Tangled Threat. Heather Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ missing persons cases,” Brock said. “And it’s sad but true that young people go to Florida and get caught up in the beach life and the club scene. And regrettable but true once again—there’s a drug and alcohol culture that does exist and people get caught up in it. Not just in Florida, of course, but...everywhere.” He smiled grimly. “I go where I’m told, but I’m curious—how is this an FBI affair? And forgive me, but FBI out of New York?”

      “Not out of New York. FDLE asked for you. Specifically.”

      “I see.”

      Egan didn’t often dwell on the emotional or psychological, but the assistant director hesitated and then said, “You could put your past to rest.”

      Brock shrugged. “You know, one of the cooks committed suicide not long after the murder. Peter Moore. He stabbed himself with a butcher knife. He’d had a lot of fights with Francine Renault—the victim found at the tree. They suspected he might have killed himself out of remorse.”

      Egan offered him a dry grimace. “I know about the cook, of course. You know me—I knew everything about you on paper before I took you into this unit. I’m not sure anyone would have made a case against him in court. That’s all beside the point—the past may well be the past. But there’s the now, as well. They’re afraid of a serial killer, Brock,” Egan said. And he continued with, “The badly decomposed remains—mostly bones—of another young woman who went missing several months ago were recently found in a bizarre way—they were dumped in with sheets from several hotels and resorts at an industrial laundry that accepted linens from dozens of places—Frampton Ranch and Resort being one of them.”

      “I see,” Brock said.

      He didn’t really see.

      That didn’t matter; Egan would be thorough.

      “Yes, this may be a bit hard on you, but you’re the one in the know. To come close to a knowledge of the area and people that you already have might take someone else hours or days that may cost a life... You’re the best man for this. Especially because you were once falsely accused. And, I believe, you may just solve something of the mystery of the past. And quit hating your own home.”

      “I don’t hate my own home. Ah, come on, sir, I don’t want to play any cure-me psychological games with this,” Brock said.

      Egan shook his head and leaned forward, his eyes narrowed—indicating a rise in his temper, something always kept in check. “If I thought you needed to be cured, you wouldn’t be in my unit. Women are missing. They might be dead already,” he said curtly. “And then again, they might have a chance. You’re the agent with a real sense for the place, the people and the surrounding landscape. And you’re a good agent, period. I trust in your ability to get this sorted.”

      Brock greatly admired Egan. He had a nose for sending the right agent or agents in for a job. Usually.

      But Brock was sitting across from Egan in Egan’s office—in New York City. He, Brock, was an NYC agent.

      And while Brock really didn’t dislike where he came from—he still loved Florida, especially his family home in the Keys—he had opted to apply to the New York office of the Bureau specifically because it was far, far away from the state of his birth.

      The New York City office didn’t usually handle events in Florida, unless a criminal had traveled from New York down to the southern state. Florida had several field offices—including a multimillion-dollar state-of-the-art facility in Broward County. That was south—but Orlando had an exceptional office, close enough to the Frampton place. And there were more offices, as well.

      Even if the Frampton Ranch and Resort was in a relatively isolated part of the state, a problem there would generally be handled by a more local office.

      “Frampton Ranch and Resort,” he heard himself say. And this time, years of training and experience kicked in—his voice was perfectly level and emotionless.

      It was true: he sure as hell knew it and the area. The resort was just a bit off from—or maybe part of—what people considered to be the northern Ocala region, where prime acreage was still available at reasonable prices, where horse ranches were common upon the ever-so-slightly rolling hills and life tended to be slow and easy.

      There were vast tracts of grazing ground and great live-oak forests and trails laden with pines where the sun seemed to drip down through great strands of weeping moss that hung from many a branch. It could be considered horse country, farm country and ranch county. There were marshes and forests, sinkholes and all manner of places where a body might just disappear.

      The Frampton ranch was north of Ocala, east of Gainesville and about forty-five minutes south of Olustee, Florida, where every year, a battle reenactment took place, drawing tourists and historians from near and far. The Battle of Olustee, won by forces in the state; the war had been heading toward its final inevitable conclusion, and then time proved that victory had been necessary for human rights and the strength and growth of the fledgling nation, however purposeless the sad loss of lives always seemed.

      Reenactors and historians arrived in good numbers, and those who loved bringing history to life also loved bringing in crowds and many came for the campgrounds. The reenactment took place in February, when temperatures in the state tended to be beautiful and mosquito repellent wasn’t as much a requirement as usual. During the winter season—often spring break for other regions—the area was exceptionally popular.

      The area was beautiful.

      And the large areas of isolation, which included the Frampton property, could conceal any number of dark deeds.

      He’d just never thought he’d go back to it.

      Certainly, time—and the path he had chosen to take in life—had helped erase the horror of the night they had come upon the body of Francine Renault hanging from the History Tree and his own subsequent arrest. He’d been so young then, so assured that truth spoke for itself. In the end, his parents—bless them—had leaped to the fore, flying into action, and their attorney had made quick work of getting him out of jail after only one night and seeing that his record was returned to spotless. It was ludicrous that they had arrested him; he’d been able to prove that it would have been impossible for him to have carried out the deed. Dozens of witnesses had attested to the fact that he couldn’t have been the killer, he’d been seen by so many people during the hours in which the murder must have taken place. He could remember, though, sitting in the cell—cold, stark, barren—and wondering why in God’s name they had arrested him.

      He discovered that there had been an anonymous call to the station—someone stating that they had seen him dragging Francine Renault into the woods. The tipster had sworn that he would appear at a trial as a witness for the prosecution, but the witness had not come to the station. Others had signed formal protests, and the McGoverns’ attorney had taken over.

      So many people had come forward, indignant, furious over his arrest.

      But not Maura. She had been gone. Just gone. He couldn’t think of the Frampton Ranch and Resort without a twinge of pain. He had never been sure which had broken him more at the time—the arrest or the fact that Maura had disappeared as cleanly from his life as any hint of daylight once night had fallen.

      They had been so young. It had been natural that her parents whisked her away, and maybe even natural that neither had since tried to reach the other.

      But there were times when he could СКАЧАТЬ