Gone(73)

“That doesn’t matter to me. I regret what I’ve done, but what matters is the lesson I’ve learned. That we all want the truth — in this day and age, we’re so divisive about so many things, and we have this confirmation bias. People agreeing with us, that’s one thing. People disagreeing with us, we may say anything to prove that we’re right. Even lie. But it’s not—”

Peter clicked off the TV. He’d taken the remote from Althea. Now he looked at her, still standing there in her Sheriff’s Department winter coat.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She took hold of his arms. “Me too.” She let go and slipped an arm into her coat. “I found something,” she said, still staring at him.

He glanced down at the paper she was holding. “Running errands?”

She smiled back. “Yeah. While I was running errands.”

He unfolded the document. It was a printout of a news article from the Washington Post. The article was titled “Ricochet Rondeau.” He checked the date — from just over two years ago. He read it aloud.

“‘Dominic Whitehall is a whistleblower. After twelve years working as a crime lab supervisor for the FBI in Washington, this past week he alleged that the FBI has been falsifying evidence in a number of cases, including the Valentine Killer.’”

He looked up at Althea. “Keep reading,” she urged.

“‘Whitehall claims the FBI manufactured evidence on the Valentine Killer and targeted a schizophrenic suspect. Detective Jason Millard Rondeau, a District Police liaison, thought something was amiss before they even arrested and charged the suspect. Rondeau, hospitalized from injuries sustained during the Valentine Killer capture, was unwilling to comment.’”

He paused again. “‘Millard,’” he said. “‘Jason Millard Rondeau.’”

“Yeah.” Althea pulled off her coat and pointed to her chest and shoulder. “Get this. I talked to Stokes. Rondeau has two scars. Here, and here. He was shot during the course of investigation.”

“By?”

“FBI. One of the grunts. But, Rondeau took it personally. Thought Angstrom ordered the agent to do it on purpose. To kill him.”

“No shit.”

“No shit. And, one other thing I learned from Stokes . . .”

“Boy, you’ve been busy.” Peter’s eyes swept the room, landing on the finished beer bottles. “And I’ve just been boozing.”

“Look at the byline. The reporter who wrote the article.”

There was no picture, just a name. A. Matheson. It was vaguely familiar. Part of the Kemp investigation, in the paperwork somewhere. “Who’s that?” he asked, looking up at Althea.

She’d lost the smile, her face was serious. “What Stokes told me, what we know, is that Addison Kemp’s married name was Matheson.”





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX / Surveillance

Peter sat with the engine running, watching the Kemp home.

The lights were on. He could see shadows cast on the curtains. There had been no curtains before the kidnapping.

He’d logged six hours so far over the past two days. He would move off for a while and then come back. He imagined the criminals who’d kidnapped the Kemps sitting out here like this when the windows had been clear. Watching. Waiting. He thought of Rondeau, too. Rondeau coming to the empty dark house. He took a sip of his paper cup of coffee, his hand shaking a little.

He wasn’t the only one parked outside; there was a news van across the street. Channel 8. They were likely reviewing footage or preparing the next headline. If they knew he was there, they didn’t show it. Earlier in the day there would have been more press around. But it was dark and late.

More importantly, Addison Kemp’s car was parked in the driveway. After falling off the radar for two weeks, she’d resurfaced. She was wanted by the department for questioning. At least, they wanted an account of her whereabouts during the climactic moments of her brother’s release. She wasn’t listed with Incident Command, so she hadn’t been a searcher, out hunting in the woods for the family. Stokes claimed Rondeau had scheduled a polygraph for Addison. It was more likely she’d been evading that, and doing who knew what else. For now, they were letting her spend time with the family. They were leaving her alone, Peter had learned, but would talk to her tomorrow. Tonight was his last chance.

She finally came out of the house after he’d lingered there for two hours. He watched her scan the driveway and the road, making the van, and probably him, too. He saw how she hesitated, deliberating over whether to return indoors. She got in her car and the taillights lit up, exhaust smoked out of the tailpipe. She backed down the driveway, hit the gas and drove off down the road, and Peter followed. He detected movement in the news van as he passed.

He followed Addison through the sleepy town to the outskirts, where she pulled into the motel. She got out and stood there as he pulled slowly up alongside her and rolled down the window.

“Why are you following me?”

“Good evening, Ms. Kemp. I’m Deputy Peter King, with Stock C—”

“I know who you are. Why are you following me?”

Peter put the car in park and left the motor on. “Just wanted to have a few words with you, ma’am.” He set his hands on the steering wheel and added, “This would just be between us.”