Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(59)

Li rose and walked over to stand behind Foster. “See something?”

Foster pointed at a shadowy figure slipping through the gap. She froze the frame. “There. It’s him.” She checked the time stamp. Twelve thirty-nine, Sunday night. Foster consulted her notebook. “We have him with Ainsley at twelve thirty-six. Three minutes later he’s slipping through that fence.” She started the tape again, and they watched the figure move through the gap and disappear into the night. “Three minutes to walk back to Birch, maybe take one last look, and then vanish.”

“It sure looks like the same guy who came down the stairs with her,” Li said. “He’s carrying the duffel. Only it looks empty, doesn’t it? Like it weighs nothing.”

“Still no shot of his face,” Foster said. “His head’s down and turned from the cameras. He knows where they are. I’m not seeing a car. It has to be parked out of camera range, otherwise where’s he going?” Foster reached for her phone, dialed. “We need footage from Columbus and Michigan, Randolph and the Lake Shore feeders going east-west. His car will be on one of them.” While she made her call, Li sounded it out.

“Two people come down those steps, one of them Birch with her pink backpack. Ainsley’s there passed out. The one that’s not Birch checks him. They move on, out of the shot.” She leaned forward, focusing on the screen. “He’s back forty minutes later, bends down, touches Ainsley’s jacket, I guess, putting the spot of blood on it, and then, poof.”

Foster hung up and sat down again. “Through the fence and away.”

“You heard all that while you were on the phone?” Li asked, impressed.

“I can chew and talk at the same time.”

“Good to know,” Li said. “And we know this guy stepping through the gap in the wee hours of the morning’s probably not just some rando nightwalker because . . .”

“Most decent people, like Elyse Pratt, would raise the alarm when they stumble on a dead body, call the police. No 911 call came in on Birch until hours later from the bridge. So either Mr. Rando’s completely oblivious and didn’t see Birch lying there, which is highly unlikely . . .”

“Or he put her there,” Li broke in, “and was legging it, slow and easy. And he used the same escape route for Mallory Rea . . . skirting the cameras.”

“We need to find that car,” Foster said.

Li was already on it, sliding up to her desk again to begin the search. “And one cold SOB.”





CHAPTER 37


Dr. Silva stood at Bodie Morgan’s apartment door, her fist poised for a knock. She took a bracing breath and then rapped lightly, going over her pitch as she waited for the shuffling inside to get closer to the door. How she hated being in such a vulnerable position, having to literally beg, her very future dependent on someone like him. Protocol? Ethics? Boundaries? She was breaching them all, but she didn’t care. One way or another, she was going to get the hell out of Westhaven.

There was a peephole, but in a split-second decision she reached up and covered it with a finger. If Bodie knew she was at the door, he’d never open it. She could feel him on the other side, hear him breathing as he peeked through the hole to find it blocked. For a moment there was a groundswell of anticipation, hesitancy; then she heard the chain disengage and the door unlock and swing open. Bodie stood there. For a moment there was a look of irritation on his face, replaced smoothly by the well-practiced smile she remembered, followed by the disguise of the quiet, affable man she would stake her career on being as fake as fool’s gold.

“Dr. Silva,” he said. “Since when do shrinks make house calls?”

“You wouldn’t come to me, so . . .” She left the sentence unfinished, her eyes meeting his, a dance, a circling of minds commencing. “I wanted to make sure you were getting along all right. Coping. Can we talk?” Bodie’s eyes went hard as that something, that thing, flickered across them. Silva felt him pull in, close off, push her away without physically doing it.

“I appreciate the trouble,” he said, “but I’m fine.”

Silva glanced past him, hoping to get a glimpse of his apartment, but Bodie shifted to block her view. “Mind if I come in?”

He pulled the door in. “Actually, yeah. I’m kind of busy.” He angled his head, shooting her an amused look. “And since you’re technically not my doctor anymore, I’m a little confused. Why are you here? Isn’t this against some kind of rule or something?”

“Truthfully, yes,” Silva said. “I am going a bit above and beyond. But I want to help you. Get you back into sessions. I can see you’re struggling, and I’m worried that you might do harm to yourself . . . or others.”

For a second, she didn’t think he’d respond, but slowly a smile appeared. “So you’ve said. Every session. Like I’m some ticking bomb. This is about those women they found murdered, isn’t it? You think that’s me?” He laughed. “That’s the problem with psychiatrists. They see mental dysfunction everywhere they go. You’ve wasted a trip, Dr. Silva. I’m not your golden goose. You probed me so many times; well, I probed you right back. I know you want out of Westhaven. I don’t know what landed you there, but you hate it just as much as I hated it. And now you want me for . . . what? Am I your ticket out? Your prized pig? No dice.”