Then another idea got in her throat and choked her like a fish bone. Cayman had spent the past decade as her protector. If he had been here all along, because her parents had kept him on the payroll behind her back, which definitely seemed like something they would pull, then why hadn’t he done his job?
Cayman was smart, and he was good at being a bodyguard. Too many times, she’d tried and failed to escape his watchful eye. She simply could not believe that if he’d been watching her, he wouldn’t have seen someone follow her home on Monday night . . . because Cayman, himself, would’ve been on her tail.
Tears stung her eyes at an idea she wouldn’t allow to fully blossom.
Cayman was her friend.
Cayman would never hurt her.
She thought of all the times she’d confided in him about how much her father’s rules chafed. That time he’d snuck a neighbor kid in to see her when she was on lockdown. The night she’d been sick, and he’d gone out at eleven p.m. for her favorite lobster bisque because she finally felt like eating.
Had it all been an act?
Could a man she’d trusted, and yes, even loved . . . could the man she’d considered an uncle be the monster that brought evil into her life?
No!
It wasn’t Cayman.
It simply couldn’t be.
“Here’s my card. If you see her, call me first.” Cayman handed something off to Ben.
“Shouldn’t I call the cops first?”
“Then call me right after. I guarantee I’ll get here first.”
Ben went back inside, and Cayman approached a young woman walking toward the building. He showed her something. Probably Laura’s photograph. She shook her head.
Cayman turned a corner, and Laura slid, as quietly as possible from behind the bushes. She pulled her hoodie far over her face. Cayman moved down the sidewalk, showing the photograph to everyone he encountered. Each time he was answered with the shake of a head.
Using her best tracking skills—thank the lord for that damn wilderness survival class—she tailed him.
More than once he turned around, as if he’d heard something behind him, but he always kept moving forward. At the bottom of the hill, he got on a beat-up blue bicycle that looked like it should belong to a college kid and pedaled away. It was easier to get around campus with a bike than with a car and that made her wonder again if he’d been following her around for a while.
She waited until he was completely out of sight before making her way to the bike rack. One bicycle remained. It was chained up. But there was a hardware store around the corner.
Five minutes later, she returned with wire cutters. She scanned the area around her and saw an old woman coming up the street with a bag of groceries. Laura tossed the cutters behind a tree and when the woman got close, Laura waved. The woman waved back and went into a nearby home.
Laura checked the area again, and this time, saw no one. She cut the chain. Got on the bike—a green ten-speed—and rode, following the dirty tire track Cayman’s bike had left on the sidewalk, all the way to Elm Street.
She got off the bike and parked it behind a tree.
Then, heart pounding in her chest, she walked up and down the street until she saw it.
There, chained up on the porch of a two-story brown frame home, with a tall elm tree growing in the front yard, was a beat-up blue bike.
She found a good hunter’s blind, from which she had a clear view of the front door.
Cayman would never hurt her.
Cayman was her friend.
Chapter 27
Friday, October 25
9:00 A.M.
Task force headquarters
Highlands Hotel
Denver, Colorado
Hatcher rushed into the war room, his face bright red. He shoved his spectacles to the top of his head and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Something had gotten him worked up in a big way.
“Are the Chaucers here?” Spense asked, wondering if that alone was enough to produce such a copious amount of sweat on one man’s forehead.
Hatcher mopped his entire face before responding. “Yes. And there’s been a change of plans.”
“Which plans?” Caity asked.
Spense, too, was confused. Hatcher had been summoned for a conference call with his commander a good forty-five minutes ago. There must’ve been a new development in the case, or maybe Hatcher had decided to inform the parents about the discovery of the body on his own. “Should we leave you to it?”
“Oh, hell no. The Chaucers are waiting for us in the interview room. I want you both there when I tell them we found a young woman’s corpse in the Eagles Nest Wilderness—and it is not their daughter.”
Caity’s pupils bloomed. “You’re sure?”
“Dental records don’t match. Blood type doesn’t match. The press conference is back on—in less than an hour.”
Spense’s neck and shoulders loosened. Someone had still lost a daughter, but at least for the time being, they didn’t have to jerk all hope from the parents waiting in the next room.
“I might warn you, the Chaucers aren’t alone,” Hatcher said, the timbre of his voice suddenly rising. He was definitely not pleased about the sidekick.
“They brought a lawyer?” That would be a dick move on their part. With their daughter missing, naturally, the task force would have to look at the parents carefully, but lawyering up would only make it harder to get to the truth, and the truth was what a loving parent should be after. Of course, sometimes, good people get bad advice from others around them.
“Not a lawyer.” Hatcher grimaced. “The senator insisted on bringing along our favorite shrink. Just in case we have bad news, he wants someone there to comfort his wife.”
To Spense’s way of thinking, Chaucer, himself, should be that someone. All he said, though, was, “Caity’s my favorite shrink.” Then he opened the door and placed his hand on the small of her back as she preceded Hatcher and him into the interview room.
Caity approached the senator’s wife and extended her hand. “Mrs. Chaucer, I’m Dr. Caitlin Cassidy, and I want you to know Agent Spenser and I will do all we can to help bring Laura home. We’re developing a profile—”
Mrs. Chaucer’s already pasty complexion transformed to a sickly gray. She wobbled on her feet, and her husband extended a supportive hand. “Profiles are for killers. Does that mean you think our daughter is dead?” she asked.
Caity kept a poker face. “Profiles are for all kinds of things. And I’d love for you to call me Caitlin. May I call you Tracy?”
“Of course.”
“Tracy, we’d prefer to speak with you and the senator alone.” Caity aimed a polite smile at Webber. “For the sake of their privacy.”
Good for her. Clearing Webber out was in everyone’s best interest. If the Chaucers wanted to fill Webber in later, that was their business, but Spense knew his presence in the room could influence the parents’ responses, and that would be no good for anyone.
Tracy Chaucer gripped Webber’s hand. “Oh, you can speak freely in front of Grady. He’s part of the family.”
Spense kept his manner businesslike. “It’s better for Laura if we speak to you alone. We have information for you, but we also have questions. It’s helpful not to have any outside—”
Webber threw his arm around Tracy Chaucer. “I’m not an outsider. I’m Tracy’s psychiatrist, and I’m here at her request.” He turned to the senator. “And my friend, Whit’s. I’ll thank you to respect their wishes. If you’re worried about leaks, don’t be. I’m a vault.”
But they’d had no trouble prying Laura’s secrets out of him. Which was good for the investigation, but Spense wasn’t buying the vault comparison. Hard to trust a man you don’t like, and Webber had rubbed him the wrong way from the get-go. “You’re treating both mother and daughter. Isn’t that a conflict of interests?”
“I’d think Caitlin would have educated you more than that. I’m a systems therapist. I
don’t believe in treating a patient in isolation from her family. I get everyone involved.”
“Including the senator?” Spense asked.
“Whit doesn’t have time.” Rather abruptly, Tracy let go of her therapist’s hand. “But I’ve been going all these years—for Laura’s sake. I have to admit Grady’s been a tremendous help to me, too. Sometimes I think he knows our family better than we know ourselves. So when he offered to come with us, today, I was truly grateful.”
Spense caught the surprise on Caity’s face.
Supposedly the family had requested Webber’s presence, but now it seemed . . . “So then, it was actually your idea to come along, not the senator’s,” Spense said, addressing Webber.
“I really don’t recall who suggested it first.” Webber exaggeratedly turned to Hatcher as if to make the point it was the detective who would decide who could stay. “But I’m sure whatever Tracy says is right. In any case, she’s been through a lot, and I’d like to be here to make sure no undue pressure or bullying tactics—”
Caity’s shoulders drew back. “We have news for the family. And the purpose of any questions we ask is to help bring Laura home.”
“The Chaucers aren’t persons of interest in her disappearance? Don’t the police always consider the family members suspect?”
With that kind of talk, Webber would have the Chaucers on the defensive in no time.
Spense rubbed his tight jaw. “Everyone, just sit down and we’ll explain what’s going on.”
Tracy and Webber complied but Chaucer approached Hatcher. “I’m not sitting down. Not until you tell me why we’re here. Last night, you were all set to come to the apartment. Now you’re stalling, making a federal case out of my wife wanting her doctor present.”
“Like we said,” Hatcher responded with commendable calm. “For Laura’s sake, we’d prefer to keep this between us, but of course if you’d like to have someone present—like an attorney—that’s your right.”
“I don’t want an attorney!” Whit slapped his hand against his thigh. “I just want to know where my little girl is. Have you found her? Is she . . . is she dead?”
“No, we haven’t found her,” Spense answered immediately. The Chaucers had waited long enough for the news. Even though it was their own fault—they’d postponed the meeting until morning and then showed up late. Still, he didn’t want them imagining the worst one second longer.
Whit collapsed onto the couch next to Tracy and covered his face with trembling hands.
Tears began to stream down Tracy’s cheeks. “Oh, thank God. Thank God.” She met Spense’s eyes. “I was sure you’d found . . . something terrible. She’s alive?”
Spense looked to Hatcher to take the lead. Most of this was going to be made public at the press conference, but it was up to the detective to determine which details to reveal. Some would be held back—likely, the existence of the cabin, for example—for the sake of the investigation. And until cleared, both parents were, in fact, persons of interest.
“We hope to find Laura alive. But we can’t say for certain that she is. The reason we brought you in today is we found the body of a different young woman in the Eagles Nest Wilderness.”
Chaucer’s face went completely white, and his head bobbed like he might faint. “You didn’t find Laura?”
Caity rushed to the senator and his wife with bottles of water she took from the mini-fridge in the room.
While Tracy encouraged her husband to sip, Hatcher repeated, “The young woman we found is not Laura.”
Hatcher waited for Chaucer to regain his sea legs, and then continued. “Perhaps our finding a Jane Doe and Laura going missing are completely unrelated events, but then again, there may be a connection. It’s imperative we locate your daughter as soon as possible.”
“How can we help?” The senator reached for his knees, clasping them with both hands.
“We just have a few questions.”
“We’ll tell you everything we can, but Whit and I were both back in DC when she . . . when she . . .” Tracy’s voice broke. “You don’t think whoever killed this other woman has our Laura, do you?”
“Maybe you should call a lawyer,” Webber said aside to Whit.
“Shut up, Grady,” the senator ground out. “We’re going to give them whatever they need.”
“I think that’s wise.” Caity took a now empty water bottle from Chaucer and handed him another. “You both look dehydrated. Try to remember to eat and drink, even if you’re not feeling hungry or thirsty.”
The senator and Tracy nodded, but said nothing.
Hatcher pulled out a notebook. “I know we went through this when you first arrived from DC, but just for the record, do either of you have any idea where your daughter might be? Did she give you any indication she might leave town, take a trip with a friend, that kind of thing?”
“No. We don’t know anything. We haven’t talked to her since we got home from parents’ weekend.”
“And how did that go? Was she in good spirits? Did you argue?” Spense asked Chaucer.
“Parents’ weekend went fine.” Chaucer sat back, the color finally returning to his cheeks. “Laura was a bit anxious, maybe even a little blue, but not more so than usual. She talked a lot about her classes, and she said she’d made a friend who didn’t care that she was a senator’s daughter, and who didn’t know about her past. We didn’t argue about anything—to speak of. The only issue between us was that she wanted more independence from her mom and me. She reiterated that she didn’t want a bodyguard.” Chaucer looked down at his feet. “So, yes, I lied to her. I promised her I wouldn’t force the matter, and then I kept Cayman in place here in Denver with orders to stay on her. You’ll have to ask Cayman what happened after that. My wife and I took a private jet back to DC, first thing Monday. I had an important meeting on the Hill at eight a.m. If I hadn’t done that—kept Cayman in place, I mean, we wouldn’t have realized she was gone until much later. Maybe we still wouldn’t know. So don’t blame me, Tracy. It was the right thing to do.”
“Maybe she found out we lied, and now she’s run away.” Resentment crept through in Tracy’s voice.
“We’ll look into that possibility,” Hatcher assured her. “And we’ll get Cayman back in for more questioning ASAP. But right now, Agent Spenser and Dr. Cassidy have some questions about the other time Laura disappeared. Thirteen years ago.”
“What for?” Webber just couldn’t stay out of it.
“Agent Spenser and I need to get a clear picture of everything that happened leading up to and including the day Laura disappeared from her family home thirteen years ago,” Caity said.
“That doesn’t tell us why,” Webber persisted obstinately.
“I’m sorry, but we’re not free to explain all of our reasons at this time.” Caity kept her gaze on the Chaucers.
“So you think this is the same man,” Whit said, as though resigned to it.
“That would be premature to conclude. Just trying to get the big picture,” Spense said.
Tracy started to sob into her hands. “You don’t think she ran away at all. You think she’s been kidnapped again.”
Caity slid a box of tissues across the table. “Take all the time you need.”
“I’m ready now.” Tracy blew her nose and looked around for a wastebasket. Eventually, she settled for folding the used tissue and laying it in her lap.
“Tell us, in your own words, what happened October 13, thirteen years ago,” Spense said.
Tracy glanced over at Webber.
He gave a slight nod.
“We’ve been over it a thousand times with Detective Hatcher, but if you think it will help . . . Whit and Laura and I spent the day with our friends Lillian and Martin Banks. We attended services at the First Presbyterian Church and later visited their home. Lillian’s cook prepared a lovely meal—rack of lamb. Laura refused to eat her meat because she had a stuffed toy lamby of her own. Grady arrived later, and we played ch
arades. Then we had leftovers for dinner and cocktails after. We arrived home about ten o’clock that night. I went straight to my room, and Angelina put Laura to bed. Whit went to his study. There was a bit of a kerfuffle at the City Council over school funding, so Whit stayed up late reviewing the matter.”
“Sounds like a long, fun party. Had you and your husband had a lot to drink?” Caity asked matter-of-factly.
“Whit’s not a drinker. But I may have had a few too many.” Tracy sighed. “If you must know, I’m probably self-medicating. Is that right, Grady?”
Grady again gave the slightest of nods. It wouldn’t surprise Spense to see him break out a set of secret hand signals.
“I have anxiety. I take medicine for it, and it doesn’t mix well with alcohol. Believe me, I’ve wondered what would’ve happened if I’d been sober. But Grady says my guilt won’t change the past.”
Didn’t seem to be changing the present either, at least not if Hatcher was correct that Chaucer declined an interview last night because his wife was drunk.
“Then, around midnight, I woke up screaming. I’ve had bad dreams my entire life.”
“Tell us more about that.” Caity nodded encouragement.
“Is this necessary? I don’t think this is going to help bring Laura back,” Webber interrupted.
“Let her tell it,” the senator said. “It’s no secret to the cops anyway.”
“My father was a drunk. I guess that’s one reason a straight arrow like Whit appealed to me. I know some people think I married for his money—but I promise you I love this man.” She sent her husband a watery smile. “I’ve never known anyone so kind as Whit. But . . . I guess what I’m avoiding telling you…” She cast her eyes back to Grady. “My father repeatedly abused me . . . he’d come in my room several nights a month. Anyway, I’ve had nightmares and anxiety my entire life because of that.”
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