“I saw Schriever coming out of your office today.” Grayson’s tone was studiedly casual. “Rumor is he’s finally ready to open a place in Columbus. I’m single and willing to relocate, if that’s what Kurt decides. In fact . . .” The other man drained his glass and raised it in a silent signal to the bartender for another. “I’d give my left nut to be the one assigned there full-time.”
That was too damn bad, David mused, as he tilted his glass to his lips again. Because he was determined to be the one in that position, should it materialize. “That seems unnecessarily self-destructive.” Just like it would be self-destructive to surround himself with reminders of the tragedy that had befallen their family. The thought did nothing to assuage the guilt that lingered. It wasn’t a betrayal to his daughter to tuck away her mementoes when doing so had helped him heal. That’s where he and Claire had always differed. Sometimes violently so. His wife insisted on keeping Kelsey’s room a shrine. That was a battle he’d lost. But when he’d found her hidden copies of the age progression sketches of Kelsey that had been done every couple of years, David had destroyed them over his wife’s tearful protests. She seemed to lack even the most basic instinct for her own emotional health, as if steeping herself in misery somehow drew her closer to the daughter they’d lost.
“I know exactly what you’re planning, you know.”
Somehow David had lost track of the conversation. “What’s that, Steve?” He downed the rest of the Scotch and set the glass on the bar, then picked up his coat.
“You’ll probably advise Kurt against the expansion.” There was a dull flush on Grayson’s face and no sign of his signature smile. “A couple of weekends a month in Columbus works right into your plans, doesn’t it?”
David slipped his arms into his coat. Buttoned it. “And what plans are those?”
“You tell me.” The man’s look was knowing. “More than once I’ve been in town with Kurt or Martin to meet with clients, and I ask at the desk about the second room on the firm’s account.”
Unless the hotel was fully booked, it kept two rooms set aside for the firm’s use. Kurt infrequently spent the night, preferring to commute. Which meant that the extra room was rarely needed, since the men doubled up. Trepidation clutching in his gut, David gave the other man a knowing look. “Stinson’s snoring get to you, or were you looking to get lucky those nights?”
“Doesn’t matter. Because sometimes that room wasn’t available. You’d reserved it.”
The blood in David’s veins solidified. “You’re delusional. How many drinks did you have before I got here?”
His words had no discernible effect on the other man. “Know what else I discovered? A couple of times I went to your room, knocked on the door. Called the room phone several times. And there was never any answer. You didn’t charge the company for the room on those days, though. I checked. So what were you doing in the city, Willard? And where the hell were you?”
“You checked?” David shoved his hands into his coat pockets where they fisted. “You seem to have a lot of extra time on your hands. I took Claire to the city for our anniversary once. And we went as a family a couple of times to a concert. You really need to get some help. Your imagination is working overtime.” Without waiting for the other man’s reaction, he turned and made his way out of the bar.
First the BCI warrant and now Grayson. David’s jaw clenched as he strode rapidly toward the door. His chest was tight. His throat closed. Fresh air. That’s all he needed. He elbowed through a cluster of customers gathered near the entrance and pushed the door open. Filled his lungs with a single greedy gulp. But that didn’t completely negate the sensation of walls closing in around him.
Special Agent Mark Foster
November 11
6:45 p.m.
“I appreciate your seeing me, Reverend.”
The Reverend Thomas Mikkelsen was tall and lean to the point of skeletal. He engulfed Mark’s proffered hand in his two bony ones. “Welcome, Agent. I’m sorry my schedule wouldn’t allow a meeting before now. Bless you for the work you do to assist the victims in our society.” His dark eyes were intense and strangely hypnotic. Mark had the fleeting mental image of a swaying cobra, gaze fixed on its prey. “It’s God’s work, as surely as mine is.”
“Thank you.” Mark gave a small tug to free his hand. “Is there somewhere we can go to talk? I promise I won’t take up much of your time.” He’d been trying to set up a meet with the man since the day after speaking to Sims, but the pastor had been out of town, according to the church secretary.
“Of course. Please follow me.” Mark shut the door behind him and trailed behind the man through a door to their immediate right. Mikkelsen snapped on the light switch. “Our secretary has an office next to mine. Cindy Long. I believe you spoke on the phone.”
“We did.” Mark looked around at the small cramped space. It was dominated with file cabinets and bookshelves, all of which were crammed to overflowing. A large cross hung behind the pastor’s desk, next to a particularly gruesome picture depicting the crucifixion.
“As you could see when you drove up, our work spaces connect the church to our living quarters. There’s a social hall behind the offices that doubles as a conference area.” The pastor cleared off a chair in front of a battered metal desk and repositioned the file folders and books atop an already teetering pile on a scarred wooden end table. “But there never seems to be enough space. I apologize for the mess.” He waved Mark to a chair before rounding the desk and seating himself. “I’m trying to put the Christmas curriculum together for our Wednesday Worship groups.” Catching Mark’s eye, he added, “That’s like Sunday School during the week for kids, in case you’re not a churchgoer.”
He wasn’t, although Kelli occasionally took Nicky. Maybe that was something he should rethink once his wife was back home. A trusted pastor might be able to recommend resources for them. Although Mark was speaking to Kelli and his son nearly nightly, he wasn’t communicating in any significant way with his wife. There was a stiltedness between them that only seemed to grow with each passing day. Damned if he knew how to fix it.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a notebook and pen. Some of the agents had embraced technology and used a portable digital tablet for interviews. It probably would save time when it came to completing reports, but Mark preferred writing to tapping keys. He’d stick to pen and paper until forced to make the change. “As your secretary probably mentioned, I’m investigating the Whitney DeVries disappearance. I’m told she attended services at your church.”
Mikkelsen nodded. “Occasionally, although her family aren’t members. Well,” he corrected himself, “at least not her parents. She would sometimes come with her grandmother, Helen DeVries.”
“When is the last time you saw her?”
Pursing his lips, Mikkelsen thought for a moment. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to be very exact. Three months ago, perhaps? Maybe a bit less. She’s here more often in the summer. I assume she spends more time with Helen then than she does during the school year.”
“So she doesn’t attend Wednesday Worship?”
“No, that’s only for church members, I’m afraid.”