Vanish

their theories are.” He set down his coffee cup. “John Barsanti spent about three hours with me, did you know that? Picking and probing, trying to find out why I was the only reporter Joseph Roke wanted to talk to. Funny thing about interrogations. The person being interrogated can glean a lot of information just by the questions they ask you. I know that two months ago, Olena and Joe were together in New Haven, where he killed a cop. Maybe they were lovers, maybe just fellow delusionals, but after an incident like that, they’d want to split up. At least, they would if they were smart, and I don’t think these were dumb people. But they must have had a way to stay in contact. A way to regroup if they needed to. And they chose Boston as the place to meet.”

“Why Boston?”

His gaze was so direct she could not avoid it. “You’re looking at the reason.”

“You?”

“I’m not being egotistical here. I’m just telling you what Barsanti seems to think. That Joe and Olena somehow identified me as their crusading hero. That they came to Boston to see me.”

“And that leads to the question I came here to ask.” She leaned toward him. “Why you? They didn’t pick your name out of a hat. Joe may have been mentally unstable, but he was intelligent. An obsessive reader of newspapers and magazines. Something you wrote must have caught his eye.”

“I know the answer to that one. Barsanti essentially spilled the beans when he asked about a column I wrote back in early June. About the Ballentree Company.”

They both fell silent as another reporter walked past, on her way to the coffeepot. While they waited for her to pour her cup, their gazes remained locked on each other. Only when the woman was once again out of earshot did Maura say: “Show me the column.”

“It’ll be on LexisNexis. Let me call it up.” He swiveled around to his computer and called up the LexisNexis news search engine, typed in his name, and hit search.

The screen filled with entries.

“Let me find the right date,” he said, scrolling down the page.

“This is everything you’ve ever written?”

“Yeah, probably going all the way back to my Bigfoot days.”

“Excuse me?”

“When I got out of journalism school, I had a ton of student loans to pay off. Took every writing gig I could get, including an assignment to cover a Bigfoot convention out in California.” He looked at her. “I admit it, I was a news whore. But I had bills to pay.”

“And now you’re respectable?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far…” He paused, clicked on an entry. “Okay, here’s the column,” he said and rose to his feet, offering her his chair. “That’s what I wrote back in June, about Ballentree.”

She settled into his just-vacated seat and focused on the text now glowing on the screen.

War is Profit: Business Booming for Ballentree

While the US economy sags, there’s one sector that’s still raking in big profits. Mega defense contractor Ballentree is reeling in new deals like fish from their private trout pond…

“Needless to say,” said Lukas, “Ballentree was none too happy about that piece. But I’m not the only one who’s writing these things. The same criticism has been leveled by other reporters.”

“Yet Joe chose you.”

“Maybe it was the timing. Maybe he just happened to pick up a Tribune that day, and there was my column about big bad Ballentree.”

“Can I look at what else you’ve written?”

“Be my guest.”

She returned to the list of his articles on the LexisNexis page. “You’re prolific.”

“I’ve been writing for over twenty years, covering everything from gang warfare to gay marriage.”

“And Bigfoot.”

“Don’t remind me.”

She scrolled down the first and second pages of entries, then moved onto the third page. There she paused. “These articles were filed from Washington.”

“I think I told you. I was the Tribune’s Washington correspondent. Only lasted for two years there.”

“Why?”

“I hated DC. And I admit, I’m a born Yankee. Call me a masochist, but I missed the winters up here, so I moved back to Boston in February.”

“What was your beat in DC?”

“Everything. Features. Politics, crime beat.” He paused. “A cynic might say there’s no difference between the last two. I’d as soon cover a good juicy murder than chase after some blow- dried senator all day.”

She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Have you ever dealt with Senator Conway?”

“Of course. He’s one of our senators. “ He paused. “Why do you ask about Conway?” When she didn’t answer, he leaned closer, his hands grasping the back of her chair. “Dr. Isles,” he said, his voice suddenly quiet, whispering into her hair. “You want to tell me what you’re thinking?”

Her gaze was fixed on the screen. “I’m just trying to make some connections here.”

“Are you getting the tingle?”

“What?”

“That’s what I call it when I suddenly know I’m onto something interesting. Also known as ESP or Spidey sense. Tell me why Senator Conway makes you sit up and take notice.”

“He’s on the intelligence committee.”

“I interviewed him back in November or December. The article’s there somewhere.”

She scanned down the headlines, about Congressional hearings and terrorism alerts and a Massachusetts congressman arrested for drunk driving, and found the article about Senator Conway. Then her gaze strayed to a different headline, dated January 15.

RestonMan Found Dead Aboard Yacht. Businessman Missing Since January 2nd.

It was the date that she focused on. January 2nd. She clicked on the entry and the page filled with text. Only a moment before, Lukas had talked about the tingle. She was feeling it now.

She turned to look at him. “Tell me about Charles Desmond.”

“What do you want to know about him?”

“Everything.”

THIRTY

Who are you, Mila? Where are you?

Somewhere, there had to be a trace of her. Jane poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, then sat down at her kitchen table and surveyed all the files she had collected in the days since coming home from the hospital. Here were autopsy and Boston PD crime lab reports, Leesburg PD files on the Ashburn