Closer Than You Think (13 page)

‘She aids sex offenders. And guess what,
Agent Novak
? The girl she found was raped.’

Deacon went still. ‘I know Arianna was raped,’ he murmured. ‘But just because Corcoran counseled offenders does not make her a suspect.’

Adam shook his head. ‘She shacked up with a rapist. How do you know she didn’t know the girl was there? That she’s not covering for a new
lover
?’

Deacon grimaced at the instant picture his mind conjured, pushing it away before it could stick there. ‘Because she called 911. Because she guarded the girl.’

‘With the gun she just happened to have with her?’

‘The gun she carries because she’s been stalked.’

Adam’s mouth twisted in disgust. ‘What did she say that made you drink her Kool-Aid?’

Beautiful.
She’d called his eyes beautiful.

But that wasn’t why he believed her story.
Though
it sure doesn’t hurt, does it?

‘At this point, she is not a suspect,’ he said evenly. ‘And until we determine that she is, you will show her respect. Got it, Detective?’

‘Got it, Special Agent Novak,’ Adam said coldly. ‘I’m yours to command.’

Deacon hesitated, not trusting the Adam who stood before him. ‘I need you focused,’ he whispered. ‘Not jumping to conclusions based on the unsubstantiated testimony of a convicted sex offender. I need you to help me find Corinne Longstreet. Are you with me?’

‘Totally,’ Adam said coldly.

Hoping he was making the right choice, Deacon motioned him to follow. ‘Then come on.’

Miami, Florida, Monday 3 November, 7.35
P.M.

Detective Catalina Vega leaned against the door frame of Davies’s office, waiting impatiently for her boss to finish his call. He took one look at her and motioned her to come in.

‘I have to go,’ he said into the phone. ‘Something’s come up here. I’ll see you at home. Love you too.’

Hearing Davies talk to his wife so tenderly always made Cat both wistful and hopeful at the same time. She’d all but accepted that she could either be a cop or have a normal, healthy relationship, but not both. And then Davies had found his CiCi, and somehow they made it work.

Davies started cleaning off his desk, locking up his files. ‘What do you have?’

‘Not Faith Frye, that’s for damn sure. I can’t find her anywhere. She’s disappeared.’ Cat crossed his office, holding her phone so that he could see the photo on her screen. ‘I started with her last known residence this morning. This is it. Or what’s left of it.’

Davies frowned at the burned shell of a building. ‘What the hell? When did that happen?’

‘Thursday night. Faith wasn’t there at the time. Her super hadn’t seen her in at least a week, but said he’d seen her car parked in the lot outside as recently as Saturday morning. I traced her through her credit cards to a hotel downtown where she stayed for one night, then a second hotel where she stayed one night, and so on, and then . . . nothing. Since Saturday there’s been no trace of her, no more credit card charges. She cleaned out her bank accounts and quit her job.’

‘She’s on the run.’

‘I hope so. I’ve been trying to get a lead on where she’d go. I’ve called her cell and home phone. Both go straight to voicemail. Her co-workers said that while she wasn’t unfriendly, she didn’t have any close relationships at the office. After Shue was killed, she became withdrawn. Kept to herself. Wouldn’t walk or go out to lunch with them. Came in early, left late. Alone.’

‘She was afraid they’d be in danger. Caught in the crossfire, like Shue.’

Cat nodded. ‘That’s what I think too. None of her co-workers were shocked when she quit because she transitioned all her clients to the other counselors first. Nobody was left hanging.’

‘Even the offenders?’

‘She hadn’t been working with offenders anymore. She left that job after Combs’s attack and went to work in Shue’s organization, where her client list was all victims. The woman in the cubicle next to Faith’s said that she came in one morning, cleaned out her desk, tendered her resignation and walked out without drama. She hasn’t contacted any of the other agencies in town looking for work. I called her parents’ house in Savannah, but according to Lily Sullivan, her stepmother, Faith wasn’t there. Lily would only tell me that she’d pass on the message that I’d called. I asked to speak to Faith’s father, but according to Lily, he’s too ill to come to the phone. She said that talking to a Miami cop would upset him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Faith was married to one – Charlie Frye, a uniform out of Central District. I didn’t realize she was Charlie’s ex when I talked to her about Shue’s murder.’ Cat made a face. ‘I knew Charlie before he married Faith. Actually went out with him a few times. He’s not . . . a modern man.’

Davies’s brows shot up. ‘He likes ’em barefoot and pregnant?’

‘Well, his new wife
is
pregnant for the third time in four years, but I got the sense that she wanted to be, so that’s good for her.’

‘You met her?’

‘Today, when I visited Charlie to find out if he’d seen Faith. The new wife seems to like being a homemaker, which, again, is great if that’s her choice. And to be fair, Charlie was clear when we dated that that was what he wanted in a wife, which is why we only went out twice. I was surprised to find out Faith had married him at all, much less stayed with him for nine years.’

‘
Had
Charlie Frye seen her?’ Davies asked pointedly, bringing her back to topic.

‘No, not since their divorce. He said that he knew that Combs had stalked her for a year, but didn’t seem torn up about it. Said she’d danced with the devil and was now paying her due.’

‘I assume he meant her alleged affair with Combs,’ Davies said. ‘I looked her up after you left this morning,’ he added when she blinked in surprise. ‘I read the report on her attack four years ago and the transcripts from Combs’s trial. The ex-husband believed Combs?’

‘Yeah, he did. He wouldn’t say why. But that’s not why they got divorced. Combs didn’t accuse her of anything until the trial started. She’d already filed for divorce by then because Charlie had been cheating with the current wife.’

‘A real winner. But surely her family isn’t judging all of us by Charlie.’

‘I don’t know. Lily wouldn’t say more even when I told her it was urgent. I’m pretty sure she knows where Faith is. I didn’t tell her why I was asking. I wanted to keep the details of the Prius tampering under wraps as long as I could. But then CSU found this on the Prius.’

Cat put the plastic evidence bag on Davies’s now spotless desk. He picked it up, his eyes narrowing on the small electronic device. ‘He was tracking her.’

‘CSU says the tracker was put there after the fire. There’s evidence of soot underneath.’

Davies’s face darkened. ‘He was trying to flush her out of her apartment.’

‘And when she wasn’t there, he tagged her car, tracked it, and not realizing she’d sold it, cut a few hoses. But the new owner and her son died instead and two kids are left without a mother. He’s not going to stop, sir. Faith’s in danger, wherever she is. And so is anyone around her.’

‘So you were right. Her stalking reports were true. All thirty of them,’ he said angrily. ‘Why was she ignored?’

‘That may be why her stepmother was so chilly. I think Charlie stirred the pot. I talked to a few of the officers who took the stalking reports and they said Charlie told them she was a head case. Not to waste resources on her. Her work with the offenders made it an easy sell.’

Davies closed his eyes. ‘And now we have three dead and a missing victim because the boys in blue stuck together.’

‘And her parents aren’t talking to us for the same reason. If they don’t know where she is . . . She’s been missing for a few days now, sir.’

He opened his eyes, his gaze grim. ‘Call her stepmother and explain how things really are. If she still won’t tell you where Faith is, then put both of her parents in protective custody until she talks. But find Faith Frye.’

Mt Carmel, Ohio, Monday 3 November, 7.45
P.M.

Deacon took the porch steps cautiously. They were solid enough, the porch itself wide and gracious. Using a crowbar, Adam pried the door open.

‘High or low?’ he asked.

‘High,’ Deacon said, and Adam dropped into a crouch. Deacon opened the door and they crept in, scanning the room. ‘Holy hell,’ he whispered.

It had once been grand, with high ceilings and a curving staircase. Now the wallpaper was peeling and all the furniture was covered with sheets. The room looked old and sad and lonely.

Deacon took a pair of shoe covers from his pocket and slipped them on. Behind him, he heard Adam doing the same. They went from room to room, finding nothing and no one. No disturbed dust. No sign that anyone had been here in a very long time.

Until they reached the kitchen. The appliances and the table and chairs were vintage seventies and, like everything else, appeared undisturbed. But the grime on the floor had been wiped away – in a path that started at the steel door that opened to the side yard and ended at an older interior door that appeared to be made of solid wood with an old-fashioned keyhole.

Deacon tugged on the doorknob, surprised when it gave way easily. Not even a creak; the hinges were well oiled. ‘The basement,’ he mouthed soundlessly, looking down a flight of stairs that disappeared into darkness. Or not, he amended when he saw the pulse of red light that repeated every few seconds. They’d triggered some kind of silent alarm.

He started down, the beam of his light revealing red handprints on the walls. And the steps. The handprints were fresh and the same size as the prints he’d seen on the wrecked power company truck.

Arianna had been here. Had clung to the wall for support as she climbed these stairs. They crept downward, stopping at the bottom to get their bearings. They were standing in a long, narrow hallway that ran the breadth of the house. There was a door at one end and doors on both sides. The smell of lemon floor cleaner hung heavy in the air. Someone had tidied up.

Deacon pointed to Adam, sending him to the left. He himself went to the right and opened the first door, flinching when the smell of pure bleach hit him like a brick. His Maglite illuminated cabinet doors that hung open, their shelves bare. In the middle of the room stood a steel table with channels around the periphery for catching blood. It was the same kind of table they used in the morgue. Ropes hung from all four corners.

Arianna had been tortured here. He was sure of it.

Where was Corinne? He shined his light into the corners, but saw no one.

The next room was a kitchenette, with a small refrigerator, an oven and a microwave. A drop-leaf table big enough for only two was pushed against the wall. It appeared to be antique, likely taken from upstairs. He checked cabinets, inside the oven. Nothing. Bracing himself, he opened the freezer, afraid of what he’d find.

He blinked, surprised. Frozen pizzas were stacked neatly in three columns, each box precisely even with the others. The refrigerator held a two-liter bottle of diet cola, a few bottles of water and some packets of ketchup. In the trash can he found a smashed Styrofoam carry-out container. He lifted it gingerly and sniffed. Fresh garbage. Perhaps a day old, maybe two.

He backed out of the kitchen, met Adam in the narrow hall.

‘Anyone?’ Deacon whispered.

Adam shook his head. ‘No one. Alive or dead.’

‘I found the torture room, but it’s been emptied out and sprayed down with bleach. The kitchen has a freezer stocked with pizzas.’

‘I found an office, also emptied. And a cell.’

Deacon followed him into another small room with a single cot. A few inches above the cot, a chain was bolted into the wall. At the end of the chain were shackles. They’d been unlocked.

Adam pointed his light at two strands of hair caught in the cot’s metal frame. Blonde. Like Corinne Longstreet. She’d been here and they’d missed her.

Deacon went back into the hall, where a shadow flickered at the edge of his peripheral vision. A dark blanket hung from the ceiling. Once again he braced himself for what he’d find. He pulled the blanket aside. Once again he blinked.

It was a tunnel dug into the earthen wall. Deacon took a cautious step forward, checking to make sure the earthen ceiling would hold, then glanced over his shoulder. Adam was right behind him.

They had to crouch because the tunnel was only about five foot eight high and got shorter until they came to a small cave, barely five by eight and perhaps five feet high.

He swept his light across the cave, revealing a blanket that lay neatly on the floor, a pillow at one end. Another blanket was folded at the other end. And in the middle was a box.

‘Somebody lived here,’ he whispered.

‘Go check it out,’ Adam whispered back. ‘I’ll go back to the hall and stand watch. I don’t want to be cornered in here if he’s waiting for us.’

‘Agreed.’ Crouching as far down as he could go, Deacon swept the bottom hem of his coat up under his arm and duck-walked across the dirt floor until he could see into the box.

It held a sad array of items: a hairbrush that was missing a third of its bristles; a very faded pair of jeans with multiple patches, and two T-shirts, also neatly folded; a metal cup and plate; a worn toothbrush; and a round plastic disk the size of a pie-pan with a domed lid. The tag in the T-shirt said that it was a woman’s size small.

He touched the domed lid of the disk, flinching when the inside of the box was suddenly filled with dim illumination. A night light. Whoever had bunked down in this cave had at least had a little light. He turned it off and backed out under the blanket, gradually straightening until he’d returned to where Adam waited none too patiently.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

‘Whoever lived there wore a woman’s size small,’ Deacon said. ‘The box was nearly empty, but it looked like someone was packing. Let’s let CSU do their thing down here. I want to know exactly what Faith knows about her house.’