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Gary Boynton talked a good talk.
Colleen wasn’t sure if he just came off as rich, petulant, and totally self-absorbed, or if there might be more to him than met the eye.
Mark didn’t like him. He wasn’t obvious—he was professional.
She didn’t care much for Gary either, but that didn’t make him guilty of being a sick and perverted murderer.
They’d arrived at Krewe headquarters, reported to Jackson and then to Angela, and then gone on into one of the conference rooms to go through what security cam footage they had managed to obtain. Ragnar called Mark. When Mark ended the call, he told Colleen they’d be dealing with Gary Boynton and the sketch artist alone. Ragnar was going to keep his eyes on Brant Pickering and the hospital—and watch for Gary Boynton’s comings and goings.
“Boynton is on his way now, or so Ragnar believes. Let’s review the traffic cam footage until we start with the sketch.”
One traffic camera had caught Dierdre Ayers leaving the area of the restaurant.
She had been driving; she had been alone.
After that...nothing.
It was the same with what they had pulled on Sally Smithson. She’d been driving alone.
And then there was nothing. She had disappeared—into Carver’s car, they knew—and her car had been driven into a ditch, something not seen on camera.
Angela entered the conference room while they were finishing the footage. “I don’t have anything on Brant Pickering. His credit card was used in the New York area, but it was a swipe that didn’t require a signature.” She grimaced. “He’s a writer. He took an apartment on the north side of Central Park, but I haven’t found any cameras that show him coming or going. I’m still looking.”
Mark thanked her and then quickly asked, “And there’ve been no arrest warrants of any kind on either man?”
“Not a thing,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. Unfortunately history shows us many a brutal criminal has been able to lay low to carry out the most unimaginable acts. But there may still be something. I’m working with tech. We’re going back to the day each of them opened social media accounts. We’ll find what is out there to be found.”
She left them but was gone only a minute before she poked her head back in. “Gary Boynton has arrived. Want him and the sketch artist in here?”
“That’s the plan,” Mark said.
“We’ll get the video down. We don’t want him thinking that he’s a suspect,” Colleen said.
“No, of course not,” Angela agreed.
She left them. Mark quickly closed the screen and covered their equipment. A knock on the door brought in Maisie Nicholson, one of Jackson’s favorite sketch artists, and Gary Boynton.
“Thank you, Mr. Boynton,” Mark said, greeting him. “I take it you’ve met Maisie?”
“Please, call me Gary. And yes, I have met the lovely Maisie.”
Maisie was lovely. She was African American, dark-skinned with large eyes and great cheekbones. She was also incredibly talented.
Red knew Maisie—he greeted her with enthusiasm and that enthusiasm was returned.
“Yes, Gary and I have met,” Maisie said. “And I’ve promised him I can make someone come to life from memory. So...”
“Do you need Mark and me to leave?” Colleen asked. “We don’t want to hinder you in any way.”
“You won’t hinder me,” Maisie said. “But, Gary?”
“Not in the least.”
“Why don’t you two take the end of the table?” Mark suggested, drawing out the chair he’d been using for Maisie.
“Thank you, Mark. I like this. I can see Gary while he’s talking and get my pencil moving at the same time.”
“Of course, and thank you,” Mark said, glancing over at Gary Boynton. He added, “Maisie really is amazingly talented. It’s as if she can read your mind and can see what you’re seeing.”
“Great,” Boynton said.
Mark glanced at Colleen who was standing quietly by the table, her hand resting on Red’s head. She glanced back at him with a shrug.
Neither of them could tell if Boynton had been unnerved by his statement.
But he took a seat by Maisie and she asked easy questions to get him started. What color was the man’s hair? Was it long hair or short? And his face—squarish, or oblong? Were his brows thick? Maisie was thorough as she questioned him, her pencil moving all the while. She could keep it light—asking if the man had appeared more like a classic Greek sculpture or a Neanderthal.
It wasn’t long before she had a realistic sketch going.
If he was real, he was in his mid to late thirties, dark-haired, with a bit of a look Mark would have called that of a “French artiste.” The sketch showed a good-looking man with wavy dark hair and handsomely manicured facial hair—mustache and goatee. The face Maisie portrayed was of a man who could easily appeal to young women.
When Maisie had finished, Boynton sat back and said, “Wow.”
“Wow?” Colleen asked.
“That could be a picture, it’s so close!” Boynton said. Then he frowned. “Hey, you’re not going to put that on the news or anything, are you? I mean, what if this guy is dangerous? I don’t want him coming for me or finding a way to get back at Dierdre!”
“We’ll be discreet for the time being,” Mark assured him.
“For the time being—” Boynton began.
