Sherlock said, “I’ll certainly try. Have you been in the CAU long?”
“Eight months now. I first met you at the San Francisco Field Office. Savich convinced me to transfer to the Hoover. I’d like you guys to meet Dr. Carson DeSilva, a journalist from New York.”
Carson took Sherlock’s hand. “It’s amazing to meet you, Agent Sherlock. I wrote about you shortly after the JFK incident, along with most every other journalist in the U.S.”
Savich had told her strangers recognized her. She managed a smile, said, “Thank you.”
Griffin said, “I see Caleb’s already here with his forensic people. Bettina and her crew met with him at the sheriff’s station. She went back to Richmond last night. Slick and DeAndre are guarding Rafer Bodine, and on loan to me if I need them.” He turned to Sherlock. “I know Savich has already told you a dozen times, but really, if you need to kiss us off for a while and take a snooze, holler, okay?”
Again, she only smiled.
Savich had worked several times in the past year with forensic crime scene supervisor Caleb Minter. He was tall, in his late fifties, and he was whip thin, his salt-and-pepper hair sticking up in clumps on his head. He was hyper, always moving, even his leg bounced up and down when he sat. Savich wondered what Caleb’s wife thought of that constant bouncing leg. Caleb didn’t know Sherlock wouldn’t know him from Adam and he wasn’t going to call attention to it. Savich shook his hand. “Caleb, good to see you.”
Sherlock smiled at the man who could have been her father or an escaped prisoner, for all she knew.
“And you, Savich.” Caleb turned to study Sherlock’s face. “Heard you were in a wee bit of an accident Tuesday. It’s great to see you up and about. Now, down to business. Most of the crew is upstairs, and Lotus is out with Oscar in the backyard. First, we didn’t find any duct tape in the basement, or anywhere else in the house for that matter, which means someone removed it. In fact, the whole basement looked like somebody’s cleaned it up. Plus, we couldn’t find a computer or a router. And there’s no car. We think someone took those, too.”
Griffin said, “Makes sense. Rafer Bodine owns a black Chevy Uplander. A pity it was taken. There’d be proof Bodine transported Dr. DeSilva here. As for the missing computer, that’s not a surprise, either. Rafer’s going to claim self-defense in his own home, and without physical evidence, it’s going to be hard to hold him for long.”
Carson said, “As for the pipe, Sheriff Bodine took it, so maybe it’s in evidence.” She paused. “Or maybe he threw it away. Griffin, do you think the sheriff removed anything he believed could be proof against his nephew before Mr. Minter showed up?”
Griffin said, “Or Rafer’s family. Whatever, the sheriff was the one who made the calls and set it in motion.”
Minter said, “The sheriff? That’s a sorry thing to hear. Now, we did find a length of pipe suspended from the basement ceiling. I’m sure we can match it to that jagged piece of pipe you managed to break off, if it is in evidence. Dr. DeSilva, amazing job of getting yourself free of the duct tape and hitting him with that pipe. Can you come down to the basement with us, show us exactly where you were?”
Carson really didn’t want to go back down to that basement, but she saw Griffin looking at her, a question in his eyes. She straightened her shoulders and followed Minter down the stairs, Griffin and Savich behind her. When they stood in the middle of the basement, Carson looked around, seeing it with new eyes. “It seems so small now. I would have sworn it was larger.”
Savich said, “Dr. DeSilva, one more time please, tell us what happened, show us everything you touched down here.”
Carson sucked in the stale, fetid air, drew a deep breath, and told them exactly what she’d done, showed them the chair she’d used to reach the pipe. When she finished, her heart had stopped pounding. It was only a basement, an old decrepit basement.
Minter said, “We’ll see if we can pull some fingerprints from that pipe if it is indeed in evidence at the sheriff’s station, and not disappeared like everything else. We do have good evidence you were in the basement, in any case. Let’s go back upstairs, there’s something else I want to show you.”
When they were once again in the small entrance hall, Minter drew them into a loose circle around him. “Look here at the bullet holes. We found some 9mm bullet fragments, so we’ll be able to show where the shots came from. Did the sheriff also take the Walther?”
“Yes,” Griffin said.
Minter said to Carson, “Can you paint us a word picture, Dr. DeSilva, of what happened between you and Rafer Bodine once you came up the stairs?”
Minter’s two forensic techs came downstairs and introductions were made, then Minter nodded to Carson. She began to talk. She was a journalist, she was used to telling a story. She told them nearly word for word what she’d said and what Rafer Bodine had said. “—Griffin kicked out his leg and his foot clipped Bodine’s wrist, broke it, you could hear the bone snap. Bodine dropped his gun and I jumped forward and hit him on the head with the pipe.”
There was a loud bark, followed by Oscar the cadaver dog barreling into the entrance hall.
Savich turned and smiled, went down on his haunches, and rubbed the three-year-old beagle’s ears. Oscar tried to lick any part of Savich his tongue could reach, his tail wagging so fast his rear end shook. Like Astro, Oscar loved an ear rub, so Savich kept stroking, added a rub down Oscar’s back. Lotus, Oscar’s person, handed Savich a couple of dog treats. As he fed them to Oscar, he said to her, “Oscar didn’t find anything, Lotus?”
Lotus, aka Kiley Lu, shook her head, making her long, straight sheet of black hair swirl around her head. She was small and slender, and someone once said she was as delicate as a lotus blossom, and the name stuck. “There are no bodies buried in the backyard. Oscar is thorough.”
Griffin said matter-of-factly, “Then Rafer Bodine buried them elsewhere. He’ll have to tell us if he wants a deal, but I hope it won’t come to that.”
Carson said, “Or Heather and Latisha could still be alive, prisoners somewhere.” She cleared her throat, but it was so difficult to say the words. “But not poor Amy. Like I told you, Rafer said Amy died hard, but he didn’t say what exactly happened to her.” Carson realized she was breathing too hard, too fast. “Sorry, but I want to hit him over the head again.”
No one spoke, but Carson realized they believed all three girls were dead. Finally, Sherlock said in a clear voice, “Yes, I agree with you, Dr. DeSilva. It’s up to us to find Heather and Latisha. I’m very sorry about Amy. Griffin, where do the girls live?”
Griffin said, “Amy Traynor is from Radford, a small town south of Gaffer’s Ridge. We won’t notify her family until we’re absolutely certain she’s dead. She was the second teenager taken. Heather Forrester was the first, from Gaffer’s Ridge, three months ago. Latisha Morris is from Marion, on the edge of the national forest.”
Lotus said, “If you give us the place to look, Oscar will find Amy Traynor.”
* * *
At the charming Victorian Gaffer’s Ridge Inn on Winchester Street, Savich and Sherlock were shown to a large corner room on the top floor by the owner, Mrs. Carmody, who was huffing by the time they got to the third floor. She proudly showed them the amenities, told them this was her most superior room, and left.
Sherlock walked to the large double window and stared out at the miles of thickly forested hills and the distant mountains, lightly veiled in a thin summer fog. She saw green planted fields closer in, cut by flat roads, and the houses lining them were small white dots. There was a series of framed photos set up at eye level on the walls, all of Mrs. Carmody’s pets through the years, and a lovely remodeled bathroom with a stack of white towels and a big shower stall. She was grateful Dillon hadn’t said anything even though she knew he’d seen her stare fixedly at the queen-size bed.
They met Griffin and Carson for lunch at Jenny’s Café. There was only one empty booth in the large room, kept open by Aimée
Rose for them. They were aware of stares from the locals, and even the tourists began to realize something was different about their group.
Griffin and Carson had told them pretty much all they knew by the time they finished their burritos. When the last piece of apple pie was eaten, Griffin said, “Let’s go pay a visit to Rafer Bodine.”
Carson said, “I can’t wait to see how he plays this,” and she popped her knuckles.
31
* * *
LEXINGTON, VIRGINIA
LEXINGTON COMMUNITY HOSPITAL
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Everyone piled into Griffin’s Range Rover for the short ride to the community hospital near Lexington. The skies were blue, dotted with cumulus clouds. The temperature wasn’t quite as brutal, dialed back a bit by a fresh breeze, and the AC in the Range Rover worked like a champ. Griffin told them about his meeting with Booker Bodine that morning. “Of course, he wanted to shoot me, but he’s not a stupid man, he knew he had to at least appear to cooperate. I didn’t rub his nose or his deputies’ noses in any of it, didn’t accuse him of taking evidence from Rafer’s house or calling Rafer’s family so they could take care of it. I didn’t think it would be worth it, not without real proof. I told him and his deputies to talk to law enforcement in Marion and Radford, let them know what’s happening, bring back copies of their files, which, amazingly, Booker hadn’t read and didn’t have. We’ll see if he does as he’s told. My guess is he won’t do anything overt to mess up the investigation since one of the girls is from Gaffer’s Ridge. As for how he’ll deal with me, we’ll see.”
Carson nodded. “Yes, a tire iron at night to the back of your head has probably occupied his thoughts. But you know, I’m thinking he has to at least wonder if Rafer did kidnap the girls.”
Griffin looked at Sherlock in his rearview mirror. She was pale, silent, looking out the window. He wanted to ask her if she was okay, but caught Savich’s eye and kept quiet. He asked instead, “Savich, do you think we could get Dr. Hicks out here to interview Rafer Bodine?”
“Sure, Dr. Hicks would love it, but I strongly doubt Rafer Bodine would allow him to pull out his gold watch.”
Sherlock listened only vaguely as they discussed how to move forward with the investigation, how to best utilize Slick and DeAndre, the two agents from the Richmond Field Office now taking turns guarding Rafer Bodine. Finally, the two aspirin she’d taken at Jenny’s Café got her headache under control.
It was as if he knew. Savich turned in his seat. “Better now, Sherlock?”
She nodded. “I was thinking about bringing Sean here before it gets cold. Camp out in the forest, go for hikes, cook him hot dogs over a fire.” She hoped her enthusiasm didn’t sound put on because it wasn’t.
Savich said, his eyes on her face, “Sean loves s’mores. Maybe after we’re through here and Carson’s had a chance to run over Rafer Bodine a couple of times with her rental car, we can visit for a weekend.” He was pleased to see she smiled.
They pulled into the parking lot of the community hospital a few minutes later. The hospital was a square three-story concrete building built in the eighties, surrounded by parking lots on all sides. It was framed by distant tree-covered mountains and set in a forest of the ubiquitous pines and oaks, and an occasional chestnut and beech, a beautiful setting, soothing for both body and soul. Inside it was bustling, since it was the only hospital in a sixty-mile radius.
They were directed through the lobby to a bank of elevators to take them to the third floor. “I know it’s strange,” the grandmotherly woman at information had said, “that room 415 is actually on the third floor, but what happened is the hospital CEO had them skip the three hundreds because of a scary dream he considered a portent, so there you have it.” She shrugged, rolled her eyes. “We all make do.”
They spotted Slick, aka Special Agent David Foxx, halfway down the wide corridor, sitting outside the partially open door, a Sports Illustrated magazine on his lap. He said hello to Griffin and Savich, then stood a moment and stared at Carson. “You clean up well, Dr. DeSilva.”
“Thank you, Agent Slick. You, too, although I miss the awesome impact of the riot gear.”
Slick smiled, then turned to Sherlock. The FBI grapevine was the fastest in the land, and he’d found out quickly enough she had amnesia from the accident Tuesday. Imagine waking up next to someone you didn’t know and not recognizing your own kid. It had to be hard on both of them. He studied her face a moment, took her hand. “I’m Agent David Foxx, Richmond Field Office. You can call me Slick. I’m very glad to see you up and moving, Sherlock.” He gave her a grin. “I gotta say, you don’t look too pitiful after your accident, but I guess the big guy here has been waiting on you hand and foot. How do you feel?”
Sherlock stared up at the man with his charming smile and cop eyes, and said, “I’m better, thank you.” Nothing else.
Slick nodded. “Most of us have heard about the guy who struck your windshield while you were whirling around like the teacup ride at Disney. Is he all right?”
Savich said, “He hasn’t been found yet, Slick. People have turned in cell phone videos from after the accident, but none are clear enough to run facial recognition. They’re running his blood, hoping he’s in the DNA database. We all hope he’s not too badly injured.”
Sherlock swallowed. Twice now she’d seen the huge smear of the man’s blood on her windshield, heard the heavy thump of his body when he struck the hood. But this time the image didn’t simply disappear behind the white door as it had those times. It faded slowly, and she realized it was more like a memory, not a flashback. Didn’t that mean her memory was mending itself? But why hadn’t she seen his face? She smiled up at the stranger who evidently knew her. “Will you tell me sometime how you got the nickname Slick?”
“Ah, there’s a story. I might need permission from Savich to tell you. And maybe my wife. And maybe my kids. The dog’ll be okay with it.”
“I wish we had the time,” Savich said, “but things are happening fast. Fill us in on what’s happened here.”
Slick pulled out a small notebook. “Last night at eight o’clock, Sheriff Booker Bodine, his brother and Rafer Bodine’s father, Quint Bodine, and a lawyer by the name of Harmon Jobs came to see Rafer. The lawyer closed the door, said he and his client were entitled to privacy. They stayed for thirty minutes. I heard the sheriff tell Rafer as they were leaving that he’d be going home soon. He looked pretty pleased with himself. Rafer’s dad, Quint Bodine, looked pissed, didn’t say anything to me. As for the lawyer, his card said he’s from Richmond, from the firm of Pringe, Weldon and Hayes. I looked them up, they’re big into criminal defense.
“As for Rafer Bodine, he was bitching nonstop—his head hurt, his wrist was killing him. He was claiming to anyone who’d listen that you, Griffin, kicked him in the ribs, in the leg, in the kidney, just about everywhere. He wanted to press charges for police brutality. However, after his visit with the sheriff, his dad, and the lawyer, he’s been quiet, not a word out of him.” Slick paused, looked over at Carson again and did another double take. He was married, blessed with three girls, all hellions, but as his brother always said when his wife wasn’t in the vicinity, he wasn’t dead yet, and DeSilva was a knockout. He said, “Dr. DeSilva, before the lawyer closed the door, I heard Rafer telling his uncle he wanted you arrested for hitting him so hard on the head with that pipe you nearly killed him. He claimed both you and Griffin were laughing as you slammed your boots into him.”
A thick lock of blond hair curled around Carson’s cheek and she tucked it behind her ear. “It’s a bummer, but I was wearing sneakers.”
Sherlock spurted out a laugh. “I can’t wait to meet this putz.”
32
* * *
Rafer Bodine was sitting up in bed, his wrist in a cast, looking fit, truth be told. He sneered at Hammersmith, the one his uncle Booker called the pretty boy, and wished he could have another go at him. Who cared if he was FBI? Were these
some of the people with machine guns who drove their armored truck into Gaffer’s Ridge—his town—and took it away from his uncle Booker? And all because Booker couldn’t get his mind around Mr. GQ being a federal cop? Rafer understood the way his uncle’s mind worked—sometimes he saw what he wanted to see, believed what he wanted to believe, but in this case, Rafer knew the reason his uncle had hauled them to jail. He’d quickly called Rafer’s pa, and taken charge. Last night when Booker and Rafer’s pa and ma had visited the hospital, he’d told Rafer not to worry, there was no proof he’d done anything to Carson DeSilva, and Rafer knew he’d gone through the house himself, made everything they shouldn’t find disappear, including his SUV and computer.
Rafer eyed the agents as he raised the bed. No way was he about to look up at these bozos. They were staring at him like he was a loser. He shrugged and said, his voice indifferent, “What do you lot want? My lawyer told me I don’t have to talk to you, so forget it.” He stopped when the woman, DeSilva, came forward to stand beside Mr. GQ. She looked bright and shiny as a new penny, as his grandma used to say, her thick blond hair loose to her shoulders, most of the beautiful stuff hooked behind her ears. She wore small diamond studs. He had to admit she was as beautiful as Charlize Theron, and everyone knew he’d worshipped the actress for years, even recorded her perfume commercials on TV. It didn’t matter how DeSilva looked, screw the top-notch packaging. He hated her for the crawling fear she’d made him feel, the fear that had made him panic. She’d known somehow about the girls, and then he’d really messed up, and all because of what he’d seen on her face, seen in her eyes. His brain had screamed at him, She knows, she knows, she knows it all. He’d felt instant corrosive fear because he’d believed to his soul she was dangerous, believed she was like his mother. His mother called it a gift, and said it was only for the special few, like his sister, Camilla. He remembered how his mother went on and on to his father about how fast Camilla was learning to do things even she couldn’t do. And he’d known for the longest time he had no gift, known there was nothing special about him, known they were disappointed in him, whispered about him. No, he wouldn’t think about his sister.
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