Heather Graham - Tangled Threat

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 here. No, no, the state wasn’t one of the original thirteen colonies. No, no Puritans here. But! There’s so much! And this tree... No one knows how old the frigging oak is or when the palm tree grew in it or through it or with it or whatever.”

Angie Parsons was cute, friendly, bright and sometimes, but just sometimes, too much. At five feet two inches, she exuded enough energy for a giant. She had just turned thirty—and done brilliantly for her years. She had written one of the one most successful nonfiction book series on the market. And all because she got as excited as she did about objects and places and things—such as the History Tree.

The main tree was a black oak; no one knew quite how old it was, but several hundred years at least. That type of oak was known to live over five hundred years.

A palm tree had—at some time—managed to grow at the same place, through the outstretched roots of the oak and twirling up around the trunk and through the branches. It was bizarre, beautiful, and so unusual that it naturally inspired all manner of legends, some of those legends based on truth.

And, of course, the History Tree held just the kind of legend that made Angie as successful as she was.

Angie’s being incredibly successful didn’t hurt Maura any.

But being here... Yes, it hurt. At least...it was incredibly uncomfortable. On the one hand it was wonderful seeing people she had worked with once upon a time in another life.

On the other hand it was bizarre. Like visiting a mirror dimension made up of things she remembered. The Hartford brothers were working there now. Nils was managing the restaurants—he’d arrived at the table she and Angie had shared last night to welcome them and pick up their dinner check. Of course, Nils had become management. No lowly posts for him. He seemed to have an excellent working relationship with Fred Bentley, who was still the manager of the resort. Bentley had come down when they’d checked in—he’d greeted Maura with a serious hug. She was tall, granted, and in heels, and he was on the short side for a man—about five-ten—but it still seemed that his hug allowed for him to rest his head against her breasts a moment too long.

But still, he’d apparently been delighted to see her.

And Mark Hartford had come to see her, too, grown-up, cute and charming now—and just as happy as his brother to see her. It was thanks to her, he had told her, and her ability to tell the campfire histories, that had made him long to someday do the same.

The past didn’t seem like any kind of a boulder around his neck. Certainly he remembered the night that Francine had been murdered.

The night that had turned her life upside down had been over twelve years ago.

Like all else in the past, it was now history.

Time had marched on, apparently, for them—and her.