Such as...admit she had special abilities? To connect with the living when they’d disappeared, gone missing—and to connect with the dead?
If that was what he wanted to know, she wasn’t going to oblige.
“I don’t have to live in the city. I’m a greeting card designer and writer. I happen to love the Hudson Valley.” She couldn’t help herself. “If Grace hadn’t said anything, I have a feeling you would’ve figured out I wasn’t from here, anyway.”
“The reason I suspected you weren’t really a local is because I am,” he said quietly. “And I would’ve remembered you.”
“But...”
“We wouldn’t have met, but I was thinking I would’ve noticed you somewhere along the line.” He looked her up and down, and she knew he was estimating her age. She didn’t think he was that much older—five to seven years, maybe. “I probably headed off to college when you were in high school. But from the way you’re so familiar with the valley and its history, I realized you must’ve been around here a fair bit.” He apparently felt he’d talked enough. “Where’s your car?”
“Down on the street.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“I have Rollo.”
“It’s all right.”
An argument would have somehow been more disquieting than just giving in. “Come on, boy,” she said to Rollo, tugging at the leash. Walking briskly, she started down the street again, aware that he was close behind her. She didn’t stop, and she didn’t turn around until she’d reached her car. When she opened the passenger door to let Rollo in, she finally looked back.
In the light thrown by nearby street lamps, she could see that he was staring up at the Old Dutch Church.
“From now on, let Rollo in by the driver’s side,” he said. “That gives him the ability to jump out and help you if someone comes from behind while you’re getting in the car.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
She shut the door and hurried around to slide into the driver’s seat. Starting the ignition, she saw that he was staring at the church again.
She didn’t wave; she turned the car around and drove home.
The roads were dark and quiet as she left the village of Sleepy Hollow. She came to the quiet road that led through foliage and trees to her cottage in the woods. Parking, she realized she’d done the same thing many times before, even at this hour, and never felt the slightest fear.
Until tonight. Now, the woods seemed to breathe. The night air seemed to dance. Malevolence might well have whispered in the breeze.
She quickly opened the door and let Rollo and herself into the house. The dog whined, and she thought he felt it, too, whatever was in the air. But he didn’t bark; there was no one out there.
Her ghosts were quiet when she entered. Rollo accompanied her as she went from window to window, making sure they were locked.
When she finally climbed up the stairs to bed, she paused, looking around. “I need a weapon, Rollo. Just so I’ll be able to get to sleep.”
She settled on the fireplace poker and went upstairs. When she lay down at last—Rollo taking up the foot of the bed—she was convinced she’d never sleep.
If she did, she feared, she’d have horrible nightmares.
But she did sleep. It was a matter of the human body giving out, needing rest.
And she didn’t have nightmares.
She dreamed of walking in the woods, clad in nothing but a white mist that swept around her like a beautiful satin gown. As she walked, she saw a tall, dark figure coming toward her. She wasn’t afraid. His face emerged from the shadows. It was Aidan Mahoney. He smiled, the way he smiled when he looked at others. She ran to him, the mist magical as it swept around her.
He was naked when she reached him.
She threw herself into his arms and he brought her down with him to the soft, verdant earth where they were embraced by a sweet-smelling bed of leaves....
Then she woke, bathed in sweat and embarrassed beyond all measure, despite the fact that she was entirely alone. Except for Rollo, of course.
And Rollo didn’t know that she’d been having an erotic dream about a man she barely knew. A man who didn’t seem to like her.
She groaned and glanced at the bedside clock. It was three in the morning. Punching her pillow, she lay back down.
The moon was full, and its light drifted into her room. Since that morning, when she’d left the house with Rollo to search for Richard Highsmith, it seemed that even the earth and sky had changed.
* * *
At 3:00 a.m. Aidan was still up.
He sat in a front row at Mystic Magic, the place advertised on the matchbook found in Richard’s pocket.
In front of him, a very busty blonde gyrated around a silver pole.
The club appeared to be straight up—there were warnings all over to look and not touch. The dancers were beautiful girls, mostly enhanced for their chosen profession, but it wasn’t a last stand for down-and-out prostitutes.
He’d spoken to a few of the women, and he’d shown them a picture and asked if they’d ever seen Richard Highsmith before. None had. He was a good judge of liars. He’d studied all the physical tics and nuances that were typically signs of lying. But lots of liars had studied the signs, too. Still, he was pretty certain that he was getting the truth. Richard had been given the matchbook or picked it up somewhere, and he’d used it for the note he seemed compelled to write. Twice, at least.
The blonde was the last of Mystic Magic’s lineup. Her name—or her stage name—was Starlight. Her G-string was crystal studded; the same crystals had adorned the cape, bra and skirt she’d started out with, along with her bountiful blond hair. She was extremely popular, with a magnanimous smile for each horny bastard who leaned forward to slip money into the studded belt.
She slithered around the pole, posed and gyrated. Her audience went wild. She simulated sex with a gusto he was sure most men had never seen in a bedroom.
Then she rose and bowed to thunderous applause, blew the audience a kiss and hurried offstage.
For the most part, the crowd began to leave. There were still some private lap dances to be had, but most of the men—and the few women—in the establishment were paying service tabs and heading out.
Aidan waited.
In a few minutes, the bubbly blonde came out from the rooms behind the stage and walked toward him, smiling.
“Hi!” she said. She didn’t posture. At that moment, she might have been the girl next door, scrubbed clean of makeup and wearing a T-shirt and jeans. “I understand you wanted to ask all of us some questions. You’re really an FBI agent?”
He smiled back. “Yes.” He pulled Richard’s picture from his pocket and held it out. “Do you know this man? Have you ever seen him here?”
She gazed up at him with huge blue eyes. “Of course I know him! He’s Richard Highsmith. He was a wonderful speaker. And the poor man died here. In our town. A really awful death. I’ve been watching the news all day.”
Aidan nodded. “Yes, he’s on the news. But was he ever in this club? Did you run into him anywhere? Did you ever meet him?”
“He shook my hand,” she said proudly.
“Where?”
“At the Coffee Spot, just off the highway. He was even better in real life—he had the best smile. He was so sincere.”
“Did you actually meet him?”
“We spoke and he asked me for my name. It’s Debbie. Debbie Howell,” she said.
“Thank you.” Aidan presented a second picture, the computer rendering of their Jane Doe.
“What about her?”
“What about her?” Debbie repeated.
“Have you ever seen her?”
“I’m not trying to be rude or anything, but how would I know? She
just looks like...like tons of people,” Debbie said. “She could be anyone. I’m sorry, but...it’s not a very good picture.”
“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”
He pocketed both pictures again.
“I’m so sorry. I wish I could have helped,” Debbie said. “But what made you think that Richard Highsmith would have, um, been in a place like this? I mean we’re perfectly legal—and we’re really dancers, not whores.”
“No, of course you’re dancers. Listen, Richard was found with a matchbook from this place in his pocket,” Aidan said. “You didn’t happen to give him a matchbook when you saw him, did you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t smoke. But people leave matchbooks all over. He might have picked it up anywhere.”
“True.” He’d already concluded that himself. “Except that Richard didn’t smoke, either,” he pointed out.
“Oh,” she said thoughtfully. She brightened. “Maybe he needed matches to light candles on a birthday cake—or for some other reason!”
“Maybe,” he agreed. But he doubted that Richard had planned on celebrating any birthdays in the middle of a campaign trip. Back to his original conclusion—Richard had probably picked it up just to scribble on it. Or someone had given it to him for that purpose.
“Well, thank you, Debbie. I appreciate your time.”
“Oh, no. It’s my pleasure. I’d love to help!”
He handed her one of his cards. “Call me, please, if you think of anything.”
“Oh, I will, I promise. And if you need me for any other information, you can call me.” She grabbed a cocktail napkin and wrote her name and number. Her handwriting was clear and careful. “Did Maureen Deauville and Rollo help you find Mr. Highsmith?” she asked.
He was startled by the question.
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, they never put Mo’s info out there anywhere. That’s her choice. When we were kids—she used to come here for summers and a lot of the girls our age were friends then—she had another dog, a big wolfhound like Rollo. Mo was just sixteen when Robbie Anderson went missing. Everyone was going nuts. She went out with her dog, and she found Robbie. He’d fallen into a sinkhole at the cemetery. Went right through the ground into one of the mausoleums. Poor kid had to go to a shrink for months, but... No one heard him down there and they might never have heard him. It was way over from the far side of the church. Anyway, I heard from Tommy Jensen that he saw her there, so I assumed she had something to do with finding the...head. I’m just hoping she’s okay. That had to be hard. And Mo...she’s not like other people. When I see her, she’s still as friendly and nice as ever. And, well, there are people here who don’t associate with me anymore and pretend they don’t know me when they see me in the grocery store.”
“I’m sorry about that. Some people aren’t very open-minded,” Aidan told her. He hesitated, not telling her in so many words that her assumption about Mo was right. “Maureen Deauville is fine. I saw her a few hours ago. She was having dinner with a friend.”
“Tell her hi for me.”
“If I see her again, I most certainly will,” Aidan said. “Can I walk you out?”
“No, that’s okay. Denise, the bartender, and I will go together. We’re roommates. And Danny, the doorman, will get us safely to the car. He does that every night,” she said. She raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “Freaks. They’re an occupational hazard.”
“Well, I’m glad Danny’s such a good guy,” he said. He left, and Danny, whom he’d met earlier, bade him good-night. The door was locked firmly behind him.
* * *
Mo didn’t have any more wild and wicked dreams.
But she still found herself suddenly awake and alert...and listening.
The bedside clock showed that the time had crept up to 4:00 a.m.
She had no idea what had awakened her.
Then she realized there was something like a dark shadow in the room.
Rollo was awake, but not alarmed. He seemed to be staring at the shadow, too.
She was ready to reach for the fire poker at her bedside, despite Rollo’s calm, when the shadow became clearer in the moonlight.
It was Candy. Who never came into her bedroom at night.
“Candy?” Mo’s voice sounded like a croak. Yes, she was afraid.
Candy turned to her. She’d been trying to look out the window but the drapes were closed and her efforts were ruffling them but not moving them enough so she could see out.
“Mo! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. Forgive me. This is so rude. I never enter a bedroom without being invited,” Candy said.
Mo waved a hand in the air. “It’s all right. Is something wrong?”
“No. No. Ah, I mean...maybe. Yes. Perhaps.”
“Candy!”
Candy came and perched by Rollo on the foot of the bed. “I don’t think it’s anything...dangerous.”
“Candy, talk to me! You’re scaring me out of about a decade of life, so just spit out what you’re trying to say.”
“I think there was someone out there,” Candy said.
Mo sat bolt upright and started to fumble for the phone on the bedside table.
“No, no! He’s gone now.”
“Yes, but still, if someone was there—”
“Calling the police won’t do any good now—or with this.”
“Candy, there might be something he left behind.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not that the police can find.”
“Why not?”
“Because whoever it was, well...he’s not alive. It’s not someone living,” Candy said.
CHAPTER 5
Aidan sat studying the notes he’d taken the previous day, and every report he’d received from the police and the medical examiner thus far.
He was still waiting for toxicology reports, and he believed they’d be important. If Richard had been drugged before he was taken, the list of suspects might be narrowed down to those who’d had access to the food he’d eaten or anything he might have had to drink.
If he hadn’t been drugged, then he’d somehow been tricked into bringing about his own disappearance.
Sitting back in his chair, he thought about the Headless Horseman Hideaway Restaurant and Bar. As far as Aidan could tell, there was only one way up the road and into the parking lot and one way out. As Tommy Jensen had suggested, whoever had come and placed the bloody head on the effigy had probably waited until the wee hours of the morning.
It wouldn’t have taken long. But it would’ve been planned beforehand. Which meant that the execution of the crime had been the work of an Organized Killer—someone of above-average intelligence, who’d meticulously planned every aspect of the murder.
That still brought him back to the locked room concept. Richard Highsmith had disappeared from a well-patrolled facility. One that his own security force had checked out, along with the police.
Aidan had kept in touch with Jackson Crow by phone and email throughout the day, providing reports on whatever he learned—and didn’t learn. He’d been able to assure Crow that the local police were more than congenial and that they’d been diligent with the countless interviews and reports they’d written up so far. He’d also mentioned that Detectives Van Camp and Voorhaven were basically letting him take the lead.
It was during one of his afternoon conversations with Jackson the day before that he discovered he’d been booked into the same hotel where Taylor Branch, Jillian Durfey and the private security guys were staying. Throughout the long day he hadn’t given much thought to his sleeping arrangements. But, of course, at the brand-new offices of what was being called the “Yankee” Krewe, such details had been handled. His hotel had been chosen specifically
because it had been Richard Highsmith’s—and because all of Richard’s on-the-road staff were there.
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Jackson had told him dryly. “Classic advice.”
“I’ll bet the friends are mortified—and sincerely saddened, as well. The three security men were together when Richard disappeared, and Branch was with them. They were also in easy sight of a convention center employee. And they’re in no hurry to leave town,” Aidan had informed Jackson.
Aidan had spent some time with the security trio after leaving Richard’s room earlier that afternoon. They fit their nicknames. Muscles was indeed huge, Mischief was a striking young guy, and Magic was serious and dedicated and gave the impression that he could do just about anything—except, of course, answer the question. But then, none of them had expected Richard to put himself in harm’s way. Somehow, he’d left the convention center, presumably following an agenda of his own. Or he’d been coerced to leave. His security staff had been blindsided—expecting their client to have regard for his own safety.
“We were accustomed to him shaking hands in a restaurant, going from the car to an establishment—that kind of thing,” Muscles had told him. “But we never thought he’d wander out of the convention center!”
Muscles was defensive and obviously felt bad—as well as ineffectual and guilty. He and his crew had been Richard’s personal security detail.
Richard had ended up dead, his body violated.
Now, Aidan had a room one floor below Richard’s aides and guards. It was a suite with a large work area, but he understood from Jackson Crow that they’d be using his room as their local base when he was joined by fellow agents.
Late today, his floor would be hosting more of his new coworkers, who’d be booked into adjacent rooms. He’d specifically asked for a forensic artist—Jane Everett—because he didn’t like the computer-generated image of the dead woman that was going around; he wanted a new one. Once they learned who she was, they would at least know if she’d been killed because of whatever relationship she might have had with Richard—or if she’d somehow been caught up in the situation.
Heather Graham Krewe of Hunters Series, Volume 4 Page 68