“A little girl is missing.”
The men lounging against the end of the counter straightened. The first one, fresh out of high school and sporting a sparse mustache to prove it, stepped closer. The other, a gangly guy all elbows and knees, stepped back until his hip bumped into the coffee mugs he and his buddy had been nursing.
“I didn’t think things like that could happen on an army post.” Steve raked a hand through his thatch of sun-kissed hair. “But I guess those things happen everywhere these days.”
Gangly might’ve agreed. If he’d stuck around. Patting his shirt pocket as if for cigarettes, he eased toward the stockroom door.
I didn’t like that.
Leaving Barrett to chat with Steve, I backtracked to the public entrance, stepped into the weak springtime sunshine of the early dawn. Gangly emerged from a side door. He was alone.
A fresh cigarette dangled from his lower lip. In the shadow of the building, he cupped his hands around it, touched it with a match, and drew greedily on the smoke. After one puff, he chucked it aside—and slipped around the corner of the building.
Hotfooting it, I followed. Out back, a washed-out gravel drive sloped to the employee parking lot. The lot held a number of pickup trucks and SUVs.
Gangly made his way toward them, his long, stork-like legs eating up the ground. He glanced back, saw me eyeing him. Behind me, he spotted something else.
I pivoted, found Barrett watching both of us.
That’s when Gangly bolted.
“Stop!” Barrett shouted. “Military Police!”
But Gangly didn’t stop. He pounded past parked cars, kicking up dust that lodged in my throat as I ran after him. He veered off the gravel, racing all out for the slice of pine barren at the end of the lot.
As I ran, I could hear Barrett closing the gap behind me. His combat boots crunched into the gravel, then thudded on the winter grass. But Gangly had reached the cover of the woods.
In moments, he’d be gone. And with him, my chance to find out if he had taken Brooke Thorp. I couldn’t let that happen.
So I lunged, tackling Gangly above the knees—just as my father had taught me.
Gangly’s legs buckled and he went down, arms flailing. His chin bounced on matted pine needles. The shock of the impact radiated through his body and into mine.
Gangly twisted, trying to roll. His fist flew at my face. Before it could connect, Barrett was on him, knee to his back, wrenching the arm behind him.
“I didn’t do nothing!” Gangly screamed. “Nothing!”
“Then why did you run?” Barrett asked, clapping a cuff on the guy’s wrist.
“Because you was here asking questions.”
“What’s your name?” I said, climbing to my feet under Barrett’s watchful eye. He relaxed a little when he saw I was all right. But all right was more than I could say for my outfit. Mud decorated my Donegal wool trousers and splattered my cashmere sweater. I frowned at the mess and shoved my square-rimmed glasses up the bridge of my nose.
“I don’t have to answer your questions,” Gangly spat.
“No,” Barrett agreed, grabbing the guy by his arms and hauling him onto his feet. “But you have to answer mine. What’s your name?”
Gangly rolled his eyes.
Barrett said, “All I have to do is ask Steve Sago.”
“Foley,” Gangly mumbled. “Albert.”
I plucked my BlackBerry from its holster, called up the Web browser. I’d bookmarked links to a variety of public databases useful in my line of work—plus one or two not-so-public ones. I plugged Albert Foley’s name into a certain database in particular.
I didn’t have to wait long for the results.
Swallowing my instant nausea, I reported my finding to Barrett.
“Mr. Foley,” I said, “is a registered sex offender. And a convicted pedophile.”
Chapter 5
“Where is Brooke Thorp?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why did you run?”
Barrett had asked Foley this question at least five times since I’d tackled him behind the Maintenance building.
At least five times, Foley had given him a different answer.
This time, he squirmed and said, “Because every time something happens to some kid, everybody comes looking for me.”
Barrett circled behind Foley’s molded plastic chair. “Maybe that’s because you’re the something that happened to four little girls in Camden.”
Foley flushed, eyes on the scarred tabletop in front of him.
Kev Jaeger, who’d been leaning against the interview room’s grimy industrial-gray wall so he could watch Foley’s reactions while Barrett had his go, now took his turn at keeping our suspect off balance.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Al. It’s bad enough you messed with those little girls. Now you moved without updating your offender registration. That’s a crime, you know.”
“I’m not on probation anymore.”
“It’s still the law.”
“Look, I just forgot, all right?”
“Did you forget to put your new address on your Franklin Contracting job application, too?”
Foley fidgeted on his chair.
Kev said, “When was the last time you saw Brooke Thorp?”
“I don’t know who you mean.”
“Sure you do, Al. You worked on the Thorps’ street all day three days last week.”
“Well, I saw a few teenagers come and go over there. And the Thorp lady with her baby. Who would bother a baby?”
Kev and I exchanged looks. Whether I liked Kev or not, I knew that in his line of work, he’d come across lots of men who’d bother a baby. Women, too. Cases like that were one reason I didn’t do straight-up private investigations anymore. That, and Tim had ruined my professional detachment when it came to chasing down cheating husbands.
Thinking of Tim, I said, “How long have you had a grudge against Colonel Thorp, Mr. Foley?”
“I don’t have no grudge against him.”
“Really?” I cocked my head companionably. I’d taken the seat across from him at the table. He’d glanced over at me more than once during the questioning, looking for a sympathetic female face. I’d made sure he’d always found one. “Taking his daughter clearly indicates a grudge.”
Even though it was cool in the interview room, a bead of sweat dribbled from Foley’s temple. It slid down his cheek until he shrugged at it with a shoulder. “I didn’t take his kid and I don’t have no grudge against him. Why would I?”
Why would he, indeed?
Foley slipped a grimy finger into the neck of his T-shirt, tugged at it as if it were suddenly too tight. Like his faded work shirt, cracked boots, and crumbling leather belt, the T-shirt had certainly seen better days. Its collar looked like it had been chewed by sewer rats.
Either Foley didn’t want to waste his money on clothes or he didn’t have any cash to spare. But Tim did. I’d seen piles of it in the safe in his home office—and in that, I saw a motive.
I said, “Have you ever wished you could make a little extra money, Mr. Foley?”
“Well, sure. Who don’t?”
“What would you do to get some?” I leaned toward him conspiratorially. “Would you kidnap a child? Would you hold her for ransom?”
Foley’s puzzled stare was answer enough. The notion of taking Brooke—and of making Tim pay to get her back—was way beyond him. He hadn’t taken her.
At least, not for money.
On my hip, my BlackBerry buzzed. My heart leapt as I read the incoming text message. Back in Philadelphia, Frank Marcotti had done me a favor and uncovered what Foley had kept hidden from us: his current address.
Squelching my elation, I gave Foley a polite smile, got up, walked over to the interview room door, and knocked on it. One of Barrett’s cops let me out. The man himself stepped into the hall after me.
The interview room door slammed shut behind him. “What’s with Foley’s cash f
low?”
“Apparently nothing.”
Barrett gestured to my BlackBerry. “Is that nothing, too?”
Really, I didn’t want to keep Foley’s address to myself forever. I just wanted to beat Kev to Foley’s house. Barrett couldn’t search a home off post, but Kev could, and when Kev did, he’d preserve any detail federal prosecutors could use to build their case—along with every element the accused could use in his defense. Because, as an FBI agent, Kev had an obligation to the law.
I, on the other hand, had an obligation to Brooke Thorp.
If I had to trample Albert Foley’s civil liberties for her sake, I’d do it.
Of course, my car was still in Military Police custody. So I couldn’t trample Mr. Foley’s rights right away. Still, I’d search his house for evidence of little Brooke if I had to walk all the way across town to get there.
Turns out, though, I didn’t have to. Lieutenant Colonel Barrett cast a quick glance at the door between us and Kev. He slipped his car keys from his pocket, spun the ring on his index finger.
“Come on,” he said. “You navigate. I’ll drive.”
“Where to?”
“Anywhere you want to go.”
“Off the post? That’s beyond your jurisdiction, Barrett.”
“You lead the way. Let me worry about jurisdiction.”
His proposal sounded almost too good to be true. But the bigger truth was, when it came to finding Brooke, time was of the essence. Because she’d been taken over eight hours ago.
“All right,” I told Barrett. “You’re on.”
Nineteen minutes later, he and I were rolling down an ordinary street, in an ordinary neighborhood, in an ordinary part of Leeds Township. Mature trees spread their budding branches over houses that were home to multigenerational families. Daffodils, tulips, and grape hyacinths lined ruler-straight walkways, and lawns had already been mown once this season. The likes of ChemLawn would find no customers here, though. Landscaping was strictly do-it-yourself.
I consulted the directions Frank had sent me, coached Barrett to slow in front of one house in particular. It was clad in asbestos shingles and painted an unfortunate shade of brown. I squinted at it through my brainiac glasses, mentally matching the tarnished brass house numbers to the ones listed in the email. Across the street, a sheriff’s cruiser waited at the curb. Two young deputies leaned against the side of the car, watching and waiting.
Their presence didn’t seem to shock Barrett.
“You knew,” I said. “You and Kev knew Foley’s address all this time and you didn’t tell me.”
“Yeah, but I drove you out here anyway.”
“You drove me out here because your commanding officer ordered you to.”
“That’s true. In part.”
“What’s the other part?” I shot back, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.
Barrett pulled to the curb behind the cruiser. “You took Foley down. So I figured it’s only right you’re here when the FBI and I search his house.”
In my line of work, such respect could be hard to come by. But Barrett’s respect was sincere. And somehow, coming from him, that respect meant even more.
I wasn’t sure why.
“By the way,” he added, releasing his seat belt and letting the nylon strap slide through his long, strong fingers, “that tackle wasn’t half bad. Where’d you learn to do that?”
“My father taught me.”
“General Sinclair?”
I frowned. “I never said General Sinclair was my father.”
“No, but you never said you had Foley’s address, either.”
Again, Barrett flashed that spectacular smile of his. Half teasing, half tempting, it was totally attractive. And though I didn’t want to, I felt the tug of it all the way to my toes.
Not that Barrett took the time to notice. He got out of the car. I hurried to do the same.
The deputies greeted him like a long lost cousin. The younger one couldn’t have been old enough to buy beer. With a freckled face and an unruly cowlick, he was Howdy Doody in a black uniform. His partner was as skinny as a stick. And he had an Adam’s apple like a hickory nut.
Barrett jerked a nod toward the brown house. “All quiet?”
“So far,” Hickory said. “The Feebs were supposed to be in an all-fire hurry to get a search warrant, but we haven’t seen them yet. We circled the house when we got here. Knocked on the door, peeked in most the windows. Nobody home.”
“Which windows?” I asked.
The younger man, Howdy Doody, shrugged a shoulder. “All but the basement windows. He’s got curtains covering those. Green curtains. With Tinker Bell all over them.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Pedophiles often furnish their houses with objects that appeal to children. Tinker Bell curtains in a basement didn’t bode well, considering Foley’s personal history. From the set of Barrett’s shoulders, I’d have said he didn’t like Foley’s decorating scheme any better than I did. When I started across the street, he was right behind me.
Blank windows watched our approach. Overgrown spruce and rhododendrons cast deep shade on the front of the place. In the permanent shadows, mushrooms grew.
A path of crumbling bricks cut around the side of the house. I followed it, Barrett bringing up the rear. At the perimeter of the backyard, a sagging wire fence announced the property line. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to cross onto this side of it. Even the ramshackle garden shed at the back of the lot looked like it would’ve liked to slink away.
The house’s backside consisted of more asbestos and a porch that was more like a dilapidated lean-to. It was a homemade job of rotting two-by-fours, peeling white paint, and shredded screens. Its door looked like a set piece from The Wizard of Oz. It hung onto its frame by its top hinges as if it had gone through the tornado with Dorothy.
I hooked a finger in its rusted handle and pulled it open. It complained loudly. Likewise, the porch floorboards groaned as I stepped onto them. Their threat didn’t stop me, though, and it didn’t stop Barrett. He stuck to my heels.
The house’s back door was pure 1920s. It was a panel door with a wobbly brass knob, white paint fading to gray, and a single pane of glass to serve as a window. A shiny brass Kwikset deadbolt, countersunk to resist prying, gleamed from below the knob.
Using the tail of my cashmere turtleneck to cover my hand, I tried the knob. It turned, but the Kwikset held. I stepped back, eyed the whole setup, and considered my next move.
Barrett must have read my mind because he said, “Breaking and entering is a crime.”
“So is kidnapping and child molestation.”
He didn’t disagree with that.
Where the lean-to met the house, the two-by-fours had been nailed to the siding under the soffit. Standing on tiptoe, I ran my hand in the alcove they formed. All I found were splinters, dead roaches, and mouse droppings.
“Maybe Foley left a key under the welcome mat,” Barrett deadpanned.
I turned to tell him he could lay off the wisecracks, found myself much too close to him on the little porch. His broad shoulders seemed to fill the entire space and I had to tilt my head backward to meet his dark, chocolate eyes. I cleared my throat.
“You’d be surprised where people leave their house keys.”
My clients are often the biggest threat to their own safety. People leave their keys and their security codes in the most obvious places in case they need them. They never think about who else might use them. I hoped Albert Foley was just like everyone else in that respect. Because he certainly was a deviant when it came to kids.
“Sir?” Howdy Doody appeared at the foot of the walkway. “The FBI agents are here with the warrant. And the landlord.”
Barrett and I joined the growing posse in front of the house.
Kev turned up with an entire FBI team in tow, the sheriff himself, plus Foley’s landlord. The guy appeared to be as old as the house he’d rented to Foley. Key poised in midai
r, he frowned at the shiny Kwikset securing this door, too.
“Mr. Foley’s changed the lock.”
“Call a locksmith,” Kev said over his shoulder.
Hickory trotted to his cruiser to comply.
Two agents ran for their sedan. They popped the trunk, withdrew a heavy cylinder about six inches in diameter and lined with handles. It was a battering ram.
“He could’ve left a key out here,” I said.
Immediately, half a dozen agents and Howdy Doody began looking in every cracked flowerpot and under every mossy stepping-stone.
I, however, had come up with another idea. I rounded the house again. Again, Barrett tailed me.
In the garden shed falling down on the far edge of the property, I found it. Just inside the door, a shiny key hung from a rusty nail by a dirty piece of string. I carried it to the house and tried it in the back door.
It worked.
Triumphant, I grinned at Barrett.
His brows arched like he’d just witnessed a Vegas magic act.
“What’s the matter, Barrett? Don’t tell me you’ve got to rush home and find another hiding place for your spare key.”
“Maybe you should come over and give me a few suggestions.”
Before I could decide how to reply, Barrett shouted for Kev. Within seconds, the agents were set up, ready to enter. As Kev pounded on the frame to announce his presence, Barrett turned to me.
“You stay here.”
That wasn’t going to happen. Not if there were a chance Brooke was being held inside. But I let Barrett think it would.
The FBI agents rushed the place. Guns drawn, they moved fast. Barrett, his own weapon in his hand, entered as the agents declared the kitchen empty.
“Clear!”
I dropped to one knee, slipped the Bobcat from my ankle holster. Barrett turned in time to catch me. His mouth formed a hard line again, but he said nothing.
“Clear!”
With the rooms on the first and second floor clear, Barrett and I followed agents into the basement. I wanted to see the space behind the Tinker Bell curtains. And so did he.
Damp and musty, the basement would’ve been at home under the House of Usher. A bare bulb hung from the center of the cellar, driving the darkness into deep corners filled with broken furniture, a decrepit washing machine, and a ramshackle workbench. Anything could’ve been hiding back there.
The Kill List Page 4
