Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (60 page)

Donovan paused. “No, it hasn't been proven—but I think it will be. I believe in calling a spade a spade.”

“So do I—but not until somebody proves it is one. In politics perception is everything. If you call my husband's property a ‘crime scene' then it is one, and I don't want it to be one until I say so. So far all we've got is an unmarked graveyard—a historical curiosity, just a part of Virginia's rich historical heritage.”

“And the two extra bodies?”

“Nobody knows yet—and until they do I want you to say so. Is that understood?”

Donovan nodded.

“What else can you tell me?”

“I have a forensic team in place—an entomologist from North Carolina and an anthropologist out of UVA.”

“My alma mater—I approve. Who's the other one you mentioned— the entomologist?”

“His name is Dr. Nick Polchak.”

“Is he good?”

“He's the best there is. Between the two of them, I'm hoping to come up with an estimated time of death for each body. Then we'll search the missing persons reports for those time periods and try to come up with a match.”

“Is that likely?”

“It depends a lot on how old the bodies are.”

“And that hasn't been determined yet.”

“No.”

“Then it's possible these two bodies are just historical remains—just like the bodies that were buried beneath them.”

“I don't think so.”

“But it's possible.”

“Theoretically, yes.”

“I'd like you to emphasize that possibility until we know otherwise.”

“Fair enough.”

“Your forensic team—this anthropologist and entomologist—they are not to speak directly to the press. Everything is to go through you— is that understood?”

“They've already been informed.”

“Good. I don't want some tech head offering second opinions.”

“Anything else?”

“Just an answer to my question.”

“What question is that?”

“Why do you think I requested you for this assignment?”

Donovan paused. “You want an honest answer?”

“I prefer honesty. It saves time.”

“Okay,” he said. “I think you requested me because I'm in the spotlight right now—just like you are. From a practical standpoint it doesn't matter who you ask for, because no matter who the Bureau assigns to the case, the full resources of the FBI come with him. You want the spotlight on the Patriot Center—right now, right away, before things get any worse than they are. You're hoping the camera will follow me there so you can say, ‘See, America? We told you all about it.' And then when the public gets tired of hearing about it you're hoping the camera will go away again—in fact, you're hoping the whole problem will go away. You don't really care how I handle this from an investigative perspective; you only care about the way it looks to the public. That's why you called me in here today—to make sure I say ‘excavation site' instead of ‘crime scene.' Your husband is running for president, and you'd just love to get yourself a whole set of those coffee cups, but you've got enemies—enemies who could blow this whole thing out of proportion if it isn't handled correctly. I think that's why you asked for me, Mrs. Braden. You think I might be a little savvier than your average law enforcement grunt. You think I might be able to handle this the way you want it done—and . . .”

“And?”

“And you think you might be able to handle me.”

She studied his face and slowly smiled. She walked around to the front of the desk and leaned back against it. She placed both palms on the edge and lifted herself up onto the desk, then wriggled back a little and crossed her legs so that her knees were pointing at Donovan's chest.

Donovan never looked away from her eyes.

“My, my,” she said. “You're either a very disciplined man or you're a man who loves his wife. Which is it, Mr. Donovan?”

“Is there some reason you need to know?”

“I like to know people. It comes in handy.”

“Me too,” he said, rising from his chair. “I'm glad I stopped by.” At the door he turned and looked back. “There's something I need to make clear.”

“What's that?”

“I stopped by here today purely as a professional courtesy. I don't know what strings you or your husband pulled to get me assigned to this case, but the assignment came through the assistant director in charge. That means he's the boss, and I report directly to him—and only to him. If you have any further questions about the way this case will be handled, please direct your questions to him. Is that clear?”

“Very.”

He nodded and opened the door.

“Mr. Donovan.”

“Yes?”

“Tell your wife I'd like to meet her sometime.”

“Come over for dinner,” Donovan said. “We'll use the everyday china.”

She smiled. “You have a sense of humor. I like that in a man.”

Donovan didn't return the smile.

When he closed the door she picked up the phone. “Hi, Brad. Stop in and see me when you get a moment, will you? I just spoke with Mr. Donovan. We're going to have to keep an eye on him; I'm not sure he's the one we're looking for after all.”

8

It was early evening when Nick pulled his car into the parking lot of the Skyline Motel. The lot was narrow, allowing just a single row of cars between the building and the street. The building itself was a single-story structure with white beveled siding and a black shingled roof, built in the days when land was cheap and the motor hotels that lined the highways looked more like long cottages than the corporate high-rises of today. The Skyline had been strategically located on the main intersection of Endor in hopes that the tourists on their way up into the Blue Ridge Mountains would stop off for a quick night's rest. But the tourists turned out to be few and far between; there were better roads up into the mountains, and there were far more entertaining stop-offs than the little town of Endor.

The Skyline's single virtue was that it was the only lodging place in town—which made it the FBI's official residence for anyone associated with the Patriot Center case. Not for Kegan—she was from Charlottesville and had an easy commute; not for the Bureau's forensic tech crew—they all lived near Quantico, and they didn't mind getting up a little earlier in the morning for the privilege of seeing their wives and kids each night. That left just Nick and Marge—and Bosco, of course, who shared his trainer's room. Nick imagined the King stretched out on satin pillows while his trainer camped out on the floor beside him. Then he imagined the motel catching fire and both of them perishing in the flames because the dog didn't smell the smoke—but that was just wishful thinking.

He pressed the Lock button on his key fob, though he wasn't sure why; he could probably leave the car doors open and no one would bother it here. He looked across the parking lot at the only other vehicle —a gleaming white SUV with the name
Fidelis Search and Rescue Dogs
emblazoned on the side.
Impressive-looking car
, Nick thought.
I wonder if it has an engine.

He started across the street toward the Endor Tavern & Grille, wondering what story Biff had concocted to tell his friends about their adventures the night before. “Biff goes toe-to-toe with the Witch of Endor”—there's a story to tell your grandkids. Nick wondered if Biff would include the part where he wet his pants and ran screaming into the woods. He didn't really blame him for being scared; to tell the truth, he felt a little sorry for him—but he would have paid good money to see how fast the kid cleared that fence on the way back.

At the intersection he glanced across the street to his left; there was the Endor Regional Library and the lights were still on. Nick had a sudden idea, so he turned and crossed the street.

To the left of the library's main door he found an old woman kneeling on the lawn and digging furiously in a flower bed, with a flat of red begonias waiting on the grass beside her.

“I'm too old for all this digging,” she muttered, plucking the omnipresent stones from the soil and tossing them over her shoulder.

Nick walked over. “Is the library still open?”

“'Til nine,” she said, using her trowel like a lever to pry out a large rock.

“Do people stay that long?”

She looked up at Nick. “You lookin' for books or for company?”

“I'm looking for information.”

“That we got. Hold on a minute.” She lifted one thick leg and planted the foot squarely in front of her, then put both forearms on her thigh and pushed down, using her leg like a rock ledge to push herself up and draw her other leg up under her. She stood there for a moment, panting and mopping her forehead with the back of her gloved hand.

“Sorry to bother you,” Nick said.

“No bother. I'm the librarian—that's what I'm here for.”

She was a short woman, maybe five feet tall, and she had that look some old people get—sort of like an old candle, tapering at the top and sagging toward the base. Her torso was pear-shaped, and she covered it with a sleeveless cotton sundress that had no particular color or form. Her upper arms were thick but still solid—the reward you apparently get for years of gardening in rocky soil. Her ankles were almost as wide as her calves, a probable indication that her kidneys could no longer process all of her body's fluids. Her hair looked like it had lost its color a long time ago, and she had apparently quit doing anything about it; she wore it in tight gray curls that clung close to her head. It was difficult to judge her age; Nick would have guessed between seventy and eighty, but he had noticed that the mountains seem to wear people down a little earlier in life—and she looked to Nick like a genuine mountain woman, from her yellowed teeth that had never seen braces to her calloused hands that had seldom seen rest.

She supported herself on Nick's arm as they started toward the library. “Bad knees—got a bit of the rheumatoid.”

“Can't you get somebody else to do the digging?”

“Who you got in mind? Besides, it's how I get my exercise. Now what are you lookin' for?”

Nick held the door for her. “Historical records—information on the land around Endor.”

“You come to the right place. This is the Endor
Regional
Library—we got records from all around these parts, and I'm just the woman to help you find 'em. If we got it, I can put my finger on it.”

“I'm looking for grave registries.”

“We got those—I know right where to look.”

“Old ones—old enough to list a graveyard that nobody remembers anymore.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Where they're building the Patriot Center.”

She stopped and thought.

“Do you know the place?”

“Everybody does. Give a soul a minute to think.” She seemed to stare off into space for a moment, then abruptly nodded her head. “Know right where to look—be right back.”

She disappeared through a doorway that led to a back room.

Nick looked around. It seemed like a typical small-town library, with minimal holdings and even less technology. Nice seating, though; there were a couple of comfortable-looking upholstered chairs where a local kid like Biff could cover his face with his math book and pretend to do his homework while he took a little snooze.
He'd better watch himself here
, Nick thought.
That old bird looks pretty tough—she could toss him out on his ear.
But Biff was probably in no danger; Nick had a feeling he didn't spend a lot of time here.

He spotted a small room that opened off the main library, so he wandered in and looked around. He noticed the walls; every square inch was covered with photographs and newspaper clippings featuring the future First Lady of the United States, Victoria Braden. There was Victoria on a yacht in the Chesapeake Bay; Victoria in a stunning dropped-back evening gown at the Bush 43 inaugural ball; Victoria on the steps of the Capitol beside her husband. Celebrities and famous faces were everywhere: There was Victoria with the Clintons, Victoria with the Bushes, Victoria with anyone and everyone who managed to push or shove their way in front of the camera to get their picture taken with one of the most beautiful women in the world.

Nick scanned a few of the newspaper and magazine clippings. Every one of them was a glowing tribute to one of Victoria's stellar qualities: her beauty, her charm, her intelligence, her generosity, her tireless work for charity or on the public's behalf. Apparently the woman was perfect; there wasn't a single word of negative press anywhere in the room.

Nick shook his head.
This isn't a library, it's a shrine.

“She's somethin', ain't she?”

Nick turned. It was the librarian, standing and beaming proudly in the doorway.