Tangled Threat. Heather Graham

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      “Detective Michael Flannery is lead investigator now. He was on the case when you were arrested for the crime, but he wasn’t lead.”

      “I know Flannery. We’ve communicated through the years, believe it or not. I almost feel bad—he suffered a lot of guilt about jumping the gun with me.”

      “He’s with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement now, with some seniority and juice, so it seems,” Egan informed him. “Years ago, when the murder took place, the federal government wasn’t involved. Flannery doesn’t want this crime going unsolved. He knows you’re in this office now. His commander told me that he keeps in touch with you.” Egan paused. “It doesn’t sound as if you have a problem with him—you don’t, right?”

      “No, sir, I do not.”

      Even as a stunned kid—what he had been back then—Brock had never hated Detective Flannery for being one of the men who had come and arrested him.

      Flannery had been just as quick to listen to the arguments that eventually cleared Brock completely of any wrongdoing. While Brock knew that Flannery was furious that he had been taken and certain that there had been an underlying and devious conspiracy to lead him and his superiors so thoroughly in the wrong direction, he had to agree that, at the time, Brock had appeared to be a ready suspect.

      He’d had a fight with Francine that day, and it had been witnessed by many people. He hadn’t gotten physical in any way, but his poor opinion of her, and his anger with her, had probably been more than evident—enough for him to be brought in for questioning and to be held for twenty-four hours at any rate.

      “I’m curious how something that happened so long ago can relate to the cases happening now,” Brock said.

      “It may not. The remains of the dead girl found in the laundry might have been the work of one crazed individual or an acquaintance seeking vengeance, acting out of jealousy—a solitary motive. It might be coincidence the way she was found—or maybe a killer was trying to throw suspicion upon a particular place or person. But...a lot of the same individuals are still there now who were there when Francine Renault was killed.”

      “Donald Glass—he’s around a lot, though he does spend time at his other properties. Fred Bentley—I imagine he’s still running the works. Who else is still there?” Brock asked.

      Egan handed him a pile of folders. “All this is coming to your email, as well. There you have those who are in residence—and dossiers on the victims. Yes, Glass and Bentley are still on the property. There are other staff members who never left—Millie Cranston, head of Housekeeping. Vinnie Marshall, upgraded to chef—after Peter Moore’s death, I might add. And then...” He paused, tapping the folders. “You have some old guests who are now employees.”

      “Who?”

      “Mark and Nils Hartford,” Egan told him. “Both of them report directly to Fred Bentley. Mark has taken over as the social director. Nils is managing the restaurants—the sit-down Ranch Roost and the Java Bar.”

      Brock hadn’t known that the Hartford brothers—who’d seemed so above the working class when they’d been guests—were now employed at the very place where they had once loved to make hell for others.

      “Flannery said this is something he hadn’t mentioned to you. One of your old friends—or acquaintances—Rachel Lawrence is now with FDLE. She’s been working the murder and the disappearances with him.”

      “Rachel? Became...a cop?” Brock shook his head, not sure if he was angry or amused. Rachel had never wanted to break a nail. She’d been pretty and delicate and... She’d also been a constant accessory of Nils Hartford.

      “I guess your old friend Flannery was afraid to tell you.”

      “I don’t know why he would be. I’m just a little surprised—she seemed more likely to be on one of those shows about rich housewives in a big city, but I never had a problem with her. That the Hartford brothers both became employees—that’s also a surprise. They made me think of Dirty Dancing. They were the rich kids—we were the menial labor. But the world changes. People change.”

      “Flannery’s point, so it appears, is that a number of the same players are in the area—may mean something and may not. There have been, give or take, approximately a thousand murders in the state per year in the last years. But that’s only about four percent per the population. Still, anything could have happened. Violent crime may have to do with many factors—often family related, gang related, drug related, well...you know all the drills. But if we do have a serial situation down there—relating to or not relating to the past—everyone needs to move quickly. Not only do you know the area and the terrain, you know people and you know the ropes of getting around many of the people and places who might be integral to the situation.”

      “Yes. And any agent would want to put a halt to this—put an end to a serial killer. Or find the girls—alive, one can pray—or stop future abductions and killings.”

      Egan nodded grimly and tossed a small pile of photos down before him. Brock could see three young, hopeful faces looking back at him. All three were attractive, and more grippingly, all three seemed to smile with life and all that lay before someone at that tender age.

      “The missing,” Egan said. He had big hands and long fingers. He used them to slide the first three photographs over.

      The last was a divided sheet. On one side was the likeness of a beautiful young woman, probably in her early twenties. Her hair had been thick and dark and curly; her eyes had been sky blue. Her smile had been engaging.

      “Maureen Rodriguez,” Egan said. He added softly, “Then and now.”

      On the other side of the divided sheet was a crime scene photo—an image of bones, scattered in dirt in a pile of sheets. In the center of the broken and fragmented bones was a skull.

      The skull retained bits of flesh.

      “According to the investigation, she was on her way to Frampton Ranch and Resort,” Egan said.

      Brock nodded slowly and rose. “As am I,” he said. “When do I leave?”

      “Your plane is in two hours—down to Jacksonville. You’ve a rental car in your name when you arrive. I’m sure you know the way to the property. Detective Flannery will be waiting to hear from you. He’ll go over all the particulars.”

      Brock was surprised to see that Egan was still studying him. “You are good, right?” he asked Brock.

      “Hey, everyone wants to head to Florida for the winter, don’t they?” he asked. “I’m good,” he said seriously. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we can put the past to rest after all.”

      * * *

      “I LOVE IT—just love it, love it, love it! Love it all!” Angie Parsons said enthusiastically. She offered Maura one of her biggest, happiest smiles.

      She was staring at the History Tree, her smile brilliant and her enthusiasm for her project showing in the brightness of her eyes and her every movement. “I mean, people say Florida has no history—just because it’s not New England and there were no pilgrims. But, hey, St. Augustine is—what?—the oldest settlement continually...settled...by Europeans in the country, right? I mean, way back, the Spaniards were СКАЧАТЬ