Faye Kellerman - Bone Box

The only chair in the office was behind the desk. Five minutes later, a kid—probably an intern—came in with two folding seats. It seems that Mr. Cantrell was called away to an emergency meeting but should be back shortly.

Shortly was almost a half hour. Cantrell was a slight, thin man in his thirties with a cue-ball head and algae-green eyes. He sat down and shook his head.

“I’m sorry about Lorraine.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty forehead. “I’ve been having a bad day, but I suppose a death puts things in perspective. You’re from Greenbury so I’m assuming she was found there.”

“She was.”

“Was she murdered?”

“Unofficially, yes.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Talking to people who knew her. Trying to re-create her life just before it happened.”

“When did it happen?”

“Probably right after she disappeared.”

“So around five years ago.”

“Yes. I’d like to ask you what you remember about her disappearance.”

“Wow. It was a while ago but you don’t forget things like that. From my standpoint, I didn’t even know she was missing until she didn’t show up on Monday. When she didn’t call in sick, I called her, but it went straight to voice mail. About an hour later, her boyfriend called asking if Lorraine was at work. That’s when we both knew something had happened. I continued to call her boyfriend after that, just to see if there was anything new. After a while …”

He threw up his hands.

“Life goes on.” Cantrell shook his head again.

McAdams said, “You were her boss?”

“Yes. Lorraine was hired as a junior analyst. She was on probation as any new employee would be. She was doing a good job. She had potential. It was really sad.”

“Did you hire her?”

“I was one of the people who interviewed her. She had several rounds of interviews. Everyone was keen on her. She was a smart person and a hard worker. It’s just a shame.”

Decker said, “Did she have any problems with any of her co-workers?”

His nostrils flared. “Why would she have problems with co-workers?”

“It’s what you ask when you’re dealing with murder victims.”

“Oh. Not that I know of.”

“She was transgender,” Decker said. “Anyone have problems with that?”

Cantrell suppressed a laugh. “I can see you don’t know much about McGregor.”

“Enlighten me, Mr. Cantrell.”

“Our investments are socially conscious. We make it a point to be diverse, and as a result, the company appeals to a lot of people who live alternative lifestyles.”

“Just because two people are gay doesn’t mean they get along,” Decker said. “How did she get along with her co-workers?”

“As far as I know, she fit in fine. I don’t know anyone who had a problem with her. She didn’t work here all that long. And she wasn’t in publicity or human resources. She mostly sat at her desk and analyzed stocks.”

“Did she have a specialty?” McAdams asked.

“Not a sector, no. We hired her to work with institutional endowments. A lot of schools have considerable funds but they’re not big enough to hire their own full-time analysts. We have a number of institutions as clients. That’s what attracted Lorraine to our company. She loved working with schools and colleges.”

Decker was writing furiously in his notebook. “Lorraine went to Morse McKinley up north in Greenbury.”

“Yes, I know. She didn’t finish because she was supposed to undergo sex reassignment surgery. She told us everything.”

“She told her partner that she was going up to Morse McKinley the weekend she disappeared,” Decker said. “We know she made it up there, but we don’t know why she went in the first place. By any chance, would it have something to do with the firm?”

“No.” Cantrell was puzzled. “Why would it have something to do with us?”

“Perhaps someone sent her up there to raise awareness of your investment strategy?”

“I was her boss and I certainly didn’t do that. Her job was analysis, not finding new clients.”

“But if she knew someone up north, maybe she went there with the specific goal to recruit new clients.”

“I would never ask her to do something like that. And I couldn’t imagine anyone else asking her to do it.”

“Maybe she was trying to show initiative,” McAdams said.

“This is all speculation on something that happened years ago.”

“I realize that,” Decker said. “But because it happened so long ago, speculation is a part of the investigation.”

“I can appreciate your position, but unfortunately, I have nothing to add.” Cantrell checked his watch. “Anything else?”

Decker stood up and closed his notebook. “Thank you for your time. If I have anything else to ask you, where can I reach you easily?”

“Here’s my card.” Cantrell scribbled on it. “My cell is on the back. It’s terrible what happened to her. I hope you find out who did it.”

McAdams took the card. “Thank you.”

Decker gave Cantrell his card. “And please let me know if you hear of anything.”

“Why would I hear of anything?”

“This has turned into a murder investigation, Mr. Cantrell. Like the police, people speculate. And sometimes they even know what they’re talking about.”

It was a little past two when they left. Clouds that looked like balls of Brillo pads had materialized, blocking out the sun but keeping in the heat, making the city swelter. Decker felt like a walking water balloon.

McAdams pulled out his phone and pressed the Uber app. “Two-minute ETA. You can come or not, but I’m not walking.”

“This time you win. It’s hot.”

They both stood under a dry cleaner’s awning. McAdams said, “I remember going back to school when I was very little dressed in a jacket and tie. When I finally went to boarding school, I was happy about the fact that New Hampshire was quite a bit cooler than New York in September. Of course, once the winter hit, I would have killed to get back into the city. Even if Manhattan was just as cold as New Hampshire—which it rarely was—you see a great deal more of the sun.” He looked at the overcast sky. “Believe it or not.”

A car pulled up.

“Our ride, boss.”

The men hopped in the air-conditioned car and sped off to Park Avenue. An hour later, both men had showered, changed, and were ravenous. Neither had had much beyond coffee, and it was after three. Decker picked up his cell and there were three missed calls from the station house within twenty minutes.

McAdams came in the room rubbing a towel over his curly, wet hair.

Decker said, “Did you get missed calls from Greenbury?”

The kid checked his phone. “Two. Want me to see what’s up?”

“I’ll call. If they’re calling both of us, it’s important.” He connected to the police line. “This is Detective Decker.”

“Oh, hi, Detective, hold on.” Immediately the line went into idle mode.

“What’s going on?” Tyler asked.

Decker shrugged. Captain Mike Radar came on the line. “Are you still in New York?”

“Yes.”

“Is the kid with you?”

“The kid is with me.”

“Put your phone on speaker.”

“This doesn’t sound good.” Decker pressed the speakerphone button. “What’s up?”

“We found another grave. Same area as Pettigrew—guesstimate is around a hundred to two hundred yards away.”

Decker raked his fingers through his wet hair. “When did this happen?”

“The murder? I have no idea.”

“When did you find the remains?”

“Oh, right. About an hour ago. I think you’re right. We’ll need the dogs.”