She refused to leave her fate to someone else. If only she could get her thoughts together, she could make a plan. She blinked rapidly, and somehow, it helped jolt her mind back into gear.
Think!
Her gaze settled on the windows, some of them cracked.
If he knew she was alive, if he was coming back to torture her, he would’ve tied her up or locked the door and boarded the windows. And if he didn’t plan to return, surely, he would’ve finished her off. In either case, he wouldn’t risk letting her escape. He must have believed her dead, or at least so close to death there was no point wasting any more time with her. The longer he stayed in the cabin, the greater the chance he might be caught.
He thought she was dead!
She was absolutely sure of it.
And that meant he wasn’t coming back.
Her mouth formed a wobbly smile. Wind sang an Ode to Joy through the cracked, glass windowpanes. She could see God’s beautiful, green world outside. She crossed to the door as fast as her unsteady legs would take her. With only a gentle tug of the handle, it sprang open, bringing to her the fresh scent of mountain air and the sound of birds warbling. But then . . . she looked back over her shoulder.
From the corner of the room, her pumps stared at her accusingly.
Kidnappers don’t carefully fold their victim’s clothes.
She let the dress she’d been holding fall to the floor.
Kidnappers don’t line shoes up toe-to-toe and heel-to-heel.
Her hand flew to her heart, as bit-by-bit, her newfound happiness faded.
She was the one who had the habit of arranging her shoes just so—it was almost a compulsion if the truth be told.
She shook her head violently.
As if she could’ve done all this.
As if she could’ve cut her own throat.
No!
She did not!
True, at the age of fifteen, she’d sliced similar, shallow cuts into her neck in a so-called “cry for help” that had landed her in a mental hospital for months. But help was the last thing she’d wanted at the time. She’d longed for deat
h’s repose. She’d been desperate to put a stop to the nightmares, to the blackouts, and yes, to the therapy sessions with Dr. Webber that had only left her more confused.
She’d truly wanted to end it all.
And that was the difference between now and then.
Then she’d wanted to die.
But not anymore. She might not have the answers but at least she’d begun to ask questions. And she’d developed a theory, a terrible one about a monster who had to be stopped. That was the reason she’d set up a meeting with the newspaper editor on Monday. She’d needed to talk through her theory with someone who had no stake in the past. No bias against the truth.
She absolutely did not want to die.
She needed to live if she were going to expose the monster.
There’s no one else here, Laura.
It didn’t matter. She could never have done this to herself. She wouldn’t have tried to kill herself when she was just beginning to take back her freedom. Not when she was getting so close to finding out the truth about what had really happened to her—and to Angelina—thirteen terrible years ago.
Chapter 7
Thursday, October 24
12:55 P.M.
Task force headquarters
Highlands Hotel
Denver, Colorado
Spense could tell from her forced smile and stiff posture that Caity didn’t much care for Dr. Grady Webber—and Caity liked everyone. If Webber was on her blacklist, Spense figured he must’ve done something despicable. And the presumptuous way Webber spoke to Caity made Spense want to hoist him up by that fancy collar of his and scramble his Ivy-League face.
Caity sent him a warning look.
He relaxed his jaw, stuck his hand in his pocket and rearranged his miniature Rubik’s cube instead.
Then, all self-control, he aimed an equanimous look at Webber. “You, wait here.”
They’d just arrived at the Denver Highlands Hotel where a task force consisting of detectives from the Denver PD and agents from the local FBI field office and the Colorado Bureau of Investigation had rented three adjoining suites. Using a private venue as a command center provided another layer of confidentiality to the proceedings and had the added benefit of preventing any one agency from gaining home-turf advantage. One suite had been set up as a waiting area for potential witnesses, another as a war room, and a third as an interview room/kitchen. This case, involving the missing daughter of a United States senator from Colorado, didn’t seem to be plagued by the usual funding problems.
Webber checked his watch. “I’m on the clock. The longer you keep me cooling my heels the more it’s going to cost.”
“Cost whom?” Caity asked.
“Whit Chaucer, of course. Naturally, I want to do all I can for Laura. But my time is valuable.”
“Everyone’s is. We’ll call you back as soon as possible,” Spense assured him, though he wasn’t about to rush anything up for the arrogant jerk.
“Really, Caitlin.” Webber turned his back to Spense. “No need to give me that disapproving glare. I’m sure you’re getting paid for your expertise, as is Agent Spenser.”
Caity’s lips thinned.
She had a beef with this guy. Spense was one million percent sure of it.
“No one’s judging you, Grady. Spense and I need to get our bearings and meet the team before we bring you in. That’s all there is to it.”
“Yes, but have you considered including me, officially, as part of the task force? Surely I have as much or more to offer in terms of psychiatric expertise as you. After all, I trained you.”
What a condescending creep, Spense thought.
Caity smiled broadly. One thing about her, she didn’t rattle. “You played a small part in my general psych training, yes. But, to my knowledge, you don’t have any hands-on experience with the criminal mind. And, as I’m sure you’ll agree once you think about it, you’re too close to Laura to be objective. You’re far more valuable, in this instance, as a witness. So take a seat and maybe try some of those cookies over there. We’ll call you as soon as possible. Meanwhile, you can take comfort in knowing you’re going to be well compensated.”
“She’s got a little sass on her, but she’s one hell of a shrink. Of course, you’d know that, since you trained her and all.” Spense patted a cushion on an overstuffed, orange sofa.
Muttering something sotto voce, Webber took a seat.
Spense opened the adjoining room door and ushered Caity into the business end of task-force headquarters. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Sometimes, headquarters atmosphere, no matter how grave the case, seemed more akin to a dugout or a men’s locker room—with off-color jokes flying and foul wind breaking. It was no disrespect to the victim, just guys blowing off steam. In this instance, however, Spense was glad to see both genders well represented. He knew what a tough climb women in law enforcement faced, and to be chosen for this task force would be a feather in anyone’s cap.
Along the back wall of the war room, a few institutional size corkboards had been set up. One was blanketed with photographs of Laura, some recent, some dating back to her childhood. Pictures of her parents and other folks Spense didn’t recognize covered another. There were also giant area maps and a whiteboard with so many arrows and indecipherable scribbles it looked like it belonged in a college physics class.
The low hum of many people talking at once made Spense’s skull vibrate. Since childhood, his brain went haywire when there was too much sensory input. But over time, he developed his own tricks for coping. Now, without thinking about it, he fiddled with the cube in his pocket. Soon the buzz became a calming, white noise, incapable of disrupting his thought process.
His fog cleared, he assessed the room. The urgency in the faces of the officers bending over notebooks and staring at computer screens told him higher command had cranked up the burner on this one. Not to mention the place boasted more body odor than a hot yoga class.
This was one serious-ass command center.
A silver-haired guy in a polyester suit that was rumpled enough to match the slump in his shoulders, caught Spense’s eye and approached.
The man pushed his Coke-bottle glasses up, then stuck out his hand to Caity. “Jordan Hatcher—detective sergeant—Major Crimes. Welcome to our humble abode, Dr. Cassidy.” He dragged his glance from Caity to Spense and offered a firm shake. “You, too, Agent Spenser. Just in case there’s any doubt, let me put your minds at ease. This operation is going to be by the book. No sloppy chops allowed on my watch. I welcome inter-agency input. Any man on my team who doesn’t play nice—all you gotta do is say the word and he’ll be back on patrol in time to lift a cold one at happy hour with the crew he thought he’d left behind.”
A bit defensive for introductions, but Spense suspected he knew the reason behind the chip on Hatcher’s shoulder. Thirteen years ago the Piney Trails PD had taken heat for their handling of a different case involving the Chaucer family. Hatcher had been part of that team. They’d been accused of contaminating the crime scene, mishandling evidence and generally botching the investigation.
Spense and Caity needed to understand everything possible about not only the current case, but about that earlier one as well. Even with thirteen years intervening, it was rare for a victim to disappear twice. It didn’t matter if this time Laura might not have been kidnapped—as Webber had implied. The more they learned about what happened thirteen years ago in the small Denver suburb of Piney Trails, the better they’d be able to judge its relevance to Laura’s disappearance on Tuesday.
And if it did turn out the two events were linked, they just might have to solve one of the most baffling cold cases in Colorado history in order to bring the senator’s daughter home safely.
“Good to know you’ve got our backs.” Spense nodded his understanding. It stood to reason Hatcher would want to get it right this time around. Here was a chance to not only rescue a missing coed, but for Major Crimes to thumb its nose at those who’d imp
ugned its integrity. In a way, these guys had been given a do-over. “I’m sure everyone will cooperate. After all, we have the same goal: finding Laura alive. So how about we get down to it?”
By way of an answer, Hatcher stretched the corners of his mouth with his fingers and whistled. “Attention everyone.”
It only took a minute for a hush to overtake the room. Then the detective sat his fists on his hips. “As promised, we’ve got some extra help, courtesy of the BAU. Agent Spenser and Dr. Cassidy are here to shed light on the psychological issues surrounding the disappearance of Laura Chaucer, but they’ve indicated they’re willing to help out in all aspects of this investigation—everything from boots on the pavement to interviews to research. They’ve volunteered to help wherever needed.” His gaze swept the crammed room. “Damn there are a lot of us. And that’s a good thing, but maybe best to hold off on individual introductions for now. If you’ve got a piece of information you think might be useful to our profilers—that would be the ideal time to introduce yourself. Meanwhile, let’s get back to work.”
A smattering of applause broke out, about as loud as the sound of one hand clapping. Spense shrugged it off. It wasn’t uncommon for the feds to be perceived as a threat, or for their presence on a task force to be interpreted as a sign the locals had been deemed incapable of doing their jobs. And in this situation resentment would be doubled. Any of these detectives who’d worked the old kidnap case were likely carrying baggage too big to fit in the overhead compartments. “Ready when you are,” Spense said.
Hatcher led Caity and him to a round, linoleum table that looked like it belonged in his granny’s kitchen. Carrot-colored sofas out front, pea soup tables in the war room—it seemed someone had brought in additional furniture from the local rental center. Another indicator of extra budgetary resources.
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