D.D. finally got it. “Seven years ago. She was a college student. UMass. Went on spring break to Palm Beach and disappeared. The FBI handled the investigation . . .” She had to think. “Because of postcards, right? The mom started receiving postcards, allegedly written by her daughter, but all from different states. The mom went on TV, held several press conferences trying to get the kidnapper to engage.”
“There were more than postcards. He sent e-mails, even a few videos. Reaching out to the mother, tormenting her, appeared to be as gratifying to him as the abduction itself.”
D.D. frowned. “Florence Dane was gone a long time.”
“Four hundred and seventy-two days.”
“Jesus.” Despite herself, D.D. blinked. Very few victims were found alive after that length of time. And the ones who did . . . “Long-haul trucker?” she asked now. “The perpetrator traveled for his job, trucking, something like that?”
“Yes. Jacob Ness. He’d built a box in the back of his cab so he could keep his victim with him at all times. Most likely, Flora wasn’t his first.”
“He’s dead; that’s my memory. You guys got some kind of tip. SWAT descended. Florence made it. Jacob Ness didn’t.”
Dr. Keynes didn’t say anything. Very feebie of him, D.D. thought. She hadn’t asked, so he hadn’t answered.
“All right,” she stated more briskly. “My suspect, Flora, is your victim, Florence. Once, she was abducted by a crazed psychopath, and now . . . what? She tracks them down at bars?”
“Only Flora can answer that question.”
“And yet she didn’t. So far, all I can get out of her are theories on Devon Goulding’s crimes, not her own.”
“That’s the bartender? The one who allegedly attacked her?”
“That’s the victim,” D.D. corrected. “The once healthy male now reduced to crispy carnage in his own garage due to your girl’s knowledge of chemical fire.”
Dr. Keynes studied her, posture relaxed, hands in the pockets of his ridiculously expensive coat. “I’m sure you’ve made some inquiries.”
“Couple of detectives reviewed the bar’s security footage. They were able to corroborate that Devon Goulding worked last night. According to the video footage as well as eyewitness accounts, Flora was also present, though she spent most of the night dancing with another guy, Mark Zeilan. Interestingly enough, Mr. Zeilan filed a police report shortly after three A.M., alleging that a bartender from Tonic physically assaulted him outside the establishment.”
“Also consistent with Flora’s statement,” Dr. Keynes observed.
“A video camera from an ATM machine a block away captures what appears to be Devon leading Flora away by the arm. As for how willing she is . . . I’m told that could go either way.”
“Fast-forward to the scene here . . .”
“By all means. Fast-forward to the Gouldings’ garage.”
“First responders discovered Flora naked, with her hands bound before her.”
“You seem to be well-informed about the details.”
He dismissed that comment, saying instead, “Bound wrists don’t seem to indicate willingness.”
“Sorry. Given that it’s a Fifty Shades of Grey world, I can’t make that assumption. Tell me something, Dr. Keynes. Are you Flora’s victim specialist, or are you her shrink?”
“I am a victim specialist,” Dr. Keynes stated clearly. “Not a shrink.”
“But she called you. Not her mother. Not a lawyer. She called you. Why?”
“You would have to ask Flora that question.”
“You have a relationship,” D.D. asserted.
“No.”
“Uh, yeah. In the midst of a crisis, she called you. And I’m willing to bet, this isn’t the first time.”
Dr. Keynes thinned his lips. Such a handsome man, D.D. thought again. Beautiful, rich, successful. The crosses he had to bear. And yet there was something about him. A seriousness. A sadness? She couldn’t put her finger on it. But there was a somber edge to his composure that just kept her from hating him.
“You should ask Flora more questions,” he said at last. “She prefers honesty. A straightforward approach. I think you’ll find . . . She feels alone, Sergeant. Her experiences, what she’s been through. She’s a very unique, very strong young woman. But she’s also very isolated. There are few people who’ve survived what she’s survived.”
“Meaning in a time of crisis,” D.D. murmured, “she turns to the one person she thinks understands her. Which is not her family. It’s you.”
“You should ask her more questions,” he repeated. “And don’t dismiss her answers. Since her return five years ago, Flora has made criminal behavior her specialty.”
“You don’t say?”
“If she believes this bartender took other girls, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover it’s true.”
“Are you working with Stacey Summers’s family?” D.D. asked abruptly.
Keynes shook his head; if he was surprised by this sudden change in topic, he didn’t show it. “A colleague of mine, Pam Mason, has been assigned that case.”
“Flora ever talk to you about Stacey’s disappearance? Follow it in the news?”
“Contrary to what you seem to believe, Flora and I don’t speak regularly.”
“Only when she’s in police custody?” D.D. prodded.
“Judging by her bruises, she appears to be telling the truth about being kidnapped by Devon Goulding,” Dr. Keynes stated neutrally. “Meaning whatever steps she took to defend herself . . .”
“Why won’t she accept medical assistance? If she’s so innocent, why not let a medical expert conduct an official exam, corroborate more of her story?”
“Victims of rape and other violent crimes often have an aversion to physical contact.”
“Really? Which explains why Flora Dane showed up at a bar, tossed back several martinis, and hit the dance floor with a complete stranger?”
“I’m not the enemy here, Sergeant Detective Warren. I’m merely endeavoring to offer some insights which might lead to a speedier resolution of this situation.”
“The situation being where your victim put herself in harm’s way in order to do what? Trap a predator? Save the day? Exact vengeance for what once happened to her?”
Dr. Keynes didn’t say anything. Abruptly D.D. lost patience.
“You want speedy resolution? Do us both a favor and cut to the chase. How many times has Flora done this before? How many middle-of-the-night phone calls have you gotten to answer? Might as well tell me, because you know I can look it up.”
“Four.”
“Four?” Despite herself, D.D. was incredulous. “Flora Dane has killed four times before? What the hell—”
“Not killed,” Dr. Keynes interjected, voice firm. “This level of self-defense is a first.”
“What? She merely scorched the other ones? Seared ’em with a lighter versus full-on chemical fire?”
“Flora has been assaulted prior to this occasion. If you read the reports, you’ll discover that she responded with the appropriate level of force and didn’t face any charges.”
“She’s a vigilante. Your girl, your victim—”
“Flora Dane is a survivor.”
“Flora Dane is a nut. She’s going to these bars looking for trouble. And she’s finding it.”
Dr. Keynes didn’t speak right away. Smart of him, D.D. thought, because really, at this point, what was left to say?
“I’m going to pursue this,” she stated clearly. The room was small. Her voice carried and she let it. “Maybe case by case you can dismiss Flora’s behavior, but the overall pattern? With all due respect, Dr. Keynes, Flora Dane’s behavior is a threat to herself and others.”
“Let me be equally clear, Sergeant Detective Warren. According to Flora, she didn’t know the bartender Devon Goulding prior to this evening. She did not set out to meet him, nor did she engage in any activity that warranted him abducting her from outside a bar and tying her up naked in his garage. As for what happened after that, be very careful about blaming the victim. Flora doesn’t call me to bail her out; she’s never needed to be bailed out. What she does need is a ride home.”
D.D. stared at him. “Seriously. She called you, an FBI agent—”
“A victim specialist.”
“To give her a ride home.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“You mean, such as, as long as you’re here, you can run interference with the police?”
“No, such as, as long as I’m taking her home, I can run interference with her mother.”
Chapter 8