Gone(75)

Detective Rondeau was shaking hands with another man. Peter recognized who it was without a doubt — the unidentified man from the meeting prior to Bluestone, and then at the quarry itself, conferring with other agents. The caption identified him as Lee Angstrom.

Rondeau’s arm was in a sling. The two men stood with the FBI emblem hanging behind them. Angstrom was smiling, Rondeau was not. The caption read: FBI hands out award of merit to Detective Jason Rondeau.

Peter scanned the article. Supplemental police work turned into something instrumental for the Bureau . . . Detective Rondeau suffered from gunshot ricochets during the climactic showdown with the Valentine suspect . . . FBI congratulates Rondeau for his service, above and beyond . . . Rondeau, whose father was killed in the 9/11 Pentagon attack, said ‘I’m honored to accept this award.’

He didn’t look honored.

“I saw another one of your articles the other day,” Peter said. “Richochet Rondeau. You lied to the police. You’ve obstructed an investigation. That’s a major criminal offense.”

She looked unconcerned. Her silence seemed to invite more from him.

“So you’ve been following up on this story,” he said. “On FBI corruption. On Whitehall, on Rondeau. So is it all fake? The idea that he has . . . ?”

“Mental illness? I don’t think it’s fake, but I think ‘schizophrenic’ is a long shot. Most schizophrenics can’t hold down jobs, let alone be a police detective. Schizoaffective is maybe a bit more likely. Better still, delusional personality disorder. Given his upbringing, his father’s work — and death — and what happened in D.C. with the crime lab corruption, the Valentine case, I think he had to find a place to put all of that.”

Peter circled around in the trashed kitchen. “How? How do we know? Tell me what you’ve got. Okay?”

She sat serenely at the table while he paced anxiously.

“Rondeau was married to Jessica Rivlin. That’s the woman in the photo in the hallway, standing on the bridge. She was pregnant, but the baby didn’t make it to term. Rivlin — he called her ‘Jessy’ — had cancer, and she died shortly after. You can imagine, I guess, what that could do to a person. First, Rondeau’s father dies in the September 11 attacks, while investigating major securities fraud. Then he’s got this case in D.C. What he saw, and what Whitehall, a forensic scientist, knew about crime lab corruption. But Whitehall got scared and disappeared. Rondeau felt helpless. I think all of these things could’ve sparked some mental condition. When his wife and child died, it got worse. He invented something to lessen the pain while preserving the memory of her and the baby — it wasn’t his wife who’d died, but his sister. It wasn’t his child, it was his nephew. See? Still tragic, but removed. Enough so he could keep functioning in the world.”

“So you know about this person he believes is his brother-in-law: Millard?”

She nodded soberly. “He even told me about him at dinner. To Rondeau, this was all happening to someone else. It was happening to Millard. He took all of his pain, loss and paranoia, and he created a kind of alternate reality, with this other person to bear the weight of it.” She searched the room, perhaps remembering their conversation. “Rondeau even has a story about how Millard was an MTA worker in New York. A transit cop. That was actually a story in the New York Post from several years ago . . .” She met Peter’s eyes. “We all are capable of living double lives, Peter, some people just more than others.”

“You really should have come forward. I don’t understand . . . you knew this type of thing had happened before. This misdirection . . .”

“I’ve been watching Rondeau since D.C., like I said. I knew about his therapist, Connie Leifson. I also hired a photographer, Paul Palmirotto. He’s Hutch’s friend and collaborator. I had him film around the area.” She pointed to the sky. “Using the quadcopter to get pictures.”

“And you didn’t contact the authorities? I still don’t . . .” Peter shook his head. He closed his eyes for a moment. It felt like the world was turning upside down. “How did we not know you were a reporter?”

“I have a cleaning business with my ex-husband. All legit. My journalism byline is not Addison Kemp, as you saw . . .”

It was all hitting Peter; thoughts zipped through his mind. He looked at the old stove and the bare cupboards.

“You knew this about Rondeau,” he said. “You knew that we had a detective searching for your missing brother, his entire family — we had someone running the investigation and you knew he was mentally unstable . . .”

“I knew? What did I know? I knew the police were doing what they were supposed to. I knew Rondeau’s past, but . . .”

Peter was shaking his head. “No. Too many coincidences. Your brother’s family goes missing? And the very detective you’ve been following is on the case? Following . . . doing your piece on, writing your book, whatever you’re doing? World’s not that small.”

“You’re right. It isn’t.” She smoothed her hands over the binder and closed it up.

“Then what? And the Indian Lake house you bought? Rondeau became convinced that your brother was there doing his film on some government conspiracy.”

She nodded. “He was.”

“He wasn’t doing a documentary on waste material?”