Say Goodbye (32 page)

I’m patient, careful, observant.

Just a spider on the wall, you know, slowly spinning my web.

After checking on my past associates, I move on to the evening’s real event. I hit the sites, the blogs, the chat rooms. I make new “friends” and I tell these men everything I know how to do. I promise them action. I promise them live footage. All I need is a little info first. And once I have it, I strike.

I empty their bank accounts. I max out their credit cards, then take out new ones in their names. I set up second mortgages on e-banks and issue lines of credit. I become them, cyber identity theft. And I transfer all their money to the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Thousands of dollars, tens of thousands of dollars, hundreds of thousands of dollars. I take everything; it’s the least they deserve.

They could complain, of course. All they’d have to do is turn over their financial records—including their online activities—to their wives, their business partners, the police.

I wonder what it feels like, when they finally realize what’s going on. That those credit card charges are not a mistake. That those e-mails from their PayPal accounts warning them of unusual activity aren’t phishing. That their checking account really is empty, and that new line of credit, already maxed out.

I wonder what it feels like when they realize there is nothing they can do. That their home is going to be foreclosed on, their brand-new car seized. That their bank accounts are frozen, their credit cards capped, and their online activities…hey, nobody’s gonna let a broke schmuck download kiddy porn.

I wonder what it feels like when they realize that they are finished, washed up, done. When they realize they are going to live the rest of their lives a specimen in the collection.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

IT TAKES A LOT OF PEOPLE TO WRITE A BOOK. FIRST, there is my cute and adorable daughter. She helped inspire the book, mostly by becoming obsessed with spiders. Her newfound interest was kindled by neighbors Pam and Glenda, who gave her a set of fun-colored spider lights, then stoked by Paul and Lynda, who presented her with a tarantula roughly the size of a terrier. My daughter immediately declared the tarantula to be the mommy spider and set her up in our formal living room.

Once you’ve started living with a dog-size tarantula, a suspense novel is bound to follow.

Then there is fellow writer Sheila Connolly, who, upon hearing that I was working on a book involving spiders, offered her husband, an entomologist, to assist. Dave Williams is the kind of guy who once kept a black widow as a pet, so he was extraordinarily helpful. He not only sent me photos of brown recluse spider bites, but helped me track down an excellent article on body decomposition in outdoor hanging cases. Not everyone appreciates these things, but I learned a lot. Thanks, Dave!

Then there is my dear friend Don Taylor, who was so taken with my daughter’s hobby that he sent her several books on arachnids. We both loved the novels, though after reading Doreen Cronin’s
Diary of a Spider,
my daughter is also now into flies and worms. Thanks, Don!

Next up is dear friend Lisa Mac. I was bogged down one night trying to research on the Internet unusual ways to hide bodies (note to readers: search term “good ways to dispose of bodies” leads to some scary chat rooms). When I called Lisa to let her know I was running late, she literally screeched into the phone, “Stop, I have the perfect idea. I’ll be right there.” You know what, Lisa? You were right.

Then I must thank longtime friend and associate Dr. Greg Moffatt. When I mentioned I needed to come to Georgia to research a novel, he and his family rolled out the welcome mat. Now, most hosts will show you around town, but how many will take you crime scene shopping on Blood Mountain? Once again, Greg, you went above and beyond the call of duty. Thank you for a wonderful, if slightly different, Georgia tour.

I must also thank Supervisory Special Agent Stephen Emmett of the Atlanta FBI for helping me understand the Atlanta field office; Special Agent Paul Delacourt, who updated me on the post-9/11 bureau, and better yet, mentioned that the ERTs would be a perfect extracurricular for Kimberly; and finally Special Agent Roslyn B. Harris, senior team leader of the Atlanta Division Evidence Response Team, and Supervisory Special Agent Rob Coble who then graciously agreed to answer my multitude of questions regarding ERTs and the use of the Total Station. Of course all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Forensic anthropologist Lee Jantz, from the University of Tennessee’s famed Body Farm, kindly walked me through the basics of an outdoor search and body recovery. Thank you also, Lee, for your research into fabric decomp and other little tidbits that I hope created one really creepy scene. Again, all mistakes—and fictional license!—are mine and mine alone.

Under care and feeding of authors: Thank you to my brilliant editor, Kate Miciak, and the entire Bantam publishing team, who make the real magic happen; to Meg Ruley and the entire Jane Rotrosen Agency team, who understand neurotic authors and, through their hard work, actually allow us to be slightly less neurotic; to Michael Carr, my first reader whose laserlike analytics shredded the original draft, left me cranky beyond words, and, of course, helped create a better novel (in return, I’m taking his wife to a spa and leaving him alone with four kids, hah!); to Kevin Breenky and the other nice folks at Jif for the care packages, kind notes, and shared smiles. To John and Genn from the J-Town Deli, whose daily supply of raspberry yum-yums kept me cranking through the late afternoons; to Larry and Leslie of the Thompson House Eatery, who graciously opened up their home for the book jacket photo shoot and, even better, fed us lunch. And to Brandi and Sarah for all the reasons they know best.

Finally, I owe a huge thanks to my husband. For years, I have praised the rich, chocolaty confections he has showered upon me during the final crush of deadline. This time, my husband went one better: He got me an out-of-the-house office. I told him he was nuts. Work is work, doesn’t matter where you do it. I am happy to report that in this case, the office made all the difference. So here you go, love, the three words all husbands would like to see in print: You were right!

(We will now resume our normal operating system.)

I hope Kathy Ransom, winner of the fourth annual Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy Sweepstakes, enjoys seeing her daughter, Nicole Evans, immortalized as a Lucky Stiff. Likewise, I hope Beth Hunnicutt, winner of the
Oregonian
’s “Why I Should Be a Corpse in Lisa Gardner’s Next Novel,” finds satisfaction in her fictional death, given the genuine trials she’s survived in real life. And finally, thank you to Lynn Stoudt, whose generous donation to the Gwinnett County Library entitled her to be a character in this novel (one of my first living entries!).

For those of you wishing you could get in on the action, don’t worry: The annual Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy Sweepstakes kicks off every September at
www.lisagardner.com
. Check it out and maybe in my next novel, you too can meet a grand end.

In closing, I would like to dedicate this novel to Jackie Sparks and the other staff members of Children Unlimited, Inc. Of all the novels I’ve written, this book is by far the most violent, and yes, it was difficult to write. I would like to tell you that the Burgerman is fictionalized, that his actions are nothing more than the warped product of my twisted imagination. Sadly, most of the information in those scenes came from true cases. The Burgermans of the world are real, and the damage they do is heartbreaking.

Which is why I am so grateful to the everyday heroes among us. People like Jackie, who, through early intervention services, child advocacy, and other programs, have dedicated their lives to helping kids. They provide the support, nurturing, and therapeutic services necessary for young lives to recover. They provide a voice for children whose fears often can’t be spoken.

Thank you, Jackie, for fighting the good fight. And thank you to all the early intervention services providers and child advocates out there, who understand that every child should be able to feel safe, valued, and loved.

Sincerely,
Lisa Gardner

Postscript
January 30, 2008

I started researching
Say Goodbye
in the fall of 2006, completing work on the manuscript in August 2007. Like most authors, I was grateful to finally complete a year-long project, and closed up my files without a backwards glance. Thus, I was dismayed to turn on the news the first week in January 2008 and hear that a young woman, Meredith Emerson, had gone missing while hiking Blood Mountain. Sadly, her body was discovered days later, a tragic end to a very promising life. I hope readers will understand that the fictional scenes portrayed in
Say Goodbye
were never intended to mimic any real world homicides, or exploit a genuine tragedy. My heart goes out to Meredith Emerson’s friends, family and community, now left to pick up the pieces.

PROLOGUE

Who do you love?

It’s a question anyone should be able to answer. A question that defines a life, creates a future, guides most minutes of one’s days. Simple, elegant, encompassing
.

Who do you love?

He asked the question, and I felt the answer in the weight of my duty belt, the constrictive confines of my armored vest, the tight brim of my trooper’s hat, pulled low over my brow. I reached down slowly, my fingers just brushing the top of my Sig Sauer, holstered at my hip
.

“Who do you love?” he cried again, louder now, more insistent
.

My fingers bypassed my state-issued weapon, finding the black leather keeper that held my duty belt to my waist. The Velcro rasped loudly as I unfastened the first band, then the second, third, fourth. I worked the metal buckle, then my twenty pound duty belt, complete with my sidearm, Taser, and collapsible steel baton released from my waist and dangled in the space between us
.

“Don’t do this,” I whispered, one last shot at reason
.

He merely smiled. “Too little, too late.”

“Where’s Sophie? What did you do?”

“Belt. On the table. Now.”

“No.”

“GUN. On the table. NOW!”

In response, I widened my stance, squaring off in the middle of the kitchen, duty belt still suspended from my left hand. Four years of my life, patrolling the highways of Massachusetts, swearing to defend and protect. I had training and experience on my side
.

I could go for my gun. Commit to the act, grab the Sig Sauer, and start shooting
.

Sig Sauer was holstered at an awkward angle that would cost me precious seconds. He was watching, waiting for any sudden movement. Failure would be firmly and terribly punished
.

Who do you love?

He was right. That’s what it came down to in the end. Who did you love and how much would you risk for them?

“GUN!” he boomed. “Now, dammit!”

I thought of my six-year-old daughter, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skinny arms wrapped tight around my neck, the sound of her voice as I tucked her in bed each night. “Love you, Mommy,” she always whispered
.

Love you, more, baby. Love you, more
.

His arm moved, first tentative stretch for the suspended duty belt, my holstered weapon
.

One last chance …

I looked my husband in the eye. A single heartbeat of time
.

Who do you love?

I made my decision. I set down my trooper’s belt on the kitchen table
.

And he grabbed my Sig Sauer and opened fire
.

1

S
ERGEANT DETECTIVE D.D. WARREN
prided herself on her excellent investigative skills. Having served over a dozen years with the Boston PD, she believed working a homicide scene wasn’t simply a matter of walking the walk or talking the talk, but rather of total sensory immersion. She felt the smooth hole bored into Sheetrock by a hot spiraling twenty-two. She listened for the sound of neighbors gossiping on the other side of thin walls because if she could hear them, then they’d definitely heard the big bad that had just happened here. D.D. always noted how a body had fallen, whether it was forward or backward or slightly to one side. She tasted the air for the acrid flavor of gunpowder, which could linger for a good twenty to thirty minutes after the final shot. And, on more than one occasion, she had estimated time of death based on the scent of blood—which, like fresh meat, started out relatively mild but took on heavier, earthier tones with each passing hour.

Today, however, she wasn’t going to do any of those things. Today, she was spending a lazy Sunday morning dressed in gray sweats and Alex’s oversized red flannel shirt. She was camped at his kitchen table, clutching a thick clay coffee mug while counting slowly to twenty.

She’d hit thirteen. Alex had finally made it to the front door. Now he paused to wind a deep blue scarf around his neck.

She counted to fifteen.

He finished with the scarf. Moved on to a black wool hat and lined leather gloves. The temperature outside had just crept above twenty. Eight inches of snow on the ground and six more forecasted to arrive by end of week. March didn’t mean spring in New England.

Alex taught crime-scene analysis, among other things, at the Police Academy. Today was a full slate of classes. Tomorrow, they both had the day off, which didn’t happen much and warranted some kind of fun activity yet to be determined. Maybe ice skating in the Boston Commons. Or a trip to the Isabelle Stewart Gardner Museum. Or a lazy day where they snuggled on the sofa and watched old movies with a big bowl of buttered popcorn.

D.D.’s hands spasmed on the coffee mug. Okay, no popcorn.

D.D. counted to eighteen, nineteen, twent—

Alex finished with his gloves, picked up his battered black leather tote, and crossed to her.

“Don’t miss me too much,” he said.

He kissed her on the forehead. D.D. closed her eyes, mentally recited the number twenty, then started counting back down to zero.

“I’ll write you love letters all day, with little hearts over the ‘i’s,” she said.

“In your high school binder?”

“Something like that.”

Alex stepped back. D.D. hit fourteen. Her mug trembled, but Alex didn’t seem to notice. She took a deep breath and soldiered on.
Thirteen, twelve, eleven …

She and Alex had been dating a little over six months. At that point where she had a whole drawer to call her own in his tiny ranch, and he had a sliver of closet space in her North End condo. When he was teaching, it was easier for them to be here. When she was working, it was easier to be in Boston. They didn’t have a set schedule. That would imply planning and further solidify a relationship they were both careful to not overly define.

They enjoyed each other’s company. Alex respected her crazy schedule as a homicide detective. She respected his culinary skills as a third-generation Italian. From what she could tell, they looked forward to the nights when they could get together, but survived the nights when they didn’t. They were two independent-minded adults. She’d just hit forty, Alex had crossed that line a few years back. Hardly blushing teens whose every waking moment was consumed with thoughts of each other. Alex had been married before. D.D. simply knew better.

She lived to work, which other people found unhealthy, but what the hell. It had gotten her this far.

Nine, eight, seven …

Alex opened the front door, squaring his shoulders against the bitter morning. A blast of chilled air shot across the small foyer, hitting D.D.’s cheeks. She shivered, clutched the mug more tightly.

“Love you,” Alex said, stepping across the threshold.

“Love you, too.”

Alex closed the door. D.D. made it down the hall just in time to vomit.

T
en minutes later, she remained sprawled on the bathroom floor. The decorative tiles were from the seventies, dozens and dozens of tiny beige, brown, and harvest gold squares. Looking at them made her want to puke all over again. Counting them, however, was a pretty decent meditative exercise. She inventoried tiles while she waited for her flushed cheeks to cool and her cramped stomach to untangle.

Her cellphone rang. She eyed it on the floor, not terribly interested, given the circumstances. But then she noted the caller and decided to take pity on him.

“What?” she demanded, her usual greeting for former lover and currently married Massachusetts State Police Detective Bobby Dodge.

“I don’t have much time. Listen sharp.”

“I’m not on deck,” she said automatically. “New cases go to Jim Dunwell. Pester him.” Then she frowned. Bobby couldn’t be calling her about a case. As a city cop, she took her orders from the Boston turret, not state police detectives.

Bobby continued as if she’d never spoken: “It’s a fuckup, but I’m pretty sure it’s
our
fuckup, so I need you to listen. Stars and stripes are next door, media across the street. Come in from the back street. Take your time, notice
everything
. I’ve already lost vantage point, and trust me, D.D., on this one, you and I can’t afford to miss a thing.”

D.D.’s frown deepened. “What the hell, Bobby? I have no idea what you’re talking about, not to mention it’s my day off.”

“Not anymore. BPD is gonna want a woman to front this one, while the state is gonna demand their own skin in the game, preferably a former trooper. The brass’s call, our heads on the block.”

She heard a fresh noise now, from the bedroom. Her pager, chiming away. Crap. She was being called in, meaning whatever Bobby was babbling about had merit. She pulled herself to standing, though her legs trembled and she thought she might puke again. She took the first step through sheer force of will and the rest was easier after that. She headed for the bedroom, a detective who’d lost days off before and would again.

“What do I need to know?” she asked, voice crisper now, phone tucked against her shoulder.

“Snow,” Bobby muttered. “On the ground, trees, windows … hell. We got cops tramping everywhere—”

“Get ’em out! If it’s my fucking scene, get ’em all away.”

She found her pager on the bedside table—yep, call out from Boston operations—and began shucking her gray sweatpants.

“They’re out of the house. Trust me, even the bosses know better than to contaminate a homicide scene. But we didn’t know the girl was missing. The uniforms sealed off the house, but left the yard fair play. And now the grounds are trampled, and I can’t get vantage point. We need vantage point.”

D.D. had sweats off, and was working to shed Alex’s flannel shirt.

“Who’s dead?”

“Forty-two-year-old white male.”

“Who’s missing?”

“Six-year-old white female.”

“Got a suspect?”

Long, long pause now.

“Get here,” Bobby said curtly. “You and me, D.D. Our case. Our headache. We gotta work this one quick.”

He clicked off. D.D. scowled at the phone, then tossed it on the bed to finish pulling on her white dress shirt.

Okay. Homicide with a missing child. State police already on-site, but Boston jurisdiction. Why the hell would the state police—

Then, fine detective that she was, D.D. finally connected the dots.

“Ah shit!”

D.D. wasn’t nauseous anymore. She was pissed off.

She grabbed her pager, her creds, and her winter jacket. Then, Bobby’s instructions ringing in her head, she prepared to ambush her own crime scene.