Chapter 4
Four
This felt wrong.
Vivian guided her SUV onto the narrow road that led through the gate and onto cemetery property.
Before the vehicle came to a complete stop, McBride hopped out.
He walked a few feet, then turned all the way around to take in the foreign setting that was so familiar to her.
City streets flanked the property on all sides, creating an island of the dead surrounded by a sea of asphalt and commuters.
Traffic provided a dull drone of background music underscored by the occasional incoming commercial airliner that heralded the airport’s proximity.
No peace for the dead here.
As a kid, Vivian had come to this cemetery dozens of times for the walking tours. Her parents usually ended up searching the cemetery for her. She would sneak off to play in her favorite spot and then fall asleep. Her gaze landed on the Zinszer Mausoleum. She had dozed off in there once or twice.
She emerged from the SUV and glanced back at the only entrance, from Nineteenth Street, where a towering arch of wrought iron welcomed visitors. Several official vehicles arrived, along with Agents Pratt, Davis, and Aldridge.
From the entrance, the narrow serpentine drive flowed around and across cemetery property where magnolia and oak trees shaded the weathered headstones.
Crape myrtles provided splashes of color, accenting the gray and green landscape.
A small chapel-like structure, the Pioneer Memorial Building, housed the administrative office and stood like a sanctuary amid the dead interred here.
On the Seventeenth Street side of the cemetery was the old caretaker’s cottage that now accommodated the Oak Hill Memorial Association office.
Nothing had changed since she was a kid.
She looked to her right, and in the distance the Social Security Administration Building loomed, its soaring, contemporary facade blocking the view of the mountains.
. . . where hundreds of those who provide a form of assurance to the elderly can see . . .
Why here? Why this close to the Bureau’s office . . . out in the open, where anyone passing on the street could have seen him doing his dirty business? Had he buried the girl here? Vivian shuddered at the thought. Reminded herself to think like a trained agent, not a woman.
And why this easy? The clues were a joke. She could have figured this much out hours ago. Why drag a seasoned veteran like McBride into the case? What was the connection between Devoted Fan and McBride? He’d referred to McBride as his “old friend.” What did any of that have to do with Alyssa Byrne?
Bottom line, could Vivian be absolutely certain that McBride hadn’t set this up somehow, as Worth suspected?
Maybe not . . . but she was willing to do whatever it took to find that child.
She had a bad feeling that nothing about this case or this unsub was going to be what it seemed.
Her gaze landed on McBride. Like him. She had seen that flicker of vulnerability in him when he had mentioned his need for lots of coffee.
The pain and disappointment he hadn’t camouflaged quickly enough with his fury when he’d learned she had betrayed him.
The man still had feelings, it seemed.
Maybe even a conscience.
But that didn’t make him the hero that part of her wanted to believe in. At the academy, the legends about him had been romanticized. But this was real . . . somebody could die for real.
Vivian focused on the agents and uniformed officers gathered around McBride for their orders.
As she slowly walked that way, the group dispersed, spreading out across the hillside to commence the grid search McBride had discussed with her en route.
The sound of another vehicle arriving drew her attention to the truck with the K-9s and their handlers.
If Alyssa Byrne was here, they would soon know it.
Nearing McBride’s position, she called out his name. When he turned to her, she pointed beyond him to the man exiting the memorial building with Agent Schaffer. “That’s Lester Holcomb, the caretaker.”
Vivian remembered him well. He’d worked here since she was a kid. His advanced age along with his stooped posture most likely prevented him from doing the heavy work around here anymore, but he was one of those who had every intention of staying on as long as he had a breath in him.
“Does he live on the grounds?” McBride wanted to know as she moved up alongside him.
“No. The locked gate is the only security at night.”
When Schaffer was within conversational range, with Holcomb in tow, she made the necessary introductions. “He’ll open the mausoleums for us since they keep them locked now.” To McBride, she said, “I’ve called Bob Greene, Holcomb’s helper. He’s on his way in.”
McBride considered the information before replying, “Have Davis or Pratt question him as soon as he arrives.”
“Yes, sir.” Schaffer immediately put through a call to pass along the instruction.
“Do the police perform any hourly drive-throughs at night?” McBride asked the caretaker as they walked to the nearest mausoleum.
“No, sir,” Holcomb said, riffling through the big ring of keys in his hand. “When we finish for the day, we lock the gate and go on home. Maybe you didn’t notice the signs, but the city made it illegal to be in the cemetery after dark.”
Vivian and McBride exchanged a brief glance; undoubtedly he was thinking the same thing she was. Since when did a posted sign stop a determined lawbreaker? Since never.
“Have you had any trouble in the past?” McBride said, going on with his questioning.
Holcomb paused at their first stop. His gnarled hands shook as he poked the key into the lock.
“Not in a good long while. But we did have a little vandalism a year or so back. Couple of knocked-over headstones and some graffiti. Had to put locks on all of ’em after that.
” He gestured to the mausoleum and wagged his head sadly.
“Damned teenagers got too much time on their hands. Gives the old Devil plenty to work with.”
Once the rusty iron door was opened, McBride stepped inside.
Vivian stayed close behind him. The musty smell invaded her nostrils with the first intake of breath.
Dust and cobwebs held dominion over the interior, where a single tomb served as the focal point.
McBride held out his hand, and she slapped a steel Maglite into his palm, then sneezed.
“Bless you,” the caretaker offered.
“Thank you.” Her allergies always flared up in the fall.
This dust wouldn’t help. The dull ache that had started behind her forehead had her wondering about McBride’s headache.
She had watched him devour a fistful of aspirins before he had fallen asleep on the plane.
She had drifted off herself. The first sleep she’d had since before Alyssa Byrne was reported missing.
Later, when she had awakened, McBride had been watching her.
Even now, his way of looking so deep inside her flustered her. The man had that whole intimidation thing down to a science. Not to mention he filtered every damned thing between them through an erotic lens. She had to get a grip on how to handle that aspect of his persona.
Zoning back in on the here and now, she followed the flashlight’s beam over the limestone walls and floors, landing lastly on the tomb.
“Are the seals on all the tombs intact?” McBride asked their guide.
A shudder went through her, and she braced against it.
The unsub had said Alyssa’s fate would be sealed.
That possibility made Vivian feel ill. Just let us find her.
As much as she had loved this cemetery as a kid, something about being here under these circumstances amplified the desperation and her awareness of time passing so swiftly.
Holcomb nodded. “Yes, sir. Resealing all the tombs is part of the master preservation plan. This cemetery’s on the national historic registry, you know. Every last one of the tombs had to be resealed to ensure the remains are protected. They started the process a couple of months ago.”
McBride’s posture changed, signaling that he had just experienced the same epiphany as she. The sealing of the tombs couldn’t be coincidence.
“Does the process require opening the tombs?” McBride pressed for specificity.
“No, sir.” Holcomb touched the ledge where the top rested against the walls of the casket-size tomb.
“There’s a couple of ways of doing it, but these folks didn’t want ’em opened.
So the sealing is done right around this ledge with the lids sitting in place.
That way there’s no risk to the remains.
Air isn’t kind to ’em, you know? And there’s always the fear that some no-account will steal something.
Even some of the ones in the business of restoring can’t be trusted.
I had to be right with ’em as they done each one. ”
“So,” McBride restated, “they’ve all been done? No chance one was skipped?”
Jesus, he was thinking the same thing Vivian was.
Her body literally vibrated with the need to pry open every damned one of the tombs.
But the timing was off. Holcomb had said the process had started two months ago, well before Alyssa went missing.
That would eliminate the possibility of her being sealed up inside one of them.
Holcomb pushed his cap up his forehead and scratched the bald spot there. “There’s—”
A burst of frantic shouting had Vivian moving out of the mausoleum since she was closest to the door. Adrenaline blazed through her veins.
Her cell phone shook in its holster. She reached for it, her gaze searching the grounds, attempting to locate the activity generating the cacophony. “Grace.” Pratt was on the line; needed them at his location ASAP. One of the dogs had latched on to something. “We’re on our way.”
Vivian looked to McBride as she put her phone away. “Pratt may have found something.”
“The girl?”