A fresh clamor arises from across the street. I feel the shift and stir of the crowd accommodating a new and official arrival at the crime scene. I don’t have to look up to know who it is. I called and so he came. Because that is how it is between us. My mother had her nannies, but for me, the relationship has always been something more.
A minute passes. Two. Three.
Then, he is here, standing outside the open car door, perfectly attired as usual, with his long, double-breasted coat buttoned up tight against the chill.
“Oh, Flora.” FBI victim specialist Samuel Keynes sighs heavily. “What have you done?”
Chapter 7
BY THE TIME D.D. MADE IT DOWN the stairs and out of the Goulding residence, her cell phone had rung three times and she’d been stopped twice. She had good news, she had bad news, and she had a growing headache from a fast-evolving case and a long sleepless night.
According to the deputy superintendent of homicide, a.k.a. her boss, she was under strict orders to wrap up the scene and get the hell out of Dodge before her exhausted detectives inevitably let something slip in front of the clamoring media and this whole thing blew up in their faces. D.D. didn’t disagree. Short and sweet was never a bad plan when dealing with a homicide investigation. Unfortunately, she had a feeling they weren’t going to get that lucky.
D.D. finally cleared the front step. A roar went up from the reporters gathered across the way. You would’ve thought the champion quarterback was taking the field, she thought dryly, and not just an overworked police sergeant emerging into public view. Reflexively she held up a hand. No need to block a gauntlet of flashes this bright and sunny November morning. She just didn’t want to encourage any more shouted questions.
She headed right to where she’d last seen their victim turned avenger sitting tight in the rear of a patrol car, and sure enough . . . D.D. drew up short.
A tall, handsome black man stood beside the cruiser. No, a tall, beautiful black man. Perfectly sculpted cheekbones. Smoothly shaved head punctuated by an impeccably groomed goatee. Dark eyes fringed by impossibly long lashes. The man wore a double-breasted black wool coat, the kind favored by business executives and FBI agents. Except, up close, D.D. wasn’t sure it was wool. Maybe more like cashmere, paired with deep red silk scarf. Which, in the moment, made total sense to her. A man that handsome with a face that intelligent and a gaze that direct, of course he wore a thousand-dollar coat. And his non-bureau-issued car was probably a Bentley.
Belatedly, she realized she was staring, her mouth slightly agape. She snapped her jaw shut, squared her aching shoulders, and, what the hell, pretended like she was professional.
He held out a hand as she approached. “Dr. Samuel Keynes. Victim specialist. FBI.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” She returned the handshake. He had a firm grip. Naturally.
“And you are?” He awaited her reply patiently. Deep, deep dark eyes. Like melted chocolate. And clearly regarding her as if she were a lunatic.
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” she managed. “Supervisor. Homicide. This homicide. Wait a second.” She frowned, regaining her composure. “Victim specialist. Haven’t we met before? Boston Marathon bombings . . .”
“I assisted with several of the families, yes.”
D.D. nodded. It was coming back to her now. The Boston PD had assisted with the FBI’s investigation into the April 2013 Boston Marathon bombings. D.D. had personally handled several interviews, given the number of witnesses there’d been to question. In the task force briefings, she’d spotted Dr. Keynes, as well as several other victim specialists, though at the time there’d been too much going on to make any introductions. They’d all been too busy grappling with the horror of the bombings, let alone an extremely complex, active case.
“You know our person of interest?” she asked now, gesturing to her victim/suspect, who still sat silently in the back of the patrol car.
“Flora?” he prodded quietly.
The girl finally glanced up. The bruise had started darkening around her eye, turning her skin dark purple, while the bridge of her nose was an angry red.
The adrenaline rush had left her system, D.D. observed, and now she was crashing hard.
“You might as well tell her,” the woman said. Sitting in the back of the patrol car, wrapped in the blue police blanket, she shrugged, still not making eye contact. “Coming from you, she might believe. Whereas, anything I have to say . . .”
“Can be used against you in a court of law?” D.D. offered helpfully.
The girl skewered her with a look. “Exactly.”
“Sergeant Detective Warren,” Dr. Keynes began.
“D.D.”
“D.D., might we take a walk? Somewhere quieter?” He didn’t have to specify the reporters. Already the noise had quieted down, all the better for the media to eavesdrop.
D.D. gave it a moment’s consideration, then jerked her head toward the Goulding residence. It was bustling with crime scene techs but no journalists, which was as close to privacy as they were going to get.
She led the way, Dr. Keynes falling in step beside her. “Nice coat,” she said. “Cashmere?”
“Yes.”
“Silk scarf?”
“Yes.”
“I gotta say, Boston PD isn’t quite that generous. Then again, I don’t have Doctor in front of my name.”
“My grandfather shined shoes for a living,” Dr. Keynes offered lightly. “My father, on the other hand, is a cardiothoracic surgeon. Graduated Harvard.”
“And you’re continuing your family’s upward mobility . . . in the FBI?” D.D. gave him a dubious look.
They’d reached the front door. Dr. Keynes held it open, a touch of chivalry that was hardly necessary at a crime scene.
“I enjoy my work. And I’m fortunate to be at a place in my life where I can afford to do what I love.”
“I’m beginning to see what you and my person of interest have in common. Both of you do an excellent job of never actually answering my questions.” The front door of the Goulding house opened to a modest foyer, with the staircase straight ahead. Given that the room’s wooden trim and staircase railing were currently being dusted for prints by a pair of crime scene techs, D.D. took a left turn away from the chaos. She and the good doctor arrived in a front sitting room that boasted a love seat, a coffee table piled with craft magazines, and a basket filled with balls of yarn. Someone, most likely Mrs. Goulding, must be into knitting. There was something about that small detail that pained D.D. How did you go from being a woman known for your hand-knit scarves to being the mother of an alleged rapist?
D.D. came to a halt in front of the coffee table. It felt too intrusive to sit, so she remained standing, Dr. Keynes doing the same. The small room was much warmer than outside, the air stuffy. Dr. Keynes unbuttoned his coat, loosened his scarf. Underneath, he wore a dark suit. Standard government issue, she thought, except once again, the cut and fabric were much nicer than anything worn by the average agent.
“Dr. Keynes,” she began, then paused a beat to see if he’d offer his first name. He didn’t.
“I haven’t worked with too many victim advocates,” D.D. continued at last. “But my memory is that in the FBI, you’re not the same as an agent. Your role is . . . ?”
“I’m a victim specialist. I report to the OVA: Office for Victim Assistance.”
“And you’re a doctor.”
“Psychologist.”
“Specialty?”
“Trauma. I work mostly with victims of kidnapping cases, everything from child abductions to the oil executive kidnapped for ransom in Nigeria.”
D.D. studied him. “I don’t think . . . Flora? . . . is an oil executive.”
“Florence Dane,” he supplied, then gazed at her expectantly.
The name rang a bell. Judging from the look on his face, it should. Plus, Neil’s comment from earlier, that he knew the woman’s face from somewhere . . .