If he hadn’t been drugged, then he’d somehow been tricked into bringing about his own disappearance.
Sitting back in his chair, he thought about the Headless Horseman Hideaway Restaurant and Bar. As far as Aidan could tell, there was only one way up the road and into the parking lot and one way out. As Tommy Jensen had suggested, whoever had come and placed the bloody head on the effigy had probably waited until the wee hours of the morning.
It wouldn’t have taken long. But it would’ve been planned beforehand. Which meant that the execution of the crime had been the work of an Organized Killer—someone of above-average intelligence, who’d meticulously planned every aspect of the murder.
That still brought him back to the locked room concept. Richard Highsmith had disappeared from a well-patrolled facility. One that his own security force had checked out, along with the police.
Aidan had kept in touch with Jackson Crow by phone and email throughout the day, providing reports on whatever he learned—and didn’t learn. He’d been able to assure Crow that the local police were more than congenial and that they’d been diligent with the countless interviews and reports they’d written up so far. He’d also mentioned that Detectives Van Camp and Voorhaven were basically letting him take the lead.
It was during one of his afternoon conversations with Jackson the day before that he discovered he’d been booked into the same hotel where Taylor Branch, Jillian Durfey and the private security guys were staying. Throughout the long day he hadn’t given much thought to his sleeping arrangements. But, of course, at the brand-new offices of what was being called the “Yankee” Krewe, such details had been handled. His hotel had been chosen specifically because it had been Richard Highsmith’s—and because all of Richard’s on-the-road staff were there.
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Jackson had told him dryly. “Classic advice.”
“I’ll bet the friends are mortified—and sincerely saddened, as well. The three security men were together when Richard disappeared, and Branch was with them. They were also in easy sight of a convention center employee. And they’re in no hurry to leave town,” Aidan had informed Jackson.
Aidan had spent some time with the security trio after leaving Richard’s room earlier that afternoon. They fit their nicknames. Muscles was indeed huge, Mischief was a striking young guy, and Magic was serious and dedicated and gave the impression that he could do just about anything—except, of course, answer the question. But then, none of them had expected Richard to put himself in harm’s way. Somehow, he’d left the convention center, presumably following an agenda of his own. Or he’d been coerced to leave. His security staff had been blindsided—expecting their client to have regard for his own safety.
“We were accustomed to him shaking hands in a restaurant, going from the car to an establishment—that kind of thing,” Muscles had told him. “But we never thought he’d wander out of the convention center!”
Muscles was defensive and obviously felt bad—as well as ineffectual and guilty. He and his crew had been Richard’s personal security detail.
Richard had ended up dead, his body violated.
Now, Aidan had a room one floor below Richard’s aides and guards. It was a suite with a large work area, but he understood from Jackson Crow that they’d be using his room as their local base when he was joined by fellow agents.
Late today, his floor would be hosting more of his new coworkers, who’d be booked into adjacent rooms. He’d specifically asked for a forensic artist—Jane Everett—because he didn’t like the computer-generated image of the dead woman that was going around; he wanted a new one. Once they learned who she was, they would at least know if she’d been killed because of whatever relationship she might have had with Richard—or if she’d somehow been caught up in the situation.
Knowing her identity could be a major key to solving the murders. Unless she’d been a random bystander, but all the indications suggested the opposite.
He stood. He hadn’t had many hours of sleep, and what he’d managed to get had been restless. But it was now eight o’clock, and he wasn’t due at the task force meeting for another two hours.
Leaving his hotel room, he headed for the elevator. He started out the main door, paused, went back to get a quick coffee from the hotel’s complimentary station, then hurried out. He wasn’t even sure where he was going at first. After a few minutes, he realized he was driving to the cemetery.