Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (13 page)

“Flint’s dad?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s odd. What did she say about him?”

“I don’t know. Um, like reminiscing about their wedding day, stuff like that.”

“Can you be more specific? Did you overhear the particulars of their conversations?”

“Well, she would say, like, we had such a nice wedding, in such a nice church, and la-de-da. And she’d say, you remember our wedding anniversary, don’t you? And she’d make him recite it back to her.”

“The date?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember what it was?”

He shakes his head, saying, “Nah, I can’t remember particulars like that. I told those FBI guys already. Sorry.”

When Synderman can remember nothing more, Vincent checks his watch and leads them down a wide corridor to the cafeteria.

Reeve touches Bender’s elbow and asks softly, “Flint’s mother was married twice, wasn’t she?”

“That’s right. She’s been married to a Tacoma pharmacist named Pratt for years.”

“When was her first marriage?”

Bender shakes his head. “The date’s in the file, I believe.”

She closes her eyes, trying to recall anything that Flint might have said about his parents, but comes up empty.

A few moments later, the greasy, layered smells of the hospital cafeteria spark an unbidden memory. She blinks rapidly, trying to quell a painful recollection of waiting with her father in the hospital cafeteria while her mother endured those final rounds of chemo.

Bender glances at her and whispers, “Are you okay?”

She nods and follows Vincent, who is striding ahead, waving toward the refrigerated salads and brightly lit steam trays. “The kitchen staff takes pride in preparing healthy, nutritious meals,” he is saying, seeming most comfortable with this part of his tour.

Bender asks about how the forensic unit is treated differently from the rest of the population, and while Vincent explains, Reeve murmurs, “Excuse me,” and crosses the room to the gleaming wall of windows. She stands with hands clasped, studying the basketball court, which is now vacant. It seems foreboding, black and wet beneath a low ceiling of clouds.

Rejoining Bender and Vincent, she asks, “Did Flint play basketball?”

“Uh, he could have. All our patients are given daily rec time.”

“May I go out and take a look?”

“Now?” He wheels toward the windows and frowns. “In the rain?”

“That’s the idea.”

Vincent shifts from foot to foot. “Well, I don’t have a key.” He glances out the windows with a grimace. “Let me find the orderly.”

T
he orderly, a heavy man who introduces himself as Gary, gently cups Reeve’s elbow and asks, “You’re sure, miss?”

“Yes, show me exactly what he did.”

“Okay.” He lifts the hood of his weatherproof jacket up over his shaggy hair and says, “Follow me.”

The two descend the steps and proceed toward the basketball court. There’s no wind, but drizzle has turned to a pattering rain. Their boots splash out to center court, where Gary stops.

“Right here. He’d stand right here and spin in circles.”

She edges the man aside and starts to turn, but the man stops her, saying, “No, miss, the other way. Counterclockwise. Three times. That was his thing. And he would put his arms straight out,” he says, demonstrating, “like this.”

She stands in the same way, arms extended, and looks across the court, through the chain-link fence toward the parking lot. She turns slowly to the left. The view wheels past: the bright windows of the cafeteria; a stretch of blank wall; and then the ironclad windows of a corner office, which she recognizes as Dr. Blume’s. Next, her eyes follow the tall chain-link fence, beyond which the greenery thickens to forest.

“Miss? You need to see the rest now?” Gary shifts uncomfortably. “Or is this enough?”

“The rest? What else did he do?”

She listens intently while Gary explains, then says she’d like to try it, if he has a few minutes.

He shoots a glance at the dry steps beneath the overhang.

“Why don’t you wait beside the building, out of the rain?” she suggests.

“Well, sure, I guess so.”

The moment he turns to go, she hurries to the edge of the asphalt and begins circumnavigating the basketball court. As the scene glides past, she notes the people inside, framed by the windows and lit up with bright fluorescent lights.

Next, she walks across the grass toward the fence line. Rain drips in her face and dampens her jeans, and she’s grateful for Milo Bender’s oversized weatherproof jacket. As she studies the parking lot, a heavy man in a parka appears. She hears the chirp of the keyless entry and watches as he ambles toward a black sedan, opens the door, and climbs inside. The car exits the parking lot, and when it disappears through the trees, she heads back to join Gary on the steps.

“The rain doesn’t bother you, does it?” he says. “You’re just like him.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, it didn’t matter what the weather was, he’d still come out here and do his thing. And everyone just kinda left him alone. Some kinds of crazy you just don’t mess with.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say he wasn’t the kind of guy you’d introduce your sister to.” He laughs. “Maybe an ex-girlfriend.”

“Can you think of anything else?”

He holds open the door for her. “Oh, he had some quirks. He’d tap his foot three times, or repeat something three times. He called all the orderlies guards, and he called Dr. Blume ‘Wanda the Warden.’ Stuff like that.”

They shed their dripping jackets and head down the corridor, back toward the visitors’ lounge.

“Hey, can I ask you something, miss?” he says, giving her a sideways look.

“Sure.”

“You here for the reward? Is that right?”

“No, I have, uh, personal reasons.”

“Yeah? Well, if I was you, I’d go for that reward. Fifty grand, that’d pay some bills. I’d sure go after it if I could, but employees, you know, we’re not eligible. I guess they figure we’d be helping guys escape just so we could rat ’em out and collect some cash, right?”

“I guess.” She stops and gives him a look. “Does that happen a lot?”

“What? Escapes? Nah, never. I’ve been here sixteen years and this is the first one I’ve ever heard of. People don’t escape a place like this. Most of the patients are voluntary. Nonviolent. And this is a pretty good treatment facility, really. Even the forensic wards.”

R
eeve and Bender exit the building the same way they came in. They’re hastening through the rain when she says, “Give me one second,” and stops beside a red BMW. A sign on the curb states
Chief of Psychiatry.

She stands in the rain, surveying the road and the parking lot. She peers through the chain-link fence toward the basketball court, then dashes across the parking lot and climbs in beside Bender.

He looks at her quizzically. “I see wheels turning. Come on.”

“I keep thinking about motive and opportunity.” She gives him a sideways glance. “That’s what you guys always look for, right?”

“Sure, partly. Go on.”

“It just seems obvious that he was playing them.”

“How so?”

“That routine of his out in the recreation yard? He could watch whoever was coming and going. I bet he saw the barber arrive. He knew which car was his and where he parked.”

“The investigators thought so, too. That’s in the file.”

“Oh.” A beat of disappointment. “Well, so much for my brilliant powers of deduction.”

“Shows you’re on the right track. What else?”

She crosses her arms. “Nothing.”

“What? I’ll bet you’re thinking we ought to talk to Flint’s mother.”

“God, no. That woman gives me the creeps.”

He smiles and starts the car. “Well, that’s a relief.”

While the hospital recedes behind them, Reeve scowls out the window as if studying a Rorschach. Flint drove this same road, dressed in the barber’s clothes, driving the dead man’s Honda. . . . But there’s not a glimmer of intuition in her head. Why did she even bother to come up here?

“What I’m wondering,” Bender says, “is what triggered all this? Flint was nonviolent and appropriately managed, and then he went haywire.”

“Maybe we should put together a timeline.”

“Good idea. What has changed?”

Reeve fishes a pen and notepad from her purse. “The only real change since he’s been at Olshaker was last winter. Dr. Lerner had to come up here for a hearing and the judge ruled that Flint could be moved from maximum to medium security.”

“And shortly after that, Dr. Blume became the new chief of psychiatry.”

“But she said she never even spoke to him.” She huffs out a sigh. “I keep coming back to his mother and Dr. Moody. I wonder if they had some sort of connection.”

“That’s possible. Another question: What did Flint do with the barber’s car?”

“It hasn’t been found?”

“Nope. Best guess, he stashed it someplace near Moody’s house, but it hasn’t turned up yet. One theory is that he stashed the car with a friend, perhaps a former inmate, maybe an orderly. But the bureau has interviewed the staff, plus anyone significant in the patient population. Nothing popped.”

“Frustrating.” The windshield wipers beat back and forth as she stares out at an area of mixed residential and industrial use. A vacant lot, an auto body shop, houses in need of paint. The nondescript outskirts of small-town America.

The tip of her tongue reaches for her upper lip while she pictures Flint speeding away in the Honda. “Flint got away before anyone even knew he was missing. And then he headed to Dr. Moody’s. So maybe we should do the same.”

“What?” Bender turns to look at her. “You want to go to Dr. Moody’s? Now? Are you serious?”

“Why not? That’s what Flint did. How long does it take to get there?”

“I hate to be a spoilsport, but it’s getting late and my old bones are tired. How about tomorrow?”

She slumps in her seat. “Okay but promise you’ll pick me up at my hotel first thing in the morning.”

“Hotel? No way. You’re staying with us.”

“Really? Oh, I don’t want to impose.”

“We insist. Yvonne’s looking forward to seeing you.”

She lets out a yelp. “Wait! Stop! Stop the car,” she says, slapping the dashboard.

He slams on the brakes.

“Go back, go back!” she says, twisting in her seat to stare out the back windshield.

“Why?”

“Just turn around!”

“What is it?” Bender says, cranking the wheel and doing a quick U-turn.

“Look there, that sign,” she says, pointing.

“What sign?”

“That street sign. Church Street. The guard said Flint’s mother talked about her wedding in a church. He called her a sentimental old bat. Does that sound like her?”

“No, but what—”

“Just turn here, okay?”

Bender turns onto the street. “What are we looking for?”

“I’m not sure,” she says, scanning from side to side. “But why would Flint’s mother get all sentimental about her wedding to Flint’s dad? I mean, she’s re-married, so what’s up with that?”

Bender drives along slowly while he studies one side and she studies the other. “I don’t see anything. Besides, Mrs. Pratt has already been investigated, and I’m sure the bureau has—”

“Look there!” She jabs a finger toward a building and Bender hits the brakes.

“Church Street Storage?”

“Yes, and see the street signs? We’re at the corner of Church and April. Couldn’t that be code for a wedding date?” She leans far forward, trying to see inside the facility. “I’ll bet they’ve got units big enough for a car.”

He turns into the driveway, saying, “Well now, let’s take a look.”

F
or the first time since his retirement, Milo Bender could really use a badge.

The scruffy man in charge of the storage facility refuses to show his records to a civilian. He’s within his rights, of course, so Bender has no choice but to excuse himself and call Stuart Cox, who practically bellows, “You’re
what
? Investigating a lead with that LeClaire girl? Are you kidding me?”

“Calm down and listen. No guarantees, but I think we’ve got something.”

He keeps talking until Cox sees the larger picture.

“All right, Bender, I’ll send an agent. Wait right there while we get a warrant.”

When Bender climbs back into his vehicle, Reeve is biting a knuckle. “This makes sense, doesn’t it? I’m not crazy, right?”

“It makes sense to me. And I’ll tell you what, it must make sense to the bureau, too, or they wouldn’t be scrambling to get a warrant.”

“But what if there’s nothing here?”

“Welcome to Investigation 101: Waiting to be wrong.” He drums his fingers on the dashboard, then says, “Excuse me, but I need to call Yvonne,” and he reaches across to get his cell phone out of the glove box.

Her eyes go wide. “That’s your cell phone? Can you even text on that thing?”

Bender gives her a look. “You sound just like my son.”

“Then your son is right, because you clearly need a new phone.”

“I don’t need to text, and I don’t need another fancy gadget.”

“You can’t text? Seriously?”

“Sure, I
can,
but they make the keypad so damn small, and with these fat fingers?” He wiggles his extra-large digits for emphasis. “Besides, I don’t need to text. I’m retired.”

He phones his wife to tell her they’ll be late for dinner. And he cringes when he has to admit that he forgot to bring his evening dose of pills with him. Yvonne scolds him, like she always does, before promising to have a nice dinner ready for them when they arrive.

While they wait, Reeve pulls out her smart phone, which seems to keep her busy while Bender thinks about the things he has no intention of sharing, things that he can’t get out of his head.

While she was out on the basketball court, tromping around in the rain, Bender had made a point of interviewing another patient, a rat-faced guy named Sven, who had apparently been Flint’s closest buddy behind bars. Sven was a fellow sex offender, and Sven and Flint had spent time together in art therapy.