“Because she lied to you in your interview,” Sloane said.
“We rarely prosecute anyone for lying to a federal agent if they haven’t committed another crime, but if she knew about Garrett’s activities, she’s an accomplice. If she’s involved, she’s a killer.”
“You think she simply knew what he was doing and took Matt and Kara to give him an alibi? Or was she actively involved from the beginning?”
“I’m having a hard time picturing her willingly killing six people, but the evidence, though circumstantial, is more damning than anything we have on Garrett at this point.” Michael recognized that even though he’d been an FBI agent for five years and had seen both men and women commit violent crimes, he still had a difficult time processing that a woman could be party to such extreme brutality. “She’s the one who abducted Matt and Kara.”
He could almost hear Kara’s teasing voice in his head: “You’re such a sexist. Women can be as evil as men. Worse, because you don’t expect it.”
He missed her. He worried about Matt, but it was different with Kara. They didn’t always see eye to eye. They had some fundamental differences about the law and justice. Michael wholeheartedly believed in the system. He believed that in the end, it worked, even if it was flawed. He would die for his country—he had put himself in the line of fire not only in the Navy but in the FBI because it was his duty to serve. TheNavy had saved his life, helped him escape a cycle of drugs and violence that had killed his brother, taken his mother, destroyed the lives of almost every friend he’d had growing up.
Kara didn’t see the world in black-and-white, and was more apt to bend—or break—the rules. She didn’t trust the system as he did, and maybe she had reason to be cautious. But in the end, she cared just as much about the people they helped. And she always had his back. She never hesitated, and even if she questioned, she was at his side.
He didn’t love her like Matt did. But he loved her, and he wanted her back. He even missed her teasing him about his impeccable wardrobe.
Sloane reached out, rested her hand on his forearm. “We’re going to find them.”
“What if they’re already dead?” he whispered. “I don’t know if I could do the job anymore. I—”
“They’re not dead.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I believe they’re alive,” Sloane said. “We have to believe it. Let’s see if Ms. Hope Davidson has anything incriminating in her house.”
Michaelwantedto believe his friends were alive. He wanted to believe that he would see them again, that they would be no worse for wear, and they could pick up the next case as if nothing had happened. But he couldn’t shake this dread that he might never see them again.
He worked to control the fear, calling upon all his training to focus on the mission. Right now, his mission was to find evidence to prove Hope Davidson and Garrett Reid were killers, and locating where Matt and Kara were being held.
Or where they would find their bodies.
They knocked on Davidson’s door; no one answered. Sloane rang the bell as Michael walked the perimeter and looked in one of the garage windows. He returned to Sloane. “The Hondaregistered to her is there, but there’s an oil spot in the second space. I think she has another vehicle.”
“There’s nothing registered to her in Florida.”
“Maybe from Louisiana or Tennessee or under a different name,” Michael guessed.
He knocked loudly on the door again. “Hope Davidson! This is the FBI. We’re coming in.”
He waited a beat and when he heard no one approaching, took out his gun and motioned for Sloane to break the window and unlock the door. She did so, and then pushed the door open. Again, Michael announced their presence.
“Clear the house, then we can search,” Michael said.
Hope’s house was as lovely on the inside as it was outside. Impeccable furnishings, tidy rooms, bright beach colors, views from every window. Once they determined that no one was home, they holstered their weapons.
“I miss Montana,” Sloane said, “but I sure wouldn’t hate living here.”
Michael said, “You take the garage, her bedroom, and the guest rooms. I’ll go through the living area, den, and kitchen.”
“Are you looking for something specific?” Sloane asked.
“The warrant is clear—we can search wherever it is reasonable to find documents relating to her employment, finances, property, or physical items that may connect her to the homicides—dirty clothing, blood, anything that belonged to the victims. A journal confessing to all six murders would be nice, but short of that anything that tells us where she is, how she knows Reid, where she’s from, how to find her.”
They split up and silently looked through drawers, cabinets, books. They didn’t toss the place; while some cops might get a thrill out of messing up a killer’s home, most cops treated an individual’s property with respect, even if they were a murder suspect.
The one thing Michael noticed right off: there were few personal items in the open. No photos on tables or the walls, no to-do lists or notebooks or mail. In the den, her files were meticulous and clearly labeled. He took photos of everything, then scanned through the files. Bills, insurance, LLC paperwork...
That was interesting. There was paperwork for several LLCs, all with slight variations in their name. SmartGirl Properties, SmartGirl Fun, SmartGirl Business. The paperwork was in the name of Audrey Dolan. He took pictures of the key pages and sent them to Zack Heller, their white-collar crimes expert who had returned last night from Los Angeles where he’d been testifying on one of their previous cases.
