Page 52 of The Shadow Friends

“I know she serves on the board of our local library. And she was a volunteer at the Stone Coast Conference.” All true. So far. “Why are you asking?”

“She booked the travel and lodging for all the conference speakers. She knew the details of Dr. Maslov’s flight and hotel reservations. And which room he’d be staying in.”

“Okay.”

“We can’t seem to locate her. Any idea where she is?”

Jo swallowed. “Have you tried knocking on her door?”

“She’s not at home. Neither is her husband. My calls go straight to her voicemail.”

She felt the whole truth bubbling up inside her, ready to spill out, but after her earlier evasiveness, she could hardly be forthright now. It would make Jo look even more deceptive, and to a federal agent, no less. Thanks a lot, Maggie and company.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have no idea where she is.” That, at least, was the truth.

“How well do you know Mrs. Slocum?”

Jo felt her heart quicken. “We’re acquainted.”

“Wasn’t she with you when you found Karen O’Brien’s body?”

Jo felt her stomach drop. It was a gotcha moment. What else did he know?

“Ingrid was with me that morning, yes. We’d just run into each other in the hotel manager’s office. It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone here.”

“Are you from Purity?”

“Born and raised.”

“Then you must have a back channel into local gossip. Maybe you can keep your ears open, let me know if you hear anything relevant to the investigation. Or if there’s anyone we should take a closer look at.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

To her relief, he stood up to leave. “Thank you for the coffee,” he said. He was halfway to the door when he stopped. Turned. “If you find Ingrid Slocum, can you let me know? I really do need to speak to her.”

So do we all.

Chapter 21

Maggie

Monday

When she was a young woman, Maggie could board a flight in DC and, twenty-four hours later, walk off the plane in Bangkok, still sharp and energetic enough to plunge straight into a mission. Jet lag, unfortunately, was not kind to an older brain, and a mere seven sleepless hours aboard the overnight flight to Amsterdam had left her drained. When she and Lloyd wheeled their carry-ons out of Schiphol airport, she felt dazed by the noise of traffic and the glare of morning sunlight. Lloyd looked equally exhausted, his shirt rumpled and stained from spilled coffee, his gray hair fluffed up after a restless night wearing a sleep mask. What they both needed was a long nap, but when they climbed into the taxi, Lloyd didn’t tell the driver to take them to their hotel. Instead, he directed the driver to Antony Moddermanstraat, the street where the man in the gray suit had been photographed.

“Shouldn’t we check into the hotel first?” Maggie said.

“I want to eyeball the address.”

“We need to stow our luggage.”

“Let’s just see if we identified the correct location. This will only take a few minutes.” After a night crammed in a coach seat, his face had the sallow tint of exhaustion, but Lloyd’s eyes were now alert and focused on the street scene outside his taxi window. For most of her career, Ingrid had been posted to Western Europe, where Lloyd had joined her after their marriage. He was familiar with Amsterdam and he politely addressed the taxi driver as meneer, even though knowing how to speak Dutch was scarcely necessary in a multilingual country where most of the locals could pivot among languages as effortlessly as drivers shifting gears.

Morning traffic was a confusing tangle of bicycles and buses and cars that somehow managed not to collide, navigating the streets like parallel schools of fish. To Maggie’s tired eyes, it all looked like sheer chaos. She desperately wanted a shower and a bed, but Lloyd seemed reinvigorated by his mission. He tilted forward in his seat, eyes focused intently on the road ahead.

“There,” he said. “That’s the corner. Stop here!”

The driver braked so abruptly that Maggie was thrown against her seat belt. “Jesus, Lloyd,” she said. “Take it easy.”