The Secret Friend

Pouring herself another cup of coffee, her mind turned to the question that stood above the others: Why would Emma's abductor risk breaking into her home and risk being caught to retrieve a locket?

Darby didn't have a definitive answer, but she had several theories, all of which pointed back to her original assumption that the man who had abducted these two women and kept them alive for months had, in fact, cared deeply for them.

Darby carried her coffee mug through the living room, on her way to her office. Coop was no longer in the bathroom. Her bedroom door was cracked open a few inches. She moved down the hallway in her socks, about to knock on the door to tell him that the coffee was ready, when she saw Coop, shirtless, slipping into his jeans.

She told herself to look away but kept staring. The hard, knotted muscles in his chest and stomach rippled under his smooth, pale skin as he buttoned his jeans in the bright sunlight pouring through her windows. It was easy to see why so many women took notice of him – the hard body and perfect outline of his jaw; blond hair and blue eyes. But she had seen his other side, the one he kept buried under the charisma and constant joking. She had spent many weekend afternoons with Coop, just the two of them, drinking beer and watching football.

They were friends, she reminded herself and, feeling embarrassed for gawking, quickly ducked into her office.

Emma Hale and Judith Chen hung on the wall, the two young women happy, smiling, eyes bright with hope. Darby was staring at the pictures when her cell phone rang. She removed it from the charger and answered the call.

'I've finished reviewing last night's security tapes,' Tim Bryson said. 'Your friend slipped in through the garage at eight thirty-three and took the delivery elevator to the penthouse.'

'There was no sign of forced entry on the door or the deadbolt.'

'Either he had a key or he picked the lock. There are devices on the market that you can use to slip inside the keyhole and rake the locks. If you know what you're doing, you can open them in a matter of seconds. Or maybe he bumped the lock.'

'Bumped it?'

'You take a key, place it inside the lock then slam it with a hammer, rock, shoe, whatever, and break the lock drum. It's called lock bumping. I'll have someone from burglary take a look. Where are you?'

'I'm at home. I'll be at the lab in about half an hour.'

'Do you have internet access? I want to email you a picture.'

Darby told him to send it to her lab's email address. She could access her account from home.

Her laptop had broadband access. In less than a minute, she was logged on to her Outlook account. She saw Bryson's email with a jpeg attachment and downloaded the picture.

On the screen was a colour headshot of a man with short black hair and pale skin. He had the same black, cadaverous eyes as the man she had met last night.

18

'Where did you get this?' Darby asked.

'Is this your man?'

'It's him, no question. Who is he? Do you know?'

'His name is Malcolm Fletcher. Does the name ring any bells?'

'No. Should it?'

'Fletcher is a former profiler from back when the Investigative Support Unit called itself Behavioral Sciences,' Bryson said. 'He's also the FBI's number four man on their Most Wanted List.'

'What did he do?'

'According to what I've read on the internet, Fletcher attacked three federal agents in eighty-four. One is brain dead. The other two disappeared. Their bodies were never recovered. The interesting thing is the Feds didn't place Fletcher on their Most Wanted List until 2003.'

'What's the reason for the delay?'

'Good question. If I had to guess, I'd say the Feds wanted to handle the matter internally.'

What a surprise, Darby thought. 'How did you find him?'

'My first job out of the academy was as a beat cop for Saugus. There was this case back in eighty-two where the bodies of two strangled women were dumped along Route One. The detective in charge of the case, this guy named Larry Foley, called the Behavioral Sciences Unit, and BSU sent a profiler to study the cases. I never met Fletcher personally, but his name was tossed around a lot – everyone kept commenting on his strange, black eyes. I was on my way into the station when I remembered his name and thanks to the power of Google, there he was on the Most Wanted List.'

'What's the deal with his eyes? Is it some sort of hereditary condition?'

'I have no idea. Like I said, I never met the man. I have a federal friend in the Boston office. I'm going to call him and see what I can find. Maybe he can give us some idea as to what the hell Fletcher is doing here.'

'Do you trust this person?'

'You're worried the Feds might decide to get involved?'

'The thought crossed my mind.'

'Mine, too,' Bryson said. 'Let's talk to the commissioner and see how she wants to play it.'

'I'd like to review the Saugus cases you mentioned.'

'Hold on, I've got another call.'

Coop stepped into her office wearing a T-shirt that said 'I Like Boobies'.

'How old are you again?' Darby asked.

'My mother gave me this for my birthday.' Coop rubbed a hand over his wet hair and looked at the pictures hanging on the wall. 'I'm glad to see you're not taking your work home with you.'

Bryson came back on the line. 'That was Jonathan Hale. He wants to talk about what happened last night.'

'What did you tell him?'

'I told him you and I would meet and discuss the matter with him at his home at two. He lives in Weston. I'm at the station right now. You want me to swing by and pick you up?'

Darby gave Bryson her address. She hung up and filled Coop in on Malcolm Fletcher.

Coop sat in the leather chair by the window, squinting in the sunlight. 'I think it would be wise if I stayed with you for a bit,' he said.

Darby felt relieved. She didn't want him to go home. Not yet.

'I'll swing by my house and pick up some stuff,' Coop said.

'Are you going to wear any more of those ridiculous T-shirts?'

'It's either that or I sleep in the nude.'

A snapshot of him slipping into his jeans flashed through her mind. Her face reddened.

'Please,' he said. 'Don't fight me on this.'

'You can take my car.' Darby opened her desk drawer and removed the spare set of house and car keys. She tossed them and stood. 'I'm not going to cook for you.'

'What about backrubs?'

'Keep dreaming.'

'Not a problem,' Coop said.

19

Weston is Boston's suburban version of Nantucket, an exclusive enclave of predominantly rich whites who live in jaw-dropping multimillion-dollar mansions surrounded by acres of beautifully manicured lawns and woods. The town's poorest residents live in million-dollar shacks in order to take advantage of the school system, the best in the state of Massachusetts. Almost every high-school graduate is guaranteed acceptance into a top-tier Ivy college.

Jonathan Hale lived at the end of a private road. His mansion, a sprawling mass of modern architecture, sat on top of a hill. Workers sitting on John Deere lawnmowers equipped with ploughs were clearing snow from the long driveways.

A limo was parked in front of a garage, its bay door open, the interior lights on. Darby spotted a vintage Porsche, a convertible BMW and a car that looked like a Bentley.

'What do you think?' Tim Bryson asked as he pulled his old diesel Mercedes up to the front gate.

'Seems awfully cold,' Darby said.

'I was referring to the house.'

'I know.'

Bryson rolled down the window and pressed the intercom button.

A crackle of static, then a woman's voice said, 'Hello?'

'This is Detective Bryson. I'm here to see Mr Hale.'

'One moment, please.'