Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (10 page)

“Obviously. Hiding a girl in your basement for years is not exactly a rash act.”

Bender’s face tightens.

“So,” Cox continues, “Flint was rational, organized, and cognizant of his actions. The guy’s guilty as hell under the law. So how’d he end up in mental lockup?”

“After he was convicted, things went sideways. He apparently had some kind of brain injury in the—”

“The car crash, yeah. Pretty dramatic finding the girl that way, right?” Cox shakes his head. “Just a lucky fluke that she was in the trunk when his car got slammed.”

“A fluke. Right. So anyway, Flint had a closed-head injury, some kind of postconcussive syndrome. And after he was sentenced, the DOJ decided that Olshaker was the only suitable institution for someone with his mental problems.”

“What bullshit.”

Bender opens his empty palms. “They decided he needed treatment. So they turned around and sent him to the hospital’s forensic ward.”

Cox sits back and looks past Bender’s shoulder. “Where’s our food? Damn, I’m hungry.” When his eyes come back to Bender’s he asks, “So, what was your take on Dr. Moody?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, did he screw up? Was he an asshole?”

“He was a fully competent asshole. He never screwed up.” Bender frowns at the file on the table. “You’re trying to figure out why Flint killed him.”

“Exactly. Why take that risk? Why target Moody?”

“Robbery? Revenge?”

“Yeah, maybe, but revenge for what?”

Bender shakes his head. “I’ve been off the case for years. You’ve got the file and the transcripts. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of new agents with fresh opinions. Come on, Stuart. You didn’t call me here just to speculate about Flint’s motivations.”

“I’ve got some questions about the victim. That girl he kidnapped. You two were close, right?”

“That was years ago. She was just a kid.”

“Sixteen, I know. But you interviewed her. And you’ve got good psychological insight, that’s your reputation. Not like me, I’m a numbers guy. Data, I can analyze. People?” A shrug. “My wife says I’m hopeless. Anyway, this was your case. You were there during Flint’s trial, so the girl got to trust you, right?”

“Well, she never tried to smack me, if that’s what you mean,” Bender says, referring to the time she swatted at the cameramen dogging her through the courthouse.

“Right. I remember that. The press started calling her Edgy Reggie, right?”

“She hated that name.”

“Yeah, well, she’s had it legally changed since then.” Cox is about to say more when their food arrives, and they fall silent while the plates are arranged before them.

Once the waiter has gone, Bender asks, “So, what’s her new name?”

Cox pours a dollop of catsup onto his plate. “Oh, it’s
Reeve.
Reeve LeClaire.”

“She calls herself Reeve?” Bender smiles.

“Yeah. Weird, huh?”

“No, I like it.” Bender cuts into his omelet, takes a bite, and reaches for the salt.

Cox watches him for a moment. “Here’s the thing about Miss LeClaire: She called the sheriff’s office on Sunday, with a tip that Flint would go after Dr. Moody. Now, how on earth would she know that?”

“Sunday?” Bender puts down his fork.

“Right.”

“When was Moody killed?”

“Best guess, around midnight Saturday, a few hours after Flint escaped. Looks like Flint lounged around, slept in Moody’s bed. He must have enjoyed a nice little rest. His prints are all over the place.”

“But Dr. Moody’s body wasn’t found until when? Yesterday?”

“Right, around midday. He’s divorced, lives alone. Nobody missed him until he didn’t show up for work.”

Bender exhales loudly.

“Here’s what we’re thinking,” Cox says, putting his elbows on the table. “That girl knows something. Could be Flint still holds some kind of influence over her.”

Bender scowls. “After all these years? No, I seriously doubt that.”

“But she was, what? Twelve when he took her? Who knows what years in a basement with that scumbag might do to a kid? Who knows about the long-term effects?”

“You’re talking Stockholm syndrome.”

“Of course.”

“Listen, you’re wrong if you imagine she would cooperate with—”

“Maybe not that she’d cooperate outright. Not overtly, but maybe they’re still connected somehow. Otherwise, how would she know what Flint’s up to?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“We did. She wasn’t exactly forthcoming.” Cox polishes off the rest of his meal while giving Bender the gist of what happened.

Hearing about the case agent’s botched attempt to interview Reeve, Bender looks at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Your man pissed her off. But anyway, it sounds to me like she told him what she knows.”

“Maybe, maybe not. That’s where you come in.”

“Me? But I haven’t seen her since her mother’s funeral.” He suffers a recollection of the girl’s stricken expression, her listless bearing, and recalls talking with Dr. Ezra Lerner about her fragile psychological state.

“You went to her mother’s funeral? Sounds to me like you were close to the whole family.”

“In some ways, perhaps. But it’s been years. I’m afraid I can’t offer much insight anymore.”

“Well, isn’t it time you got back in touch?”

“What, you want me to call her?” Bender scoffs. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey kid, remember me? Wanna talk about old times?’ Besides, your case agent already talked to her.”

“Listen, even I can understand that she might have trust issues. But you befriended her. You were always good at this stuff. And besides, she asked about you.”

“She did?”

“Yeah.”

“What did she say?”

Cox waves this away. “The question is, can she help us? Does she have some kind of insight into our fugitive? Where is he hiding, and what the hell is he going to do next?”

“He took the barber’s car, right? But now he has Moody’s?”

“A black Toyota Highlander, correct.” Cox pulls a face. “But that’s another thing. We never found the barber’s Honda. You’d expect that he’d have left it near Dr. Moody’s, but that’s not the case. Or maybe it’s at the bottom of a lake. We’re working on that. But since the LeClaire girl figured out one part of the puzzle, maybe she can offer something more.”

“And maybe not.”

“But she’s a lead, isn’t she? And we don’t have much better out of the hundreds we’re following. You know how it is.”

“Sure.” Bender knows how frustrated Cox must be, slogging through false sightings, sifting out poor information, weighing the value of lame guesswork. “What about Flint’s relatives?”

“His father’s been dead for decades. There’s only his mother, still in Tacoma. And we’re watching her, believe me.”

Bender knows without asking that her phone has been tapped and she’s under twenty-four-hour surveillance. He takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, then puts the glasses back on before asking, “You’ve got no other leads?”

“Nothing hot. But listen, this LeClaire girl helped with that case in northern California last year, in Jefferson. Remember that?”

Bender nods.

“So what I’m thinking is, maybe you can talk to her, maybe find some kind of leverage to use that—”

“Leverage?” Bender’s expression sours. “If that’s your approach, you really do need my help.”

Cox pushes his plate away and leans back. “Exactly. Don’t make me beg.”

“Look, I’m retired. I’m rusty. And I’m not an agent anymore.”

“All I’m asking is that you contact her and report back.”

“In what capacity?”

“Nothing formal, okay? I’m just asking for a little help between old friends. How’s that?”

“But hasn’t her case been reassigned?”

“No, actually, her case is closed. You closed it. But now that Flint has escaped, we’ve got a whole new ballgame. And this comes on top of everything else going on. You know, counterterrorism, cybercrimes, human trafficking—”

“Sure, I know. Limited resources, skyrocketing caseload. Some things never change.”

“Exactly. We’re swamped, so if you can help . . .” Cox opens his palms. “Listen, it’s not like I’m asking you to carry a badge.”

“Or a weapon, either, because I promised my wife—”

“Of course not. I’m just asking for a favor. Whaddya say?” Cox leans toward him across the table. “Come on, come back to the office. It won’t take long to get you up to speed.”

Bender closes his eyes, thinking. He wonders how the bureau will proceed if he declines, but instantly knows the answer: Another pushy agent will try to coerce information. And he can picture how Reggie—
Reeve
, he corrects himself—will respond to being badgered by some amped-up stranger.

Bender opens his eyes and relents. “Okay, I’ll give her a call. But I can’t promise you anything. And if she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’m out.”

R
eeve jams her fists into her pockets and marches toward her next class. She has donned sunglasses and a hoodie, determined to stick to her schedule and evade any news teams that might be prowling the campus.

When her cell phone rings, she narrows her eyes at the Seattle area code and answers briskly, ready to scold the intruder who has managed to locate her number. But she recognizes the voice and pulls up short.

“Agent Bender?”

“Well, it’s not ‘Agent’ anymore. Call me Milo.”

“You’re not an agent anymore?”

“I’m retired.”

How old is old enough to be retired? An image comes to mind, but Milo Bender seems fit and tall and ageless. The tension leaves her shoulders as she remembers the man who could always be persuaded to bring her chocolate ice cream during Flint’s trial. Even after Agent Bender’s testimony, when he didn’t need to be there and surely had other things to do, he would show up at the courthouse to check on how she was doing. Her family seemed to orbit around him. She pictures him talking with her mother, their heads tipped together, and suffers a pang of longing.

Releasing the image, she forces herself to confront the subject lurking in the background. “You’re calling about Flint, aren’t you?”

“I’d hoped that soulless devil would stay locked up forever.”

“You and me both.” She sighs. “Anyway, I’m glad Agent Blankenship asked you to call me.”

“I spoke with his boss, actually. I gather that Blankenship’s not the most tactful guy in the world.”

“Yeah, he was kind of a jerk. He practically accused me of being Flint’s accomplice.”

Bender grunts his disapproval. “They’re desperate to find a solid lead. Desperation makes people stupid. And now Flint’s trail has gone cold.”

“How could they let him escape?”

“That’s what I’m wondering. And what triggered this? And why now? I mean, he causes no trouble for years and then suddenly murders two people. What’s that about? No one has any idea. And Reeve, you won’t like this, but you’re the only one who seems to have any real insight into the man, now that Dr. Moody is dead.”

She flinches. “The thing about Dr. Moody . . . I didn’t know that Flint would kill him. I never expected that.”

“Of course not. No one could have. Besides, you called the sheriff’s department, you tried to warn them.”

“I tried to call you first.”

“You really did?”

“But your line was disconnected.”

“I’m sorry. Perhaps I should have called you when I retired. I considered it, but thought a call from me might be upsetting.”

Hearing Bender’s voice, remembering his intelligent blue eyes behind wire-rim glasses and his gentle manner, she says, “You’re the last person I’d find upsetting.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, may I ask a few questions?”

She steels herself. “If I can help.”

“How did you know that Daryl Wayne Flint would go to Dr. Moody’s?”

“It was just a guess, but it seemed obvious that Flint would seek out that connection. Besides, he’d see an opportunity with Moody.”

“In what way?”

“His arrogance, for one thing.”

“Flint’s?”

“No, I mean Moody’s.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, haven’t you read his books?”

A pause. “Um, no, I’m afraid I’ve fallen behind in my reading. I’ve had some health issues.”

She tenses. “What kind of health issues?”

“Just a little surgery.”

“What kind of surgery?”

“Heart surgery. No big deal. They fixed me right up.”

“Heart surgery? Are you okay?” she asks, her voice rising an octave.

“That was years ago. I’m fine now, but I lost track of Dr. Moody. So please continue. Tell me how you figured that Flint would go after him.”

She exhales loudly. “Not that he would go
after
him, no, not that. But think about it: Dr. Moody was his confidante.”

“Hmm, yes, as well as a link to the outside world. So you realized that Flint might have become . . . somewhat dependent on that connection. Is that what you mean?”

“But I have no idea why Flint killed him. Maybe he resented Dr. Moody. Maybe he disliked the notion that his psychiatrist had the audacity to pretend he understood him.”

Bender hums a note. “So you think Flint wanted to prove to Dr. Moody that he was the one in control?”

“But it’s not rocket science. The profilers should have figured this out.”

“You’d think so. But Flint’s case was considered closed.”

“Was. Past tense.”

“Correct. So now they’re at a loss. The initial theory was that Flint’s mother might be hiding him, since she’s the only person who visited him at the hospital.”

“She was weird.” Reeve frowns, picturing the woman. So charming on the witness stand, so menacing in private. An unpleasant encounter in the women’s restroom flashes through her mind and she adds, “Weird in a witchy kind of way.”

“I remember. You and your sister made up a term for her, uh . . . what was it?”

“Obsessive-repulsive disorder.”

He laughs. “That was it.”

“I was wondering, how many times did his mother visit him? Do you know?”

“Good question. Let’s see . . .”

It seems as if he’s flipping through pages, and it occurs to her that Bender has a copy of Flint’s records. She recalls the heavy briefcase crammed with files that he always carried with him.