Boneyard (10 page)

“The Mann Act kicks in, and this becomes a federal case. I was thinking the same thing. The hate-crime statute might turn out to be relevant, too,” Kelly said, finishing his thought for him. The Mann Act made it illegal to cross state lines to engage in prostitution. If they could prove any of these boys had picked up a john in Massachusetts, then serviced him in Vermont, Kelly could claim jurisdiction. Or if evidence appeared that the boys were being targeted simply for being gay, that would count as a violation of the hate-crime statute. Both were tough to prove, but if she managed to gather enough pertinent evidence, she could relinquish her advisory status and assume full control of the case. Even though that would grant her more power over Doyle, it also meant she’d be staying here for a while. She felt as though she could see the shores of her vacation getaway drifting farther away by the minute.

“Probably not your favorite option, but at least then we could process everything in our lab.” McLarty heaved a sigh that Kelly swore shook the phone. “If it does go federal, just let me know what you need and I’ll make sure you get it.”

“Thanks, sir. I appreciate that.”

“Oh, and, Jones? Try not to let the other task force members get to you.”

“Thanks sir. I’ll try.” There was a heavy silence on the other end of the line. Kelly could picture McLarty sitting with his forehead scrunched up, debating whether or not to tell her something. “What’s up, sir?” she asked, concerned.

He hesitated before replying. “Don’t take this personally, Jones, but I know people skills aren’t your strong suit. You’re a great agent, but maybe you should relax a little bit, try some humor to put them at ease.”

“Some humor?” Kelly asked dubiously, trying to picture Doyle’s reaction to her telling a joke. Her cheeks smarted with indignation.

McLarty spoke in a rush. “Sure. Listen, an Irish cousin told me a great one the other day. Late one night a Dublin cop pulls over a guy driving erratically and asks if he’s been drinking. The guy says, ‘Aye, so I have. ’Tis Friday, you know, so me and the lads stopped by the pub where I had six or seven pints. Then I had to drive me friend Mike home and o’ course I had to go in for a couple of Guinness—couldn’t be rude, ye know. Then I stopped on the way home to get another bottle for later…’ The guy fumbles around in his coat, then holds up a bottle of Bushmills. So the cop sighs and says, ‘Sir, I need you to step out of the car and take a breathalyzer test.’ And the guy gets indignant and asks, ‘Why? Don’t ye believe me?’”

Kelly sat in stony silence. After a minute McLarty coughed awkwardly, then said, “Listen, Jones, I didn’t mean anything personal by that. It was just a suggestion, you know.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll take it under advisement.” She took a few deep breaths after hanging up, then pushed back from the desk and headed to the water cooler. She couldn’t believe that McLarty had automatically assumed the problems with her team were a direct result of her people skills. Sure, she wasn’t someone who went out for drinks with co-workers, or cracked jokes, but she’d always gotten along fine with her partners. Morrow, the one who was killed last year, seemed to even really like her. She tilted a Dixie cup under the pump, filled it and drank deeply. After draining it she refilled it. Problem was, she mused, that no matter where she went in the Bureau, she always seemed to run into a boys’ club. She’d thought the BSU under McLarty was different, but this conversation served as a reminder that even though he acknowledged her capabilities, the gender gap persisted. As she headed back into the command center, she wondered yet again if staying with the Bureau had been the right decision.

“Captain stopped me today,” Kaplan said. “Asked me about your task force.”

“Yeah? What’d you tell him?” Doyle squinted at Kaplan. They were sitting in front of a hamburger joint that was popular with the force. Four patrol cars were parked in the lot, and blue uniforms sat scattered among the Formica tables sunken into the patio.

Kaplan shrugged and took another bite of burger. Ketchup dribbled down his chin. His mouth full, he said, “Told him you were cooperating, but you said the FBI chick was a waste of space.”

“Keep your voice down.” Doyle’s eyes darted around the lot, but no one was paying any attention. A few radios bleated in the background. “What’d he say?”

“He laughed. You know him, he doesn’t think skirts should be allowed to own guns.” Kaplan shrugged, focused on the oozing handful. “Damn, I love these burgers. Don’t tell my wife we came here, my cholesterol is through the roof.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Doyle said drily. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Wonder why he’s talking to you. I just reported to him yesterday.”

“Dunno. Figured maybe he got some heat from the Feds, wanted to make sure everything was okay. You still sitting on those lab reports?”

Doyle nodded in response. The DNA results for the other victims had been processed a few days ago, but he’d held off on submitting them to the rest of the task force.

“I’d hand it over soon, if I were you. Captain catches you stalling, he’s going to start asking questions. Besides, the labs don’t prove anything, right?”

“Doesn’t matter what they prove, they could give her control of the case.” Doyle pushed away his food.

“You gonna finish that?” Kaplan asked eagerly. When Doyle shook his head, he pulled the wrapper toward him. “So what?”

“So if she gets jurisdiction, she can start digging deeper. She’ll be able to use her own lab, and things won’t take as long. Then she might start making connections that none of us want her to make,” Doyle said meaningfully, keeping his voice down.

“So keep doing what you gotta do.” Kaplan shrugged. His eyes narrowed as two men walked past, hand in hand. “Buncha fags,” he said, loud enough for them to hear. They glanced over, saw the uniform and hurried to their car.

Doyle watched Kaplan shove a stack of fries in his mouth. Morons like him were too stupid to see the bigger picture, to see the boulder waiting at the top of the mountain, ready to sweep down and crush them all. Doyle knew better, knew exactly what was coming. And the closer it got, the clearer it was that only a miracle would help him avoid it.

His wife sat next to him on the couch, legs folded beneath her. He let his eyes wander over her clinically. She was doing a nice job of concealing the gray infiltrating her hair, after his comment last week she’d immediately gone to the salon to address the problem. Botox treatments had eased the fine lines on her brow and around her eyes, and regular Pilates sessions in combination with a tummy tuck had erased any sign of her pregnancies. She had wanted to wait, suggested they try for another one, perhaps a boy this time, but he had mandated the tubal ligation. Funny, she had such difficulty believing that he had no interest in a son, poor thing assumed that was all any man wanted. He repressed a shudder at the thought of a filthy little boy in their midst. He wouldn’t have permitted it, if either of the amnios had indicated a male he would have insisted on aborting. No, he loved his perfect little girls. Boys were nothing but trouble.

They were watching the news on television. The lead story continued to deal with the boneyard found in Clarksburg State Park. The station had run out of new footage and was simply panning through earlier recordings: police ducking under yellow crime-scene tape; emergency vehicles stacked along the sides of the road five deep; that redheaded FBI agent holding up a hand to block the cameras as she marched past. His grip reflexively tightened on his beer bottle at the sight of a gurney being rolled toward a waiting van. How dare they, he thought to himself, rage flushing his cheeks. Those bodies belonged to him and no one else.

“Feeling okay, dear?” his wife asked with concern, pressing a cool hand to his face.

“Think I got a little sunburned out there today,” he grumbled, before shaking off her hand and sipping his beer.

“It’s all my fault, letting you run out of sunblock,” she said, brow furrowing. “If you’d like I could go to the store right now, make sure you have some for tomorrow?”

He glanced at the clock, then replied reprovingly, “That wouldn’t leave you much time to get dinner on the table by six-thirty, would it? No, it’d be better if you went first thing tomorrow.”

“You’re right,” she agreed. Her eyes shifted back to the television and she shook her head. “I just can’t believe this is happening here. Those poor families.”

He considered responding, but thought better of it and watched along in silence. The picture switched over to a blond reporter conducting man in the street interviews. She was talking to an obese guy leaning against a minivan piled high with bags. He nodded along to her questions: yes, he was scared, had packed his family up early. “Won’t let my kids outside by themselves anymore,” he said. “Not until they catch this weirdo.”

“That’s so sad,” his wife said. “What do you think, dear? Maybe we should keep a closer eye on the girls?”

He looked at his watch. “I thought you said the chicken would take twenty minutes to cook.”

She jumped off the couch. “You’re right, I’m getting sidetracked. I’ll go put it in the oven.”

He reached over and grabbed the remote, listening to her footsteps retreat toward the kitchen. The blonde was talking to a hiker now, grubby from weeks on the trail. The hiker shook his head. “Nah, I’m not worried. Those bodies were hella old, man. I doubt whoever did it is still around.”

He clicked off the television and stared into space for a minute, reviewing his most recent conquest. He’d been extra careful, had buried him deep, far off any trail and miles from here. Still, it had been a risk, taking another one. At this point it was probably best to wait until next year—by then things should have settled down. And he had his tokens to comfort him through the long winter ahead.

“So, what’d you think?” Monica asked, looping her arm through his.

Howard Stuart shrugged. “Completely implausible. I’ll never understand why they don’t even make an attempt to get their facts straight.”

Monica chortled. “Howie, it was a film about aliens. How exactly were they supposed to get their facts straight?”

“The laws of physics would still apply. I can’t believe people are willing to spend ten dollars to sit through such drivel.”

“Well, I liked it,” Monica said.

They walked the rest of the way to the car in silence. Monica’s arm now felt awkward draped through his, but disentangling it might send the wrong message. It was a relief when they arrived at the passenger-side door and separated. She waited as he opened the door for her, then slid inside.

As he started the engine Monica searched her mind for something to say. Lately she’d been censoring herself before speaking, trying to tone down her persona. She hated herself for it, but she’d seen the look in his eyes sometimes after she’d opened her mouth. What was she always telling her son? People gotta love you for who you are. Well, she thought ruefully, that applied less as you got older. Truth of the matter was, a forty-year-old woman didn’t get a lot of love either way, especially when she lived in a small town. And after a long series of failed relationships, she wasn’t in the mood to give up on this one when it was still so new.

She examined Howie’s face as he drove, hands positioned precisely at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel, odometer nailed to the speed limit. His nose was a little beakish, brown eyes magnified by his glasses, thin lips. Not bad looking, though, and he had that luscious thick brown hair. A few times she’d reached over to tuck it back for him, and was secretly delighted when it immediately flopped down. It was, quite frankly, the only thing about him that was unplanned and unruly. When it came down to it, Howie really wasn’t her type. She’d always gone for burly guys like Zach’s dad, oil riggers, loggers, men who worked with their hands. She’d figured Howie would be a welcome change, that maybe that had been her mistake all along, falling for the wrong kind of guy. Unfortunately, by their third date they’d more or less run out of things to talk about, which was why she’d suggested they go see a movie.

“What do you want to do tomorrow night?” he asked, breaking the stillness.

Monica felt a rush of joy. He wanted to see her again. “I hear they’re showing 2001 in the park. Figured we could go and you could explain how none of that actually happened.”

He laughed, and Monica grinned in the darkness. She loved his laugh, it didn’t appear often but when it did it was a hearty belly laugh, warm and full. “Tell you what. Next time I’ll choose the film.”

“Sure.” Monica whacked his arm playfully. “But we gotta have some ground rules. Nothing with subtitles—I’m not going to the movies to read, for God’s sake. And no documentaries, unless they’re about polar bears.”

“Polar bears?” He arched an eyebrow, glancing at her across the car interior.

“Sure, I just love those darn things.” She continued chattering, her doubts about their relationship once again overwhelmed by her enthusiasm. Sure, they faced some obstacles, not the least of which was the long-distance thing once the case was over. But Zach was heading off to college soon anyway, and then she’d be free to move anywhere she wanted. And opposites attracted, right? As she watched Howie push the lock of hair from his eyes before setting his hand back into position on the steering wheel, the trace of a smile still on his face, she glowed. Even if it didn’t work out, a little late-summer romance was just what she’d needed.

Nine

“Where are we on the interviews?” Kelly asked.

Monica shuffled through the papers in front of her. “Let’s see—I’ve spoken to parole officers on my side of the state line, everyone with a taste for young boys has been accounted for, no one’s gone off the grid, everyone’s been checking in nice as you please.” She glanced up. “Would help if we knew exactly when Randy Jacobs disappeared, though. Nothing to keep one of ’em from killing when he wasn’t sitting across from his parole officer.”

“I know. Unfortunately, Dr. Stuart hasn’t been able to pinpoint the time of death any more exactly. Doyle, I don’t suppose you’ve had any more luck?”