The Betrayed

  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.

  When he got there, he parked and walked past gravestones and monuments, cherubs and angels, until he reached the yellow crime scene tape that still marked off the tomb. The place where they’d discovered Richard’s body—and that of the unknown woman.

  An autumn breeze moved through the trees. The day wasn’t blue and wasn’t gray, but somewhere in between. He stood there, staring at the tape, at the flattened grass where police, the medical examiner and a dozen crime scene techs had walked. He was certain they’d found all that could be found.

  “Lizzie grave?” he asked aloud.

  His voice was carried softly on the breeze. But if he’d hoped for an answer, he didn’t get one.

  He shook his head. “Richard, you old bastard! You haunted my dreams, and now...”

  Now what?

  He’d denied a thousand times over that he saw or heard anyone who wasn’t there, wasn’t alive. He often told himself that something in his mind had led him to find victims. It wasn’t images he saw moving before him. Or voices he heard from the shadows. He’d been uncomfortable with his transfer to the Krewe of Hunters, afraid that it revealed and made all too evident a truth he’d rather deny. But he loved his job too much to turn it down. He didn’t want to get stuck behind a desk for the next thirty years.

  And now...

  He remembered the day before. Remembered it almost as if he were seeing it again.

  Maureen Deauville, running after the giant wolfhound...literally falling into his arms as they discovered the body. Uncanny. He remembered the pretty brunette with crystal gray-green eyes staring up into his. He remembered feeling that the moment was charged, that she had an elusive quality that had instantly seemed compelling. Yes, she was very attractive, well-spoken, and she had a certain grim courage about her, a strength that drew him. But then, later, as he’d seen her, as he’d befriended the dog, he’d known.

  There was something else about her, too. It wasn’t just the dog; it was her.

  He curled his fingers into his palms until the nails cut his flesh.

  One great thing about his position now was that he could call a tech at the office and get anything he needed, ASAP. In less than a minute, he had her address.

  He checked his watch as he walked down the hill to his car. There was still time before his meeting. Driving to her home, he passed the road to Sunnyside, Washington Irving’s beloved home in the valley, and soon came to another small, barely paved road. He took it toward the river and saw a charming cottage, smaller than Sunnyside and architecturally different. It had two floors with several gables but was also graced with stonework and detailed molding.

  He heard a trickling brook as he stepped out of his car and saw that the land sloped toward a forest. To his left, he could see the river. As he paused, he thought that the air itself felt electric, shivering with a strange sense of expectation.

  He heard Rollo barking as he neared the door. Just 8:30 a.m. now. She might still be asleep.

  No matter.

  He knocked on the door.

  It seemed she wasn’t much of a sleeper, either. She opened the door, apparently aware that it was him. She was already dressed for the day in jeans and a soft blue sweater. She looked at him with a frown, not alarmed that he was there, but surprised and wary.

  “Agent Mahoney.”

  “I need you to come with me,” he said.

  She flinched. “Is someone else missing?”

  “No. I need you to...to see whatever the hell it is you see.”

  Some expression he couldn’t readily identify passed over her face. Her eyes didn’t meet his. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I don’t. If you think I can help in any way, I’ll come with you. But I don’t know what you’re expecting and I don’t know
what you think I can do.”

  “Yeah?” He was surprised by the hostility in his own voice. Great way to get someone to do what he wanted. “All right, fine. Just come.”

  She seemed to dislike the very sight of him. For a moment, he thought she’d refuse. The word please formed in his mind but didn’t make it to his lips.

  “Rollo’s coming, too,” she said flatly.

  “That’s fine. I like the dog.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

  Neither of them said anything else, but the inference was there.

  Yeah, he liked the dog—not her.

  It was irrelevant; they didn’t have to like each other.

  “Let me get his leash,” she said.

  She stepped back inside. The door closed, and he wasn’t asked in.

  For a moment he wondered if she’d locked him out and was calling her friend Lieutenant Purbeck to tell him the FBI man was crazy and that he was harassing her.

  But the door opened again. She appeared with Rollo, who wagged his massive tail madly and nudged Aidan for attention. Aidan gave it to him briefly.

  “Thank you,” he said formally.

  She didn’t respond but strode to his car, letting Rollo hop into the backseat.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The cemetery.”

  She didn’t ask why but remained silent as they drove. He was keenly aware of her beside him. Her head was high, the angle emphasizing the fine lines of her features. He inhaled her scent and for some reason, the fact that she was beautiful and poised and possessing such a demeanor of strength began to irritate him.

  When they reached the site and parked, she led the way up the hill, weaving through the stones and memorials with the dog and coming to a halt before the tomb.

  She turned to look at him. “Why are we here?”

  He answered her question with another. “Why did you come here yesterday?” he asked.

  “You saw. Rollo was on the scent!”

  “Yes, I saw. But how did you get to the head? Richard’s head,” he added, as if there was any risk she might misunderstand.

  She flushed. “I’m...not sure,” she said.

  “I think you are.”

  “Really? And what are you? Psychic?”

  “No. I don’t read minds, and neither do you. But you have...something.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Tarrytown, Irving, Sleepy Hollow—there’s a fair amount of territory. Miles of woods, streams, water and, hell, there’s a damned big river. But you immediately homed in on the right area. You found a head. Kind of like finding a needle in a haystack.”

  “Someone would have found it soon enough.”

  “Yes, but someone didn’t have to. Because you did.”

  She waved one hand airily.

  “You see the dead,” he told her.

  “Yes, we saw the dead!” she snapped. “Two heads—and two bodies!”

  He struggled to keep his distance from her. He wanted to grasp her shoulders at that moment and shake her.

  He wouldn’t, of course. He still had that much control.

  He almost smiled; if he made a move toward her, the wolfhound, friendly to him or not, would be on him in a flash, ready to tear him to pieces.

  She inhaled deeply, then released her breath. He didn’t have to say more, and he wondered what he must have looked like, standing there, because she suddenly gave up.

  “There’s nothing here,” she said softly. “No one.”

  “You can’t see him, feel him?” he whispered.

  She shook her head. Her response seemed odd to him, though. “I don’t know why you think that...that a dead man would hang around in the cemetery where his body was dumped. I mean, if such things were real—as in revenants, ghosts, what have you—they’d be here for a reason. And how productive would it be to hang around here?”

  He glanced at his watch yet again. Maybe this had been a foolish idea. He had to be at the task force meeting.

  “I’ll take you home,” he told her. Then he managed a stiff, “Thank you for obliging my whim.”

  She nodded. “Rollo always enjoys an excursion,” she said.

  He was quiet as he drove. When they reached the cottage he stepped out of the car to open the door for her, but she’d exited the passenger side before he could come around.

  He let Rollo out.

  “You might want to go inside while I’m still here,” he said.

  “It’s daylight. I have to be able to walk into and out of my own house in broad daylight.” She gestured around her. “And if anyone was here, Rollo would tell me.”

  “Yeah. Well, be careful.”

  “Of course.” She started to walk toward her front door but paused, turning back. He still stood by the car, watching her.

  “If you think I have something,” she told him, “it has to be because you have something.”

  “If I ever did, it’s long gone,” he said.

  “You just want it to be gone. But that doesn’t make any difference. It’s not something you get rid of. Because you can’t get rid of what you are—tall, short, dark, light, hearing, deaf, sighted or blind—and you can’t get rid of this. All you can do is lie to yourself. Deny it all—and mess yourself up pretty good.”

  She met his eyes, but obviously wasn’t expecting an answer. Then she went into her house with Rollo and closed and locked the door.

  * * *

  Mo leaned against the door, shaking. It took her a minute to catch her breath and calm her heart.

  She wasn’t sure why she’d gotten so angry. Yes, she was. Aidan Mahoney was a jerk who was dishonest with himself and others, trying to protect himself from a reality he feared.

  Most of the world didn’t see the dead—the majority of the world didn’t see them. To all those people, that meant they weren’t there and if they were there, it was imagination. Or fantasy. Or, worse, lunacy.

  Apparently, he didn’t remember that once upon a time the so-called sane world believed the Earth was flat.

  Rollo barked at her and wagged his tail expectantly.

  “Sorry, boy! Want a treat? My dog food and dog treat bill is probably as high as someone else’s rent!”

  She headed to the kitchen and the large ceramic container that held Rollo’s extra-large dog biscuits. She loved the sound of his toenails clattering on the hardwood floors as he trotted behind her.

  “You know what, Rollo?” she said. “Men! Why do they only seem to come in three forms? Known-you-forever-and-I-love-you-like-a-brother. Total jerk-off slime. Or to-die-for-but-what-an-ass? Huh, Rollo? Dogs aren’t like that, are they? Nah. Although I hate to admit it, kid, but you guys is where that expression came from—you dog, you!”

  Rollo just wagged his tail.

  “Really, I must beg your pardon.”

  Mo raised her eyes to the kitchen door. Colonel Daniel Parker stood there, handsome and casual in his field uniform.

  I should have said that they came in four different types, Mo thought. The first three and totally-charming-but-taken-and-dead.

  “Sorry, Daniel. The world’s changed a lot since you had to deal with things,” Mo said.

  Candy swept in behind him, setting her spectral arms around his shoulders and peeking around him to speak with Mo. “It’s changed in a lot of good ways! When Daniel and I fell in love, we would’ve been ostracized if we left this house. Slavery, remember? I was a runaway slave. But Daniel loved me, anyway. He was ahead of the rest of the world.”

  Mo nodded and poured herself more coffee. “True, but there are still people out there who are—” She paused, trying to think of the right word. In greeting cards, the writing had to be brief, succinct, effective. She knew there was a bette
r word for what she was trying to say.

  She couldn’t think of it.

  “Jerks!” she exploded.

  “Eloquent,” Candy said to Daniel.

  “Oh, very,” Daniel agreed.

  “I mean, thank God, yes, we have laws that protect people now, and our constitution declares that we are all equal, regardless of color, religion, et cetera. But people are still jerks!”

  Candy smiled. “And now you believe the ‘sane’ world discriminates against those with a sixth sense?”

  “No. Yes. I—”

  “But you accept it—and you hide it,” Daniel said softly.

  “Yes. Which is what people with a sixth sense do.” It was information that could only be shared with a select few. And it wasn’t as if you could grab your cell phone and call the dead. Some knew why they stayed behind. Some weren’t really sure.

  “He’s so...intense,” Mo said. “I’ve been with cops at murder scenes before—although I admit this has been the worst. When I was living in the city, it wasn’t that they were jaded or cold or didn’t care, but they dealt with murder quite often and they weren’t so involved. I don’t mean they were cold or that they weren’t a hundred percent dedicated to solving the crime. But I’ve seen them talk about their lives, ask about each other’s kids, make off-duty plans. With this guy, it’s...different.”

  “Maybe he was a fervent believer in the dead man, in Richard,” Daniel said. “I felt that way about the general—Robert E. Lee. He was a man of principle. He felt as if he bled himself, watching men die. I didn’t know him personally, but I would’ve followed him to hell and back.”

  “Or maybe he knew Mr. Highsmith personally,” Candy suggested.

  Mo nodded. “He did.”

  “And maybe he had a bad experience somewhere along the line,” Daniel said. He hesitated, drawing Candy close. “I’ve seen people who I’m sure have seen me—and I’ve seen them panic and run away as if they were being chased by fire.”