Authors: J. T. Ellison
SUNDAY
“What would your good do if evil didn’t exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared?”
—Mikhail Bulgakov
“Evil is the bane of the world, sayeth our Lord, the one truth we cannot escape. From the matter given by the stars on the day of our great birth to the dust it becomes as our bones rot in the ground, evil will be eradicated by love of the Mother. Do not fear your dark thoughts, my children. My love ensures that you will not succumb.”
—Curtis Lott
Chapter
48
Capitol
Hill
Near the Longworth Office Building
FLETCHER WOKE TO
the smell of coffee and bacon. Certain he was dreaming, or had simply caught a whiff of brunch from Bullfeathers, a nearby restaurant, he rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Instead he fell off the couch onto the living-room floor with a thud.
It all came rushing back—the very late night, the beer, the horrible revelations. The fruitless search in the files for more information about where Eden was holding the missing girls, his gallant offer of his bed to the young FBI agent, who, to his everlasting shock, had said yes, because she wasn’t about to drive home after three beers.
He glanced down—yes, he was fully clothed. He gathered himself up from the floor and cracked his neck. He wasn’t dreaming. Someone was in his kitchen, cooking.
A feminine voice called out, “Rise and shine.”
He wandered into the kitchen, yawning.
“What, no kiss?” She had on the same clothes from the night before, black pants and red silk top, but was missing the jacket, and her bra.
His eyes must have gotten wide, because Jordan started to laugh. “You really need to lighten up, Detective.”
“You’re in a good mood. Are you like the battery on my iPhone, just plug her in and she charges up in an hour?”
“No, I’m younger than you, and don’t need as much sleep.”
“Ouch.” But he smiled and so did she. Jesus, she was flirting with him. And he was flirting right back.
Head in the game, Fletch.
She was adorable, and smart, and driven in a way he totally respected, and he’d like to get to know her better. But they had a child to find, and he needed to keep that front and center.
He realized something else was becoming front and center, and turned, busying himself in the refrigerator until he was decent again. He laughed at himself. Dirty old man.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Jordan said, setting cutlery and a juice glass on the table.
“To what do I owe the honor?”
“I was starving, and unlike many a bachelor, you actually have food in your fridge. It didn’t seem fair to run out on you after you were kind enough to give up your bed last night. And I might have found something you’ll want to see.”
“What’s that?”
“Eat first. Then we’ll look.”
“Look first, then eat.”
“Oh, you’re no fun.” But she turned the heat off and grabbed a sheaf of papers from the counter next to her.
“We’ve been looking at this all wrong. Matcliff was given a new code name.”
“Saxon to Savage. Right. Why?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Who gave him the new code name?”
“I’m betting it was someone who knew him.”
“Thurber?”
“Explains why he’s been so freaky about all this.”
“So Thurber lied when he said he didn’t know the name Timothy Savage,” Fletcher said.
She went back to the stove, flipped the eggs onto a plate, added the bacon and thrust it at him. “I wouldn’t characterize it as a lie, exactly. A bending of the truth. I think Rob might feel responsible, which is why he’s throwing up roadblocks and being such a jerk about this. It’s out of character. He’s always been a good, levelheaded guy. Of course, I’m newly partnered with him, so I don’t know everything about him. We’re still in the honeymoon phase.”
“He’s an honest sort, though, right?”
“Until an hour ago, I would have said yes. Now I don’t know.”
She scooped eggs and bacon onto her own plate and joined him at the table. “Once the code name shifts, it’s a cat and mouse game. I think they were trying to get him to come in, and he wasn’t willing to take the chance. Before it all shuts down, he gives the location of the cult in 2006, near El Paso, Texas. So we can tie them physically to Emily Harper’s disappearance. It’s enough to get a warrant, assuming we’ve found where they are now.”
“Did he happen to say what they were doing with the girls?”
“No. Nothing new there.”
“Good work, Special Agent.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Fletcher tried to wrap his head around it, knew they were still missing something. Why in the world would the FBI shut down their own channel into the cult? Especially when their agent had presumably gone missing within that same organization—after telling them there were more girls being brought in?
Every time they found an answer, two more questions cropped up.
Fletcher heard a noise, paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Jordan heard it, too. Her eyes met his. They both jumped to their feet and inched to the back door. Fletcher was still wearing his backup gun. He pulled it from his ankle holster and muttered, “You loaded?”
Her Glock was out, already pointed at the noise. “I’m an FBI agent, Detective, not a Girl Scout. Of course I am.”
He resisted the urge to laugh, signaled the count—one, two, three—then threw open the door to his meager little deck.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”
He dropped his weapon. Lisa Schumann,
The Washington Post
reporter he’d blown off a couple of days ago, was hanging over the railing of his deck, preparing to drop down to the alley below.
He grabbed her arm and hauled her back over the edge. She landed in a heap at his feet.
“Ow! Gee, thanks for nothing, Detective. That hurt.”
“Talk. Right now. Or I swear to God I’ll shoot you. What the hell are you doing out here?”
Her chin rose an inch. She had guts; he’d give her that.
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m trying to drum up a lead on the Rachel Stevens case.”
“By spying on me?”
She looked down and didn’t answer.
“Not acceptable. Get the hell out of here. And don’t even think about making a sympathy play. I’m calling your boss, and he’s going to have your head. You’re lucky I’m not taking it to him.”
Jordan’s phone rang. She holstered her Glock and went inside.
“But, Detective—or should I call you Lieutenant now?”
His stomach hitched. “How do you know about that?”
A coy little smile. “I do have sources, despite what you think. And my sources tell me Kaylie Rousch is back from the dead. True?”
“Go away, Lisa.”
“If you won’t give me anything, maybe you’ll listen. Twenty years ago, around the same time Kaylie Rousch disappeared, another little girl went missing. She was the daughter of one of the homeless from down under Whitehurst Freeway. No one ever did anything about it because she was a black girl in an orphanage, and no one cared enough to look for her.”
He shook his head. “You are so off base. If we’d known about it, we would have investigated it. What sort of cops do you think we are?”
“The kind the homeless didn’t trust enough to tell you the truth, I suppose. Her name was Jennifer Harvey. That’s who you dug up when you thought you’d found Kaylie Rousch.”
Fletcher sighed. “Where did you find this?”
“I’ve been working on an enterprise piece about the inequalities in criminal investigations and the media exposure. White Girl Syndrome. I talked to a lot of people down in Anacostia. They all mentioned this little girl who’d disappeared and no one ever did anything about it. Kaylie Rousch disappeared, and every media outlet spent weeks on the coverage. Jennifer Harvey goes missing, and no one even knows her name. It’s a shame.”
“Well, I thank you for the tip, and I’ll certainly follow it up. Now leave.”
“That’s it? Come on, Lieutenant. Don’t you want to know who did it?”
“You think you know who did?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Fletcher gritted his teeth together. Jordan looked out the window, ran two fingers in a circle. Wrap it up, her look said.
“Lisa, you are trying my patience. If you have information on a criminal case, spill it, right now. I won’t give you speculation in return, but I will tell the brass you gave us the lead, and will keep you in the loop on the investigation. Deal?”
She smiled widely. “Deal. Look for a guy named Big Tommy. He ran heroin out of Anacostia. Word is Jennifer was one of his corner runners, and she got caught up in a dispute between him and another dealer. That’s all I’ve got so far.”
It was solid information. He knew all about Big Tommy, a ruthless son of a bitch who’d been in and out of prison for years. He had a sheet a mile long; Fletcher wouldn’t be terribly surprised to see murder added to the list.
“All right. Quid pro quo. Kaylie Rousch is alive, and we are endeavoring to find her right now. There is a BOLO out for her.”
“I know she’s alive, dummy. It’s all over the news. Is it a BOLO, or an arrest warrant? I heard she was armed and dangerous.”
“We just want to talk to her. Last known was Georgetown, 2:30 a.m. She stole some clothes, money and jewelry from—never mind, that’s not relevant. But if a redhead comes into a pawnshop today with a TAG Heuer watch, you let me know.”
She pulled herself up to the railing and said, “Thanks.”
He leveled a finger at her. “Lisa. Hear me well. I ever catch you out here again, and you’re finished. You got me?”
She nodded, then gave him a sly grin. “Your FBI agent friend is smoking hot. You should tap that.”
He slammed the back door a little harder than necessary to drown out her laugh.
Jordan had straightened up all the papers, was putting the dishes into the dishwasher.
“Leave those, I’ll clean up later. You ready to head out?”
“Yes. That reporter, she’s quite resourceful.”
“She’s a gigantic pain in my ass is what she is. Always lurking around trying to drum up a story. I can’t believe she was foolish enough to peep in my windows. We arrest people for that shit.”
He grabbed his cell phone to call the
Post.
“Don’t turn her in,” Jordan said. “She’s just trying to make a living. Use her instead.”
“She’s not someone I trust.”
“She’ll be more help if she’s out there digging things up.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending her. “
She tossed a dish towel onto the counter, put her hands on her hips. “I’m not. But I want every eye out for this little girl, even unscrupulous reporters. Unfortunately there’s no news out of headquarters. Let’s go talk to Rachel’s parents. It’s time we got the whole story on her background, don’t you think?”
Chapter
49
Georgetown
SAM WOKE AT
6:30 a.m., the sun streaming in the window. Xander had never come to bed.
She tiptoed downstairs, saw him asleep on the couch, shirtless, an arm thrown over his head, blocking the sun’s rays. Thor slept next to him, though he raised his head hopefully when he saw her. His people stirring meant food, and a walk.
Sam used a hand signal and he came willingly. She snapped on his leash and started for the door.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
She jumped at Xander’s voice, turned around to see him standing in the foyer behind her, the top button of his jeans open, hair wild and tousled.
“I was going to walk Thor.”
“Negative. Take him out back.”
Crap. Xander had gone operational on her, never a good sign.
She crossed to the back doors and let Thor out into the yard. The pool took up almost all the grassy space, but there was a spot for him. She brought him back inside and locked the door, knowing if she didn’t Xander would instruct her to, anyway.
“Are you hungry?”
He gave her an amused look.
“Right. When are you ever not hungry? Let me put something together and you can tell me what you found.”
“What makes you think I found something?”
“Xander, love, you look like you have a flagpole glued to your back. I suppose telling you to relax would be a moot suggestion?”
“Coffee. Then we’ll talk.”
He went into the kitchen to put together one of his infamous pots of coffee. It made her laugh. For all his attempts to be a laid-back mountain man, he was an absolute coffee snob. Before they’d gotten together, he ran his fly-fishing guide service out of a small coffee shop an hour down the mountain from his cabin. He swore it was one of the few places he could get a decent cup. He claimed it was army life that did it to him; being stationed all over the world, he’d been able to sample some of the best brews out there. She thought it might have been his upbringing, his commune-living parents who’d instilled a love of all things natural in him. Whatever it was, it was a skill and preference she benefitted from. She loved a good cup of coffee.
Minutes later, hot joe in hand, leftover blueberry popovers in front of them, Thor fed and watered, they sat at the kitchen table and he filled her in.
“I found the definitive link between Doug Matcliff and the man named Adrian Zamyatin. They went to high school together at Langley. Adrian’s mother died soon after he was born, and his father worked for a grocery chain as a long-haul trucker. He was rarely home, and Adrian was left to do what he would.
“Doug’s family were polar opposites—both his parents were lawyers. They divorced in 1993, just before Doug started high school.”
“So you’re saying these two weren’t just familiar with each other—they were friends?”
“Good friends. The online photos from their classes at Langley show them to be inseparable.” He took a sip of coffee, broke off a piece of the pastry. He waited while she processed that information.
“How’d you find the photos?”
“Facebook. There are several groups from their high school on there. I faked a profile and joined a few. They’ve done a nice job uploading the old yearbooks to the sites. People like to chat. I asked a few discreet questions, got an earful.”
He had a little smile on his face. There was more, but he wasn’t going to just give it to her.
“It’s early and I’m foggy, hon. What?”
“Guess who handled his parents’ divorce?”
“I have no idea.”
“Think of a lawyer’s name you might have heard in the past couple of days.”
She thought. There was too much leftover Ambien; nothing was clicking for her. “Mac Picker?”
“Bingo.”
She let that wash over her, felt her pulse pick up. “So Benedict, Picker, Green, Thompson handles divorces. What else do they do?”
“Adoption has a legal component.”
She watched him take a self-satisfied swig of his coffee.
“They were the ones handling the adoptions of the babies born in Eden.”
“Yep.”
It all made sense. Before she could say anything else, her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number. It was still obscenely early. This had to be news.
“This is Sam.”
“Dr. Owens, this is Lisa Schumann, from
The Washington Post.
I have a couple of questions about the Stevens kidnapping. Can you—”
“No comment.”
“Dr. Owens, please. Hear me out. I understand Kaylie Rousch came to visit you last night. Don’t you find that odd? Why would a girl who everyone thought was dead show up on your doorstep, very much alive?”
Damn it. One of the cops talked. “No comment. Seriously. You can direct your inquiries to the authorities. Good day, Ms. Schumann.”
She was about to disconnect when the girl yelled, “Wait! I know where Kaylie Rousch is now.”
Sam put the phone back to her ear. “What did you say?”
“I know where Kaylie Rousch is. I’ll tell you if you hear me out.”
“You’ll tell me now, or I’ll have D.C. Metro on your ass before you can blink.”
Schumann had the audacity to laugh. “I can take care of myself. I have more friends at Metro than you do. Is it true, then? Did Kaylie Rousch resurrect and show up on your doorstep?”
Sam shook her head. No, she wasn’t going to fall for this. “I’m sorry, Ms. Schumann. No comment.”
She hung up the phone, and immediately called Fletcher.
He answered on the first ring, sounding slightly more awake than she felt at the moment.
“What’s shaking? Any news?”
“A reporter from
The Washington Post
just called me, told me she knows where Kaylie Rousch is and wanted a quote about Rachel.”
She heard him cursing a blue streak, then a female voice in the background.
He had company. And it wasn’t Andrea Bianco.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Sam said.
She hated herself for the chilliness of her tone. It wasn’t fair, and it didn’t matter. He was her friend, nothing more. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice.
“You’re not interrupting. Jordan and I spent the whole night going through the signal intelligence from Matcliff.”
She felt like an idiot. Jordan Blake. So he’d been working.
Get a grip, Sam.
Fletcher yawned. “Sorry. This case is going to kill me. So where is Kaylie Rousch, according to Ms. Schumann? Who’s a pain in my ass, by the way. That girl is a climber. We need to be careful around her.”
“So I gathered. I said no comment and hung up on her.”
“Good girl. She’s just fishing. Glad you didn’t take the bait. She almost got her head shot off here a minute ago, sneaking around my backyard. Caught her looking in my windows, nearly booted her ass, bullet included, clear to the Potomac.”
“What if she knows something?”
His voice hardened. “If she does, and she’s trying to protect her story, she’ll regret it. I’ll call her, tell her to stop bugging you. Listen, we went through about a million pieces of paper last night, and came up with a few things.”
He filled her in. She told him their suspicions about Mac Picker. They both sat in silence, processing their individual information.
“I think we can agree Doug Matcliff wasn’t an innocent in all of this,” Sam finally said. “He knew exactly what was happening with Eden. Chances are, he set them up with Picker early on. He knew the name, knew the work they did. He’s complicit in this up to his eyeballs, and that law firm needs to be taken down. My question is, why now? He’s been on the run, hiding from the cult and from the FBI, for ten years. Why blow his cover now?”
“Maybe Matcliff had enough, and was trying to do the right thing.”
“Maybe. But I don’t know, Fletcher. He may have started as the go-between, moving the babies out and delivering them to Lynchburg, assuming we can confirm that the adoption paperwork came out of Picker’s firm. But at some point, Kaylie’s well-being became more important to him, and he took her from the cult and went off-grid. These are the actions of a man in love, don’t you think?”
“Go on.”
She played with her empty coffee cup. “He was in love with Kaylie, and would do anything to keep her safe. Then ten years later, out of the blue, he suddenly puts together a will, then winds up dead. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I agree, it doesn’t. But we know he was a duplicitous bastard. From what we gathered, going through this intelligence, his check-ins were intended to mislead the FBI into looking in all the wrong places for Eden.”
“He certainly managed to make Kaylie believe he’d been cut loose by the FBI, that they were on their own. Isolating her, making her all the more dependent on him.”
“Classic abuse scenario.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Another thought struck her. “Fletch, remember what Davidson said Arthur Scarron did? He was some sort of doctor before he began to run his family’s oil company. Davidson said he thought it was plastic surgery or O.B. Regardless of his specialty, he’s certainly trained in obstetrics. We all have the basic knowledge of each field. Perhaps he was involved here, too. Any chance Ellie Scarron is awake?”
“Not that I’ve heard, but you’re right. It’s time to go dig deeper into the names on that will.”
“What about Rachel Stevens? Any word on her?”
“Jordan’s people are looking for the spot Kaylie pointed out on the map, and the minute they find something, I’ll let you know. We’re headed to the Stevens’s now to find out if Rachel is really their kid. If she’s not, I’ll find out who handled the adoption. You’re going to Anne Carter’s place?”
“Yes. Baldwin should be here shortly.”
“Then I suggest you grill the crap out of the woman, get her to share all her dirty little secrets.”