Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(79)

“What did you do next?”

He shrugged. “Asked if I could at least check her unit for fire alarms, emergency egress.”

“She agree?”

“Please. She pointed out one alarm in the hall ceiling, which could be viewed from the doorway. Informed me I should be able to see from where I was standing that it worked just fine—the green LED light indicated it had power, while the red flashing light indicated battery backup. As for her unit’s emergency egress, I was welcome to check out the fire escape—from the outside.”

“She sounds charming,” D.D. assured him. “Can you describe her, please?”

Hayes startled, seemed surprised by this request. “I don’t know. Small. I mean . . .” He blushed. “Most girls seem tiny to me. Blond hair, kind of messy. She was dressed casual. Baggy sweats, bare feet. I don’t know. She wasn’t very friendly, that’s what I remember most.”

“And girls are generally friendly? Young, good-looking guy like you?”

He hesitated, his expression once again wary. “What do you want? Did she say something about me?”

“Why? You do something wrong? Maybe lose your temper, grow frustrated? Clearly, she wasn’t treating you with the respect you deserve.”

Hayes shook his head. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here. Yeah, I inspected the Reichters’ apartment building. Yeah, I talked to some woman on the third floor. But that was it. She didn’t let me in, I didn’t push it. I made a note of the one working smoke alarm I could see, and then, yes, I walked around the building and checked out the fire escape.”

“Climb up it?”

“Of course.”

“Peer in her window?”

“What? Hey, listen to me.” Hands up now, flat on the table, his broad face flushing. “I did my job, nothing more. I don’t know what she said, but whatever it was . . . I walked the building, inspected the fire escape, that was it. Ask the Reichters. I returned all the keys to them, couldn’t have been more than fifteen, twenty minutes tops. And I can show you the draft of my report—the diagrams, everything I have to do. Fifteen, twenty minutes is about right. So whatever she said happened, it didn’t.”

“Care to take a polygraph?”

“Seriously? I mean . . . Do I need a lawyer? What happened?”

“Name Flora Dane ring a bell?”

“No. Should it?”

“That was the woman, the third-floor apartment.”

“I don’t know. Like I said, she wasn’t a talker.”

“She’s missing.”

“What?”

“She’s gone missing. Was possibly kidnapped. Saturday night. Most likely by someone who had a key to all those locks on her door.”

Hayes shut up, face going pale. He looked at D.D., then Carol Manley, then D.D. again. D.D. couldn’t tell what was going on in his mind anymore. Guilt? Innocence? Denial? Rationalization? He was sketchy, she decided. Just enough to be worth provoking.

“I gave the keys back to the landlord,” he stated now. “Whatever happened, it’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Easy enough to take an impression of the keys—or make an actual copy.”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Where were you Saturday night?”

“What?”

“Saturday night. Where were you?”

“I had a date.” Hayes sat up straighter, voice picking up. “Boston Beer Garden. I was out with a group of friends. I can get you their names.”

“What time?”

“Seven.”

“Before that?”

“Getting ready. I have a roommate. He can tell you.” Hayes nodded now. He saw his way out and he was taking it. “Look, ask my dad, ask whomever. I’m a good guy. I show up, do my job, end of story. Tuesday at the Reichters’ building . . . I don’t know what happened to that woman, but I promise you: It had nothing to do with me. Saturday night, I was out with friends and I can prove it.”


*

TEN MINUTES LATER, back in D.D.’s office.

Carol Manley: “I don’t think that guy copied a set of keys or kidnapped Flora Danes.”

“No.”

“But if not him, who could gain that kind of access? Open a triple-locked door, grab a highly trained semiprofessional in her sleep?”

“I have no idea,” D.D. said.

“So we start back at the beginning. We look at the victim, Flora Dane.”

“Sure.”

“Well, and Stacey Summers, because maybe it’s the same guy, right? Except then there’s Devon Goulding, whom Flora killed, and the pictures of the missing women, whom maybe he killed.”

“Couldn’t be Devon Goulding,” D.D. said. “He was already dead when Flora went missing.”

Carol sighed, dragged a hand through her rumpled hair. “I’m confused,” the new detective said.

“Me too,” D.D. agreed. “Me too.”





Chapter 31


THE WOMAN WHO LOOKED LIKE MY MOM was talking on TV. Sitting alone on the bed in the cheap motel room, I stared at her image. Sound was off. I watched her lips move and felt a sense of déjà vu. For a moment, I could almost hear her say, “This is all of Flora, getting some sleep!”