“You don’t need to,” McKenna said, matter-of-fact. She held out her phone to show him a live shot of headquarters where at least one reporter has already set up camp on the steps. “They’re already here.”
4
Popular wisdom said everyone had a twin somewhere, but Chloe Lockhart might as well as have come from a tween blond girl factory pumping out clones of her according to the voluminous tips that came flooding into BPD. Ellery got the thankless job of sorting and prioritizing them as they rolled up to her from the officers manning the phones, email, and social media. A girl playing in the Frog Pond on the Boston Common could be Chloe—except it wasn’t. It also wasn’t her at a gas station in Allston, a video arcade in Watertown, or on a ferry to the Harbor Islands. Chloe Lockhart, it seemed, was everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. Ellery held a cold can of soda to the back of her neck and slumped in her chair.
“You look like hell.”
Ellery snapped to attention at the sound of Dorie Bennett’s voice behind her. “Hello to you, too,” she replied. Dorie was the senior detective who served as her partner in most cases. So, you’re the one who’s supposed to keep me away from trouble, Ellery had remarked when they’d first been paired up.
I’m supposed to teach you not to go chasing it in the first place, Dorie had replied. Thus far, the training had stuck. Ellery had kept her nose clean for five months, with just thirty days remaining on her probationary period. Dorie liked to give her a cheerful slap on the back at the end of each day. We survived another one, she’d say, and Ellery wasn’t sure whether she meant they’d survived the job or each other.
The only Dory I know is that forgetful blue fish from the movies, Reed had said when Ellery told him of her new assignment.
Well, she’s just like that except imagine that the fish is a middle-aged lesbian with a wife and three Labrador retrievers, Ellery had replied. She can’t remember where she put her coffee cup, her pen, or her glasses, but I swear she knows the name of everyone we pass on the street. Even the guy at the hot dog stand smiles and jokes with her, and he’s a first-rate grouch.
This seemed to be Dorie’s essential trait in landing the dubious pairing with Ellery. When Conroy put them together, he’d told Ellery, I’m sure you’ll get along great. Dorie likes everybody, and Ellery heard the unspoken part: She’ll even like you.
“Sorry about your vacation,” Ellery said as Dorie pulled up a seat next to her. “Was the Cape nice, at least?”
“Sun, sand, and ocean breezes. It’s about ten degrees cooler than this hellhole. Of course, it dropped to near Arctic temperatures when I told Michelle I had to come in.”
“We’ve got a missing kid. What are you going to do?”
“It’s our anniversary.” Dorie held up her left hand to show off her wedding band. “Ten years tomorrow.”
“Congrats.”
“Yeah, maybe hold off on the kudos until we see if there will be an eleventh year.”
“That bad?”
“Nah, she’ll come around.” Dorie looked at her ring. “I hope. What about you? Conroy says you’re working the tips.”
“More than seven hundred of them logged so far. Not a genuine lead to be found,” Ellery replied with disgust. “Our guys estimate there were a hundred thousand people on the Common at some point today. You’d think one of them would’ve seen something useful.”
“Maybe they did. It takes time to interview that many potential witnesses. About all you can say is that she probably wasn’t dragged kicking and screaming into the back of some van—someone would’ve put that up on YouTube by now.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “She’s been gone more than seven hours. What’s your gut say?”
“You’re asking my gut?” Her instincts had been broken years ago; at least that’s how the brass explained it to her during the shooting investigation. Too damaged. Unstable. Sees the Bogeyman in every shadow. As such, Ellery hesitated to give voice to the tension coiled in her midsection. “I think it’s bad,” she said reluctantly.
Dorie digested the confession in silence for a moment. “I heard there was already a dead kid in the family.”
“Chloe’s half brother, Trevor. We’re pulling the available files.”
“We?”
Heat flooded her face. “Reed Markham was here visiting when Chloe disappeared. He’s agreed to help with the case—unofficially for now, until we have any confirmation of an abduction.”
The door to the small room swung open and Officer Owens stuck his head in the room for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “Here’s the latest,” he said, handing Ellery a stack of notes. “The one on top just came in right now. Thought you’d want to see it first.”
“Thanks.” Ellery scanned the message and her breath caught in her chest.
“What is it?” Dorie asked, leaning forward.
“A dry cleaner in Roslindale just had a customer come in for help in getting stains out of a dress shirt. The cleaner says it’s blood.”
“Okay,” replied Dorie in a tone that suggested she didn’t think much of the tip.
“The customer’s name is Frank Brimwood. Brimwood is the last name of Chloe’s nanny, the one who was with her when Chloe went missing.”
“Related how to this Frank Brimwood?”
Ellery stood and headed for the door. “I don’t know, but let’s find out.”
* * *
Frank Brimwood turned out to be Margery’s husband, age fifty-six, no wants, no warrants. They had three grown kids and he worked as a loan officer at a bank in the city. The dry cleaner, Carol Rosales, kept the store open late so Ellery and Dorie could survey her findings. “Tell me that’s not blood,” she said, pushing the shirt across the counter to Ellery.
Ellery snapped on gloves and examined the dark red smears across the front of the white shirt. “It looks like blood,” she agreed.
Mrs. Rosales folded her arms. “That’s because it is. I’ve been doing this thirty-two years now. I know blood when I see it.”
“What about Frank Brimwood?” Dorie asked. “Do you know him?”
“Never seen him before today.” She watched as Ellery withdrew a Kastle-Meyer kit, took a cotton swab, and ran it over one of the red stains.
“How did he seem to you when he dropped off the shirt?”
“Sweaty. In a rush. He wanted the shirt back tomorrow, but we’re not open on Sundays.”
It was dark outside and still over eighty degrees. The entire city was sweaty. Ellery added a drop of the reagent to the tip of the swab and the cotton turned pink. “It’s blood,” she announced.
Mrs. Rosales gave a short, authoritative nod. “Told you. He did it, didn’t he? He took that girl.”
“That’s getting ahead of things,” Dorie said. “Did he mention how he got the stains?”
“No, just gave me orders on the shirt. I saw he had a big scratch on his arm, right here.” She indicated her forearm. Ellery wondered if that meant the blood could be his, but the stains seemed too large to have come from a scratch.