Jack Reynolds winked at her. He looked sort of like a middle-aged George Hamilton. “Of course,” he said to Susan. “I read your stuff. You do good work.”
Susan felt her stomach turn red.
Jack hopped off the boat with the hose and walked over to a spigot and turned it off. “Took her for a spin around the lake,” he said. He looked up at the clear sky, framed by the ridge of evergreens around the lake. “Got to enjoy the weather while we can.”
“We need to talk about Jeremy,” Archie said.
Jack looped the hose around a nail that was driven into the dock railing. “Is he okay?” Jack asked.
Susan suddenly felt superfluous, like she was intruding on a private conversation. She took a tiny step back. And then, feeling self-conscious about that—she was a journalist, after all—she took a tiny step forward.
Archie shot her a look and then continued. “I think he might be involved with some people who have a dangerous interest in Gretchen Lowell.”
Jack finished winding the hose and turned around to look at Archie. The last of the water trapped in the hose leaked from the nozzle in a slow drip onto the dock.
“I’m sure you’ve been following the news,” Archie continued. He spoke matter-of-factly. “We identified the body that was discovered in the abandoned house in North Portland. It was a young man named Fintan English. We were just at his house, and I saw a picture of Jeremy there. It looks like English found some people on the Internet—fans of Gretchen—to remove his spleen, and that he died in the process.”
Jack glanced over at his lawyer. “We haven’t seen Jeremy in months,” he said.
The lawyer nodded his agreement.
Archie raised an eyebrow. “I assume you have the means to find him,” he said.
“Is he missing?” Susan asked. “Like Costa-Gavras missing?” They ignored her.
“How is Jeremy doing?” Archie asked.
The lawyer hesitated, looking over at Susan for a moment before he continued. “He’s still hung up on Gretchen, if that’s what you’re asking. If anything, it’s gotten worse,” he said. His gaze fell on the dock. “He carved a heart on his chest. When she escaped”—the lawyer looked out over the lake—“he celebrated.”
Susan realized that her mouth had fallen open. Maybe she’d misunderstood. “Didn’t Gretchen kill his sister?” she asked.
They all looked at her, a little startled, like she’d pulled down her pants. “Sorry,” she said.
Jack looked at his boat. The fiberglass hull knocked lightly against the dock. “Jeremy has some challenges,” Jack said. “One of which is obsessive-compulsive disorder. Do you know much about boats?” It took Susan an instant to realize he was asking her.
“Not really,” she said. The truth was that the whole kidnapped-and-held-hostage-on-a-boat thing a few months ago had sort of soured her on watercraft in general.
“She’s a sloop,” Jack said. “Pretty, huh?”
“Sure,” Susan said.
“Jeremy was thirteen when his sister was murdered,” Jack said. “He developed an interest in following the case.” He paused. A seagull swooped down onto the dock and squawked. “At some point he became confused,” he continued. “He romanticized the Beauty Killer. He drew pictures of him—always a him—what he imagined the Beauty Killer looked like, big black wings, horns. The therapists said he was attracted to the killer’s strength. When Gretchen was caught, Jeremy was in love.”
“He was a fragile kid,” Archie said gently.
Jack was still gazing at his boat. “He always worshipped you.”
The seagull flew off. The boat bobbed. “Do you know where he is?” Archie asked.
Jack Reynolds’s mouth flattened in determination. “I can find him,” he said.
Archie took a step toward Jack. “Find him,” he said. “Get him out of this. But first I want to know where he is, and who he’s involved with.”
Jack smiled, but his eyes flashed with something darker. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Archie?”
“Yeah. I need a gun,” Archie said. “And a prepaid cell phone.”
C H A P T E R 34
The gull had flown off.
It had been ten minutes since Archie had followed Jack Reynolds into the Tudor chateau, leaving Susan standing with the lawyer on the dock.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “So, did you grow up in Oregon?” he asked her.
Susan had been giving him the silent treatment. Clearly, he wasn’t getting it. “Your client just has extra guns and prepaid cell phones lying around?”
The lawyer was wearing an expensive gray suit and a black button-down shirt, open at the collar. Susan could admire his clothes and still not like him.
The lawyer put his hands in his pockets and looked out at the lake. “He likes to be prepared,” he said.
Right. Susan narrowed her eyes. “What does your client do exactly?” she asked.
The lawyer shot her a reflexive smile. “He’s in real estate.”