John Verdon

That ties in with what Ashton’s assistant told you. Didn’t she say that the two graduates she couldn’t get in touch with had gotten interested in Flores when he was working on the grounds at Mapleshade?”

“Yes.”

“This is the damnedest thing,” Kline went on excitedly. “Let’s assume for a minute that Flores is the key to everything—that once we figure out what brought him here, we’ll understand everything else. We’ll understand Jillian Perry’s murder, Kiki Muller’s murder, how and why he hid the machete where he did, why the camera didn’t pick him up, the disappearance of God only knows how many Mapleshade graduates …”

“That last thing could be a harem thing,” said Blatt.

“A what?” said Kline.

“Like Charlie Manson.”

“You’re saying he might have been looking for followers? For impressionable young women?”

“For female sex maniacs

“You have any thoughts on that?”

Hardwick responded with the ironic leer. “I was thinking Jim Jones myself. Charismatic leader with a congregation of nubile acolytes.”

“The hell is Jim Jones?” asked Blatt.

Kline answered. “Jonestown. The massacre-suicide thing. Cyanide in the Kool-Aid. Wiped out nine hundred people.”

Dave?” said Kline. “You have any ideas about Flores’s grand plan?”

“The problem with the commune thing is that Flores lived on Ashton’s property. If he was gathering these women and stashing them somewhere, it would have to be nearby. I don’t think that’s what it was about.”

“What, then?”

“I think it’s about what he told us it’s about. ‘For all the reasons I have written.’ ”

“And those reasons add up to what?”

“Revenge.”

“For?”

“If we take the Edward Vallory prologue seriously, for some major sexual offense.”

“Revenge usually takes the form of a physical attack, broken bones, murder. In all these so-called disappearances there isn’t even a hint of that.” He leaned back in his chair. “Not a single hint of it. I think we need to take a more evidence-based approach.”

“Too many things don’t make sense. There’s bad data somewhere in the equation.”

“We’ve been informed that one of the young women on our call-and-locate list was the victim of a homicide three months ago.”

“Three months ago?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have the specifics?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go ahead.”

“Cause of death?” he repeated.

“Her head was cut off. Sir.”

Rodriguez stared at Gerson. “How did this information come to us?”

“Through our outgoing calling process. Melanie Strum’s name was on the list subset assigned to me. I made the call.”

“Who did you speak to?”

“Captain, I have the information on the Strum call.”

“Go ahead.”

She consulted her pad. “The phone was answered by Roger Strum, Melanie’s stepfather. When I explained the purpose of the call, he expressed confusion, then anger at the fact that we didn’t already know that Melanie was dead. His wife, Dana Strum, joined the conversation on the extension. They were upset. They provided the following facts: Acting on a tip, the Palm Beach police had entered the home of Jordan Ballston and discovered Melanie’s body in a basement freezer. The police—”

Kline interrupted. “Jordan Ballston, the hedge-fund guy?”

“There was no specific mention of a hedge fund, but in my follow-up call to the Palm Beach PD, they did say Ballston lived in a multi-million-dollar mansion.”

“I told the chief investigating officer in Palm Beach that we had an interest in the case and we’d like as much information as possible. He said he’d be willing to talk to the person in charge of whatever investigation we had going on up here. He said he’d be available for the next half hour.”

“Let me guess,” said Kline. “Edgar was looking at serious prison time, and he offered to trade some information about Ballston’s basement, something he’d seen there, for a more lenient approach to his situation?”

“That would be it in a nutshell, Mr. Kline.