by Susan Cory
Iris touched the girl's shoulder to reassure her. Jasna flinched.
“It looks like your project hasn't progressed since last Friday's crit. Why don't you spend your studio time today working on your model. I can meet with you tomorrow afternoon to have a look at it, okay?”
With a parting smile that she hoped conveyed some confidence that all would turn out well, Iris headed for the open stairway to the level above, then turned through the door from the airy, skylit studios into the hard, heavy concrete side of the building.
As she approached Xander's office, ready to reassure yet another person about her efforts on their behalf, she heard raised voices through the slightly open door.
“First you get beat up. Then the police search your house. You said you had everything under control.”
“How was I supposed to know that maniac was lying in wait for me?” Iris heard a scraping sound. “Wait, Nils.”
“Let go of my arm. I can't believe you told that Reid woman about the porn on your computer. You should have discussed it with me first.”
“I explained that it was planted. I could tell that she felt sympathetic, and I need people on my side. She's my alibi for that night.”
“Lucky she couldn't tell what you were really doing when she spied on you.”
“Don't be vulgar. I was just listening to my Nabokov CD.”
“By the way, you'd better get rid of that.”
“They've already searched. Besides, those Keystone cops wouldn't know the plot of a Nabokov book if it were spelled out in one-syllable words.”
“Don't be so arrogant. They're not idiots. They were actually pretty clever at getting me to tell them that you rent Zipcars to get around.”
“It happens to be the truth.”
“So, you're sure the Reid woman will tell the police she saw you?”
“When has my charm ever failed to work? You're the one who told me to cultivate a relationship with a woman during this Harvard semester, and it's turning out to be helpful.”
“I hope you didn't have to put too much effort into it.”
“Luckily, I could tell she wasn't interested in getting between the sheets with me. I do have my limits.”
Iris tiptoed away from the door, shock making her numb. She stumbled the rest of the way down the corridor, the sound of their chuckling dying out behind her.
CHAPTER 43
By Wednesday afternoon at four, Russo sat across from Malone in a booth, studying the illustrated menu at the Oak Tree Diner in Manchester, New Hampshire. Framed photos of satisfied patrons, dating back decades, smiled down from the walls.
“This is the place where Jensen said they stopped after seeing the Frank Lloyd Wright house,” Russo said, then looked up. “Do you think the locals are going to take the search seriously?”
“Would you?” Malone answered. “We're asking them to find a needle in a haystack. Lara's been gone a week. We only have circumstantial evidence that DeWitt took her. We know that he came up here a few weeks ago and that the van's odometer supports two additional roundtrips. You saw Sergeant Ruiz's face when we told him what we have.”
“But this is a twelve-year-old girl. They have to take it seriously... on the off-chance... ” Russo trailed off.
“It's not like this city doesn't have their share of locally-sourced crime. But Ruiz seemed like a decent guy. I'm sure he'll make an effort.”
A middle-aged waitress with a tight perm and a black apron over her blue jeans approached their booth. “You gentlemen know what you'd like?”
After reading her name tag Malone asked, “What do you recommend, Trudy?”
“The chili's good today, but the Canadian pork pie is our house specialty. Comes with two eggs and hash browns.”
They ordered one of each.
Ten minutes later Russo devoured the pie and the eggs and the potatoes without interruption while Malone tucked into a huge mug of chili slathered in melted cheese.
They pushed away their plates just as Trudy returned to hand them back their pair of menus. “How about some strawberry shortcake or chocolate eclairs for dessert?” She pointed her pencil at the glass-front refrigerator behind her. “With coffee?”
Knowing his partner's weakness for chocolate, Malone said, “Two eclairs with coffee, black.” Then, as he handed back his menu, he asked, “Would you happen to know if there are any empty buildings around here? Properties for sale or maybe some place that's abandoned?”
Trudy arched a brow. “You guys looking for a weekend place—a fixer-upper?”
“No,” Malone answered a bit too emphatically. “We're police. Looking for a missing girl. We think she might be hidden somewhere around here. Maybe some place visible from the street between here and the highway.”
Trudy looked shocked. “Oh, my word. Let me ask the cook. I'll be right back.”
They could see the two conferring animatedly as Trudy parceled their desserts onto plates. After distributing the eclairs, the waitress explained, “We don't really have many empty buildings around here, but Frank reminded me that last summer some Boston folks built a vacation home nearby. They came in here to eat whenever they drove up to check on the progress. Frank says there's an old barn where the workers stored their tools. His cousin worked on the crew and claims his hammer was stolen from that barn— his favorite framing hammer. I guess they'll tear down the barn now that the house is done. May have already done it, for all I know.”
“Have the owners moved in yet?” Malone asked.
“Like I said, it's a summer place. The contractor finished the house last month, but I guess the owners are waiting to move in 'til next year. I haven't seen them in awhile.”
Trudy refilled their coffee cups with cool precision from an impressive height. Malone and Russo got her to sketch a map to the property on a napkin before she retreated to tally up their check.
They left her a large tip.
It was not difficult for the detectives to spot the freshly-shingled house and weathered barn from the road. Perhaps DeWitt had been drawn over for a closer look at the house's graceful modern form.
Russo steered the Ford into the driveway and cut the engine. No lights were on in the house. The late afternoon shadows provided the men some camouflage as they approached the dilapidated outbuilding on foot, Glocks out at the ready, avoiding the main path. Patches of red paint clung to the structure but otherwise it was pretty much as brown as the mud around it.
Malone signaled for Russo to watch the main door while he disappeared around the side. Russo squinted through a broken window. The interior looked and sounded deserted. He caught the acrid smell of manure, but the barn probably hadn't housed animals in many years. He could see some construction trash on the floor—nail coils, crushed cardboard boxes, along with a few abandoned soda cans. Malone returned to Russo's side and signaled. They gave up any hope of surprise as the heavy door swung open, creaking loudly on its tired hinges.
They took out flashlights and went separately into the gloom. It was colder inside than out. Russo tried to ignore the musty odor rising from the rough floorboards. He considered climbing up a wooden ladder to the hay loft, but doubted the rungs would hold his weight.
Russo heard Malone's steps behind him and turned in time to see his lieutenant trip over an old wooden trough. Malone reached out his hands to break the fall.
Russo came running to help.
“Don't come any closer,” Malone called out to him. “There's blood here. A lot of blood.”
CHAPTER 44
After their discovery Russo and Malone got booties and gloves from the field kit in the Ford, but the damage was done.
As they waited for Sergeant Ruiz and his team to arrive, they inspected the rest of the barn to make sure they hadn't overlooked the source of the gore. They found a flowered bedspread crumpled in a dark corner and a section of frayed rope next to the wooden trough. The blood had turned brown but still gave off a sweet, coppery smell.
Russo
set down a lantern near the bedspread and fumbled in his pocket.
“What are you doing? Don't mess up the crime scene,” Malone said.
“The bedspread matches the description the Sidran woman gave,” Russo said. “I thought we should have a photograph to show her for confirmation.”
“Okay, but do it now before the scene gets turned over to Ruiz. After that we'll be getting all our information second-hand,” Malone said.
Ten minutes later, several crime scene technicians, already suited up in plastic coveralls, filed into the barn. Ruiz followed with an exhausted look that signaled it was the end of his shift. He caught sight of the bloody trough and sucked air in through his teeth as he noted the smear mark running through the blood.
“That your palm, Malone?”
Malone's ears turned pink.
“Sorry. I tripped.”
“How'd you ever find this place?” Ruiz asked. “You must have been holding back when you briefed me back at the station.”
“The waitress at the Oak Tree Diner gave us a tip and it panned out.” Malone said. “Mind if we hang around?”
“Show your I.D.s to the uniform out by the tape, then stay out of the way.”
As they watched from the sidelines, Malone kept up a running dialogue in Connor's ear concerning his interpretation of the blood spatter—speculating whether the victim had been dragged or bludgeoned or shot.
Russo half listened and fought the urge to retch as he imagined what the girl might have gone through. After he'd put down his camera, the scene had become more real for him.
“Note the medium-sized droplets and the elliptical tail over there,” Malone said.
Russo was more interested in watching a forensic tech scrape some of the blood into a collection tube, then squeeze several droplets onto a test bar. After a few minutes the tech announced to Ruiz, “Two red lines. Human blood.”
“What's the girl's blood type?” Ruiz asked Malone.
“A positive.”
“We'll put a rush on the labwork and let you know,” Ruiz said.
After setting up an array of powerful lights, a photographer meticulously documented the trough from all angles, followed by evidence techs who sealed the remaining blood into polythene bags. Then they carefully wrapped the bedspread and rope in paper, which were then bagged and tagged. Other crime scene techs dusted for prints and inspected every surface for possible clues.
Through the open barn door, Russo could see the snout of a van pull up in the featureless, gray light. Its doors rolled open, then slammed. Russo could hear excited yelping and whining. He knew that the dogs were eager to scour the nearby woods for a body, perhaps not yet fully cold. Assuming it really was Lara's blood, and the presence of the bedspread gave that high odds, their missing person investigation might have just turned into a homicide case.
Malone followed Ruiz outside to watch the dogs do a quadrant search, but Russo's attention followed a crouching female tech shining her flashlight at an angle to the dirt floor near the trough. She took a black box and a flat grounding plate out of her field kit and lay mylar film over the area she'd been inspecting. Russo had heard about electrostatic dust print lifters but never seen one in action. The tech placed the box to overlap the mylar and the plate, then punched the box's “on” button. She passed a rubber roller over the mylar. Russo moved closer, mesmerized, as an image materialized.
He rushed outside to find Malone. Following the sounds of footsteps and breaking branches, he threaded his way through the densely packed evergreens before spotting Malone's tall, lanky sillouette.
“Malone,” Russo shouted, “you've gotta see. We got a footprint.”
CHAPTER 45
As Iris was clearing her dinner plate, she heard a TV reporter's voice announcing a breaking development in the Lara Kurjak case. She hurried to her living room and stood in front of the screen, watching images of people in coveralls hauling mysterious plastic bags out of an old, tilting barn surrounded by sawhorse barriers and crime scene tape. Manchester, New Hampshire Crime Scene scrolled across the bottom banner.
A field reporter, lips pursed but eyes wild with suppressed excitement, led with a “shocking” discovery. “The Manchester police are saying that they have found evidence in this barn that appears to be linked to Lara Kurjak's alleged abduction from a friend's apartment in Cambridge.”
The screen shifted to a bland-looking anchorman sitting calmly in the studio. A disembodied voice said, “Chuck, do we know yet whether the police have found the girl?”
There was a time delay as Chuck clutched his earpiece. “No, Bob. I overheard some technicians talking about collecting blood samples, but there's been no sign of a body yet. The police have been searching the barn and these woods behind me for the girl.”
The camera obligingly panned the woods behind him.
“Are the dogs helping with the search, Chuck?”
The camera zoomed in on a police handler directing three panting German Shepherds into a van. Iris recognized Lieutenant Malone in the shadow of the van, staring stoically ahead.
“That's right, Bob. These hard-working K-9s have been combing the woods for the last two hours without any success. But Segeant Emilio Ruiz, of the Manchester Police, assures me that the search will continue.”
Bob wrapped up with, “This is the first major break in the Kurjak kidnapping. We will keep you updated on any developments in the case.”
Iris switched off the TV and sank into the sofa. Lara must be dead. That poor, poor girl. She must have been taken to this barn in New Hampshire, and then... Iris hugged a pillow as a tear rolled down her cheek. Sheba jumped up onto the sofa and nestled in with her.
Could Xander have possibly done this? After what she'd overheard him saying in his office, she had no trouble believing that he used people to get whatever he wanted. She'd felt so humiliated by how he'd spoken about her with Nils that she hadn't even told Ellie all of his hurtful words. But kidnapping, raping and murdering a twelve-year-old girl? Hadn't the police been watching him? Or had he done it on that first night? Still, she couldn't reconcile her memory of Xander sitting peacefully in his living room in his silk pajamas with the scene of this bloody barn.
Then again, Nils could have taken Lara. They could be in this together. Did pedophiles work in pairs?
But why did Xander say it was true that he had to rent Zipcars to get around? That implied that someone had planted the key to the neighbor's van in Xander's house. And if that was true, then Xander's claim of being set up might also be true.
He had so much at stake. If any credible trail led from Xander to this bloody New Hampshire barn, his life's work would be over. Even if he were able to somehow defend himself, even if a malicious setup could eventually be proved, at the end of the day, he would be forever linked to this scandal.
She was going to have to tell Detective Malone what she'd overheard. It was too hard for her to separate her newfound dislike for Xander DeWitt from any rational analysis of the facts. Besides, it was his job to solve Lara's disappearance. She imagined that she could leave out some parts of what Xander had said.
CHAPTER 46
Xander clutched his side as he gingerly squatted down to scoop up his copy of the Thursday Boston Globe from the front porch. His broken rib ached fiercely and his shoulder still sent out sharp jabs of pain at random moments. Thank God that Neanderthal, Kurjak, would be locked up at least for the remainder of Xander's time here in the States.
He poured his first coffee of the day from the stovetop espresso maker and carried it to the marble table by the window. When he saw the Globe headline Lara Kidnapping Tied to Barn in New Hampshire, he dropped abruptly into a chair. He fumbled in a front pocket for his cigarette pack and shook one out. It took him three tries to light it.
He read the article carefully. It was written under the byline of William Buchanan, who seemed to be making the Lara story his personal ticket to the front page. These reporters were like vampires.
The previous day Xander had grilled Nils on every word his assistant had said to the police. Nils had had the nerve to be annoyed with Xander for going offscript while Nils had been naïve enough to volunteer information to the police about their visit to New Hampshire.
“I figured I had to give them something,” Nils had said. “What could be more innocent than our trip up to see that Wright house? It wasn't secret. You gave a presentation to the whole school the following week, featuring your many photos of the place.”
Then Nils had added “I didn't tell them about any of the important things. I didn't mention Thailand.”
The mention of Thailand struck Xander with a frisson of dread, but also of excitement. His stress level was so high. God knew he needed something to look forward to. Just then was when he had made the mistake of asking Nils if he had settled all the details for Xander's Christmas trip to Thailand. Nervously looking around the room, Nils had reminded Xander that he was under serious scrutiny by the police as well as the Pritzker prize committee. Any whiff of a scandal could prove disastrous. Xander could not go to Thailand in the foreseeable future.
“You're not the only one under suspicion. I've been covering up for you. If you go down, I go down,” he'd said before huffing out of Xander's Harvard office. Since then, Nils hadn't responded to any of Xander's e-mails or phone calls.
Terrified at the prospect of a figurative noose tightening around his neck, yet filled with despair at missing out on his customary Christmas trip to Maurice's place in Chiang Mai, Xander thought back to the lovely Sumalee from last Easter. Her long perfect legs, and the sweet way she attended to his many needs.