by Lisa Gardner
My mother, however, is not stupid.
It didn’t take her long to realize that the victim advocates were always asking questions. About her children’s lives, past love interests. About her life, past love interests. And hey, now that she’d had something to eat, why didn’t she chat with the detectives for a bit? Which, in the beginning, she thought was so that the detectives could update her on what they were doing to help find me, but later she understood was so the detectives could grill her with even more questions. And oh yes, this morning her kind and compassionate victim advocate would take her around the house to collect possible pieces of information—cell phones, tablets, personal diaries. While the next morning, her victim advocate would chime out, hey, let’s go take a poly, much in the same tone her friends once used to invite her for a mani pedi.
I disappeared in Florida. And my mother’s life became a high-profile investigative drama, governed at all times by the nannies. Both of us, I guess, got lessons in survival. And both of us still know things that we wished we didn’t know.
For example, I know a victim advocate will appear on Stacey Summers’s doorstep this morning. Most likely someone close to her case. Maybe, like me, her parents actually value their advocate, having forged a bond. Or maybe, like my mother, they merely tolerate the relationship, one more intrusion in lives that certainly can’t be their lives anymore.
The advocate will bear a photo of Devon Goulding, my now dead attacker and almost certainly a repeat offender. The advocate will ask if they recognize this man, is there any chance Stacey once knew him? The Summerses will immediately be bold enough, crazy enough, to have questions of their own: Is this the man? Is this the guy who took their daughter? What happened to Stacey? Where is she; when can they see her?
The advocate will say nothing. And eventually, the Summerses will succumb to bewildered silence, every crumb of information merely leading to more questions. They won’t be able to ask Devon Goulding any questions. That fault is mine. But closure, the actual discovery of their daughter . . .
I glance back at the house. I hope these detectives can find the answers I didn’t get a chance to hunt for. Such as whose blood is in the corner of the garage. And is Devon the one who took beautiful, happy Stacey Summers? And what did he do with her after that?
Because I know I’ve watched Stacey’s abduction video more than I should. I know I sleep in a room wallpapered with stories of missing people who still haven’t made it home. I know when I headed out last night, I was looking for things I probably shouldn’t have been.
Once, I could’ve told you all about myself. Foxes. Springtime. Family.
Now . . .
I hope Stacey Summers is stronger than me.
* * *
I WOULD LIKE TO SLEEP. Lay down my head in the back of the patrol car and dream of the days before I ever thought of college or the lure of spring break, the promise of a sunny Florida beach.
Back in the days before I was always and forever alone.
A fresh clamor arises from across the street. I feel the shift and stir of the crowd accommodating a new and official arrival at the crime scene. I don’t have to look up to know who it is. I called and so he came. Because that is how it is between us. My mother had her nannies, but for me, the relationship has always been something more.
A minute passes. Two. Three.
Then, he is here, standing outside the open car door, perfectly attired as usual, with his long, double-breasted coat buttoned up tight against the chill.
“Oh, Flora.” FBI victim specialist Samuel Keynes sighs heavily. “What have you done?”
Chapter 7
BY THE TIME D.D. MADE IT DOWN the stairs and out of the Goulding residence, her cell phone had rung three times and she’d been stopped twice. She had good news, she had bad news, and she had a growing headache from a fast-evolving case and a long sleepless night.
According to the deputy superintendent of homicide, a.k.a. her boss, she was under strict orders to wrap up the scene and get the hell out of Dodge before her exhausted detectives inevitably let something slip in front of the clamoring media and this whole thing blew up in their faces. D.D. didn’t disagree. Short and sweet was never a bad plan when dealing with a homicide investigation. Unfortunately, she had a feeling they weren’t going to get that lucky.
D.D. finally cleared the front step. A roar went up from the reporters gathered across the way. You would’ve thought the champion quarterback was taking the field, she thought dryly, and not just an overworked police sergeant emerging into public view. Reflexively she held up a hand. No need to block a gauntlet of flashes this bright and sunny November morning. She just didn’t want to encourage any more shouted questions.
She headed right to where she’d last seen their victim turned avenger sitting tight in the rear of a patrol car, and sure enough . . . D.D. drew up short.
A tall, handsome black man stood beside the cruiser. No, a tall, beautiful black man. Perfectly sculpted cheekbones. Smoothly shaved head punctuated by an impeccably groomed goatee. Dark eyes fringed by impossibly long lashes. The man wore a double-breasted black wool coat, the kind favored by business executives and FBI agents. Except, up close, D.D. wasn’t sure it was wool. Maybe more like cashmere, paired with deep red silk scarf. Which, in the moment, made total sense to her. A man that handsome with a face that intelligent and a gaze that direct, of course he wore a thousand-dollar coat. And his non-bureau-issued car was probably a Bentley.
Belatedly, she realized she was staring, her mouth slightly agape. She snapped her jaw shut, squared her aching shoulders, and, what the hell, pretended like she was professional.
He held out a hand as she approached. “Dr. Samuel Keynes. Victim specialist. FBI.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” She returned the handshake. He had a firm grip. Naturally.
“And you are?” He awaited her reply patiently. Deep, deep dark eyes. Like melted chocolate. And clearly regarding her as if she were a lunatic.
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” she managed. “Supervisor. Homicide. This homicide. Wait a second.” She frowned, regaining her composure. “Victim specialist. Haven’t we met before? Boston Marathon bombings . . .”
“I assisted with several of the families, yes.”
D.D. nodded. It was coming back to her now. The Boston PD had assisted with the FBI’s investigation into the April 2013 Boston Marathon bombings. D.D. had personally handled several interviews, given the number of witnesses there’d been to question. In the task force briefings, she’d spotted Dr. Keynes, as well as several other victim specialists, though at the time there’d been too much going on to make any introductions. They’d all been too busy grappling with the horror of the bombings, let alone an extremely complex, active case.
“You know our person of interest?” she asked now, gesturing to her victim/suspect, who still sat silently in the back of the patrol car.
“Flora?” he prodded quietly.
The girl finally glanced up. The bruise had started darkening around her eye, turning her skin dark purple, while the bridge of her nose was an angry red.
The adrenaline rush had left her system, D.D. observed, and now she was crashing hard.
“You might as well tell her,” the woman said. Sitting in the back of the patrol car, wrapped in the blue police blanket, she shrugged, still not making eye contact. “Coming from you, she might believe. Whereas, anything I have to say . . .”
“Can be used against you in a court of law?” D.D. offered helpfully.
The girl skewered her with a look. “Exactly.”
“Sergeant Detective Warren,” Dr. Keynes began.
“D.D.”
“D.D., might we take a walk? Somewhere quieter?” He didn’t have to specify the reporters. Already the noise had quieted down, all the better for the media to eavesdrop.
D.D. gave it a moment’s c
onsideration, then jerked her head toward the Goulding residence. It was bustling with crime scene techs but no journalists, which was as close to privacy as they were going to get.
She led the way, Dr. Keynes falling in step beside her. “Nice coat,” she said. “Cashmere?”
“Yes.”
“Silk scarf?”
“Yes.”
“I gotta say, Boston PD isn’t quite that generous. Then again, I don’t have Doctor in front of my name.”
“My grandfather shined shoes for a living,” Dr. Keynes offered lightly. “My father, on the other hand, is a cardiothoracic surgeon. Graduated Harvard.”
“And you’re continuing your family’s upward mobility . . . in the FBI?” D.D. gave him a dubious look.
They’d reached the front door. Dr. Keynes held it open, a touch of chivalry that was hardly necessary at a crime scene.
“I enjoy my work. And I’m fortunate to be at a place in my life where I can afford to do what I love.”
“I’m beginning to see what you and my person of interest have in common. Both of you do an excellent job of never actually answering my questions.” The front door of the Goulding house opened to a modest foyer, with the staircase straight ahead. Given that the room’s wooden trim and staircase railing were currently being dusted for prints by a pair of crime scene techs, D.D. took a left turn away from the chaos. She and the good doctor arrived in a front sitting room that boasted a love seat, a coffee table piled with craft magazines, and a basket filled with balls of yarn. Someone, most likely Mrs. Goulding, must be into knitting. There was something about that small detail that pained D.D. How did you go from being a woman known for your hand-knit scarves to being the mother of an alleged rapist?
D.D. came to a halt in front of the coffee table. It felt too intrusive to sit, so she remained standing, Dr. Keynes doing the same. The small room was much warmer than outside, the air stuffy. Dr. Keynes unbuttoned his coat, loosened his scarf. Underneath, he wore a dark suit. Standard government issue, she thought, except once again, the cut and fabric were much nicer than anything worn by the average agent.
“Dr. Keynes,” she began, then paused a beat to see if he’d offer his first name. He didn’t.
“I haven’t worked with too many victim advocates,” D.D. continued at last. “But my memory is that in the FBI, you’re not the same as an agent. Your role is . . . ?”
“I’m a victim specialist. I report to the OVA: Office for Victim Assistance.”
“And you’re a doctor.”
“Psychologist.”
“Specialty?”
“Trauma. I work mostly with victims of kidnapping cases, everything from child abductions to the oil executive kidnapped for ransom in Nigeria.”
D.D. studied him. “I don’t think . . . Flora? . . . is an oil executive.”
“Florence Dane,” he supplied, then gazed at her expectantly.
The name rang a bell. Judging from the look on his face, it should. Plus, Neil’s comment from earlier, that he knew the woman’s face from somewhere . . .
D.D. finally got it. “Seven years ago. She was a college student. UMass. Went on spring break to Palm Beach and disappeared. The FBI handled the investigation . . .” She had to think. “Because of postcards, right? The mom started receiving postcards, allegedly written by her daughter, but all from different states. The mom went on TV, held several press conferences trying to get the kidnapper to engage.”
“There were more than postcards. He sent e-mails, even a few videos. Reaching out to the mother, tormenting her, appeared to be as gratifying to him as the abduction itself.”
D.D. frowned. “Florence Dane was gone a long time.”
“Four hundred and seventy-two days.”
“Jesus.” Despite herself, D.D. blinked. Very few victims were found alive after that length of time. And the ones who did . . . “Long-haul trucker?” she asked now. “The perpetrator traveled for his job, trucking, something like that?”
“Yes. Jacob Ness. He’d built a box in the back of his cab so he could keep his victim with him at all times. Most likely, Flora wasn’t his first.”
“He’s dead; that’s my memory. You guys got some kind of tip. SWAT descended. Florence made it. Jacob Ness didn’t.”
Dr. Keynes didn’t say anything. Very feebie of him, D.D. thought. She hadn’t asked, so he hadn’t answered.
“All right,” she stated more briskly. “My suspect, Flora, is your victim, Florence. Once, she was abducted by a crazed psychopath, and now . . . what? She tracks them down at bars?”
“Only Flora can answer that question.”
“And yet she didn’t. So far, all I can get out of her are theories on Devon Goulding’s crimes, not her own.”
“That’s the bartender? The one who allegedly attacked her?”
“That’s the victim,” D.D. corrected. “The once healthy male now reduced to crispy carnage in his own garage due to your girl’s knowledge of chemical fire.”
Dr. Keynes studied her, posture relaxed, hands in the pockets of his ridiculously expensive coat. “I’m sure you’ve made some inquiries.”
“Couple of detectives reviewed the bar’s security footage. They were able to corroborate that Devon Goulding worked last night. According to the video footage as well as eyewitness accounts, Flora was also present, though she spent most of the night dancing with another guy, Mark Zeilan. Interestingly enough, Mr. Zeilan filed a police report shortly after three A.M., alleging that a bartender from Tonic physically assaulted him outside the establishment.”
“Also consistent with Flora’s statement,” Dr. Keynes observed.
“A video camera from an ATM machine a block away captures what appears to be Devon leading Flora away by the arm. As for how willing she is . . . I’m told that could go either way.”
“Fast-forward to the scene here . . .”
“By all means. Fast-forward to the Gouldings’ garage.”
“First responders discovered Flora naked, with her hands bound before her.”
“You seem to be well-informed about the details.”
He dismissed that comment, saying instead, “Bound wrists don’t seem to indicate willingness.”
“Sorry. Given that it’s a Fifty Shades of Grey world, I can’t make that assumption. Tell me something, Dr. Keynes. Are you Flora’s victim specialist, or are you her shrink?”
“I am a victim specialist,” Dr. Keynes stated clearly. “Not a shrink.”
“But she called you. Not her mother. Not a lawyer. She called you. Why?”
“You would have to ask Flora that question.”
“You have a relationship,” D.D. asserted.
“No.”
“Uh, yeah. In the midst of a crisis, she called you. And I’m willing to bet, this isn’t the first time.”
Dr. Keynes thinned his lips. Such a handsome man, D.D. thought again. Beautiful, rich, successful. The crosses he had to bear. And yet there was something about him. A seriousness. A sadness? She couldn’t put her finger on it. But there was a somber edge to his composure that just kept her from hating him.
“You should ask Flora more questions,” he said at last. “She prefers honesty. A straightforward approach. I think you’ll find . . . She feels alone, Sergeant. Her experiences, what she’s been through. She’s a very unique, very strong young woman. But she’s also very isolated. There are few people who’ve survived what she’s survived.”
“Meaning in a time of crisis,” D.D. murmured, “she turns to the one person she thinks understands her. Which is not her family. It’s you.”
“You should ask her more questions,” he repeated. “And don’t dismiss her answers. Since her return five years ago, Flora has made criminal behavior her specialty.”
“You don’t say?”
“If she believes this barten
der took other girls, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover it’s true.”
“Are you working with Stacey Summers’s family?” D.D. asked abruptly.
Keynes shook his head; if he was surprised by this sudden change in topic, he didn’t show it. “A colleague of mine, Pam Mason, has been assigned that case.”
“Flora ever talk to you about Stacey’s disappearance? Follow it in the news?”
“Contrary to what you seem to believe, Flora and I don’t speak regularly.”
“Only when she’s in police custody?” D.D. prodded.
“Judging by her bruises, she appears to be telling the truth about being kidnapped by Devon Goulding,” Dr. Keynes stated neutrally. “Meaning whatever steps she took to defend herself . . .”
“Why won’t she accept medical assistance? If she’s so innocent, why not let a medical expert conduct an official exam, corroborate more of her story?”
“Victims of rape and other violent crimes often have an aversion to physical contact.”
“Really? Which explains why Flora Dane showed up at a bar, tossed back several martinis, and hit the dance floor with a complete stranger?”
“I’m not the enemy here, Sergeant Detective Warren. I’m merely endeavoring to offer some insights which might lead to a speedier resolution of this situation.”
“The situation being where your victim put herself in harm’s way in order to do what? Trap a predator? Save the day? Exact vengeance for what once happened to her?”
Dr. Keynes didn’t say anything. Abruptly D.D. lost patience.
“You want speedy resolution? Do us both a favor and cut to the chase. How many times has Flora done this before? How many middle-of-the-night phone calls have you gotten to answer? Might as well tell me, because you know I can look it up.”