Missings, The (14 page)

“The elephant was big and blue and carried a bright yellow umbrella in his trunk. Amanda could see for miles and miles from her special red chair with gold trim that sat on top of the elephant.” Bond read and turned the page.

Powerful aftershave. Hard muscles. It didn’t feel right. He made her feel uncomfortable. But he was the adult. A friend of her family. An Important Man.

He called her into his study to show her a book he had about all kinds of horses. He had her sit on a sofa in front of a fireplace while he searched the shelves. Pulled one down and handed it to her. She didn’t notice when he closed and locked the door to the room.

That aftershave. The weight of him.

“Mrs. Waters! Mrs. Waters! Can you hear me? Are you okay?” Bond opened her eyes to see the worried stares of both the children’s librarian and the kindergarten teacher. Relief washed over their faces as she moved to sit up.

When she did she saw the scared expressions from the young class. She made an effort to smile and wave away their concerns. Their fear.

“I’m fine. Really. I guess this is what happens when I don’t get enough sleep at night. Do you think?” She winked at the children who rewarded her effort with immediate acceptance and laughter.

Bond looked at the teacher and handed her the story book. “Miss Anderson is going to finish reading your story today, children. I think I need a nap.”

Two minutes later she sat in her car. She knew now why her mother had been calling. Her mother wanted to know if she’d heard the news about Judge Atkins. Her mother wanted to remind her of the promise she’d made almost thirty years ago—the promise to never say another word about what had happened that day when her mother found her in tears.

A promise she had kept.

The Preston Clinic

Monday, September 24

Chase pulled into the unmarked drive and wondered why he’d never heard of this place. How could a business—any business—exist so far under the radar that a detective on the Aspen Falls Police Department had never heard of it? Maybe money could buy anything. Apparently it could buy anonymity.

Approximately a quarter of a mile off the main road and around a curve, a huge iron gate barred further progress. Chase noted both the intercom and the cameras. He pulled his car up, opened his window, and sat waiting for someone to contact him via the speaker. When they didn’t, he reached out and pushed the red call button. Still nothing.

As he was about to push the button again, the device crackled to life. “Detective Waters, you are cleared to enter. You are asked to stay on the primary road. When you arrive at the main building, please park your vehicle under the portico and give your keys to the attendant.”

What the hell?

The double iron gates slid apart. As he passed through, a flash indicated a photograph and he wondered if the quality would match that of the traffic control cameras set up around town. Somehow he knew there would be no comparison.
Shoot. This camera probably could read the time on his watch and tell whether or not he needed a shave.

Not surprisingly, the second he had cleared the opening the gates closed behind him. Money had its privileges. And its paranoia.

How did they know his name? Obviously they had some way of checking via his license plates. How could a non-law-enforcement entity gain access to that kind of information?

Even as the surprise visit fell apart before his eyes, his cop intuition zinged. This kind of power—this kind of money—hid all kinds of secrets. His challenge would be to figure out whether any of the secrets it hid mattered to him or his investigation.

The paved road—how much did this cost to maintain?—wound through pine trees and aspen groves. Chase spotted a few unobtrusive cameras and then the road began to climb. Sunlight slipped through the dense growth of pines and glittered like airborne diamonds. Scanning the trees he saw more partially hidden video equipment and realized the average visitor would never know it was there. This operation might be paranoid but they knew how to keep their paranoia a secret.

At the top of the hill, on a prime piece of real estate, the Preston Clinic came into view. It looked like a country mansion. Stone and windows and balconies lifted above grounds that would easily require a crew of twenty to maintain. A lot of the residents in Aspen Falls had money, but this trumped anything he’d seen in the area.

He slowed and made note of the surroundings. A stable to the north, individual cottages meandering along a creek bed to the south. The Preston Clinic screamed resort rather than hospital.

A young man in full livery, standing at the doors of the clinic, watched his SUV approach. Chase wished he’d hit the car wash before he made the trip. Not even to the target and he was already one down. The uniformed valet did not move to open his door, but instead waited while Chase walked up to the entrance, then ceremoniously pulled open one of the enormous carved barriers at the last moment.

Inside, Chase found himself in a lobby area filled with light and flowers and comfortable-looking chairs. A fireplace, six times the size of any fireplace he’d ever seen, boasted a full blaze. How many cords of wood did they go through in a month?

An attractive blonde dressed in a conservative, but short business suit approached him and held out her hand. “Detective Waters. Welcome to the Preston Clinic. How may we help you today?”

“I’m sorry. You seem to have the advantage. I didn’t catch your name.”

“That would be because I didn’t throw it to you.” Her laugh was throaty and suggestive. “Here it comes, are you ready?”

Was she flirting with him?

“My name is Cassandra. Cassandra Lindgren. That would be with a ‘C’. Are you better prepared now to let me assist you?”

From “we” to “me.” Flirting. Definitely flirting.

“How long has the Preston Clinic been here?”

“We’ve been open almost two years, but as you probably know we’re very low-key. It took us over a year to build the clinic to our specifications.”

“Two years?”

“I’m gratified by your surprise. Part of what we promise our clients—for an enormous amount of money, by the way—is privacy. It appears we are meeting that commitment. We might even include this exchange in our next brochure—that is if we had brochures.”

The muted sound of a phone rang once then stopped. Either it had been answered on the first ring, or the system had been set up to only allow one audible intrusion into the idyllic setting.

“Would you like a tour, Detective?”

“Wouldn’t that be against your policy?”

“You got me. The tour would not include any contact with our clientele. You would spend time here without actually getting any information regarding those we are currently serving. If that’s what you’re after, you are out of luck.”

“Can you at least tell me what services you perform for your clientele?”

“Of course. The Preston Clinic’s clients include people who want to have a nip and a tuck without their public knowing, or their board of directors. Youth is a sign of power in our society, as you may or may not be aware.” She looked pointedly at his graying hair and crow’s feet. “We also have enormous success in combating addictions—from cocaine to oxy to sex. We can handle it all. But the primary purpose for this location—oh, did you know this was one of several?—is to facilitate life-or-death situations. We are known, in those certain circles that are aware of our existence, for our ability to successfully extend life through the skill of our surgical staff. We have a ninety-eight percent survival rate for our transplant clients, all of them—not just kidney—after three years. That’s practically unheard of.”

Chase thought about Mitchell. And the fact that in all likelihood he would never have the opportunity to even get a chance at achieving a survival rate statistic.

“How do you obtain your organs, Ms. Lindgren?”

Her flirtatious smile vanished, replaced with a sour expression. A wall had gone up. Solid. Tall. “Detective, many of our organs come through the normal channels. Occasionally we have live donors—a kidney donor for example—and in other instances we are able to obtain suitable organs outside of the United States and fly them in. I assure you we are in compliance with the laws of all of the countries with whom we deal and where we operate.”

“I assume you keep records of all of your organ and tissue acquisitions? Whether they are through normal channels or otherwise?”

Cassandra with a “C” bristled. “Of course, Detective. If there is ever a problem, we want to protect both our patients and the clinic. We always know our sources.”

She anticipated his next question. “However, we believe deeply in our patient-doctor confidentiality. Even if you obtain a warrant, you should expect the matter to end up in court. We have never divulged any information willingly. And you should know that our legal team is very well paid.”

Chase wondered why an ethically run clinic would require a well-paid legal team.

“Thank you, Ms. Lindgren. You’ve been very helpful.” As Chase turned to leave, he could sense the stutter-step of the point person for the Preston Clinic. She hadn’t expected him to leave so quickly. He wished he could be a fly on the wall to hear her phone call the minute his car left the drive.

On his way back to the station, Chase decided they needed to put the clinic under a microscope. The people associated with the private enterprise had money. And money is what was driving these murders.

Money, and the fear of death.

Aspen Falls Police Department

Monday, September 24

Chase hung up the phone. John Bohnert, the high priest of the witches’ coven on campus, had called him with a name and contact information for a Santeria
follower willing to meet with him. However, Bohnert cautioned that Raul Ramirez considered the entire situation an intrusion into his life, and Ramirez’s anger at the events that forced him to surface—even for a moment—might make him less than cooperative.

Although tempted to forget the cult angle and move on, Chase’s training wouldn’t let him drop a possible lead without investigating it to the end. He called Ramirez and set up a time to meet. The telephone conversation didn’t last long and Chase did most of the talking. The Santeria practitioner refused to come to the station and refused the first three alternative places Chase suggested. They finally agreed to meet at the north end of the City Market parking lot at four o’clock. Chase knew Ramirez would never have come forward on his own and their meeting would likely be tense.

Chase did a computer search for Raul Ramirez and got well over a million hits. But when he added Santeria to the mix it looked like there might be some connections to a drug cartel in Mexico. Chase would make sure someone knew of his plans to meet with this guy.

“Hey lawman, looking for these?” Bond walked up to his desk and held out an unopened bag of Twizzlers. He’d left them on the kitchen counter.

His heart welled at her thoughtfulness. The surprise of seeing his wife while he was at work never failed to delight him. “Thanks for bringing these.” He didn’t tell her he’d stopped at the store earlier and bought another bag.

“My contribution to the case.”

Chase laughed, then noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted. Sick even. “Come with me.”

He grabbed her hand and took her to a small conference room. Once inside he closed the door, pulled her into his arms and kissed her on her forehead. “What’s wrong?”

Bond’s eyes veiled and she pretended to pick some lint off her jacket. “Oh, you know. I’m worried about investing so much money in the store, and I keep seeing that black Mustang around town. But my worry about money is natural and it’s a small town, so seeing the same car isn’t all that strange. I’m just being silly.”

“We haven’t invested a dime yet so there’s still plenty of time to reconsider, although I know you’ll make whatever you do a success. And you’re right. In Aspen Falls we’re likely to see the same car over and over again but I’ll keep an eye out. If you see it again, get a plate number.”

Bond nodded.

“What else?” Chase asked.

“Nothing.”

Chase wanted to hold her and protect her and fix whatever had caused those dark circles. She seemed suddenly fragile—not the strong, confident woman he knew and loved. But if he pushed her now she’d either fall apart or withdraw completely.

“How about I make sure I’m home for dinner with the girls tonight, then you and I can have a little time to talk about this ‘nothing’?”

Bond would not meet his gaze but she gave a jerky little nod.

Someone knocked on the conference room door.

“There you are. Sorry to interrupt.” The desk sergeant, who was anything but sorry, stuck his head in the room. “Some guy named Mex says you’re expecting him. You weren’t at your desk. Couldn’t find you.”

Chase bit back a sarcastic comment about the detection skills of the deskman. The snarky words he’d almost uttered were because he was worried about Bond.

“Tell him I’ll be right out.”

“Guy looks like he isn’t the waiting around kind,” the sergeant said. He stood there as if he was looking for some reaction from Chase.

“That’s okay,” Bond said. “I’m leaving.” She moved to the door.

“Bond, wait.”

She turned her eyes to him. The confusion and pleading he saw in them made him want to seriously hurt whoever or whatever plagued his wife. But he would not force her to tell him about it now.

“Thanks for the Twizzlers. I’ll see you later.”

* * *

Clean pressed jeans. A starched, white, collared shirt with pearl snap buttons. Polished, dark cowboy boots. A black Stetson held casually. Fresh haircut. Mex didn’t look like an immigrant—legal or illegal—let alone like someone who hangs out in a seedy bar.

Chase put out his hand. “Chase Waters.”

The man put his free hand in Chase’s and looked him in the eye. “Mex.”

Chase threw him a questioning glance. “Mex? Is that a nickname?”