It truly pained D.D. to say this: “I think she’s right.”
Now all eyes were on her. “There’s inconsistencies with our crimes. Goulding kept trophies of the first two women, but not Stacey Summers. There’s blood in his garage, which implies at one time he brought at least one victim there, but the victims must be held somewhere else. Not to mention, he brought Flora to his garage versus bringing her straight to this second location. I think—and I’m going a bit off the reservation here—that the garage is Goulding’s domain, but the second location isn’t. It belongs to his partner. Meaning, once the girls are there—”
“They aren’t his anymore,” Phil finished for her. “He’s turning them over to someone else. Submissive, handing over to the alpha.”
“Evidence would be nice,” D.D. conceded. “But given that Goulding’s dead . . . I wonder if he picked the first two women on his own. Or maybe just Natalie, with whom he clearly had some kind of relationship, to judge by the number of photos. Maybe that first crime was personal and independent. But it drew someone else’s attention. Someone who could both add to the adventure—Hey, I got the perfect place we can keep them—but then who also started calling the shots. Leading to Goulding’s increasing temper tantrums and his need to snatch Flora and take her to his place first. Because, later, it wouldn’t be about him.”
Around the table, detectives eyed one another. Universal shrug. D.D. couldn’t argue with that. They were detectives, not profilers. And she really had drifted into the land of conjecture.
“Which leads us to—” she began.
“It’s a woman,” Carol interrupted. “The dominant partner. It’s a female. Because there’s no way a roid-raging self-perceived stud like Goulding would take orders from another male. But a woman . . . Older, gorgeous, manipulative, she could play him. Start out acting like she was taking orders from him, except next thing he knows, she’s the one calling the shots. It’s her house they’re using. Which would also trigger his basic hardwiring to submit, a house being a woman’s domain and all.”
D.D. nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I’m thinking too. The reason we’ve never found Stacey Summers is because everyone’s been looking for the Devon Gouldings of the world. When, in fact, Stacey’s most likely stashed with an ice-cold femme fatale. Someone who lives in a stand-alone residence—can’t be hiding four girls in an apartment building—somewhere in the Boston area—”
“Downtown?” Phil interrupted with a frown.
“Yeah. If the house was out in the country, why dispose of Kristy’s body in the nature center? That kind of disposal was very high risk, and would only be done because they had no other choice. In other words, our perpetrators may have a house suitable for their activities but no land. Hence the field trip to Mattapan.”
“You think the house is in Mattapan?” Phil asked.
“Possible. If I was going to hide four women . . .” D.D. shrugged. “I’d look for a place in a lower-class neighborhood, where so many of the buildings are boarded up, who would notice yet another triple-decker with plywood over the windows? Where my neighbors are few and far between and, better yet, more inclined to be shooting up than looking out for strange happenings. Where the sound of screams isn’t so out of the ordinary.”
“That doesn’t exactly limit the possibilities in Boston,” Neil said dryly.
“According to crime stats, if the victims are white, then the perpetrator is most likely white. So we’re talking a predominantly Caucasian neighborhood.”
More shrugs from around the table. Given Boston’s long history of Irish, Italian, and now Eastern European immigrants, poor white areas of the city were just as easy to come by as those of any other color. Diversity at work. Or just the harsh reality that getting ahead in a strange new city was hard on everyone.
“I don’t think we’re going to magically find the place through geographic profiling,” D.D. said. “I think we need to zero in on any known females in Devon Goulding’s life. Women he’s met on the job, at a gym, hitting the bars at night. Whatever and whoever. To make it even more interesting, it turns out Jacob Ness had a daughter. So if we could tie any of Devon’s known associates back to the asshole who first abducted Flora Dane, that would be a slam dunk.”
Around the table, her detectives eyed her blankly.
“I’m just saying—”
“Jacob Ness had a daughter?” Phil asked.
“FBI recovered DNA from his long-haul truck consistent with a daughter. Unfortunately, that’s all we know. Literally. A DNA sequence.”
“But she might be in Boston?” Phil again.
“Or Florida, or Georgia, or Brazil for that matter. But given that we’re looking for a female . . . it’s something to bear in mind. If this daughter had a relationship with Jacob, well, here’s at least one woman who’d have some experience with kidnapping and abduction. Not to mention a hatred of Flora Dane. I don’t think we can dismiss all that.”
“But how does that help?” Carol Manley this time.
“I don’t know,” D.D. said honestly. “I think . . . First, let’s compile a list of Devon Goulding’s female associates. We can contact his cellular provider, look at numbers frequently called, texted, et cetera. Then we can run basic backgrounds on likely candidates to see if any of those names match our requirements. We discover that some of these frequently called numbers belong to, say, older beautiful women, maybe even one or two who used to live in the South, and now we’ve got something. Better yet, one of these names has a house secluded enough and big enough to hold multiple kidnapping victims . . . We have our first target.”
Neil raised his hand. “I have a different idea.”
D.D. studied him. “All right, shoot.”
“Goulding’s car’s GPS. We already used it once, looking through his list of frequent destinations for an area best suitable for hiding a body. What if we did that again, except now we look for the address that best matches our list of housing requirements? Getting a list of frequent callers from a cellular company will take at least twenty-four hours, while running backgrounds and following up with known associates will take yet another day. Whereas I can analyze a list of frequent destinations in”—Neil bobbed his head side to side, considering—“a matter of hours.”
Around the table, the task force members perked up. Standing in front, so did D.D.
“Neil,” she ordered, “you and your squad”—she nodded to Phil and Carol—“are in charge of GPS data. The rest, work on compiling names.” She glanced at her watch. It was 10:00 P.M. now. Which was perfect for her own assignment: tracking manager Jocelyne Ethier, an older, definitely less than honest female who knew all the players involved, had access to the nightclub’s security system, and should even now be roaming the floor at Tonic. When looking at female associates, nothing like starting at the top of the list.
“I’m giving you all two hours,” she announced. “Whoever brings me the address first gets to lead the charge. We’ll go the moment we’re cleared. If Flora’s abduction was a matter of revenge, God only knows how much time she—or any of the women—have left.”
Chapter 40
I KEEP YANKING AT THE LOCKED DOOR. Twisting the knob. Jerking harder. As if this time the heavy metal door will magically swing open. And I will plunge down the stairs, out some side door, and straight into the fresh air of freedom. I’ll find help for Stacey. I’ll call my mom. I’ll get away from an entire corridor of black-painted rooms forever.
The door. The damn door. Why won’t it open? I just want out of here.
I pound at it with the flat of my hand. Another useless motion, waste of effort that does nothing but exhaust me further.