Tangled Threat ; Suspicious

by Heather Graham

“They’re your books.”

  “But you’ll give me a great authenticity. I’ll interview you—and you were here when the last crime occurred. I’m surprised they haven’t hacked this sucker to the ground, really,” Angie said, looking at the tree. “Or at the very least, they should have video surveillance out here.”

  “Now, that would be the right idea. They have video surveillance in the lobby, the elevators—and other areas. But for now, please?”

  They were never going to be able to leave.

  “All right, all right!” Maura said. She adjusted the camera on its lightweight tripod and looked at the image on the camera’s viewing screen. “I’ve got it lined up already. I’ll go right there. You need to get it rolling. The mic is on already, and you can see what you’re filming.”

  “Hey, I’ve used it before—not a lot, but I kind of know what I’m doing,” Angie reminded her.

  Maura stepped away from the camera and headed over to the tree. Angie had paid attention to her. She lifted her fingers and said, “In three...” and then went silent, counting down the rest by hand.

  Maura was amazed at how quickly it all came back to her. She told the tale of the beautiful Gyselle and then went into the later crimes.

  Ending, of course, with the murder of Francine Renault.

  “A false lead caused the arrest of an innocent young man. But this is America, and we all know that any man is innocent until proved guilty, and this young man was quickly proved innocent. He was only under arrest for a night, because eyewitness reports confirmed he was with several other people—busy at work—when the crime took place. Still, it was a travesty, shattering a great deal of the promise of the young man’s life. He was, however, as I said, quickly released—and until this day, the crime goes unsolved.”

  She finished speaking and saw that Angie was still running the camera, looking past her, appearing perplexed—and pleased—by something that she saw.

  “Hello there! Are you with Frampton Ranch and Resort? You aren’t, by any chance, the host for the campfire stories tonight, are you?”

  Angie was smiling sweetly—having shifted into her flirtatious mode.

  Curious, Maura turned around and started toward the path.

  If a jaw could actually drop, hers did.

  She quickly closed her mouth, but perhaps her eyes were bulging, as well. It seemed almost as if someone had physically knocked the breath from her.

  Brock McGovern was standing there.

  Different.

  The same.

  A bit taller than he’d been at eighteen; his shoulders had filled out and he appeared to have acquired a great deal more solid muscle. He filled out a dark blue suit and tailored shirt exceptionally well.

  His face was the same...

  Different.

  There was something hard about him now that hadn’t been there before. His features were leaner, his eyes...

  Still deep brown. But they were harder now, too, or appeared to be harder, as if there was a shield of glass on them. He’d always walked and moved with purpose, confident in what he wanted and where he was going.

  Now, just standing still, he was an imposing presence.

  And though Angie had spoken, he was looking at Maura.

  “Wow,” Angie said softly. “Did I dream up the perfect assistant for you—tall, dark and to die for? Who the hell... The storyteller guy is wickedly cute, but this guy...”

  He couldn’t have heard her words; he wasn’t close enough.

  And he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at Maura.

  “That was great,” he said smoothly. “However, I don’t consider my life to have been shattered. I mean—I hope I have fulfilled a few of the promises I made to myself.”

  Maura wanted to speak. Her mouth wouldn’t work.

  Angie, however, had no problem.

  “Oh, my God!” Angie cried.

  Every once in a while, her Valley girl came out.

  “You—you’re Brock McGovern?” she asked.

  “I am,” he said, but he still wasn’t looking at Angie. He was locked on Maura. Then he smiled. A rueful smile, dry and maybe even a little bitter.

  “Here—in Florida,” Angie said. “I mean—at the History Tree.”

  He turned at last to face Angie. “I’m here for an investigation now. I’m going to suggest that you two head back to the resort and don’t wander off alone. A woman’s remains were found at a laundry facility not far from here, and there are three young women who have gone missing recently. Best to stay in the main areas—with plenty of people around.”

  “Oh!” Angie went into damsel-in-distress mode then. “Is it really dangerous, do you think? I’m so glad that you’re here, if there is danger. I mean, we’ve seen the news...heard things, but seriously, bad things aren’t necessarily happening here, right? It’s just a tree. Florida is far from crime-free, but... Anyway, thank God that you’re here. We didn’t really think we needed to be afraid, but now you’re here...and thank God! Right, Maura?”

  Maura didn’t reply. She’d heard Angie speaking as if she’d been far, far away. Then she found her voice. Or, at least, a whisper of it.

  “Brock,” she murmured.

  “Maura,” he returned casually. “Good to see you. Well, surprised to see you—but good to see you.”

  “Investigation,” she said, grasping for something to say. She seemed to be able to manage one word at a time.

  “I just told you—they found a woman’s remains, and three young women who have been reported missing had a connection to the Frampton Ranch and Resort. The FDLE has asked for Bureau help,” he explained politely.

  “Yes, we were just talking about the young woman’s remains—and the missing girls. I, uh, I think I’d heard that you did go into the FBI,” she said. “And they sent you...here.” There. She had spoken in complete sentences. More or less. She’d been almost comprehensible.

  “Yes, pretty much followed my original plans. Navy, college, the academy—FBI. And yes, I’m back here. Nothing like sending in an agent who knows the terrain,” he said. “Shall we head back? I am serious. You shouldn’t be in the woods alone when...well, when no one has any idea of what is really going on. We’re not trying to incite fear. We’re just trying to get a grip on what is happening, but I do suggest caution. Shall we head back?”

  He was the same.

  He was different.

  And she was afraid to come too close to him. Afraid that the emotions of a teenager would erupt within her again, as if the years meant nothing...

  If she got too close, she would either want to beat upon him, slamming her fists against his chest, demanding to know why he had never called, never tried to reach her and how it had been so easy to forget her.

  Either that, or she would throw herself into his arms and sob and do anything just to touch him again.

  Chapter Two

  “The soil—clay based, some sand—like that covers most of the north of the state,” Rachel Lawrence said.

  She was seated across from Brock with Michael Flannery in the Java Bar on the Frampton property.

  Rachel had changed. Her nails were cut short, clean of any color. Her hair was shorter, too. She still wore bangs, but her dark tresses were attractively trimmed to slide in angles along her face.

  Everything about her appearance was serviceable. The girl who had once cried over a broken nail or scuffed sneakers had made an about-face.

  She had greeted Brock politely and gravely, and seemed—like Flannery—to be anxious to have him working on the case with them.

  “There’s the beginning of a task force rumbling around,” she’d told him when they’d first met in the coffee bar. “I’m lucky to be working with Michael Flannery—very lucky. But at this moment, while our superiors are listening, and they were willing to accept FBI invol
vement, they don’t necessarily all believe that we are looking at a serial killer and this situation is about to blow up and get out of hand. It’s great to have another officer who knows the lay of the land, so to speak.”

  “Yes, I do know it. And I’ve got to say, Rachel, I’m happy to see that you are working for the FDLE—and that you’re so pleased to be where you are.”

  She made a face. “Oh, well, there was a time when I thought I wanted to be rich and elite, own a teacup Yorkie in a designer handbag and be supported in fine fashion. But I do love what I do. Oh—I actually do have a teacup Yorkie. Love the little guy!”

  It had been far easier to meet back up with Rachel—and even Nils and Mark Hartford—than Brock had expected.

  Time.

  It healed all wounds, right?

  Wrong. Why not? He believed he was, as far as any normal psychology went, long over what had happened regarding his arrest for murder at such a young age—he’d barely been in jail before his parents arrived with their attorney, his dad so indignant that the icy chill in his eyes might have gotten Brock released before the attorney even opened his mouth.

  Truly, he had seen and heard far worse in the navy. And, God knew, some of the cases he’d handled as an agent in a criminal investigation unit had certainly been enough to chill the blood.

  Still...the haunting memories regarding the forest and the History Tree clung to him like the moss that dripped from the old oaks.

  “A Yorkie, huh?” he asked Rachel, remembering that she was there.

  They both grinned, and he assured her that he liked dogs, all dogs, and didn’t have one himself only because it wouldn’t be fair to the animal—he was always working.

  Rachel went on with the information—or lack of it—that she had worked to obtain.

  “Some of our elegant hotels have special bedding, but...lots don’t. The sheets around the remains might have come from five different chain hotels that cover North Florida, Central Florida and the Panhandle, all of which have twenty to forty local franchises. That means that Maureen Rodriguez might have been murdered anywhere in all that area—buried first nearby or somewhere different within the boundaries—and then dug up and wrapped in sheets.”

  “You checked with the truck drivers making deliveries that day, naturally?” Brock asked her.

  She gave him a look that was both amused and withering. “I did go to college—and I majored in criminology. I’m not just a piece of fluff, you know.”

  Detective Michael Flannery grunted. “She’s tailing me—I’m teaching her everything I know. And,” he added, “how not to make the same mistakes.”

  Brock nodded his appreciation for the comment and asked, “Were you able to narrow it down by the drivers and their deliveries?”

  “The way it works is that they pick up when they drop off,” Rachel said. “So it’s not as if they’re kept separately. It’s almost like recycling receptacles—the hotels have these massive canvas bags. The sheets are all the same, so they drop off dirty and pick up clean replacements. The laundry is also responsible for getting rid of sheets that are too worn, too stained, too whatever. But the driver drop-offs do narrow it down to hotels from St. Augustine to Gainesville and down to northern Ocala. I have a list of them, which I’ve emailed and...” She paused, reaching into her bag for a small folder that she presented to Brock. “Here—hard copy.”

  He looked at the list. There were at least thirty hotels with their addresses listed.

  “All right, thank you,” he told her. “I’d like to start by talking to Katie Simmons—the woman who reported Lydia Merkel missing. And then the last person to see each of the missing young women.”

  “Cops have interviewed all of them. I saw Katie Simmons myself,” Flannery told him. “I’m not sure what else you can get from her.”

  “Humor me. And this list—I’d like you to get state officers out with images of all the women. Let’s see what they get—they’ll tell us if they find anyone who has seen any of them or thinks they might have seen someone like them. We need the images plastered everywhere—a Good Samaritan could call in and let us know if they saw one of the women walking on the street, buying gas...at a bar or a restaurant.”

  “The images have been broadcast,” Flannery said. “I asked for you, but come on. We’re not a bunch of dumb hicks down here, you know.”

  Brock grinned. “I’m a Fed, remember?”

  Flannery shrugged. “You’re a conch,” he reminded Brock, referring to the moniker given to Key West natives.

  “I get you, but I’m not referring to local news. I mean, we need likenesses of the young women—all four of them—out everywhere. We need to draw on media across the state and beyond. And we need to get them up in all the colleges—there are several of them in the area. All four of the women were college age—they might have friends just about anywhere. They might have met up with someone at a party.”

  “I’ll get officers on the hotels and take the colleges with Rachel. She and I can head in opposite directions and cover more ground.” Flannery hesitated. “I’ve arranged for us to see the ME first thing, so we’ll start all else after that—I assumed you wanted to see the remains of Maureen Rodriguez.”

  “Yes, and thank you,” Brock told him. “Do I meet you at the morgue?”

  “No, we’ll head out together—if that’s all right with you. I have a room here and so does Rachel. I’m setting mine up as a headquarters,” Flannery said. “I’ll start a whiteboard—that way, we can keep up with any information any of us acquires and have it in plain sight, as we’d be doing if we were running the investigation out of one of our offices.”

  “A good plan,” Brock said. “But tomorrow I would like to get started over in St. Augustine as quickly as possible.”

  “All right, then. We will take two cars tomorrow morning. Compare notes back here, say, late afternoon. Get in touch sooner if we have something that seems of real significance. It’s good that you decided to be based here. Easier than trying to come and go.”

  Flannery hesitated, looking at Brock. Then he shrugged. “Mr. Glass actually came to me.” He lowered his voice, even though there was no one near them. “On the hush-hush. Said his wife didn’t even know. Seems he’s afraid himself that someone is using this place or the legends that go with it.”

  Brock drained his cup of coffee. “Can you set me up with Katie Simmons for some time tomorrow?” he asked Rachel.

  “Yes, sir, I can and will,” she assured him. “She’s in St. Augustine.”

  Brock stood.

  They looked up at him.

  “And now?” Flannery asked.

  “You wanted me here because I know the place,” Brock said. “I’m going to watch a couple of the people that I knew when I worked here. See what’s changed—and who has changed and how. I’m not leaving the property tonight. If there’s anything, call me. And I’ll check in later.”

  “You’re going to the campfire tales and ghost walk?” Flannery asked.

  “Not exactly—but kind of,” Brock said. He nodded to the two of them and headed out, glancing at his watch.

  He did know the place, that was certain. Almost nothing on the grounds had changed.

  His father had heard about the place—that it was a great venue for young people to work for the summer during high school. There was basic housing for them, a section of rooms for girls and one for boys. They weren’t allowed off the grounds unless they had turned eighteen or they were supervised; any dereliction of the rules called for immediate dismissal. The positions were highly prized—if anyone broke the rules, they were damned careful not to be caught.

  Of course, fraternizing—as in sex—had not been in the rules.

  Kids were kids.

  But with him and Maura...

  It had felt like something more than kids being kids.

  He st
ill believed it. He wondered if, just somewhere in her mind, she believed it, too.

  * * *

  MARK HARTFORD PROVED to be excellent at telling the stories—despite the fact that he’d told Maura that he was afraid that night. Well, not afraid but nervous.

  “You were so good!” he had said to Maura when he saw that she and Angie were going to be in his audience. “So good!”

  He’d been just about fourteen when she knew him years before; he had to be about twenty-five or twenty-six now. He’d grown up, of course, and he still charmed with a boyish energy and enthusiasm that was contagious. His eyes were bright blue and his hair—just slightly shaggy—was a tawny blond. He’d grown several inches since Maura had seen him, and he evidently made use of the resort’s gym.

  Angie was entranced by Mark. But she’d always been unabashed about her appreciation of men in general—especially when they were attractive. Maura didn’t consider herself to be particularly suspicious of the world in general, but she did find that she often felt much older and wiser when she was with Angie—warning her that it wasn’t always good to be quite so friendly with every good-looking man that she met.

  “I’m sure you’re just as good a storyteller,” Angie had told Mark.

  “I try—I have a lot to live up to,” he’d said in return, answering Angie, smiling from one of them to the other.

  Maura was somewhat pleased by the distraction. Angie had been talking incessantly about Brock and she’d finally stopped—long enough to do a new assessment of Mark Hartford.

  She had decided that she liked young Mark Hartford very much, as well.

  They’d already seen Nils in the restaurant. Mark and Nils were easily identifiable as brothers, but Mark’s evident curiosity and sincere interest in everyone and everything around him made him the more naturally charming of the two.

  “Ooh, I do like both brothers. But the other guy...the FBI guy... Hey, he was the one they arrested—and he turned out to be FBI! Cool. I appreciate them all, but that Brock guy...sexier—way sexier,” Angie had said.

  Actually, Maura found Angie’s honesty one of the nicest things about her. She said what she was thinking or feeling pretty much all the time.