Pam gestured to the glass doors, which Colin had buzzed open but was still blocking with his body. Grudgingly, the man fell back. Pam shot D.D. a look; then both of them entered.
They walked into a tight receptionist area, punctuated by a striking wall of gray slate. Modern and sophisticated, as befitting a major i-bank. Colin headed to the right, swiping his employee ID as they passed through another set of secured doors. Then they entered the heart of the matter, a vast open space dotted with cubicles in the middle and a row of rooms with a view to the right.
Most of the cubicles were empty, as they’d hoped, the space only half lit. But D.D. could hear the clickety-clack sound of typing in the distance, as well as the low murmur of a voice on the phone. Young up-and-comers she figured, still fighting to get ahead by logging Sunday hours.
A vice president with the firm, Colin had already paid his dues. He led them to the proverbial corner office, and D.D. couldn’t help but be impressed. A massive cherry desk. Mammoth black leather executive chair. Even more startling, a city view. Sure, he was peering down a narrow street running between two other high-rise buildings, but still . . . the cobblestones of Faneuil Hall beckoned in the distance, bustling with tiny wide-eyed tourists and hungry locals enjoying the weekend.
D.D. tore her gaze from the windows and took in the gold-framed diplomas punctuating the adjacent wall. Pam Mason hadn’t been lying; there appeared to be no problem Colin’s advanced intellect and financial success couldn’t solve.
Except, of course, for the matter of his missing daughter.
Colin had already taken a seat behind his mammoth desk. Under normal circumstances, D.D. thought, he would’ve been considered good-looking. Close-cropped sandy-blond hair, intense blue eyes, trim, athletic figure. Work-hard, play-hard kind of guy.
His mouth, however, was set too hard and thin. Not cruel, but grim. And his face, upon closer inspection, was hollowed out. A workaholic under more than his usual load of stress. A man watching helplessly as his family fell apart.
He didn’t offer water or coffee. He just sat, the desk an obvious shield before him, as he stared at D.D. and waited for her to speak.
Pam took one of the wingback chairs from the seating area and dragged it over. Perfectly calm and unruffled, she gestured for D.D. to take a seat. Then she dragged over a second chair for herself.
True to her word, D.D. waited for Pam to take the lead. Which, given how hard Colin was staring at her—as if already he considered D.D. the enemy—was definitely the right approach.
“How is Pauline?” Pam asked after a moment. She took her time getting settled into her seat, making herself comfortable. In contrast to Colin’s grim features, she appeared relaxed, engaged; she could’ve been meeting old friends for brunch.
“How do you think?” Colin bit out, eyes blazing. “Especially given . . . yesterday.”
“Did you know Devon Goulding, Colin? Ever frequent Tonic bar, recognize his picture on the news—”
“You mean other than he’s a perfect match for the guy who abducted my daughter?”
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren”—Pam turned abruptly—“can you please tell Mr. Summers what you found in Devon Goulding’s house?”
D.D. startled. She had no intention of giving up any such information. But Colin was already leaning forward, face nearly feverish. He wasn’t going to back off, she realized. He believed they knew something and were intentionally keeping him in the dark. As long as that was the case, they would get nothing from him and go nowhere in this interview. She’d agreed to let the victim advocate take the lead, so Pam Mason had made the executive decision: Sometimes you gotta pay to play. They would pay Colin Summers with this information. And hope he returned the favor.
“We found photos,” D.D. offered, “belonging to a young woman he was clearly stalking. We also found driver’s licenses hidden away in his bedroom. We have yet to locate either woman from the licenses.”
Colin hissed in a breath. As much as he’d clearly been anticipating such news, it had still caught him off guard.
“We believe Devon Goulding was a predator. We believe it’s possible that both of those young women fell victim to him, that their licenses are trophies of sort.”
“He killed them,” Colin said.
“We don’t know. We have detectives working on locating each woman. But as of now . . .”
“You can’t find them.”
“We haven’t found them.”
“He killed them,” Colin repeated.
“Give us another forty-eight hours,” D.D. said, thinking of the progress being made by her very excellent team, “and we can probably answer that.”
“Now, tell him what you didn’t find,” Pam interjected firmly.
D.D. kept her gaze on Colin Summers, who was still leaning forward, shoulders rigid.
“We didn’t find any sign of Stacey. No photos. No driver’s license. Not a strand of hair, nor trace of fiber.”
Colin didn’t sit back. He didn’t relax. He just continued to stare at her as if he couldn’t absorb such news.
“Mr. Summers, I told you the truth this morning. We believe Devon Goulding was a rapist, maybe even a murderer. But we don’t, as of this time, have any reason to believe he was the man who took your daughter. In fact, given his custom of keeping trophies—the driver’s licenses, photos—chances are, he’s not.”
“But you’re here.”
“Colin,” Pam interjected, “it’s time for you to tell us what you know about Goulding. Why you suspect him for your daughter’s case.”
“What? How would I know him? I just heard about him on the news, like everyone else.” He shot D.D. another angry glance.
“Really? And what did Flora have to say about him?”
Colin flinched. His gaze dropped. Abruptly, he sat back. All the better to put distance between him and them, D.D. thought.
“Colin, I know you want answers.” Pam again. “I know you love your daughter. I know you would do anything to get her back.”
“Did you hire a private investigator?” D.D. spoke up. “To help find Stacey?”
Colin didn’t speak. He no longer appeared angry to D.D., but stark. A father who was trying to keep his heart from breaking.
“Mr. Summers, I can get a warrant for your phone records,” D.D. continued, “as well as for the security cameras in this building. Such actions will take away resources the Boston police could otherwise spend continuing the search for your daughter, but if I have to . . .”
“I know Rosa Dane,” he conceded abruptly. “She’s our mentor. I told you that.”
“She shared her story with you, correct? That’s part of her role. Letting you know what she went through and, even more importantly, that even after being kidnapped for over a year, a daughter can come home again.”
Colin nodded.
“Rosa’s honest. She told you about Flora’s struggles, didn’t she? About how you can get a happy ending, but still not live happily ever after. How her own daughter has spent the past five years obsessed with criminal behavior and self-defense in order to try to feel safe again.”
Colin didn’t say anything.
“And that got you to thinking. The police haven’t been able to help you. Apparently, you weren’t satisfied with any of the private investigators you interviewed—”
He scowled at Pam, clearly irritated that the victim specialist had revealed so much.
“So what about Flora Dane? What about a girl who’s truly been there and done that? Who’s become something of an expert on kidnapping and abduction. Why not talk to her?”
He chewed his lower lip.
“You met her here,” Pam spoke up. “In this office. It’s the only place you have any privacy. And you wouldn’t want Pauline to know—it would upset her. And you wouldn’t want me to know because I wouldn’t approve. So you contacted Flora and arranged to meet her here. Remember, Colin, we can pull security footage.”
“Fine. I met with Flora. In this office. We just talked, though. After everything Rosa had said, I was curious to meet Flora in person. A survivor, you know. Someone who did make it. As for Flora, she’d clearly been following Stacey’s case. She had questions of her own.”