Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (17 page)

He smiles, eyeing the selection.

Betty always starts with the most expensive. “They’re breathable, comfortable, and very natural looking,” she says, showing him a brunette shoulder-length cut. “These human-hair wigs are excellent quality. Might this style suit your wife?”

He strokes his chin. “It might. But I think she’d like an assortment. You know, there’s so little she can enjoy at this stage of her treatment. And it would amuse her, I think, to have blond hair one day, maybe black the next, you know?”

“Of course.”

The man glances indifferently past the most expensive hairpieces of long, flowing locks, and his eyes stop at a short, sassy, blond wig.

“That one’s very popular,” she says. “Synthetic hair, but it’s a fine wig.” She lifts it off the mannequin to show him the inside. “See? It’s quite well made.”

He smiles, accepting the blond wig, turning it around, cocking his head from side to side. The way he holds it when he glances in the mirror reveals that the wig is not for his wife, but for him.

The sick wife is a fiction, but this does not shock her. Drag queens are some of her best customers. Still, this man . . . He lacks the charm and sparkle of a drag queen. She wonders for a moment about his personal habits.

He interrupts her thoughts, asking, “What about that one?” He points behind her.

She turns toward a black synthetic wig with a tousled look. “Oh, yes, very stylish. This hairdo looks good on anyone.”

She turns back around and is startled to find that he has crept up so close.

“Oh yes, I’m sure she’d like it,” he says, and there’s a strange scent on his breath. Something alcoholic and herbal, almost like cough medicine.

He lifts the wig from her hands. “I’ll take it. Plus, I need one more. I need three.”

Another customer enters the store, a woman that Betty recognizes with a wave, and the man suddenly seems in a rush. Without any encouraging remarks from Betty, he selects a mannish, helmet-shaped auburn wig and then hurries over to the cash register.

“One, two, three,” he says. “Very good. What do I owe you?” To the shopkeeper’s pleasure, he pays for all three wigs in cash. But it bothers her that he seems so familiar, and the image of his face seems to linger like a bad smell.

R
eeve tries to forget about Flint’s drawings and focus on what lies ahead at Dr. Moody’s house. The FBI has already done a thorough search, so they can’t expect to discover any significant evidence. But she wants to retrace Flint’s steps, and she’s grateful that Bender has managed to arrange it.

While Bender drives, she sits alert in the passenger seat, an open map in her lap and another one on her phone. She looks at one, then the other, then out the window, studying road signs and landmarks. “I guess it might be different if I’d been old enough to drive when I lived here, but this area’s confusing. Mount Rainier is about the only thing I recognize.”

It’s a clear October day and the mountain dominates the southern skyline. She’d forgotten how majestic it is, rising cold blue and snowy white. They cross a bridge and exit into West Seattle, heading toward the water. In a few minutes they’re driving south along the waterfront, past a park of dense conifers. The Evergreen State, true to its name.

As traffic slows near the ferry terminal, she wonders aloud what compelled Flint to drive here. “I don’t get it. He stashed the barber’s car at the storage unit, and then came here on a motorcycle? That seems risky. Why not just disappear?”

“Good question.”

“And Flint apparently acted alone in killing Dr. Moody, is that right?”

“The bureau found no evidence of another person.”

“So if he came here solo, who set up the storage unit?”

“A friend, maybe someone Flint met at the hospital. Or someone who had a grudge against Dr. Moody.” Bender nods toward the ferry terminal. “One thought is that he’s hiding out on Vashon Island, but I doubt that. Unless, of course, he’s got a connection with someone there.”

She frowns. “It’s hard enough trying to figure out what Flint is up to, much less some mysterious accomplice.”

“It could be accomplices, plural. Meanwhile, that reward money is bringing in a slew of half-baked leads, which means a lot of extra work. I don’t envy Agent Blankenship.”

Bender maneuvers through the congestion and follows the waterfront to Moody’s neighborhood, where the homes become progressively more upscale, with expensive cars in the driveways.

“So how did Flint find Moody’s house?” Reeve asks, searching for the address.

“Well, perhaps Moody talked about it. He was the type to boast about his property, don’t you think?” Bender turns into the driveway and parks.

“Yeah, I guess he could have shown Flint pictures on his phone during their chummy sessions together,” she says, getting out of the car. “But I don’t think he would have drawn him a map.”

A curved walkway leads to wide stone steps and tall double doors. Bender sets down his briefcase and is fitting the key into the lock when Reeve stops him with a touch on his sleeve. “Wait. How did Flint get inside? If he could find a way in, I could too.”

“What makes you say that?”

She gives him a look. “Entrance and egress is something I’ve given a lot of thought.”

“Right, sorry. Well, hold on and I’ll check.” He stoops to open his briefcase, pulls out a file, and in a moment puts his finger on a paragraph. “It says there was no sign of forced entry.”

“So Dr. Moody let him in?” She frowns.

“That’s interesting,” he says, putting the papers away and turning back to the door. It swings open, and Reeve follows him into a large, cool foyer with marble floors and a high chandelier.

She glances around, then turns to study the door, hands on hips. “Moody lets him in? After hearing that Flint killed someone? I can’t picture it.”

“Maybe he found a spare key.”

She raises her eyebrows in reply.

The house is impressive, with hardwood floors and high ceilings, expensively framed art and fine furnishings. Wood gleams and a faint smell of polish hangs in the chilly air. All of the surfaces are immaculate.

“Somebody didn’t waste any time cleaning up,” Bender observes. “There’s no residue of fingerprint powder.”

“So, what did the FBI find here?”

Bender has studied the file, and as he leads her through the now-spotless house, he details what was found: the empty beer bottles and dirty dishes, the rumpled sheets, the missing clothes. “Flint felt no compulsion to clean up or hide the fact that he’d been here. And he didn’t worry about leaving prints.”

“Your guys would call that evidence of a disorganized offender, wouldn’t they?”

He gives a shrug. “Or someone who just doesn’t care, someone very confident that leaving behind a lot of evidence is of no great importance.”

When they enter the den, she notices that Bender’s eyes go immediately to the desk. “What is it about the desk?”

Bender explains that Flint left food crumbs and enough trace from his shoes to make it clear that he’d put his feet up on the desk. “Very territorial behavior.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “What else? There’s something more, right? What is it that you’re not telling me?”

He sighs. “There are some missing files. It appears that Flint took everything that Dr. Moody had about him and . . .” Casting a rueful look her way, he adds, “I’m afraid some of those files would have contained information about you.”

She stiffens. “What kind of information?”

“It’s hard to say. Dr. Moody would have kept notes from his sessions with Flint, of course. And he likely kept files related to the trial.”

Questions spin through her mind as she sinks onto a low sofa facing the desk. She can picture Flint enjoying a snack while pawing through files with his greasy fingers.

Bender is staring at her. “Are you okay?”

“What time did Dr. Moody get home?”

“He left the restaurant around ten, so he would’ve gotten home by ten-thirty or so.”

“I think Flint was already here,” she says, looking at the desk, “waiting for him.”

“That could fit.”

“Did Flint take anything else from the office?”

“The safe was open and anything of value was taken. Apparently, Dr. Moody had recently purchased several thousand dollars in gold coins, which may have been what Flint was after. Money is a pretty good motivator. Could be Dr. Moody was a victim of his own affluence.”

Something nags at her. She gets to her feet and scans the room. “Where was Moody killed?”

He hesitates, and she asks again, “Where?”

“In the basement. You might not want to go down there.”

She takes a breath. “I’ve had lots of therapy. I can handle basements.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods.

“Okay, your call. But let’s finish up here first.”

They head next to the garage, where Bender stops short, whistling a long note. “Now this is what I call a car. Look at these lines.” He circles the Audi R8, clearly resisting the temptation to touch it. “I’d say Dr. Moody was having one heckuva midlife crisis.”

She frowns at the car. “Too bad Flint didn’t take this one instead of Moody’s SUV.”

“Sure, the SUV is much less conspicuous.”

“What else did he take?”

Bender quickly runs through the list, pausing after he mentions fishing tackle.

“You’re wondering if I remember anything more about a fishing cabin.” She rubs her eyes, trying to summon up an image, but any notion slips away like noodles off a spoon. “Sorry.”

They leave the chilly garage and head back into the house. The moment they reach the kitchen, the front door bangs open, followed by the rapid clicking of a woman’s heels.

A trim woman in black bursts in, shouting, “Who the hell are you? And what the hell are you doing in my house?”

“Mrs. Moody?” Bender says. “We’re so sorry to intrude. We were told the house was vacant. We’re consulting with the FBI.” He rushes through introductions and shows Mrs. Moody the key with the case number attached. “Again, I apologize. We didn’t expect you.”

“Well, you better not touch anything,” Mrs. Moody warns. “If anything’s missing, I . . . I . . .” She looks around and says angrily, “The house is
mine
now, you know. You really have to leave.”

“Yes, of course.” Bender takes a step toward the door, but she blocks the way, standing with feet apart, and doesn’t move.

“Can you believe he divorced me?” she demands. “But now
I’m
the one who has to deal with his mess. With the funeral, with his family, with all this bullshit. That lying bastard. I’m glad he’s dead.” She hiccups a laugh and starts to weep.

Reeve watches, chewing a lip while Bender offers the woman a tissue.

“Thank you,” she says, dabbing her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m usually not like this.”

“Of course,” he says in a sympathetic tone. “This is a difficult time for you.”

“At least he left me the house. At least he didn’t change his will.” She stares blankly out the window a moment, then her red eyes find Bender’s. “Did you see that ridiculous car? I don’t want to even think about all the whores he had in that thing. I’ll sell it like
that,”
she says with a snap of her fingers.

Reeve fidgets, shooting Bender a look.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Mrs. Moody says, straightening, “but you two really need to go.”

“We were just about to head out. Again, we’re very sorry to intrude.”

Still blocking the doorway, she says, “Shit, I forgot why I came.” She looks around as if lost, then blurts, “Oh, I remember! I need some kind of memorabilia, photographs or something for the funeral, but I don’t—” Her face crumples and tears slide down her cheeks.

Again, Bender tries to soothe her, handing her another tissue.

“I saw some trophies in the den,” Reeve suggests. “Maybe you’d like to take those?”

Mrs. Moody flashes a fierce smile. “Excellent idea.” Stepping quickly past them, she opens a cupboard and snatches out a shopping bag. “A couple of trophies, a few photos, and I’ll be out of this place. This damn house, I’ll sell it, too. I can’t live here.”

She leads them into the foyer, saying, “All I need to do is keep it together for his family. All I need to do is make it through the funeral. All I need to do is make it through one day after another.”

But she doesn’t open the door. Instead, she stands there with the empty shopping bag, staring at something they can’t see, whispering, “This is what happens, this is what happens.”

Bender opens the door and they exit quietly, without any acknowledgment from Mrs. Moody.

“Well now, wasn’t
that
interesting?” Bender says, climbing into the driver’s seat.

“God, she seems unstable, doesn’t she? I can’t tell if she’s happy or sad that Moody’s dead.” She puts on her seat belt. “So, when did they get divorced?”

“Why? You’ve got that pensive look.”

“I’m guessing not long ago. Because the Audi is brand new, right? And look . . .” She gestures toward the Mercedes parked in the driveway. “His ex-wife took the luxury sedan.”

“I see. She left him with the utilitarian SUV, so then he goes out and buys the car of his dreams. Sounds reasonable.”

A beat of silence.

“I wonder what Dr. Moody drove to the hospital.”

Bender cocks an eyebrow. “Your point being . . .”

“Flint made a habit of watching the parking lot. Suppose he always sees Dr. Moody driving a Mercedes, then he’s suddenly driving an ordinary SUV, and after that, he shows up driving that flashy Audi.”

“So maybe Flint made a point of asking about the new car.”

“Or Moody bragged about it.”

“In any case, Flint figured out—”

“—that Moody was living alone,” they say in unison.

They share a conspiratorial look and then fall silent as Bender wheels away from the house.

Reeve unconsciously massages the numb side of her left hand, a permanent reminder of her captivity. “But why did he kill Dr. Moody? Why not just tie him up, hit the road, and disappear?”