Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (16 page)

Wertz is right, of course. He must carry on. That was the deal. Besides, all of the arrangements Wertz set in place are working perfectly, despite that unscheduled detour to Dr. Moody’s house.

Flint smirks. Wertz would have objected to any deviation from his plan. But look at how well that all went, thanks to his clever mother and that hot blonde.

H
e’s
dead,
Cybil keeps reminding herself. But the idea seems so unreal that it dissolves each hour like sugar in a cup of hot tea. Perhaps tomorrow’s funeral will help solidify the fact in her mind.

“May I help you find something?” asks the shopgirl at her elbow.

“Yes, I need a black dress.”

Nothing in her closet will do. Not dull business black, not casual black, not shimmery black. His funeral calls for something altogether different, but she’s been shopping intently and she’s running out of time. The selections have been meager.

She’d been tempted by a nice little dress at Nordstrom’s, but there was no way around the fact that it was really too short. Increasingly discouraged, she finally had to stop and take a break. And now, after a lunch of Caesar salad with a glass of chardonnay, she has stumbled upon this boutique.

It seems promising. The shopgirl guesses her size correctly and leads her deeper into the store, where she plucks a dress off the rack. She holds it up. “How about this one?”

“No, nothing with bows. Too fussy.”

The shopgirl returns the dress to its spot and turns her attention elsewhere. After a moment of rifling through the rack, she lifts another. “Something like this?”

“No, no. Something classy.”

“Yes, I see.” The shopgirl purses her lips, and an instant later holds up another. “What do you think of this one?”

The woman tilts her head. “Worth a try, I guess.”

A few minutes later, she’s in the dressing room with four black dresses of different cuts and textures. The first one bunches at the waist. The second has a neckline befitting a nun. She tosses them aside.

Next, she slips doubtfully into a black sheath. A few months ago, this would have been much too tight, but she’s not as voluptuous as she once was. It fits.

Exiting the fitting room, she comes out into a well-lit area and stands before the three-way mirrors, checking the back, the profile.

“Oh yes, this is very nice,” coos the salesgirl. “Blondes look very elegant in black. And you have the perfect figure for it. Absolutely stunning.”

She turns left and right, admiring the way the dress hugs her curves. Panty line would be a problem, but maybe if she wore a thong . . . And the back drops so low that, if she were to wear it for cocktails . . . Well, she’d definitely have to go braless.

But of course she’ll have to wear a jacket tomorrow, anyway.

“Beautiful! This is the classic black dress for so many occasions,” the sales-girl continues. “Not many people can wear something like this, but on
you
? Perfect. This little dress was made for you.”

“Yes, it does fit well,” she muses aloud, studying her reflection.

But still, the back . . . Isn’t it too daring?

He’s dead,
she reminds herself.

She turns quickly and heads back to the dressing room, saying, “I’ll take it.”

W
hen rookie Agent Nikki Keswick hears that Milo Bender is in the building, she jumps at the chance to meet him. She finds him at the center table in the Violent Crimes Center, hunched over files. He’s thinner and grayer than in his photos, but there’s no mistaking his ice-blue eyes and lined features.

She stops inside the door. “Excuse me, aren’t you Agent Bender?”

He quickly gets to his feet, taller than she expected. “Well, I
was,”
he says. “Past tense. Now I’m retired.”

“I’m Nikki Keswick, still a rookie, so I guess we cover both ends of the spectrum,” she says, shaking his hand. “I studied some of your work at the academy. Child forensic interviews are a special interest of mine.”

“That’s good to hear. Kids need all the help they can get.”

“Your interviews with Reggie LeClaire were really inspiring. And now I’m helping with the Daryl Wayne Flint investigation, so—small world—I guess that means we’re colleagues.” She flashes a grin. “I heard you’re consulting with us.”

“So is Miss LeClaire. And she calls herself Reeve now, by the way.”

“Reeve? Nice name.”

“It helps her gain distance, I think.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Physically, she seems fine. But she’s wound a little tight.”

“Understandable.”

“I can introduce you, if you’d like. She’s in the ladies’ room.”

As if on cue, a slim young woman enters the room. She’s much healthier than she was at sixteen, and her hair is now a gorgeous shade of red, but Keswick immediately recognizes those intense eyes, the heart-shaped face.

After introductions, Reeve says, “You’re young to be an agent, aren’t you?”

Keswick shrugs. “It’s the Hawaiian genes. My mother says the women in our family look like teenagers until our hair turns gray. Anyway, it’ll be good for undercover work.” She smiles. “By the way, great work with that storage unit yesterday. Agent Blankenship told us all about it.”

“So, have you figured out how Flint got from the storage unit to Dr. Moody’s?”

Keswick raises her eyebrows at how quickly Reeve dispenses with chitchat. “Not yet.”

Reeve keeps glancing over at the crime board. “Is that all about Flint’s escape?”

“It is.”

They walk over to the display of maps, diagrams, and crime-scene photos. Reeve stands with her hands clenched, scanning the board, then narrows her eyes at a blown-up image of Flint, taken from the security footage of his escape. “What’s your theory about his motivation for killing Dr. Moody?” she asks. “That’s unusual for a pedophile, right?”

“That’s the question. Is Flint a pedophile, or an opportunistic offender? I think I need to defer to Agent Bender on that one.” Keswick turns around and asks him, “You worked his case. What do you think?”

Bender opens his palms and gives a shrug. “We used to argue about that, back in my day. Pedophiles usually target a particular type of victim, and there are typically several botched kidnapping attempts before one is successful, so it makes sense there would be other victims. But we found no evidence of that.”

“No pattern?”

“No pattern.” He sighs. “And if I may ask, what’s your role in this investigation, Agent Keswick?”

“Researching known associates, classmates, family. Turns out, our fugitive has a lot of relatives.”

“But he was an only child,” Reeve says.

“Right, but his late father had two brothers with two kids apiece, and his mother has seven brothers and sisters, who had a total of twenty-three children, all still living.”

“That’s a lot of aunts and uncles and cousins.”

“Right, so we’re starting in Washington and heading east, checking out who might be harboring a fugitive. Plus, cross-referencing known offenders. They’re all over the map, so it’s pretty slow going.”

Bender adjusts his glasses. “What about Flint’s mother?”

“She’s got to be involved somehow, right? But we’ve got nothing more than speculation.”

“Nothing popped in her records?”

“No, sir, nothing so far. Her phone records, her bank accounts, her credit cards are unremarkable. There’s nothing linking her to Flint’s escape or to the storage unit. And she refused to take a polygraph, of course.”

“Any other leads from Church Street Storage?”

“Motorcycle tire treads, which we’re following up. And a few strands of hair, which might prove helpful. Long, blond hair and also short, brown, synthetic hair.”

Bender’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s interesting.”

Keswick gives a shrug. “Hard to say. They could have been left by previous renters.”

“The manager there wasn’t much help, was he? Any leads on the man who rented the unit?”

She shakes her head. “The manager couldn’t give us anything. He doesn’t photocopy driver’s licenses, and his only security camera is just for show. The thing’s been broken for years.”

At that moment, Case Agent Blankenship bursts into the room. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Bender. What did you want to see me about?”

Keswick stands aside, listening as Bender explains that he and Reeve would like to go to Dr. Moody’s residence to take a look around.

The muscles in Blankenship’s jaw bulge. “That’s not necessary.”

“But no one’s living there, correct? So there’s no occupant to be disturbed.”

“That would be correct, however—”

“And the crime scene has been processed and released, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, it has.”

“Well, Reeve asked to have a look around. And she’s been right twice now, Blankenship. So what’s the harm if she wants to see Moody’s house?”

Keswick can feel the heat rising in the room. But she observes that, while Milo Bender may not be an active agent, he still possesses his powers of persuasion. When Blankenship starts objecting, Bender smoothly persists, saying, “We’ll be in and out in less than an hour. We won’t touch a thing. And the key will be back on your desk the instant we get back into town.”

Blankenship’s expression sours, and Bender says, “You know what? I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, should I? My apologies. I’ll just have a word with Cox. It’s really his decision, isn’t it?”

Blankenship wipes a hand across his shiny forehead. This is his first turn at running such a big investigation, and he seems pissed off that a retired agent might circumvent his authority.

With a quick glance at Reeve, he says, “I’ll be the one to talk to Cox,” then bolts from the room.

Bender seems calm and unruffled, clearly a man who has seen it all.

He smiles at her. “What are you planning for Dr. Moody’s funeral, Agent Keswick? It’s tomorrow, is that right?”

“Yes, sir. There’ll be surveillance, of course, in case Flint or his accomplice decides to enjoy the show. I’ve got my black suit ready.” She grins at him. “I get to be an undercover guest.”

“Excuse me, but what are these drawings?” Reeve asks, standing in front of the crime board, arms crossed, staring at Flint’s confiscated artwork.

“Those?” Keswick has been so focused on Bender that she almost forgot about Reeve. “Those are from Flint’s art therapy sessions.” She walks over to join her. “A sadist who thinks he’s an artist. Creepy, right? Some of them look like lace or filigree, don’t they? And that small one is so stylized and intricate,” she says, pointing with her chin, “it looks like an insect.”

“It’s a cricket,” Reeve says softly.

Bender hurries over. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Reeve.”

“You knew about this?”

“I didn’t see the point in upsetting you.”

Keswick looks from one to the other. “What’s so ominous about these drawings?”

The room goes quiet as Bender removes them from the crime board and places them flat on the table. “You’re not going to like this,” he says to Reeve. He opens his briefcase and lifts out some photographs, which he places on the table with the drawings.

Reeve visibly recoils, muttering something inaudible.

Keswick swallows, recognizing evidentiary photos of what can only be Reeve’s scarred back. She had never guessed that the scarring was this extensive. She watches in silence as Reeve moves closer to the table and begins placing photos beside specific drawings, pairing up patterns that bear a chilling resemblance.

“Do you see what this means?” Reeve demands, straightening.

Keswick’s voice fails her. She clears her throat and says, “Flint apparently remains fixated on scarification, and he’s refining his designs.”

She looks again at the paired images and inhales sharply. A close-up image of a particularly intricate scar nearly matches the drawing of the cricket.

B
etty’s Wigs & Beauty Prosthetics is on a side street just a few blocks from the hospital. All the oncology patients shop here. The shopkeeper, Betty Niveen, prides herself on supplying the most lifelike breast prosthetics, the best-fitting undergarments, the most colorful scarves, and the best selection of both synthetic and human-hair wigs.

Most of her customers are women, but now a gentleman strolls in with the kind of serenity enjoyed only by healthy individuals. Betty immediately recognizes that he’s wearing a wig—synthetic hair, somewhat neglected but good quality—but of course would never be so gauche as to mention it.

“Are you looking for something special?”

“I need something for my wife.” His demeanor grows sober. “She’s losing her beautiful hair.”

She sweeps a grand gesture toward the shelves in the back. “You’ll see that we have an excellent selection. Every type and color of head covering. Hats, scarves, and wigs to suit every budget. What do you think she’d like?”

The man lightly touches a red polka-dot turban, seeming to consider it, then shakes his head. There’s something familiar about him. . . . Betty has a good memory and she prides herself on recognizing every wig she has ever sold, but this one, no. It’s not one of hers. Perhaps he’s been in here before with some other hairpiece.

She’s trying to picture this when he says, “My wife has been so depressed. I just want to cheer her up.”

“Perhaps she’d like a wig. What’s her coloring?”

“She’s a brunette.”

Betty resists saying, “Like you.” The wig doesn’t suit him, in her opinion. She’d love to suggest something else, but instead she steps over to the rows of bland-faced mannequins topped with hair of every style and color. “These synthetic wigs are our most affordable. And these”—she says, gesturing— “are our human-hair wigs, our finest quality.”