Dead Even (7 page)

“To promote healthy competition.” She’d smiled. “As well as to gain some greater insights into what the girls are really thinking. Besides, discipline without occasional reward rarely works well over time. There has to be some positive incentive.”

He’d stroked his chin and stared out the window for a long moment, then turned back to Genna.

“Have you already discussed this competition with the girls?”

“Of course not. Not without your approval. Though I do have a stack of essays I’ve read through.”

“I’ll let you try it this week; we’ll see what the results are.” He turned back to her. “But you understand that the girl is never to be out of your sight. That you are not to become involved in conversations with the people in town. And that you are not to call attention to yourself or to the girl in any way.”

“Certainly not,” Genna responded defensively.

“People in Linden are naturally curious about the Valley of the Angels.” He softened slightly at her obvious offense. “And there are those who cannot accept that what we do here, what we do for these girls, we do from love, with only their best interests at heart. There are those who are suspicious of our motives, those who would take the girls away from here, but what would happen to them then? They’d simply run away again, just like they did from their own homes, their own families. The last thing I want is for any of these girls to be exploited by someone on the outside. A careless word—”

She held up her hand. “Please. I understand. And I assure you that the girls’ best interests are my own. We’ll be very discreet. We’ll simply have our little treat, and we’ll be back before the dinner bell rings.”

“Then go ahead, Miss Ruth.” He watched her gather her wrap around her. “Any idea about who might be the first lucky little girl?”

“I think perhaps Eileen.” Genna smiled. “She wrote a very lovely paper on submission.”

He nodded approvingly. “Excellent. I’d like to read it.”

“I’ll have it brought right over.”

She’d left his office with her heart pounding, her stomach roiling. He was a disgusting excuse for a human being. He rescued girls off the streets only to clean them up—no one wanted a girl who looked like a junkie or a prostitute—to be sold into slavery, trading one form of hell for another.

And yet, how clever, preying on girls who don’t want to be found, and dealing only with men who’d been investigated as carefully as modern technology would allow. Prescott’s finances, so far, had withstood scrutiny, since his fund-raising efforts were so successful. Who could refuse a man who showed the before-and-after photos of the young girls he’d rescued from the streets? Besides raking in money from the sale of the girls, he brought in thousands each week in donations.

But once the first hints of the girls’ eventual fates had begun to leak out, the FBI had looked for a way to get inside and determine if the Valley of the Angels was in fact a front for trafficking children. Genna had demanded the assignment, and even her reluctant husband could not deny that she was the best qualified for the job. As a long-time friend of Anne Marie McCall, finding Julianne Douglas living within the compound walls had been a huge bonus for Genna personally.

No one had spoken of the girls who had disappeared in the night, except to say that they’d been chosen to do the reverend’s work. That none of the other adults in the compound seemed to question this seemed absurd to Genna, but then, if they’re all involved in this together, perhaps not. . . .

Well, it was her job to find out all she could about who was involved and where the girls were disappearing to. She still had to determine exactly what role Jules Douglas played here. She’d confirmed that he was there, had even seen him several times, though she’d not recognized him at first. These days, he sported a beard and slightly longer hair than he’d had in the old photographs Annie had produced, and he’d walked with a swagger she hadn’t expected. He seemed more arrogant, more aggressive than she’d imagined, and physically, he was taller, stronger, a far more imposing figure than she thought he’d be. Somehow, she’d expected a man who was quiet, reserved. The man she met at the compound was anything but. The Jules she met in the Valley of the Angels was nothing short of intimidating.

If she could prove that he was actively involved in laundering the money, and that he knew where that money was coming from, she could make yet another case for a long prison term for Mara’s ex-husband. After all he’d put Mara and Annie through over the years, Genna was more than a little eager to see that he paid the price. The kidnapping charges could turn out to be the least of Jules Douglas’s worries.

In the meantime, Genna had already confirmed the presence of Julianne Douglas within the compound, and she laid the groundwork for her escape. This week, knowing she’d be carefully watched, she’d take a girl other than Julianne into town. Next week, to avoid any lingering suspicions Reverend Prescott might have, she’d take a second girl. But the following week, she’d take Julianne.

Genna wished only that she could be there to see the expression on the face of Reverend Prescott—and Jules Douglas—when it was discovered that the conscientious Miss Ruth had left the Valley of the Angels for good, and had taken young “Rebecca” with her.

CHAPTER
FIVE

Miranda stood on the top step of the inn’s front porch, one hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare of the early-morning sun, searching from one end of the street to the other for Will’s familiar form. He had to be out here somewhere. She’d knocked on his door at seven—certainly loudly enough to awaken a light sleeper, as she knew Will to be—but he hadn’t answered. Since then, she’d had breakfast and made several phone calls, but he hadn’t shown up.

Oh, well. Will’s the proverbial bad penny, she reminded herself. He’ll turn up sooner or later.

And sure enough, just as she was about to go back inside, there he was, crossing the street, jogging toward the inn.

“Waiting for me?” he called.

“You wish.”

He was barely breathing hard. How annoying.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I just came out to see what the weather was like.”

“Hey. Navy pinstripes today. I like it.” Before she could respond, he said, “Did you know that Fleming had its own tea party of sorts back in the days of the Revolution? Only they didn’t throw the tea into the harbor—because, hey, no harbor—but they dumped it into the gorge on the outskirts of town. Pretty neat, huh?”

“Ummm, neat.”

“There’s a statue down in the center of town commemorating the event. Right across the street from the tattoo parlor.”

“Sounds like Fleming has a little something for everyone.”

“Though you’d have thought the town fathers might have been a little more selective in what type of business moved into that part of town, but then again, when you have a lot of empty storefronts, I guess you have to take what you can get.”

“I guess.” She backed up as he approached, as if consciously or unconsciously keeping space between them. “Did you finish reading the file?”

“Yes. We’ll talk about it over coffee, if that’s all right with you. Let me take a quick shower, and I’ll meet you in the dining room. Ten minutes. I have an idea.”

He went into the inn before she could respond.

She muttered under her breath and followed him inside to the lobby, watching—despite her attempts not to—as he jogged up the steps to the second floor.

It doesn’t hurt to look, she reminded herself, as long as she wasn’t tempted to touch.

And I am not tempted. I am not, am not, am not. . . .

She helped herself to a cup of coffee from the breakfast buffet and sat down at a sunny table. It was a perfect autumn day, perfect for . . . what?

What would she do, if she had the day to herself? Walk in the woods, maybe, fallen leaves crunching underfoot, the smell of autumn in the air, geese honking overhead. Or maybe stroll along the shore, breathing in cool salt air and listening to the crash of waves upon the sand. Or visit one of those old churchyards she’d passed on the way into Fleming, and take some rubbings off the old battered grave markers . . .

Her mind wandered back through pictures in her mind, and she was startled when she realized she’d done all of those things, but not alone. She’d done them with Will.

Walking along the paths in Rock Creek Park, in D.C., on a crisp late November morning. Layers of leaves crackling as they moved, single file, through the early mist, following the trail of a killer on Miranda’s second day in the field. They’d met in the parking lot at dawn, after they’d been called in to help search the woods for a man believed to have shot and killed several customers in a convenience-store robbery, and had taken a live hostage. The hostage was a woman who happened to work for the Bureau, and the team had been gathered in record time. Later Miranda admitted to herself—though she’d have died before she’d have admitted it to him—that she’d been a bit starstruck at working on a case with Will. He was well known around the Bureau for being intuitive, smart, and capable, and was respected by his fellow agents for his easygoing manner and keen humor. The men counted themselves lucky if they called him friend. Most of the women wanted to call him something else.

Miranda had been impressed with his handling of the case, with the respect he showed the body they found tossed behind some rocks and covered with leaves and brush. She’d been almost flustered—almost—when, hours later, after their work was completed, the evidence gathered, the body removed, he’d asked her to join him for a bite to eat.

He’d taken her to a Middle Eastern restaurant downtown, where they’d eaten and talked and laughed until midnight. They’d connected, right from the start, on several levels. Certainly the chemistry had been dynamic. Even now, her cheeks burned as she recalled that she’d taken him home, and he’d stayed the night. Something she’d never, ever done in her life—before or since. Mostly she hadn’t even kissed on the first date. But there’d been something about him that had turned her inside out and had banished rational thought along with most of her inhibitions.

Of course, it had made for an awkward next morning, an awkward day in the office. She’d been spared having an awkward week or two, however, since Will had been sent to Florida to assist in a drug bust. By the time he returned, she was in North Carolina, investigating the kidnapping and assault of several young girls on the Outer Banks.

It had been several months before she’d seen him again.

Will appeared as if out of the air and plunked a file down on an empty chair. “I’ll just grab a cup from the buffet, and I’ll be right back.”

Miranda moved the window curtain aside and watched the neighborhood kids gather at the bus stop on the opposite side of the street.

“So what’s your plan, Agent Fletcher?” she asked when Will returned.

He sipped slowly at his coffee, then set the cup back into the saucer. “We’ve already agreed that we need to identify people from Channing’s past who may have irritated him sufficiently that he might have wanted a little revenge. Other than Albert Unger, of course.”

“Right. And I suppose you’ve come up with a means of identifying them?”

“I’ve come up with a starting point.”

“Which would be . . . ?”

“I think we need to start at the beginning, with Claire Channing.”

“Curtis’s foster mother.” Miranda nodded. “Good choice. She might know of someone from his past who had done something that Channing might have wanted revenge for.”

“And from there, we move on to Albert Unger. We can stop and see him while we’re in Ohio. Maybe he’ll know of someone Channing had a problem with.”

“Unger, yes. I guess that’s as good a place as any. I don’t recall there being too many other people from his past mentioned in the file.”

“There wasn’t anyone else mentioned. Just these two.”

“So when would you like to go?”

“You tell me. You’re in charge of the case.” He drained his cup and, without waiting for her reply, pushed his chair back and returned to the buffet for a refill.

“Is that bothering you?” she asked when he sat down again. “That John made me the lead on this case?”

“No, not at all. It makes perfect sense. You know the players. You have the history.”

She stared at him.

“And you’re a damned good investigator. You’re a natural for this one, Cahill. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He smiled. “So. You make the call. What next?”

“We go to Ohio. We chat with Mrs. Channing, Mr. Unger. I don’t know that either of them will have much to contribute. Channing left home as soon as he graduated from high school, and I don’t think he’s seen Unger since the man was arrested for murdering his mother. But since we have nowhere else to start, I say, let’s break out those frequent flyer miles and give it a shot.” She finished her coffee. “I’ll check in with John and let him know what we’re doing. Meanwhile, I have a meeting with the chief of the Fleming Police Department.”

Miranda slid her purse from the back of the chair where she’d hung it, then stood.

“So, while you’re finishing your breakfast and getting ready to leave, I’m going to have a chat about Archer Lowell.”

“You’re going to ask him to keep an eye on Archer for us while we’re gone?”

“Her.” Miranda grinned. “I’m going to ask
her
to keep an eye on him for us.”

“Sure you don’t want me to come along?”

“What for? I think I can handle a conversation with the local chief all by myself. Good to know you’re here, though, in case I need backup.”

“Well, then, I guess I have time to sample the eggs Benedict, after all.” He looked pleased at the prospect.

“Just as long as you’re ready to roll when I get back.”

“You know where to find me.” He smiled and returned to the buffet.

The Fleming Police Department was housed in what must have been at one time an elegant private home. Of course, that time had been well over a hundred years ago. Fleming had an abundance of old buildings, and it appeared to Miranda that the borough had made an effort to repurpose as many of them as possible.

Chief of Police Veronica Carson was waiting, as promised, promptly at eight-fifteen.

“So, Special Agent Cahill,” the chief said after Miranda had introduced herself, “what can the Fleming PD do for the FBI?”

Ignoring the tiny bite in the question, Miranda sat where she’d been directed to sit.

“Actually, I’m here to share information with you.” Miranda crossed her legs and settled into the chair.

“Oh?”

“We’ve been following a case for several months,” she explained. “It has, ultimately, led us to Fleming. We thought you should know.”

“Go on.” Chief Carson removed her glasses and laid them on her desk. Without breaking eye contact with Miranda, she buzzed the receptionist and asked that coffee for two be brought into her office.

Miranda explained the connection between Fleming and Archer Lowell, Vince Giordano, and Curtis Channing.

“I followed those cases.” Chief Carson nodded. “I know Sean Mercer down in Broeder quite well. He’s a great cop. And I’ve known Evan Crosby for years. He’s at the National Academy right now, I heard, for some special training.”

“He is. It was my good fortune to work with him on the Lyndon case. I worked with Chief Mercer on the Broeder case, as well. They’re both top-notch.” Miranda turned as the door opened and the woman she’d met minutes earlier at the front desk brought in two mugs of steaming coffee.

“Did you make this, or did Sergeant Foley make it?” the chief asked.

“I made it,” the woman told her.

“Thanks. Foley’s coffee could peel the paint off a cruiser.” Veronica Carson smiled for the first time since Miranda had entered the room. She passed a mug to Miranda, who moved closer to the desk to take it from her hands.

“So, Agent Cahill,” she continued. “I have to think this visit is more than merely giving me a heads-up.”

“Yes, to be truthful, I was hoping to enlist your assistance in this case.”

Chief Carson sipped at her coffee, burned her tongue, and set the mug back down. “Hot. How can we help you?”

“If you could keep an eye on Lowell . . . let us know if he does anything out of the ordinary. Call me if he leaves town . . .”

“You want the Fleming police to do your surveillance so that you can go do something more important, is that it?”

“No, that’s not it.” Miranda’s back arched just slightly. “We’re trying to identify and track down Lowell’s potential victims.”

“If in fact there are any potential victims.”

“Yes. Ohio—where Channing grew up and made his early kills—appears to be the logical starting place. It’s tough to be in two places at the same time.”

“So we keep an eye on Lowell while you see what you can dredge up in Ohio.”

“Yes. If you’re willing.”

“Agent Cahill, I have a very small force here. There’s no way I can spare an officer to watch one person all the time. It just isn’t possible.” The chief leaned forward in her chair. “Especially since it really isn’t clear if Lowell is going to do a damned thing. You said yourself it’s unlikely he’ll go through with whatever deal you think he made with these two killers.”

“Believe me, I understand the situation you’re in. Unfortunately, the Bureau is shorthanded now, too. We have more agents overseas than we’ve ever had, and it’s hindered us in investigating cases like this.”

“Okay, I will do this, because I’d hate like hell to have something happen to someone if I could have prevented it. I’ll instruct the officers to watch for him at night at the Well. That’s the bar you spoke of. I can’t think of a better way to monitor his comings and goings. If he fails to show up on any given night, chances are he’s either ill or he’s left town. There’s really no place else to go around here, if you’re that age. I can have someone stop in there at night. Several of our officers do, anyway.”

“Thank you. We appreciate that.” Miranda slid a business card across the desk. “The quickest way to reach me is on my cell. Call any time, day or night.”

“I’ll give this number out to the entire department, if that’s all right with you.” The chief stood to indicate that the meeting had concluded. “If anyone sees anything you should know about, we’ll let you know.”

“We can’t ask for more than that. Thank you.” Miranda took her cue, shook the chief’s hand, and found her way out to the parking lot, relieved that someone would be keeping an eye on Lowell while she and Will searched Channing’s past for likely victims. While Chief Carson had not agreed to surveillance, at least someone would be watching to see if he left town. Miranda really couldn’t ask for much more than that from the small department.

She glanced at her watch. There was still plenty of time to stop in Lyndon on her way home and check in with Lowell’s probation officer. Since she and Will arrived in separate cars, she’d just make a quick stop at the inn to pick up her bags, check out, and be on her way by noon.

“Archer? Archer Lowell?”

The voice on the phone was low, but forceful all the same.

“Who is this?” Archer rubbed his eyes and turned over to look at the clock. It was ten in the morning.

“A friend of a friend.”

“What friend?” Archer sat up.

“A friend at High Meadow.”