ALEX BARCLAY
Harm’s Reach

Dedication

To Ger McDonnell

for finding lost plots, unravelling twists,

and being an unflawed heroine

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Alex Barclay

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Ingrid Prince realized that the white walls in every Prince family home created a diorama effect. People watched from the outside, studying, deducing, then leaving, even after brief encounters, with lasting judgements. Ingrid Prince, the beautiful, radiant wife! Robert Prince, the handsome, wealthy husband, a man of fine stock!

Oh, what they see … and don’t see.

Ingrid closed her eyes.

I am safe. I am safe. I am safe.

‘Close those beautiful cat eyes, Ingrid, and say it three times. “It” is wherever you want to take us. I am Tahiti. I am Tahiti. I am Tahiti. Then – bam! – eyes open – bam! – I shoot!’

She could hear Sandro Cera’s voice in her head as he stalked around her all those years ago. Handsome, talented, orphan, immigrant Sandro Cera, the rags-to-riches-and-back fashion photographer; Ingrid Prince, at his feet, blonde, tanned, extended on the white floor of a freezing studio in Brooklyn, shivering by a faulty space heater.

Camera in hand, Sandro would rise up onto the balls of his feet, crouch down, close in, create distance, his body twisting and turning as if he was the one to be captured.

Ingrid did as he asked, closed her eyes, used his three-times trick.

‘No lips moving!’ Sandro said. No leeps. ‘These are thoughts I’m talking about. Three times, sweets, three times: I am silent, I am silent, I am silent!’

‘My teeth are chattering is why my lips are moving!’ said brave, bold, new-girl Ingrid, just turned seventeen. ‘I’m fucking hypothermic … times three.’

Click flash click flash click flash. And the photo that made them both famous was the one that was taken just afterwards, as Ingrid laughed, her head thrown back, then forward, the lens capturing a warm and beautiful smile with no Brooklyn ice, just St Tropez, St Tropez, St Tropez.

It was a different world. It was New York in the Nineties – when they partied below ground and cauterized their hearts’ wounds with the fire of quick fucks. Sandro Cera had been dead years – a gradual, then sudden junkie demise. In the live art installation of Ingrid’s life, Sandro Cera was the lightbulb in the corner, flickering ominously, bound to blow.

Yet his was the advice she was now hearing.

Three times.

I am safe. I am safe. I am safe.

Ingrid looked around the Colorado rental. Even the temporary homes she sought refuge in were white-walled, sparsely furnished, neutral. When their SoHo loft was shot for an interiors magazine, the stylist pared it back even more, took pieces away. Pieces: furniture, paintings, sculptures, reality. How suddenly the landscape can change when its elements are plucked away.

Ingrid heard a noise at the front door. Light on her feet, she walked out into the long polished hallway. Her suitcases were at the end by the door: a set of five, olive green, edged in brown leather with accents of gold.

Now, there was banging at the door, hammering. Ingrid froze. The door burst open. She felt a rush of adrenaline.

This is not how it ends. This is not how it ends. This is not how it ends.

She backed into the kitchen, then turned, set to run for the French doors, but she could make out two dark figures standing there. Ingrid was briefly blindsided by her reflection in the glass.

She knew what she looked like to others. She knew what her husband looked like.

A Swedish proverb came to mind: Alla känner apan, men apan känner ingen.

Everyone knows the monkey, but the monkey knows no one.

1

Five weeks earlier …

Denver, Colorado

Special Agent Ren Bryce was sitting in an aisle seat of a three-star hotel conference room, primed to run. She was dressed in blue jeans, a white tank and gold strappy heels. Her dark hair was in a shiny ponytail, her makeup was for going out. Since she’d sat down, she had been twisting the silver-and-gold cuff on her narrow wrist, opening it and closing it. It was shaped like a lightning bolt.

I wonder does it work? Will it make me fly? Or zap people.

She looked around.

Men, women, no children, gathered in a beige room on a sticky Sunday night. Everyone so, so miserable.

There was a lectern in front with an A4 printout stuck to it that read: ‘Bipolar Support’.

Annnd so explains the misery.

Up ahead, a large lady moved awkwardly to the stage. She was wild-haired and makeup-free, except for the crazy shade of cherry on her lips. She looked as if she had dressed under pressure; grabbed a blouse and skirt from a peg in the hallway on her way out the door and slipped her feet into a pair of sandals she’d left in the garden.

‘Partying …’ she began.

Oh, dear God, do not laugh at this poor woman whose only parties may have been Twilight-themed.

The speaker continued: ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Before I start, I should say that tonight I am going to talk about mania.’

This will be good …

Ren checked her watch. She was here only because her boss had told her to come.

There’s a first time for everything, Gary Dettling, and a last time. In this particular instance, they are one and the same.

Gary Dettling had been her boss in the Undercover Program and also her case agent on the deep cover investigation that nearly destroyed her. She had done a dazzling job, though. Her investigation was the exemplary one, the one still used in UC training. Ren’s own boyfriend, Ben Rader, had studied her case. But the official story didn’t include the part where, within months of finishing the investigation, the exemplary agent was diagnosed bipolar. Ren had yet to talk him through that bonus feature.

She looked around the room at the ordinariness of everyone.

What could any of you know about what it’s like to be me?

The woman at the lectern continued: ‘Imagine telling someone who has been at a spectacular week-long party that the next night, they have to be in bed by ten p.m. As they are dancing on a table, laughing, swigging from a vodka bottle, surrounded by friends, new and old, you tell them that, really, they should stop. This feeling, this amazing feeling is not good.

‘As you reach out to prise the bottle from their hand, they will see you as reaching inside their soul to switch off a light. And they will claw at your hand to stop you, and as they do, they will look into your eyes with one of two things: an anger so intense that it could take your breath away, or a hurt so deep that it could break your heart. Who are you to take away their high? You are supposed to love them, you are supposed to value their happiness above all else.

‘And the following will happen: they will attack, and it will hurt. It will hurt.’ She looked up at the crowd. ‘Face the manic, face the consequences. Poop the party, prepare to be pooped on.’

I need to get out of here. This is wildly accurate.

Ren bent down to grab her purse from the floor. She caught sight of the little orange bottle of mood stabilizers inside.

Five months. Yay … great to have you on the show …

‘And as your loved one attacks,’ the speaker was saying, ‘and as the pain rips through you, they will further your pain by turning to someone else instead. Who can they find to party with when you won’t? Who can they spend all their money with? Maybe all your money. Who can they have all that sex with? Not you. You are pathetic. You are a nag. You want them to be miserable. You just want to control them. That’s all you want. You don’t really love them. You are now the enemy.’

There are people crying in here. I can hear people crying.

‘Hey, nice tits,’ said the guy three seats away from Ren.

What the? Ren turned to him. And Happy Manic Descent to you!

The guy shifted one seat closer.

Ren held up a finger to him. ‘OK, you have to be shitting me.’

‘I’m not!’ he said, beaming. ‘You are really beautiful.’

May the scales of mania fall from your eyes.

‘This is not happening,’ said Ren, her voice low. ‘Go back to your seat. And …’ She pointed at the lectern.

This is for you, buddy.

He did as she asked.

‘Dayum, though …’ she heard him say.

The woman on the other side of him slipped her hand under his, squeezed it, gently. His wedding band shone.

Another lost victim, searching for the husband who is right there, but gone on his travels, not a care in the world.

‘Your loved one will retreat,’ said the speaker, ‘or run … or hide from you. Or at least will attempt to. They don’t yet know that what they are running from is pain. Overwhelming pain: loss, rejection, grief, fear. They don’t know yet, because they’re having too much fun. Secret fun. They can’t admit that while you’re sick with worry, they’re having a blast. They may see your tears, but they don’t feel them. They’re waiting for a text or a drink or a party or a pay check or new friends who don’t know who they are or who loves them or what really lies in their heart or what needs to be protected. Your loved one may endure your interventions, your attempts at reasoning with them, but really? They’re in their own world. It takes different things to get through to different people; it won’t always be obvious. And what worked once before may not work the next time.

‘Until you find a way, they will dig their heels into the bright green grass of their dazzling universe of plenty. They will tune into whoever is emitting the same Day-Glo frequency. Imagine a fluorescent pink jagged line running through the city just above head height, visible only to the manic or the drunk, or the drugged, or all of the above. And they are each holding a magical hook and they can just reach up and ride around on that line all night long. And they will do that until, eventually … days, weeks, or months later, they will lose their grip.’

Ren closed her eyes. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the beautiful, damaging world I miss.

She walked to the back of the room and quietly made her way out.

The name is Mania … Mrs Mania.

I-80, Nebraska

Laura Flynn changed radio stations until she heard what she needed: words that would find her in the dark; a song that would fill this little car with the right message, a song that would back up her journey. This wasn’t her first life-changing decision. There had been others; some borne of tragedy, others borne of happiness or kindness or love. This was different – this was the consequence of an extraordinary misjudgment. She was halfway across Nebraska, halfway into a cross-country expedition and, if she stopped too long to consider it all, she should have been searching for a song with madness in the title.

Here I am, twenty-six years old, a girl from a small coastal village, yet it is in the Midwest I find myself at sea.

She changed station again. She heard an evangelist; deep, male tones of crazy. This is what I’m talking about.

‘Right here, right now,’ came the voice, ‘in the terrible darkness of our world, sins – like rats – are crawling out of every gutter, creeping into our homes, burrowing under their foundations, the foundations of righteousness and virtue. A virus of sin is finding the weakest chambers of our sinful bodies, where it will fester, from whence it will spread. I’m talking about diseases of the mind, the soul, the heart, the loins.’

Laura Flynn laughed out loud.

The presenter’s voice cut through. ‘Those were the words of Howard Coombes, who will be speaking at Monday night’s service to honor the victims of the Aurora Theater shooting.’

‘Oh, Lord, have mercy, we are both headed in the same direction,’ said Laura. It might just be hell. She laughed again.

I can laugh. At least, I can still laugh. Even at my ‘seriously, is this really my life?’ moment, the ‘how did it all come to this?’ Janey Mac!

‘Janey Mac’ was a polite alternative to Jesus Christ. It was years since her sister had told her about a guy called Janey Mac who used to drink in the dive bar where she had worked in Yonkers. Janey Mac got his nickname long before then. It was a three-story nickname. His last name was McMullen. Mac. He thought he was God. Jesus Christ. And he was a supplier of guns. Janie’s Got a Gun. The result was: Janey Mac. When he fled to Chicago to get away from a warrant, he became Janey Mach 3. Laura liked that. And as a story, it always raised a laugh.

Laura’s sister had once mixed with the wrong kind of people. But sometimes the wrong kind of people ended up being exactly the kind of people you needed.

The car filled with flashing lights; headlights from behind. They flashed again. It wasn’t a police car. She drove on. The lights flashed again.

Maybe I have a broken taillight. Maybe the trunk is open.

This was her first time driving the car, maybe she was missing something. She checked the panel in front of her; no warning lights. She pulled in. Her heart was pounding. The car behind pulled in too. Should I be nervous? She could see someone, a man in black, pulling a mask up over his face, running toward her. Oh my God. Her heart rate shot up. Then he was in her side mirror. Right there.

No, no, no. She began to scramble for the door handle. Her fingers were numb. Move. Move. Move. But he was there, he was opening the door. It was open. He was holding a gun. Laura stared up at him, willing herself to speak, willing herself to tell him no, don’t do this, why are you doing this. Nothing came out. Speak! Scream! Shout! She managed to turn her body toward him. His eyes, vaguely familiar, stark in the rectangular cut-out from his black mask, flickered.

Confusion? Fear? Did it matter?

Laura closed her eyes, squeezed them shut. The blast deafened her. There was a second one. She felt a searing pain in her ear. She could smell earth, the grass, the night. She felt a breeze. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard footsteps. When she opened her eyes, he was gone. Her ears still ringing, she could make out the sound of his car door open, then slam shut, the engine starting, the car skidding, turning, leaving her behind.

Her whole body started to convulse.

What was that? What the hell was that? How could he miss? He was right there. He must have more than two bullets.

Minutes passed. She sat with her hands clamped onto the steering wheel, her forehead pressed against it.

She thanked the same God she had once cursed for taking away her mother and her sister before their time. Her father was a different story, he had danced with death from the moment he brought a bottle of whiskey to his lips. He was no match for even the slowest of the Devil’s quick steps.

I am one of those people from those blighted families, my life’s journey a series of join-the-dots tragedies.

She put her foot on the gas.

But I’m alive. Thank you, God. Thank you. This is not my time.

New York

Robert Prince’s vast TriBeCa office was lit only by the antique desk lamp on his custom four-thousand-dollar desk. There was one framed photo on top – his wife, Ingrid. He sometimes Googled her, just for fun. He had been reading a gossip piece on them from two weekends previously, their ‘rumored baby news!’, and was now looking at a Tumblr page dedicated to her early modeling work, created by someone who was probably in junior high at the time. Robert wondered if it was easier for a man like that to idolize an image from the past; was the extra remove a small way of justifying why he couldn’t have her? Not because a woman like that would always be untouchable to a man like him, but simply because she no longer existed in that form. This man had described her as a woman of exceptional beauty. Robert felt a small stab of envy that it was not he who had formulated this perfect description of his wife, that he had not presented it to her himself, maybe on a hand-written card on a tray at breakfast time. He loved her like no other woman. Not that there had been many. He had never been a ladies’ man. He respected them too much. He was Ingrid’s man.

His cell phone rang and the face of exceptional beauty flashed on the screen. He picked up. ‘Hey, sweetheart.’

‘It’s me!’ said Ingrid at the same time.

Robert loved how she announced herself on the phone. Of course it was her. But she spoke every time as if it would be a surprise to him. Maybe it was something about her bouncy Nordic twang.

‘I just got a PDF of our magazine spread,’ she said. ‘The official announcement. Oh my goodness, listen to this: “The Baby Prince”! How pregnancy suits me. They call you my “besotted husband”; I have “tamed Robert Prince”!’

‘I am your besotted husband,’ said Robert. ‘But can you tame a mouse?’

‘Mouse!’ said Ingrid. ‘Tiger.’

Robert laughed. ‘With you, I’m a mouse.’

‘Well, journalists see you in a different way …’ she said.

‘As they see you …’ said Robert.

There was a short silence.

‘The photos are great,’ said Ingrid.

‘Good, good,’ said Robert.

‘I have to warn you, though, they’ve used that old shot of you with the Lotus—’

‘Well, you can get them to remove it – I presume the purpose of the PDF was for pre-approval.’ Robert had a collection of eleven historic racing cars. The Lotus Series 2 Super Seven had been his favorite. And it had been totaled on New Year’s Day, through no fault of his.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Ingrid. ‘But I love it. It just captures you so well. You look so happy.’

‘Well, now I feel a little sadder,’ said Robert.

‘It’s only a car, everyone’s alive,’ she said.

‘I know that,’ said Robert. ‘I know. Speaking of precious lives, is Laura back?’

‘No,’ said Ingrid, ‘but I was expecting her about an hour ago.’

‘You didn’t go to the airport?’ said Robert.

Ingrid laughed. ‘No, Robert. You’re very sweet, though. She was getting a cab. She insisted.’

‘And you haven’t heard from her?’ said Robert. ‘And she’s late?’

‘No, but I’m sure she’s fine.’

‘I tried her phone; it was diverted to voicemail.’

‘She was probably in the air,’ said Ingrid.

‘I worry,’ said Robert.

‘I know. But there’s no need.’ Ingrid paused. ‘I miss you.’

‘No – you miss New York.’

‘What?’ said Ingrid. ‘That’s not true. What are you talking about? Are you OK?’

‘I am,’ said Robert. ‘Of course I am. I love you, sweetheart. Sleep tight. I’m going to finish up here shortly. Text me when Laura gets in.’

‘OK – sleep well,’ said Ingrid. ‘Talk tomorrow. Love you.’

Robert ended the call and stared out into the night. He looked down at the letter on his desk. It was dated August 1st, 1919, written by his great-grandfather, the source of much of his wealth, copper-mining star, Patrick Prince.

Dear Fr Dan,

I hope this finds you in good health. Thank you most sincerely for accepting Walter into your community for the coming months. Though now just sixteen years old, he is already showing signs of acuity and I have no doubt that, in business, his efforts will bear fruit. Please do not let that blind you. I want you to put him to work on the ranch, in the barns, and tending to those less fortunate. I want him to rise with the sun, and to brighten with it.

Please help me, Dan, please help my son. As you know, I made my fortune mining the depths, drawing forth from the earth to provide for my family and to allow others to provide for theirs. However, my keen sense of what lies hidden has failed me in matters personal. From the shadows, my reasoning would be that the reach of good men is often hindered. In contrast, I fear that harm’s reach has no bounds, and – far worse – invisible fingers.

All the best,

Pat

Family was important to Robert Prince. Life was important. He considered birth, death and after-life carefully. He slid open his drawer, took out his Bible and set it on top of the letter. He let his hands rest on the black leather cover, his fingertips on the debossed golden letters. All over the world, people were reading this same text and finding different messages.

Different messages.

Robert opened the Bible on a random page. He wanted to find the right words. Wasn’t that all anyone wanted? To know … to feel … the right words.

2

Special Agent Ren Bryce leaned over the map that was spread out on a table in Wells Fargo in Conifer, Jefferson County. It was two thirty p.m., she was tired, her sleep had been haunted by the braless support-group lady with the insightful mind. She was haunted now by lunch smells – tuna sandwiches and broccoli soup. There was also a hint of gasoline in the air.

‘I am on a losing streak,’ said Ren. ‘I’ve never felt less deserving of the title special … or agent. Today I have been an agent of zero. We could have our own true crime show – The After-The-Fact Files.’

‘Harsh,’ said Cliff. ‘We’re fifty miles from base camp … we’re not The Avengers.’

Ren made a face. ‘I like to think of us that way …’

‘Well, I will always assemble wherever you are,’ said Cliff.

For twenty-five years, Cliff had been with the JeffCo Sheriff’s Office, but, along with Ren and eight others, now worked for the multi-agency Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force in Denver. Cliff had a gift for making witnesses and suspects believe he was one of them: weary, disgruntled, disappointed with life, put-upon by authority figures. He once told her that sometimes he felt they revealed their secrets to him because they believed he would bury the information out of solidarity. He managed to convince even the brightest felons that he operated under duress, and really, if he could just catch a break, he’d be running free, happy and lawless. Cliff James – warm, huggable, big-bear, chuckling, family-man Cliff, who cared about justice more than most – could have missed a vocation as a Hollywood star.

‘We need to assemble where the bandits are,’ said Ren. The bandits had first drawn Safe Streets upon themselves one month earlier. This was their fourth strike; always the same M.O.: they entered the bank wearing beanies pulled down to their eyebrows and snowboarding masks pulled up to their noses – the ones with graphic prints that gave them the lower jaws of sharks. Funny for snowboarding with your buddies, not so much for bank customers confronted with a blur of sharp teeth, wild eyes and gunfire. Safe Streets could have called them the Jawsome Bandits, but that was too complimentary. They were, instead, the Shark Bait Bandits.

The first robber would spray the ceiling with bullets from a semi-automatic, then jump onto a counter or a table. He roared and growled and, as customers dropped to the floor, the second guy moved to the counter. He would show the cashier a note requesting cash, as if the gunfire was too subtle a message. The note also offered a bullet to the head in exchange for a dye pack or a tracking device.

Cliff rested his elbow on Ren’s shoulder.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing to a small little enclave of houses on the map, ‘Iroquois Heights.’

Ren had Iroquois heritage; it gave an exotic twist to looks whose ethnic origins were a mystery to many.

She smiled. ‘It’s a sign! Hey – you are too big to lean on me,’ she said, turning to look up at him.

‘I was going easy,’ said Cliff, standing up.

‘Unlike …’ said Ren. She nodded toward the corner where Gary Dettling stood with his hands on his hips, staring over at them. He was the only man she knew who could put his hands on his hips and not look ridiculous.

‘He is not a happy man today,’ said Cliff.

‘And when you say “today”, you mean “for quite some time” …’ said Ren.

‘He’s coming our way,’ said Cliff. ‘Eyes on the map.’

Jefferson County stretched westward from the city of Denver up into the mountains bordering Gilpin County, Clear Creek and Park. It was seven hundred and seventy square miles of every crime and mentality that came from spanning big cities and boondocks.

The Conifer locals unlucky enough to have been present when their Wells Fargo was hit were feeling a little plagued. It was not long ago they had been hit by a wildfire that moved as if it had plans to rescale the town and bring it back to its roots. Over the years, Conifer had been expanding slowly, adding grocery stores, gas stations and charmed out-of-towners who settled in the foothills until the snow startled them out of their mountain fantasy and into Kendall Auto Sales looking for tire chains.

But the unpredictable snowfall was nothing compared to the onslaught of the wildfire. It roared and spat at them for two weeks, darkening their skies, driving them from their beds or keeping them lying awake in them, fearing for everything. And then, it was gone. The fire died before it took away a single home. The firefighters had not performed a miracle as some people saw it. The firefighters had carefully strategized, and won a war; only the charred landscape bore the scars.

Detective Denis Kohler from the Sheriff’s Office walked over to Ren, Cliff and Gary. Kohler was tall and flat-bodied, with a lean to one side and a slight bow to his legs. His brown hair flopped across the right side of his forehead and he often ran his fingers through it, even though it was too short to get in his eyes.

‘OK, our guys followed your bandits ten miles,’ he said. ‘Looked like they were headed for Bailey, but they lost them. The car was found on a service road, torched. They made off on foot.’

‘That’s new for them …’ said Ren.

‘Well, they had the full weight of the JeffCo Sheriff’s Office bearing down on them this time,’ said Kohler, smiling.

Ren laughed. She liked Kohler. ‘Did they find anything in the car?’ she said.

‘It’s destroyed,’ said Kohler. ‘Looks like they crashed first. We’re waiting for it to be towed.’

‘And it was taken from the parking lot at the spa outside the business center …’ said Gary.

‘Yup, a lady customer came out – car was gone,’ said Kohler.

Ren shook her head. ‘I don’t know why women feel the need to go to spas, said no woman ever.’

‘What about cameras?’ said Gary.

‘We don’t have a lot to go on with this route,’ said Kohler. ‘We’ve spoken with CDOT, we’ll see what they’ve got.’

‘Gary,’ said Cliff, ‘I have that appointment, so, if you’re all OK here?’

‘Sure,’ said Gary, ‘go ahead.’

Cliff hugged Ren.

‘Bye, big guy,’ she said. ‘We shall avenge another day.’

‘Take care, Cliff,’ said Kohler.

Ren stared down at the map. ‘Is this the service road?’

Kohler looked at where she was pointing. ‘Yes.’

‘Would you mind if Gary and I swung by?’ said Ren. ‘That’s right by Pine Gulch Cemetery. They could have gone through there, come out the other side and grabbed a car from that garage.’ She pointed again. ‘If they did that, they could have driven right down Pine Valley Road. They may not have been heading for Bailey after all. Or at the very least, Pine Valley Road was a panic move …’

‘Sure, go ahead,’ said Kohler.

‘Gary?’ said Ren. Earth to Gary.

He nodded. ‘Sure. Great.’

No car had been stolen from the garage by Pine Gulch Cemetery. Gary swung back around and they drove down Pine Valley Road, past where the Sheriff’s Office detectives and crime scene investigators were waiting for a tow truck to take the charred shell of the getaway car back to the lab.

‘That’s the spa lady’s …’ said Ren. ‘She probably came out of there with her little disposable flip-flops … or flaming red upper lip … mascara under her eyes, desperate to get home before she met someone.’

Gary tuned Ren out a lot. But today, the radio wasn’t even on. She stared out the window. The road was quiet, dusty, and bordered by pines, but if you looked through them, you could see where the wildfire had taken many of them away. They drove for fifteen minutes in silence; the type that only Gary could create – a very specific and dense one.

Breathe.

They rounded a bend onto Stoney Pass Road and drove a little further.

‘Hey,’ said Ren.

Gary had no reaction.

You are a very distracted man, lately. ‘Slow down,’ said Ren.

Up ahead, a white Hyundai Accent was parked at the side of the road. The passenger door was closed, the driver’s door, half open.

‘We could be in luck,’ said Ren, sitting forward.

Gary slowed.

‘Rental plates,’ said Ren. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa … what the hell? That’s a body …’

Gary cut the engine. They jumped out of the SUV and drew their weapons. Slowly, they walked toward the car.

‘It’s a woman,’ said Ren.

She had been shot in the head at close range; there was little left of her face. She had also been shot in the chest, her ruined torso half out of the car; one arm dangling down, the ends of her pale brown hair trailing in the dirt.

‘She hasn’t been here long,’ said Ren. She checked her watch. It was 15.48.

‘One to the head, one to the chest,’ said Gary.

‘Looks like whoever shot her was standing in the open passenger door. Look at the spatter.’

Gary nodded.

‘The glove box is open,’ said Ren, ‘maybe she was trying to get something out of there … a weapon … a purse … Or maybe the shooter was.’

‘They tried to wipe it down,’ said Gary. ‘Carjacking?’ he said. ‘Could be connected to the robbery. The bandits ditched their car, flagged her down, maybe … didn’t take the car because they were disturbed? Or panicked?’

‘Would a woman pull over if she was alone?’

‘Unless she wasn’t alone …’

‘Hey,’ said Ren, pointing to the ground. ‘Cell phone.’

She put on gloves and picked it up. When she stood up, she looked into the car again. All at once, she could feel her heart lurch, her legs weaken, her stomach turn.

Oh, no. No. No. No.

She stared up at Gary. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘She’s pregnant.’

3

Janine Hooks, Jefferson County Cold Case detective, walked into her office for the last time. On her desk was a potted plant, wrapped in tissue, a burst of pink in the dimness of a Seventies-style office in shades of brown, with half-closed vertical blinds that, even if open, would reveal nothing more scenic than the parking lot of the JeffCo government complex.

Janine often sat in the visitor’s chair at her small desk with her back to the door … and from behind, got mistaken for a man. Or worse still, a boy. ‘Son, I’m looking for …’

But it didn’t make her move. She didn’t want to watch the passing parade, she didn’t want to be watched. And now she would be; her boss had told her she had to move down the hallway to an open-plan, fluorescent-bright office with three other investigators. It felt like a step backwards and she was experiencing unpleasant cubicle memory. She wondered was he trying to force her into the world; a world to which she had been an adjunct since 2005, when she’d solved her first cold case in between her regular workload. When the sergeant who appointed her retired, he took her aside a few minutes before his speech.

‘I’m going to tell you something,’ he had said, ‘and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way. Years ago, I walked into that tidy little cubicle of yours, and I see all these photos of dogs. I mean, we’d been working together a while at this stage, but it was just this particular day, I walked in and I really looked at everything you had around you, all the things that were dear to you. And there’s this one photo of a dog with a bone. And the light in his eyes was a spectacular thing. He was fierce. He was gripping this bone, no one would take it away from him, and he was so goddamn happy. And I swear to God, I thought – that is Janine Hooks.’

Janine smiled at the memory. Later that night, he had mentioned her again – in front of the entire office, as part of his leaving speech. ‘I came in one day and Janine had her arm stuck right in to the back of the refrigerator,’ he said, ‘and she was pulling something out … I don’t know what the hell it was, but it was slimy, it was green, and it stank. And it was nothing to do with her. It wasn’t her mess to clean up. But she did it. Sure, that innocent little face of hers was looking a little screwed up, but that was it: no bitching, no whining. That is why Janine Hooks gets to wear the cold case crown. And she wears it so well.’

‘That and the fact there were no other suitors,’ Janine had said.

‘You had me at “skeletal remains”.’

They all laughed, and over the laughter, he shouted for everyone’s attention again …

‘Seriously, everyone,’ he said. ‘I am going to miss you all, I am going to be back in here bugging the crap out of you, you all know that. No one should have favorites, but I’m retiring, I can say what the hell I like, and Janny Hooks, I will miss you most. If you asked me the main quality I think a cold case detective needs, I would say “tenacity”. You have it, more than anyone I know. If I had to throw in a few more, I’d say passion, loyalty, thoroughness, persuasiveness. Janine Hooks will make use of every resource she can, she will find resources hiding in the back pockets of politicians or down the sides of sofas, or up people’s fat lazy asses. She will find things. Janine Hooks will find things.’ He raised his glass to her. ‘Cold cases, warm heart.’

Like the magnanimous man he was, he had set her up to succeed. And she would never forget it. And she knew that, toward the end of his speech, he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at his successor, he was telling him ‘Don’t you cut this unit, don’t you let Janine Hooks go’. Because in the three years she’d been stuck with his successor, she had to fight for everything she got. So the tenacity, the resource-finding, the doggedness, was seared into her and to not do what she was doing was unimaginable. And fortunately, her current sergeant – the third since her first boss left – was third time lucky. He got it. Maybe he didn’t quite get her, but he got her job, and maybe that was all Janine Hooks needed him to get.

They got on well, she knew he liked her. But she suspected he worried about her. He had already made his decision about moving her to the main office when Special Agent Ren Bryce appeared one day. Janine could see what he was thinking: Janine Hooks has a friend! A hot, sociable friend who seems heterosexual! Or maybe not, these confusing days! Janine knew that with her short, side-parted dark hair and her small bones and her tucked-in shirts and tidy pants and no makeup that she sent out a message. But, didn’t everyone?

Anyway, by then it was too late for the sergeant to change his mind about her move. She was capable of making friends, it appeared. In the general population, out in the investigators’ bullpen, she could make even more.

Janine lingered in the office doorway. She gave one last glance around. She went to her desk, and pulled out the first of the cards that were spiked into the soil around the plant.

Be careful. This could be a plant. Love, Ren XX

There was a second card beside it.

Hope you’re not feeling too uprooted. Love, Ren XX

There was a third.

Stay strong, man. Love, Ren XX

There was a fourth. Janine laughed. Seriously?

Is this a moving experience for you? Love, Ren XX

Janine laughed again. She could always rely on Ren. They were friends just a year, but she knew she was closer to Ren than she had ever been to anyone. She went to pick up the plant. It was only then she noticed the flashing light on her desk phone. She pushed the button.

The message had come in the day before while she was out with the sergeant – he had treated her to pizza across the street at Woody’s. She didn’t know who felt more guilty – him for uprooting the homebird on a Sunday or her for ordering just a salad.

She pressed the phone to her ear. The line was crackling from a loose connection. At least she’d have a new phone now. Ren told her to find the positives.

‘Hello … Detective Hooks?’ The accent was Irish, with a hint of American. ‘I found your name online and I wanted to talk to you about one of your cases. Could you please call me back? My name …’ She paused. ‘My number is 555-134-2235.’

Janine scribbled the number on the back of one of Ren’s cards.

In all forty-seven of her open cold cases, Janine knew of no specific Irish connection. She decided to let this young, nameless girl be the first call she made as soon as she laid her comfort plant on the desk of her new office. She wondered if the guys would laugh at her.

‘Nice plant,’ said Logan. Their desks faced each other. ‘My mom’s a florist,’ he said. ‘I had one of those in my college dorm. I looked after it well until lightweights started pouring drinks into it.’

‘You should see this one on tequila …’ said Janine.

Logan laughed. She laughed back.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘take one of these.’ He reached across the desk and handed her a giant chocolate chip cookie wrapped in paper.

A cookie and horticultural bonding. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

She started to unwrap the cookie but instead of eating it, she picked up the phone and called the Irish girl’s number. It rang for several seconds. She was about to hang up. Then someone answered.

‘Hello,’ said Janine. ‘My name is Janine Hooks, I’m calling from Jefferson County Cold Case—’

‘Janine?’ came the voice.

Janine paused. ‘Ren?’

4

‘This can’t be good,’ said Janine.

‘It’s not good,’ said Ren. ‘Who were you calling?’

‘I got a voicemail on my office phone yesterday – I just heard it now – a young woman, didn’t leave her name, wanted to talk to me about one of my cases. She didn’t say which one.’

‘Did you make any appeals recently?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Janine. ‘I mean, the website is always there, anyone can read it any time, but …’ She shrugged.

‘Gary’s with me,’ said Ren. ‘I’m putting you on speaker.’

‘Hey, Janine,’ said Gary, ‘we got patchy coverage here. Can you call this in? Your guys are not far, we drove past them at the junction with Pine Valley Road … we’re on Stoney Pass Road now.’

‘Sure,’ said Janine. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Well, your poor caller was pregnant,’ said Ren, ‘and now she’s laying dead by the side of the road … GSW to the head and chest.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Janine. ‘Where exactly?’

‘About half a mile from the junction with Highline Road … I can see a sign for Evergreen Abbey to the left and The Darned Heart Ranch to the right.’ She paused. ‘Darned Heart? Seriously? Craft and brimstone …’

‘This is weird, guys,’ said Janine. ‘That’s a ranch for troubled teens—’

‘The tautologous troubled teen …’ said Ren.

‘The Darned Heart already has some scar tissue,’ said Janine. ‘It used to be The Flying G Ranch, a girl scout camp. A girl scout aide was sexually assaulted and strangled there back in ’63. August 18th. It’s one of mine …’

‘No way,’ said Ren. ‘That is weird. What happened?’

‘Victim’s name was Margaret “Peggy” Beck,’ said Janine. ‘Sixteen years old. She was alone in her tent overnight, because the friend she was sharing with was in the infirmary. The next morning, little Peggy was found dead, zipped up in her sleeping bag. At first, the folks at the camp thought it was natural causes, so they didn’t call the authorities right away. They just packed up her things to hand over to her parents. It was the last day of camp, the other girls were being collected by their families. Eight hours went by before the authorities were finally called. It turns out that not one of those girl scouts heard a thing during the night. Even though Peggy fought back, the poor thing – they found skin under her fingernails. Three hundred people were interviewed during the investigation and nothing. It breaks my heart, that one.’

‘Did you process the skin?’ said Ren.

‘Yup. No match,’ said Janine.

‘When you say “troubled teens”,’ said Ren, ‘how troubled?’

‘Zero to hero: addiction issues, attitude problems, problems with the law, eating disorders. I checked out their website when they opened to see what we were letting ourselves in for. And it costs an absolute fortune to stay there. They pull in a lot of spoilt little rich kids.’

‘Have you had any problems with them?’ said Ren.

‘Our guys have definitely brought a couple of runaways back,’ said Janine.

‘Runaways?’ said Ren. ‘Kids can run away from this place? Isn’t security tighter than that?’

‘I’m speculating here,’ said Janine, ‘and this is not official, but I think it’s all part of the treatment. The ranch’s policy is to trust the kids, because they know these kids’ parents have given up trusting them. So, management believes that because they have faith in these kids, they won’t disrespect them …’

Ren laughed.

‘I know,’ said Janine.

‘Is it privately owned?’ said Ren.

‘Very privately,’ said Janine. ‘By Kenneth and Kristen Faule. He’s ex-NFL … Broncos. They never had kids of their own, so this was their way of … you know “giving back”.’

‘Hate that expression,’ they both said at the same time.

‘They take in teens from all over,’ said Janine. ‘If their parents are flashing enough cash …’

‘They’re not going to give us access too easily,’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Janine. ‘And I’ve met Kristen Faule. Do not be fooled by her Disney ways … she’s one of those cornered mama-bear types.’

‘Disney ways,’ said Ren. ‘Hmm. So, what was the nature of your meeting?’

‘Well, she came to pick up one of the kids that Kohler had brought in,’ said Janine. ‘Of course, she was pissed, like it was our fault.’

‘I’m rolling my eyes.’

‘She totally rubbed me the wrong way,’ said Janine. ‘Since the ranch opened, it’s like we’ve become unwitting participants in her treatment plan. She lets the kids roam free, we pick them up.’

‘Seriously, how many times has this happened?’ said Ren.

‘Fewer than my annoyance indicates,’ said Janine.

‘And what about the abbey?’ said Ren.

‘It used to be a religious abbey,’ said Janine, ‘but now it’s a “community of women”. As far as I can tell, it’s like a hippy commune, women’s shelter and self-sufficiency thing rolled into one. Really, though, I don’t see how they’re any different than the nuns; a bunch of women living together, saying prayers, doing charity work. They have basically no possessions – any money they do get is handed over to the director and distributed to whatever charities they all decide on. Three years ago, when I first took on The Flying G case, I spoke to the director …’

‘Slash head of the cult?’ said Ren.

‘Oh, they’re definitely not a cult,’ said Janine. ‘They’re missing the undercurrent of crazy …’

‘How big is the property?’ said Gary.

‘About one-hundred-and-fifty acres,’ said Janine. ‘You know something – if this girl is pregnant, this could have nothing to do with my case or The Darned Heart – she could have been headed to the abbey, if she was trying to get away from a bad situation.’

‘True,’ said Ren.

Gary had gloves on and was walking around the side of the Hyundai. He was opening the back door.

Grr. This is Janine’s scene.

‘I hope that’s your car door I hear opening,’ said Janine.

You’re a brave woman.

‘Please tell me you are wearing gloves,’ said Janine.

You’re a very brave woman. Gary will not dignify that with a response.

‘We got her purse,’ said Gary, standing up, swatting away the flies that had begun to gather. ‘And passport … Irish.’ He opened it. He looked at the photo, then at the victim.

‘Her name is Laura Flynn.’

5

Ren walked over to Gary. He handed her the passport. She looked down at the photo. Laura Flynn was a sweet-looking girl with light brown hair, kind blue eyes, a heart-shaped face. She was the type of girl a man would be happy to bring home to his mother.

I haven’t spoken to my mother in weeks. I hope she isn’t worrying about me. Does this girl have a mother somewhere worrying about her? Is some mother over in Ireland going to have to take the worst possible call to take as a parent?

Laura Flynn was just twenty-six years old.

The same age I was when I was diagnosed. She looked down at Laura Flynn’s body.

Twenty-six-years old. And I thought I got a death sentence.

Perspective, Ren. Perspective.

‘The lining is torn,’ said Gary, looking into the victim’s purse. He swiped his hand through the tear, found nothing.

‘That’s weird for a very new-looking purse,’ said Ren. ‘Maybe she was stashing something in there.’

‘Guys, how do you think an Irish girl like that could know anything about The Flying G case?’ said Janine. She paused. ‘To be open-minded, I will say “any of my cases”.’

‘And it’s an Avis rental, Janine, by the way,’ said Gary. ‘If you can work some magic.’

‘OK,’ said Janine.

‘No SatNav,’ said Gary.

They could hear Janine typing. ‘Hold on, guys, news just in: someone reported a burning vehicle at The Darned Heart at twelve thirty today.’

‘What?’ said Ren. ‘First a burning vehicle, half an hour later, a bank robbery, and two hours after that, a woman’s body is found …’

‘Sounds about right,’ said Janine.

‘Well isn’t this a darned part of Jefferson County,’ said Ren. She took Janine off speaker. ‘Come our way.’

‘Sure,’ said Janine. ‘I shouldn’t be more than an hour. And thank you so much for my plant – it’s beautiful. And your notes. You’re nuts.’

Oh, you have no idea. Or maybe you do.

Ren and Gary walked toward his SUV. They looked up when they heard the sound of an engine coming from the same direction they had driven in.

‘What, pray tell, is this?’ said Ren.

A minibus appeared up ahead.

‘We need to screen this off,’ said Gary. He took a crime scene screen from the trunk of his SUV and went back to the victim’s car. Ren approached the minibus, holding up her badge. The driver leaned out the window.

‘Where are you coming from?’ said Ren.

‘Boulder,’ said the driver, a warm-faced woman with a frosted nest of honey-colored hair. ‘Just taking m’ladies back to Evergreen Abbey.’ She smiled.

Ren looked in and saw twenty or so women. The ones who weren’t sleeping were craning their necks toward her and out the front of the bus.

Ren leaned into the driver. ‘We’ve got a crime scene up ahead … Is there another way you can reach the abbey?’

‘There sure is,’ said the driver.

‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said Ren. ‘Thank you.’

She nodded.

You are dying to ask me what’s going on.

‘Can I take your name and the name of the director of the abbey?’ said Ren.

‘Sure,’ said the driver. ‘She’s Eleanor Jensen, and I’m Betty Locke, chaffeuse, locksmith, carpenter …’ She smiled.

‘OK, Betty, thank you,’ said Ren. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

Ren went back over to Gary.

‘Ladies of the abbey,’ said Ren. ‘Someone better go talk to them before this gets legs.’

This is beyond screwed up. There is a pregnant woman behind that screen in front of me.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Why, on this beautiful, seventy-degree, clear-blue-sky Monday is a pregnant woman lying dead on the side of the road?

Where were you going? What were you hoping to do? Had you named your baby, had you picked out clothes, painted a nursery?

Stop.

Ren stared up at the sky, but the clouds were moving too quickly, morphing into strange shapes, drawing her eyes left and right, making her head spin. She lowered her head and let out a deep breath.

She looked into the car. There was an iPod on the floor, some candy wrappers. She looked into the back. There was a pair of women’s shoes behind the passenger seat. Ren glanced down at the victim – she was wearing silver and blue sneakers, but she had nice black pants on, ones she could have dressed up with different shoes.

Maternity pants …

‘She either had a passenger or was about to have one,’ said Ren to Gary. ‘A lady driver would keep her change of shoes in the passenger well, unless she didn’t want them in the way of a passenger. Where was the purse?’

‘Behind the passenger seat,’ said Gary.

‘Someone was about to join her very soon,’ said Ren. ‘Driving alone, she would have that beside her otherwise.’

Ren looked around the car, the trees, the road. She walked out into the middle of the road and did it all over again.

‘So,’ she said, ‘the car was parked. If this woman had arranged to meet someone … she could have chosen this spot, where the trees are diseased … there’s just one short stretch of reddish brown along this part.’

They turned as a Jeep came toward them.

‘It’s Dr T,’ said Ren.

Barry Tolman was the Medical Examiner for Jefferson County. He was quiet and unassuming, a dignified pacifist of a man who got to see the results of the violent happenings of Jefferson County and sixteen other counties. They met him by the victim’s car.

‘Hello, there, Ren, Gary.’

‘Hi, Dr Tolman,’ said Ren.

‘You’re going to have to start calling me Barry.’

‘Sorry,’ said Ren. ‘I know. My parents drilled respect for doctors into me.’

‘You can say “elders”,’ said Tolman.

Ren laughed.

‘This is what I’m talking about …’ said Tolman, looking down at the body.

‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘I read your interview in the Post.’

‘I am a tired old man,’ he said. ‘No one is listening. “People kill people, not guns”, “Take the guns out of the hands of the mentally ill”. It’s always the crazy activists with the catchphrases. Like the mere act of repeating their mantras legitimizes them. Hell, a sane guy buying a gun is not necessarily going to be sane ten months later when he walks in on his wife sleeping with his best friend … or when he’s up to his eyeballs in debt and his employer throws him out on the street … Do we hand this person a weapon that can kill sixty people? The voices inside are the loudest.’

‘New World Order,’ said Ren. ‘I’m really looking forward to it.’

He smiled. ‘What is the sorry tale here?’

More cars began to pull up: Sheriff’s Office investigators, and Kohler.

Gary waited until they had all gathered before he filled them in.

Crime scene investigators arrived and began processing the scene.

‘We’ll leave you guys to this,’ said Gary. ‘Ren and I will pay a visit to the abbey …’

‘Would eight a.m. tomorrow morning work for you?’ said Tolman.

‘An autopsy,’ said Ren, ‘always a bright start to the day.’

The temperature was rising and the sun beating down as they arrived at the abbey, deepening the rich brown of the clay roof tiles, making the white stucco walls glow. Evergreen Abbey was Spanish Colonial Revival; a protruding porch, curved gables and parapets, and a vast arcaded entrance under an arched window of similar size. The rest of the building was set back, spreading out on both sides, with perfect rows of arched windows. The building was simple, elegant, welcoming, but austere.

‘Wow,’ said Ren.

‘Everyone should work in a building with a little history,’ said Gary.

‘I thank you for that every day,’ said Ren. Though the main FBI building in Denver was a dazzling new office on 36th Avenue, the Safe Streets team, at Gary’s insistence, worked out of a building that was only ten minutes, but a world away in The Livestock Exchange Building, built in 1886.

They walked up the abbey steps to the huge wooden door. Ren rang the intercom bell and they were buzzed in to a cool, dark foyer, tiled in an ornate pattern of rich blue, yellow and white. There was no office, just two battered leather sofas and a door with pin code access.

‘I think we’re in some kind of delousing chamber,’ said Ren. ‘They know where I’ve been.’

The internal door opened and a woman in her late fifties walked through. She looked more bohemian gallery owner than head of a retreat for women. She had short, springy black hair with a narrow, off-center band of gray curving through it.

‘Eleanor Jensen,’ she said, shaking Ren’s hand first. ‘You’re very welcome.’

‘SSA Gary Dettling,’ said Gary. Gary’s tone had fallen on the right side of confident, the side that didn’t make him sound like an arrogant asshole, which he wasn’t. Ren had seen how some people reacted to him if his tone was off.

With Eleanor Jensen, she saw a flash of something different across her face. Ren sometimes forgot how Gary fit so well with how women imagined an FBI agent to be: tall, fit, serious, in control. He was the handsome hero who made them feel safe. And made them want to sleep with him.

He had never made Ren feel she wanted to sleep with him. Sleep with? No. Fuck hard all night? Yes.

But he was her boss. And he was a loyal husband, with a teenage daughter. And he had no interest in her. And he gave nothing sexual away.

Which makes you sexier. Which annoys me when it occurs to me.

She and Gary had been alone together many late nights – in the office or in some strange bar in a strange town during a boring investigation … and she sometimes felt that, after the tip-you-over final beers, they almost bounded off to their separate beds in relief.

Disaster averted …

I. Am. In. An. Abbey. Jesus.

I haven’t had sex in nine days. Nine!

Ben Rader, come back.

Give my roaming filth a destination.

6

Eleanor Jensen led them through a beautiful carved wooden door into a white marble hallway.

‘We’ll go up to the library,’ she said.

‘Well, that’s an offer we can’t refuse,’ said Ren.

‘It is rather beautiful,’ said Eleanor. ‘The first abbess here was a well-known author. She wrote many books on the Benedictine life. We pretty much live by those principles.’

You are babbling for comfort. You came to this remote place for a reason, to shelter from the cruel outside world, and now it has crept in after you.

Ren’s cell phone rang, startling her, a violation in the quiet hallways. It was Janine.

‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to take this,’ said Ren. She stopped.

‘Ren? Apparently, there was a second call from The Darned Heart saying that they had the burning vehicle under control, that there was no need to involve the fire department or the Sheriff’s Office. I just called them there to tell them, under the circumstances, that we would be sending investigators.’

‘And whose vehicle was it?’ said Ren.

‘A car belonging to Burt Kendall – from Kendall’s Auto Sales and Auto Parts. He also provides machine operators for his vehicles. They’re digging foundations for building work at the ranch. They don’t work Mondays. They had left some vehicles and machines there over the weekend.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘See you in a little while.’

Eleanor Jensen was guiding Gary through the door of the library, a spectacular room with a line of floor-to-ceiling arched windows overlooking the grounds. The remaining walls were lined with mahogany bookshelves.

‘Wow,’ said Ren, as she followed behind. ‘This is beautiful.’

‘Please take a seat,’ said Eleanor. ‘I believe you are the bearers of bad news.’

‘Yes,’ said Gary, waiting for the women to sit down before he did. ‘I’m afraid we found the body of a young woman on Stoney Pass Road. We’re trying to piece together what happened, and we’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ said Eleanor. ‘That’s terrible … what happened? Can you say?’

‘It was a shooting,’ said Ren. ‘We found her in her car.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Eleanor. ‘It’s so safe here. I’ve never questioned that for a second.’

‘We’d like to talk to everyone who was here today,’ said Gary. ‘How many people live here?’

‘Thirty-four,’ said Eleanor. ‘At least I can make your workload a little lighter; the bus you met … there were twenty-two women on that who have been in Boulder for the past two days. We lend our support to different causes in different places, depending. Eight more women are in Denver at a seminar. So, including me, there were just four of us here.’

‘If we could get a list of all the residents before we go, that would be great,’ said Gary. ‘Just mark in the four who were here. Investigators from the JeffCo Sheriff’s Office will be arriving to take care of interviews.’

‘OK,’ said Eleanor.

‘Can you give us a sense of what you do here at the abbey?’ said Ren. ‘What kind of women come here, how does it work?’

‘Well, a lot of women have come here from very different lives,’ said Eleanor. ‘They’re looking for freedom of all kinds. Usually they’ve been controlled by something else – addiction, a violent partner, sex, money … They don’t want to feel controlled by anything else, by what they may see as the restrictive nature of being, for example, in a religious order. It’s psychological. So the abbey suits them, in that it’s a spiritual community.’

Gary’s cell phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. He stepped outside.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Eleanor. ‘I’m talking too much, I’m babbling … please stop me. I know you’re busy people …’

‘You’re being very helpful,’ said Ren. ‘Don’t worry. I was wondering, could you tell me a little about The Darned Heart?’

‘Well, they’re a private organization – some of those kids are from important families. And they’re vulnerable. The owners are very protective.’

Ren nodded. ‘Your property adjoins the ranch – do you see much of the kids?’

‘A little,’ said Eleanor. ‘They’ve got stables, so we often see the kids trekking. And we take care of the ranch’s laundry. Sometimes Kristen sends kids over here to work – she wants to show them a different life to what they’re used to. These are often privileged kids, they have everything done for them, they have that sense of entitlement – you can’t really blame them. It’s all they know. They have no respect for anything. It’s really sad that their parents have allowed that to happen. And in a few hours here, there’s little we can do to change that. All I could wish for is that they see something that inspires them to change, but I’m probably being a little naïve. They probably laugh at us over there, I’ve heard them call us Dyke National Forest … you know, the ranch borders Pike National Forest … but some of them, some of them are nice, polite, respectful kids. Some of them talk more than others, tell us a little bit about their lives. Others come in, do their duty like it’s the worst penalty they’ve ever been given.

‘We told Kristen and Ken that if they want to send a child here, the condition is that they help prepare, serve and eat a meal with us. Whether they’re here to wash one of the pick-ups, build a wall, clean out a barn, they need to get a feel for what it is like to be more than just a republic of one. They’re alone a lot at home, they have parents who work, they communicate with people through technology. They’re disassociated. And when they’re together with their friends, it’s not exactly a time for spiritual growth.’

Ren nodded.

Eleanor’s gaze drifted. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just … shocked by all this.’

Ren nodded. ‘I understand.’ She stood up and walked over to the window.

‘Do you think this was a random shooting?’ said Eleanor.

‘We don’t know yet,’ said Ren. At the edge of the property, she noticed a small timber cabin.

‘What’s that cabin over there?’ said Ren.

‘In there is the closest thing you’ll find to a nun at Evergreen Abbey,’ said Eleanor, joining her. ‘We kind of inherited her. Delores Ward. She’s in her seventies, she’s been here forever. She might be moving into the abbey, though … there’s an ongoing boundary dispute with the ranch. Technically, the land Delores’ cabin is on belongs to the ranch. None of us knew until the Faules had a survey carried out when they decided to build the theater. When they realized, the land – it’s about four acres – was incorporated into the building plans by the Faules’ architect, without consulting us. They all just assumed that we’d go along with it, because it was the law. Obviously, it’s not as simple as that. Delores has been there for over fifty years. She wants to live there until she dies.’

‘Well, I guess it’s her home,’ said Ren.

‘Of course,’ said Eleanor, ‘but it got water-damaged. One of the excavators struck a pipe. The cabin’s damp now, it smells. Delores could have a beautiful room here overlooking the grounds, we’d do it just the way she wanted it, but she won’t hear of it.’

‘What’s the current state of play?’ said Ren.

‘Well, it had reached a stalemate,’ said Eleanor. ‘Realistically – who is going to sue a little old lady and an abbey devoted to charitable works without bringing down a load of bad publicity on top of them? The abbey’s been here over a hundred years. The ranch, in this incarnation, only four. The Faules can’t rock the boat around here. They need the local community.’

Ren nodded.

‘They’re being very understanding, actually,’ said Eleanor.

As they try to flood, then burn a little old lady out of her home. What next?

‘Really?’ said Ren.

‘They drained the land, repaired the pipe and agreed to halt construction works for six months to see if Delores would reconsider. They even offered to buy her a new cabin and install it wherever she wanted on the grounds of the abbey.’

‘Well, that’s very generous,’ said Ren. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t take them up on that. Does it really matter exactly where the cabin is? Is it a matter of principle?’

‘Principle, sentimentality, fear of change … I don’t know. I tried to reassure her about helping her with the transition, but she was steadfast. She’s a tough cookie for such a lady.’

‘It can’t be the warmest place in the winter,’ said Ren.

‘It isn’t,’ said Eleanor. ‘I just have to keep reminding myself it’s her home.’

‘Were you here earlier today?’ said Ren.

‘In the library, no,’ said Eleanor.

‘Did you see smoke over at the ranch around lunch time?’ said Ren.

Eleanor nodded. ‘Yes – actually Kristen called us to let us know that a car had caught fire by the cabin, but that it wasn’t at risk, that we weren’t to be alarmed. And I knew Delores was in the chapel, anyway.’

‘Can you please check with the other women if they saw anything?’ said Ren.

‘Yes, I can do that.’

‘Eleanor, has a woman called Laura Flynn ever been in touch with you?’ said Ren.

‘I couldn’t say off the top of my head, but I can check my emails and talk to the others, see if they heard from her. I don’t handle the website – there may have been some contact that way.’

‘Do you think we could get a hold of any inquiries people made about the abbey in the past six months?’ said Ren.

‘Absolutely,’ said Eleanor. ‘I can have that emailed through to you by tonight.’

Ren handed her a business card. ‘Thank you. And could we also get a list of anyone who carries out work here at the abbey … landscapers, carpenters, etc.’

‘Yes,’ said Eleanor. ‘But we’re pretty self-sufficient, we take care of most of the work …’

‘Good for you,’ said Ren.

Gary came back into the room, but stood just inside the door.

‘Ms Jensen, thank you for your time,’ he said.

‘That’s my cue,’ said Ren. ‘Thank you again.’

Ren and Gary walked down the steps of the abbey. She talked him through the rest of her conversation with Eleanor.

‘I’d like to find out if anyone saw the car before it went on fire, though. It’s a little too coincidental …’

‘Because of the robbery?’ said Gary.

‘Yes,’ said Ren, ‘but also I’m wondering about how close it was to Delores Ward’s cabin.’

Gary nodded. ‘That call I got? It was Eli Baer in New York.’

Eli Baer was Safe Streets’ favorite contact in the New York office. He was a short, perfectly-groomed nerd who threw himself into all tasks with an intensity and efficiency that had clearly been with him from birth. It was easy to imagine him in kindergarten with a pristine shirt buttoned up to his neck, slim pants that were maybe an inch too short and shiny, shiny shoes.

‘This is going to be a big one,’ said Gary. ‘The victim’s employer reported her missing this morning. These are big shots. Let’s just say we’ll be “assisting” JeffCo more. His name is Robert Prince – he’s a multi-millionaire, married to an ex-model. Laura Flynn was their housekeeper. She was six months pregnant. They live in New York, but have been going back and forth to Golden since January.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Why Golden?’

‘You can ask Mrs Prince,’ said Gary. ‘She’s there now – at their rental. I’ve mailed you the address. You and Janine can take care of the notification.’

‘And what about the victim’s actual family?’ said Ren.

‘We’ve got nothing on that yet,’ said Gary. ‘All I know is that Mr Prince was very concerned when he called this in, so whether this housekeeper is family or not, they seem to really care … According to the Princes, the victim was going to stay with a friend in Chicago, but we’ve no confirmation on that yet. No one could get hold of the friend.’

7

Janine Hooks had arrived at the scene by the time Ren and Gary got back from the abbey.

‘Hey, girl,’ said Janine. She gestured to the body. ‘Well, this is terrible.’

‘Ugh.’

‘Anything from the abbey?’ said Janine.

‘Not yet,’ said Ren. ‘We’re waiting on the director to get back to us on a few things. There’s certainly a nice view of the area close to the vehicle fire. I’m wondering did anyone see anything … I’d like to be armed with something concrete before I talk to the owners.’

Janine nodded. ‘Oh, yes.’ She took out her notebook. ‘OK … as I was driving here, Logan Teale – who I now sit opposite, nice guy – got more lowdown on our victim: Laura Flynn from Waterford, Ireland, been living in New York for the past five years – just got her citizenship this year. She flew from Denver to Chicago last Thursday on a return ticket, due back last night, but obviously didn’t take the flight. She rented the Hyundai at nine thirty p.m. Thursday at O’Hare. She filled out the form saying the drop-off would be there too. So she was either lying on the form or she made a last-minute decision to come here.’

‘So,’ said Gary, ‘she drives from Chicago to here, that’s what – a fourteen-hour drive?’

‘I guess so,’ said Janine.

‘When was the flight due in?’ said Ren.

‘Last night,’ said Janine.

‘So, when did she set out?’ said Ren. ‘Did she stop anywhere along the way? Did she stay somewhere overnight? She couldn’t have slept in the car with that bump …’

‘No,’ said Janine.

‘So – any idea which case she had information for you on?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Janine. ‘I have a few with New York links, but I just can’t see how a young Irish woman in New York five years could know a thing about them. Or about a 1963 homicide in a Colorado girl scout camp. Like I said, hundreds of people were interviewed – who knows how far and wide they scattered? A lot of the people were young and could still be alive. Too many for now to narrow it down. But obviously, anyone can show up from anywhere at any time about any case … even still, though, why would she come all the way to Colorado?’

‘Oh, we got more info on that,’ said Ren. She filled her in on the Princes.

‘Ah,’ said Janine. ‘So she wasn’t staying too far away.’

‘Maybe she had some old relative ’fess up on his deathbed,’ said Ren. ‘An old Irish drunken uncle comes clean.’

‘Not to be racist …’ said Janine.

‘Noo,’ said Ren. ‘So, was our victim a pregnant runaway heading for shelter in the abbey, or was she doing some poking around at The Darned Heart Ranch, or none of the above?’

‘Did she get here yesterday, do some poking around, come to a conclusion, then call me?’ said Janine. ‘If she was coming to me because of information she had on a case, and the wrong person knew about it …’ She shrugged. ‘But what I don’t understand is how long she’s had this information … like, why would she decide only now to bring it to my attention … when she’s six months pregnant?’

‘I know,’ said Ren, ‘it doesn’t make sense.’

‘It had to have been something that was, if not more important, certainly as important as her baby. It’s not like my cases are time-sensitive …’

‘Unless she suspects someone who hasn’t got long to live …’

‘Or she thinks someone is about to destroy evidence …’

‘It’s all so strange,’ said Ren.

‘There could have been another reason why she was here.’

‘Sex, love, money, drugs …’

‘Well, we can safely say that sex has taken place,’ said Janine.

‘Unsafely …’ said Ren. ‘So, is this a screwed-up love story? Was she running toward a man she loved? Was it the same man as the father of her baby?’

Kohler came up to them. ‘The Sheriff’s been in touch,’ he said. ‘The news is already filtering out. We need to notify the victim’s employers ASAP.’

‘Janine and Ren are going to take care of it, if that works for you,’ said Gary.

‘Sure,’ said Kohler. ‘We’re going to take away the burnt-out car from the ranch.’

Gary nodded.

‘So, you’re all done?’ said Kohler.

‘Yes,’ said Janine.

‘Nothing more to see here,’ said Ren.

‘Well, be on your way,’ said Kohler. ‘Do you know where you’re going?’

‘I do,’ said Ren.

‘See you back at the office,’ said Gary.

Ren got into Janine’s SUV. ‘I have been chauffeured all day,’ she said. ‘I’m getting to know what it’s like to have a revoked license.’

‘It suits you,’ said Janine.

‘It doesn’t,’ said Ren. ‘You have no idea how much stress I release while driving.’

As Janine drove, Ren kept checking her phone for coverage.

‘Finally,’ she said, as they hit Highway 285. ‘Let me see what I can get on the Princes.’ She did a Google search. ‘OK – Robert Prince is fifty-five years old and has made rich lists at various times under the “Inherited Wealth” category. He has also publicly dismissed this categorization, because he has also had many business ventures of his own in all kinds of areas … some more successful than others.’

‘What kinds of business?’ said Janine.

‘You name it, really,’ said Ren. ‘On the personal and political front, Robert Prince is a devout Catholic, attended Harmon’s, a small private Catholic school, is a serious pro-lifer, has made several cash donations to pro-life politicians. In 2005 and 2010, he was up for election as head of the highly influential Order of Catholic Business Leaders of America, but failed in his bid both times. In 2006, Robert Prince, then forty-eight, married former model, Ingrid Frank, Swedish, then twenty-seven, and they moved to a sixteen-million-dollar apartment in SoHo.’

‘His first marriage?’ said Janine.

‘Yes.’

‘Any shenanigans?’

‘Nothing that’s gone public.’

‘Yet …’ said Janine. ‘Any other heirs to the Prince fortune?’

‘No,’ said Ren. She paused. ‘Unless he’s got some children of love tucked away somewhere … which, let’s face it, they always do.’ She paused. ‘Could Laura Flynn have been pregnant with her master’s baby?’

‘And he reported her missing to deflect …’ said Janine.

‘Wouldn’t anyone assume that an autopsy would include DNA testing of the fetus?’ said Ren.

‘You’re assuming that anyone thought that the body would ever be found,’ said Janine.

‘You are correct, I was,’ said Ren, ‘which is a rookie assumption. So whoever killed her was interrupted before they could remove the body and dump it? What are we leaning toward …?’

‘I don’t like leaning,’ said Janine. ‘Obvious one first: failed carjacking, which we can’t rule out, but is definitely at the bottom of the list, because of the call to me. Alternatives: random shooting. She’s driving along for a pre-arranged meeting with Person A. She pulls into the side of the road. Person B, the shooter, comes up, fires, drives away. Or the victim’s driving along for a pre-arranged meeting with the shooter …’

‘Or,’ said Ren, ‘she’s got no plans to meet anyone, the killer flags her down pretending he needs help, she stops, he pulls open the passenger door, she reaches for a gun in the glove box or he reaches for the glove box where maybe she has money …’

They went quiet.

‘What if,’ said Ren, ‘our bandits are driving by and they just shoot, they just want to cause a distraction … they just kill the first person they see …’

‘Or they killed her before the robbery,’ said Janine. ‘They had chosen their getaway route; having a body there would stop whoever may have been pursuing them.’

‘What if someone else knew about a pre-arranged meeting and killed her?’ said Ren. ‘Someone she knew or someone the other person knew. Was the other person there? Were they shot? Did they witness something?’

‘Our guys will be checking local hospitals …’

‘There’s also the possibility that our bandits are witnesses …’ said Ren. ‘And they’re not exactly going to be lining up to help.’

‘Maybe she was one of them,’ said Janine. ‘Maybe she was to take the cash and go one way, they were to go the other, so if they were pulled over they’d have nothing … she’s home and dry with the money.’

‘Maybe,’ said Ren, ‘the word maybe is making my head spin.’

‘What if,’ said Janine, ‘she was with someone who turned on her and killed her … someone she knew?’

‘“What if” is just another maybe,’ said Ren.

‘You should write country songs,’ said Janine.

‘I write them in my head all the time,’ said Ren.

‘Sorry … back to Robert Prince … inherited wealth … inherited from where?’ said Janine.

‘Robert Prince is heir to the Prince family millions … hundreds of millions. He is the son of Acora Prince and Desmond Lamb. His great-grandfather was Patrick “Prince” O’Sullivan, son of Irish emigrants who settled in Butte, Montana, when they fled the potato famine. They had three sons, the most successful of which was Patrick. Patrick got involved in copper mining, met and married his wife in Butte, made lots of money, made even more when he sold the mine. The last name Prince is because … do we need to know this?’

‘Yes,’ said Janine. ‘For curiosity’s sake.’

‘We both know that curiosity has a record …’ said Ren.

‘That’s appalling,’ said Janine.

‘OK,’ said Ren, ‘the Prince last name is because the O’Sullivan family looked after the grounds of a castle back in Ireland and the locals used to joke that the O’Sullivan father had ideas above his station and that he thought he was the prince himself. So Patrick, who by all accounts was a great joker, changed his name to Prince when he became a big shot. Patrick’s son, Walter Prince, is Robert’s grandfather.’

‘Well, Acora Prince certainly liked the name, seeing as she didn’t change it to her husband’s and didn’t allow her son to either,’ said Janine. ‘Unusual for those times.’

‘Rich families are weird,’ said Ren.

‘So, there’s an Irish connection,’ said Janine. ‘The Princes. The Flynns. Where in Ireland are they from?’

‘The Princes? West Cork.’

‘And Laura Flynn’s from?’

‘Waterford,’ said Ren. She Googled a map of Ireland. ‘Well, they weren’t neighbors,’ she said, ‘they’re over one hundred and fifty miles apart.’

8

Robert and Ingrid Prince’s holiday rental was eight miles south of Golden and designed to make the most of the spectacular view out over the front range.

‘It’s like a hotel,’ said Janine. She drove up to the gates.

‘It’s like a glass box,’ said Ren.

Janine pressed the intercom button. A woman answered.

‘Hello,’ said Janine, ‘I’m looking for Mrs Ingrid Prince?’

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘My name is Detective Janine Hooks, I’m from the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office, I’m here with SA Ren Bryce from the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force in Denver. We’d like to speak with you about Laura Flynn.’

‘Laura?’ said Ingrid. ‘Why? What is it? What’s happened?’

‘Could we please come through?’ said Janine.

‘Yes, I’m sorry, of course,’ said Ingrid.

The gates swung open. Janine drove in and parked beside a gold Range Rover.

‘Do they own this place?’ said Janine.

‘No, but they could – that’s the main thing,’ said Ren.

‘Yes,’ said Janine. ‘OK, now let’s go hang with a Swedish former model, just in case we were feeling too good about ourselves.’

Everything about Ingrid Prince’s face said model – everything about her posture, her aura, the movement of her long limbs. She even managed to open the door with grace. She was wearing a floor-length gray strapless jersey dress with an oversized beige cotton cardigan. Her blonde hair was tied up and she had on a gray cotton headband. Her skin was flawless, unlined, glowing.

‘Come in, please,’ she said. ‘Take a seat.’

She gestured to an open-plan living area. There was a magnificent curved stone fireplace with a thick oak beam running the length of the chimney breast and an alcove beside it stacked with logs. On the floor in front lay a pristine rich cream rug. Three brown leather sofas were arranged in the center of the room around a solid, blocky coffee table in the style of a vintage suitcase.

After a moment’s seating panic, Ren and Janine sat side by side, and Ingrid Prince sat perpendicular.

‘Please,’ said Ingrid. ‘Just tell me.’

Janine leaned forward. ‘I’m afraid we found Laura Flynn’s body this afternoon close to Pike National Forest—’

‘Body?’ said Ingrid. ‘Pike National Forest? I’m sorry, I’m not following …’

Ren shifted forward in her seat. ‘Mrs—’

‘And where’s Pike National Forest?’ said Ingrid.

‘I’m sorry to tell you that we found Laura about sixty miles south of here,’ said Ren.

Relief flooded Ingrid Prince’s face. ‘No, that’s not Laura. Laura’s in Chicago. She just didn’t make it back. She must have missed her flight. My husband was just concerned that—’

‘Mrs Prince, I’m afraid we have been able to identify her body,’ said Ren. ‘She was the victim of a shooting. Her car was found—’

‘No,’ said Ingrid. ‘She wasn’t driving! She was flying, then she was getting a cab, then … a shooting? No. I don’t understand … No.’ She started crying hysterically. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, please. Please don’t tell me this happened to Laura. Please. Her baby. Her baby. She was pregnant. The baby. Did … did they save the baby?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren. ‘I’m afraid that was not possible.’

Ingrid broke down. She clutched her stomach.

It was only then that Ren realized that Ingrid Prince had a tiny bump of her own.

9

Ingrid Prince followed Ren’s gaze down to her belly. She looked up at her.

‘I know … can you believe it?’ she said. ‘Laura finds out she’s pregnant and, two months later, I do.’

‘So, you’re four months along?’ said Ren.

Ingrid nodded. She welled up. ‘This is not right. Poor Laura … the baby … and … I get to …’ She shook her head. ‘I’m still here. My baby’s here. It’s too much.’

‘I’m going to make a call to our victim advocate,’ said Janine. ‘She can come stay with you until … are you expecting your husband back tonight?’

Ingrid nodded. ‘He’ll come back now.’

‘OK,’ said Janine. ‘We’ll have someone wait with you, if you think that’s something you’d like?’

‘Thank you,’ said Ingrid. ‘Yes.’

Ren waited until Janine had made the call.

‘Was this a robbery?’ said Ingrid. ‘Was anything taken from the car?’

‘Her purse was there, her suitcase …’ said Ren. ‘We don’t know what else she may have had with her.’

‘And she was just found, alone, in her car …’ said Ingrid.

‘Yes,’ said Ren.

‘What a horrible way to … I just didn’t think this was going to be … the news I would hear. I was worried about her when she didn’t return, but I was worried because she was pregnant, you know, that she might have taken ill. I thought maybe she had been admitted into hospital. Apart from that, I thought maybe she had met up with the father of her baby … I know the relationship didn’t end well.’

‘Do you know his name?’ said Ren.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t,’ said Ingrid. ‘Laura mentioned an old boyfriend called Johnny once or twice, but she never gave the name of the baby’s father. She said that she didn’t want anything to do with him. She just said that he was bad news. And, sorry – he’s Irish … that’s the only other thing I know.’

‘Did she say where he lived?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Ingrid.

‘But you thought she had met up with him in Chicago?’ said Janine.

‘No, no – I thought that maybe he could have known her friend, or followed Laura … or waited with the friend if he had heard Laura was going to visit. I’ve had all day to think these things … but nothing came close to the reality.’

‘Does the father of the baby know that she’s pregnant?’ said Janine.

‘I don’t know,’ said Ingrid.

‘When did Laura tell you she was pregnant?’ said Ren.

‘About six weeks ago,’ said Ingrid.

‘And did she plan to continue to work for you?’ said Janine.

‘Absolutely,’ said Ingrid. ‘Obviously she would be taking some time off, but …’ Her voice cracked and she began to cry again. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I just can’t believe this is happening. The baby, everything, it’s just so sad. Laura’s had a tough time, she was a strong person to come through that, and this is what happens? It’s so wrong.’

‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘So, Laura’s baby was due in September …’

‘Yes,’ said Ingrid.

‘And what was the plan in terms of work?’ said Ren.

‘Well – we summer in the Hamptons,’ said Ingrid.

Summer is not a verb.

‘We were happy to hire staff there,’ said Ingrid, ‘and Laura would be back to work when she was ready. This might not sound orthodox, but, as I said, we’re like family.’

‘And, speaking of family,’ said Janine, ‘do you have details of Laura’s?’

‘That’s another tragic story,’ said Ingrid. ‘Her parents both passed away in Ireland within a few years of each other. Laura was still in college at the time. Laura’s sister, Saoirse, had already moved to New York and Laura followed her over. Within months of Laura arriving, her sister died.’

‘How?’ said Ren.

‘She was out … partying,’ said Ingrid. ‘It was Laura’s twenty-first. Saoirse fell down some stairs at a bar. She’d been drinking. It was just a freak thing.’

‘That’s a lot for Laura to have gone through for such a young woman,’ said Ren. ‘What kind of support did she have?’

‘Well, me,’ said Ingrid. ‘And some friends, but not many. She was a sweet, shy kind of girl.’

‘And where did she hang out in New York?’ said Ren.

‘Different Irish bars,’ said Ingrid. ‘I don’t know which ones. You might find out more on Facebook … I presume you’ll be checking that? But she really hadn’t gone out much in the past few months. She said she just didn’t feel like it. We’d stay in and watch TV, watch movies – if Robert was working late or traveling or out at a function that I wasn’t attending.’

‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Laura?’

‘No … but do you not think this was random?’ said Ingrid.

‘We don’t know yet,’ said Ren.

‘Mrs Prince,’ said Janine, ‘Laura had a return ticket from Denver to Chicago, but she chose to drive a rental car back.’

‘What?’ said Ingrid. ‘I have no idea why she would do that. That’s a long drive … especially if you’re pregnant.’

‘Did you speak with her over the weekend?’ said Janine.

‘She just called me on Thursday night from Chicago to say that she had arrived safely,’ said Ingrid. ‘And she said she’d see me Sunday. Last night …’

‘Were you to pick her up at the airport?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Ingrid. ‘She was going to get a cab home.’

‘What time was she due back?’ said Ren.

‘I was expecting her around ten,’ said Ingrid. ‘But I had gone to bed. I was exhausted. I didn’t notice she hadn’t returned until this morning.’

‘And where was your husband?’ said Ren.

‘Robert’s been in New York for the past five days,’ said Ingrid. ‘He travels back and forth. I spoke with him last night, he asked about Laura. I said … she was late, but I was sure she was fine …’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No need to apologize,’ said Janine. ‘Mrs Prince, can you tell us how long you’ve been staying in Golden?’

‘Since November,’ said Ingrid. ‘We were kind of using it as a base for ski season. Loveland is the closest resort to Denver, Golden’s halfway between the two …’

‘And now it’s May,’ said Ren. ‘You decided to stay on …’

Ingrid nodded. ‘I love it here, so does Laura … did Laura. Robert is getting busier and busier …’

‘Mrs Prince, was there anything unusual in Laura’s behavior recently?’ said Ren.

Ingrid took a while to answer. ‘No … I’m trying really hard to think. No. She was a little upset about her friend’s mother …’

‘What friend?’

‘The friend she went to visit in Chicago. Nessa Lally. She was from the same town in Waterford. You might find her on Laura’s Facebook … The trip was last minute. Nessa’s mother died back in Ireland, but Nessa’s illegal, so she couldn’t risk flying back for the funeral. Laura said she was devastated. Oh God, you’re not going to report the girl to immigration or anything, are you?’

‘No,’ said Ren. ‘We just need to speak with her, find out some more about their trip and why Laura didn’t fly back to Denver. Were there any problems at work, Mrs Prince – anything you can think of that might have made Laura reluctant to come back?’

‘To us? No, not at all,’ said Ingrid, ‘like I said, we were like family. We were very close, and Robert was like a father to her.’

‘The trip and the shooting might not be connected,’ said Janine. ‘We just need to get a sense of Laura, what might have been going on in her life.’

‘So on the day before she left,’ said Ren, ‘did anything happen out of the ordinary?’

‘No,’ said Ingrid. ‘Not that I can think of. She was quiet, but she had just heard about Nessa’s mother that morning – Wednesday. We were just watching TV that night, hanging out … and now … now she’s gone.’

Ren sat forward. ‘Mrs Prince, have you ever heard Laura mention a place called Evergreen Abbey?’

‘No,’ said Ingrid. ‘Abbey? Like, nuns?’

‘There used to be nuns,’ said Ren. ‘Now, it’s a community of women who do a lot of work for charity. But it’s also, effectively, a shelter for women …’

‘Shelter?’ said Ingrid, ‘but Laura would have no reason to go to a shelter.’ She paused. ‘We … we were her shelter … Robert and I.’

The hurt in her voice was heart-wrenching. ‘I understand,’ said Ren. ‘Do you think Laura might have had a friend who went there? Did she mention anyone who was in trouble or worried about something or trying to get away from a bad situation? Could she have been going there to visit someone?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Ingrid. ‘She talked a little about her friends, but she was quite private. I knew about the Chicago girl only recently. It was like Laura mentioned friends when it was a big event, an engagement, a wedding, a baby, a funeral. But, you know, if a friend was in trouble and was running away from something, I don’t think Laura was the type to betray a confidence. I can’t see her telling me that.’

‘Mrs Prince,’ said Janine, ‘it looks like Laura may have had some information on a cold case from here in Jefferson County. Bearing in mind she is from Ireland, she lives in New York, she is young, she has a small circle of friends, it is quite extraordinary that she could have information. Is this something she was interested in? Cold cases? Websleuthing?’

‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Ingrid. ‘She read crime novels, but so do I. Websleuthing – she had access to our computer – I’m sure you can find that out.’

‘Can we take a look at the computer?’ said Ren.

‘Of course,’ said Ingrid. ‘You can take that away with you.’ She reached over to a side table and handed a laptop to Ren.

‘Did Laura ever mention a place called The Flying G Ranch?’ said Janine.

‘No,’ said Ingrid. ‘Where is that?’

‘It adjoins Evergreen Abbey,’ said Janine. ‘Although The Flying G is now The Darned Heart Ranch for troubled teens.’

Ingrid shook her head.

‘Has Laura ever mentioned the name Margaret or Peggy Beck?’ said Janine.

‘No. Who are they?’ said Ingrid.

‘She’s a young girl who was murdered there in the early Sixties. Peggy was her nickname.’

‘What has that got to do with Laura?’ said Ingrid.

‘We’re just trying to connect some dots,’ said Ren.

As opposed to showing our hand.

‘Well, she hasn’t mentioned either of those places to me.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. She stood up. ‘Well that’s all for now, Mrs Prince. We are so sorry for your loss. If there’s anything else you can think of, please call either myself or Detective Hooks.’

They handed her their cards.

‘The more information we have the better, obviously,’ said Janine.

‘Of course,’ said Ingrid.

‘How can we reach your husband?’ said Ren.

‘I know he has meetings in New York all day today,’ said Ingrid. ‘I’m sure he’ll fly here as soon as I can get hold of him. I’ll get him to call you right away.’

Janine’s cell phone buzzed, and the doorbell rang within seconds. ‘That’s the victim advocate,’ she said, ‘let me go get her.’

Ingrid started weeping. ‘Victim advocate …’ she said. ‘I can’t believe I need a victim advocate …’

10

Janine and Ren drove toward Denver.

‘Thank you for ferrying me home,’ said Ren.

‘Pleasure.’

‘That woman is a wreck.’

‘I know,’ said Janine. ‘Poor thing. They were definitely close.’

‘She’s pregnant and her housekeeper’s pregnant, though …’ said Ren.

‘Just a little bit coincidental,’ said Janine.

‘Hmm,’ said Ren.

‘We need to meet this Robert Prince guy,’ said Janine.

‘See if he impregnates us … just with a stare,’ said Ren.

‘I’ll say one thing,’ said Janine, ‘that Flynn family …’

‘Just a tiiiny bit jinxed,’ said Ren.

‘I mean, it’s been one death after another,’ said Janine.

‘Maybe they’re like The Incredibles, a big spy family … that has to be taken down …’ said Ren.

‘You’re terrible, Muriel … Oh my God, why are we laughing?’

‘Because we have to,’ said Ren. ‘Because it’s what we do. Because, why oh why oh why does a pregnant lady get to die today?’

‘I know,’ said Janine. ‘Now, explain this to me: the Princes rent a house in November in Golden. They want to ski, I get that. But why are they still here? They’ve rented it all the way through to the end of May. Wouldn’t you cancel that if you found out you were pregnant, so you weren’t going to be skiing, plus you have the option of a second home in the Hamptons if it’s a change of scenery you’re looking for …’

‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘It doesn’t make a lot of sense. But, then, it’s not like I’m thinking we’ve just walked away from a murderer … a liar, maybe.’

‘I was just about to say the same thing,’ said Janine. ‘Something was a little off.’ She paused. ‘Hey – it’s nine o’clock – news.’

‘Already?’ said Ren. ‘This day has flown.’

The report of Laura Flynn’s death was the top story.

‘The pressure is on,’ said Ren. ‘On you.’

‘Thanks for that,’ said Janine.

‘But we will do everything we can …’ said Ren.

They talked over the next story, until they were drawn into the mad ramblings of an evangelist.

‘Is this still the news?’ said Ren.

‘We might learn something …’ said Janine.

‘And in so doing, the devil visited upon the Earth a faithful following of fornicators, a plague of pornographers, a harem of homosexuals—’

‘A harem?’ said Ren. ‘Seriously? Who’s this dickhead?’

The report continued. ‘That was the voice of evangelist Howard Coombes, who was assaulted earlier today at Centennial Airport.’

‘Woo-hoo!’ said Ren. ‘I cannot stand that man.’

‘Coombes, who is here to attend a memorial for the victims of the Aurora Theater shooting, was being interviewed outside the building by one of our own presenters … Here’s the audio …

‘“I’m just here as a show of support to the people of Aurora who were so affected by—”’

Another man’s voice broke into the interview: ‘“What about supporting the rights of citizens to marry the person they love? What about the rights of a man to marry a man or a woman to marry a woman?”’

There was the sound of scuffling and it went back to the studio.

‘The angry protester threw a milkshake at Mr Coombes, later describing it as an impulse attack, but making a point that the sentiment behind it still stands.’

‘High five to the milkshake man,’ said Ren. ‘Howard Coombes – the voice of reasonlessness … High five also to the producer for running the sermon from before Coombes was caught fornicating with a “homo-sekshil”—’

‘Did I miss that?’ said Janine. ‘Isn’t he married with mini-me-vangelists?’

‘Oh, yes he is,’ said Ren. ‘His son, Jesse, was the child evangelist − he was touring at five, being interviewed on television – it was insane. The family were building up their empire for years. Then the father got caught with a man-of-the-night in a motel. Busted! But he got all repentant, so the family stuck by him and he blamed it all on the other guy. He gave one of the most odious speeches I’ve ever heard, saying the guy was a “homo-sekshil of the worst kind”, the kind who takes money from a married, God-fearing man going through a crisis, a man questioning his life and his ways, a vulnerable man, who did not seek answers from this stranger, but found only more questions. I mean, it didn’t even make sense.’

‘He said that? “Of the worst kind”? What an asshole,’ said Janine.

‘Well, hopefully, he’s an asshole on a flight back to California.’

‘What’s he doing getting all up in our business anyway?’ said Janine.

‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘He is out there directing his wrath at people whose sin is to love? He should be pointing his daggers at the kind of people who would take a pregnant lady’s life. OK … deep breaths. Deep breaths.’

‘Yup,’ said Janine, ‘take your rantin’ pants off.’

‘I like that – rantin’ pants,’ said Ren. ‘I’ll get home, swap them for my fornicatin’ pants.’

‘Is yo’ man paying you a visit?’ said Janine.

‘No,’ said Ren. ‘Sadly. Realistically? We’re talking pajama pants tonight. Ah, the challenges of the long-distance relationship.’

Ren arrived home at nine thirty to an exceptional welcome from Misty, her black-and-white border collie and beloved friend. For a little over a year, Ren and Misty had been house-sitting a beautiful Gold-Rush-era home in historic Denver. It was owned by Annie Lowell, a Bryce family friend who had been a widow as long as Ren had known her. She was eighty-two now and busy traveling across Europe. She had been due back two months earlier, but had fallen in love with so many places on her trip, she kept extending it. Ren loved Annie … and loved that she was having such a good time.

Ren had recently auditioned dog walkers to look after Misty when she was working. She had settled on Devin, a sweet student from across the street, who loved Misty like she was her own. Ren had recently told Devin that Misty was a cadaver dog in her spare time, but it hadn’t broken Devin’s dog-walking stride.

When Ren walked into the hall, there was a box of Mike and Ike Berry Blast on top of the newel post with a pink Post-it stuck to it. Devin always left little things for Ren inside the door: notes or candy or something totally random.

Aw. Always something sweet to come home to.

She read the note.

Sugar rrrrrrush! Hope you cleaned up the streets today! Misty ran a marathon! Still no dead bodies, tho!

Devin

Ren laughed as she walked upstairs. She lay on her bed and called Ben.

‘Ben Rader, this is a time for hugs.’

‘What’s up?’ said Ben.

‘What’s up is we found a pregnant girl dead on the side of a road.’

He listened quietly as she told him everything.

‘Well, I wish I was there to give you those hugs,’ said Ben. ‘I’m sending you some down the phone. And there’ll be real ones at the weekend.’

‘Thank you, man.’

‘Make yourself some hot chocolate. Crank up the comfort. I need you to be there this weekend. I can’t have you running away to a lady commune …’

‘No chance,’ said Ren. ‘And don’t worry – here is always cozy. It just feels like home.’

‘Well, I can’t wait to be home with you,’ said Ben.

Ooh … home. Sounds a liittle too committed.

11

The following morning, Ren was in the office by seven. She sat at her desk in the small space where, over the years, the team-within-a-team had been cemented: Ren Bryce, Robbie Truax and Cliff James. There had been a fourth – Colin Grabien, IT and financial expert, and nemesis to Ren. He had resigned from Safe Streets five months earlier, not long after Ren had punched him in the face and told him she knew he had gotten his position by shafting the other candidate. She had kept it quiet; she didn’t want to ruin his career. She hoped he saw the error of his ways. He requested a transfer, and attributed it to the changing career of his soon-to-be-wife. Since then, Gary had drafted in different financial and IT experts from 36th Avenue, but he hadn’t made a decision on his permanent replacement.

Ren could see Robbie Truax’s computer was fired up. He was the only one in. Robbie was ex-Aurora PD, a solid member of Safe Streets. If honesty, earnestness and goodness could take a physical form, it would take Robbie Truax. He walked into the bullpen and gave her a weary hello.

‘You know what I can’t help?’ said Ren, ‘when anyone else sits in Grabien’s chair, I’m kind of thinking that I’ll come in some day and they will have morphed into him … morphed into an asshole. Like the chair itself changes people.’ She started up her computer. ‘I think the chair has taken on an ominous vibe,’ she said. ‘Stephen-King style.’

‘So no matter who sits there, we’re in trouble,’ said Robbie.

‘Maybe,’ said Ren.

‘There’s a lot of darkness in there,’ said Robbie, pointing to her head.

‘Caused by the absence of lightbulbs.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Robbie. He never let her beat herself up too much, even when she was joking.

Cliff arrived into the office, looking shattered. He mustered up enough energy to give Ren one of his gorgeous smiles and a wink.

‘Hey, big guy,’ said Ren. ‘Were you two pulling an all-nighter or something?’

‘Are you saying I’m fat?’ said Cliff. He stretched back on his chair. ‘Why is it that women can say to men they look like crap, but men can’t say it to women?’

‘Who said anything about looking like crap?’ said Ren. ‘Maybe I meant you smell like you slept in your clothes.’

‘I slept in the nudie, as always,’ said Cliff.

‘There is no greater gift than those intimate mental snapshots,’ said Ren.

‘Mental?’ said Cliff. ‘They can’t be better than the photo books …’

‘The pages are getting tattered,’ said Ren. ‘They’re worn through.’ She paused. ‘Now, speaking of pages, I am about to enter the Facebook world of Laura Flynn.’

‘Facebook …’ said Cliff. And his tone expressed exactly how he felt about it.

‘This is bizarre,’ said Ren after a few minutes’ trawling. ‘There is no mention of her pregnancy anywhere. She’s not a major poster of photos, but the ones she has put up are all head-and-shoulders shots.’ She scrolled down through the images. ‘Looks like this was a secret pregnancy … but from who? The father? The Princes knew … but they’re not Facebook Friends. So maybe the father is connected to one of these twenty-two Friends she does have. And this is also weird: there’s no Nessa Lally, the girl she was to have stayed with in Chicago. But then, I guess, not everyone is on Facebook.’ She paused. ‘Could this be a surrogacy situation? Could Laura Flynn have been acting as a surrogate for the Princes? Ingrid Prince could well have a Moonbump and a prescription for Prednisone.’

‘And I am going to ask you what the heck both of those things are,’ said Cliff.

‘Prednisone is an anti-arthritis drug,’ said Ren, ‘but it causes weight gain that mimics pregnancy weight gain – like water retention in the face and neck. And a Moonbump is a faux pregnancy belly – they’re used in movies or by women who are adopting or using a surrogate and would rather people not know for whatever reason.’

‘Gee whizz,’ said Robbie.

‘Let me Google Ingrid Prince and see whether there are any suspect baby bump photos …’ said Ren, ‘the kind that fold and the like.’ Ren typed, then paused. ‘Four months is probably a little too early for that … I was thinking six months.’

‘So there’s a two-month difference in their due dates,’ said Cliff.

‘That way the baby comes before the paparazzi start sniffing around,’ said Ren.

She went back to scanning Laura Flynn’s Facebook posts.

‘Laura Flynn’s friends are almost entirely non-slutty,’ said Ren. ‘Low levels of selfies and duck face. And Laura – she looks like such a regular girl. Just a nice person. Like, she dressed as Little Red Riding Hood last Hallowe’en. A regular one, not an “adult” one. She volunteers at a soup kitchen …’

Ren did another search. ‘Hold on … more weirdness. I just ran her “illegal” friend, Nessa Lally, through our databases and she is, in fact, one hundred percent legal. If her mother is dead, which I’m now thinking she is not, Nessa is free to go back to Ireland all she wants.’

She sat back. ‘So, Laura Flynn. Almost-entirely-secret pregnancy, trip to Chicago with secret drive down to Colorado, phone call to Janine Hooks … there was lots of secret shiz going on.’

‘Let’s see what the autopsy tells us,’ said Robbie.

‘You know we’re also going to take in the ranch and abbey afterwards,’ said Ren. ‘We need to talk to a little old nun-like lady, who may or may not have seen a car being torched.’ She gathered up her things.

‘I can’t help feeling I’m drafted in for religious organizations and old ladies,’ said Robbie.

Ren paused as she walked by him and held a hand to his cheek. ‘But look at that face …’

He shook his head away from her.

‘You have a way about you,’ said Ren.

People told Robbie things because he made them feel that whatever information they gave him, it was a blessing, he would cherish it, and he would use it to successfully fight the forces of evil. No matter where he’d been and what he’d seen, he truly trusted and he inspired trust. His bright blue eyes told them ‘We are going to solve this. I will take care of this.’

Robbie Truax: Action Boy.

Ren glanced at him.

Tired-looking Action Boy.

The little old ladies saw him as the ideal grandson. He was single, Mormon and virginal, because he never wanted to do what so many of his friends had done: marry so he could have sex. Robbie was waiting for the right woman to come along. He had long believed it was Ren. He had once broken his no-alcohol vow for one night only to be a little more like the kind of man he thought Ren would want. He had tried to kiss her and he had told her how he felt. And she let him kindly know that, though she adored him, she thought of him in a different way; the worst way possible for him: as a brother.

Even if she had been physically attracted to him, even if he didn’t believe in no sex before marriage, Robbie wouldn’t do sex. Robbie did love.

Bless you, innocent, pure, breakable Robbie.

The autopsy lasted two hours and was a difficult one for everyone. Ren, Janine, Robbie and Kohler were now standing in a corner, as Tolman talked through the findings. Tolman was a smart, thorough medical examiner, who explained everything clearly.

He glanced at Janine and Ren.

‘You know, Janine, I remember a time when you told me not to speak to Agent Ren Bryce … now look at you guys.’

‘It was a dark moment in our history,’ said Ren.

‘Darker for her than me,’ said Janine.

Shame. Shaaame.

During a previous investigation, Ren had gotten her confidential informant to steal a file from Janine’s office, but he had put it back in the wrong place, and Janine had made the connection to Ren. By the end of the mercifully successful investigation, Janine had also solved a cold case and the two women had ultimately bonded over bad things and good intentions.

‘Aw, the lesser-spotted blushing of Ren Bryce,’ said Janine. ‘Let’s just say that at the time of said incident, Agent Bryce was using her superpowers for good …’

‘Some day you will tell me,’ said Tolman. ‘OK – down to business: we’ve got a twenty-six-year-old woman, pregnant, sustained multiple gunshot wounds, while sitting in a parked car. Cause of death was a severe head injury caused by a gunshot wound at close range. I recovered one projectile from behind the left scapula. Also noted was a gunshot wound to the chest, causing severe injuries. I recovered a second projectile just beneath the scalp behind the left ear. Both appear to me to be from a large caliber weapon. Manner of death: homicide. Time of death – anywhere from ten a.m. to when you found her at 15.48.

‘The pregnancy was approximately six months gestational age,’ said Tolman. ‘The fetus was viable. If it were born today, it would have been capable of living on its own. There were no signs of deformity. The death of the fetus is associated with maternal death, caused by the gunshot wounds.’ He paused. ‘Do you know who the father is? Is there a question of paternity? I’ll retain tissue here – I can get testing through the university lab, if you need it.’

‘Great,’ said Ren. ‘We don’t know yet. We also have to consider it as a possible surrogacy situation.’

‘Well, keep me posted,’ said Tolman.

‘Oh,’ said Ren. ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’

‘It’s a girl,’ said Tolman.

Those words were not meant for this room.

12

Robbie sat with his laptop at a spare desk beside Janine’s. Ren was sitting on the edge of Janine’s desk, her office phone up to her ear.

‘Well, it’s ringing,’ said Ren. ‘And it’s an overseas ringtone. Nessa Lally may just be in Ireland after all.’

Her eyes were on Janine’s piano fingers as she waited.

‘You are such a fast typist,’ said Ren. ‘It’s insane.’

‘You know it, girl,’ said Janine.

‘Hello,’ said Ren, sitting up. ‘Is this Nessa Lally?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Special Agent Ren Bryce. I’m with the FBI in Denver. The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. Is this a good time?’

‘The FBI?’ said Nessa. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Ren. That ma’am will convince her.

‘Is everything OK?’ said Nessa.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Ren. ‘I’ve got some bad news about your friend, Laura Flynn.’

‘Laura Flynn?’ said Nessa.

‘Yes,’ said Ren, ‘I’m sorry to tell you that she was the victim of a homicide.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Nessa. ‘No way. Laura? No way. In Denver? What was she doing in Denver? I knew she’d moved to New York, but …’

What? ‘You knew she’d moved to New York?’ said Ren.

‘It’s just … I haven’t seen her in years,’ said Nessa. ‘How did you even get my number?’

‘Aren’t you friends with Laura?’ said Ren.

‘Not now, no,’ said Nessa. ‘I used to be, there was a big gang of us used to hang around together, but we haven’t seen each other in, easily, six or seven years.’

‘Laura told her employers last week that your mother died and that because you were illegal you couldn’t fly back to Ireland for the funeral, so she was going to spend the weekend with you for support,’ said Ren. ‘We obviously now know that you’re legal …’

‘Thank God I am,’ said Nessa. ‘My mam did die last week, but yeah, I came back from Chicago for the funeral. But, Laura … that’s so weird. I haven’t spoken to her in years. Someone else must have told her about mam.’ She gave a grim laugh. ‘In fairness, she always used to use me as an alibi in college when she was lying to her mother about where she was staying.’

I wonder what she was lying about this time.

‘What did Laura study in college?’ said Ren.

‘Psychology,’ said Nessa. ‘She’s got a degree. But it’s impossible to get a job in it. And she would have needed a PhD in the States to do more with it. I don’t know anyone who can afford to do that.’

‘Was there anyone else she might have known in Chicago?’ said Ren. ‘Anyone else from your hometown?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nessa. ‘But I can ask around for you.’

‘Did any of her friends end up in New York?’ said Ren.

‘Yes,’ said Nessa. ‘I can get their names for you if that would help?’

‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘Thank you. Nessa, what kind of girl was Laura? Was she the type to get involved with the wrong crowd?’ What a shit expression. ‘Was she a risk-taker?’

‘No, not at all,’ said Nessa. ‘Her father and her sister were big drinkers … and that definitely turned Laura off it, like she was very conscious that addiction runs in families. So I doubt she’d ever get into anything serious, like drugs or anything like that, if that’s what you mean. She dated a few losers, but not, like, psychos or anything.’ She paused. ‘Jesus, though, Laura really did have a shitty childhood with her father being such an alco around town and her mother always taking him back or showing up and they’d have huge rows in front of everyone. Laura always kind of rose above it. She was like one of those little flowers you see growing in a weird place. Like on the side of some shitty road in the middle of nowhere.’

Ren slid off Janine’s desk and grabbed a chair to sit on.

‘If you lead a tragic life, don’t you deserve to have a beautiful death?’ said Ren. ‘Garlands of white flowers, unicorns, dancing sprites, lyres, lutes … not sure if they’re the same thing …’

‘Me neither,’ said Janine.

Ren filled her in on the other side of the conversation with Nessa Lally.

‘What I’m kind of confused about,’ said Ren, ‘is the surrogacy thing … if this is a surrogacy. Aren’t the Catholic Church anti-surrogacy, anti-IVF …’

‘They are,’ said Janine.

‘How would that sit with Robert Prince?’ said Ren. ‘Wouldn’t this look bad if it came out? That this prominent Catholic was, in fact, using a surrogate? I mean, that’s a massive conflict right there.’

‘Wouldn’t he have just not gone along with it in the first place if he had such a problem with it?’ said Janine.

‘Who knows?’ said Ren. ‘Change of heart? Or is he one of those men that messes with women’s heads?’ She paused. ‘Maybe it’s the Order of Catholic businessy thing.’ She Googled it. ‘OK – OCBLA. The Order of Catholic Business Leaders of America. Let me go back over this. So he failed in his bid to be elected chairman in 2005, and in 2010.’

Five-year term.

Next election: 2015.

Ren Googled the former chairmen.

‘All the former chairmen were multi-millionaires, all male, all married with kids. Robert Prince was unmarried when he first ran. He was married when he ran a second time in 2010, but he had no children. He didn’t get elected. So, if this surrogacy had been successful, he would have had a child by 2015 … albeit in a manner that would go against the beliefs of all the members of the organization.’

‘Cynical,’ said Janine.

‘Yes,’ said Ren. She searched to see if he was running for the following year. There was no mention of it.

‘Let me call Eli Baer in New York.’ She dialed his number. ‘Instant response, I love it. Eli, it’s Ren Bryce. What do you know about the Order of Catholic Business Leaders of America?’

‘Apart from it takes a long time to say it, it’s an exclusive new-but-old boys’ club …’ said Eli.

‘Secret handshakes …’ said Ren.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know of Robert Prince’s involvement with it?’ said Ren.

‘I do not,’ said Eli, ‘but I know who to ask.’

‘Also, has anything else come up on Robert Prince … like issues with women?’

‘Nothing serious,’ said Eli. ‘I know a cop who worked private security for him a few times. He said he was a real control freak. That was it. Really cared about his image. He made his date change that night. They went to pick her up, she came down in a really short dress and he got out of the car, went back into her apartment with her and when they came back down, she was wearing something a lot more conservative …’

‘No black eye or split lip …’ said Ren.

‘Nope,’ said Eli. ‘Really, Prince just came across to him as a rich jerk. But I guess he does have an image to protect … and this lady wasn’t quite tying into it.’

‘No escort or hooker tales?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Eli, ‘but you know he can afford to be a very careful man if that’s what he’s into.’

‘I know …’ said Ren. ‘OK, thanks for that.’

‘Any time,’ said Eli.

Ren put down the phone. ‘Prince is a control freak,’ said Ren. ‘That’s all we’ve got. And Eli will look into the Order of Secret Handshakes.’

‘Another thought,’ said Janine. ‘A less conspiratorial one – if Laura Flynn had a psychology degree, could she have been going for a job at the ranch?’

‘That’s going to be part of my angle when we go and talk to the private folks of The Darned Heart Ranch. Firstly, I’m all about the employees, not the “guests”. Then – bam! – burning car.’

Detective Kohler stuck his head into the office. ‘Briefing here at six p.m. Ren, Robbie – can you make it?’

‘We sure can,’ said Ren. ‘In the meantime, we’re going to speak with the Faules, see if anyone saw anything, if they know anything more about the car, and if they’re harboring murderous, pyromaniac teens.’

‘OK,’ said Kohler, ‘we’ll see you later.’

Ren turned to Janine. ‘Do you think the parents of the teens know about the Faules’ trusting approach?’

‘Lord, no,’ said Janine. ‘It’s not like they would say that out loud. But, in the Faules’ defense, look at the adjoining property: an abbey. And it’s only the abbey boundary that is really crossable, unless you’re Bear Grylls. The Faules aren’t stupid. If the kids wander into the abbey, they’ll be seen, they’ll be pretty safe, and more than likely, they’ll be treated compassionately if they’re discovered. Obviously, a couple of the kids have strayed further, which is where we came in. What they do is prey on some kindly visitor to the abbey to drop them into town. Or they hide in the back of a truck. Or they reach out to one of the teen volunteers that come in and out of the abbey.’

‘So Kristen Faule thinks she’s got some kind of magic wand that will transform these kids,’ said Ren. ‘When it’s highly likely that most of them have been blackmailed into going there in the first place and are just biding their time. “You won’t get a car for your sixteenth birthday if you don’t get a handle on your behavior/you are forbidden to see your boyfriend or girlfriend/we’ll take away your iPad, trauma of traumas” …’

‘We were simple children, really …’ said Janine.

‘We were,’ said Ren. ‘It’s shitty that some of these parents are sending their kids off just to get them out from under their feet, to get a break from all their drama, or worse, that they want to protect their own reputation. I think the minority are the ones who want their child to be happy and healthy and … fixed. It’s a great thing what the Faules do. I’m sure they’ve helped a lot of kids … I just suspect some of these kids are beyond help.’

13

The sign for The Darned Heart Ranch arced over the iron entry gates, the words rendered in oxblood metal. Ren had parked outside the metal art shop in Conifer the day before; all metal signs had been jumping out at her ever since. She drove up the dusty driveway. Robbie had opened a map of the ranch on his iPad.

‘The ranch is laid out like an actual diagram of the heart,’ said Robbie. ‘We are currently driving up the inferior vena cava.’

‘And what does that do?’ said Ren.

‘It carries de-oxygenated blood from the lower half of the body to the right atrium.’

Ren looked at him. ‘Wow. I wasn’t actually expecting an answer.’

They pulled into the parking lot. Ren looked at the map. The main office of the ranch was a three-thousand-square-foot log cabin tucked into the right ventricle; there were recreational areas in the left atrium, troubled teen residences in the superior vena cava. There were stables, a tack room, a hayloft and maintenance units tucked into the cardiac muscle. Beside that was a school with several classrooms, beside that an indoor basketball court and a separate shower house and toilet block. There was a separate two-story building close by that housed staff. And a three-bed ranch-style home where the Faules lived.

‘It’s kind of a mix of old and new,’ said Ren. ‘OK – let’s go. See if we can make a cardiac arrest …’

Robbie was staring out the window.

You don’t laugh at my jokes any more.

‘Are you OK, Robbie?’ said Ren. ‘I mean, am I OK? Have I done something?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Because if you don’t change that attitude, young man, I’m going to leave you here, let them beat the trouble out of you …’

Robbie smiled.

That’s better … a little better …

They got out of the Jeep. Ren looked around.

‘Can you take some photos of the vehicles parked here?’ she said.

Robbie used his iPad to quickly take a few dozen shots from different angles.

‘Some very nice cars,’ said Ren. ‘Look at this fleet of four …’ Black, sleek, top-of-the-range executive vans. ‘Ferriers of children to rehab. What a strange world we live in.’

They walked through the parking lot.

‘Looks like someone jizzed up the side of that one,’ said Ren, pointing to another black car.

‘How do you just come out with things like that?’ said Robbie.

‘It’s shameful,’ said Ren. ‘I apologize. But it’s a ranch for teens … hormones are rampant.’

‘That doesn’t mean—’

‘Robbie, I’m kidding. Jesus. I don’t think a kid’s been out here jacking off. It doesn’t even look like jizz. Relax.’

They went into the reception of the main building, showed their badges and asked to speak with Kristen Faule.

‘Sure,’ said the girl at the desk, ‘please, take a seat.’

Kristen Faule arrived within ten minutes. She looked to be in her mid-forties, her snowy blonde hair tied back into a plait that reached halfway down her back. The only makeup she wore was to define her eyebrows and darken her lashes.

‘I’m Special Agent Ren Bryce,’ said Ren, ‘and this is Detective Robbie Truax. We’re from the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force in Denver. Thank you for seeing us.’

‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘Come on through to my office. My husband is on his way, he’ll join us there.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ren.

But why are you talking like you’re auditioning for a Disney movie and/or musical? Disney ways. I get it. Janine, I love you.

Ren and Robbie followed Kristen Faule into a large room that was like a combination living space, office and bookstore. It had a beautiful stone fireplace with a yellow ceramic jug of flowers in the hearth. There was a smell of freshly cut wood and oil. Everything looked rugged, rustic, but new.

‘This is a beautiful room,’ said Ren.

‘Thank you,’ said Kristen. ‘We’ve just had it remodeled. I only moved back into it a month ago.’

‘It will age real well,’ said Ren. ‘I love the shelves.’

‘Hand-crafted,’ said Kristen. ‘They’re my favorite feature.’

‘And they must be custom file cabinets,’ said Ren.

She nodded. ‘They are. I hate the metal look. I wanted everything to have as natural a finish as it could.’

Instead of sitting at her desk, she guided them over to two facing sofas. They were all halted by the mountains of cushions on top.

‘Just move them out of your way,’ said Kristen.

How many times a day do you have to say that to people?

Ren rolled her eyes at Robbie as they both plucked up cushions and set them on an empty console table.

The room overlooked a flagstone courtyard bordered by blue spruce.

‘I know you had detectives from the Sheriff’s Office here yesterday to let you know about the homicide,’ said Ren.

‘Yes – how terribly sad,’ said Kristen.

Ren nodded. ‘She was only twenty-six years old.’

Robbie leaned forward and took a brochure for the ranch from a stack on the table. ‘Do you mind?’ he said.

‘Not at all,’ said Kristen.

‘The Darned Heart …’ said Robbie.

‘It’s a play on words,’ said Kristen.

No way!

There was no doubt she had explained this a thousand times, but there was clearly no loss of enthusiasm. ‘These kids – or their parents – often feel like they are damned,’ said Kristen, ‘which is a terrible thing when they’re still in their teens. The kids have the strangest type of independence; it’s independence without the emotional maturity to handle it. And without the respect for authority that allows them to accept guidance from people who do. They want to do everything themselves and don’t want to listen to anyone. And then something happens in their lives and they break.

‘It doesn’t matter what their financial circumstances are, they are all, in some way, broken. Their hearts are broken. And we like to think we can help mend that. Darn it.’ She smiled. ‘It’s in honor of my grandmother, who always said you could “knit a problem away”.’

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