“Between here and Lancaster,” Lorna said.
“And what about that friend of Melinda Eagan’s you were going to visit?” Mitch drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “What did she have to say?”
“She said as little as possible,” T.J. told him. “She claimed to barely remember Melinda. Even Lorna’s attempts to jog her memory seemed to bounce off her.”
“Which was really hard to believe,” Lorna interjected. “Since I happen to know that Melinda spent quite a few weekends at Danielle’s house that last summer and fall.”
“Why would she deny knowing her?” Regan asked.
“I have no idea. Obviously I knew she was lying. And she said she sort of remembered my name. I was never a friend of hers, was never at her home, never socialized with her, but she remembered my name, not Melinda’s?” Lorna shook her head. “Not even close to being credible.
“And the second we left she was on the phone to someone,” Lorna said.
“Oh, right, the number you wanted the phone records for. I should have them by tomorrow, depending on how busy my buddy is back in the office.”
“I can’t wait to find out who she felt needed to know we were asking about Melinda.” Lorna slipped the last of the dinner plates into the cupboard. “I wonder who would be that interested, after all these years.”
“Well, hopefully by this time tomorrow, we’ll know.” Mitch stood and pushed his chair in, obviously preparing to leave. “And with any luck, we’ll have IDs on the last three remains, maybe even a better idea of who killed them, and why.”
E
ighteen
The ride north on I-95 at nine-thirty in the morning was always an exercise in patience. As another weekend approached, the travelers who saved their vacation until late summer were in a hurry to get to their destinations. That usually meant taking the quickest route, which—north to south and back again—was I-95. Add the commuters to the mix, and you had heavy volume. Throw in a little road repair and you had yourself a backup.
T.J. moved his seat back to give his legs a little extra room. For some reason, when he was driving, the space didn’t seem quite as narrow as it did when the car was sitting still. He toyed with the idea of putting the top up. Stopped on a major highway in three lanes of traffic that were going nowhere, you felt pretty much exposed to your fellow travelers with the top down. With the temperature rising steadily, and the sun blazing, you just knew all the other drivers were sitting there watching you fry.
He hunted in the console for a paper towel or a tissue to dry the sweat from his face. He found a crumpled but unused yellow napkin from a fast-food restaurant, and put it to work, blotting the area around his eyes and the back of his neck. Leaning against the headrest, he slipped his dark glasses back on and closed his eyes.
The drive to Callen wasn’t more than forty minutes in light traffic. He’d told Lorna to expect him around ten. Their appointment with Dustin Lafferty was at noon, at his office in Elk Run. Lorna figured that was about an hour from her place, so they had time to spare. Or would have, if traffic got moving again.
Being stuck in the car, with nowhere to go and nothing else to do, gave him plenty of time to think about things he’d been trying not to think about for the past few days. His future. The voice-mail message on his cell phone from John Mancini. Lorna.
He figured the future was wide open. He didn’t have to rush to make any decisions right away. Selling the business had provided more than enough cash to live on for a while. Money wasn’t going to be a problem, unless he did something really stupid, which wasn’t his style. Once the sale of his house in Baltimore went through, he’d be sitting even prettier. Until, of course, he found another place to buy, but he was in no hurry to do that, either. He could always rent something for a few months, or a year if he had to, until he decided where he wanted to go, and what he wanted to do.
Bored, he listened to the message from his former boss again, disconnected from voice mail. He didn’t know how he felt about the Bureau right now. He’d loved that job. Loved being Special Agent Thomas Jefferson Dawson, loved the challenge of putting together the facts and circumstances of a crime in order to solve it. He’d been good at it—so good, they’d asked him if he was interested in being assigned to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime and taking on some of the duties generally termed “profiler.” T.J. had jumped at the opportunity, and over the next few years had developed analytical skills that had set him apart from most of his peers. Over time, he’d honed those skills and had become sought after more and more for consultation in the most complicated cases. He’d loved the work, loved the role he’d played in bringing down vicious criminals. He could have gone on with the Bureau until retirement, had all intention of doing exactly that. Until Lakeview, Georgia, and Teddy Kershaw . . .
The ringing of his cell phone brought him back from a place he’d just as soon not go.
“Dawson.”
“T.J., it’s Lorna. I have the TV on and I just saw the tie-up on I-95.”
“That’s me there on your screen, top down, baseball cap, dark glasses.”
She laughed. “If you can get as far as Havre de Grace and exit the interstate, I’ll give you directions that will save you time. Assuming traffic is still slow.”
“Traffic is not slow. Traffic is at a standstill.”
“Well, if it gets moving, call me back.”
“I’ll do that, thanks.” He paused, then said, “We may need to call Lafferty and reschedule for later today, if possible. What’s the latest you think we can leave your house and still make it to his office by noon?”
“Eleven-twenty, not much later than that, unless we don’t mind being a few minutes late.”
“I don’t mind being late, but I don’t know how much latitude Lafferty has in his schedule. What’s he like? Is he the type to get annoyed at being postponed?”
“I have no idea. I never really knew him very well. He’s a few years older than I am—six or seven, I think—and the only times I ever saw him were at the Eagans’. I don’t have a clear recollection of him, really. So I don’t know if he’ll be put off or not.”
“Well, hopefully, we won’t have to worry about that. Hey, I see a little movement from the vehicle ahead of me.” T.J. straightened in his seat and put the car in gear.
“Great. Well, call me back if you need directions.”
“Will do. And thanks, Lorna.”
The Crossfire inched along behind the Tahoe directly in front of him. The SUV being taller and wider, T.J. couldn’t see over or around it, and wasn’t sure how far ahead traffic had begun to crawl. It was stop and go for the next mile. He saw the sign for Havre de Grace up ahead, and thought about calling Lorna back. He’d wait until he got closer, to judge whether he needed an alternate route.
Not that he’d mind another reason to call Lorna. So far, the best thing about striking out on his own had been meeting her. The case was intriguing and complex enough to challenge him, and though he’d be hard-pressed to admit it to Mitch, T.J. was enjoying working with his old teammate again. With Lorna in that mix, T.J. almost felt as if he’d won the lottery.
He’d always liked women with brown eyes, and Lorna’s were almost the exact same shade of cinnamon as her hair. She was down-to-earth and pretty, with a frequent smile and an easy laugh. She was independent and smart, and he couldn’t think of one thing about her that he didn’t like. In fact, he’d liked her the minute he met her. He’d never been one to mix business and pleasure—too risky to one’s professional reputation—but he didn’t figure this case would go on forever. In the meantime, he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather be working a case with right now. All around, it had been a very good week.
If he hadn’t been thinking so much about Teddy Kershaw, the week would have been damned near perfect.
“You want to drive?” T.J. asked Lorna as she walked toward the car.
“Sure.” She grinned. “I’d love to drive, thanks.”
He got out of the car and dangled the keys in front of her.
“You remember the rules?”
“Yeah, yeah. No lead feet and if I get stopped for speeding, the fine is on me.” She grabbed the keys and got in, tossing her handbag onto the back ledge before putting the key in the ignition and turning it on.
“Don’t you love the sound of that engine?”
She laughed. “Yes, I guess I do.”
“Easy, Andretti. She has a little more pickup than your SUV,” he reminded her.
“Don’t I know it.” She was still grinning as she turned onto the road.
T.J. adjusted his seat, moving it back to make room for his legs, content to let her drive, pleased to have given her so much to smile about. She was a cautious driver—he’d discovered that the other day when he’d let her take the sports car for a short drive—but she clearly was having fun behind the wheel. He leaned back against the headrest and watched the countryside roll by.
They drove past farm after farm—from the most modern-equipped to the Amish and Mennonite homesteads—past ponds where great blue herons fed and one where a lone swan was curled upon the bank. The drive was restful, the airflow through the front seat making it too difficult to carry on a conversation. They rode mostly in silence, but neither appeared to care.
“This is it.” Lorna slowed at the first red light on the outskirts of Elk Run, a small town just southeast of Lancaster. The office of the New Security Insurance Agency was located in the brick strip mall to their right. The light changed to green, and she made the turn into the parking lot. There was a space right in front of the storefront with Dustin Lafferty’s name on the door, so she parked and turned off the engine.
“That was so much fun.” She handed T.J. the keys. “I felt as if I were flying.”
“Actually, you
were
flying there for a while.” He took the keys and unhooked his seat belt. “Fortunately, no one seemed to notice except me.”
“I tried to keep the speed down,” she said as they got out of the car. “It’s just so hard to drive slowly when you get behind that wheel.”
“Well, shall we go in and see which version of the truth Mr. Lafferty has for us?” T.J. dropped the keys into his pants pocket and held the door to the office open for her.
“Sounds as if he already has one strike against him.”
“He does. We know he must have been lying about having seen Billie and Jason arguing after he dropped Jason off that night, because we’ve already established he couldn’t have seen into the house if he’d stayed in his car. I can’t think of one good reason to lie about something like that. So yes, I’m going into this interview with a healthy bit of skepticism. Let’s see what develops while we’re here.”
They stepped inside and were greeted by a young woman wearing a knee-length skirt and a short-sleeved sweater over her T-shirt. The air-conditioning in the room was apparently set to frigid, and Lorna wondered how the receptionist managed to avoid frostbite.
Dustin Lafferty heard them enter, and came out of his office to greet them. In his early forties, he had the beginnings of a bit of a paunch around the middle and thinning dark brown hair styled in what came dangerously close to a comb-over.
“Well, Lorna, I don’t think I’ve seen you since you were maybe in junior high. You’ve changed a lot since then,” Dustin told her as he shook her hand. “And you’re Mr. Dawson.”
“T.J.”
“Right. Come on in.” He waved them into his office. “Charlotte, hold my calls, and see if you can bring some iced tea in for us.”
He closed the door, not bothering to wait for her response.
“So, you want to talk about the Eagans.” Dustin held a chair out for Lorna and indicated to T.J. to take the side chair. “I heard about all those bodies they’re finding out there on your farm. Or should I say, The Body Farm?”
Lorna visibly winced.
Dustin addressed T.J. “You’re working as a consultant for the FBI, huh?”
I am?
Before T.J. could respond, Dustin went on.
“Lorna told me all about it. I thought about joining the FBI when I was younger, but I kept putting it off. You know what the cutoff age is for new agents?”
“Last I heard, it was thirty-seven,” T.J. told him.
Dustin snapped his fingers. “Damn. I missed it.”
He folded his hands on the desk in front of him and looked at T.J.
“So. What do you want to know? Where do we start?”
“Let’s start with Melinda Eagan,” T.J. said, jumping right into the questioning. “You were around the night she went missing, from what I understand.”
“That’s right. I stopped at Matt Conrad’s on my way home from school.”
“Do you remember what time that was?”
“Must have been around six. It was already getting dark out.”
“You were just on your way home from school at six?”
“Detention.” Dustin smiled. “I got a lot of that back in those days. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, Agent Dawson . . .”
“Please, it’s T.J. I’m not—”
“. . . but I used to have a problem with my mouth. Just couldn’t keep it shut.”
“Really.” T.J. stared at him.
“God’s truth. Anyway, since I was already late getting home, I stopped at Matt’s to see what the guys were doing. See if I could bum a smoke.”
“Who was there when you arrived at Matt’s?”
“Oh, let’s see. Matt, of course. Fritz Keeler and his younger brother, Mike. They were getting ready to leave, but then Jason came back and asked if anyone had seen his sister, and none of us had, so he asked if we’d help look for her. So, sure, we did. We went all through that field. Didn’t find her, though. Not that night, not any night.”
“Did you look for her after that night?”
“Not really. She was just gone.”
“Any thoughts on what might have happened to her?”
“Not a clue.”
“Are you sure both Keeler boys were there when you arrived?”
“Absolutely. They were getting ready to leave.”
“Let’s jump ahead a few weeks, to the night Jason disappeared.”
“Night he was
murdered,
you mean.”
“We don’t have any proof that he was killed that night.”
“Hey, there’s no way anyone would have held him for a day or something, and then killed him. Someone like Jason, if you’re going to kill him, you’re going to have to kill him fast. He was one tough mother.” He glanced at Lorna. “Sorry, Lorna. He was one tough guy.”
“You were all drinking beer at your house.”
“We started out at my house, later on that night we went out to White Marsh Park.”
“You, Matt, Fritz, Jason, Mike.” T.J. ticked off the names.
“Mike?” Dustin frowned. “I don’t remember that Mike was there, but maybe.”
He thought for another minute before saying, “I don’t remember about that.”
“You drank for a while and then drove everyone home.”
“Right. I was the only one with a license that year. I think Fritz might have already been sixteen. With Mr. Keeler being dead, Fritz could’ve gotten a hardship license, but his mother wouldn’t let him get his license right away.” He rolled his eyes. “What a piece of work she was. A miracle either of them turned out normal. If you think Fritz is normal, that is.”
Lorna spoke up for the first time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know.” Dustin paused while his receptionist came in with a pitcher of iced tea and three glasses. The room fell very silent while she poured and distributed the drinks.
“Anything else?” she asked Dustin.
“Not right now, thanks,” he told her. After she closed the door behind her, he said to Lorna, “Well, you know that Fritz is gay, right? I mean, everyone in Callen knows that, right?”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Not that I care,” Dustin was quick to assure her. “ ‘Course, back then, when we were kids, none of us had any idea. But everyone knows how his mother bullied him and Mike. It never seemed to affect Mike so much, he was always such a man’s man, you know? Aggressive, cocky. Big football star, wrestler. Bigger personality. He played in college, you know that? Over at West Chester. Then he got hurt—back injury? Shoulder? Don’t remember. Anyway, he couldn’t play anymore and he dropped out, married Sarah. Guess the rest is history, right?”