Every Waking Hour

by Joanna Schaffhausen

  “I still don’t believe it,” Lockhart said. “I asked him to pick her up from school one day last year when Mimi was on vacation. Why wouldn’t he have run off with her then?”

  “Again, if he’s the guy, then my best guess is that either the situation did not come close enough to his fantasy or he had reason to figure he’d be discovered. If you had asked him to pick her up, then he would have been the prime suspect if she’d disappeared.”

  Lockhart frowned. “If he’s the guy, then won’t he just refuse to let me in?”

  “Possibly,” Reed agreed. “But he’d also wish to avoid drawing suspicion on himself. Pedophiles are adept at blending in and appearing normal in everyday interactions.”

  “Let’s go over the rules again,” Conroy said to Lockhart.

  The man grunted. “Ask him if he has any theories about Chloe. Tell him she kept a diary and that it says he asked her for pictures.”

  “That’s right. Don’t confront him or accuse him. Don’t push too hard. Just try to get him talking about Chloe, and we’ll follow up later if it comes to that. We’ll be listening outside the entire time, so please keep your hands away from the mic.” He checked his watch. “It’s go time.”

  They all piled into an unmarked white van and drove to Back Bay, where Wintour kept a condo in one of the old brownstones. They parked about one block away next to a similar building to Wintour’s. Dorie looked out the window at the three-story brick structure with its iron railings and arched windows. “What do you think a place like this goes for? A million? Maybe two?”

  “Five and a half,” Lockhart said, his gaze trained on the floorboards.

  Reed could almost feel Conroy’s sphincter tighten at the thought of all that money coming down on BPD. The captain coughed and opened the back door of the van. “Remember, keep it casual. You’re here to get comfort from an old friend.”

  “I don’t feel at all friendly.” Lockhart climbed out and walked down the street to Wintour’s place. “I hope you can hear me,” he said, glancing back as he mounted the steps to the front door. His voice crackled loudly through the speakers, and the officer at the wheel flashed his headlights once in acknowledgment. Lockhart rang the bell, and a few moments later Stephen Wintour appeared to let him in. He did not sound like a man with a terrible secret.

  “Martin, good to see you. How are you holding up?”

  “It’s hard. Harder still on Teresa.”

  “I saw her on TV today, the poor thing. She said she’d been an awful, selfish mother, and I don’t mind telling you, I yelled back at her on the screen that it’s not true. She’s wonderful to Chloe.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  Wintour became harder to hear as they moved into a larger room, someplace with high, echoing ceilings. “The police … no leads at all?” he asked. Their footsteps continued into a room with better acoustics. Reed heard the creak of a leather sofa as Martin took a seat.

  “They have nothing so far. It’s hell, the waiting. I feel useless, impotent. I want to go door-to-door searching for her.”

  Wintour gave an uneasy laugh. “Well, she’s not here. You can cross this place straight off your list.”

  “I keep wondering, you know, where he’s keeping her. The photo doesn’t offer any clues.”

  “Someplace private, I guess. Jesus, Martin, I hate to say it, but she could be anywhere by now.”

  “Where, do you think?”

  “Me? What I think?” Wintour was taken aback.

  “Sure. If you were him, where would you go?”

  “I don’t know. I guess if I’d planned this, I’d have a room already arranged. Somewhere remote—a cabin, maybe. Or a hidden, soundproof room.”

  “Like an escape room.”

  “Sure,” Wintour replied, sounding uncomfortable. “Like that.”

  There was a moment of silence, and Reed could feel Lockhart thinking. “You have one of those, as I recall,” he said at length.

  “It came with the house. Thankfully, I haven’t had cause to use it—knock on wood.” Reed heard three quick raps on a wooden surface. “I damn sure haven’t stored any kids in there.”

  Reed met Ellery’s gaze, and she obviously heard the same odd tension in Wintour’s voice. Goose pimples broke out over Reed’s forearms, despite the hot conditions in the back of the van. He shifted closer to the speaker.

  “Can I see it?” Lockhart must have detected something off in Wintour’s reply as well. His tone had hardened.

  “What, now?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Martin, I realize you must be going out of your mind, but you can’t believe I’ve got Chloe here.”

  A pause. “No, no. Of course not. It’s just, with everything, I wonder if maybe I should get one of those rooms myself, you know? For when Chloe comes back. Teresa would appreciate the extra security, I’m sure.”

  Everyone in the van held their breath. Dorie cracked her knuckles in the silence.

  “Maybe another time,” Wintour said. “When Chloe’s back. I’ll have you all over for dinner and give you the grand tour.”

  “Sure, okay.”

  “You want anything? Coffee, tea—vodka? I’d be tempted to drink myself blind in your position.”

  “You have any of that scotch we drank for Allan’s retirement?”

  “Ah, now you’re talking.” The sounds of glasses clinking came over the transmission.

  “Stephen, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “The police are probably going to want to talk to you about Chloe.”

  “Of course. Anything I can do to help.” Wintour was trying for breezy, and he almost pulled it off.

  “No, I mean we found out Chloe kept a diary. Your name is in it.”

  They heard the sound of a glass hitting the table. “My name? Why?”

  “She said—I’m sure they’ve got this wrong, but she said you texted her and asked her to send you pictures.”

  “No, that can’t be right.” He paused. “I mean, maybe I asked her to send me a picture of a selfie we took together. That could be true.”

  “Sure, right.” Lockhart cleared his throat. “Except this wasn’t that kind of picture, if you understand what I’m saying.”

  “I think I do. And you’re wrong.”

  “Look, I’m not saying anything about it. The police have their suspicions. You know how they can twist things, how they see ulterior motives everywhere. They think the worst of everyone.”

  “You’d have to, in that job. But Martin, I never—and I mean never—asked Chloe to do anything inappropriate. I remember now. I once asked her to send me a picture of her from our trip to the Cape last summer. She had that cute one on the rocks, remember?”

  “The one in her bathing suit.”

  “Yes,” Wintour replied with relief. “You see? Totally aboveboard.”

  “Right. I see.” There was another stretch of silence. “I just wanted to ask one thing, though. How did you get her number?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Her cell number. Teresa’s pretty strict about Chloe giving that out.”

  “I don’t really recall. I’m sure she must have called me at some point. Maybe one of those times when you asked me to give her a ride? All these questions. Martin … I feel like you suspect me of something here.”

  “Hell, my kid is missing. My little girl. I suspect the mailman right now.”

  “I understand. You must be going crazy.” They heard a ring tone followed by some rustling. Wintour spoke. “I’m sorry, Martin, but I have to take this call. I’ll just be a few minutes. Help yourself to the scotch.”

  Reed heard retreating footsteps and the sound of a door opening and closing. After that, Lockhart rose from wherever he’d been sitting and started walking the room. His footsteps were fast, his breathing erratic. “What’s he doing?” Reed whispered to the others.

  They heard him opening and closing drawers and closets
. “No, no,” Conroy said. “Nothing out of plain sight. He can’t be going through the house without permission.”

  “We should get him out of there,” Reed replied.

  “How?” Ellery asked. “Anything we do now tips off Wintour.”

  “He’s already been tipped off by Lockhart. He practically told him we’d be coming.”

  Through the speaker, Lockhart’s voice crackled on the line. “Chloe? Chloe, are you here, sweetheart?” He was climbing the stairs now, practically running. His harsh breathing filled the van. “Chloe?”

  They heard more frantic searching, the sound of doors opening and slamming shut again. “Oh my God.” The stunned horror in Lockhart’s voice made the hair on the back of Reed’s neck stand up. “Oh my God.”

  “Martin?”

  “What did you do with her?”

  “Martin, calm down.”

  “I said: What did you do with her? Show me what’s in the room!”

  “Put down the gun, Martin. You don’t want to shoot me.”

  “I want to see the room!”

  Gun. Reed lurched to his feet, nearly slamming his head against the top of the van. “I thought you said he wasn’t armed!”

  “He wasn’t!”

  “It must be Wintour’s weapon,” Conroy said tersely. “We’re going in.”

  He pushed open the back doors, and they all piled out into the street. They ran down the block and up the steps to Wintour’s front door. “It’s locked,” Ellery said, yanking on the handle. The large door was made of thick etched glass with a gold inlaid design at the top. “Back up,” she ordered. The others moved off the steps and she shot through the glass toward the floor. It shattered and she kicked the shards loose with one foot and then reached inside to flip the lock. “Boston Police!” she hollered as she opened the door with her gun drawn. “We’re coming in!”

  They entered the front hall just in time to hear an anguished scream and a gunshot from the upper floors. Ellery reached the stairs first, taking them two at a time with the rest of the group fast on her heels. “Martin—Mr. Lockhart? Talk to me. What’s going on?”

  She slowed her pace in the hall, her gun still at the ready. Over the rush of the blood in his ears, Reed could hear the sound of weeping from the room at the end of the hallway. The dark wooden door stood partially open. “Mr. Lockhart? Mr. Wintour? It’s Detective Hathaway.” She pressed the flat of her hand on the door and slowly pushed it open. Reed saw her sharp intake of breath. She held up a hand to forestall their entrance into the room. “Mr. Lockhart, I need you to put down the gun.”

  “Look at this. Look what he did.”

  Reed’s mouth went dry. He didn’t want to look. God, please no.

  “I see. Put down the gun, and we’ll talk about it.”

  She disappeared from sight, inching slowly toward him. Reed braced himself for the sound of another shot, but it never came. Instead, Ellery called to them a few moments later. “Clear,” she said. “We need EMTs—now.”

  “On it,” Dorie replied.

  Reed followed Conroy into the room, which appeared to be Wintour’s master suite. It boasted a bed big enough to sleep six, draped in a velvet green covering. Matching damask drapes held back the blazing summer sun, but they allowed enough light through to show the carnage on the floor. Stephen Wintour lay bleeding and unmoving on the floor. His low moaning said he was still alive. Around him lay girls’ panties with cartoon figures on them. “They were in the dresser,” Lockhart said, his voice barely above a whisper. He swayed on his feet, a man clearly destroyed. “And just look there.”

  Reed stepped forward to peer into the unlocked escape room. He saw a lifelike doll made to be a girl of perhaps ten years old. Stacks of DVDs with girls’ names on them, as well as a television and DVD player. The worst of it was the wall of pictures—candid shots of girls in short shorts and skirts, bikinis at the beach and halter tops that showed their bellies. He scanned them quickly, searching for Chloe. He did not see her.

  Behind him, Wintour gave the tortured moan of a dying animal. Lockhart screamed at him again, a cri de coeur that pierced Reed’s skull with its force. “Where the hell is my daughter?”

  Reed heard someone put handcuffs on him. The sirens outside said the ambulance had arrived, and moments later the sound of heavy boots came trooping into the house. Ellery materialized at his side, her anxious gaze on the photos in front of Reed. “Anything?” she whispered.

  Reed shook his head. “She isn’t here.”

  20

  The Homicide Unit in Boston contained few women, just 7 percent overall, a dismal statistic to which Ellery knew she owed her current job. Under pressure to up the estrogen content on the murder squad, the chief of D’s had been willing to take on a rehab project—someone with a lightning rod personality and at least one questionable shooting already under her belt. Her background as Coben’s lone survivor made her a curiosity. Dorie had let it slip once that they’d had a division-wide meeting prior to her arrival, with orders not to ask her about the infamous serial killer. Instead, she had to endure stares and whispers, or conversations that suddenly ceased when she entered the room. She’d caught one officer from the canine unit reading a copy of Reed and Sarit’s bestselling book about the case, Little Girl Lost. She’d been prepared to ignore him until the guy asked her if she could get Reed to sign it.

  The wide gender gap meant she could usually find solitude in the ladies’ restroom, but it was closed for cleaning when she emerged from her debriefing over the shooting of Stephen Wintour. Wintour remained in ICU at the hospital, an armed guard posted nearby. The hungry press outside had pitched Martin Lockhart as a hero, and with word that Ellery had been involved in the case, they were waiting to talk to her. Reporters never missed an opportunity to shove a microphone into her face. Wherever the questions started, they always came back to Coben. I’d recommend leaving through the parking garage, Conroy had advised her. She had been sitting on her hands so he couldn’t see them shaking. She had “yes, sir”-ed her way out of there and dragged a chair between the wall and the vending machine in the break room, carving out a hidden alcove in which to breathe. She pressed a cold bottle of water against her neck while the sound of the gunshot played on a continuous loop inside her head. Loud male voices entering the room made her sit up with a jolt.

  “So, after all that, he didn’t even have the kid?”

  “Maybe he’s got her stashed somewhere.”

  “If the pervert dies, then what?”

  “Maybe her father should’ve thought of that before he pulled the trigger.”

  “Can you blame the guy? I’d have wanted to pop him straight between the eyes.”

  They had sent search teams to all of Stephen Wintour’s registered properties. So far, there was no sign of Chloe. They had warrants for all his electronics now. Ellery felt sorry for whoever got the job of wading through Wintour’s hard drive. The pictures on his walls were sickening enough.

  Ellery heard the whirring of the microwave as one of the men heated up his dinner. “Of course, the almighty Ellery Hathaway was right there in the middle of it, like usual. She’s on the job five months and she’s running point on a case like this? Come on.”

  “Conroy’s running it. He was there, too.”

  “Should’ve been Nickerson’s case. He’s done a kidnapping before.”

  “So has Hathaway,” the other guy reminded him, and they both chuckled.

  “Send one kidnapped girl to find another? Sure, okay. By that logic, it’s the FBI guy, what’s his name, who should be running the whole investigation. He’s the one who found her.”

  “He was here earlier. I saw him.”

  “Mr. Hotshot FBI himself? And they still haven’t solved the case? Damn, there goes my faith in the Feds. What’s his angle here, anyway? Don’t we already have enough G-men up in our business?”

  The microwave beeped and she heard the door pop open. “You said it yourself: the almighty Ellery Hathaway. W
here she goes, he goes. She’s, like, his pet project or something.”

  “Or something,” said the other one, and they both laughed again. “You think he’s nailing her?”

  Ellery shrank back in her chair, her face aflame. She’d kept her relationship with Reed private to the point where they’d argued about it. We can have dinner in a restaurant, he’d said the last time he had visited. It’s not a crime. He didn’t appreciate how it felt to have his entire life chronicled for public consumption. She could only imagine how the tongues would wag if everyone found out they were dating.

  “Think about it,” continued the first guy. “Markham’s got a thing for serial killers, right? She could be like a memento.”

  “You’re disgusting, Callahan.”

  “Hey, those scars of hers are disgusting. Have you seen them? Who wants a woman who’s been carved up like a piece of meat?”

  Ellery leaped to her feet. She knew she’d get these comments no matter what, but it pained her to hear Reed dragged into it. The two men jumped when she materialized behind them, a move that would confirm her status as the division whack job, hiding as she’d been behind a vending machine in the break room. Ha, she thought when she saw their uniforms and their horrified faces. I outrank you.

  “De—detective Hathaway,” stammered Tommy Burris, the less offensive one of the pair. “We, uh, we didn’t see you there.”

  “I’d hope not. Otherwise your little conversation would be straight-up actionable as opposed to just wildly inappropriate.”

  “Our apologies. Ma’am.”

  Callahan sucked in his lips, but he didn’t back down from her stare. She took several steps, advancing on him slowly. “Something you’d like to ask me about, Callahan?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Really.” She closed in to the point where his dinner steamed up between them. His fingers tightened around the Tupperware, but he didn’t flinch. “Because it sounded like you had a lot of questions about me.” She deliberately pulled up each sleeve in turn, showing off the scars. He glanced down once and then quickly away. “There’s nothing I can clear up for you right here, right now?”