Chapter 60
Edward Kenney stayed in his office as his employees headed home.
He wished a pleasant evening to those who said goodbye, and thanked them, as always, for their efforts.
None of them, not even his secretary, would have guessed anything was amiss, because disguising his feelings came easily to Kenney after so many years of hiding an entire self.
Over the course of the weekend, he had eaten a fancy dinner at the Tarrantine with his family, presented his wife with a pair of diamond earrings, collected book donations as part of his efforts for the Friends of the Bangor Public Library, and visited his elderly but still mentally alert father at the senior living facility, all without giving any indication of inner turmoil.
Kenney finished reading the latest about the missing DEA agent on the Detroit Free Press website but continued browsing unconnected material, dropping down rabbit-hole links that did not interest him.
Kenney used Brave as his default browser to minimize tracking, combined with a VPN, but he knew enough about forensic computing to accept that no browser was ever completely secure and every interaction left a trail.
The best an amateur could do was limit the risks and clean as they went; in that sense, Kenney supposed, it was not dissimilar to the acts of abduction and murder.
Always at the back of his mind, like the reality of death, was the prospect of the police arriving at his door with questions to be answered.
Now he had a reason why the disappearance of Nola Maddick—no, Gai Cotter—initially garnered no attention: It wasn’t that nobody cared, more that certain people cared too much.
The reports didn’t specify the nature of the investigation in which Cotter was involved, but operating deep undercover might have required her to be out of contact with her handlers for days, even longer.
When she dropped off the radar, those handlers couldn’t be sure it wasn’t for reasons pertinent to the investigation, but safety procedures must have been built into the system.
Cotter might have missed a meetup or failed to make a call, or surveillance could have picked up a worrying conversation in which her name was mentioned.
Whatever the cause, alarm bells had gone off, and now the DEA would be retracing her steps to establish when and where she was last seen, which might ultimately bring them to Fishkorn, and Joy Road.
While Kenney was anxious, he did not panic.
His focus narrowed and his concentration grew, as when he was faced with a particularly thorny crossword clue in the Sunday edition of The New York Times.
The Game had progressed to another level and the challenge was to adapt accordingly.
Kenney had confidence in his adaptive abilities, but was less convinced of Roger Teal’s.
Kenney would have to talk to him, calm him.
No purpose would be served by Teal getting spooked at this stage.
Their victims had made the front pages of newspapers before, and police—good, smart police—had investigated the disappearances.
On four occasions bodies were recovered.
In one of those instances, the car used by Teal and the Saint was traced to a junkyard in Illinois, and footage was obtained of the vehicle being driven from Lincolnwood into Skokie, with the body of one Melba Roehr in the trunk.
Nothing had come of any of it, and so the Game continued.
Gai Cotter was another variation on the same theme, Kenney would assure Teal, one that always faded into irresolution.
He sounded so persuasive, he was almost tempted to believe himself.