Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(94)

He turned to Miranda again. “Tell us about Miles Davenport.”

Miranda slid a pin drive into her console, and shared the file with them. “He grew up in Endicott Falls. His parents still live—”

“Send someone up there right away.”

“Already done, sir. Expert in computer engineering and acoustic physics. He specializes in writing algorithms that filter sound. His tax returns indicate that this work pays very well. He’s been associated with Alex Aaro’s security consultancy lately, though he hasn’t worked with him since before the Spruce Ridge incident. He also freelances with other security firms, principally SafeGuard, a company run by the McCloud brothers. Davy, Connor and Sean.”

Anabel’s burning eyes couldn’t focus on the mass of documents that Miranda had dug up that scrolled rapidly on her screen, but her gaze snagged on a photo of a dark-haired, laughing girl, scantily clad, with Miles Davenport’s arm around her shoulders. He was grinning, looking happy. The girl was pretty, but she looked like a barfly.

He was a good-looking son of a bitch, in his own craggy, hawkish way. Well endowed, too. She’d checked at Spruce Ridge. Impressive.

She tuned back into Miranda’s droning litany. “. . . sound engineer, too, for a number of blues and rock bands since his college days, and he’s been romantically involved for several years with this woman, the one in the red halter dress. Cynthia Riggs, a musician. She, however, has been linked with several different men in the past several years. She’s the sister-in-law of Connor McCloud, one of the owners of SafeGuard. Davenport lived with Riggs for several years in an apartment on Capitol Hill, but he moved out over a year ago. Interestingly enough, sir, when I cross-referenced the McClouds’ names with the emergency room admissions in a three-hundred-mile radius, Davy McCloud’s name popped up in Salem. He was admitted to the hospital just a few hours ago. An aneurism, it would seem. They’re prepping him for emergency surgery as we speak. Here are pictures of the McClouds, Aaro, his girlfriend Nina Christie, also at Spruce Ridge, and she—”

“I met Ms. Christie personally that night, Miranda.”

“Ah. Yes, of course, sir. The name Val Janos also came up, in relation to the McClouds. He is the owner of the van we found parked in the woods. This is him, and his wife, Tam Steele, and their daughters.”

They watched the photo gallery slide by. The McClouds, their families, their associates, Christie, Aaro. Greaves nodded, smiling.

“Excellent,” he said. “Good work, Miranda.”

Miranda preened like a cat being petted. “I also found that Davenport owns a piece of property up in the Cascades. Sixty acres and a derelict shack. Here it is, on a satellite map.”

Greaves’ eyes went speculative. He began to rub his chin. They waited, silently, well trained. Letting him finish his thought.

He turned to Anabel. “Levine and Rickman, you will go to Salem. We must start a dialogue with Kirk and Davenport, and the McCloud family at the hospital will be our contact point. You must get close enough to read them, and everyone who associates with them.”

“And our plans for Phase Three?” Silva asked. “The ceremony in Blaine—”

“Continues as planned,” he assured Silva. “We will inaugurate the community center day after tomorrow, and bestow their real gift in secret on that same day. Have all of you seen Maura for your vaccines?”

Everyone nodded.

“Good. As for Davenport . . . this cabin gives me an idea,” he said. “This man is a formidable opponent, and needs to be taken very seriously. I want a pre-emptive strike, to discredit any attempt Davenport might make to accuse me, particularly now, right on the eve of our last testing phase. I want his reputation destroyed and his life smashed before he has a chance to come up for air. I was thinking of having him fingered for Matilda Bennett, but now I have a better idea. More juicy, more shocking, with the added advantage of accounting for Lara Kirk’s long disappearance. Send a team to this cabin. I’m thinking, shackles bolted into the wall, a box of packaged food, a mattress on the floor, some bottles of water, scattered garbage, a chemical toilet. We have all the genetic material from her cell that we need, I trust. Hairs from her comb, bedding from the cell. Objects that she’s touched. Do you have samples of her blood? Be creative.”

“Oh, sir!” Miranda’s eyes batted, sucking up without shame. “That’s brilliant! I took the sheet from the house where they stayed, so we can use that! They very definitely had sex on it.”

Greaves frowned. “Poor girl. Putting her right to work for her keep, I see. Fragile as she is. It’s a disgrace.”

“Yes, of course,” Miranda backpedaled hastily. “Terrible.”

“Davenport has been out of circulation for several months. He’s been depressed, injured and brain damaged, and that supports our story,” he mused. “Take the bodies of the men he killed this afternoon, and bury them behind his cabin. Keep them in the body bags, so the police can find his prints on the duct tape he bound them with. We can say that these were men I hired to look for Lara Kirk myself. I am such an admiring patron of her artwork, I decided to help in the search. My men found her at this cabin, and contacted me. After which I never heard from them again. What do you think?” He looked around, bright eyed. “Does it hold water? Is it good?”