Reed did not believe in a sixth sense, but he had studied enough about neuroscience function to know that the brain did not take in all of its surroundings at once or with the same conscious understanding. If someone were to toss an apple at his head, he knew that there was one brain area that noticed the shape (round), another that detected its color (red), while a third fired off the message that the object was approaching (fast), and, finally, some executive higher-level processing that put all this information together and told him he’d better duck. Sometimes these disparate areas detected important information that got mislaid or did not immediately make all the requisite connections for true comprehension. Your brain signaled an alarm before you consciously knew the threat. Reed had learned to trust that inner alarm that said pay attention, even when he wasn’t sure yet why it mattered. He froze the video camera footage from the subway on a shot of Chloe that revealed the same male figure hovering twenty feet behind her, pretending not to watch. The man’s face continued to be obscured by sunglasses and a ball cap, but he felt familiar to Reed in a way he couldn’t yet articulate.
Faced with this urgent development, his brain made another choice, this one perhaps less rational: he’d left Tula in the care of Ellery’s teenage sister. “I used to babysit all the time before I got sick,” Ashley assured him as he once again stressed they were not to leave the apartment. He wrote down his cell number in three places. He left money to order in pizza. He stated specifically that they were not to take off on any cross-country trips. Ashley seemed horrified at the idea. “With a kid? Are you crazy?” She took Tula’s hand. “Come on, we can paint our toes this time.” Tula had pirouetted with joy.
Reed found Ellery huddled with her partner, her captain, and what looked like Martin Lockhart. The frisson of energy around them told him there had been a significant development. Ellery broke loose from the group when she spotted him, the relief on her face plain at the sight of him. “Oh, good, you’re here.”
“What’s going on?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Martin Lockhart.
“Stephen Wintour is looking like our guy. Seems like he may have attempted to kidnap another girl years ago, but the charges were dropped.” She gave him a brief outline of the situation, including the news that Wintour had a second home not too far from where Chloe’s burner phone had been purchased. “We don’t have quite enough for a warrant. Martin Lockhart has agreed to meet with Wintour while wearing a wire. If he can get Wintour to admit to additional contact with Chloe, that might be enough for a warrant.”
Reed’s alarm bells went off again. “You’re sending in the father of a kidnap victim to confront her possible abductor?”
“He won’t talk to us. Time is running out, Reed. It’s day three.”
Her staccato speech, the fevered look in her eyes—he wondered if she’d slept at all for the past two days. “I realize time is important,” he said softly. “But this is a dangerous proposition. Need I remind you what happened the last time we paired up a victim and a perpetrator in an unregulated setting?” That meeting had ended in a shower of bullets.
“He won’t be armed. We’ll make sure of it.” She rubbed her eyes as though they had grit in them. “It’s one conversation. One that may lead us to Chloe.”
Reed held his laptop under one arm. His half-formed hunch about the man in the baseball cap felt weak in light of the developments on Wintour. “It’s just … I’m worried for you.”
“I’m not the one trapped in the closet.”
He blinked. Did she even hear herself? “No one said Chloe’s in a closet. We don’t know where she is.”
“What we know is bad enough.” She looked annoyed with him. “You have a kid. Wouldn’t you want to do absolutely anything you could to bring her back?”
“Of course.” He understood completely why Lockhart had agreed to this setup. “But my role here is to think like an agent, not like a father. What are you thinking as?”
“Like someone who wants Chloe back.”
She tried to brush past him, but he stopped her by grabbing her arm. “You’re projecting,” he said softly. “It’s understandable, Ellery, but it’s also dangerous. It’s okay to take a step back. It’s okay to let someone else take the lead.”
She yanked herself free. “That’s a laugh, coming from you. Remind me why your marriage broke up again?”
He stiffened. “That’s not the same thing at all.”
“Isn’t it? Where’s your kid, Agent Markham? The one who is supposed to be on vacation with her father?”
“Hey, I didn’t ask for this,” he said, more loudly than he intended.
“Neither did I.”
Heads turned to watch as she stalked off to where the others surrounded Lockhart. Reed turned his back to them, unwilling even to look at her right at that moment. After several deep breaths, he opened his laptop and forwarded what he had to the local FBI office, with instructions to look for additional closed-circuit footage of the man in the baseball cap. Go back in time before the point we see Chloe cross his path, he wrote. We need to check if he went into any of the nearby shops that might have a better view of his face.
That task done, he repacked his laptop into his briefcase and joined the war room that had sprung up around Martin Lockhart. Ellery greeted him with a level gaze, but Captain Conroy appeared relieved to see him. He didn’t look like a man who had slept much in the past few days, either. “Agent Markham, please come in. We’re about to head over to Stephen Wintour’s apartment building, but perhaps you could give us some insights about the best approach.”
He felt the weight of Ellery’s stare and her silent message: Don’t fuck this up. He licked his lips and chose his words carefully. “If Stephen Wintour is a predatory pedophile who is responsible for Chloe’s disappearance, then this is likely something he has planned and fantasized about for a long time. He will not be easily dissuaded from his course.”
“I still don’t believe it,” Lockhart said. “I asked him to pick her up from school one day last year when Mimi was on vacation. Why wouldn’t he have run off with her then?”
“Again, if he’s the guy, then my best guess is that either the situation did not come close enough to his fantasy or he had reason to figure he’d be discovered. If you had asked him to pick her up, then he would have been the prime suspect if she’d disappeared.”
Lockhart frowned. “If he’s the guy, then won’t he just refuse to let me in?”
“Possibly,” Reed agreed. “But he’d also wish to avoid drawing suspicion on himself. Pedophiles are adept at blending in and appearing normal in everyday interactions.”
“Let’s go over the rules again,” Conroy said to Lockhart.
The man grunted. “Ask him if he has any theories about Chloe. Tell him she kept a diary and that it says he asked her for pictures.”
“That’s right. Don’t confront him or accuse him. Don’t push too hard. Just try to get him talking about Chloe, and we’ll follow up later if it comes to that. We’ll be listening outside the entire time, so please keep your hands away from the mic.” He checked his watch. “It’s go time.”
They all piled into an unmarked white van and drove to Back Bay, where Wintour kept a condo in one of the old brownstones. They parked about one block away next to a similar building to Wintour’s. Dorie looked out the window at the three-story brick structure with its iron railings and arched windows. “What do you think a place like this goes for? A million? Maybe two?”
“Five and a half,” Lockhart said, his gaze trained on the floorboards.
Reed could almost feel Conroy’s sphincter tighten at the thought of all that money coming down on BPD. The captain coughed and opened the back door of the van. “Remember, keep it casual. You’re here to get comfort from an old friend.”
“I don’t feel at all friendly.” Lockhart climbed out and walked down the street to Wintour’s place. “I hope you can hear me,” he said, glancing back as he mounted the steps to the front door. His voice crackled loudly through the speakers, and the officer at the wheel flashed his headlights once in acknowledgment. Lockhart rang the bell, and a few moments later Stephen Wintour appeared to let him in. He did not sound like a man with a terrible secret.
“Martin, good to see you. How are you holding up?”
“It’s hard. Harder still on Teresa.”
“I saw her on TV today, the poor thing. She said she’d been an awful, selfish mother, and I don’t mind telling you, I yelled back at her on the screen that it’s not true. She’s wonderful to Chloe.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
Wintour became harder to hear as they moved into a larger room, someplace with high, echoing ceilings. “The police … no leads at all?” he asked. Their footsteps continued into a room with better acoustics. Reed heard the creak of a leather sofa as Martin took a seat.
“They have nothing so far. It’s hell, the waiting. I feel useless, impotent. I want to go door-to-door searching for her.”
Wintour gave an uneasy laugh. “Well, she’s not here. You can cross this place straight off your list.”
“I keep wondering, you know, where he’s keeping her. The photo doesn’t offer any clues.”
“Someplace private, I guess. Jesus, Martin, I hate to say it, but she could be anywhere by now.”
“Where, do you think?”
“Me? What I think?” Wintour was taken aback.
“Sure. If you were him, where would you go?”
“I don’t know. I guess if I’d planned this, I’d have a room already arranged. Somewhere remote—a cabin, maybe. Or a hidden, soundproof room.”
“Like an escape room.”
“Sure,” Wintour replied, sounding uncomfortable. “Like that.”
There was a moment of silence, and Reed could feel Lockhart thinking. “You have one of those, as I recall,” he said at length.
“It came with the house. Thankfully, I haven’t had cause to use it—knock on wood.” Reed heard three quick raps on a wooden surface. “I damn sure haven’t stored any kids in there.”
Reed met Ellery’s gaze, and she obviously heard the same odd tension in Wintour’s voice. Goose pimples broke out over Reed’s forearms, despite the hot conditions in the back of the van. He shifted closer to the speaker.
“Can I see it?” Lockhart must have detected something off in Wintour’s reply as well. His tone had hardened.
“What, now?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Martin, I realize you must be going out of your mind, but you can’t believe I’ve got Chloe here.”
A pause. “No, no. Of course not. It’s just, with everything, I wonder if maybe I should get one of those rooms myself, you know? For when Chloe comes back. Teresa would appreciate the extra security, I’m sure.”
Everyone in the van held their breath. Dorie cracked her knuckles in the silence.
“Maybe another time,” Wintour said. “When Chloe’s back. I’ll have you all over for dinner and give you the grand tour.”
“Sure, okay.”
“You want anything? Coffee, tea—vodka? I’d be tempted to drink myself blind in your position.”
“You have any of that scotch we drank for Allan’s retirement?”
“Ah, now you’re talking.” The sounds of glasses clinking came over the transmission.
“Stephen, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“Oh?”
“The police are probably going to want to talk to you about Chloe.”
“Of course. Anything I can do to help.” Wintour was trying for breezy, and he almost pulled it off.
“No, I mean we found out Chloe kept a diary. Your name is in it.”
They heard the sound of a glass hitting the table. “My name? Why?”
“She said—I’m sure they’ve got this wrong, but she said you texted her and asked her to send you pictures.”
“No, that can’t be right.” He paused. “I mean, maybe I asked her to send me a picture of a selfie we took together. That could be true.”
“Sure, right.” Lockhart cleared his throat. “Except this wasn’t that kind of picture, if you understand what I’m saying.”
“I think I do. And you’re wrong.”
“Look, I’m not saying anything about it. The police have their suspicions. You know how they can twist things, how they see ulterior motives everywhere. They think the worst of everyone.”
“You’d have to, in that job. But Martin, I never—and I mean never—asked Chloe to do anything inappropriate. I remember now. I once asked her to send me a picture of her from our trip to the Cape last summer. She had that cute one on the rocks, remember?”
“The one in her bathing suit.”
“Yes,” Wintour replied with relief. “You see? Totally aboveboard.”
“Right. I see.” There was another stretch of silence. “I just wanted to ask one thing, though. How did you get her number?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Her cell number. Teresa’s pretty strict about Chloe giving that out.”
“I don’t really recall. I’m sure she must have called me at some point. Maybe one of those times when you asked me to give her a ride? All these questions. Martin … I feel like you suspect me of something here.”
“Hell, my kid is missing. My little girl. I suspect the mailman right now.”
“I understand. You must be going crazy.” They heard a ring tone followed by some rustling. Wintour spoke. “I’m sorry, Martin, but I have to take this call. I’ll just be a few minutes. Help yourself to the scotch.”
Reed heard retreating footsteps and the sound of a door opening and closing. After that, Lockhart rose from wherever he’d been sitting and started walking the room. His footsteps were fast, his breathing erratic. “What’s he doing?” Reed whispered to the others.
They heard him opening and closing drawers and closets. “No, no,” Conroy said. “Nothing out of plain sight. He can’t be going through the house without permission.”
“We should get him out of there,” Reed replied.
“How?” Ellery asked. “Anything we do now tips off Wintour.”
“He’s already been tipped off by Lockhart. He practically told him we’d be coming.”
Through the speaker, Lockhart’s voice crackled on the line. “Chloe? Chloe, are you here, sweetheart?” He was climbing the stairs now, practically running. His harsh breathing filled the van. “Chloe?”
They heard more frantic searching, the sound of doors opening and slamming shut again. “Oh my God.” The stunned horror in Lockhart’s voice made the hair on the back of Reed’s neck stand up. “Oh my God.”
“Martin?”
“What did you do with her?”
“Martin, calm down.”
“I said: What did you do with her? Show me what’s in the room!”
“Put down the gun, Martin. You don’t want to shoot me.”
“I want to see the room!”
Gun. Reed lurched to his feet, nearly slamming his head against the top of the van. “I thought you said he wasn’t armed!”
“He wasn’t!”
“It must be Wintour’s weapon,” Conroy said tersely. “We’re going in.”
He pushed open the back doors, and they all piled out into the street. They ran down the block and up the steps to Wintour’s front door. “It’s locked,” Ellery said, yanking on the handle. The large door was made of thick etched glass with a gold inlaid design at the top. “Back up,” she ordered. The others moved off the steps and she shot through the glass toward the floor. It shattered and she kicked the shards loose with one foot and then reached inside to flip the lock. “Boston Police!” she hollered as she opened the door with her gun drawn. “We’re coming in!”
They entered the front hall just in time to hear an anguished scream and a gunshot from the upper floors. Ellery reached the stairs first, taking them two at a time with the rest of the group fast on her heels. “Martin—Mr. Lockhart? Talk to me. What’s going on?”
She slowed her pace in the hall, her gun still at the ready. Over the rush of the blood in his ears, Reed could hear the sound of weeping from the room at the end of the hallway. The dark wooden door stood partially open. “Mr. Lockhart? Mr. Wintour? It’s Detective Hathaway.” She pressed the flat of her hand on the door and slowly pushed it open. Reed saw her sharp intake of breath. She held up a hand to forestall their entrance into the room. “Mr. Lockhart, I need you to put down the gun.”
“Look at this. Look what he did.”
Reed’s mouth went dry. He didn’t want to look. God, please no.
“I see. Put down the gun, and we’ll talk about it.”
She disappeared from sight, inching slowly toward him. Reed braced himself for the sound of another shot, but it never came. Instead, Ellery called to them a few moments later. “Clear,” she said. “We need EMTs—now.”
“On it,” Dorie replied.
Reed followed Conroy into the room, which appeared to be Wintour’s master suite. It boasted a bed big enough to sleep six, draped in a velvet green covering. Matching damask drapes held back the blazing summer sun, but they allowed enough light through to show the carnage on the floor. Stephen Wintour lay bleeding and unmoving on the floor. His low moaning said he was still alive. Around him lay girls’ panties with cartoon figures on them. “They were in the dresser,” Lockhart said, his voice barely above a whisper. He swayed on his feet, a man clearly destroyed. “And just look there.”
Reed stepped forward to peer into the unlocked escape room. He saw a lifelike doll made to be a girl of perhaps ten years old. Stacks of DVDs with girls’ names on them, as well as a television and DVD player. The worst of it was the wall of pictures—candid shots of girls in short shorts and skirts, bikinis at the beach and halter tops that showed their bellies. He scanned them quickly, searching for Chloe. He did not see her.
Behind him, Wintour gave the tortured moan of a dying animal. Lockhart screamed at him again, a cri de coeur that pierced Reed’s skull with its force. “Where the hell is my daughter?”
Reed heard someone put handcuffs on him. The sirens outside said the ambulance had arrived, and moments later the sound of heavy boots came trooping into the house. Ellery materialized at his side, her anxious gaze on the photos in front of Reed. “Anything?” she whispered.
Reed shook his head. “She isn’t here.”