“Got to take this,” David said calmly, and left the conference room. Lairmore grumbled something unkind, but David ignored him.
The number on his beeper was not one David recognized, but his call was picked up immediately. The sound of background traffic and voices filled the line.
“This is Riggs,” he said.
There was a moment of silence, then he knew it was her. “Melanie?”
“You lied to me.”
“Melanie, where are you?”
“You told me you weren't investigating my family. You told me it was William you were looking into. I bet you slept well that night. The super agent did his job.”
“Melanie, listen to me. I'm trying to help you—”
“Fuck you, David Riggs. How dare you lie to me. How dare you not tell me the truth after everything we went through.”
“Melanie—”
“The shooting was accidental, just so you know. William was going to kill me. You can tell that to my family, but I don't know if they'll care. I don't know what they care about at this point. I guess you were right, and I didn't know them at all.”
“Melanie, tell me exactly where you are. I'll be there in minutes.”
“No. No more games. No more manipulations. From the very beginning I've let everyone mess with me. Well, now I'm doing this my way. Good-bye.”
The phone clicked. David swore furiously, earning a round of stares. Lairmore came out of the conference room, trailed by Chenney.
“Riggs!” the supervisory agent warned.
David grabbed his coat. “Get Detective Jax on the line. That was Melanie Stokes. According to her, she just shot William Sheffield.”
THE STOKES HOUSE had suddenly become a very popular place. Two ambulances and three police cars barricaded the front, blue lights flashing and uniformed officers milling. Two TV stations had arrived in camera-mounted vans; the local ABC affiliate was probably not far behind.
Between the reporters, the neighbors peering from doorways and windows, and the tourists who were snapping photos, traffic on the whole four-lane street had ground to a halt.
David Riggs yanked over his car one block away and ran the rest, Chenney huffing and puffing at his heels. He'd tried calling Melanie back without success. Then he'd gotten Detective Jax long enough to be told there had been a shooting all right, and Boston homicide had a few questions for their good friends at the Bureau.
David flashed his creds to the patrolmen. Chenney simply muscled his way through. They followed the stream of crime photographers, homicide detectives, and beat officers to the study at the rear of the house. Patricia Stokes stood in a corner, her thin arms crossed in front of her and a jeweled hand fluttering at the hollow of her throat. She looked confused and frightened, as if the slightest sound would shatter her.
Her husband was in the opposite corner, scowling and rumpled. He must have just been called from surgery. He had a green mask down around his neck and his arms akimbo on his hips, the stance belligerent.
Jamie O'Donnell occupied the doorway. He had already adopted a careful expression of both concern and distrust.
“Of course María tried to clean things up,” Harper was saying tersely. “She's a maid, it's her job.”
“She tampered with a crime scene,” Jax pointed out, standing in front of Harper.
Harper shrugged. “How's she supposed to know that? She thought she was just doing her job.”
David saw Jax's point immediately. The blood was not in a clear puddle or splatter pattern but instead had been smeared all over the floor, making it hard to interpret the scene. On the perimeter of the streaky mess, the blood formed razor-crisp lines at random intervals, as if it had spread along the edge of pieces of paper. The paper was gone. One could interpret that scene as William being shot, incriminating documents at his feet.
Detective Jax seemed to have arrived at that conclusion himself. “If I find out you had anything to do with this, Dr. Stokes, I'll bust your rich hide for interfering with an investigation, tampering with a crime scene, and aiding and abetting. Just so you know.”
Harper smiled tightly. “You do that, Detective, and my lawyer will eat your badge for lunch.”
“Please,” Patricia interjected in a tremulous voice. “Can you tell me what happened to Melanie? Where is my daughter? Is she all right?”
“We're still looking for her, ma'am.”
“I'm sure she didn't do this on purpose,” she continued desperately. “There was no reason for her to hurt William.”
“We don't know that.” Harper glanced at his wife wearily. “After that scene yesterday? Face it, Pat, our daughter is obviously very troubled these days. Maybe she took the end of her engagement with William much harder than either of us thought. I don't know.”
“Harper!” Patricia exclaimed.
“She's been having migraines and not sleeping well! She didn't even come home the night before. I'm not going to lie to these people. You and I don't know a thing about our children anymore.”
David wasn't thinking. One moment he was standing beside Chenney, listening to Harper incriminate his own daughter, the next moment he was across the room, grabbing a fistful of Harper's scrubs and shoving the startled surgeon against the wall.
“Don't you set her up for this,” David growled. “You don't give a rat's ass about this investigation. William's death is the best thing to happen for you and your little operations. God, this is just a game to you, isn't it? You could've gotten her killed. Do you hear me? You almost killed your daughter.
Again
!”
“D-d-dammit,” Harper spluttered. “Let me go!”
“Easy there,” O'Donnell said softly from behind David. “Easy there, sport.”
Slowly David became aware that the only person in the room surprised by what was going on was Patricia Stokes. Harper, who was being strangled by a man he'd met only as a waiter, was not surprised. Jamie O'Donnell, faced by two men he'd never seen before, was not surprised.
They knew. They knew who David was and who Chenney was, and probably more about the investigation than the federal agents did.
David released Harper. He stepped back briskly and split his gaze between Harper and Jamie.
“How?” David asked.
Both men gave him blank looks.
“No,” David said, shaking his head. “I don't buy it. I don't think even you two realized what Sheffield would do when pushed too hard. I bet you figured he was a spineless shit, just like we did. But he came up with his own agenda, didn't he? Did the stupid thing and put everything in jeopardy. In fact, the only person today who's shown an ounce of common sense is Melanie, isn't it? She's outplaying you. Outplaying us all.”
A muscle spasmed in O'Donnell's jaw. “Don't know what you're talking about, sport.”
“Sure you do. Congratulations on putting your goddaughter in danger. It's not every day a man almost gets a beautiful young woman killed. But then, you must be getting used to that feeling, huh, O'Donnell? By my calculations, this makes two. First your hired gun, and now your hired lackey. I think you're getting old.”
O'Donnell's gaze went black, confirming David's stab in the dark. “Be careful, sport. Be very, very careful.”
David just smiled. “I'd say ditto,
sport
, because I'm getting smarter every day and a whole lot closer. You know there's no statute of limitations on homicide, don't you? Especially of a little girl. Especially of a
poor, helpless
little girl who had no idea what you were capable of. I bet she loved her family too. Just like Melanie.”
He strode for the door. Behind him, he heard Patricia say, “What's that man talking about? What has happened to Melanie? Has anyone thought to call Brian?”
“By Brian, do you mean Brian Stokes?” Jax inquired.
“Of course,” Patricia said, sounding even more bewildered.
“His ‘friend' filed a missing persons report two hours ago. Seems Brian Stokes went out for a walk two days ago and hasn't been seen since.”
The news apparently was too much. With a small cry Patricia fainted. Her husband didn't catch her. Jamie O'Donnell did.
“WOULD YOU MIND telling me what is going on?” Chenney panted, barely keeping up with David outside the house. David strode down the sidewalk, his back killing him and the rest of him beyond caring.
“We got a leak. We've never met them before, and yet they knew who we were.”
“Shit,” Chenney said. “Think Melanie told them?”
“Melanie didn't know I was investigating her father.” David reached the car. He yanked open the driver-side door with more force than necessary and climbed in. Chenney rushed to catch up. “Don't answer to anyone but Lairmore at this point. Things are just beginning. They weren't surprised by my comments about Meagan either. They knew exactly what I was talking about.”
“They were in on it.”
“Up to their eyeballs.” David shoved the car into drive, then frowned. “Except for Patricia. She had no idea what was going on.”
“Yo, where are we going?”
“Brian Stokes's condo, of course. Where else could Melanie have gone?”
David pulled away with a roar.
Chenney said after a while: “You lost it back there. I mean, you
lost
it. Lairmore hears about you going after Harper Stokes like that, you'll be suspended for a month.”
David didn't reply.
BRIAN STOKES'S CONDO reminded David of a sterile museum. He and Chenney got the building maintenance man to let them in; apparently his services came with the condo fees. Once inside the third story residence, they found themselves confronted by four rooms filled only with crystal-clear glass, chrome frames, and one black leather sofa.
“There's not even a family portrait on the wall,” Chenney said.
“He isn't so pleased with his family.”
“The adopted daughter is grateful for her parents,” Chenney murmured, “the older son is dying to give them away. Can you imagine these guys on
Family Feud
?”
“Only if they were playing opposite the Donner party.”
They drifted from room to room. Not a speck of dust, a streak of lint, or a stray item of clothing. The man could've given David and his own brother lessons all those years ago.
“Just beer and yogurt in the fridge,” Chenney reported.
“No messages on the machine,” David said, then frowned. “Can you really believe after two days there're no messages on the machine?”
“Maybe he calls in and checks them. Those machines let you do that these days.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
They gave the condo a second pass. Brian seemed very neat and no-frills. A troubled young man, David thought, because no sane person kept anything that sanitized.
The maintenance man claimed not to have seen any blondes entering the building that day, but he also confessed a weakness for daytime soaps. He hadn't seen Brian around. Not that he noticed the male residents much, he said with a shrug, hitching up his slacks and rubbing his beer gut. Some of them were definitely swinging on the wrong side of the field, if you know what he meant, and he didn't want them to get no ideas about him.
Chenney and David headed back downstairs. They'd just reached their automobile when a voice stopped them.
“Special Agent Riggs, Chenney.”
Both agents turned as one, Chenney going for his gun. Brian Stokes stepped out of a shadowed doorway. He looked as if he hadn't slept a minute in days.
“You can let go of the gun, Chenney,” David said dryly. “I don't think Brian Stokes is here for a showdown.”
“I just want to talk,” Brian seconded.
“Do you know where your sister is?”
Brian shook his head. “I just got a message. That's my role in the family.”
“And was that your role twenty-five years ago when Meagan disappeared?”
Brian looked at him curiously. “You think Meagan was my fault,” he said, and then smiled. “Of course. It's nothing I haven't thought myself.”
“Brian—”
“Come with me, Agent. There's something I need to show you and something I should have told you. Something I should've told everyone a long time ago.”
THEY FOLLOWED BRIAN Stokes on foot, passing block after block of neat brick town houses lined up like toy soldiers. A few streets over, Brian led them into a narrow street lined with older but still stately — and expensive — homes. He let himself into the last one with a key. A flower box filled with yellow daffodils waved to them as they passed through the heavy wood door, but none of them noticed.
“My …friend lives here,” Brian said at last, leading them up the stairs.
“You mean your lover.”
“You could say that. In theory, no one knew the name of the man I'm seeing or the fact that I often spend the night at his house.”
“In theory?”
“Tuesday morning I received a package. Hand-delivered to my name, here, at his place.”
David and Chenney exchanged looks. “And you've been hiding out ever since?” David asked.
“I needed some time to think.”
“And the missing persons report?”
“I asked Nate to do that. To throw him off the trail.”
“Him?”
“I don't know, Agent. I was hoping you could tell me.”
They reached the third floor. Brian unlocked the front door and led them both inside, disappearing almost immediately into the kitchen. This condo celebrated hardwood floors, a redbrick wall, and piles and piles of suede pillows and soft wool rugs — it was everything Brian Stokes's condo wasn't.
“Is Nate home?” David asked. One question was solved. This was definitely Brian's “home,” and the other residence mere window dressing.
“At work. He's a doctor as well.”
“And Melanie. When did you see her?”
Brian reemerged from the kitchen, carrying a cardboard box and giving David an impatient look. “I already told you, I haven't seen her.”
“But you know William Sheffield has been shot.”
“I checked my machine thirty minutes ago. Two messages. The first was from Melanie. She sounded so calm, I almost thought it was a joke. She said William had tried to shoot her, but she'd shot him instead. She wanted me to know that she was all right. Then she mentioned your name and that you were investigating our father, probably with good cause. Then she said—”