by Lisa Gardner
“Why wouldn't they tell you if they were seeing each other? What do they have to hide?”
Melanie shook her head. “Since when does exercising the right to privacy mean hiding something? Ann Margaret of all people has nothing to do with Meagan Stokes. None of the Stokeses even knew her back then. Let's not be too ridiculous here.”
“Are we being so ridiculous?” David asked bluntly. “What exactly was the situation with Meagan Stokes? Do we really know what happened twenty-five years ago? There is the red wooden pony in your room along with a scrap of fabric that, according to your own brother, shouldn't still exist. Larry Digger is claiming he got phone calls about Russell Lee Holmes from your own house. You are starting to remember Meagan's last days. Seems to me that everything right now is up for grabs. Whatever we thought we knew about Meagan Stokes, we don't. Whatever you thought you knew about your past, you don't. And whatever you thought you knew about your friends and family, you don't.”
Melanie's face had paled.
“Someone's leaving a murdered girl's toy in your room. Now is not a good time for assumptions.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, David?”
“Not at all.”
“What about fate or karma or reincarnation?”
“Nope.”
“Do you believe in anything?”
David shrugged. It wasn't a question he'd contemplated in a long time, but he found he did have an answer. “I believe Shoeless Joe Jackson should be in the Baseball Hall of Fame. And I believe what's going on here has nothing to do with Russell Lee Holmes. Instead, it has to do with your family. And you, Melanie, need to be careful.”
She smiled wanly, her finger plucking at the edge of her brother's bedspread. She looked like she was going to say something, then she just closed her mouth.
After a moment she looked up at him. “Thank you.”
David hadn't expected gratitude. He didn't know what to say. He studied the floorboards. Old. Thick. Solid. Chenney was probably almost done, he thought. They should both get moving. He remained standing where he was. Then his hip locked up on him and he had to shift position, rubbing absently at his lower back.
“Does it bother you a lot?”
“What?” he asked distractedly. Someone tips the Bureau about Dr. Stokes committing healthcare fraud, while also tipping Larry Digger that Dr. Stokes's adopted daughter might be the child of Russell Lee Holmes. What's the connection?
You get what you deserve.
So which one of the players feels that the Stokeses had not gotten what they deserved? And why do something about that now?
“The arthritis.”
“Huh?”
“You're rubbing your back.”
“Oh.” He immediately dropped his hand to his side; he hadn't realized what he'd been doing. “I don't know.” He shrugged self-consciously beneath her steady stare. “Some days are fine, some aren't.”
“Are there things you can do for it? Exercises, medication, ice packs?”
“Sometimes.”
“But it cost you a dream, didn't it?” she asked softly. “Of being a cop.”
He was not prepared for her to come so close to the truth, and then he was struck with something akin to claustrophobia. He felt the sudden need for space. The sudden need to retreat. Hell, to hide in some deep, dark cave where no one could look at him too closely and see that he was afraid these days. He was afraid of everything—his future, his health, his career—and it shamed him.
“I need to get back to work,” he stated emphatically. “You know caterers. Job's never done.”
“Sure.” Melanie rose off the bed. The room was nearly pitch black now. Night had fallen on them so quietly, they hadn't even thought to turn on the light.
She was regarding him steadily. Too steadily, he thought.
“David,” she said. “Would you be willing to do one last favor for me?”
“I thought you didn't accept favors—”
“I want to see Larry Digger. First thing tomorrow.”
Shit. David shook his head. “He's not a reputable source.”
“But he's the best I have and you're the one who just said I have to start questioning everything. I want to speak with him, David. If need be, I'll go alone.” She spoke in that level tone of voice again. That non-negotiable tone of voice.
“All right,” he said heavily. “Ten A.M., out front.”
Melanie smiled. She crossed the room. She brushed his hand briefly, a small token of gratitude, nothing more. Then she disappeared down the hall, where the sickly scent of gardenias remained thick.
NINE
B Y SEVEN P.M., David and Chenney had cleared out of the Stokes household and headed in their separate directions. Night had fallen, warm and lush, a perfect spring night in a city that weathered such long, cold winters, it knew how to appreciate spring. So far David was spending his beautiful spring evening parked on the east end of Storrow Drive, waiting for petrified tourists to battle their way to Faneuil Hall. He'd headed home to shower and change his clothes. There, he'd consulted Shoeless Joe, who didn't have any stellar advice. Shoeless was best at baseball and dry cleaning. Healthcare fraud, cool blondes, and twenty-five-year-old homicide cases were out of his league.
David had decided he'd do more research on the Stokes case at the office. Not that he had big plans on a Sunday night.
Not that he could get the image of Melanie Stokes out of his head.
Now his twenty-minute commute was turning into a sixty-minute Boston marathon. On Storrow Drive, the out-of-towners were paralyzed, hunched over their steering wheels with the nervous looks of scared jackrabbits. The taxi drivers, on the other hand, were cutting in front of every Tom, Dick, and Harry, blaring their horns and turning the four-lane traffic jam into an even larger snarl. They didn't call Boston drivers assholes for nothing.
David should just get an apartment downtown. Agents made good money, and it wasn't like he had a wife, two point two kids, and a black Lab to support. He could get a decent place on Beacon Hill. Save himself a commute that most Boston drivers turned into blood sport. Be able to walk to work whenever he wanted. End up in the office all the time.
Oh, yeah, that's why he stayed in the 'burbs. 'Cause otherwise he'd be living in One Center Plaza.
A cab that was twisted across two lanes finally decided to give up one and they all eked forward.
The in-line skaters were still out, joggers too. In the pedestrian river park that ran along Storrow Drive, soft city lights illuminated college students in cut-off shorts playing night Frisbee while J. Crew-clad yuppies walked overbred golden retrievers. Behind them flowed the Charles River, which hosted Harvard's crew team as well as many other pollutants. One year, former governor Weld dove into that water during the election race to prove it really wasn't as bad as it looked. They'd be testing him for cancer for years to come.
It took Riggs another twenty minutes to make it the last two miles to the office. Another lovely evening spent driving Boston-style.
The FBI occupied floors four through eight of One Center Plaza in downtown Boston. Visitors got to enter at the midpoint—floor six—and the healthcare fraud squad got to go straight to the penthouse suite on floor eight. The view wasn't half bad.
David walked through a sprawling turquoise space that had been remodeled more times than most agents could count. City lights glimmered through the wall of windows, the only illumination in the dark, empty space. Caseloads must be very light right now if David was the only one burning the Sunday-night oil.
He finally came upon the wall panel, snapped on the overhead lights, and blinked owlishly. Dark, crouching beasts metamorphosed into tongue-shaped desks rimming the perimeter. Hunched backs became computers sitting on top of desks. Monsters transformed into piles and piles of subpoenaed records. Welcome to Riggs's world.
He headed to his desk, automatically avoiding the holes in the floor where pipes had been ripped out in yet another expansion of the limited office
space. The Boston field agency was among the fastest growing in the Bureau, having gone from old-fashioned offices to compact cubicles to the current one big turquoise-carpeted space where they could all openly and freely exchange ideas. On slow days agents amused themselves by dropping pennies down the old pipe holes and listening for the landing.
His message light was blinking. David popped up the receiver while rubbing his lower back and dialed in. He had received two messages since checking in at noon.
“David, it's your dad. Thought we'd see you today. Guess you had to work. Steven's team did well, won four-three though not through any help from his pitchers. Bad batch this year, he's at his wits' end. I think he should make his starter sit out altogether—the boy's a head case—and bring up this freshman, James, who has a superb arm. They'd pay for it this year, of course, but in the long run—”
David fast-forwarded through that message until he came to the second one, left by Chenney.
“I'm at the lab. They're PO'd we didn't use an official forensics team and snarling that we probably contaminated evidence. I told them to get over it. Hey, we gotta catch up. I'm confused as hell 'bout the case. Plus, I never told you about my morning surveillance. I started at the hospital watching Sheffield like you said, but he left with the flu. Then I spotted Harper leaving the hospital with Jamie O'Donnell. . . . I did try to call you first, Riggs, but you never turn on your beeper, you know. So I made a judgment call, whether you like it or not. Call me when you get a chance.”
Shit. David would bet money that Chenney had gone with Harper and Jamie O'Donnell because watching them seemed more exciting than sitting outside the house of a sick man. The kid still had so much to learn about what constituted “real” work. It's not the glamour, Chenney. It's results.
He dialed the rookie's cell phone. No answer, so David left a message to meet him at the Massachusetts Rifle Association at ten P.M. That gave David ninety minutes to kill.
He requested a copy of the Meagan Stokes case file from the Bureau field office in Houston. Then he called the Houston PD for a copy of their case file as well, as they had had primary jurisdiction. The Bureau case file would focus on the kidnapping aspects and any profiling if it was done. The PD case file would have the nitty-gritty, including the evidence trail. David wanted to find out if Meagan's red pony really had been recovered and had been sitting in an evidence locker all these years. That still wouldn't explain the full magnitude of the scrap of blue fabric, but David hadn't even told Melanie or Brian about that yet. He wanted more time to think about it himself.
David journeyed down to the Bureau's research center and booted up the machine. It took a few minutes for the computer to warm to life. He used the time to prop up his leg awkwardly on the desk and bend over it to stretch out his back. The Bureau had research agents who could look up anything an investigator was willing to write down on the forms, but David liked to do it all himself. Skimming files, narrowing searches, made him think. And sometimes the information he needed in the end wasn't what he'd started out looking for, but what he'd found along the way.
He started his search with Melanie Stokes. September 1977 was the magic date. The Boston Globe carried a small human-interest story on a girl, approximately nine years old, who'd mysteriously appeared in City General's ER. The girl had been drugged with morphine and had suffered an allergic reaction. To date, no one had come forward to claim her.
A week later, he found a small update. The girl, who could identify herself only as Daddy's Girl, had been given a clean bill of health and turned over to Child Services. She was in good condition and showed no evidence of abuse. She had no memory, however, and an extensive picture campaign had yet to yield results. A black and white newspaper photo appeared beside the text. Young Melanie Stokes looked plump, her hair was straight and limp, her features undistinguished. Certainly not the most beautiful little girl in the world, but there was something about her face—something yearning, he thought.
A few months later a significantly larger story appeared. “Real-Life Orphan Annie Finds Daddy Warbucks.” The Boston Globe carried a feature article on “Daddy's Girl” going home with Dr. Harper Stokes and his wife, Patricia, who had started formal adoption proceedings. A social worker reported that Patricia had given Daddy's Girl a new name.
“The little girl asked Mrs. Stokes why she didn't have a name. And Mrs. Stokes said of course she had a name, they just had to find it. Then our little sweetheart asked Mrs. Stokes if she'd give her a name. Mrs. Stokes became very teary-eyed. It was really touching. She said, ‘How about Melanie? It's the most beautiful name I know, and you're the most beautiful girl I know.' Ever since, Daddy's Girl will reply only to Melanie so that's what we call her. I think it's really great that she finally has a name. Of course, now she wants a birthday.”
Another source, who wished to remain anonymous, disagreed that Melanie was such a great name. “Personally I think it's a little sick. I mean, it's just so close to Meagan. It can't be healthy for any of them.”
David thought that woman might have a point. Melanie got a name, Melanie got a great house, but she'd also gotten to grow up literally staring at a portrait of the first daughter. The murdered daughter.
Seemed spooky to him.
David switched to looking up Russell Lee Holmes. Here he found some information that was much more interesting. He read so intently, he was almost late to his meeting with Chenney.
“WHY ARE WE meeting at a gun club?” Chenney asked a little after ten as David unlocked the doors leading to the cavernous indoor shooting range.
“Because I think better shooting.” David shoved the doors open and they walked into the empty room.
“Oh,” Chenney said as if he understood. The kid was addicted to weight lifting, so maybe he did.
David had been a member of the MRA all his life, first through his father, then on his own. For most of his childhood, if he wasn't playing ball, he was sitting in the club lounge, listening to cops talk about the screwed-up legal system and the age-old rule to shoot first and ask questions later because it was “better to be tried by twelve than buried by six.” By the time David was sixteen, he knew almost as much about police procedure as he did baseball. And he was just about as good with a gun. In the club's trophy case were a few plaques and honors that were his own.
“Holy shit!” Chenney said as David opened his gun case and started unpacking. “They told me your father was a custom pistolsmith, but I had no idea! Can I hold it?”
David shrugged, handing over his Beretta to Chenney while he dug out eye gear and a box of bullets. People had been shooting earlier in the day. The air was acrid with the lingering odor of gunpowder and oil.
“My God, this sucker has radioactive sights! I've only ever heard of them.”
“My dad,” David said simply, and pulled on his goggles. His gun was a souped-up hot rod these days, ready for a shootout with several AK-47-carrying drug lords. He kept telling his father the customization wasn't necessary. His father kept saying “uh-huh” and doing it anyway.
“Oh, my God, you have . . . everything!” Chenney was twisting the gun all around in his hand. “Check out this hand-metal checkering. Forty lines per inch. Gorgeous! He had to use a magnifying glass for that, huh?”
“Dad's an artist.”
“Ambidextrous safety, dehorned, custom sights. Sheesh.” Chenney pointed it down the shooting gallery and dry-fired. “Five-pound trigger, accurized, I'd bet. Now, that's a gun.” Chenney handed over the semiautomatic with reluctance. He gazed at his own Glock with the expression men got in rest rooms when they realized the other guy's penis was bigger than theirs.
Then he seemed to get over it. Both of them slid out clips and loaded. “Oh, yeah,” Chenney said after a second, “your brother was a pitcher, right?”
David stilled, then pushed the third bullet in. “Yep.”
“I know he's a coach now, but he must still keep his arm up.”
“Yep.”
David focused on getting the fourth bullet in. “It's a tight division.”
“We want him!” Chenney exclaimed. “He's just what we need—a ringer to strike out a bunch of over-the-hill cops who spend way too much time at Dunkin' Donuts. Will you set it up for me?”
“A ringer, huh?”
“Yeah, the best pitching arm around.”
“Sure,” David said. “I'll set it up for you.”
David finished loading his clip. He slid it into place. He swallowed twice. Then he peered down his finely accurized sites and said, “You left Sheffield today, didn't you? This morning. You abandoned your target for a more interesting party on the block.”
Chenney flushed. “You'll be glad I did. I overheard some interesting stuff.”
“Chenney, don't ever leave your target. If you're following someone, you're following someone—”
“He was sick! I watched him stagger out of the hospital looking pale as a sheet. Shivering and sweating. He told the unit head he had the flu and they sent him packing. Trust me, once Sheffield made it home, he wasn't going anywhere.”
“Chenney,” David repeated firmly, “don't ever leave your target. If you're following someone, you're following someone. Got it?”
“All right, all right.” Chenney put on his goggles, not looking happy at the dressing-down. By mutual agreement they set up the first targets the customary twenty-one feet back and ran through one clip.
The rookie shot aggressively. He lined up fast, fired fast, and screwed his face into an ugly expression that would've made Clint Eastwood proud. He put most of his bullets through the inner two rings, but when they brought in their targets, Chenney could barely pass a pencil through the single hole made by David's twelve shots.
