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35
GAFFER'S RIDGE
EAGLE'S NEST
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Carson breathed in the crisp cool air as she climbed out of the Range Rover and looked around. “They simply scraped off the top of the mountain to give them as much flat space as they wanted. Everything seems perfect, not a blade of grass growing too high or where it shouldn’t. No stray yard implements, no dead flowers in a pot—everything’s perfect. Look at all the outbuildings, neat and freshly painted. Flagstone steps shiny and clean. And would you listen—not a sound. Except for the leaves dancing in the breeze. It’s like a perfect painting, no messy life to disturb it.”
Griffin said, “There had to be more here when Rafer was a kid, maybe a basketball hoop on one of the four garage doors. It’s too quiet, makes me itchy.”
Savich studied Sherlock for a moment. She was still pale, but he didn’t think her head was hurting her any longer. “Let’s let Mrs. Bodine wait for us a while, wonder why we’re not coming to the door. Before we go in, you should all know what MAX coughed up on the Bodines of Gaffer’s Ridge last night.” He grinned. “Not one of the Bodines has a single felony, not even a parking ticket. There are two living brothers: Booker Bodine, the sheriff, and Quint Bodine, the bank owner, the one with the business smarts evidently, and all the money. The brothers married their cousins—two sisters, Cyndia and Jessalyn Silver. Quint and Cyndia’s only daughter, Camilla, disappeared when she was a teenager, a suitcase and her clothes with her. She didn’t leave as much as a letter to explain why. As far as anyone knows, she has never been heard from since that long-ago night. The story was in the local newspapers at the time, part of the family’s efforts to find her. The papers mentioned private investigators, but there was nothing to suggest they ever found her. Rafer was five years younger than his sister.
“Booker Bodine, the sheriff, and Jessalyn have two children of their own, a boy and girl, Miller and Dixie, both in their twenties, both work for their uncle Quint at his bank, both unmarried.”
Savich paused when he saw a woman come out through the large mahogany front door. Good, she couldn’t stand waiting for them. And that meant she was worried. He stilled, felt her reaching out to him. A show of power? Or was it the illusion of power, which was a power in itself? He looked at Griffin and Carson, saw Griffin had grown quiet as well.
She called out in what sounded like a smoker’s voice, “My husband told me you’d be showing up here. I told him I’d rather think you’d want to speak to him, not me, but he shook his head, told me no, you would come here. Sure enough, here you are, though you didn’t call ahead and no one asked you. So, come in, I won’t stop you.” She turned on sandaled heels and walked back into the house.
Carson said quietly, “Mrs. Bodine seems straightforward enough, if a little on the rude side. But not scary.”
Griffin said, “Don’t underestimate her. It could be dangerous.” He looked toward the house. “Be careful, all of you.”
Sherlock said, “Mrs. Cyndia Bodine, dangerous? She looks like an upper-middle-class housewife ready to meet a friend in town and go antiquing. I guess I was expecting a long braid, a tie-dye dress, and bare feet, maybe some hoop earrings, but here she’s wearing sexy sandals and capris. How old is she, Dillon?”
“She’s fifty-five, her husband, Quint, is sixty-three. Odd she said her husband told her we were coming here.”
They walked up wide wooden steps through the large open door and into a vast entryway covered with big ochre-shaded Italian pavers. The entryway gave onto five wide steps leading down into a great room at least forty feet long and thirty feet wide, with floor-to-ceiling windows stretching from one end to the other on the far side. French doors opened onto a wide deck with an incredible view of the mountains. There was a mammoth white stone fireplace at one end of the room. Persian carpets were scattered here and there over a shining oak floor. There were burgundy leather sofas, chairs and coffee tables, a seven-foot grand piano. The furniture was oversize to fit the scale of the enormous room. At the other end of the great room was a dining area with a long glass table, a dozen chairs around it, a large bouquet of roses set in the middle. Behind the dining area was an open archway, probably leading into the kitchen.
Savich said, “You have a lovely home. Do you call it Eagle’s Nest for a reason?”
“Don’t worry, there’s no Nazi subtext here. This was the site my husband’s father picked out for their family home when he was a young man. He liked the fact an eagle had made its home here before him. Of course, we’ve completely rebuilt and expanded the house to my own liking.”
“And where did you hide the cameras by the gate? We couldn’t see them.”
She gave Savich a small, satisfied smile and a brief wave of her hand. “Of course you didn’t see them. What good would they be if you could see them?”
Griffin asked, “Is your husband here?”
She shook her head. “You must already know he’s a very busy man, many demands on his time. He trusts me to deal with you. Naturally I know why you’re here. And I know of Agent Hammersmith, my brother-in-law described him perfectly. As for you other two, give me your names and tell me exactly what you want. No, not you, Dr. DeSilva. Booker described you to me as well.” She stared at Savich.
He introduced himself and Sherlock and handed her their creds, but she waved them away.
Cyndia Bodine cocked her head at Sherlock. “Agent Sherlock, an odd name—but I’m sure you find it effective.”
“Perhaps I do. Mrs. Bodine, we would like to speak to you about your son, Rafer, and three missing teenage girls.”
Mrs. Bodine seemed to look inward for a moment, her eyes going darker. Then she blinked. Sherlock looked thoughtfully at this woman with her dark eyes, green maybe, but hard to tell, and black hair pulled in a fat chignon at the back of her head, thick lustrous hair, with not a single gray strand she could see. The woman was very lady-of-the-manor, but—not quite. Something about her made Sherlock jittery.
Cyndia Bodine said, “Agent Sherlock, you really shouldn’t be here. You belong in bed. Another couple of days, I’d say.”
Sherlock felt her heart give a leap, but said only, “Why do you say that, ma’am?”
“I have eyes in my head. It’s obvious to me your pallor isn’t natural or normal. Perhaps you’ve been in an accident of some sort?”
