Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(15)

They’d reached the front door. Dr. Keynes held it open, a touch of chivalry that was hardly necessary at a crime scene.

“I enjoy my work. And I’m fortunate to be at a place in my life where I can afford to do what I love.”

“I’m beginning to see what you and my person of interest have in common. Both of you do an excellent job of never actually answering my questions.” The front door of the Goulding house opened to a modest foyer, with the staircase straight ahead. Given that the room’s wooden trim and staircase railing were currently being dusted for prints by a pair of crime scene techs, D.D. took a left turn away from the chaos. She and the good doctor arrived in a front sitting room that boasted a love seat, a coffee table piled with craft magazines, and a basket filled with balls of yarn. Someone, most likely Mrs. Goulding, must be into knitting. There was something about that small detail that pained D.D. How did you go from being a woman known for your hand-knit scarves to being the mother of an alleged rapist?

D.D. came to a halt in front of the coffee table. It felt too intrusive to sit, so she remained standing, Dr. Keynes doing the same. The small room was much warmer than outside, the air stuffy. Dr. Keynes unbuttoned his coat, loosened his scarf. Underneath, he wore a dark suit. Standard government issue, she thought, except once again, the cut and fabric were much nicer than anything worn by the average agent.

“Dr. Keynes,” she began, then paused a beat to see if he’d offer his first name. He didn’t.

“I haven’t worked with too many victim advocates,” D.D. continued at last. “But my memory is that in the FBI, you’re not the same as an agent. Your role is . . . ?”

“I’m a victim specialist. I report to the OVA: Office for Victim Assistance.”

“And you’re a doctor.”

“Psychologist.”

“Specialty?”

“Trauma. I work mostly with victims of kidnapping cases, everything from child abductions to the oil executive kidnapped for ransom in Nigeria.”

D.D. studied him. “I don’t think . . . Flora? . . . is an oil executive.”

“Florence Dane,” he supplied, then gazed at her expectantly.

The name rang a bell. Judging from the look on his face, it should. Plus, Neil’s comment from earlier, that he knew the woman’s face from somewhere . . .

D.D. finally got it. “Seven years ago. She was a college student. UMass. Went on spring break to Palm Beach and disappeared. The FBI handled the investigation . . .” She had to think. “Because of postcards, right? The mom started receiving postcards, allegedly written by her daughter, but all from different states. The mom went on TV, held several press conferences trying to get the kidnapper to engage.”

“There were more than postcards. He sent e-mails, even a few videos. Reaching out to the mother, tormenting her, appeared to be as gratifying to him as the abduction itself.”

D.D. frowned. “Florence Dane was gone a long time.”

“Four hundred and seventy-two days.”

“Jesus.” Despite herself, D.D. blinked. Very few victims were found alive after that length of time. And the ones who did . . . “Long-haul trucker?” she asked now. “The perpetrator traveled for his job, trucking, something like that?”

“Yes. Jacob Ness. He’d built a box in the back of his cab so he could keep his victim with him at all times. Most likely, Flora wasn’t his first.”

“He’s dead; that’s my memory. You guys got some kind of tip. SWAT descended. Florence made it. Jacob Ness didn’t.”

Dr. Keynes didn’t say anything. Very feebie of him, D.D. thought. She hadn’t asked, so he hadn’t answered.

“All right,” she stated more briskly. “My suspect, Flora, is your victim, Florence. Once, she was abducted by a crazed psychopath, and now . . . what? She tracks them down at bars?”

“Only Flora can answer that question.”

“And yet she didn’t. So far, all I can get out of her are theories on Devon Goulding’s crimes, not her own.”

“That’s the bartender? The one who allegedly attacked her?”

“That’s the victim,” D.D. corrected. “The once healthy male now reduced to crispy carnage in his own garage due to your girl’s knowledge of chemical fire.”

Dr. Keynes studied her, posture relaxed, hands in the pockets of his ridiculously expensive coat. “I’m sure you’ve made some inquiries.”

“Couple of detectives reviewed the bar’s security footage. They were able to corroborate that Devon Goulding worked last night. According to the video footage as well as eyewitness accounts, Flora was also present, though she spent most of the night dancing with another guy, Mark Zeilan. Interestingly enough, Mr. Zeilan filed a police report shortly after three A.M., alleging that a bartender from Tonic physically assaulted him outside the establishment.”

“Also consistent with Flora’s statement,” Dr. Keynes observed.

“A video camera from an ATM machine a block away captures what appears to be Devon leading Flora away by the arm. As for how willing she is . . . I’m told that could go either way.”

“Fast-forward to the scene here . . .”

“By all means. Fast-forward to the Gouldings’ garage.”

“First responders discovered Flora naked, with her hands bound before her.”