“I know that,” Mo said. “And thanks again for telling me about Richard. If he comes back, maybe he’ll be willing to make contact.”
They left. She took her coffee and headed for the computer. She looked at the array of Halloween cards she’d created, which now decorated her desk. A friendly pop-up ghost opened its arms to say, “Boo.” Witches at a cauldron worked up a spell for good times and happiness. A vampire offered a kiss on another card. Her most popular creation for the season had been a headless horseman; he held a grinning pumpkin filled with candy. When the card was opened, a mirror showed the recipient’s face atop the headless horseman.
She picked up the card, closed it and slid it into a drawer.
Think Valentine’s Day!
Keying Agent Mahoney’s name into her laptop, she discovered that it wasn’t easy to find anything on the man. But then, FBI field agents probably didn’t post any of their personal information on Facebook—or tweet about their cases. He didn’t have any LinkedIn or Wikipedia pages, and the Aidan Mahoney she did find was an attorney in Scottsdale, Arizona.
She began advanced searches, adding New York, paranormal activity and Sleepy Hollow to his name. Nothing.
Finally something did pop up on the screen.
She found the picture of a boy of about fifteen along with the headline Los Angeles Police Clear Young Tarrytown Suspect of Murder. The boy was clearly Aidan Mahoney. Handsome, with dark hair and a striking face that hadn’t matured, did not yet display the hard angles and lines that now completed his face.
She read eagerly.
The police today offered an official apology to Aidan Michael Mahoney and his parents. Mahoney, on vacation in the area with his family, had been a suspect in the murder of a homeless man found under a bridge. Police admit that, desperate for a suspect, they had questioned the young Mahoney—who discovered the body of the dead man—in an attempt to bring charges. Yesterday, Maynard Griffin, another drifter, was arrested at the site of a second murder of a homeless man. His arraignment is pending. In an effort to put an end to various rumors, the lawyer speaking on behalf of the Mahoney family agreed to the release of Aidan’s name.
Mo sat back.
So that was it. Aidan Mahoney had used his gift—and nearly been arrested for it.
She studied the picture of the boy Aidan Mahoney had been.
He’d had a smile and a look of eager anticipation, excitement about the world.
That boy had changed and become the man he was now.
*
Walking into the station for the task force meeting, Aidan was impressed with the number of officers who were waiting to be briefed by Lieutenant Purbeck and him. He was also surprised to see that two of his colleagues had arrived, sooner than he’d expected—Jane Everett and Sloan Trent.
He’d met them in New York, but just briefly. They were officially part of the new office but there’d been no companionable nights out at a local bar yet; no life stories had been spilled. The two were a couple, he knew, but since the female agents in the Krewe tended to retain their maiden names, he wasn’t sure if they were married. Somewhere along the line, he’d ask them. Or Jackson.
Trent was a big, rugged guy, tall and trim but heavily muscled. He’d come from the West and still looked the part, even in a dark navy suit. The ghost of a cowboy hat seemed to linger on his head.
Jane was a very pretty woman who seemed to tone down her natural assets for the workplace—her dark hair was swept into a bun and she, too, was dressed in a business suit and wearing flat, serviceable shoes.
“We tried to reach you to let you know we were here,” Sloan told him. “We got to the hotel at nine, but you’d left and you weren’t answering your cell.”
“I’m sorry.” Aidan wondered if his introspection and his curiosity about Mo Deauville had distracted him to the point that he’d paid no attention to his phone.
Their phones were a lifeline for all of them; he had to shake off whatever mood he was in and play his part competently.
“Jackson said you wanted an artist. The police have done a computer rendering of the Jane Doe, right?” Jane asked.
“Yes, but no pun intended, there’s no life to it. I showed it around last night. When I asked someone if she recognized the woman in the picture, she said it could have been anyone.”
“I’ll get on it as soon as we’re done here,” Jane said.
They were in the back of the room, sipping bad coffee. Purbeck announced that they’d begin.
He started by giving a report on the case from beginning to end, starting with the disappearance of Richard Highsmith, and bringing them to where they were now.
An officer raised his hand. “Are we looking at this as a nut on the loose or a possible political assassination?”