Life on the road. Where, according to fake Everett’s incessant grumblings, he was permitted to drive eleven out of fourteen hours, before taking a mandated ten-hour rest. Then, regardless of actual time on the clock—say, 11:00 P.M., or 2:00 A.M., or 4:00 A.M.—he’d start driving again.
And true to his word, away from loading docks, rest stops, and the hustle and bustle of civilization, he’d pull over and let me out. I got to pee squatted behind bushes versus trapped in my own filth. I got to eat Egg McMuffins for breakfast, Subway sandwiches for lunch, and fried chicken for dinner.
“Downside of the job,” Everett would say, handing over yet another bag of fast food while self-consciously patting the grotesque swell of his belly.
Dinner was inevitably followed by other demands. He’d driven all day. ’Course he needed to blow off some steam. And he had his love nest all ready to go.
Was it better being out of the basement? Was it worth it being out on the road? Where, from time to time, the blindfold came off, and I watched the world whiz by in a blur of greens and blues and grays.
So many other vehicles racing side by side. So many other drivers. An entire country filled with assholes, as Everett liked to say.
And yet not a single one who ever saw me.
Everett talked a lot. Complained mostly. And sometimes, once in a while, he even cried in his sleep.
Which is how I finally learned about Lindy.
Chapter 20
D.D. LIKED TO BE PREPARED. Hence, before she and Keynes met up with victim specialist Pam Mason at the FBI’s Boston field office, D.D. did the practical thing and Googled her. According to the woman’s professional bio, Pam Mason had a master’s in forensic psych from John Jay. She’d worked crisis management at a major women’s shelter in Detroit—talk about baptism by fire, D.D. thought—before joining the FBI. She’d moved around the bureau for the past fifteen years, including a stint in Miami specializing on human trafficking, then a position with the squad specializing in crimes against Americans overseas. The victim specialist was known for her work on a major kidnapping case in Mexico where the oil executive was returned alive, and for a situation in Guatemala where three young American missionaries weren’t.
In other words, the woman’s work history was as impressive as the number of frequent-flier miles she’d accumulated. D.D. wondered what she thought of life in Boston, let alone her current assignment with the Summers family.
Keynes had arranged for them to meet in his office at the FBI’s downtown Boston headquarters. The meeting place didn’t surprise D.D.; federal agents were big on home-court advantage. Though why anyone would consider the enormous concrete structure—one of Boston’s ugliest buildings, in D.D.’s humble opinion—an advantage, D.D. would never know. Then again, compared to the Hoover building in DC . . .
Never let it be said the federal government was known for good taste.
D.D. debated bringing Phil along. Sure, he had his own work to do with his own squad and his own codetective, Carol, but the FBI valued appearances. Given she was meeting with two federal employees, it felt logical, even balanced, for there to be two representatives from the BPD.
But the moment she thought it, D.D. knew she wouldn’t do it. Precisely because it smacked of politics and she hated that crap. She’d called Keynes from Florence Dane’s apartment not because he was a big-time federal guy but because he was a known associate of the victim. She planned on keeping that tack here. Flora’s disappearance was a BPD case all the way, hence D.D.’s involvement as a supervisory officer. Interviewing Dr. Keynes and victim specialist Pam Mason was her call, and she would handle it.
She was pleasantly surprised to find Keynes waiting for her in the lobby of FBI headquarters. Given it was Sunday, and federal agents prided themselves on working bankers’ hours, versus an urban detective’s relentless 24/7 drill, the building was quiet. D.D. still had to present her credentials and sign her life away—but, sadly, no registering of the sidearm she was no longer qualified to carry. Once she’d secured her visitor’s pass, Keynes escorted her to the elevators and away they went.
He wasn’t one for small talk. No “How was the parking, did you find the offices okay, what do you think of the weather” chatter. Instead, Keynes stood quietly, hands clasped before him as the floors flew by.
He’d discarded his heavy black coat, first time D.D. had seen him without it. For his Sunday attire, Keynes had gone with an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray suit, with just a hint of texture to the fabric. D.D. wondered if he had a whole closet full of suits, each one looking more elegant than the last. And just how much time and money did he spend on wardrobe anyway?
She had on her caramel-colored leather jacket. It was her favorite; she wore it right up to the coldest, darkest days of winter. Now, she noticed how shiny and worn the leather appeared at the cuffs. Oh yeah, and the apple juice stain lower right side. Awesome.
Elevator stopped. Doors opened. Keynes gestured for her to step out first, so she did the honors. According to D.D.’s research, the FBI had more than 120 victim specialists and four managers. Dr. Keynes, as one of the head muckety-mucks, was entitled to his own office, complete with an imposing cherrywood desk, a long bank of bookshelves, and a smaller seating area to one side.
His desk bore a state-of-the-art-looking computer, a leather cup of requisite pencils and pens, and, of all things, a Rubik’s Cube—colors mixed. D.D. couldn’t help herself. Her gaze went immediately to the ’80s phenomenon, and she was already itching to solve it.
“You can, you know,” Keynes said, following her gaze.
She kept her hands fisted at her side. “Who messed it up?”
“I did.”
“To solve later? Or as a test for this little meeting?”
“Sergeant, you read entirely too much into a common toy.”
She eyed him warily. “You’re a behavioral expert. Of course I’m suspicious.”
He smiled. It was a good look on him, easing the severity of his smoothly shaved scalp, high-sculpted cheekbones. For a moment, he almost appeared human.
“I like to shuffle the cube. It helps me think. Given what we discovered at Flora’s apartment . . . I’ve had much to think about.”
“I like mobiles,” D.D. found herself saying. “Studying intricate patterns where at first glance it appears as one graceful, multileveled whole, and yet is in fact many separate levels moving in precise rhythm.”
A rap on the door behind them. D.D. and Keynes turned to find a woman standing in the doorway. Pam Mason, D.D. assumed.
At first glance, the woman was older than D.D. would’ve thought. Ash-blond hair worn in a close mass of curls that was last popular right around the same time as the Rubik’s Cube. Even though it was Sunday, she’d followed Keynes’s professional wardrobe example, though with less elegant results, having selected a block-cut, 1990s tan suit with padded shoulders and a cream-colored silk blouse that buttoned all the way to the throat and was finished with some kind of silk ruffle.
The victim specialist appeared about D.D.’s height but, with the cut of her jacket, appeared significantly wider. She was also a woman on a mission. She entered the office, simultaneously tucking a file folder under one arm while sticking out her other hand.
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren? Pam Mason, victim specialist. I understand you have some questions about the Summers family.”
The woman grabbed D.D.’s hand in a firm grip, shook it twice, turned to Keynes with another brisk handshake, then moved straight to the seating area, ready for business. D.D. had to admit, she didn’t care for the woman’s suit, but she had to like the woman’s style.
A considerate host, Keynes did the honors of offering up coffee. Both women immediately agreed, and he disappeared in search of every investigator’s favorite beverage.