Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(31)

“No.”

But D.D. didn’t believe him anymore. There was something more here. Something he still wasn’t willing to say. And then . . .

“Was she the one who killed him?” Colin Summers asked.

“Who?”

“Flora. Did she kill the bartender, the suspected kidnapper? Is that why you’re asking all these questions?”

D.D. didn’t say anything. So far, they’d managed to keep Florence Dane’s name out of the news. Mostly by virtue of not having pressed any formal charges against her, meaning there wasn’t any information for overeager reporters to discover.

“Why would you assume that, Mr. Summers?”

“You investigators have your sources of information. The families of victims have ours. And given how likely you are to share with us . . .”

“We are all on the same side, Mr. Summers. We’re all doing everything in our power to get your daughter back.”

“Then why isn’t she home?”

A click in her ear as Colin Summers hung up, clearly having gotten in the last word. D.D. held on to the phone receiver for a moment longer, feeling the weight of his rage. Indeed, three months later, why hadn’t they found Stacey Summers?

And what the hell did Flora Dane know about the college girl’s abduction that the rest of them apparently didn’t?

Eight thirty A.M. D.D. had mounds of reports to sort through and approve, from the night-duty detectives on down. The joys of management, the burden of restricted duty. As a field detective, she’d always groused about the need to dot every i and cross every t. And yet reports mattered. Paperwork created the building blocks of a prosecutable case, and there was no point in identifying perpetrators and making arrests if you couldn’t actually put the rat bastards away.

Paperwork mattered. Sitting here at this desk mattered.

Then again, so did asking the right questions.

What was it Dr. Keynes had said yesterday? Flora preferred an honest, straightforward approach.

D.D. got up, retrieved her messenger bag, grabbed her travel mug, and headed out the door.


*

FLORENCE DANE’S REGISTERED ADDRESS turned out to be a third-story walk-up in an older, slightly tired-looking row home. This time of morning on a Sunday, the house and street appeared quiet. D.D. walked through the unlocked outer door into the requisite inner vestibule lined with half a dozen metal mailboxes. Some were labeled with names; Flora’s wasn’t, instead providing only her initials, F.D. Another security-conscious decision from a woman who clearly took self-protection seriously.

The vestibule’s inner door was locked but, as often happened in frequently trafficked areas, hadn’t been pulled tightly shut. Flora definitely wouldn’t have approved of D.D.’s ability to nudge open the door and walk straight in.

She could buzz up. It would be the polite thing to do, but where was the fun in that? Instead, D.D. spied the stairs straight ahead and made the executive decision to hike up three floors to Florence’s apartment. Of course, she hadn’t counted on her breath growing quite so labored—maybe it was time to cut back the hours in PT and work in some cardio instead—nor was she expecting to arrive at Flora’s door and discover it cracked open.

D.D. hesitated, already feeling the hairs rise on the back of her neck. At first blush, there was no need for alarm. The door looked perfectly fine, no scratches on the locks as if they were jimmied, no shredded doorjamb. And yet . . .

She rapped hard. The door yawned wide.

“Flora Dane? Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren here to see you.”

No response.

D.D. took the first step forward, reaching instinctively for her sidearm before remembering she still wasn’t authorized to carry.

“Flora? You home? Florence Dane?”

Nothing. Not the sound of footsteps or rushing water or creaking inner doorways. D.D. took another step inside, encountering a kitchen dead ahead, tiny family room to the left, and another open doorway that provided a glimpse of a bedroom beyond it.

Lights were off. Granted, daylight streamed through the large bank of bay windows. But the sky was overcast, meaning corners of the apartment were still cast in gloom, giving the place a neglected feel. More than that, however, the apartment felt empty. For whatever reason, the front door had been left open, but Florence was no longer here.

Which made no sense at all. A woman who made studying criminal behavior her bread and butter leaving her apartment unsecured in downtown Boston? No way. Something was up. But what?

Slowly, keeping her back to the wall, D.D. made the rounds. Except, in the end, there wasn’t much to see. The kitchen appeared immaculate, the modest seating area untouched. She used her toe to push in the bathroom door, taking in a pedestal sink, toilet, and standing-room-only shower. Nothing.

Finally, the single bedroom. Again, using her foot to open the door wider, careful not to touch anything. She spied a double bed, covers pulled back and obviously recently slept in. Next to it was a single nightstand table bearing a lamp and a charging iPhone. Which gave her pause. Because in this day and age, who stepped out for even the briefest errand without first grabbing her cell phone?

Next, D.D. eyed a rickety old desk, which bore a state-of-the-art Mac laptop. Finally, she let her gaze take in the room’s main attraction: Newspaper articles. Photographs. Dozens of them plastered across all four walls. It took her only a moment to deduce the theme. Missing persons cases. Each and every one. Thirty, forty, fifty people, male and female, who’d stepped outside one day, never to be seen again. Including Stacey Summers, the Boston Globe article announcing her disappearance posted in a place of honor right above Flora’s bed.