“Tonic?”
“Devon Goulding worked there. Same with Natalie Draga until her own disappearance. As for the other missing persons, they have frequented the nightclub, including Stacey Summers. Her friends confirmed they went there on occasion. And two of them shared that information with Flora Dane.”
Horgan folded his hands across his stomach. “Which would seem to confirm that Devon Goulding was behind all the girls’ disappearances, including Stacey Summers’s.”
D.D. hesitated.
“Spit it out, Detective.”
“We didn’t find anything in Goulding’s place to tie him to Stacey Summers. Why keep trophies of two victims but not the third?”
“She was higher profile. And he was caught on tape abducting her. That might have spooked him.”
“I don’t think that’s how these guys work. I think trophies fall under the compulsive part of their behavior. Plus, where’s Stacey’s body? Where’s Natalie’s body? Why did we find one but not the other two?”
Horgan studied her.
“Then, of course, there’s the matter of Flora Dane,” D.D. continued, “who disappeared after Goulding died. Except in her case . . . We don’t even know that she was abducted. It’s possible she simply walked away. Not probable, but possible.”
“What do you know again?” her boss asked her.
“Good news, sir. We found Kristy Kilker’s body.”
*
D.D. WAS HAVING THAT KIND OF DAY. That kind of case, really. She retreated to her office and the growing pile of paperwork stacking up on her desk. She stared at the reports, tried to tell herself to be a good restricted duty sergeant. Sit. Read. Dot i’s, cross t’s. Manage. Perhaps somewhere in that mound of files, the next clue awaited. But she didn’t believe it. This case didn’t give up information; it took away common sense.
Knocking. She looked up from her desk to discover Keynes standing in her doorway, impeccably clad as always and bearing a burnished brown leather attaché. She would never call it a murse. At least not to his face.
“Where’s Rosa?” D.D. asked.
“If I were a betting man, I’d say in a kitchen somewhere, baking. Have you allowed her access yet to Flora’s apartment?”
“She paid a visit this morning, as I’m sure you know, but crime scene techs aren’t ready to release the scene.”
Keynes nodded, moved into her office. He was wearing his cashmere coat. She should stand, take it from him, offer a glass of water. She couldn’t bring herself to do anything. She simply sat there, waiting.
“It’s the nightclub Tonic,” she stated abruptly. “Whatever happened to those girls, Tonic had something to do with it. And Devon Goulding. Which reminds me: I’m really angry with Flora. I was peeved when I first arrived at the Goulding crime scene, now I’m pissed. She never should’ve killed him. Devon alive could answer all of our questions. Devon dead, completely worthless. When we find Flora, I plan on charging her with at least half a dozen offenses, just to feel better.”
Keynes removed his coat. Hung it on the coatrack in the corner. Took a seat.
“My professional opinion?” he offered.
“By all means.”
“The manager, Jocelyne Ethier, had a relationship with Devon Goulding.”
“Seriously? That’s all you got? I’m just a city cop and I figured out that much. Woman scorned. Practically had it tattooed on her forehead.”
Keynes shrugged. “She lied. The question is, did she lie because she was embarrassed, or because she has something more to hide?”
“Yet another question to contemplate in the small hours of the morning. The problem is we have too many questions. We need information. Fresh, tangible clues.”
“Which is why I’m here.”
“You brought me a fresh tangible clue?”
“I brought you information. Regarding Jacob Ness.”
“Jacob Ness is dead.”
“Yes,” Keynes agreed. “But his daughter isn’t.”
*
“WHAT’S RELEVANT ABOUT this information is that Flora never provided it.”
“What do you mean?” D.D. asked.
“I debriefed Flora while she was recovering in the hospital. She struck a deal. She would tell her story. One time. To one person. Then, never again. She chose me for the honor. Then she talked. And talked. And talked. Four hundred and seventy-two days. She had much to tell. And yet for every story, every horror, every revelation . . . I would never say I know everything that happened between Flora and Jacob. For each anecdote Flora revealed, I could tell there were others she held back. That’s not atypical with survivors. They’re traumatized, shell-shocked, and, in many cases, guilt-stricken.”
“Because they survived? Or because of what they did in order to survive?”
“Take your pick. Either way, guilt is guilt.”
D.D. leaned forward. “The lead FBI agent, Kimberly Quincy, mentioned she still had questions about everything that occurred during Flora’s captivity. Something about other traces of hair, DNA belonging to other women, recovered from a box he had in the back of his rig.”
“Flora would not be the first kidnapping victim coerced into helping target other victims.”
“True.”
“Do you know what the hardest part about survival is, Detective?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Living with it. Every rescued person I’ve ever debriefed. They were so sure if they could just escape, just get through the ordeal, they’d never complain, never want, never suffer again. My primary job is helping them understand that won’t be the case. Survival isn’t a destination. It’s a journey. And most of the people I help, they’re still getting there.”
“Killing off one perpetrator at a time?” D.D. asked dryly, considering Flora’s crime spree.
“Four hundred and seventy-two days. Much of it locked in a coffin. Do you really think you could handle it any better?”
D.D. scowled. She didn’t have an answer for that, and they both knew it. “So, the daughter.”
“The FBI recovered many samples from Jacob’s hotel room and his long-haul rig. As SAC Quincy revealed, we found DNA evidence belonging to others. One sample was identified as being female, and bearing markers consistent with Jacob himself. In other words, a daughter.”
“You found DNA from Jacob’s own daughter? In the wooden box?”
“From cigarette butts littered on the floor of the rig.” Keynes lifted his leather attaché, extracting a file. D.D. took it, then, glancing down at her desk, realized she was officially out of room for new paperwork.
“Who is she?” D.D. asked, finally positioning the file crossways on another stack of God knows what.
“We never figured out. The DNA didn’t match with anything in the system. Agents ran down birth certificates, et cetera, but never found any records bearing Jacob’s name. Of course, it’s possible he was never listed as the father. And since we don’t have an approximate age, it’s hard to be more exact in our search of hospital databases—assuming the hospitals have computerized all their old records. Many small rural hospitals haven’t.”
“What about following up with Jacob’s known love interests, checking with them about a possible child?”
“The Devon Goulding problem,” Keynes said.
It took D.D. a second; then she got it. “You mean Flora killed Jacob, meaning you can’t ask him for a list of prior relationships. Girl’s good at tying up loose ends.”
“Jacob Ness flew under the grid for most of his life. A brief stint in prison. But other than that, he was a loner, driving from state to state in his big rig, his only permanent address being his mother’s house in Florida. According to Flora, in the beginning at least, she was kept in a basement room—”