Chapter 28
Catherine and Ryder arrived at the luxury hotel in Jacksonville where Garrett Reid was staying. They were greeted at the front
desk by the security chief, Kristin Gee, who escorted them to her office.
“I have the feeds cut and saved for your review,” Kristin said.
“Thank you,” Catherine said. She motioned for Ryder to work his magic and watched over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse
of Garrett’s partner. She didn’t want to predispose herself into believing that it was Hope Davidson, who Michael and Sloane
had identified as the likely accomplice, so she laid out photos of not only Hope but the other women she’d identified as possibilities.
Kristin had helpfully cued up the moment when Garrett entered the evening before. There were seven entrances to the hotel,
and they viewed four entrances at a time on the large screen.
It took an hour, even running through the feeds at triple speed, but then Ryder spotted someone familiar.
“That’s her,” Ryder said, stopping the recording and enhancing the image. “That’s Hope Davidson.”
Catherine looked. The woman had her hair up in a wide-brimmed hat and was wearing sunglasses. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. I’ll prove it.”
He started the tape again at normal speed, saw what elevator she went in, then pulled up the elevator feed. She didn’t take
off the hat or glasses, but the elevator angle caught a good image of her profile as she adjusted her hat. Ryder clipped it,
then brought up the image of the unknown maintenance worker and put the profiles side by side. Close, Catherine thought, but
it wasn’t enough.
“We need more.”
“Hold on,” he said. He typed rapidly, then three photos of Hope Davidson popped onto the screen—including one body shot. They
had been taken at the resort and posted on the resort website, and except for the one head-on image where she worked behind
the gym desk, they were candid—Catherine didn’t know if Hope was aware they had been taken.
Ryder then waited until she exited on the fifth floor, froze the screen, and clipped the image of her full body and matched
it near perfectly with the full body shot he had from the website. Then he switched the feed to the hall camera, and as they
watched, she walked down the hall and knocked.
The door opened and she smiled and looked up, giving them the perfect profile shot as she entered. They couldn’t see Garrett
Reid, but that was his room.
“That’s her,” Catherine said. “This is enough to get a warrant. I’m calling Tony.”
Michael and Sloane drove to Hope Davidson’s house in Palm Coast, north of the resort in a very nice subdivision walking distance from the beach.
Sloane looked up the property while Michael was driving.
“An LLC owns the house. I guess she’s leasing it, but damn, this is much nicer than Reid’s place.
Three bedrooms, three baths, decks and views from virtually every room.
Last sold for three quarters of a million nearly a year ago.
Maybe she comes from money, because there’s no way she can afford this on her income. ”
“We only have a search warrant at this point. Tony is still working on getting her financials and phone records. He was lucky
to get this so quickly.”
“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.
The Navy 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.”
Michael wanted to 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 Honda registered 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.
Sloane came up from the garage. “You’re right about the oil stain, it’s been there awhile, plus there’s fresh oil so the second
vehicle was only recently moved.”
“I’ll look for insurance papers for a second car, but I found an LLC. I’m having Zack run it, maybe they own the second vehicle.”
“What’s the LLC? Is it the same LLC that owns the house?” Sloane asked.
Michael looked at his notes. “There’s multiple companies, all starting with ‘SmartGirl.’”
“The house is owned by SmartGirl Properties, LLC,” she said.
“That’s one of them,” Michael confirmed.
Sloane went upstairs to the bedrooms, and Michael continued going through the desk but didn’t find anything else of interest.
Five minutes later, Sloane called down. “Michael! I got something and you will not believe it.”
He went upstairs and saw that Sloane had spread papers and photos across the dresser and was systematically taking photos
of each.