the tellers seated behind a long counter made of dark oak etched with more scenes from the Old West. They heard soft music in the background, a spaghetti western theme.
Suddenly everyone went quiet.
“We’ve been spotted,” Griffin said low, and smiled and waited until everyone in the bank had turned toward them. Griffin held up his creds. “Hello. I’m FBI Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, from Washington, D.C. We’re here to investigate the disappearance of Latisha Morris, Amy Traynor, and Heather Forrester. We’d appreciate any help you can give us. If you or your neighbors have any information, please come by the sheriff’s station.” Griffin knew that in a town this size, everyone knew everything about everybody. If anyone did know anything, particularly about Heather Forrester, he hoped they’d come forward.
There was a buzz of conversation too low for Griffin or Carson to make out. Carson touched his arm and he turned to see a tall, aristocratic-looking older man, beautifully dressed in a gray three-piece suit, a pale blue tie, and black Italian loafers, stride out of a room at the back of the bank next to a huge vault. He paused, frowned, then closed the door behind him.
They recognized his son, Rafer, in him as he got closer. While Rafer would have fit into the western setting, his father looked like he’d be at home in an old-world drawing room, holding a brandy in his long, thin fingers.
All eyes were on them again when Quint Bodine stopped directly in front of them, gave a cursory look at Carson, looked at her again, then resolutely turned to face Griffin.
He said in a melodic voice, pitched low so no one would overhear, “My wife called to tell me my son has arrived home. He’ll be staying with us, since his cottage has been marked with yellow crime scene tape and he was told he couldn’t return. May I ask how long it will be until you’ll be satisfied, finally, that you have nothing at all against my son?”
Griffin said, “Mr. Bodine, I assume?”
“You assume correctly.”
“I’m Agent Hammersmith, and this is Dr. Carson DeSilva.” He handed Bodine his creds. Bodine waved them away. “I know who you are.” He looked at Carson. “And you. You are the woman accusing my son of kidnapping you and tying you up in his basement.”
Carson nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Duct tape, not rope. You left out the part where he pulled a gun on me and would have killed me if Agent Hammersmith hadn’t come in and kicked the gun out of his hand.”
Bodine went silent, studied the two of them. Griffin saw he kept looking back at Carson. Because she was drop-dead gorgeous? Griffin didn’t think so. He had more the look of a man who wanted to—what? Maybe strangle her with his bare hands? Make her disappear?
Quint finally said, “Come to my office.” He turned on his heel and walked to some discreet stairs tucked behind an unmarked door.
That brief meeting would be fodder for gossip for days, Carson knew, giving a quick look back at the lobby with at least twenty people staring after them. If no one had heard what they’d said, it wouldn’t matter, they’d fill in the blanks.
48
* * *
Quint Bodine’s office didn’t look like it belonged in the Wild West any more than he did. Rather than old-world, it was painfully modern, with Swedish furniture that reminded Griffin of the IKEA warehouse.
Bodine nodded toward two chairs, and moved behind his very plain blond-wood desk, with only a computer and a phone on top. He sat down in his ergonomically engineered desk chair. He said nothing at all, merely steepled his long, thin fingers and gave them an emotionless look. Carson took Griffin’s cue and looked back blankly, waiting him out.
He finally said, “You have absolutely no evidence against my son. All you have is Dr. DeSilva’s statement she heard my son mumbling about the three missing teenage girls, which is ridiculous on its face. Or at least, that’s what you told Sheriff Bodine. Don’t push this, Dr. DeSilva.
“Agent Hammersmith, I suppose you’ll claim you’re only doing your job. Those three girls are missing, and an investigation is already under way, has been since Heather Forrester was taken here in Gaffer’s Ridge. But you’ve mistreated my son. You unlawfully entered Rafer’s house and broke his wrist. You also mistreated my brother. You had Booker threatened with machine guns and have occupied his office so he and his deputies can barely function. Yesterday