Josh Lanyon: The Mermaid Murders

He came toward them, offering his hand. “Good to see you, Kennedy.” He added wryly, “Christ, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Sorry it’s under these circumstances.” Kennedy was brisk and unsentimental. Given his investigative specialty, maybe you had to be in order to stay sane. “This is Agent West.”

“Agent West.” Gervase offered a brief handshake and a courteous nod. “Appreciate the help.”

“Chief.”

The chief waved away an errant wasp and said to Kennedy, “You can see what we’re facing. Eden pond is to the east, and the woods are to the west. We’ve finished canvassing the neighborhood, and we’ve completed the search of the immediate perimeter, but there’s still a hell of a lot of ground to cover, and there’s no sign of the Madigan girl. Nothing. It’s like she vanished off the face of the earth.” His voice was flat as he added, “Just like before.”

It wasn’t exactly like before. None of the other victims had been taken from crowded events or peopled areas. Honey had been snatched from Holyoke Pond early in the morning. Theresa Nolan had been grabbed in the high school’s deserted parking lot when she’d left swim practice late one evening. All the victims had been taken from equally isolated or private venues where there were no potential witnesses and no one to sound the alarm until it was far too late.

Having made that misstep about the crime scene, Jason was resolved to watch and listen. His antagonism for the situation—and Kennedy—was coloring his reactions, and that was not good. Not good for anyone.

“Can you bring us up to speed?” Kennedy asked.

Gervase nodded, but was interrupted by the approach of the grim-faced State Police commander. Kingsfield was a small police department. No detective unit and less than twenty officers, including the chief. That State would be called in was a given.

More introductions followed.

“I thought we’d put all this behind us,” Commander Swenson said. It seemed to Jason there was a hint of accusation in his tone.

Kennedy returned, “We’ll soon find out.”

Given the implication he might have spearheaded the arrest and incarceration of the wrong man, Jason had to give Kennedy credit for that level of cool under fire.

Or maybe Kennedy didn’t realize the whispers had started.

In fairness, the FBI had not been the only law enforcement agency involved in tracking down the Huntsman. True, the Bureau—and Kennedy—had got most of the credit for the apprehension of Martin Pink. Local law enforcement had made the arrest, and a local judge and jury had determined Pink’s guilt and ultimate fate.

Gervase was saying, “I’ve got granddaughters about Rebecca’s age. One a little older. One a little younger. If this is starting up again…” He shook his head. “I’m not going to pretend we’ve got the resources to handle this kind of thing anymore now than we did ten years ago.”

“At least you’ve got plenty of reinforcements,” Jason commented as a Worcester County Sheriff’s vehicle pulled up alongside one of the Kingsfield cruisers.

Gervase grimaced. “That we do. We’ve even got cadets from the State Police Academy out here lending a hand. And we had them back then too. Which is why I’m asking for Special Agent Kennedy’s help.”

Kennedy was studying the undulating brown cloud of insects zigging and zagging over the long, empty expanse of grass and wild flowers that served as a green welcome mat to the woods. “You’ve got it,” he said almost absently. As in…of course they needed his help and of course he would supply it.

It was surprisingly reassuring—or at least Gervase seemed to find it so.

Equally reassuring was the cool, crisp competency with which Kennedy collected and summarized the essential information from the chief.

The party had started at nine thirty the previous evening, and by eleven o’clock every kid in the county was there, draining the Madigan wine cellar dry. At eleven fifteen neighbors had called in a complaint about the noise, and Officer Boxner had swung by and spoken to Rebecca who agreed to “turn down the volume.”

At around eleven thirty, Rebecca had some kind of falling out with her bestie, Patricia Douglas, but everyone agreed the squabble meant nothing and had been almost immediately patched up. And in fact, it was Patricia who had first noticed, around one a.m., that Rebecca was missing.

The remaining and none-too-sober partygoers had conducted an immediate and impromptu search for Rebecca which had been abandoned when they decided she had probably left for her boyfriend’s house.

In the morning Alice Cornwell, the Madigans’ housekeeper, phoned Rebecca’s boyfriend who told her he hadn’t seen Rebecca since leaving the party at around ten thirty the previous evening. Whereupon Ms. Cornwell had phoned the Kingsfield Police Department.

Kennedy said, “Rebecca intended to party with a few close friends, but word got out and her soiree was crashed by…rough estimate?” There was a perpetually cynical note in his voice that enabled him to use terms like “soiree” without sounding like he was kidding.

Boxner had rejoined them by then. He answered, “Sixty to seventy juveniles. Most but not all of them were from around here.”

“Not enough supervision. That’s the problem with these kids,” Gervase said. “If someone is to blame, it’s the parents.”

Kennedy said, “If someone’s to blame, it’s the sociopath who took a teenage girl from her backyard.” Still unmoved, still unemotional, he continued, “The boyfriend left at ten thirty. Early in the evening. That sounds like there may have been trouble between them.”

Gervase said, “We interviewed Tony McEnroe first thing this morning. He said he never saw Rebecca after he left the party. He denied there being any problems in their relationship.”

“He would,” Kennedy said. “Officer Boxner said you’ve already interviewed the housekeeper, the neighbors, and the kids who were originally invited to the party?”

“Standard procedure,” Gervase said. There was a hint of hope in his tone as he added, “I guess you’ll want to read over their statements?”

“We’ll look them over,” Kennedy agreed. “Assuming we don’t locate Rebecca within the next few hours.”

That was going to be one hell of a lot of he said and she said to sort through. Not that Jason had a problem with paperwork. Tracking stolen artwork was largely done through surfing the web or meticulously following paper trails. Jason was very good at hunting. The difference was no one’s life was ever hanging in the balance when he hunted. The stakes here were almost unbearably high.

Jason’s thoughts broke off as Kennedy turned to him. “Thoughts, Agent West?” His tone was dry as he waited for disagreement or debate.

“I, er, concur.”

Kennedy’s brows rose as though this was an unexpected concession from an unlikely source. He turned back to Chief Gervase. “I take it you’re still gathering statements from the party crashers?”

Jason let out a long, quiet breath. He had never had to work with anyone who detested him as plainly as Kennedy did. Not that he was a member of Kennedy’s fan club either, but you had to respect the guy. In fact, when Kennedy had nailed Martin Pink to the wall, Jason, along with pretty much everyone else, had considered him a hero.

That was a long time ago.

Gervase was answering Kennedy. “It’s going to take a while to track everyone down, especially when some of the guests don’t want their parents knowing where they were.”

Jason said, “Chief, can I ask why you’re so sure Rebecca is the victim of a copycat?”

Gervase’s smile was world-weary. “You’re not familiar with the Kingsfield Killings, are you, son?”