Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(44)

But the moment she thought it, D.D. knew she wouldn’t do it. Precisely because it smacked of politics and she hated that crap. She’d called Keynes from Florence Dane’s apartment not because he was a big-time federal guy but because he was a known associate of the victim. She planned on keeping that tack here. Flora’s disappearance was a BPD case all the way, hence D.D.’s involvement as a supervisory officer. Interviewing Dr. Keynes and victim specialist Pam Mason was her call, and she would handle it.

She was pleasantly surprised to find Keynes waiting for her in the lobby of FBI headquarters. Given it was Sunday, and federal agents prided themselves on working bankers’ hours, versus an urban detective’s relentless 24/7 drill, the building was quiet. D.D. still had to present her credentials and sign her life away—but, sadly, no registering of the sidearm she was no longer qualified to carry. Once she’d secured her visitor’s pass, Keynes escorted her to the elevators and away they went.

He wasn’t one for small talk. No “How was the parking, did you find the offices okay, what do you think of the weather” chatter. Instead, Keynes stood quietly, hands clasped before him as the floors flew by.

He’d discarded his heavy black coat, first time D.D. had seen him without it. For his Sunday attire, Keynes had gone with an impeccably tailored charcoal-gray suit, with just a hint of texture to the fabric. D.D. wondered if he had a whole closet full of suits, each one looking more elegant than the last. And just how much time and money did he spend on wardrobe anyway?

She had on her caramel-colored leather jacket. It was her favorite; she wore it right up to the coldest, darkest days of winter. Now, she noticed how shiny and worn the leather appeared at the cuffs. Oh yeah, and the apple juice stain lower right side. Awesome.

Elevator stopped. Doors opened. Keynes gestured for her to step out first, so she did the honors. According to D.D.’s research, the FBI had more than 120 victim specialists and four managers. Dr. Keynes, as one of the head muckety-mucks, was entitled to his own office, complete with an imposing cherrywood desk, a long bank of bookshelves, and a smaller seating area to one side.

His desk bore a state-of-the-art-looking computer, a leather cup of requisite pencils and pens, and, of all things, a Rubik’s Cube—colors mixed. D.D. couldn’t help herself. Her gaze went immediately to the ’80s phenomenon, and she was already itching to solve it.

“You can, you know,” Keynes said, following her gaze.

She kept her hands fisted at her side. “Who messed it up?”

“I did.”

“To solve later? Or as a test for this little meeting?”

“Sergeant, you read entirely too much into a common toy.”

She eyed him warily. “You’re a behavioral expert. Of course I’m suspicious.”

He smiled. It was a good look on him, easing the severity of his smoothly shaved scalp, high-sculpted cheekbones. For a moment, he almost appeared human.

“I like to shuffle the cube. It helps me think. Given what we discovered at Flora’s apartment . . . I’ve had much to think about.”

“I like mobiles,” D.D. found herself saying. “Studying intricate patterns where at first glance it appears as one graceful, multileveled whole, and yet is in fact many separate levels moving in precise rhythm.”

A rap on the door behind them. D.D. and Keynes turned to find a woman standing in the doorway. Pam Mason, D.D. assumed.

At first glance, the woman was older than D.D. would’ve thought. Ash-blond hair worn in a close mass of curls that was last popular right around the same time as the Rubik’s Cube. Even though it was Sunday, she’d followed Keynes’s professional wardrobe example, though with less elegant results, having selected a block-cut, 1990s tan suit with padded shoulders and a cream-colored silk blouse that buttoned all the way to the throat and was finished with some kind of silk ruffle.

The victim specialist appeared about D.D.’s height but, with the cut of her jacket, appeared significantly wider. She was also a woman on a mission. She entered the office, simultaneously tucking a file folder under one arm while sticking out her other hand.

“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren? Pam Mason, victim specialist. I understand you have some questions about the Summers family.”

The woman grabbed D.D.’s hand in a firm grip, shook it twice, turned to Keynes with another brisk handshake, then moved straight to the seating area, ready for business. D.D. had to admit, she didn’t care for the woman’s suit, but she had to like the woman’s style.

A considerate host, Keynes did the honors of offering up coffee. Both women immediately agreed, and he disappeared in search of every investigator’s favorite beverage.

“Dr. Keynes has apprised me of the situation,” Pam stated briskly.

“Okay.” D.D. shrugged out of her leather jacket, her motions awkward given the stiffness in her left shoulder. She took a seat. “I’m sure you can understand we’re operating on the QT for the moment regarding Florence Dane’s disappearance. Press gets a hold of this . . .”

“You mean the same media that raked the BPD over the coals on the evening news?”

“Thank heavens it was a Saturday,” D.D. commented, as the weekend news had notoriously lower viewer numbers than the weeknight editions.

Pam Mason arched a brow but kept the rest of her thoughts to herself. She folded her hands, placed them on the small table. “How can I help?”