One
Regan Landry sat cross-legged on the floor of her fathers study and thumbed through the contents of a file, one of several shed brought up from the basement in an unmarked cardboard box earlier that morning. Her father, Josh Landry, internationally renowned bestselling author of true crime books, had been the worlds worst record keeper. Almost two years after his death, Regan was still sorting through the boxes of material hed left scattered throughout his home outside Princeton, New Jersey. So far this past week, shed uncovered newspaper articles in a box in the attic that related to cases chronicled in the file cabinets in the basement. Not for the first time, Regan rolled her eyes. The man had been the most unorganized person on the face of the earth. When her cell phone rang, she had to move several piles of newspapers to find it. A glance at the caller ID screen brought a smile to her face.
“So what are you doing on this fine morning in May?” Mitch Peyton asked.
“What am I always doing when Im at my dads?” She laughed good-naturedly. “Sorting through files and trying to organize the mess.”
“Id think youd be used to it by now.”
“Youd think.”
“I dont know why you dont just hire someone to do that for you.”
“How would someone else know what to do with all this?” She glanced around the room and frowned.
“Youd tell them. Youd show them what youve done, point them in the direction of the materials that still need to be sorted through, and tell them to follow your lead. If a file exists, file the newly found material in it. No existing file, you make a new one.”
“I wasnt aware that the FBI taught a class in Filing 101.”
“Youd be surprised what they teach us down here.”
“Ive seen you at work, Mitch, up close and personal. Theres little that you do that surprises me.”
“I can see Im going to have to work on my technique. Cant have the woman thinking she knows all my secrets.”
Regan could have replied that Mitch had been an open book right from the start, but she let it pass.
As a special agent with the FBI, Mitch was a member of a distinguished team within the Bureau that sought out the best of the best. But when it came to Regan, thered been no sign of the wily investigator with crack computer skills that had brought him to the attention of the team leader. Mitch was a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, and had since the first time theyd worked a case together.
“Maybe youre right.” She sighed. “Maybe I should just have someone come in and make a list of the files we already have, then go through the other boxes, check the list for duplicates . . .”
“There you go.” He didnt wait for her to run through the entire process as he knew her mind was already starting to do. “Youve spent enough time on cleanup. You have a book due.”
“Already turned it in to Nina last week, which is one of the reasons Im here at Dads now. Im trying to decide what I want to do next.”
“No ideas?”
“I have plenty of ideas, but none of them have struck my immediate fancy.” She stood and went to the desk and flipped through one of the files shed left out last night, thinking it might be a contender for the topic of her next book. “There are lots of possibilities, but nothing seems to be jumping out at me and demanding my attention.”
“I always wondered about the process you writers go through,” he said. “How you decide on one idea over another.”
“The story that needs to be told decides for me. Its simply a matter of finding it. Im just lucky that Dad did so much of the groundwork on several potential projects. Theres no end to the number of books hed wanted to write. Which, of course, explains why theres no end to the number of boxes and folders he left everywhere from the attic to the basement to one of the outbuildings.”
“But until some idea grabs you by the throat . . .”
“. . . Ill be sorting through files, hoping something does, sooner rather than later.” She sighed. “I get antsy when Im not working.”
“Ive noticed. While youre waiting for lightning to strike, move the search for an assistant to the top of your list of things to do. You know how things go with you: something lands on your radar, and you forget about everything else.”
“You know me too well, Agent Peyton. Once I get started, finding an assistant will be the last thing on my mind. I shall put an ad in this weeks Princeton Packet and one of the Trenton papers—maybe I should try New Brunswick, too—and see what kind of response I get. It would make more sense to have someone else doing this”—she stared around the room at the piles of files and boxes—“so that I can focus on my next project.”
“Speaking of projects, anything new on your search for the elusive Eddie Kroll?”
“Not really.” Regan sat in her fathers oversized leather chair and swiveled around to stare out the window.
“Dolly Brown still not returning your calls?”
“No. She called me back, left me a message saying, effectively, shes told me everything she knows and to stop calling her. I cant for the life of me figure out what shes hiding, but shes lying about something.” Regan paused. “I think if I work on her sister-in-law, Stella, I might be able to finally get some answers. But since her husband, Carl, died back in March, Ive given Stella a pretty wide berth.”
“Carl was Dolly and Eddie Krolls brother?”
“Right. Stella always seemed to have something she wanted to say, but she was a bit wary of speaking up in front of Dolly, and Dolly was always around.” Regan watched several ducks land feetfirst in the pond behind the old farmhouse. “Maybe I should make a quick trip to Illinois, stop in and see if Dolly feels like chatting. While Im there, I can stop at Stellas as well.”
“Good idea. But put that ad for an assistant in the paper before you leave. Think you can be back in time for the weekend? Im planning on a few days off, and I was hoping we could meet up at your place in Maryland. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. I was thinking about going to look at boats on Saturday. You can come with me and put in your two cents.”
“Ill brush up on my boat-speak. Fore and aft. Avast and ahoy. Bow and stern.”
“Youre going to have to do better than that, if youre going to crew for me.” She laughed. “I guess Ill see you . . . when?”
“Lets shoot for Friday night. Im leaving this afternoon for Michigan, but I dont expect this case will go more than a day or so. Ill let you know if theres a change.”
“Okay. I love you, Mitch.”
“Love you, too, babe.”
Regan closed her phone and slipped it into her pocket, hoping that Friday night would find Mitch on his way to her home in Maryland rather than the scene of some other heinous crime. She admired his work, was proud of his reputation as one of the FBIs top agents, understood the urgency of his job. But there were times when she needed him, too. Like now. She wished she could have his company for even an hour, right now.
Unfortunately, wishing alone couldnt make it happen, she reminded herself.
She forced her thoughts back to Sayreville, Illinois, and the mystery shed found there a year ago, a mystery that remained unsolved.
She turned the chair around to gaze on the boxes shed brought up from the basement. It had been in a box very much like any one of those that shed first found report cards, dated from the 1940s, from Saint John the Baptist Elementary School in Sayreville, Illinois, for a child named Edward Kroll. From the comments written in the small, precise hand of Sister Mary Matthew, Regan had learned that Eddie Kroll had been an asset to the class, had shown an aptitude for mathematics, was inquisitive and an excellent reader. But thered been no explanation of how or why her father had come into possession of these pieces from another boys childhood, or why he had kept them hidden away. Shed searched through hundreds of files since her fathers death, but the name hadnt turned up anywhere else. Shed even asked Mitch to run a check through the FBI computers to see if Edward Kroll had a criminal record, but he hadnt gotten any hits. The puzzle had led Regan to place ads in all of the newspapers local to Sayreville, Illinois. It had been one of those ads that had come to the attention of Dolly Brown.
Dolly Brown told Regan shed been a neighbor of the Krolls, and how, at age thirteen, Eddie Kroll and two of his friends had lured another classmate to a vacant lot, where theyd beaten the boy to death. Eddie, as the youngest of the three, and the least culpable, had been sentenced to juvenile detention until he turned twenty-one, at which time he was released. No one knew what happened to him after that, Dolly Brown had said. Eddie Kroll had simply disappeared, and theyd heard a few years later that hed died.
Dolly Brown had lied.
Dolly neglected to tell Regan that her maiden name was Kroll, and that she was the sister of the sought-after Eddie. It had taken Regan a while to figure that out.
She still wasnt sure why Dolly had lied about all that.
And thered been that business about the other Kroll sister, Catherine. Dolly had shown Regan photos of Eddie as a child, but had insisted there were no pictures of their younger sister, Catherine, beyond early childhood.
Another lie of Dollys.
Regan still had no explanation of why Dollys sister-in-law, Stella, had quietly slipped a packet of old family photographs into Regans purse during her last visit to Sayreville. There, amid photos of Eddie that had been taken prior his incarceration, were pictures of a pretty young woman identified on the flip sides as Catherine Kroll. The pictures were dated 1963. Regan had already determined that Catherine had been born in 1938, so shed have been twenty-five years old.
Why had Dolly lied?
Regan had returned to Sayreville to discuss this very thing with Dolly, only to find shed gone to Florida for the winter and had instructed everyone she knew not to divulge her whereabouts to anyone—especially to Regan Landry. When Regan had stopped at Stellas home, she found Stellas husband seriously ill, and shed declined to press the matter. After a phone call to Stella in April, she learned that Carl had passed away several weeks earlier, and once again Regan chose not to question the woman.
“I guess the real question is why cant I let it go,” Regan muttered under her breath as she reached for the file. It sat off by itself next to the phone on the corner of the desk, as if waiting for Dolly to call back with answers to all the questions the file seemed to ask.
Why cant I let it go?
Regan rested her chin in her hand. What difference would it make if she ever found out what happened to Eddie Kroll—where hed gone, how hed died, where hed been laid to rest—or why Dolly had been so protective of him, even now, all these years later?
Questions without answers. Regan didnt know why it mattered. She only knew that it did, and that she was driven by something she didnt understand to take it as far as she could.
To that end, she went online and booked herself on a morning flight to Chicago. She could drop in on Stella, pay a sympathy call on Carls widow. Of course, while she was in Sayreville, shed drop in at Dollys as well, see what that crafty old bird was up to, see if she could figure out whatever it was Dolly didnt want her to know.
Her travel arrangements made, Regan turned her attention to her search for an assistant. She hunted up the phone number for the local newspapers classified departments, and dialed the first number on the list.
Mitch was right. It was time. Time to get her fathers files organized. Time to get on with her next book.
And once shed hired that assistant, maybe shed have time to figure out just what Dolly Brown was up to.
From the Hardcover edition.