Pretty Girls Dancing(48)
This was news to Mark. He hadn’t known the agency had replaced Luther Sims. “I might do that.” Switching the subject, he said, “Ben mentioned you had another agent in mind to take his place on the case.”
“Don’t worry—I haven’t forgotten you.”
“Great. I’ve got so many loose threads on this case, I’m starting to feel like a cat chasing a laser pointer. When’s he start?”
“Not he.” Bennett took his vibrating cell from his pocket. Looked at the screen. “She. You’ve worked together before. Sloane Medford will be in West Bend the day after tomorrow.”
The man had already turned to answer the call before he finished the sentence. Then he strode away. It was just as well. Mark wasn’t sure he was a good enough actor to keep the dismay from his expression.
Sloane Medford. God damn it.
The clouds were charcoal smears across the sky, extinguishing every hint of light. Mark got turned around twice before finding the private drive he’d been directed to. It opened to a small clearing in front of a neatly built log cabin. From the twin spears of his headlights, he could see the front door open and someone step outside onto the porch.
Luther Sims, the retired BCI profiler who’d worked the Ten Mile Killer case.
Mark brought the vehicle to a halt. It had been pretty clear how Ben Craw had felt about Sims being brought in on the Willard disappearance seven years earlier, but for now, Mark was the lead on this investigation. And after spending hours the last several nights poring over the old case files, he knew he’d be remiss in not getting firsthand information from the BCI’s expert on the TMK.
Getting out of the car, he zipped up his coat before walking toward the cabin. It was still chilly but without the torturous arctic wind from earlier that day. “Mr. Sims.” There was a ramp leading up to the porch. He climbed the steps next to it and stuck out his hand. “Mark Foster. Thanks for agreeing to meet me. Sorry about the hour.”
“Agent.” Sims’s handshake was firm. “Don’t worry about the time. As I said on the phone, we just got home only a few hours ago ourselves.” He jerked a thumb at a small SUV parked in front of a detached double garage. It still had a canoe fastened to the racks on top. “Still haven’t completely unpacked. First matter of business when we arrived was to get Elizabeth, my wife, situated. Please come in.”
Mark followed the older man through the cabin door. Wiped his boots thoroughly on the hooked rug just inside as he looked around. “This is cozy. How long have you lived here?”
“Since my retirement three years ago.” Sims’s tone was hushed. “We love it, although given the progression of Elizabeth’s rheumatoid arthritis, I’ve been making some improvements to the place.”
Two rooms opened off the hallway. On the right, dim light spilled through the half-open door. Mark could see a woman sitting upright in bed, holding a book in gnarled fingers, reading glasses perched on her nose. Her long, gray hair framed a face that from this distance seemed curiously unlined. Respectfully, he averted his eyes. On the left was a good-size family room with a small flat-screen TV and several photos adorning the walls. He recognized Sims and his wife in a dated wedding picture. A much younger Luther in an army uniform. The two of them holding up the respective fish they’d caught. And one that might be a somber Elizabeth Sims taken decades earlier.
“Let’s go to the kitchen, where we won’t disturb my wife.”
Mark followed the man down the hall, where it opened onto a good-size kitchen with a center island and a table and chairs. Luther pulled out a chair, waved Mark to it. It was a moment before he sat. “Pretty view. Better during the day, I’m sure.” The back wall was a bank of windows. The shades hadn’t yet been drawn, showing a deep lawn that was hemmed on three sides by tree line.
“We like it. Both Elizabeth and I enjoy the outdoors. At least,” the man said with a quick glance toward the bedroom, “she used to. She has to depend on the wheelchair more and more. And recently, she was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. It’s frustrating for her.” His smile held a tinge of sadness. “Still managed a couple canoe rides on our recent trip, though.”
Mark sank into the chair. The woman’s diagnosis would explain the locks discreetly placed below the handles on the kitchen drawers and cupboards. They’d done the same at his grandma’s house before the disease progressed, and she’d been placed in a nursing home. “Where’d you go?”
“Spent three weeks at Berlin Lake. The fishing wasn’t great this year, but the fall foliage was spectacular.” He seemed to stop himself then, chuckling ruefully. “Listen to me. Three years out of the agency, and it’s fishing, hiking, and canoeing that fill my thoughts. A far cry from my work days.”
Mark shot him an easy smile. “That’s what retirement is supposed to be about, isn’t it?”
Sims nodded. He was late sixties, Mark figured, and had kept most of his hair, although silver had heavily encroached on the brown. At five-ten, maybe one sixty, he hadn’t let himself go since leaving the agency.
“You look like you’re a good way from retirement, so let’s talk about what brought you here. You’re working the kidnapping over in Saxon Falls.”
“I am. Given its proximity to West Bend, we have to look for connections to the Kelsey Willard case, which you were involved in.”