“I was at Elizabeth’s grave site,” Donovan said at last. He sipped his Nespresso and took a deep breath, watching the agent over the edge of the mug.
Klein leaned forward, turned his body sideways like he had last time, and raised an eyebrow. “Where’s this so-called grave, Donovan?”
Shaking his head, he took another sip of coffee before reaching into his pocket and closing his grip around the item he’d taken before burying the bones along with his shirt.
“Is that what the ten thousand was for?” Klein’s eyebrow rose higher. “Did you pay some hack to bring you to some unmarked native burial site in Wisconsin? Is that what you’ve been up to?”
“It’s Elizabeth’s.”
Klein closed his eyes and continued to shake his head. “What makes you believe that?”
Pulling his hand out of his pocket, Donovan revealed the small bone he’d scooped from Elizabeth’s grave. He watched the curiosity settle over Klein like an approaching thunderstorm. Once he recognized the bone for what it was, he raised his eyebrows.
“A bone.”
Donovan let the small piece—probably part of a finger or toe, although he wasn’t exactly an expert—roll between his finger and thumb. He offered it to Klein. “Can you extract DNA from a sample like this?”
Taking the bone from him, Klein gave it an inquiring stare before allowing a nod. “It’s now got your and my DNA on it, but the lab techs are good. They’ll be able to run a match against previous samples we’ve collected.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a few small evidence bags. Peeling one away from the others, Klein placed the bone inside and pocketed it.
“If you confirm that it’s Elizabeth’s bone, I’ll take you to the grave site myself.”
“Where’s the money, Donovan?”
“If that’s Elizabeth grave, I’ll introduce you to the young lady who’s done more in the past few days than you and the rest of the FBI have done since Elizabeth was taken.” Donovan had known the words would sting, but it was the truth, wasn’t it?
Klein raised a finger and started to object, but then he seemed to think better of it. He frowned, as if making some quick mental calculations. It was the look that Donovan feared, because Klein struck him as incredibly gifted when it came to deductive intelligence.
“Agent Klein, before we get too far ahead of ourselves, how long does it take for a DNA match?”
Although Klein gave a quick nod, acknowledging that he’d heard the question, his eyes remained narrowed while he ran some quick math behind his cowboy eyes. “Standard turnaround is sixty hours. I won’t be able to get a true rush on a case that’s been cold for fifteen years like Elizabeth’s, but they’ll give me a week. I’ll keep them on track, hold them to it.” He raised a finger to his chin and started tapping it. “If you were working with a young female private detective, I’d know about it. This woman that took your money, if she’s got some kind of insider information—and that’s what she’d need if she’s been able to show you Elizabeth’s burial site—she’s dangerous.” His eye shifted to Donovan’s. “Please tell me you know that already.”
Swallowing the dryness at the back of his throat, Donovan nodded. “Of course. Sure I do.”
“Uh-huh.” Klein’s dry grunt wasn’t very convincing. “I’m just not quite sure whether she’s more dangerous with insider information into the abductor’s MO, or if she’s just as dangerous as a con artist looking to swindle you out of every last dime you’ve managed to hold on to.”
Donovan frowned, as if he weren’t following.
“She managed to take ten large out of your hands under the pretense of bringing you to your daughter, who may or may not be dead.”
Trying not to laugh out loud, Donovan allowed a cynical smirk. “If she’s alive, she’d be home.”
“That’s not always the case. Missing people can come back after years, even decades of being kept prisoner.”
“But if they’re not found in the first forty-eight hours—”
“I’m not debating this.” He sighed, as if he might be tired of having to explain the obvious to him at each checkpoint. “I’m pointing out the facts, Donny. This woman, she managed to convince you that she knows where your daughter’s grave is. Have you questioned how she’d know something like this when the FBI can’t even locate it?” He patted his breast, indicating the evidence he’d placed inside his jacket pocket. “She even let you walk away with a souvenir, and just glancing at the fossil suggests to me that it’s human remains she’s dealing with. If they’re not Elizabeth’s, then whose are they? A past victim’s?” Klein shrugged, standing up and pulling his pants into place. “Either way, Donny, this woman is dangerous. And you need to be careful.”
He remembered all the details Monica had shared about her conversations with Elizabeth. That part about bandwagon theory and the false consensus effect, how his daughter had used it to convince Monica that maybe everyone else was wrong about Roger and their final days in captivity. Which reminded Donovan of another philosophical truth: 100 percent certainty was mathematically impossible, there was always a “what if” behind every statement. In this case, he asked it aloud. “But what if she’s the real deal, Agent Klein? What if those remains are my daughter’s?”
Klein stepped closer to him, nodding his understanding. “If she knows where the abductor buried your daughter, then she knows the abductor. And unless you want any other missing girl to end up the way Elizabeth did—and trust me, your daughter wasn’t a one-time slipup, an ‘I’ll never abduct another little girl again’ moment; that’s a fact—you’ll be smart to make that so-called introduction between me and this woman sooner than later.”
Donovan realized he’d struck a nerve. Klein’s face had turned red, and he’d ended his little speech with a finger pointing straight at Donovan’s face.
“I will,” Donovan promised. “I’ll introduce you.”
Klein held his stare for a moment before walking to the front door. “I’ll get in touch once the DNA results are back.”
“Thank you,” Donovan said from the living room, aware that his leg was bouncing from his taut nerves.
“Until then, don’t be giving this woman anymore cash, okay?”
“Okay.” He chuckled, but it sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears.
CHAPTER 22
Although Monica hadn’t promised to stop in for a visit after work that Friday night, Donovan made himself comfortable in his regular reading chair in the front room and waited for her anyway. While passing the time on his new computer, he thought about his relationship with Monica. He felt that they had established something of a friendship. That relationship had been solidified during the ten or so hours they’d spent in the car the day before and further cemented while they’d stood at Elizabeth’s grave and shared stories.
He navigated through Monica’s Facebook photos, aware that of the ten or so years since her escape, the oldest photo was from three years ago. She hadn’t finished telling him her escape story, although it was easy to assume that she’d hidden so well that Roger had given up looking. She’d clearly spent the night in the forest and then had begun finding her way out the following morning once the sun rose and it was safe to do so.
But then what? Had she hidden out in one of the hunting cabins? Had Roger come back later to look for her again? Had she waved down a motorist heading into or out of Twilight Creek?
She’d said she was naked and that her arm had nearly been cut off before Roger decided to sexually abuse her again, one last time before killing her and burying her in an unmarked grave. If she’d escaped with her arm nearly cut off, she’d require a trip to the hospital. And wouldn’t the hospital staff notify the authorities? Even if she’d been so scared that she refused to talk about the abduction and her years in captivity, the medical staff would’ve likely administered a rape kit. And that couldn’t exactly be ignored at her age, could it?
Donovan realized he’d clicked on an advertisement
and was now looking at buying a new car.
Chuckling absently, he returned to Monica’s photo album. She was a beautiful kid, and he couldn’t help but wonder what Elizabeth would be like. If these two had indeed been friends, it felt unfair that Monica could smile like that, and his daughter was buried in an unknown, unmarked grave in a remote part of Wisconsin. That pissed him off.
He checked the time. Eight o’clock. If Monica were coming, she’d have likely arrived by now.
He clicked through the photos, one more time. Click, click, click. Smile, smile, smile.
The way Monica had explained her time in the dungeon, the smiles didn’t make sense. At all. Having lost his daughter fifteen years ago, Donovan himself couldn’t smile half as impressively as Monica could.
On closer inspection, the photos themselves didn’t make a whole lot of sense, either. In Monica’s photo album, he found no images of her parents. No images of her siblings. When there was someone else in the photo, it was often Leo or someone like him who looked like they could’ve spent a bit of time in a prison or a tattoo parlor.
Nine thirty. No knock at the door, no Monica.
And Donovan couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her. Slowly, the pieces fell into place. The money she’d taken on Wednesday night. Then, showing up on Thursday without a vehicle. A taxi had taken her away, but where? Had she returned to the apartment, or were she and Leo moving on to their next victim?
Whose grave did we dig up? he wondered.
Suddenly, the worst-case scenario had a horrible ring of truth to it. He hated himself for being so gullible. And now that he had given Agent Klein—an FBI agent!—human remains, what kind of trouble had he gotten himself into . . . again?
He’d been stupid to believe Monica would know where Elizabeth’s grave was, even more stupid to go along with her to the site and remove evidence from a potential crime scene!
Feeling the pressure surface on his hairline, Donovan closed the laptop and began pacing in the tight living room, walking circles around the coffee table as he considered his options. He knew he should call Klein and cancel the DNA test.
Donovan rushed to the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone off the wall. He carried it back to the living room and found Klein’s business card on the side table. With his fingers trembling, he dialed the number but then stopped.
What exactly would he say to the federal agent? Wouldn’t it trip the alarms if he asked him to cancel a DNA test?
He disconnected and stared at the phone.
Outside the front window, a car stopped on the street, its engine rumbling. Sounded familiar.
Donovan stumbled up to the window and snapped the curtain aside.
A white Corvette, not a Mustang. The passenger-side door popped opened and the neighbor’s kid—Ray’s daughter—from across the street jumped out. Once she’d crossed the street, the Vette roared to life, cutting a tight U-turn and then giving off a wild bark as it sped off.
Letting the curtains fall back into place, Donovan noticed that he was still holding the phone. A droplet of sweat rolled down his forehead and down the length of his nose before he managed to intercept it with his sleeve.
He returned to the reading chair. Sat down. Stared at the sofa, the spot where everyone seemed to sit when they came for a visit.
He missed Elizabeth, but he wondered if he’d been too blind to see the obvious yesterday.
Ten o’clock.
It was dark now.
The phone rang, and he jumped back to reality. The caller ID displayed an unknown name and number, and he wanted it to be Monica Russell so badly that he answered.
Telemarketer.
He hung up on the automated pitch and stared at the phone for a moment before dialing Eric.
Donovan’s sister-in-law, Mel, answered and asked how he was doing. He shifted in the reading chair, getting uncomfortable and wishing she would just pass the phone to her husband. When she suggested a barbecue, Donovan agreed with an abrupt grunt and asked, once again, to speak with Eric.
“Take care of yourself, Donovan,” she said and then covered the mouthpiece so that whatever she said to Eric while holding the phone to him reached Donovan as a blur of words.
“Donovan!” Eric laughed, like they were old friends chatting on a Friday night after a long week.
Eric was probably a few glasses into the wine. Or whiskey. He liked expensive domestic whiskey. “Just walking into my home office,” he said. “For privacy.”
“Why?” Donovan asked. “Everything okay?”
The sound of a door latch catching reached Donovan through the phone, and Eric lowered his voice. “She asked for money, didn’t she?”
Donovan was surprised that Eric would ask that question, first thing. “She took me to a grave,” Donovan said, his pulse racing now.
“Jeez. Fuck. Don’t say another word.” Eric sounded frazzled. He kept his voice low. “You can’t talk about that crap on the phone, Donovan, okay? I’m an attorney; you never know who’s listening on these calls, all right?”
“Sure, sure, I get it.” For the first time in a while, Donovan didn’t feel like he was the most paranoid person in the world. “Do you still grab coffee on the weekends?”
“Not Starbucks, but there’s a place just off the main street here in town. It’s called Barney’s.”
Donovan knew the place. He hadn’t been back to Barney’s since Amelia committed suicide, and even before that it had been too painful since the coffee shop had once been part of his weekend routine with Elizabeth.
“Donovan? You still with me?”
“Is there anywhere else?” He didn’t like the idea of going back there. The chain had a consistent décor—tin ceiling, ornamental counters, retro tiled walls, cast iron and wood paneling—the type of place that looked like an old boys’ club.
“Ten tomorrow,” Eric said, his voice a lot firmer now. “I’ll see you at Barney’s.”
And then he hung up.
Staring down at the phone in his hand, Donovan wondered where he’d gone wrong. His stomach dropped, and he felt like he might get sick, so he shut off the lights, took a couple of chewable tablets to calm his stomach, and then went to bed, where he would lay awake all night.
CHAPTER 23
Saturday morning, Donovan made the trip out to the Barney’s in Winnetka. Parking in the diagonal spot facing the coffeehouse, he read the time on his Impala’s clock: 9:30 a.m. He’d arrived early on purpose, aware that he’d need to mentally prepare for what would be a difficult visit. Even from the street, staring inside Barney’s through the big window with its vintage banners and lettering, Donovan warded off an onslaught of flashbacks: nonfat cappuccinos, decaf lattés, and butterfly cookies with his daughter.
Deep breath.
Before reaching for the Impala’s door handle, Donovan had a thought. If Monica had taken his money and shown him to someone else’s unmarked grave, did that mean Elizabeth could still be alive? Could she still be someone’s prisoner, fighting for her life and an opportunity to escape?
Another deep breath.
If Monica had been lying about the grave, she’d obviously been lying about everything.
Don’t overthink.
At last, he summoned the courage to leave the car. It was a lot like dipping his toe into icy cold lake water in the late spring: brave enough to sacrifice a toe, but maybe too scared to jump in entirely. Except Donovan jumped in; he walked straight up to the Barney’s door and pulled it open.
The smell of heavy espresso beans sucker punched him. He saw Elizabeth’s eyes in that flash of nostalgia brought on by the scent. It felt like yesterday.
Maintaining his resolution, he stepped inside the store. The lone female worker at the register was drying her hands with a paper towel. She smiled at him, recognizing him as a non-regular customer, no doubt.
“I’ll take a nonfat cappuccino,” he said, his heart pounding as he struggled to bury the memories. “For here.”
“Anything to snack on?”
Donovan blinked hard and shook his head.
“That’ll be twelve dollars.”
If the potent whiff of espresso beans had sucker punched him, then the price for his cappuccino felt like a hoof in his private parts. Trying not to vomit, Donovan reached into his pocket and produced a twenty. He was tempted to tell her to keep the change, but all he had was the twenty, which left eight dollars if Eric was expecting him to cover the cost of his coffee.
At the end of the counter, he watched while the young woman worked the levers. She asked about his weekend, whether he’d made big plans.
“Nope.” Since Elizabeth’s abduction, Donovan had rarely been accused of being overly conversational.
The barista produced the specialty drink in a paper to-go cup. She’d created something of a wheat stem with the froth and then walked away while he added a touch of raw sugar to the mix.
With his cappuccino, Donovan claimed a table in the back. He sat in the corner seat, providing himself a wide view of the people who entered and exited. The people-watching view also helped him get more comfortable while waiting for Eric.
When his brother-in-law finally arrived at ten, Donovan’s breathing had returned to normal and he no longer felt the rapid pounding in his chest. By then, a young family with two sons had claimed one of the booths closer to the windows. While the parents sipped on their coffees and scrolled through their phones, the kids ate Barney’s granola cereal—they’d tried to convince their parents that chocolate brownies were a good idea, but the mother had put an end to their pleading by making a threat Donovan hadn’t been able to hear. Seeing the young family didn’t sting him the way it would have if they’d come earlier; the time he’d spent getting comfortable allowed him to numb the loss of his own dead family.
“Hey, how’s Donovan this morning?” Eric asked, removing his sunglasses and placing them upside down on the table. “Do you need another drink?”
“I’m good.”
Eric patted his shoulder and walked up to the cash register. He said something to the barista that made her laugh and blush, then bite her lower lip and look away. As a lawyer, Eric had a magical way with words. When he produced a twenty of his own, the barista waved at him to put it away, using the opportunity to reach across the counter to touch the back of his hand. Donovan noticed that her touch lingered a little longer than it should have.
The Last Friend Page 11
