“More questions?” Dorie asked. “I have about a thousand of them.”
“Me, too.” Ellery’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and she drew it out to study the latest message. “Apparently, the tip line got something interesting enough to forward up the chain. Someone who didn’t care to leave their name phoned a few hours ago to say that Martin Lockhart is having an affair.”
Dorie sighed. “Yet more questions. Did they say who with?”
“Amanda McFarland.”
“You mean that cool drink of water from his office who made up some excuse to drop by yesterday?”
“It has to be. How many Amanda McFarlands can he know?”
“We can go in there and hit him with it now. See what he says.”
Ellery checked her watch, feeling time slipping away. “Give me a second. I want to consult an expert.” She walked off behind the banana plant and dialed Reed’s number. He answered straightaway.
“I saw Teresa’s plea,” he said. “Hopefully whoever has Chloe saw it, too.”
“Did she look contrite enough to you?”
“She looked terrified.”
Ellery hummed a reply. “Maybe that will be enough. Listen, we’ve uncovered a new wrinkle. Someone phoned the tip line to say that Martin Lockhart is having an affair with a woman at his office named Amanda McFarland. I’d say it was nothing, but she made up a pretext to drop by the house yesterday to see him. Teresa wasn’t pleased.”
“You think she knows?”
“What do you think?” Reed’s family had spent decades ignoring his father’s serial infidelities.
“In my experience, the wife’s radar is rarely wrong. What does Martin Lockhart say about it?”
“We haven’t asked him yet. We were just on our way to talk to Chloe’s best friend again. The nanny couldn’t ID the boy from the photo, so we thought McKenna would be our best shot.”
“That does seem to be the more pressing lead.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to see how Martin Lockhart’s inability to keep his pants zipped could be related to Chloe’s abduction.”
“It’s probably not. Except…”
He didn’t finish his thought. She waited and then prodded him. “Except?”
She heard a long exhale. “Where there’s one secret, you’ll find others. There’s something hiding in the middle of that family, something they’re not telling us.”
Ellery agreed the Lockharts seemed haunted, but she didn’t see any mystery to it. “Maybe it’s just the ghost of Trevor Stone.”
“Maybe. I can talk to Martin Lockhart if you like.”
“You would? That would be great.” Ellery peeked out from behind the plant and signaled Dorie that they could go. “If Martin Lockhart was boning his younger colleague while his daughter got kidnapped, let me know. At least then he’d have a solid alibi.”
“Wasn’t he playing golf with the lawyer? Stephen Wintour?”
“Like you said—where there’s one lie, you’ll find others.”
9
Reed regretted his hasty decision when he saw the news vans with their satellite dishes outside the Lockhart home. The shouts of the reporters being held at bay by sawhorses and uniformed officers landed like blows on his back as he ushered Tula up the front walk. “Whose house is this, Daddy?” Tula skipped along beside him, the picture of innocence. “It’s big like Grandma and Papa’s.”
“The girl who is missing, Chloe Lockhart, lives here. Daddy just needs to talk to her father for a few minutes.”
“Oh. Does he know where she is?”
Let’s hope not, thought Reed. He rang the bell and Margery Brimwood answered. “Agent Markham,” she said with a note of surprise as she glanced at Tula. “Bringing along the young recruits today?”
“This is my daughter, Tula. Tula, this is Mrs. Brimwood. I wondered if maybe Tula could have some cookies and milk while I spoke with Mr. Lockhart for a few minutes.”
“Sure, we can do that,” Margery said as she welcomed them inside. “It would be nice to do something normal for a change. Maybe after the cookies, we could take Snuffles out to the backyard for some exercise. She’s missing her little girl, you know.”
“Snuffles is Chloe’s dog,” Reed explained to Tula, who lit up at the prospect.
“I love dogs!”
“And Snuffles will love you, too, I’m sure. Come this way to the kitchen, love.” She looked over her shoulder to Reed. “You’ll find Martin in his study—through those doors and down the hall on the right. Fair warning, though: he’s not alone.”
Reed followed the directions to a mahogany paneled door, where he paused to listen. He heard murmured voices on the other side, one male and one female. Here we go, he thought, and he pushed open the door without knocking. A blond woman looked up sharply from her place at Martin Lockhart’s side. “Who the hell are you?” Lockhart demanded. He sat at his desk with some papers in front of him. The woman had her arm across the back of Lockhart’s chair, and her body posture, leaning down over him, put her breasts in direct line with his eyeballs.
“Special Agent Reed Markham,” Reed replied. “I’m consulting on your daughter’s case.” He took in the masculine room with dark wood paneling that smelled like books and leather. The floor-to-ceiling shelves gleamed in the recessed lighting, while the large window gave a prime view of the rosebushes blooming outside. It reminded him of his father’s office back at home.
“Oh, right,” said Lockhart gruffly. “Captain Conroy mentioned you. What is it? Is there some news?”
“Nothing yet.” He looked at the woman, who had not been introduced. “I’m sorry … you are?”
“Amanda McFarland,” she said as she offered her hand. “I work with Martin.”
“Is that what you’re doing here? Work?”
“Actually no. Amanda thought it might make sense to offer a reward for information leading to Chloe’s return. I agree with her and we’re just discussing some possibilities on how to go about it. Her background is in PR, so her knowledge is helpful here.”
“I see. Have you talked about this with Teresa?”
Martin’s cheeks hollowed out with his frown. “My wife is upstairs resting. The TV appearance did her in, as you might imagine.”
“Yes, it would be devastating to have your child abducted and then have the kidnapper suggest the motive is your miserable parenting. Why do you think the text focused solely on Teresa with no mention of you?”
“I have no idea.”
“Someone called the tip line today with an idea,” Reed said, looking from one to the other. Amanda McFarland’s blue eyes appeared cool and speculative. Martin seemed tense and distracted. “The tipster said you’re having an affair. The pair of you.”
Martin sucked in a quick breath, as if he’d been punched. Amanda laughed. “Since it’s not true,” she said, “I can tell you exactly who phoned in that tip. Teresa Lockhart.”
“You don’t know that.” Martin turned to her with scorn.
“Come on now, Martin, you know she can’t stand me.”
“You’re saying there is no affair?” Reed watched closely for their denials.
“Of course not,” Amanda replied, but Martin didn’t meet his gaze.
“No,” he said at length. “No affair. Nothing like that.”
“Why would someone call in the tip then?” Reed asked.
“I just told you—” Amanda began, but Martin cut her off.
“You get loads of tips that are wrong or go nowhere, right? Conroy told me that earlier when I broached the reward idea with him. He said it would only bring out more cranks.”
“He’s probably right.”
“Yes, well, I don’t give a damn how many bottom-feeders come nibbling to the surface. It only takes one real call to get the answer. If I have to pay a thousand people to man the phones, I’ll do it. Whatever it takes to bring Chloe home.” His fiery delivery seemed convincing, but Reed still believed the man was holding something back.
&
nbsp; “I’d like to speak to Mr. Lockhart alone, if I could,” he said to Amanda.
“Fine.” She uncrossed her arms and stopped glaring at Reed long enough to give Martin’s arm a sympathetic squeeze. “I’ll add a thousand to the total, whatever it is. Just let me know how I can help, okay?”
He covered her hand with his own. “Thank you.”
As she left, Reed noted the crisp linen skirt, the high heels, and a heavy scent of perfume and makeup in her wake. Whatever her relationship to Martin Lockhart, she’d come dressed for a date, not a strategy meeting over reward money. Martin watched her go with a searching expression that Reed couldn’t decipher. The heavy quiet was interrupted by a child’s happy shout and the noise of barking. Behind Martin’s shoulder, Reed could see Tula with Margery in the backyard. His daughter laughed as she ran in circles, presumably with a little white dog yipping at her heels. Martin heard the giggles and turned to look. “Who’s that out there?” he demanded, rising from his chair. “I didn’t let a child in here.”
“She’s my daughter. She and I were visiting Boston when Chloe went missing.”
Martin turned to him with fresh understanding in his eyes. “You have a daughter.”
“She’s seven.”
Martin nodded dumbly. “I liked seven. Chloe had such an intense curiosity back then. She wanted to know all about my trips. We’d sit in here and look at the atlas together. She was especially fascinated with Egypt. I brought her back a little pyramid with a mummy inside and she slept with it for a week. I think she still has it in her room.”
“I take it almost-thirteen is harder.”
“She doesn’t laugh like that anymore,” answered Martin, looking out the window again. “She hasn’t for a long time.”
“Why do you think that is?”
He turned with a heavy sigh. “Adolescent hormones, maybe. Also, as I mentioned, she wanted more independence, more freedom. I suppose I did, too, when I was her age. I remember thinking my father was like a fossil and he was fifteen years younger at the time than I am now.” He gave a ghost of a smile, thinking on it.
“Someone thinks you’re having an affair with Ms. McFarland,” Reed said. “She seems pretty convinced it’s your wife.”
Martin snorted and picked up some papers from his desk. “Teresa sees threats that aren’t there. It’s rather her defining characteristic, if you will.”
“So there’s nothing there between you and Amanda McFarland,” Reed replied, unconvinced. “Nothing at all.”
Martin shuffled paper and didn’t answer for a long time.
“Mr. Lockhart?”
He frowned at the papers with faint accusation. “I met Teresa two years after Trevor died. It was at a benefit for the hospital and she gave an impassioned speech about the medical profession and ‘the duty to care,’ about how patients come to the hospital at one of the worst points in their lives and doctors need to be mindful of how utterly terrifying that is. We need to see the person, she said. Not the disease. I remember thinking at the time that she must have been a patient herself at some point and something went wrong. You could see it in her. There was a woundedness in her eyes, like she hadn’t properly healed. I wanted to take care of her.”
“Did she tell you about Trevor’s death?”
“No, someone else did when I started asking around about her. I was appalled. I—I tried to fix it. I offered to pay a private investigator to look into the case, but she refused. She said they had hired one back when the murder happened, but he didn’t have any luck. The entire Philadelphia police force couldn’t solve it, she told me. What’s one more person going to do at this late date? I asked what I could do—something, anything, to help her. She said she wanted to plant some spring bulbs at her home and if I wanted to, I could help her with that. We started seeing a lot of each other after that.”
“You fell in love,” Reed said.
“I did,” he said, lowering himself into his chair like a man much older than he was. “I told myself Teresa did, too. She didn’t say the words, but there was tenderness and care in her actions. She would make the coffee strong, the way I liked it, and just add more milk to hers. She would bring along my sweater when we went out because she knew I’d get chilly and wouldn’t think to bring it. She kissed my cheek every morning before she left for work, no matter where I was in the house. She would find me and give me that kiss.” He touched his cheek, rubbing it absently. “Then Chloe was born and I saw it at last—love, real love. Not just for the baby, but for me, too. She beamed. She laughed. The passion she always had at work spilled over into our home, and it was glorious. It was like she came back to life. Teresa’s heart expanded and we all fit inside, snug as a bug in a rug, as my own mother used to say.”
“So, what happened?”
His smile faded. “Chloe got older, more mobile, and she wanted to explore the world. Teresa’s fears started to grow as she imagined all sorts of terrible fates befalling Chloe. Poisons, predators, accidents on the street. We put up bars on the windows and cameras around the house and we stopped taking Chloe out in public as much, but none of it seemed to calm Teresa’s fears. I asked her to see a doctor, someone to help her manage her anxiety, but she snapped at me that she wasn’t crazy, that her child had died and I would never understand that.” He looked at Reed, his eyes wet. “What can you say to that?”
Reed had no answer. “And Amanda McFarland?” he asked.
“We kissed,” Martin admitted, shamefaced. “Once. No, twice. She initiated it, not me, although I didn’t push her away as quickly as I might have. She wanted more, but I was clear with her. I would never leave Chloe. I would never betray my family.”
Reed’s cell phone buzzed from his pocket, an insistent ring. He dug it out and noted the name. Sarit. He declined the call and stuck the phone back in his jeans. “Who besides Amanda McFarland knows about the kisses the two of you shared?”
“No one, or so I thought.” He shrugged. “Maybe Teresa has been paying more attention to me than I gave her credit for.”
Reed’s phone rang again. Sarit would not be denied. He reached into his pocket and silenced it. “You never considered leaving? Moving out or starting over?”
“And risk leaving Chloe alone with Teresa? No.” He leaned back in his seat, seeming defeated. “I owe her an apology, it seems. All these years, I thought she was stifling, too overprotective. I thought she’d been broken in a way I could never fix. It turns out she was right all along.”
A sharp knock on the door made Martin sit up and Reed turn around. Captain Conroy poked his head into the room, his expression troubled. “Agent Markham, could I grab you for a few minutes? I need your opinion on something.”
“What is it?” Martin asked as he got to his feet. “Has something happened?”
Conroy held out a forestalling hand. “You stay put for now, okay? I’ll call you if I need you.”
“What’s up?” Reed asked as they walked through the house. He peeked at his cell phone and saw that Sarit had left a voice mail and also sent a text. He ignored the voice mail for now. The text was a screen grab of a television, some news channel. The slightly blurry image showed him and Tula outside the Lockhart home and the chyron read: FBI PROFILER JOINS CASE FOR MISSING GIRL. Sarit had included her own caption as well: What the ever-loving fuck, Reed??
“Someone found a large envelope on a bench in the Common. It has Teresa Lockhart’s name on it, so they turned it over to the nearest beat officer. He brought it to his precinct, and we are having it couriered over to us.”
“What’s in it?”
“Don’t know yet,” Conroy muttered. “My guess is nothing good. Ah, here we go.” The front door swung open and a uniformed officer appeared with a paper bag. “Is that the parcel?”
The man nodded. “Press outside is mighty curious.”
“Forget them.” Conroy jerked a nod at Reed. “Let’s check it out down here, away from prying eyes.” The two men found an unoccupied room, empty
save for a grand piano and some bookshelves. Conroy put on gloves and removed the large envelope from inside the bag. He set it on the piano bench and took a few pictures with his phone. The envelope itself appeared unremarkable, the kind you could purchase from any office store or even a supermarket. The block lettering on the front gave Teresa’s name and nothing more. “Here I go,” Conroy said with a deep breath. He used a pocketknife to slit the envelope open and then tilted it sideways so the contents fell out onto the bench.
Both men gasped as a pile of silky blond hair spilled out across the black lacquer. A note card fell atop the pile: NOT GOOD ENOUGH. NEXT TIME, IT’S HER FINGERS.
“Jesus, what a sick fuck,” Conroy whispered. The color had drained completely from his face. He appeared to be swallowing back nausea. “What would make someone do this? What do we do now, give in to him? Set up another TV spot with the mom?”
Reed barely heard him over the buzzing in his ears. He stared at the pile of hair, pictured Chloe’s face in his mind, and imagined her being held down as someone took a razor to her. From outside, Tula screamed—a happy noise, but Reed’s heart lurched to a stop. “I have to go,” he said, feeling the walls closing in around him.
“Wait,” Conroy protested. “I need advice here.”
“I’ll call you,” Reed said without slowing down.
Only once in the taxi, with Tula leaning against his arm and making up some tuneless song about Snuffles, did he breathe again.
10
Ellery braced herself for a fight with McKenna’s father the judge about whether they would be allowed to question her outside the presence of her parents, but Dorie’s soft touch won him over. Head tilted downward in deference, big pleading eyes. Dorie gave him the works. “If it was the other way around and McKenna was the one who was missing, wouldn’t you want Chloe to share absolutely everything she knows?”
“Of course you can talk to her,” Judge McIntyre said as he let them inside another posh suburban home. “I just don’t think she can be of any additional help. McKenna answered your questions yesterday and she’s been in bed with a stomachache today. This whole business is quite upsetting for her.”
Every Waking Hour Page 9