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“Who’s Amelia Potter? Is she a distant relative of—?”
“Just go.” His free hand went up stop-sign fashion to halt the agent’s approach. “When I finish speaking to my attorney, you can have my phone back and I’m all yours,” LeDoux snapped at the woman.
The agent backed off but they were clearly running out of time. Bobbie cut to the chase. “What was in the package?”
“Only one item,” LeDoux said, turning his back to the agent once more. “A recent photo of Nick Shade.”
While Bobbie absorbed that information, LeDoux dropped his phone on the asphalt and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. The female agent grabbed him by the arm and pointed to the damaged cell phone, her face twisted in anger. Another of the agents gathered the pieces of the broken phone from the ground.
The suits loaded up, LeDoux in tow, and drove away. Atlanta PD followed. Why would Zacharias send a photo of Nick to someone in Savannah? Was this Amelia Potter a distant relative or the front for a hit man or maybe another serial killer? Bobbie’s phone vibrated and she dragged her attention to the screen. Voice mail. Expecting to find another lecture from the chief or someone from her major crimes team, she tapped the screen and listened to the voice mail.
“Detective Gentry, this is Lieutenant Troy Durham from the Savannah Chatham Metropolitan Police Department. We’ve reopened a cold case and we found your name in the detective’s notes.” Durham exhaled a big breath. “Frankly, we’re hoping you can help.” He hesitated for a moment before going on. “If you could give me a call I’d really appreciate it. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
The call ended. Bobbie stared at the screen. She couldn’t imagine why her name would be in the notes of a cold case in Savannah, but the call and the address LeDoux had given her couldn’t be coincidence.
Something was happening in Savannah and somehow it involved Nick.
And her.
Seven (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)
Century Parkway, Atlanta
12:30 p.m.
Tony stared at the nameplate on the desk. Janet Kessler.
Supervisory Special Agent Janet Kessler.
LeDoux shook his head then remembered the hellacious headache he’d awakened with. Beer didn’t usually give him a hangover but he’d added the vodka. Apparently the lack of sleep and food along with dehydration and the quantity of alcohol had set a new precedent.
He’d been questioned about any contact he’d had with Zacharias and interrogated about Weller’s and Zacharias’s whereabouts. Most of the answers he’d given had been tactical evasions or flat-out lies.
A BOLO had been issued for Zacharias. The blood in his study was presumed to be the missing attorney’s. His driver’s body had been found in the home’s garage, cause of death a nasty blow to the back of the head. The driver’s car had been located in the parking lot of the Paces Ferry Road Home Depot. No blood in the car but there was a suitcase and a briefcase, both of which belonged to Zacharias. Cell phone, passport, money, all sorts of goodies were in the briefcase. He’d hired a private jet to take him out of the country. The pilot had been located and questioned. Zacharias hadn’t shown up for the flight—yet another indication he was dead. Not so surprising, Zacharias’s destination had been Maracaibo, Venezuela. Venezuela had no extradition treaty with the US.
“How cliché,” Tony muttered. Weller would be doing the same. If anyone involved in the search expected any different, they were fools.
Except Weller appeared to have something to take care of first. It was that something that would be his downfall...if Tony could figure out what the hell it was quickly enough maybe he could intercept the bastard.
That was the thing, the Bureau had nothing on Weller. Not one damned lead. At least Tony had Savannah.
After the last round of questioning, Tony had been sequestered to this room—to Kessler’s office. Nothing he hadn’t expected. She was on his short list of insiders who’d given Weller far too much leeway. Some-damned-body in the Bureau had been providing him with reports on his son and all sorts of other classified material. Kessler, Tony felt confident, was nothing more than a pawn—one close enough to keep a close watch on Weller.
Except she’d seriously fucked up.
The door opened and the uptight bitch walked in. Her navy skirt was snugger than it should be, ensuring that anyone who bothered to look noted her taut ass and toned legs. The white blouse showed more cleavage than necessary. The matching navy jacket fit her narrow waist, accentuating her nice tits.
That was the only damned thing nice about her. She wore her blond hair in one of those severe buns that suggested sexual repression, and just enough makeup to demonstrate she had a feminine side even if it was locked down tight to facilitate her climb up the management ladder. According to his research, she would do anything for a promotion. Didn’t mean she wasn’t damned good at her job, just a cold, calculating bitch who didn’t mind stepping over the bodies she left in her wake.
“I spoke at length with your supervisor.”
Yay. “Then you know I’m on administrative leave pending an OPR review.” No point beating around the bush. Supervisory Special Agent Rodney Pitts of the Behavioral Analysis Unit-2 had no doubt given her a complete rundown on his rogue profiler and his issues with the Office of Professional Responsibility.
The thought had no more flitted through his brain when the man himself entered the room. He closed the door and gave a nod to Kessler.
What the hell? Tony had expected that Pitts would be involved in the task force, after all Weller had been his pet project for more than a decade. In fact, Pitts’s rise up the ranks had more to do with Weller’s unprecedented cooperation than the man’s leadership ability. The first two years of Weller’s incarceration he had done little to back up the deal he’d made to lend his powers of analysis to the Bureau. Then suddenly he was all in and Pitts was on the fast track to stardom. The latest rumor was that Pitts would be the next unit chief at BAU. He’d already been offered a lucrative book deal on his work with Weller.
Pitts—above all others—should want Weller back where he belonged. The real question was, what had Pitts been giving Weller in exchange for his collaboration all these years? Tony had a feeling he’d provided the monster with whatever he’d wanted short of his freedom. All Tony had to do was prove it before the quest to uncover that truth cost him his career.
Kessler settled behind her desk and studied her notes while Pitts pulled a chair around so that he faced Tony. Pitts wasn’t that much older than him, late forties. His dark hair had started to gray at his temples but he hadn’t slowed down. A strict workout regimen kept him in shape and his expensive taste in suits ensured he always looked the part of a power player. His team—discounting Tony’s recent fall from grace—was the best in BAU. He had a smoking-hot wife and two perfect kids, despite spending sixteen hours a day at work.
Tony hated him on so many levels.
“It doesn’t look good for you, LeDoux,” Pitts announced. “You’ve had a stellar career with the Bureau until the past year. I’ve done all I can to save your ass, but this latest move may very well be the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
Tony shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”
Kessler braced her forearms across her desk and leaned forward a bit. “You could start by telling us the truth.”
Though Pitts was ultimately the one who set the rules where Weller’s interactions with the Bureau were concerned, Kessler was the boots on the ground, so to speak, in Atlanta. She took care of any special needs Weller had on a day-to-day basis. Sometimes Tony wondered if she was the reason the sick piece of shit had always seemed completely satisfied with his accommodations—at least until recently.
“I’ve already told you everything I know. Zacharias wouldn’t talk to me and I haven’t heard from Nick Shade. That’s all I got.” Tony turned up his hands. “I’m mostly hanging around to see the fireworks when the real shit hits the fan.”
A showdown was coming and not just the one between Shade and Weller.
“You are to return to Virginia immediately and stay put until the review into your recent actions is complete,” Pitts announced. “Your travel arrangements have been made and two of Kessler’s agents will escort you to Hartsfield and see that you board your flight.”
“No problem.” Tony readied to stand.
Kessler said, “Why don’t I believe you, Agent LeDoux?”
“No idea.” He collapsed in his seat once more. Damn he needed aspirin or, better yet, a couple of beers. If he’d required any additional proof that Kessler was Pitts’s puppet, he had it now.
“The task force is doing everything possible to find Dr. Weller,” Kessler reiterated as if Tony might not understand the situation. “I, for one, am convinced that the combined effort of the Southeast Regional Task Force of the US Marshals Service and the Bureau will locate him. Soon.”
Pitts nodded his agreement. “We will not allow him to get away. Whatever your misgivings, LeDoux, trust me on that one.”
“I can’t tell you how reassuring those words are, sir.” Tony had thrown that statement around himself on numerous occasions with no intention of backing it up. Trust was just a word. A word used to manipulate and appease.
His ire showing now, Pitts demanded, “Is it your intention to destroy your career the same way you did your marriage, Agent LeDoux?”
As hard as he tried to restrain his anger, Pitts had pushed his buttons with that one. “In case you’ve forgotten, my best friend destroyed my marriage when he decided to fuck my too-willing wife. At the moment, I haven’t made up my mind who’s working the hardest to destroy my career, me or you.”
When Pitts said nothing else, Tony stood. He turned his back and headed for the door.
“Just so we’re clear, LeDoux,” Kessler warned, her voice razor sharp. “Weller is mine. He escaped under my watch and I will see that he is captured.”
Tony hesitated and faced her once more. “Don’t worry, I got the message.” He glanced at his superior. “I’m out.”
He should have let it go at that, but some part of him couldn’t resist a final dig. He hesitated at the door and glanced back at the two he suspected were ultimately as instrumental in Weller’s escape as the prison nurse the bastard had chopped into nearly a dozen pieces. “Trust me on that.”
In the corridor, two agents waited for Tony. Without a word they escorted him to the first floor and out of the building. When they reached a waiting sedan, he said, “I’m starving. Any chance we can stop for lunch before we reach the airport?”
The two glanced at each other and then the taller one shrugged. “Why not? All you’ve got now is time, LeDoux.”
He flashed a fake smile. “Lucky me.”
Tony would get back to Virginia eventually, but right now he needed to be in Savannah.
Eight (#u9250d181-6640-59b3-b03f-0eabb94640a1)
Habersham Street, Savannah
1:15 p.m.
Bobbie parked on the street. She’d spent almost as much time watching her rearview mirror as she had the highway during the nearly four-hour drive from Atlanta. She’d tried returning Lieutenant Durham’s call but she’d gotten his voice mail. Since she had no idea what the call was about or the actual identity of the caller, she’d opted not to leave a message. In fact, she’d decided to drive directly to Savannah-Chatham Metro headquarters and make sure Durham was actually who he claimed to be. The address LeDoux had given her would have to wait until she made a decision as to whether or not she was walking into a trap. At this point she didn’t trust anyone except Nick.
Climbing out of her Challenger, she surveyed the headquarters. The building was a collage of the new and the old, the newer part of the three-story brick building’s facade being a deeper red like the Georgia clay for which the state was known. A wide sidewalk led from the street to the steps and created a border around flowering shrubs and sago palms. Majestic oaks draped with moss blocked the afternoon sun. Bobbie climbed the half a dozen steps that rose to the main entrance. The glass doors were decorated with orange pumpkin cutouts and ghosts. Inside a wide counter cut through the center of the lobby, a statue of a big black cat waited on the counter, back arched in fury. On the entrance side of the counter the usual bulletin board loaded with notices and dispatches hung on the wall to the left. Beneath it stood a table covered with informative and instructional brochures. Four chairs lined the wall to the right. Typical police headquarters lobby. Straightforward and practical.
A receptionist looked up from her desk behind the counter. She adjusted her reading glasses. “May I help you?”
Bobbie held up her badge. “I’m Detective Gentry. I received a call from a Lieutenant Durham.”
The sixtyish woman—Delores Waldrop, according to the nameplate on the desk—smiled. “Oh yes. Troy asked me to be on the lookout for your call. I guess you decided coming in person was better. Montgomery, right?”
Bobbie nodded. “That’s right.”
Delores removed her reading glasses and let them fall against her chest, a strand of pearls serving as the neck strap that held them in place. She shook her head. “Sorry. I was under the impression you were a man.”
Bobbie produced a smile. “It happens. Is the lieutenant available?”
The woman’s expression turned somber. “Since you’re here in person, I’ll send you straight on over to his location.” She drew in a heavy breath. “We’ve had quite a startling day. It started just after midnight.”
Deciding it was better not to mention that she didn’t have a clue what was going on, Bobbie nodded as if she understood completely.
Delores stood and moved toward the counter. “You spend your whole life thinking you know someone and then you discover you never knew them at all.” She shook her head as she reached for a tourist-type map of the city from the neat stack next to the sign-in sheet. “All right.” She circled a spot on the map. “This is where we are. You’ll go right on East Jones.” She traced the route and then handed the map to Bobbie. “It’s just a little piece off Skidaway Road. Look for the Happy Pets Veterinary Clinic. If you get to the cemetery on Bonaventure, you’ve gone too far. It’ll take you about ten minutes to get there from here.”
Bobbie thanked her and walked out of the building the same way she’d entered. As she settled behind the wheel, she considered that the sweatshirt and jeans she wore weren’t exactly proper work attire, but hopefully her excuse that she was on vacation would fly. Maybe she could gain some insight as to what was going on and why someone had inserted her name into the situation before the locals figured out her sticky situation. One call to her chief and she would probably be escorted back to the interstate.
She itched to drive by the address LeDoux had given her but she had to do this first. The more time Durham had before she spoke to him, the more opportunity he had to reach out to Montgomery PD for additional information. Whatever she could learn before that happened might help find Weller. She’d spent most of the drive trying to recall a case where a detective from Savannah had called her or Newt—Howard Newton—her former partner. Newt had died two months ago after a run-in with the Storyteller. The hurt sliced through her chest afresh.
Miss you.
Since she couldn’t call Newt and checking in with Sergeant Lynette Holt, her immediate supervisor back in Montgomery, was out of the question, Bobbie had to rely on her memory and so far she hadn’t recalled ever assisting a Savannah detective on any sort of case. If Newt had taken a call from this department he wouldn’t have given her name as a point of contact without telling her.
Although both cities were positioned next to a river, Savannah and Montgomery had little else in common. The many manicured parks and the ornate antebellum architecture made Savannah a definite tourist destination. The city’s label as one of the most haunted places in the world didn’t hurt tourism either. Savannah had a slow, genteel feel about it, far more so than Montgomery. The politics of being a state capitol gave Montgomery a not always pleasant underlying intensity Savannah didn’t suffer. She and James had spent a few days here before Jamie was born—a babymoon, her husband had called it.
Like the receptionist said, the drive scarcely took ten minutes. The half dozen official vehicles and the crime scene tape were visible as soon as Bobbie hit the intersection before her final turn. Two news vans had been pushed back a block from the scene. As she stopped for the uniform at the perimeter, she noted a coroner’s van. Definitely a homicide. Not surprising. For a city so laid-back and steeped in history and tourism, Savannah had an inordinately higher than average violent crime rate.
Bobbie showed her badge to the officer. “Lieutenant Durham is expecting me.”
The uniform stationed at the outer perimeter nodded and pointed to the side of the road beyond the house and the more modern clinic where all the official vehicles were gathered. “Park anywhere over there.”
Bobbie rolled forward, easing off the road and onto the grass. The veterinary clinic had been built next to an older craftsman bungalow, probably historic, much like the ones back home. The typical oak trees dripping with moss surrounded it. The house appeared well maintained and the lawn was nicely manicured. The same was true of the clinic. Pumpkins sat near the doors while witches and ghosts hung from a couple of trees. A sign advertising a church trunk-or-treat was posted in the front yard of the house. She showed her badge again as she approached the inner perimeter of yellow tape that draped around the property. The uniform gave her a nod and lifted the tape.
Since the activity was focused in the grassy area slightly beyond the clinic, Bobbie bypassed the sidewalk that forked, one side going toward the clinic and the other toward the house, and followed the stepping stones around the corner of the clinic. The yard was larger than expected. Dogs yapped in the fenced-in kennels behind the clinic. Between the clinic and the woods was a small park. Wait, no. As she moved closer she recognized headstones. Not a park, a cemetery. The small cemetery could have been any one of the thousands of family cemeteries that dotted the Old South. An old-fashioned iron fence surrounded the space. More of those big old trees with low-hanging limbs shaded the slumbering residents. Bobbie surveyed the first of the small headstones she encountered. Except this cemetery was for pets. The statue of an angel partially covered in moss watched over the rows of markers. Yellow crime scene tape wrapped around the iron fence, the breeze making the plastic flop back and forth against the metal.
Two guys in suits, detectives she suspected, as well as a couple of forensic techs dressed in full protective gear stood around a grouping of small statues in the center of the cemetery. Another man, this one wearing protective clothing, as well, knelt next to a broken statue. Now that Bobbie looked more closely, all the statues were damaged in some way. An arm broken off, the head missing. The statues ranged in size from three to five feet—children. The intricately detailed pigtails and wide skirt of a little girl as if she were skipping along. A perfectly formed baseball cap on a little boy with bat in hand. The sculptor certainly showed a talent for capturing the essence of children at play.
She hadn’t spotted a body but there had to be one around here somewhere. As if she’d said as much aloud, a man turned and looked at her. His cowboy boots, jeans and button-down shirt told her little, but the weapon in the shoulder holster, the shield clipped at his waist and the weary look on his face said plenty. This was Lieutenant Troy Durham. The cell phone he held at his ear was likely the reason he had turned from the activity. Maybe to hear better or maybe because he’d received a call to say Bobbie was headed his way.
He tucked the phone into his back pocket and walked toward Bobbie, meeting her a few yards from the ongoing activity. Thrusting out his hand he said, “Troy Durham. Glad you could make it, Detective Gentry.” Confusion or something along those lines furrowed his face. “I apologize for staring, but I had you figured for male and a whole lot older.”
As tired as she was, Bobbie smiled. “And I was certain you would be a little older yourself and maybe a lot shorter.” Durham was probably late thirties. Very tall, blond hair, blue eyes. The way his shirt and jeans fit, it was clear he spent a good deal of his off-duty time at the gym. His current attire made her feel loads better about her own.
He laughed, the sound as fatigued as the lines around his eyes. “I guess I had that one coming.”
“So what’s going on?” If he felt her driving all this way rather than simply calling until she reached him was odd, he kept it to himself.
He glanced back at the damaged statues. Bobbie watched as a trace sheet was spread on the grass and bones—small bones—were placed one by one onto the sheet by a forensic tech or a coroner. Near the statue with the missing head was another trace sheet with a lone human skull placed on it. A child’s skull.
A lump formed in Bobbie’s throat. What the hell happened here?
“Why don’t we go inside where we can speak in private?”
Bobbie drew her attention back to the lieutenant and followed him across the yard. The dogs in the kennels yapped even louder as they passed along the backside of the clinic. Durham led the way straight to the back porch of the house that was apparently part of the crime scene. More of that yellow tape adorned the perimeter. Durham tossed his keys to a passing officer and asked him to bring his briefcase inside. As Durham opened the door another forensic tech exited. Inside, the kitchen was clear of bodies and official personnel. No sign of foul play. No coppery smell of blood. The room was clean save for the scattering of dust used for collecting prints. Apparently, all the trouble was outside.
Durham settled his attention on her once more. “I guess I’m a little confused.”
“Because I’m a woman or because I’m younger than you expected?” Maybe there was another detective somewhere with the name Bobbie Gentry. But it was her cell phone number Durham had called.
“Have you ever consulted on a case in this jurisdiction?”
Bobbie shook her head. “Never.”
Maybe the call from Durham had been sheer coincidence. She thought of the name and address LeDoux had given her. No way. Whoever had given her name and number to Durham wanted her in Savannah as this case broke. But why? Wouldn’t be Nick. Weller? He was the most likely possibility. Could be LeDoux, but that option was doubtful. He’d already given her a reason to come to Savannah.
The officer returned with Durham’s briefcase and keys. Durham thanked him and placed his briefcase on the floor. He dug out a brown file folder. The edges were dog-eared as if the contents had been rifled through a thousand times. He spread the folder on the counter and flipped through a collection of photos—photos of children. The children ranged in age from three to five or six. Three boys, two girls. There was no particular consistency to their appearance. Dark hair, light hair, brown, blue, green eyes. With each photo Bobbie’s heart rate increased and the lump in her throat expanded.
The photos of the children were stamped with the word MISSING. She thought of the broken statues and the bones outside. Not anymore. These children were dead. Their remains were right out that door.
Damn.
A sheen of sweat rose on her skin.
“See here.” Durham pointed to a handwritten note in the file. “Detective Mike Rhodes, the detective in charge of this case back when the kids went missing, mentioned you in his notes.”
Sure enough, there was Bobbie’s name and cell phone number at the bottom of one of the detective’s reports. Her mouth dropped open when she read the date. Thirty-two years ago. Bobbie laughed. “I’m certain you don’t need me to point out that this report is dated three months before I was born. How many people had cell phones back then?”
