SUNDAY
Lucy didn’t go to church as often as she used to, but being back in San Diego where she grew up, she felt a need to reconnect with a part of her life that had always been clear. Even through tragedy—Justin’s murder, then when she was raped at the age of eighteen—she’d found a peace within the walls of God’s house. It wasn’t something Sean shared with her, and that was okay—her prayerful life was as private as she wanted to keep her personal life.
She went to the earliest Mass, knowing that her mom always went to a later Mass. She didn’t want to see her family. Not yet. She wasn’t certain Nelia would be able to change their minds about what Lucy was doing, but that the one person she thought would hate her for her actions actually thanked her meant more to her than anything else. She and Nelia would never be close—but for the first time Lucy felt a true connection to her oldest sister.
She sat in the last pew and left as soon as the priest gave the final blessing. She’d seen several people she recognized from her parents’ circles—it was hard to walk into a church you attended most of your life and not recognize people. The last thing she wanted was small talk. As soon as she turned her phone back on, she had a text message from Max.
My staff came through. Come upstairs ASAP.
Lucy called Max as she drove back to the hotel. “I got your message.”
“Sleeping in?”
“I was at church.”
Max didn’t speak. Odd, Max had a comment about everything. Lucy almost laughed that she’d stumped her.
“Okay. Well, I have news. Danielle Sharpe—and you were right, Sharpe is her maiden name—was married to Richard Collins. They had a son, Matthew Collins, a year after their marriage. When he was eight, he disappeared from his bedroom—while his father was with his mistress, Danielle at work, and a babysitter watching him. Both parents were interviewed extensively but ultimately cleared by police. At least according to the press reports. A week later Matthew’s remains were found in an open field—police arrested a known sex offender, who ultimately pled guilty in exchange for a reduced sentence.”
Lucy felt ill and angry. “How reduced?”
“Twenty-five to life.”
“It’s a special circumstances homicide—you said sex offender—why would they do that? He could have been eligible for the death penalty.”
“I don’t have the case files, all I have are press reports. His name was Paul Borell and he died in federal prison. You could probably get the details faster than I can. Danielle filed for divorce shortly after Matthew’s funeral. Uncontested.”
“Do you have the autopsy report?” Lucy asked.
“No, everything I learned about Matthew’s disappearance and murder was in a couple of articles and two newscasts my staff dug up from the era—not easy, by the way, because it was a small affiliate outside of major media markets.”
“Your staff is obviously good.”
“They are the best,” Max concurred. “I learned that Danielle worked for the city attorney in Tallahassee.”
“And she was working late at night?”
“She was a legal secretary for the city attorney but going to law school part-time at night. She had classes that night, they got out at nine thirty. She went to the library to study until it closed at midnight, then she went home and found her son was missing.”
“I assume the police verified her alibi.”
“We can assume, but in my line of work, I never make an assumption like that. Still, they arrested Borell and he pled.”
“And the father?”
“A businessman. Some sort of high-end insurance broker.”
“Was Matthew’s body found close to the house?”
“About five miles.”
“Why did it take them a week to find the body?”
“I don’t know, the press reports were vague on the details, likely because there was a sexual component to the crime. My guess is that maybe Borell kept the boy prisoner for a while. Again, it’s a guess, and not something I’m going to run with until I get it confirmed.”
“I’ll see if I can track down the autopsy report,” Lucy said.
“Is it important?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” Yes, but Lucy didn’t say it. It was important because she needed to know everything Danielle Sharpe knew about her son’s murder. To lose a child to violence was awful, but what had turned her into a killer? “Did you learn anything about Danielle’s family? Her parents?”
“That’s been more difficult. During the investigation, her mother was quoted in one of the papers—Natalie Hoover of Orlando. Big city, common name, we haven’t found her yet. And that was nearly twenty-five years ago. She could have died, been remarried—”
“I get it. It might not be important. What about her ex-husband?”
“More there—Richard Collins moved to Denver a year after the divorce was finalized. Remarried, though I don’t know when. He and his wife bought a house fifteen years ago in a Denver suburb. Property records have them still owning it.”
Lucy’s gut twisted. “Kids?” Danielle would certainly go after Richard Collins’s kids.
“His new wife has two kids from her first marriage, both now adults.”
“We need to talk to him. You have his contact information?”
“Yes, but this is the one time I’m going to suggest that you’re better suited to make this contact. He has no reason to talk to a reporter, and you have the authority to compel him to talk.”
“I have no authority.”
“All you have to say is you’re an FBI agent investigating a crime.”
Max was right—it wasn’t an outright lie, but it was deceptive. Still, this was the closest they’d gotten to Danielle Sharpe.
The woman who killed Justin.
“Let me think about how to approach him. We may want to see how it goes, work together to get the information we need. I’ll be back at the hotel in ten minutes.”
* * *
Max didn’t like eating in her room, but the suite at the US Grant was spacious, and there was a separate dining area, so she didn’t feel like she was eating in bed. She had room service bring up a nice buffet of food and extra coffee. It was ready before Lucy returned.
David walked in in his typical pressed polo shirt and slacks. He took one look at the food and said, “Are you having a party?”
“We have work to do. Any word from Ben about Danielle Sharpe’s current location or employer?”
“I’m supposed to tell you that they worked all night to track down the information about Richard Collins and his son and you can go to hell.”
“And?”
“They’re working on it.”
She knew she was asking a lot of her staff, but she constantly rewarded them.
“Ben wants to know when you’re going to let him hire you an assistant.”
“You’re my assistant.”
“You know what I mean.”
She did. She had gone through a half-dozen assistants during the first two years she’d been with NET. Then she found one she liked, but Riley left after six weeks. Max had been trying to entice her back—Riley had so much potential. But she’d also nearly been killed during one of Max’s investigations. Max had gone to visit her in Boston and while Riley spoke to her—a first since she left—she said that investigative reporting wasn’t her “thing.” Whatever that meant. Even though Max insisted that danger was rare, Riley didn’t budge.
“I’ll think about it,” Max said.
“Office staff. Not field staff.”
“I said I’ll think about it.”
She was getting testy, and she knew both David and Ben were frustrated that she refused to bring on anyone else. But what happened with Riley had affected her. Max was willing to risk her own life—and even David, because he was trained for it—but she’d unwittingly risked Riley’s life. It didn’t matter that Riley had gone off on her own, she’d done it because she thought that’s what Max would have wanted. Having that kind of influence over a young, impressionable reporter made Max nervous.
Lucy was more than ten minutes, but Max didn’t say anything. She looked like she’d had about as little sleep as Max, but without Max’s skill of hiding her fatigue with makeup.
“I ordered up extra coffee,” Max said.
“I need it.” Lucy walked over to the small buffet and seemed surprised. “Coffee and breakfast.”
“Hope you didn’t eat yet.”
“No, thank you for thinking of it.”
Lucy poured coffee and dished up a small plate of food. She looked preoccupied.
“Bad news?” Max asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a million miles away.”
“Thinking.”
“About?”
Lucy sipped her coffee and sat down at the conference table. “Whether Richard Collins has any loyalties to his wife. Whether he’s still in contact with her, and whether he’ll call her as soon as I hang up.”
Max had to admit, she hadn’t thought of that. But she wasn’t a cop—she was all about information.
“Would that be a problem?”
“Yes. We have no probable cause to detain Danielle Sharpe. If he alerts her, she could disappear.”
“Not easy to do. She hasn’t changed her name—she may not be able to up and disappear.”
“We don’t know that she hasn’t changed her name, but I agree, it’s likely she’s still using the name because of her work history. Still, just because she worked for three people who all lost a son while she was there is still circumstantial. A good lawyer would stonewall a police investigation, and Sharpe has gotten away with murder for twenty years. She has an exit plan. I want to take the direct approach, and honestly over the phone isn’t going to work.”
“You want to hop a plane to Denver?”
“Yes. I know it’s asking a lot, but in my experience, face-to-face is the only way we’re going to get answers. I spoke to Sean, and he says he could fly us, but it would take him a few hours to get down here, and I had a feeling he was still working.”
“Don’t worry about the plane, I’ll get us there.” She looked at David and he picked up the phone. “Did you think I wouldn’t like the idea?” Max poured fresh coffee. “I much prefer face-to-face interviews. It’s easier to know if someone is lying.”
Lucy smiled. “We agree.”
“But we’re not going unless I can confirm he’s there—David is working on it now.”
Lucy excused herself—ostensibly to call her husband—and Max waited until David was off the phone. “I have a local PI checking out the Collinses’ residence, he’ll get back to us within an hour. In the meantime, I have reservations on a twelve thirty flight, which only gives us two hours to get to the airport. Puts you in Denver just before four local time. I also got you a driver.”
“I don’t need a driver.”
“You need someone who knows the area and is used to driving in snow.”
“Good point. I’ll pack an overnight bag just in case, but I expect to be back here tonight.”
“It’s snowing. Or were you not listening to me?”
“I still want to come back tonight.”
He sighed. “I have you booked on the last flight out, but don’t blame me if you get stuck at the airport all night.”
* * *
By the time Lucy and Max arrived in Denver, it was no longer snowing, but the roads were slow going. Getting from the airport to Richard Collins’s house in the suburbs took well over an hour. Max talked to Ben, the research staff, David—he’d landed in Phoenix before Max and Lucy arrived in Denver—and proofread the article she’d written on the plane. Not about this case—she always had an article up on Monday mornings about something of interest to NET viewers. The articles were available through the wire and often got picked up by newspapers, but NET subscribers received them in their e-mail the night before public release.
Max hadn’t thought there’d be so much interest in crime issues on the Internet—while she was tech-savvy, she didn’t track consumer data like Ben did. He’d had a vision, and it had more than been fulfilled. While Max enjoyed most of what she did for the network, she had grown frustrated that she couldn’t always work the cases she wanted, she didn’t have the time to spend on the ground like she used to, and while her name and face weren’t a household name, she had enough recognition that going undercover like she’d done before the television show was now impossible.
Give and take, she realized. Through NET’s Internet and television platforms, she’d been able to give a larger voice to crime victims than in the books and articles she used to write exclusively. That meant something.
While Max worked in the car, Lucy was silent and stared out the window. She’d been quiet all morning, and on the plane appeared to be sleeping—perhaps to avoid conversation? Lost in thought? Max didn’t know. But something seemed to be going on with her partner.
Max almost snorted at the thought. Partner? With a federal agent? She had worked with law enforcement in the past, but it was a grind. She’d expected the same with Lucy Kincaid—yet this was different. Maybe because Lucy was working off the clock. Maybe because Lucy had a personal stake in the outcome. Or maybe because Max liked her.
More likely, you’re just curious.
Max got a lot done in the car, and by the time the driver pulled up to the Collinses’ residence, she felt like she’d accomplished more than her fair share for the week.
The Collinses’ well-maintained house matched all the other suburban houses in the neighborhood. It had been built fifteen years ago, and according to the property records Max’s staff had pulled, Richard Collins and his second wife, Patricia, had purchased it new. Not Max’s idea of home, but then again, she hadn’t had much of a home growing up—at least not until her mother dumped her on her grandparents.
The Collinses’ side of the street backed up to the mountainside, the one thing that distinguished it from the other streets.
“You ready?” Max asked Lucy.
“Of course.”
“You’ve been quiet.”
“Thinking.”
Lucy hadn’t dressed like a cop. She wore jeans with knee-high boots and a twin-set sweater. Max noticed she carried her gun—she’d checked it on the plane, which caused them some delay, but Lucy was a federal agent and everything went smoothly. Yet the gun was in her purse, not holstered, so Collins wouldn’t immediately think cop. Max hardly thought they’d need a gun, and when she commented on it, Lucy had ignored her.
Chalk it up to another curiosity about Agent Kincaid.
Neither Max nor Lucy had more than a light jacket—they’d left San Diego when it was eighty degrees. Max didn’t care—she preferred the cold—but Lucy was shivering.
“Didn’t expect snow when you flew to San Diego,” Max joked.
“I don’t particularly like the humidity in Texas, but I love the heat.”
Max knocked on the door. A moment later an older woman answered. She was trim, fifty, with blond hair expertly dyed by a talented stylist. “May I help you?”
“Patricia Collins?”
“Yes?” She wasn’t suspicious. She looked like every other middle-class empty nester that Max could picture.
“I’m Maxine Revere. I’m an investigative reporter from New York and I’d like to speak to your husband, Richard.”
She stared at Max as if it took her a minute to process what she’d said. “A reporter? About what?”
Richard stepped into the doorway. He’d heard Max, and he had a frown on his face. “What’s this about?” he said, perhaps more harshly than he intended. His hand was on his wife’s back and he put his other hand on the door, as if he would slam it on them without hesitation.
“About your son, Matthew.”
“I don’t speak to the press about my son. No one has even asked about him in years. Why?”
He was curious, as well as suspicious.
“I investigate cold cases. I’ve been working a case in San Diego that is similar in many ways to your son’s disappearance and murder. That’s why I brought Lucy Kincaid with me—she’s the aunt of one of the victims and she’s been helping me with my research and investigation.”
Max was prepared to argue her case. Richard was skeptical, and he couldn’t mask the pain in his eyes.
“A pervert killed my son. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Lucy said, “Mr. Collins, I know talking about your son is difficult. And we don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”
Max almost blew her top. Of course they needed to talk about Matthew Collins—what was Lucy saying?
Lucy continued. “But it’s very important that we talk to you about your ex-wife, and in doing so, we’ll need to discuss your son’s murder. If you would give us just ten minutes of your time, you will help us find and stop a killer.”
“Are you saying that Paul Borell didn’t kill my son?”
“No, I’m not. All the evidence, including his plea agreement, confirms that he is guilty.”
Patricia said, “It’s cold outside, Richard, let them come in.”
He didn’t want to, but he listened to his wife. “Ten minutes,” he said. “No more.”
Max and Lucy stepped in and he closed the door behind them. Pictures framed the entry—mostly of two people Max presumed were Patricia’s daughters. Photos of them as children and one of them in her wedding gown with the second as the maid-of-honor. They looked to both be in their midtwenties.
There was one photo of Matthew. It was a picture of him and his father, when he was about six. They were smiling and each holding up a fish. Max noticed that Lucy looked at it for a long minute, then turned away.
Patricia led them to the living room. It was the type of room reserved for formal guests. The couches barely looked used, though the style was more than a decade old. Through the open archway Max would see the family room—more cluttered, with comfortable furniture and many more photos.
“Coffee? Water?” Patricia offered.
“No,” Richard said. “Ten minutes—I’m not entertaining them.”
“I do appreciate your time, Mr. Collins, so I’ll get to the point,” Max said. “I became interested in the Justin Stanton murder in San Diego when my staff uncovered two other similar cases. Justin was murdered nearly twenty years ago, when he was seven years old. He was taken from his bedroom while his parents were out, drugged, suffocated, and buried in a shallow grave a short distance from his house. He was found within twenty-four hours, but there was little to no evidence, and while the police looked at the parents and family members, no one fit.
“As my staff and I investigated, we realized there were several unusual similarities. But there’s one key fact that connects with your son’s death: in each of these cases, the fathers of the boys were having an affair.”
Max let that information sink in. Richard immediately understood what she was saying.
“It’s not the same,” he said, his voice scratchy with emotion.
“Justin’s father is the district attorney of San Diego, so we had assistance in putting together information that wasn’t available to the general public. And because these murders were all five or more years apart and in different California jurisdictions, the police didn’t make the connection.”
“How did you?” Patricia asked. Her hands were entwined with her husband’s, but she was far more in control. “Poor Matthew was killed in Florida.”
“Because Lucy’s brother is a forensic psychiatrist and was able to help us form a profile of sorts. When we had that, we went back to Stanton and he went through employee records looking for a woman who left employment shortly after Justin’s murder. We followed up with the other two connected cases. One woman worked with either the mother or father of each dead boy.”
“Then why aren’t the police here?”
“Because,” Lucy said, “we have no hard evidence. But we think you can help—you know this woman.”
“We? Are you a cop?”
Lucy showed her badge. “FBI. But I’m not here officially—I’m here because I’m Justin’s aunt.”
“I don’t understand,” Richard said. “What does this have to do with Matthew’s death?”
Patricia bristled. “You can’t think that Richard has anything to do with any of this.”
“Of course not,” Lucy said. “Have you been in contact with your ex-wife, Danielle Sharpe, at any time after you left Florida?”
Both Patricia and Richard stared at Lucy.
“Danielle?” Richard said.
Lucy said, “We have a theory, but no proof. We know that you were with your mistress the night Matthew was killed—”
Patricia jumped up. “I can’t believe you would do this to my husband! Hasn’t he suffered enough? First his son is molested and murdered, then his ex-wife makes his life a living hell, and now this? You have to bring it up again?”
“It’s okay,” Richard said, taking his wife’s hand.
“It’s not okay!”
“A living hell?” Max said, needing to take the emotion out of the room. “How so?”
“No, I’m not doing this again. Don’t, Richard.”
Richard stood up and said to Max and Lucy, “Can you excuse us for a minute?”
Max didn’t want to let them out of the room—there was something here, she could feel it buzzing around the room. But Lucy spoke before Max could stop them. “Take all the time you need,” she said.
They walked out.
“What are you doing?” Max said. “Did you hear them? Bet you a million bucks that Danielle has been tormenting him for years. ‘Living hell.’ And now they’re going to clam up and sanitize whatever they tell us. Maybe call a lawyer. Maybe he’s calling the police right now to have us removed.”
“You have a vivid imagination,” Lucy said.
“We were so close!” She cleared her throat to lower her voice. “You should never have let them walk out.”
“We are close, Max, and I’m definitely not taking your bet. He’s heard from his ex recently.”
“How do you know that?”
“His face when I mentioned her name. I don’t think he told his wife, but Danielle has reached out to him.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. They’re not—screwing around or something?”
“No. I think Patricia was right—Danielle tried to make Richard suffer. But Richard remarried, moved, was able to get on with his life. Danielle couldn’t. But there’s more here than hatred of her ex-husband. She blames herself as much—or more—than her ex.”
“How do you get that?”
“It’s everything, Max—it’s not just the husbands who are cheaters. The wives were all working. In a traditional household, the father works and the mother stays home with the kids.”
Max almost laughed. “It’s the twenty-first century—certainly not the status quo now.” And she couldn’t imagine not working. But something on Lucy’s face had her asking, “If you had kids, would you quit your job and raise them?”
“I can’t answer that question,” Lucy said.
“What I’m saying is, in this day and age there are many two-income households. It’s common. Sometimes because both parents want to work, and sometimes because both parents have to work. Either way, even twenty years ago no one batted an eye when a mother went back to work after having a kid.”
“It’s not about the mother working, it’s about the mother not being home when her son was in danger. It’s a primal instinct to protect our young. We talk anecdotally about mother bears and their cubs, but it’s based on observable truths. Danielle certainly blames Richard because he was with another woman when Matthew was killed. But she blames herself even more. There is an intense self-loathing, which she has projected onto other families.”
Max glanced up and saw Richard in the entry of the living room. Lucy had to have seen him when they were talking. Why had she continued? Did she want Richard to hear?
Patricia wasn’t there. “I need to talk to you without Patricia,” Richard said. His eyes were moist. “You think Danielle killed someone. A child.”
“Yes,” Lucy said. “Do you think she’s capable?”
“I don’t know.” He sat back down heavily on the couch. “What do you want to know?”
Max had a million questions, but she glanced at Lucy. Lucy was running this show. Maybe she had from the minute she stepped into the lounge at the US Grant on Thursday afternoon. Max’s control was only an illusion that Lucy wanted her to keep until they broke the case open.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Lucy said. “You were young when you married.”
He nodded. “We were both in college. I was a senior, she was a freshman. Love at first sight, I suppose.”
This was no happy reminiscing.
“We married because Danielle got pregnant. I loved her, and the baby. I wanted to do the right thing. We were happy, I thought. But Danielle was always clingy. Needy, I guess. I chalked it up to her being young and insecure about our marriage, but I tried. And Matthew, we loved him. After he was born, it was good, really good. I’d already graduated. She took a year off, then finished school. Juggled Matthew and classes. I was working for a major insurance company, nine-to-five mostly, but I was promoted when Matthew was five and started traveling. I told Danielle she didn’t need to work if she didn’t want to—I was making more money, and she really hated her job. She said she wanted to go to law school, and I supported that. She was working and going to school and I was traveling and she was always suspicious. Several times she’d show up at my hotel room. Said she wanted to surprise me, and the first time I was thrilled—it was fun and exciting. But then … it turned weird.”
“How so?”
“She would show up at work in the middle of the day. She would call at odd times. If I didn’t answer right away, she’d leave a long message. If I called her back she would accuse me of avoiding her. I wasn’t, but then I began to. It was awkward. She showed up at a company dinner with one of our biggest clients and made a scene. It was after that I suggested we separate … and she almost had a breakdown. I found out then that her mother had been married twice—and each time her father or stepfather had an affair and left her mom for another woman. Her mom and I never got along—the woman was bitter and manipulative and what is it called? Passive-aggressive? Say things to Danielle like, ‘Oh, I love your haircut, it covers your big forehead,’ or ‘That dress is amazing, it hides your fat ass beautifully.’ I’m sure growing up like that had to wear her down, and she was always self-critical and critical of me. But she begged me to forgive her, and we had Matthew—I loved that kid so much.”
“And yet you still had an affair.”
“I’m not proud of it. It just happened … and I didn’t know how to get out of it.”
“It wasn’t with Patricia.”
“God, no. Someone I worked with. She was married as well, neither of us were happy, it started innocuously … and then well, you can guess.”
“What happened the night Matthew was kidnapped?”
“I had a dinner meeting. Marlena and I stayed after for drinks. Her husband was out of town—he was a pilot and he took extra legs because their marriage was so bad. She knew he was having an affair, too, and I think she wanted to stick it to him by screwing me in their bed. I planned on being home by ten—we had a high school girl who babysat, and I knew Danielle had a late class and then would study until the library closed. But I fell asleep. Woke up when Danielle called at twelve thirty and said Matthew wasn’t in his bed. I—I lied to her at first, but when the police came everything came out, because I didn’t know what happened to my son and I wanted the police to find him.”
“We have the basics from the investigation,” Lucy said, “but no details.”
“He was found five days later in an open field, under a pile of construction garbage. But … the police said after the autopsy that he’d been only been dead for twenty-four hours. They arrested Paul Borell. Found Matthew’s clothes. His blanket … his favorite stuffed animal … in Borell’s basement. And blood. My little boy … he was hurt, then Borell killed him.”
“How did he die?” Lucy asked, her voice so soft Max almost couldn’t hear her.
“He was strangled.”
“And he was sexually assaulted.”
Richard’s voice cracked. “Y-yes.”
“Patricia said that Danielle made your life a living hell. How?”
“She blamed me. I blamed myself. I should have been home.”
“But she knew you were working late legitimately.”
“Yes. But I was supposed to be home by ten. And I wasn’t, and my son was kidnapped.”
“What about the babysitter?”
“She fell asleep on the couch. She was sixteen—she didn’t hear or see anything. Poor girl fell apart, too. Danielle was so cruel to her, and she got into drugs and drinking. I don’t know what happened—they moved away a year later.”
“And you?”
“I had to move. Danielle would show up at my house, she’d come to the office, she left awful messages on my door, on my phone. The police arrested her once when she attacked me, but I dropped the charges. I mean—I hated myself. So a year later, I moved here. I met Patricia at a grief support group through a community church. Her husband had died—he was young, it was a tragic highway accident—and it took a while, but I finally forgave myself.”
“Have you seen or heard from Danielle since you left Tallahassee?” Lucy asked.
“I haven’t seen her, but she calls me every once in a while. The first time—I talked about it in grief counseling, so Patricia knows about it. She was worried about me so I never told her that Danielle has called me many times over the years.”
“Define many?” Max said.
“At first she would call me on the anniversary of Matthew’s murder and yell at me, blame me. I took the calls because I wanted to be punished. But then it stopped. Years pass and I don’t hear from her, then she’ll call every day for a couple weeks. The first time she called after Patricia and I married, she was in the room and made me promise never to answer the phone again if it was Danielle.”
“But you did.”
“I had to—I mean, she was Matthew’s mother. She was grieving. And I suspected she called me after she was drinking or something, because she didn’t sound right. And it would stop. And then I’d almost forget, but it would start up again.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Wednesday.”
“Last week Wednesday?” Max asked. “What did she say?”
“That she hates me. That she wishes I’d died instead of Matthew. She always asks me if I’m cheating on my wife.” He sighed. “She left messages on my phone the next couple of days. I still have them.”
“I need to hear them,” Lucy said.
Richard looked pained, and he was confused. “I don’t understand. What’s going on? Is Danielle in trouble?”
Max had thought it was perfectly clear. Was Richard being deliberately obtuse? Or was he in denial?
“You ex-wife has killed at least three young boys,” Max said.
Lucy tensed. “We suspect,” Lucy clarified.
“You suspect, I know,” Max said. Before Lucy could backtrack into cop speak, Max said, “We have evidence that your wife worked with the parents of three specific victims at the time the boys were killed. Within a year, she moved to another town, in another job, found another adulterer, and stalked the family until she found the opportunity to kidnap their child in the middle of the night, drug and suffocate him, and bury him in a park with his favorite stuffed animal.”
Tears rolled down Richard’s face.
“Excuse me for being blunt, but if we’re right she’s going to do it again.” Max wasn’t sorry. She needed information and Richard was playing the woe-is-me card and stonewalling them.
Lucy looked at Max with a flash of anger Max hadn’t seen in the cop before. Then Lucy turned to Richard. “Danielle blames you for Matthew’s death, but she hates herself more. She’s stuck in this violent cycle, and she will continue until we stop her. You can help. Do you know where she is?”
He shook his head. “I really don’t. The phone she calls me on is blocked.”
“That’s okay. If you have a record of the calls, I can get a warrant for your phone records.”
“I’ll give them to you. If you’re right—if Danielle—I don’t believe it, but … I thought if anything she would come after me. Or maybe she was suicidal. The first time she called, she was so hysterical I really thought she was going to kill herself. I talked to her because I didn’t want her to die, I wanted her to get help. I thought I calmed her down. She didn’t call for a long time after.”
“We need a warrant to build a case against her, but you can certainly help expedite it,” Lucy said. “Do you have those voice mails?”
He pulled his phone from his pocket.
“May I record them as they play?”
He nodded.
Lucy took out her own phone and pressed a record button, then Richard played his messages.
“I miss Matthew,” a faint female voice whispered. “I miss him so much.”
Then nothing, but the call wasn’t terminated. Thirty seconds later it beeped and the message was over.
“That’s it?” Max said.
Richard shook his head and pressed the next saved message.
“I hate you!” The voice sounded completely different than the pained voice before it. It disconnected immediately.
“How long between calls?” Lucy asked. “What day?”
“On Thursday. Two minutes, according to my phone.”
Lucy frowned. “Next, please.”
“There was a series of six calls that night where she didn’t leave a message—hung up before voice mail.”
Lucy nodded. “Same day as those two?”
“Yes. And then this on Friday night, late.” He looked at the phone. “Two A.M. Saturday morning. I was asleep, I turn my phone off at night.”
“Play it.”
He hesitated, then pressed Play.
The recording started in the middle of a sentence, as if Danielle had been talking as soon as she hit Send.
“—fucking bitch. Liar! Just like her husband. Just like you. I loved you, and you fucked around. How many, Richard? How many were there before Marlena. How many? How many times have you cheated on Patricia? Or maybe she’s cheating on you. Ha! Serves you right. Why even have children? Why can’t people just do what they promised? They’ll suffer, I hope they suffer as much as you, I hope they—” Beep. The voice mail ended.
“Every day?” Lucy said.
He nodded. “And last night—again, late, my phone says the first three calls came in at two oh-two, two oh-five, and two thirteen. But there’s nothing there. You can hear her moving around or moving things around, but she doesn’t say anything. Until the call at two thirty-five.”
He pressed Play. The first five seconds were silence. Then: “While you were with your whore, a pervert walked into Matthew’s bedroom and carried him off to do awful, awful things to him. He suffered, Richard. He was so hurt. Broken … no child should suffer like that. They don’t deserve him. They don’t care. They’re never home. I hate you. I hate you!” The harsh sound of breaking glass, then the call was cut off.
“Is that the last one?” Lucy asked.
“Yes.”
“She’s going to call again tonight. You’re going to need to answer it.”
“I—I can’t. You don’t understand.”
“I’m going to call the local FBI office and have them here. I want them to see if they can trace the call. She may not stay on the phone long enough, but they might be able to get the area she’s calling from. Even a general region will help us.”
“She sounded drunk,” Max said.
“Possibly. It’s the weekend, she doesn’t have to keep herself together on the weekends,” Lucy said. “Richard, listen to me. This is important. Do you remember the months and years she called you in the past.”
“I do,” Patricia said as she walked in.
Richard jumped up and went to his wife. “Honey—”
“Richard, you tried to protect me, but I know you’ve talked to her. I didn’t want to say anything, but I could tell by how depressed you got.” Patricia turned to Lucy and handed her a piece of paper. “I was really scared for a while that Danielle was going to try and hurt Richard. Physically hurt him. The first time was twenty years ago.”
“Are you sure?” Lucy asked.
“June—so nineteen and a half years I guess. I know because my husband died June fifteenth and our anniversary had been June twenty-ninth, so it’s always been a really hard month for me. I hadn’t been to the grief group in a while, and I went then and Richard talked about the calls. He was shaken.”
Lucy stared at the paper, then handed it to Max.
The pattern was clear. Every four to five years, Danielle called her husband for a week to ten days in a row, then stopped. Three of the four time periods matched perfectly with the three murders they were certain Danielle had committed.
And now she was calling again.
“What does this mean?” Patricia asked.
“It means that Danielle has found another cheating spouse and is making plans to kill his son,” Max said.
“Why would she do this? Why would she kill an innocent child?” Richard said. He sank down onto the couch.
Lucy said, “She saw how much you suffered after Matthew’s death; she wants others to suffer the same way. She blames you, but she mostly blames herself because she wasn’t there, either.”
“Dear Lord, how are you going to find her?” Richard asked.
“With your help. Please.”
“Anything. Anything you need.”
* * *
Lucy asked Max to wait with the driver while she went into the local FBI headquarters. Max didn’t want to—in fact, she was more than a little angry to be kept out of it—but Lucy persuaded her that it would be easier for everyone if she didn’t have to explain why she had a reporter interviewing a potential witness.
This was the point of no return, Lucy realized. She presented the information to the local office and the request to work with Richard Collins to obtain his phone records and trace any calls coming from a blocked number for the next week. Lucy didn’t have to work hard to get them to cooperate—she simply dropped some names. Then she called the San Diego FBI office and spoke to the SSA, Ken Swan, who she’d worked with in the past. It took her a while to get through to him—he wasn’t on call—but when she did, he listened with minimal questions until the end.
“How certain are you that this woman is going to kill in the immediate future?”
“I’m positive.”
“When are you going to be back in San Diego?”
“Late tonight.”
“Let’s meet tomorrow morning, you can give us everything you have. You’ve been busy on your vacation.”
Lucy had led him to believe that she was on vacation visiting her family when this all came up. She didn’t want to lie any more than she had to. “I took time off specifically to work with this reporter—she did most of the background work.”
“You forget, Agent Kincaid, I’ve worked with you before. I’ll call the Denver office and we’ll coordinate. See you tomorrow.”
An hour later, Lucy was back in the car with Max. The reporter glared at her. “You damn well better give me something if you’re going to bench me.”
“I checked our flight—it’s delayed ninety minutes.”
“You know what I mean.”
Lucy did. “I’m sorry, but I had to tread carefully in there. Dot my i’s, cross my t’s. I’m not leaving you out of the loop—I didn’t tell them anything you don’t already know.”
The driver started for the airport. Max was still irritated. “I’m used to getting the shaft from cops.”
“I’m sorry you think that’s what I did.”
Max was silent, perhaps thinking the cold shoulder would affect Lucy, but it didn’t. The peace was … refreshing. And gave Lucy time to think and process everything she learned.
After twenty minutes, Lucy said, “You wanted to know what made me tick.”
Lucy didn’t know what she expected of Max—maybe to justify the notes she’d taken and left on her desk? Apologize? But she did neither. All she said was, “Yes, I do.”
“You want the truth, Max. I understand that drive. I really do. I’m always seeking the truth—but more than that, I’m looking for answers. I’m driven by a much darker force than truth. I need justice. I need to know that killers will be caught, that they will be punished. That they’ll be in prison or in a grave.”
“That doesn’t tell me why.”
“But it is the truth. Is the why of the truth more important than the truth itself?”
“It’s part of the whole.”
“Perhaps.”
She didn’t expand. She could tell that Max wanted to know more—it would bug her because she couldn’t put Lucy in a predefined box.
Max didn’t need to know. She wanted to, but she didn’t need to, and Lucy wasn’t going to become one of Max’s projects.
Lucy said, “What is more important to you—that Karen’s killer is brought to justice, or that you find out why he killed her in the first place?”
Max opened her mouth, then closed it. Lucy didn’t smile, though she wanted to because she realized something about Max that Max thought she hid from everyone.
She cared more about justice than she did about exposing the truth.
“I want him in prison,” Max said.
“So justice.”
“But in putting him in prison, I’ll find out why.”
“You know why. I read your book, Dr. Ullman had a profile of the killer—that he was a sexual sadist. She’d been heavily drugged—that according to the toxicology report on the blood found at the scene. He had her somewhere for up to thirty-six hours before he killed her. Do you have to know why he held her in captivity? Why he drugged her? Why he most likely raped her repeatedly? Is that important? Because I can tell you right now, there are millions of sick people just like him, whether they kill or not. People are tools to them. Is he any different than a pervert who has sex with children? Like Paul Borell, who raped and murdered Matthew Collins? We can put a label on it—sexual deviancy, pedophiles, sadists, psychopaths—but it all comes down to one lone truth: that their needs, however sick and twisted they are, are supreme. That no one has the right to deny them their satisfaction.
“Danielle Sharpe has a dark need to make other people suffer because she suffered. She has separated herself from the act of murder. I guarantee you that the man who killed Karen has done the same thing. Karen’s death served the larger purpose, he can move on. He doesn’t care about the pain he caused because he doesn’t feel pain. Danielle doesn’t want to feel pain, but it’s all she can feel. She believes that if she gives the pain to others—her ex-husband, other broken families—that it’ll somehow make her feel better. For a while, it works. But the pain returns and she has to make people suffer again. And we—you and I—are going to stop her.”