by Lisa Gardner
Of a four-year-old little girl with big blue eyes and curly blond hair.
He said, “If it's any help, I'm ninety percent positive that Russell Lee Holmes did not kidnap or murder Meagan Stokes, which may explain why your father didn't take the money to the drop site. He already knew he didn't have to.”
“Come again?”
David regarded Brian Stokes seriously. “I don't think your father was after a hundred thousand dollars. I believe he was after a million.”
“What?”
“The life insurance, Brian, or didn't you know? Both you and Meagan were insured for one million bucks.”
Brian Stokes hadn't known. In front of them, he went pale as a sheet, then his face twisted with rage. “That goddamn son of a bitch! I will kill him. I can't believe . . .”
“The ransom note that was delivered was too sophisticated for Russell Lee Holmes. Meagan did not fit his victim profile. They never found any physical evidence tying him with the crime. In fact, all they had was his confession—”
“Why would he confess?”
“In order to have his child raised in style. Melanie is Russell Lee Holmes's daughter, Brian. Your parents raised her to cover their own tracks. Now you tell me, for your sister's sake, does that make a difference?”
Brian was silent for a moment. “No. Of course not. Melanie is Melanie. She is the best thing that ever happened to this family. Maybe it just figures that it takes the devil's own daughter to love the Stokeses.”
David decided to let that comment pass. “Okay, now you have to help me. Originally we had reason to believe you or your mother might be involved. You understand that in seventy-five percent of cases, it is the family, so we have to think that way. Now we know you and your mother had alibis. What about Harper?”
“He worked. At least I thought he was at work. I don't know. My father can be a cold SOB, but I can't imagine him kidnapping . . . killing . . .” Brian shook his head. “He's not the type to get his hands dirty.”
“Yeah? Well, what about Jamie O'Donnell?”
Brian hung his head, which was answer enough. “He loved us, I'd swear to it. He played with us, brought us presents, spoiled us, indulged us. But—”
“But?”
He whispered, “But there's more to him than that. He's done some things. Known some things. I get the impression— If Harper hates getting his hands dirty, then Jamie is most at home in the muck.”
“He's that kind of man,” David said.
“Yeah, maybe. But Meagan was just a little girl. I can imagine Jamie taking on a grown man, or maybe somebody who'd wronged us, but I can't see him hurting a child. Especially Meagan. Did you know that his name was the first word she learned to say? Dad was furious.”
“Let's approach this from a different angle,” David tried after a moment. “We have two different things going on here. We have the person or persons who harmed Meagan Stokes. Most likely Harper or Jamie. Then we have someone who knows the truth, who seems intimately aware of what everyone did or didn't do twenty-five years ago. This person is trying to get out the truth, in a sick and twisted way. Maybe, if we can identify this person, we can cut to the chase and ask directly. Who knew that you saw the ransom money but didn't tell?”
Brian shook his head. “I didn't think anyone knew. If I'd thought I'd had an ally anywhere, I would've confessed.”
David gave him a look. “That's not possible. Someone had to have seen to know to send you this cow's tongue.”
“No kidding. And I'm telling you, Agent, no one knew!”
“Russell Lee Holmes,” Chenney said excitedly. “He must know all the details. That Harper never delivered the money, that the family had a love triangle. Before he confessed, he probably demanded all the details. He's sick and twisted enough to enjoy a little game like that.”
“Russell Lee Holmes is dead,” Brian said flatly and with a trace of vehemence. “I watched it.”
“Things can be switched, faked. Maybe it was part of the deal.” Chenney shrugged again. “Why should we assume he did it solely for his child's future? Maybe he got away for life, huh?”
David gave the rookie a look. “We have no proof that Russell Lee Holmes is alive.”
“We have proof we're missing some piece of the puzzle,” Chenney argued. “You can't deny that.”
“Let's get back to the facts,” David said flatly. “One, someone knows what happened twenty-five years ago and is intent on shaking things up. Maybe he guessed about Brian and the ransom money. He also had to know where Meagan's toy horse and clothes were all these years, so he has to be connected to the family. Hell, maybe it was William Sheffield. Maybe Harper got drunk one night and said too much and William thought this would be a great way to twist everyone for extra money. We'll have to search his place.
“That brings us to the person who actually did the crime twenty-five years ago and is desperate to keep it covered up. He hired the shooter to take out Larry Digger when he got too close and Melanie when she began to remember.”
“What?” Brian said sharply.
David filled him in. “Whoever is doing this,” David concluded, “is playing for keeps. I think, Dr. Stokes, that having Nate declare you missing might not have been such a bad idea.
“And I'm asking you again: Understanding now that Melanie is in danger, that we are dealing with someone who murdered a four-year-old girl, do you know where she is?”
“No, Agent. I just got her message.”
“Okay, she knows she isn't safe at home, she knows she couldn't find you. She's not experienced enough or prepared enough to drop off the face of the earth, so where would she turn next?”
Brian's face lit up. “Ann Margaret. Her boss at the Dedham Donor Center.”
IT WAS A thirty-five-minute drive to the Dedham Red Cross Donor Center. Chenney handled the wheel, David worked the cell phone. He offered Detective Jax the tidbit that Melanie had left a message on her brother's machine saying she had to shoot William in self-defense. In return, Jax told him that they had witnesses testifying that Melanie had used a pay phone in Government Center. They had one forensics team already searching the area for the murder weapon. They'd also found the taxi driver who had driven Melanie to Brian's condo. He'd described Melanie as being pale, quiet, and “a little spooky.”
Now the police were canvassing the neighborhood, talking to taxi dispatch stations, monitoring the airport, and getting financial records from her bank. They figured they'd turn up something shortly. How long could one debutante hide?
David said uh-huh a lot. He didn't bother to mention his current destination. FBI agents were supposed to cooperate with local law enforcement, but that didn't preclude staying one step ahead of them.
They pulled into the parking lot of the Red Cross Center a little after three. Melanie had now been on the run for over two hours, plenty of time to get down to Dedham by taxi or train.
They found Ann Margaret inside the vast white blood-donation center, sitting in a tiny office doing paperwork. The desk looked makeshift, the plastic chairs utilitarian. Industrial metal bookcases and gray metal filing cabinets.
The woman fit the office. Short, sensible, gray hair capped closely in tight curls. Lined face carrying the permanent stamp of a southern sun. Trim, neat figure clad in nurses' whites. Though not large or imposing, Ann Margaret looked like the kind of woman you could trust to get the job done.
At their approach, she glanced up, frowned, then paled as they showed their credentials.
“What is it?” she asked sharply, as if part of her had been expecting bad news for quite some time. “What happened?”
“We'd like to ask you some questions about Melanie Stokes,” David said.
The lines of her face turned to confusion. Apparently the presence of FBI agents didn't surprise her, but FBI agents asking about Melanie did.
David motioned to two yellow plastic chairs. “May we?”
Ann Margaret was too well mannered to refuse, so h
e and Chenney took a seat.
“I don't understand what you need to know about Melanie,” Ann Margaret said, setting down her pen. “She's not even scheduled to work today.”
“She's volunteered here for a while?” David asked.
“Five years.” Ann Margaret frowned. “Is she all right? What's going on?”
“Do you know William Sheffield?”
“Yes, Melanie's ex-fiancé. Now, see here”—she leaned forward, her lips thinning into a firm line—“I want to know what is going on.”
“William Sheffield was found shot two hours ago. We have reason to believe that Melanie pulled the trigger.”
Ann Margaret was shaken. “No,” she whispered.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“But . . . but . . .” She couldn't seem to find her bearings. Her hands fluttered on her desk as if seeking anchor. “Is he dead?”
“Yes, ma'am. But we'll need you to keep that under your hat until we notify his family.”
“He doesn't have a family. He was an orphan too. It was one of the things he and Melanie had in common.”
“What do you know about their relationship?”
Ann Margaret still looked shell-shocked. “I don't . . . I mean. Melanie is more than just a volunteer, I'm her friend. I remember how happy she was when he first proposed.”
David waited patiently.
“Her father introduced the two of them, I believe. They dated six months, seemed happy. I know Melanie said once that William was a bit jealous that she'd been adopted by such a rich family and he hadn't. She didn't understand that. He'd become a doctor after all, lived a very good life. I guess it caused a rift between them. She hasn't really talked much about him since they broke up. I assumed the parting was mutual.”
“Did she ever allude that she wanted him back or felt injured?”
“Not at all. And even if—listen to me, young man.” Ann Margaret pulled herself up. “William and Melanie weren't a good match, but you don't kill someone over something like that. William was really a nice boy, very smart, a good anesthesiologist. And Melanie simply wouldn't hurt a fly. Plus, their breakup is ancient history. There must be some other explanation.”
“Did she talk to you about anything else going on in her life?”
“Well, I haven't really spoken to her for four or five days. She hasn't been feeling well. Problems with migraines . . .” Her voice trailed off. She seemed to realize that could be significant.
David waited, but Ann Margaret had obviously decided it would be best if she didn't say anything more.
“We really need to speak to Melanie,” David said evenly.
“I'm sure you do.”
“If you know where she is—”
“I don't know any such thing.”
“You're sure she hasn't contacted you?”
“I am her boss, Agent, not her mother.”
David said in a low, steely voice, “If we find out you're hiding a fugitive . . .”
But Ann Margaret remained unmoved. If she did know more, she simply wasn't saying.
David placed a business card on her desk. The blue FBI shield emblazoned on the card stared up at her as he and Chenney walked away.
As he was passing through the doorway, David suddenly turned.
“Ever hear the name Angela Johnson?”
He thought she flinched.
“No.”
“What about Annie?”
A muscle flickered in her cheek. “My name is Ann Margaret Dawson. That's all I go by, Agent—at least on a good day.”
“Of course.”
She smiled thinly. “Of course.”
David and Chenney walked out. “What do you think?” Chenney asked as they got into their car.
“I don't know yet.”
“She seemed to take the news rather hard.”
David tapped the steering wheel a few times, then started the engine. “I think she may be worth watching.”
“I don't know. Melanie Stokes is spooked and frightened. If you were spooked and frightened, would you really run to Dedham?”
“No, but if my name was really Ann Margaret Dawson, I wouldn't flinch at the mention of Angela Johnson.”
“Who's Angela Johnson?”
“Russell Lee Holmes's wife?”
Chenney's eyes got round. “You think . . .”
“Ann Margaret, Annie, Angela. Lots of Annes to be a coincidence.”
“And she's from Texas.”
“And she's about the right age.”
“Oh, my God,” Chenney said.
David just nodded and drove. He had a thousand things on his mind, but first and foremost he remained worried about Melanie.
Chenney didn't speak again until they were almost in Boston. “Shit,” he declared. “Riggs, we're male chauvinist pigs.”
“Probably.”
“Think for a moment. The Stokes family doesn't have motive to stir things up. We don't think O'Donnell has motive to stir things up. Melanie certainly doesn't, and you're determined to believe that Russell Lee Holmes is dead.”
“Yes, I definitely believe that.”
“So what about Russell Lee Holmes's wife? What about this Angela Johnson and everything she must know from back then?”
“Oh, God,” David said as the pieces started to fit. “We are male chauvinist pigs.”
“She'd probably know all about the details of the crime and life in the Stokes family.”
“That would explain the shrine in Melanie's room. If you were a woman and you gave up your daughter twenty years ago to protect her, to give her a better life, you'd have to wish—”
“That she'd remember. Or someday come looking for you.”
“Christ. First thing tomorrow morning—”
“Everything I can find on Angela Johnson—”
“Ann Margaret Dawson.”
“Got it.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
D AVID DIDN'T RETURN home until ten P.M. He felt a moment of apprehension standing in front of his apartment door. Melanie knew where he lived. Would she come here on her own, give him a second chance?
He unlocked his door and pushed it wide open. Moonlight cascaded over the dingy mess that passed for his private refuge, illuminating his old green couch and the dusty collection of trophies he never could bring himself to throw away.
No Melanie. Damn.
By eight P.M. the police had traced two ATM withdrawals to her checking account. Her bank reported her coming in late in the afternoon and withdrawing an even larger sum of cash. At this point she had a few thousand dollars on her. She could get pretty far on a few thousand dollars. David wished he knew where.
He limped into the kitchen and grabbed a bag of frozen peas. His back was a mess.
His career wasn't doing so great these days either.
The press was all over the shooting of William Sheffield. Reporters were already calling the Bureau's press relations agent, stating they knew two FBI agents had been present at the scene and they wanted to know the Bureau's involvement in the case. So far Lairmore had issued the generic “We are merely assisting local law enforcement in any way they see fit,” a party line nobody was buying.
It would be only a matter of time before someone found out about the investigation into Drs. William Sheffield and Harper Stokes. Then someone would place Larry Digger at the Stokes residence, connect the dots with his recent murder, and the story would gain real momentum. While the Bureau remained looking bad. Agents leaving a trail of unsolved homicides. The Feebies—always a day late and a dollar short. The potential for Bureau bashing was unlimited.
The Bureau had already had enough bad press in the nineties, Lairmore had informed Riggs and Chenney curtly after five o'clock. They'd better perform some damage control quick, or they would become the first agents in the history of the Bureau reduced to serving as meter maids.
David paced his living room. He jerked off his tie, shed his jacket. To hell with Lairmore, David couldn't stand not
being able to put this case to bed.
Twenty-five years earlier Harper cut a deal with Russell Lee Holmes. Something happened to Meagan Stokes, and Harper wanted Russell Lee to take the fall. Harper gets a million dollars. Russell Lee's daughter gets a good home. Everyone lives happily ever after until one day Harper needs money again.
This time he comes up with scheme number two, slicing open healthy patients for profit. No harm, no foul, he must have thought. Piece of cake after disguising a murder.
But he didn't cover up all his tracks this time, and someone was after him now. Maybe he/she wanted vengeance for Meagan or maybe he/she wanted Melanie back or maybe he/she was simply sick to death of Harper Stokes. David sure as hell was. Killing one daughter. Adopting another and leading her on for twenty years, only to hand her over to the police on a silver platter. The man had to have ice water instead of blood in his veins.
The phone rang. David quickly snatched it up.
“Melanie?”
There was a pause. “David?”
Not Melanie, but his father. David was disappointed, and he sounded it. “Dad? Is everything all right? It's late.”
“Sorry. Didn't mean . . . Just couldn't get hold of you during the conventional times, you know. Did you get my messages? I've been wondering.”
His father sounded humbled and hurt. David grimaced.
“I'm fine,” he said. “Just . . . busy.”
“Work going well?” Bobby's voice picked up. “I got some new ideas for your gun.”
“My gun's fine, Dad. Uh, I'm doing some work with Detective Jax. He told me to give you his regards.”
“Oh, Jax. I like him. Good man. Pretty good shot, but you're better. Coming out to the range anytime soon?” Bobby asked eagerly. “I could meet you there.”
“I don't know. I got a pretty rough case now.”
“More of that doctor stuff?”
“Yeah.”
The call drifted to silence. David shifted restlessly, cold water trickling down his back. He should say something more. Hey, Dad, how are the Red Sox doing? No, don't tell me. It'll just break both of our hearts.
