Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) Read online

  “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 fixat
ed 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.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Betty’s Wigs & Beauty Prosthetics

  Betty’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.”

  He smiles, eyeing the selection.

  Betty always starts with the most expensive. “They’re breathable, comfortable, and very natural looking,” she says, showing him a brunette shoulder-length cut. “These human-hair wigs are excellent quality. Might this style suit your wife?”

  He strokes his chin. “It might. But I think she’d like an assortment. You know, there’s so little she can enjoy at this stage of her treatment. And it would amuse her, I think, to have blond hair one day, maybe black the next, you know?”

  “Of course.”

  The man glances indifferently past the most expensive hairpieces of long, flowing locks, and his eyes stop at a short, sassy, blond wig.

  “That one’s very popular,” she says. “Synthetic hair, but it’s a fine wig.” She lifts it off the mannequin to show him the inside. “See? It’s quite well made.”

  He smiles, accepting the blond wig, turning it around, cocking his head from side to side. The way he holds it when he glances in the mirror reveals that the wig is not for his wife, but for him.

  The sick wife is a fiction, but this does not shock her. Drag queens are some of her best customers. Still, this man . . . He lacks the charm and sparkle of a drag queen. She wonders for a moment about his personal habits.

  He interrupts her thoughts, asking, “What about that one?” He points behind her.

  She turns toward a black synthetic wig with a tousled look. “Oh, yes, very stylish. This hairdo looks good on anyone.”

  She turns back around and is startled to find that he has crept up so close.

  “Oh yes, I’m sure she’d like it,” he says, and there’s a strange scent on his breath. Something alcoholic and herbal, almost like cough medicine.

  He lifts the wig from her hands. “I’ll take it. Plus, I need one more. I need three.”

  Another customer enters the store, a woman that Betty recognizes with a wave, and the man suddenly seems in a rush. Without any encouraging remarks from Betty, he selects a mannish, helmet-shaped auburn wig and then hurries over to the cash register.

  “One, two, three,” he says. “Very good. What do I owe you?” To the shopkeeper’s pleasure, he pays for all three wigs in cash. But it bothers her that he seems so familiar, and the image of his face seems to linger like a bad smell.

  TWENTY-NINE

  West Seattle, Washington

  Reeve tries to forget about Flint’s drawings and focus on what lies ahead at Dr. Moody’s house. The FBI has already done a thorough search, so they can’t expect to discover any significant evidence. But she wants to retrace Flint’s steps, and she’s grateful that Bender has managed to arrange it.

  While Bender drives, she sits alert in the passenger seat, an open map in her lap and another one on her phone. She looks at one, then the other, then out the window, studying road signs and landmarks. “I guess it might be different if I’d been old enough to drive when I lived here, but this area’s confusing. Mount Rainier is about the only thing I recognize.”

  It’s a clear October day and the mountain dominates the southern skyline. She’d forgotten how majestic it is, rising cold blue and snowy white. They cross a bridge and exit into West Seattle, heading toward the water. In a few minutes they’re driving south along the waterfront, past a park of dense conifers. The Evergreen State, true to its name.

  As traffic slows near the ferry terminal, she wonders aloud what compelled Flint to drive here. “I don’t get it. He stashed the barber’s car at the storage unit, and then came here on a motorcycle? That seems risky. Why not just disappear?”

  “Good question.”

  “And Flint apparently acted alone in killing Dr. Moody, is that right?”

  “The bureau found no evidence of another person.”

  “So if he came here solo, who set up the storage unit?”

  “A friend, maybe someone Flint met at the hospital. Or someone who had a grudge against Dr. Moody.” Bender nods toward the ferry terminal. “One thought is that he’s hiding out on Vashon Island, but I doubt that. Unless, of course, he’s got a connection with someone there.”

  She frowns. “It’s hard enough trying to figure out what Flint is up to, much less some mysterious accomplice.”

  “It could be accomplices, plural. Meanwhile, that reward money is bringing in a slew of half-baked leads, which means a lot of extra work. I don’t envy Agent Blankenship.”

  Bender maneuvers through the congestion and follows the waterfront to Moody’s neighborhood, where the homes become progressively more upscale, with expensive cars in the driveways.

  “So how did Flint find Moody’s house?” Reeve asks, searching for the address.

  “Well, perhaps Moody talked about it. He was the type to boast about his property, don’t you think?” Bender turns into the driveway and parks.

  “Yeah, I guess he could have shown Flint pictures on his phone during their chummy sessions together,” she says, getting out of the car. “But I don’t think he would have drawn him a map.”

  A curved walkway leads to wide stone steps and tall double doors. Bender sets down his briefcase and is fitting the key into the lock when Reeve stops him with a touch on his sleeve. “Wait. How did Flint get inside? If he could find a way in, I could too.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She gives him a look. “Entrance and egress is something I’ve given a lot of thought.”

  “Right, sorry. Well, hold on and I’ll check.” He stoops to open his briefcase, pulls out a file, and in a moment puts his finger on a paragraph. “It says there was no sign of forced entry.”

  “So Dr. Moody let him in?” She frowns.

  “That’s interesting,” he says, putting the papers away and turning back to the door. It swings open, and Reeve follows him into a large, cool foyer with marble floors and a high chandelier.r />
  She glances around, then turns to study the door, hands on hips. “Moody lets him in? After hearing that Flint killed someone? I can’t picture it.”

  “Maybe he found a spare key.”

  She raises her eyebrows in reply.

  The house is impressive, with hardwood floors and high ceilings, expensively framed art and fine furnishings. Wood gleams and a faint smell of polish hangs in the chilly air. All of the surfaces are immaculate.

  “Somebody didn’t waste any time cleaning up,” Bender observes. “There’s no residue of fingerprint powder.”

  “So, what did the FBI find here?”

  Bender has studied the file, and as he leads her through the now-spotless house, he details what was found: the empty beer bottles and dirty dishes, the rumpled sheets, the missing clothes. “Flint felt no compulsion to clean up or hide the fact that he’d been here. And he didn’t worry about leaving prints.”

  “Your guys would call that evidence of a disorganized offender, wouldn’t they?”

  He gives a shrug. “Or someone who just doesn’t care, someone very confident that leaving behind a lot of evidence is of no great importance.”

  When they enter the den, she notices that Bender’s eyes go immediately to the desk. “What is it about the desk?”

  Bender explains that Flint left food crumbs and enough trace from his shoes to make it clear that he’d put his feet up on the desk. “Very territorial behavior.”

  She narrows her eyes at him. “What else? There’s something more, right? What is it that you’re not telling me?”

  He sighs. “There are some missing files. It appears that Flint took everything that Dr. Moody had about him and . . .” Casting a rueful look her way, he adds, “I’m afraid some of those files would have contained information about you.”

  She stiffens. “What kind of information?”

  “It’s hard to say. Dr. Moody would have kept notes from his sessions with Flint, of course. And he likely kept files related to the trial.”