“Operator, I’d like the number for the Lake Grove Police Department in Lake Grove, Ohio.” Aidan paced from the kitchen to the deck then back again. When the operator returned with the number, he wrote it on the back of an envelope.
“Yes, thank you,” he said. “Go ahead and connect me.”
The phone was answered on the second ring. “Lake Grove PD.”
“Good morning. This is Special Agent Aidan Shields.” Well, he was, technically, still a special agent.
“FBI?”
“Yes, sir.” Always be polite with the locals, Mancini told them. You never know who is on the other end of that phone. “Is your chief available? I’d like to speak with him.”
“No, I’m sorry, he’s out today. But Lieutenant Forbes is here. Would you like to speak with him?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
It was several long minutes until the lieutenant picked up.
“Forbes. What can I help you with?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. Shields here, FBI. We’re following up on some leads on a case, and we’re trying to locate an individual who once lived in Lake Grove. Guy named Curt Gibbons. Graduate of the local high school.”
“Name doesn’t ring a bell. How old is this Gibbons?”
“I’m not sure. Mid-thirties, maybe.”
“It would help, you know, to have a little information. . . .”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just thought maybe you’d have known him.”
“Me? No, I’m not from around here. I’m still getting to know the people who live here now.”
“Well, maybe you can look through your records and see if the name pops up.”
“Sure. I can do that.”
“Let me give you a number so that you can call me back.” Aidan recited the number of his mobile phone.
“We’ll run it through and give you a call back as soon as we have something.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant. We appreciate your help.” Aidan disconnected, wondering if Lieutenant Forbes had tossed the phone message into the chief’s “While you were out” bin or into the trash can.
Twenty minutes later, he knew.
“Aidan Shields?” a familiar voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Hold for John Mancini.”
Well, at least he knew that Forbes had taken his call seriously.
“Shields,” his boss greeted him pleasantly. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks. How was the honeymoon?”
“Over way too soon,” he replied. “Say, I just got back to the office and heard you’re back on the job. I hadn’t recalled that you’d reactivated.”
“Ah, well . . .”
“I just got a call from the Lake Grove, Ohio, Police Department, wanting to confirm that Special Agent Aidan Shields was in fact one of the good guys. Of course, I thought I’d give you a call myself, one, to welcome you back, and two, to find out what we had going in Lake Grove, Ohio, since I don’t seem to recall a case in that vicinity.”
So typical of Mancini to take this approach. Throw it out there and make you explain yourself. Aidan had been here before. Everyone on Mancini’s team had been there before.
Aidan explained the conversation with Miranda Cahill and his own personal curiosity about the whereabouts of Curt Gibbons.
“You think Gibbons has something to do with the case that Cahill’s on?”
“I don’t really know, but Cahill and I got to talking about how that crime scene six years ago reminded us both a little of the case she’s working. She mentioned this one suspect who had set off a little alarm somewhere, and when she went to follow up—just to see what he’s up to today—she found that he’s nowhere to be found. It just made me a little curious, that’s all.”
“So you called the local PD and identified yourself as an FBI agent to satisfy your curiosity?”
“Yes.”
“You know it’s a federal crime to pass yourself off as an FBI agent.”
“Right.” Aidan drained the bottle and stepped out onto the deck. Fog was closing in off the ocean. He watched it while he waited to see just where Mancini was going with this conversation.
“So as I see it, what we have here is an opportunity to let you make an honest man of yourself. Or we can send you to the federal penitentiary of your choice,” Mancini offered in his typical dry manner. “Go ahead, Shields. You make the call.”
“I don’t know, John.”
“What don’t you know?”
“I won’t pass the physical.”
“You mean today?”
“I mean ever.”
“Hmm. . . . Are you certain about that?”
“Maximum medical improvement will not be sufficient to pass the physical.”
“Well, then, I guess it’s jail time for you, mister.”
Aidan waited, knowing that John Mancini would never deliver a real threat in so light a manner.
“Unless, of course . . .” Mancini continued.
“Unless?”
“Unless I could persuade you to do a little background work for us on this. Nothing that would put you in the line of fire while you’re still medically unable to perform full duties, but there are ways in which you could serve the Bureau.” Mancini paused. “You interested?”
“Keep talking.”
“I’m intrigued that both you and Agent Cahill were reminded of the same crime scene. I’d like to have that followed up, but as you know, since 9/11, we’ve lost so many of our people to the antiterrorist unit that I just don’t have the manpower to track down every one of those little things that nag at the back of your mind. But, as you also know, I greatly believe in the importance of those nagging little jolts to the memory. Intuition. Or whatever you want to call it. Many a case has been solved because an agent has followed up on his or her instincts, even when, on the surface, the connection appeared very tenuous. I’ve always felt that both you and Agent Cahill have very strong instincts.”
“So what are you saying?”
“That I’d like you to continue along in this vein. See what you can find on this“—Mancini shuffled some papers—”Curt Gibbons. And anything else you can dig up that could relate to this case.”
“Okay.”
“Glad to have you back. In any capacity. We’ve missed you.” Mancini paused. “You’re a hard man to replace.”
“Thanks. Oh. And about the Lake Grove PD—”
“Yes?”
“What exactly did you tell them?”
“I told them you were our guy and the Bureau would appreciate their full cooperation,” Mancini said, then, before he hung up, added, “Keep in touch, Shields.”
“Sure thing,” Aidan said with a nod, even though he knew that the line had gone dead. “Sure thing . . .”
Sandra Styler unsnapped her black robe and hung it on a hook on the back of the door leading from her office into Courtroom B1 on the second floor of the Avon County Courthouse. She’d had a full schedule and wanted nothing more than to kick off her shoes, let down her hair, and have a drink. Or two.
It had been a really long day, and not a particularly pleasant one.
Judge Styler did not understand adults who did things that hurt children and thus had neither patience nor sympathy nor the inclination to listen to excuses. There simply was no excuse for abusing a child. Having been a victim of abuse herself—though she’d kept this fact to herself—she was particularly single-minded when cases involving child abuse came before her. She’d had two such cases that day and as a result was leaving for home with an unrelenting headache and a bad attitude.
She took the long way home, around the lake, where she pulled over for a moment to watch a heron wading in the shallows. The large bird appeared to move in slow motion as it strode purposefully, its long neck stretched out as it searched the waters for dinner. The bird was beautiful, graceful, elegant—just observing it calmed her. There had been no beauty, grace, or elegance in her day.
Driving on past the
lake, she swerved to avoid hitting a biker who had seemed to have come out of the blue. She cursed softly, her momentary calm shattered, and she stepped on the gas, anxious now to get home. Home, it appeared, was the only place she’d find any real peace that day.
The Mercedes convertible—her gift to herself on her fiftieth birthday a few years back—wound its way through the quiet neighborhood of executive-style homes. The judge’s house was at the far end of the development, on the largest lot that had been available when she’d had the house built. The house was the first she’d purchased on her own, and she’d put into it everything she’d ever wanted in a home. She figured she deserved it, after her divorce from that miserable weasel she’d married less than ten years ago. The marriage hadn’t lasted long, and she’d been more than happy to wash her hands of the whole thing after she’d seen her husband, Peter, seated in a cozy little booth in a nearby restaurant with one of their neighbors from the town house complex where they lived.
Within months, she was on her own and in the market for a new place to live. This time, she decided, she would please no one except herself. And the lovely red-brick house on almost an acre of rolling countryside pleased her very much.
She drove the car all the way to the end of the driveway, as was her custom, though she did not continue into the garage, and got out. She had theater tickets for that night and still hadn’t decided whether or not she wanted to go.
Reaching her hand over the top of the gate, she slipped the lock and stepped into the sanctuary of her backyard. From the pool, with its spa and waterfall, to the dwarf fruit trees that grew neatly along the back fence, to the patio with its perfect furniture, all was lovely, serene, tasteful in this little world she’d created for herself. She paused for several moments, just taking it in. The view never failed to cheer her.
Sighing happily, she crossed the flagstone patio, unlocked the back door, and deactivated the alarm. The interior of the house was cool but welcoming. Her footsteps echoed softly on the Mexican tile floor of the kitchen, then faded as she passed into the dining room where her heels sunk into the plush Oriental rug. She unlocked the front door and stepped out for the mail, which she removed from the hand-painted mailbox near the front steps. Sorting through it, she separated bills from junk. She dropped all but the junk mail onto a Chippendale table in the front hall, then took the discards back into the kitchen, where she tossed them into the trash. She listened to the messages on her answering machine while she poured herself a glass of merlot and then walked back outside, debating whether she felt up to a quick swim before dinner. Oh, what the hell, she thought. The pool is heated. Why not?
She changed in the small pool house that had been built onto the side of the garage. Stepping back out into the cool of the late spring evening, she started toward the water’s edge when something caught her eye. Walking to the far end of the yard, she leaned over to inspect the ground where something had dug under the back fence. That damned German shepherd of the Ryans. She gritted her teeth. Last summer it had been the landscaping in the front yard that was targeted by her across-the-street neighbor’s dog. Looks like it’s time for another little chat with Paul and Celia, she thought, and shook her head. Damned dog. She’d call them as soon as she went back inside.
The dog—and the broad hole it had dug—dismissed, she headed for the pool. The sun was beginning to set, and even though the water would be warm, in another twenty minutes or so it would begin to get dark, and the temperature of the air would start to drop faster. She shed her towel and dove into the deepest water, surfacing near the shallow end, then turned onto her back and floated, her eyes closed, listening to the gentle sound of the waterfall and thinking about how perfect her life was at that very moment.
Fifteen minutes later, she would step out of the pool and straight into the arms of a nightmare worse than anything she could ever have imagined.
CHAPTER
TEN
“. . . AND WE UNDERSTAND THAT THE DISTRICT ATTORney will be holding a press conference in conjunction with the police, and that is scheduled to start at any moment.” The lithe blond reporter gazed directly into the camera, refraining from a smile that might make her appear shallow in the face of the day’s events.
After all, it wasn’t every day that a county judge—a popular, highly respected county judge—was found murdered.
So far, there’d been no details released by either the D.A.’s office or the police department, not particularly unusual under the circumstances, when one considered the status of the victim. But Candace McElroy planned to be in the front row when the conference began. With this in mind, the reporter motioned to her cameraman to follow her into the courthouse. When her cell phone began to ring, she checked the number. Jason Kerr, the rookie cop who followed her around like a puppy, had already called her twice in the past two days, both times just to talk. Candace hesitated, wondering if this was another social call or a heads-up on the judge’s murder. Taking her chances that this time he was calling with a legitimate tip, she answered the phone.
She was very, very glad she had.
The press conference began ten minutes later, but by then Candace already knew everything she needed to knock every other reporter in the room off their seats. When the chief of police finished his official announcement of Judge Sandra J. Styler’s death yet declined to specify the cause, Candace was the first to raise her hand with a question.
She stood, and asked in a clear voice, so that all could hear, “Is it true that Judge Styler was killed in the same manner in which the Mary Douglas victims were killed? And if so, does this mean there’s a copycat killer, or does it mean that the police have arrested the wrong man?”
Standing at the side of the courthouse steps where the press and the curious had gathered, Mara leaned forward, not quite believing her ears.
“What did she say, the reporter up front?” She tapped the arm of the man slightly in front of her.
“She asked if it was true that the judge was killed the same way those Mary Douglas ladies were killed,” he replied without turning around. “And if that meant the wrong guy had been arrested.”
Still not certain that she’d heard correctly, Mara moved forward through the crowd, which had begun to buzz, awaiting the response of the D.A., who was in an off-the-mike powwow with the chief of police.
Judge Styler killed in the same manner as the Marys? How could that be?
It had been enough of a shock when, just as she was about to leave her office for lunch, Gil Lindquist, whose office was across the hall from hers, leaned through her doorway and asked, “Did you hear about Judge Styler?”
“No, what?” Mara had said absently.
He lowered his voice. “She was murdered.”
“What?” Mara’s jaw had literally dropped.
“She was murdered. They found her body in her house.”
“How? What happened?” Mara couldn’t believe it. She’d had a case before Judge Styler at the end of last week.
“They’re being real closemouthed about that. At least, they have been so far. But I just heard on the radio that there’s going to be a press conference.” Gil glanced at his watch. “Just about now, actually. I was thinking about going outside to see what they had to say.”
“The conference is outside?”
“On the courthouse steps. Want me to wait for you?”
“You go ahead. I’ll be down in just a minute.”
Mara had squeezed her eyes tightly closed as the sorrow began to build. She’d liked Sandra Styler a lot, respected her greatly for never being afraid to take a stand, for always sticking to her principles. Mara prayed that whatever had happened, however Judge Styler had lost her life, it had been a quick and painless death.
It appeared now that that may have been too much to ask.
The D.A. and Chief Donner both declined to respond to the reporter’s question, citing the pending investigation, but it was obvious from their expressions that this was the
last thing they’d expected when they opened for questions. When a second reporter followed up, the press conference was brought to an abrupt close.
The buzz in the crowd lasted long after the courthouse steps were cleared. Mara bought a can of soda from Maury, then sat on a bench as if in a fog, trying to put it all together. From what she had heard in the courthouse over the past few days, Teddy Douglas had freely admitted that he’d wanted to kill his mother, but he adamantly denied having killed her or the other two women. He never wavered from his insistence that he’d found the bloody shirt—the one soaked with the blood of the first Mary—in the park on the evening after she’d been killed.
Almost afraid to fully consider the consequences if Teddy was telling the truth, Mara took her cell phone from her purse and speed-dialed Annie’s number. “Annie. It’s me, Mara.”
“Oh, I recognized the voice.” Annie seemed amused that her sister had thought to identify herself. “What’s up?”
Mara quickly filled her in on the news.
“Well, then, we need to know if this is an unfounded rumor or not. Because if it’s true, then we run the risk of the Mary Douglas killer still being out there.”
“You know I’m not one to jump to conclusions about these things, but what if . . .” Mara paused, afraid to put into words the thought that had begun to nag at her.
“What if what?”
“What if . . . oh, damn, it’s sounding paranoid even to me now.” She walked to the end of the sidewalk, away from the crowd.
“What does?”
“Well, when I heard about Judge Styler, the first thing I thought of was, well, we’ve had so many cases together, what if someone whose case we’d handled—maybe someone whose rights had been terminated, or someone whose kids had been placed in foster care . . .” She swallowed hard, then whispered, “What if that person . . . if he . . .”
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