There were days it was good to be cop. When you got to browbeat some lowlife schmuck into a righteous confession. Then, there were the days you made a clean-cut nineteen-year-old college boy cry.
D.D. hadn’t loved that day on the job. Or, frankly, anything that had to do with the Stacey Summers case. They could place the girl at a local bar, where she’d gone to hang out with half a dozen female friends. Two beers under her belt, probably a little buzzed as she wasn’t a big drinker, she’d excused herself to use the restroom.
Next thing anyone knew, a local business’s security camera had captured video of the petite blonde being forcefully led away by a hulking male, face hidden from view. After that, nothing at all.
Not a single eyewitness, not another video frame. In a city heavily populated by nosy people and observant cameras, 105-pound Stacey Summers ceased to exist.
“I’m told this Devon Goulding was a big guy,” Horgan was saying now. “Pumped-up. Steroid-sculpted. Sounds like our camera man.”
“Size is right,” D.D. agreed. “MO . . . last night’s victim he grabbed by the arm and dragged away. According to her, Goulding’s posture, the way he looked away from the cameras, reminded her of the Summers abduction video.”
“So we got a lead?” Horgan pressed, half impatient, half hopeful. D.D. understood his pain. If Boston PD as an organization was under pressure to find cute, perky, never-hurt-a-fly Stacey Summers, then Horgan, as the deputy superintendent of homicide, was feeling personally responsible. Welcome to the chain of command.
“I’m not convinced.”
“Why not?”
“Assuming the two licenses we recovered tie to past victims, there’s nothing linking back to Stacey Summers. We also found photographs consistent with one of the females from the licenses, Natalie Draga, but again, no evidence of Stacey Summers.”
“But you have at least two possible victims?”
“Natalie Draga and Kristy Kilker. According to Mrs. Kilker, her daughter is currently studying abroad in Italy.”
Horgan arched a brow.
“We’re working on corroborating that now,” she assured him. “Same with Natalie Draga. Her driver’s license is from Alabama. We’re tracking down her family there.”
“So you don’t know if these two women are missing or not.”
“No, sir.”
“But you know he attacked a third girl, the one who burned him.”
“You mean the one who killed him?”
Horgan shrugged. Apparently a dead alleged rapist didn’t bother him much. D.D. knew many on the force who would agree.
“I have some concerns about this ‘new victim,’ Florence Dane.”
Horgan frowned. D.D. watched him mentally work his way back from the initial spark of name recognition, then: “You’re kidding. Florence Dane? The Boston girl who was kidnapped in Florida? Held for over a year? That Florence Dane?”
“Seems since her reentry into society, she’s made criminal behavior a bit of a hobby. Last night’s attack marks her fourth instance of ‘self-defense’ in the past three years.”
Horgan closed his eyes. “That’s not going to look good. Something like that . . . Goulding’s family could argue she set him up. And suddenly, instead of us happily announcing there’s one less predator in Boston, let alone possibly closing out two missing persons cases, we’re going to have to investigate a rapist as a victim?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you have to corroborate Florence Dane’s version of events?”
“Bruises on Flora’s face. Eyewitness accounts from the neighbors that she was discovered naked and bound in Goulding’s garage. Other testimonies from the bar where Devon worked that Flora didn’t even talk to him last night, but was hanging out with some other loser, whom Devon punched in the face.”
“Okay. Sounds promising.”
D.D. shrugged. Winced at the corresponding stabbing pain in her shoulder, then quickly recovered. “I don’t like it,” she stated bluntly. “The overall pattern of behavior . . . Flora Dane’s good deeds are going to hurt us. Especially if it turns out nothing happened to those other girls, if it’s just Flora’s testimony on Devon Goulding’s ‘true nature’ and his actions last night . . . The Gouldings could make the case she baited their son. That, given her past trauma, she sees predators everywhere and took the law in her own hands.”
“Isn’t that a Hitchcock movie?”
“Twilight Zone episode. Look, four instances of self-defense is more than bad luck; it’s a pattern of bad behavior. And given the latest episode ended in a man’s death, you can argue her behavior is escalating.”
“Meaning what?”
D.D. stared at her superior officer. “Meaning we should charge her!”
“With what?”
“Reckless conduct. Why not? She set in motion the chain of events that led to Goulding’s death. She should be held accountable.”
“I see restricted duty hasn’t made you go soft.”
“Cal, it’s not her job to police the world. It’s ours. We know what we’re doing. She, on the other hand, is a threat to herself and others. Not to mention, last night she potentially screwed up at least two other investigations.”
“How do you figure?”
“She killed Devon Goulding. Meaning if he did do something to Natalie Draga and/or Kristy Kilker, now what? Where are their bodies? What happened to them? I’d ask him, but oh yeah, he’s dead. Meaning what the hell do we have to bring back to the families? Here’s your daughter’s driver’s license—hope that’s good enough? Frankly, of all people, Flora Dane should know better.”
“Tell her that?” Horgan asked evenly.
“Waiting to get more information on the two women. Then I’ll bring it up.”
“You’re definitely going to interview her again.”
“In my mind, this party is only starting.”
“D.D. . . .” Her boss hesitated. “I know you pride yourself on being firm in your opinions. It’s one of the things that ensures working with you is never boring. But Flora Dane . . . You might want to pull her case file. There’s a good reason for her to see predators everywhere. Certainly, she spent more than a year getting a master class in criminal behavior.”
“Now you sound like her shrink. I’m sorry, her victim advocate. Seriously, the girl basically has her own FBI agent on a leash. Never seen anything like it.”
“All right. Plenty of questions ahead. But first, if you don’t mind: Go home, D.D. Shower. What’s that smell anyway?”
“Human barbecue. Or maybe rotten garbage?”
Her boss shook his head. “Clean up. We’ll have to do a press briefing in time for the evening news cycle. For now, keep it simple. Looking for information regarding Natalie Draga and Kristy Kilker, or anyone else who may have known Devon Goulding. No mention of Stacey Summers. No mention of Florence Dane.”
D.D. rolled her eyes at him. “Now who wants the impossible?”
Horgan flashed her a smile, then disappeared down the hall, leaving D.D. with mounds of paperwork and the smell of crime scene still lingering in her hair.
*
SHE WENT HOME. Given it was Saturday, Alex was home with four-year-old Jack. She discovered them sprawled on the living room floor, engaged in a fierce game of Candy Land. Jack was less interested in winning the game than he was in drawing the various character cards. Jolly was his favorite, and he’d been known to stash the card bearing the big blue gumdrop in his pocket or up his sleeve.
Alex glanced up from the game board. He gave her a welcoming smile, even as he sniffed the air.
Jack, on the other hand, came flying off the floor and flung himself around her legs. “Mommy, mommy, mommy.”
No doubt about it, that never got old. D.D. ruffled his brown hair with her right hand, as her left arm had stiffened even further on the drive home. She was holding it protectively against her side, and sure enough . . .
“What’d you do?” Alex asked.
“Long night,” she offered. Jack was still hugging her. She hugged him back.
Alex was no dumb bunny. “Paperwork doesn’t require long nights. Paperwork can generally be reviewed in the morning.”
“Big case,” she mumbled. “Perpetrator found . . . incapacitated . . . in his own garage. With ties to other victims.”
“Inca-what?” Jack asked.