Sleepy Hollow Isn’t So Sleepy Anymore...

One night, New York FBI agent Aidan Mahoney receives a visitor in a dream—an old friend named Richard Highsmith. The very next day he’s sent to Sleepy Hollow because Richard’s gone missing there.

Maureen—Mo—Deauville now lives in the historic town and works with her dog, Rollo, to search for missing people. She’s actually the one to find Richard…or more precisely his head, stuck on a statue of the legendary Headless Horseman.

Mo and Aidan, a new member of the Krewe of Hunters, the FBI’s unit of paranormal investigators, explore both past and present events to figure out who betrayed Richard, who killed him and now wants to kill them, too. As they work together, they discover that they share an unusual trait—the ability to communicate with the dead. They also share an attraction that’s as intense as it is unexpected…if they live long enough to enjoy it!

Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Murder, intrigue, and some hot-and-heavy magnetism between Quinn and Cafferty make for a fast-paced read. You may never know in advance what harrowing situations Graham will place her characters in, but…rest assured that the end result will be satisfying.”

—Suspense magazine on Let the Dead Sleep

“Graham does an amazing job of bringing real-life elements into her fiction worlds… [The] messages are subtle, expertly woven through a story that focuses on solving mysterious crimes using the Krewe members’ unique talents. Graham also brings the surrounding areas of Nashville alive, with vivid details and lush descriptions—so authentic you can practically see history happening.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Night Is Forever (Top Pick)

“Bestseller Graham launches the third arc in her paranormal romantic suspense Krewe of Hunters series (The Unseen, etc.) with a rousing tale of the intriguing haunted town of Lily, Arizona…. Readers will enjoy Sloan and Jane’s interactions as romantic partners and competent professionals, aided by Lily’s ghosts.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Night Is Watching

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and romance into a tight plot that will keep the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“I’ve long admired Heather Graham’s storytelling ability and this book hit the mark. I couldn’t put The Unholy down.”

—Fresh Fiction

“The very prolific and best-selling Graham has crafted a fine paranormal romance with a strong mystery plot

and a vibrant setting.”

—Booklist on Haunted

“The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing.”

—Booklist on Ghost Walk

Also by Heather Graham

THE HEXED

THE CURSED

WAKING THE DEAD

THE NIGHT IS FOREVER

THE NIGHT IS ALIVE

THE NIGHT IS WATCHING

LET THE DEAD SLEEP

THE UNSEEN

THE UNHOLY

THE UNSPOKEN

THE UNINVITED

AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS

THE EVIL INSIDE

SACRED EVIL

HEART OF EVIL

PHANTOM EVIL

NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES

THE KEEPERS

GHOST MOON

GHOST NIGHT

GHOST SHADOW

THE KILLING EDGE

NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

UNHALLOWED GROUND

DUST TO DUST

NIGHTWALKER

DEADLY GIFT

DEADLY HARVEST

DEADLY NIGHT

THE DEATH DEALER

THE LAST NOEL

THE SÉANCE

BLOOD RED

THE DEAD ROOM

KISS OF DARKNESS

THE VISION

THE ISLAND

GHOST WALK

KILLING KELLY

THE PRESENCE

DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

PICTURE ME DEAD

HAUNTED

HURRICANE BAY

A SEASON OF MIRACLES

NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

EYES OF FIRE

SLOW BURN

NIGHT HEAT

Look for Heather Graham’s next novel

AND THE DEAD PLAY ON

available soon from Harlequin MIRA

The Betrayed

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Washington Irving

I wish I could have known him!

And to the beautiful state of New York.

To Al, Mystery Mike and all those at Bouchercon, 2013.

To Connie Perry and Shayne Pozzessere for a wonderful trip into the shadows and forests of the Hollow and the mind—Irving’s cottage, the church, the cemetery…and all those places where wonder exists and the imagination can fly.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Booklist

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

“They got me, my old friend. They got me.”

Aidan Mahoney woke with a start.

His room was dark; instinct made him reach for the Glock at his bedside and then remain dead still.

Listening.

He’d heard the words as clearly as if they’d been spoken directly in front of him. And when he’d first opened his eyes, he could have sworn that there’d been a form—the form of a man. A man beseeching him—for help. Tall, nicely dressed in a suit, leaning toward him.

But he’d blinked.

And now...

Now there was no one.

He tensed, searching the darkness, listening carefully. He heard the hum of the heater, the noise of a car in the street below and, distantly, the blaring of a horn.

Nothing else. The usual sounds of New York City at night.

But something teased at the back of his mind. Something he should have realized, something he should have recognized about that whisper. His eyes adjusted to the shadows. No, there was nothing in his room. No one stood by his bed. He glanced to the side, but he knew he’d slept alone the night before. He occasionally brought a woman home, but there hadn’t been anyone regular in his life since his crush on Tina Hastings in high school and his passionate college romance with Kathy Flanders.

The passion had lasted until college ended—and cooled almost overnight when their career choices clashed and Kathy had gone on to study anthropology in Cambodia.

Even then, he’d been the one to keep his distance. Sometimes it was just best to be alone and to fight your own demons.

And right now he was definitely alone.

But he’d heard the voice.

He’d seen something.

Cautiously, he crawled out of bed. He kept the light off and made a quick but thorough search of his immediate space, checking next to the dresser, quietly opening the closet.

From there, he left his room just as quietly. Nothing in the hallway. He kept moving, wearing only his boxers, inspecting the apartment’s second bedroom—his office—the kitchen, living room and dining area. No sign of anyone. Anywhere. He’d dreamed the words. He must have.

From down below, he heard the angry squeal of a cat; a garbage can was knocked over. A lot of street noise came into the apartment, since he was on the third floor of an old brownstone in the Village. But the voice he’d heard hadn’t come from the street.

He groaned aloud, setting his Glock on the kitchen counter and opening the refrigerator door, letting the cool air wash over him. He was always wary; training in various military and law enforcement branches had caused that. But he wasn’t paranoid. There was no one in his apartment and he was sure of that now.

But, to his mind, the alternative was almost worse.

He’d known the voice. But he couldn’t quite place it.

They got me, my old friend. They got me.

Aidan glanced at the clock over the fireplace. The time was creeping toward 5:30 a.m. What the hell? He might as well stay awake, shower, get dressed, then head on in to work.

He put coffee on to brew while he got ready, but checked the locks on his door before he went to shower. By 5:35 he was dressed and pouring a cup of coffee. With his gun in its small holster he went to the door to get his newspaper. He still liked reading the Times in its old-fashioned form.

When he picked up the rolled bundle, he saw the headline: Highsmith Missing!

It suddenly seemed that his blood really did run cold—a physical impossibility, of course, but for a moment he felt frozen in place. He felt a distinct chill coursing through his body.

Then his phone rang.

And, of course, he knew that call presaged a hell of a day. Just as he now realized that the voice he’d heard had been that of Richard Highsmith.

“Mahoney,” he answered, aware of how terse he sounded.

From the caller ID he’d seen that it was his new unit chief, Jackson Crow. He liked Crow, all right, and working for him wasn’t going to be a problem. But...

He’d known Richard since they were kids. Once, they’d been great friends. But time went by, people got older. Life and work intruded. Obligations kept old friends from being together, kicking a ball around or playing video games, but that didn’t change the fact that a few hours grabbed for a football game or a quick dinner wasn’t damned good. And yet even those occasions became less and less frequent.

Richard was missing.

This was going to be about Richard.

A phone call from Crow was new for Aidan. He’d been working as an FBI field agent out of the largest office in the country—the New York City office—for the past ten years. He’d worked briefly with Crow on a case that had included the D.C. offices. Then they’d gone in different directions. Now, Crow was heading up a special unit—and that unit was opening new offices in NYC.

Aidan hadn’t asked to transfer to the new unit. He hadn’t wanted it. And when he’d received a call from the director of the bureau, he’d known he could refuse the transfer. If he did, however, his career with the agency might well be at stake.

But this call? He was almost certain it would be about Richard. He wanted to work Richard’s case; he desperately wanted to find his old friend. And find him alive.

He was afraid he wouldn’t.

And he still wasn’t sure about the new coworkers he’d wind up with on the case.

Aidan reassured himself that they’d be fine. He’d been afraid they’d be a bunch of freaks bearing crystal balls. The truth couldn’t have been more different. The new offices in a small Federal building just down the street—closer to St. Paul’s and Trinity—was state-of-the-art. Five seasoned Krewe members had been sent to help with the setup.

They certainly seemed normal. They’d read all the books, gone through all the rigors of training. They’d passed the academy classes. Everyone he’d met seemed bright, efficient, competent. Nice. He’d liked them all.

But they had a reputation for being called in on the weird cases. And weird was an area he’d rather avoid.

The new base for the NYC Krewe unit had only recently come into existence. Before Aidan had seen the paper today—heard the voice!—he hadn’t expected to be in the field anytime soon. He’d been told by his old superior that Jackson Crow had been watching him, noting his methods and his work, and had specifically asked that Aidan be brought in when the Krewe’s New York office was formed.

Aidan was still getting to know his new unit, accepting that he was part of it.

“We’ve got some serious trouble,” Crow said.

Yeah, Aidan thought. Richard’s dead. But he didn’t speak.

“The New York office got a call from the sheriff up in Westchester County,” Crow said. “The director called me—since you’re part of the Krewe now. You’re the man he wants. I understand you’re from the area. Plus, he’d like to cover all the bases—the usual aspects of an investigation into a disappearance like this...and, shall we say, the unusual ones.” There was a brief silence. “This one could be described as unusual in that Richard Highsmith apparently disappeared into thin air. He was in Tarrytown for a fund-raiser yesterday. He disappeared around dusk. He was there—at the center where he was scheduled to speak—and then he wasn’t. He still hasn’t made an appearance and his staff is worried sick.”

“The locals are on it?”

“They’ve been on it. They did a lockdown at the center for several hours. They questioned everyone there before letting anyone go. His car was in the lot, and there was security all around.” Crow was quiet for a moment. “If he was your average Joe, they wouldn’t even have a Missing Persons report on him yet, but...”

“But it’s Richard,” Aidan said quietly. He probably should have told Crow right then that Richard Highsmith was more than a rising politician to him. The reason he didn’t was that he wanted the assignment.

He chose not to mention that he knew Richard well. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure about his new position with the agency, but he knew one thing. He was not going to be pulled off this case, and while he didn’t want to be dishonest, he wasn’t going to tell his new supervisor about his friendship with the missing man—yet.

“Yes. And it’s hitting the news this morning,” Crow said. “Tarrytown’s about an hour away from here—”

“Less,” Aidan told him. At this time of morning? Hell, yeah, he could get there fast.

“Then go. I’ll call your cell with any particulars we have. By this evening, I’ll have a few more agents assigned.”

“Consider me gone.” Aidan hung up, drained his coffee and started for the door.

They got me, my old friend. They got me.

He was going to find Richard Highsmith.

And the saddest thing of all...

Aidan knew he was going to find him dead.

1

It was a horrific sight.

And, bizarrely enough, one that might be missed, at least in Sleepy Hollow. Here, and in the surrounding villages and towns, images and effigies of headless horsemen were common.

A pole had been stuck into a man’s likeness created from wood and stuffing and plaster and cotton—a likeness that ended at the neckline. Right where the Revolutionary-era jacket and shirt left off.

And Richard Highsmith’s severed head had been stuck onto the pole.

It was bloody, and the midlength, salt-and-pepper hair was matted and dark. The face might once have held character and dignity.

Maureen Deauville stood with her enormous wolfhound, Rollo, and stared at it. For a moment, she felt as if she’d been teleported back to medieval times. The breeze rustled through the trees and the sounds of traffic from the road seemed to fade. She might have been standing in distant woods, viewing the results of a gruesome execution carried out by some long-ago government.

In reality, she was on the street that bordered a cemetery to the west. There were houses here—some very old, some not so old—and a few businesses, including Tommy Jensen’s Headless Horseman Hideaway Restaurant and Bar. His effigy of the headless horseman, a good seven or so feet high, lurked on the roadside to attract clientele.

And it had been used to display the head.

The parking lot was filled with cars, mainly cop cars. It was barely 7:00 a.m. At least seven uniformed officers were there, ready to handle crowd control and keep the few cars on the street moving along. A crime scene unit van had just arrived and jerked to a halt, followed seconds later by the ambulance from the morgue.

They’d begun the search for the missing man that morning, just half an hour earlier.

“You’ve done it. You and Rollo have done your jobs,” Lieutenant Purbeck said with a sigh. “Not what we expected to find, or hoped to find, but...” He paused. “But that’s part of Richard Highsmith, anyway.”

The blood was congealing. It had dripped over the crisp collar and seeped onto the shoulders of the white cotton shirt and blue jacket on the should-have-been-headless mannequin. The eyes were open in death, and crows and blackbirds lurked, waiting to attack. Even as Maureen stared up at the atrocity before her, a crow zeroed in, aiming for the soft tissue.

“We’ve got to get that down!” One of the cops, a young man, new to the force—Bobby Magill, Maureen thought—groaned, sounding ill.

“Anyone who’s going to puke, get the hell away from the crime scene! Let’s get it covered!” Lieutenant Purbeck shouted.

At Maureen’s side, Rollo gave one of his deep, bone-jarring barks. Maureen quickly soothed the large wolfhound. “Good job, Rollo,” she murmured. Men scrambled, as Lieutenant Purbeck said, “I want a step...a block...something. We need an investigator up there. And crowd control! Someone arrange detours until we’ve got all this out of here. And I sure as hell don’t want anyone around gaping and snapping shots for Twitter and Facebook!”

Gina Mason, head of the forensics unit, stepped forward and yelled at them. “Get the birds away! And then get some kind of screening set up. We have to preserve the scene! Can we get rigging and tarps around the—the— Around it! Everyone will be breathing down my neck for trace evidence and I’ll have to say we were defeated by a crow!”

Dr. Aaron Mortenson from the coroner’s office had arrived, as well. He got out of his car and walked over to Gina.

“Let the photographer up there first, and then I’ll take a quick look. I won’t disturb anything until you’ve had a chance to get what you need,” he told her.

Mortenson was middle-aged, trim in appearance and always reserved. He saw Mo and Rollo. To her surprise, he nodded to her with something that was almost a smile. A silent acknowledgment that said, Work well done. He sighed loudly. “Since it’s so early, thankfully no four-year-old saw this and realized the head was real. God knows— Halloween. It might well have taken hours even in broad daylight before anyone saw that it wasn’t just part of some grisly display.”

She nodded solemnly back at him.

Lieutenant Purbeck came to stand near Mo, allowing the technicians and the medical examiner the space they needed.

He set a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m okay,” she assured him.

Then she turned away, grasping Rollo’s collar and taking him with her. He’d done his job well. Too well. This was one search she wished she could’ve sat out. Sooner or later, someone would have really looked at the headless horseman that stood outside the entrance to Tommy’s place. The police hadn’t really needed her services. She actually wished that they hadn’t called her; this one was a little too close to home.

“Why my horseman?” Mo heard. She turned.

Tommy Jensen, an old friend—and owner of the Headless Horseman Hideaway Restaurant and Bar—had been allowed through. The restaurant didn’t open until eleven; his staff didn’t even arrive until nine or nine-thirty. But, she realized, looking at his grim face as he stared at the scene, it was his horseman and his parking lot. She figured he’d been called in.

He looked at her bleakly and tried to smile. “Of all the horsemen in all the world...”

Mo touched his arm. He was her senior by a few years; she’d known him since she was ten or so. She recalled that the older girls had often teased him because he’d been a big, awkward kid. He still liked to moan about his dating life. But now that they were all older and presumably more mature, the group she’d hung out with growing up now frequented his restaurant. It was her favorite hangout when friends met up at night for dinner, coffee or drinks. He always took care of them.

He’d been born and bred in the area and was a true lover of the Hudson Valley. He’d owned the restaurant for about two years and it was charming, offering pool tables, dart boards and an “enchanted forest” for young children when their families came for lunch.

Purbeck turned to him. “What time did you leave last night, Tommy?”

Tommy was startled—as if he’d just realized he might be a suspect. “About 2:30 a.m. And I didn’t leave alone. I left with Abby Cole. We cleaned up, locked the place and were together the whole time. I drove her home.”

“And you didn’t see anything? Anything at all unusual?” Purbeck demanded.

Tommy shook his head. “Sir, I’m telling you, we were worn-out. Halloween’s coming, you know? We’re busy. We had to announce last call and practically shove people out of their chairs. When we finally took off, my car was the only one in the lot and...”

“And?”

“I didn’t even glance at the horseman, to be honest. But, like I said, we’d been busy. We had a lot of visitors and people were talking at their cars before leaving. They’d been to the attractions, the haunted houses, the storytelling, all that. So...I’m not a cop, but I don’t see how this could have been done until the wee hours of the morning.”

Purbeck released a sigh. “Call your people. We’re going to have this area closed off for the next five hours or so.”

“The poor guy! I feel really bad about this.” Tommy frowned. “But why did it have to be in front of my place? Oh, Lord, will anyone ever come here again?” he asked, his tone dismayed.

“They’ll flock in—to see where the head of Richard Highsmith was found,” Purbeck said dryly. “You can open, but not until dinner.” He paused, glancing at the scene. “I’m giving my crime scene techs a good five hours. Until then, the crime scene tape stays up. Oh, and, make sure I can get hold of you.”

Tommy looked at Mo. “Don’t leave town, huh?” he said. Then he looked back at Purbeck. “I don’t leave town often, sir, so no worries there. Can I go home?”

“For now. Tell Abby we’ll be talking to her and the staff,” Purbeck added.

Tommy waved as he turned to leave. Then he stopped. “Mo, can you come by later? He could be right about business being okay—or people could be so creeped out, they won’t come anymore.”

“I’ll come by, Tommy,” Mo promised. “I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

She wished she believed her own words. But talking to him, encouraging him, was at least keeping him from seeing the head spiked on his effigy of the headless horseman.

Lieutenant Robert Purbeck walked over to her. “Mo, you can go, if you like. We’ll take it from here.” He sounded gruff and uncomfortable. “You and Rollo were dead-on, as usual.” He paused, rolling his eyes at his unfortunate choice of words. “That came out wrong, but this whole thing is just...bad. Very bad. Are you all right?”

Was she all right?

No one there was all right. But she wasn’t a cop or a forensic expert; she was Rollo’s owner. She was an “expert consultant.” And, sadly, she’d seen the very bad before.

Sometimes, more often than not, she and Rollo found those who were still living. She could proudly say that many a time they had helped save lives.

Not today.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she assured Purbeck. “But it’s not a picture I’ll forget.”

“None of us will,” he murmured.

She squared her shoulders and patted Rollo’s massive head. “We’ve found terrible and tragic things before, Lieutenant. And we’ve survived them.”

Purbeck was a tall, muscled man in his late fifties. He could be a tough cop, but he was also a sort of father figure to her, and his expression was one of parental concern. “We just discovered a head on a pole, Maureen. Here. In Sleepy Hollow. That’s damned...scary and disturbing.”

All she could do was agree. “I’m worried about you,” he said next. “You live alone.”

“I have Rollo.”

Rollo was huge. Standing on his hind legs, he was nearly six feet tall and dwarfed most men. He was one of the largest of his breed she had ever seen.

“Rollo, yes. He might well scare the common car thief,” Purbeck said. “And, yeah, he’s great at what he does. He’s not a bloodhound, not even a scent hound, he’s a sight hound, but he’s always right on the money. I guess dogs have it over us.” He shrugged. “And he’s one hell of a companion. But, Mo, whoever did this is sick. Really sick. I’m no expert on nutcases—and I don’t think I have to be. This is—” He paused, searching for a better word. Apparently, he didn’t find one. “Sick,” he repeated.

Maureen nodded again. “I...I would hope that someone suffering from a serious mental problem, an illness, would be the only person who could do something so horrible,” she said. She gestured around her. “Most people come here because of Washington Irving and his short story ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.’ They’re intrigued by it, they love history—and, well, they just want to see the place. But with this... Someone’s turning it into an obscene joke.”

“Yeah. Some whacked bastard out there has taken the work of the first American man of letters and twisted it into something tragic. I’m going to stop it. I refuse to let any more of this happen in our town. I’m going to track down whoever committed such a...such a dreadful crime, such a travesty—” Purbeck broke off. “I will get this bastard!” he vowed.

Maureen placed one hand on his arm. People here were extremely proud of Washington Irving, and of course the tourist trade that sustained many businesses in the village of Sleepy Hollow and in Tarrytown was due to Irving’s time-tested stories. She knew that herself. Like many who found their way to Sleepy Hollow, her parents were Irish New Yorkers who had fallen in love with the Hudson Valley. They hadn’t purchased property in the area, though. Instead, they’d rented every time they’d come for the summer or other holidays. She’d been the one to set down permanent roots here, buying a cottage down the Hudson from Irving’s Sunnyside. It had belonged to an older couple, friends of her parents, who’d gone to Arizona because of the husband’s severe asthma; they and Maureen had made a deal that was amenable to both parties, and she’d become a full-time resident. Her parents, too, had decided to retire to Scottsdale, joking that they’d never again have to shovel snow.

While she still loved the city—there was, truly, nothing like New York in the world—she’d needed to get away from the nonstop energy, the frequent chaos. And while she loved many places around the country, she’d never seen anything quite as beautiful as the Hudson Valley. Yes, areas off a few of the main roads seemed remote and very dark. But she’d bought what she considered the perfect home in Sleepy Hollow.

“And Richard Highsmith,” Purbeck said. “Lord, why?”

Neither of them had an answer for that.

Mo was hardly an expert on politics, but she’d admired Highsmith. He was that rare politician willing to stand and fight alone. He hadn’t adhered to any political party; he was an independent. He seemed to have taken the best policies and beliefs from everyone else out there. People loved him. He had plans for fiscal responsibility and he also had plans that focused on making equality part of the fabric of America.

Yes, he was loved.

But he was also hated.

And yet...

Hated this much?

“Was someone after Mr. Highsmith specifically?” Mo murmured. “Or...”

As she’d told Lieutenant Purbeck, she had to hope that only someone truly ill could have done this. Even worse—if such a thing was possible—was the chance that Richard’s murder had been random, that he’d just been taken and that...

If that were true, there could be more heads on top of horsemen who should have remained headless.

She knew Purbeck was thinking along the same lines.

“While this is going on, you might want to stay with a friend or move into a hotel,” Purbeck said to her.

“Lieutenant, we have no idea what’s going on yet,” Mo reminded him. “Highsmith was a politician. He was very likely to be voted in as New York’s next mayor. He was an independent, which means that most people loved him but that he also had enemies in the major political camps. I know—I followed him and his politics. He also had plans to run for governor at some point in the future, and a lot of people here still have homes in the city and use the Valley for escape. So...it makes sense that he was speaking here.”

Purbeck nodded. “Yep. He was special and he was different. But getting back to you... You’re in a remote area. I don’t know if Rollo, big as he is, can protect you from this kind of insanity.”

“His size scares people all the time,” Mo commented.

“Normal people,” Purbeck agreed. He stood awkwardly for a moment, watching his officers and the crime scene technicians working. “But if you actually know the dog, he’s one friendly guy.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Lieutenant—Rollo can be fierce!” Maureen bent down to hug the dog. He didn’t exactly prove her point when he rewarded her with a sloppy kiss. One of her mom’s best friends had bred Irish wolfhounds; the dogs had been special to her from the first time she’d seen them. She and Rollo were family.

“And Richard Highsmith—” She started to turn back to the head on the mannequin but stopped herself. “He was a politician, in from the city. I do have to wonder whether someone decided to kill him and to use the legend to get away with it. Let’s face it, no one can look at this without thinking that a maniac is at work. That could throw an investigation in the wrong direction.”

“I almost hope you’re right.” Purbeck glanced at the effigy and the head—now covered with blue canvas in case the gawkers arrived. And in case media cameras showed up. Given media presence at the convention center last night, Mo was surprised that no members of the press were here this morning—and equally relieved. That was obviously because not many people knew there was a severed head here or that it had belonged to Richard Highsmith. They would soon enough. Police were trying to protect the scene of the crime and, she felt, Richard Highsmith’s dignity. No one wanted the grotesque and heartbreaking image of Highsmith’s severed head appearing on TV or the internet or the papers. “I hope this is a political thing. Because if it’s not...”

“You think there really might be someone here...who’s crazy and going after heads?” Maureen asked. “But we have the head.”

Purbeck nodded grimly. “What we don’t have is the rest of the body, and that’s the next order of business. But you—”

Detective Lee Van Camp, a lean man with a thin face and a haggard appearance, stepped over to them, interrupting whatever the lieutenant was about to say. Mo knew he’d be lead man on the case. He worked with Jimmy Voorhaven, a younger detective, and they were probably the two best men in the county. Purbeck was a good commander and usually directed his detectives from his office. Purbeck was here himself because Richard Highsmith’s disappearance—and now confirmed murder—was about as high-profile as it got.

He would remain involved. The media had already gone crazy but news people were being kept at a distance.

She’d worked with Detective Van Camp before. In fact, of all the local cops, she’d worked with him the most. They’d met when she was just a teenager. She hadn’t had Rollo then; she’d had his mom, Heidi. Working with the wolfhounds had been a godsend for her. When she was in her teens, her parents had discovered how effective she and Heidi were at search and rescue, and she remembered hearing them argue about whether they should allow her to continue. They’d decided that yes, if she could help, they were morally bound to let her do so.

She’d never really known what Van Camp thought about her and her almost foolproof ability to find the missing. He simply watched her with his dark, unblinking eyes. And he was always courteous.

“Well?” Purbeck asked softly.

“Political execution taken to a dramatic extreme?” Van Camp asked Purbeck. “Or mental case?” He turned to Mo. “What do you think?”

Maureen wasn’t taken aback by the question. And it wasn’t because she and Van Camp knew each other or that they’d worked together before. He’d told her once that he just listened and tested everything he heard; he listened to everyone, taking in what worked for him and ignoring what didn’t. But he didn’t brush off anyone or discount any opinion. Mo liked him a lot. He was an exceptional detective for that very reason.

She took a deep breath. “It’s certainly dramatic. But in the legend, the headless horseman is looking for heads. He takes the heads and leaves the bodies behind.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Van Camp said.

Purbeck narrowed his eyes. “People say there are really no new stories, just new ways to tell them. The headless horseman was an old legend in the area—Washington Irving just wrote it up with literary talent. Whoever this is, they’re putting a new twist on it.”

“If you go by the legend, the horseman is searching for a head,” Van Camp continued. “And he killed old Ichabod Crane with a pumpkin head he’d been carting around. But if you read between the lines, either Bram Bones did in his rival or Ichabod went off to live happily ever after somewhere else. But if you think this is a political assassination, the drama’s an attempt to throw off suspicion. Hard to be sure at this point.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll know more, I’m sure, after autopsy. I mean— Well, we’ll need to know how the head was removed from the body.”

“Whatever the answer may be, I really don’t think we’re looking for a long-dead Hessian soldier still fighting the Revolution!” Purbeck said.

“No, but these days, politics can be close to war,” Van Camp said with distaste. “Poor guy. He sure as hell didn’t deserve anything like this. I hope, I really hope that—” He paused again. “I hope it was quick.”

“I want to send Mo and Rollo home. No reason they have to watch all this,” Purbeck said.

Van Camp shook his head. “Mo can’t go yet. We still need her and Rollo.”

“Oh?” Purbeck asked.

“Boss man, hey,” Van Camp said. “We’ve got...part of Mr. Highsmith. We need to find the rest of him.”

“Yeah, but I was hoping to give Mo a break. She and Rollo have already found Richard— Well, his head. I thought we’d search for the rest of the remains ourselves....but, Mo, it probably does make more sense if you and Rollo do your thing, get a head start.” He winced. “Sorry. You okay with doing that?”

“Of course,” Mo said, crouching down by Rollo. “Good job, my friend. But we need more. Are you ready?”

The question was just as much for her. She studied the site. Van Camp had left them. He was speaking with Voorhaven, requesting help to get up on a makeshift hoist for a better look at the head in situ. Gina Mason was beside him, accepting a camera from one of her assistants.

“Mo?” Purbeck asked. “Are you sure you can handle this?”

She nodded, closing her eyes. She envisioned the man in the picture she’d been given hours before.

When she opened her eyes, she looked across the road to the cemetery.

Most people thought the old burying grounds were part of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, which included hills and covered a lot of space. The Old Winchester Burying Grounds was actually a separate entity. At one time, St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church had stood somewhere in the center, although it had burned down during the Revolution. So, officially, this had been a burying ground rather than a cemetery. Traditionally, unlike a cemetery, a burying ground was attached to a church, although over the years the terms had become interchangeable.

Now—be it cemetery or burying ground—the place beckoned to her.

“Rollo,” she said to the dog. “We’re on.”

* * *

Aidan knew this area very well.

Nestled in the Hudson Valley, surrounded by mountains and bordered by the Hudson River, Sleepy Hollow was simply charming. Carved out of Tarrytown and once known geographically and locally by the unimaginative name of North Tarrytown, the village had become Sleepy Hollow in 1996 in honor of its most famous resident, Washington Irving. The entire area was ripe with Revolutionary history, along with tales of the Old Dutch community and legends from the Native Americans who’d once called it home.

The Woman in White appeared now and then, and Major Andre’s ghost was said to roam the area. The dashing gentleman had been hanged as a spy by the patriots. Of course, he was a spy, but he’d been handsome and charismatic, and many had lamented his death.

The woods were dense. Creeks and streams danced over rocks and down slopes. At night, when fog wandered in these woods, it was easy to imagine how frightening it might be to roam what would’ve been an eerie landscape in the dark, with only the light of the moon filtering through the trees.

The Old Dutch Burying Grounds by the Old Dutch Church were filled with worn old stones and vaults that had been dug into the cliffs, and it was spooky by moonlight.

Of course, there was also much that was warm and welcoming in Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown.

There were hotels and motels, bed-and-breakfasts and inns, as well as shops that offered the usual T-shirts, souvenirs, handmade arts and crafts, and one-of-a-kind clothing.

And there were headless horsemen.

There were headless horsemen everywhere.

They were on signs that advertised stores and restaurants.

They were on village welcome posts along the roadside—some made of wrought iron and some of wood etchings, and others were done using a variety of other artistic media and techniques.

As a child, Aidan had scrambled up and down the hills and leaped over the many lilting brooks and streams. He and his friends had created their own stories about the patriots and redcoats and traitors, the Indians who had once claimed the land and, needless to say, Irving’s headless horseman.

It had been a great place to grow up. The entire Hudson Valley was, in his opinion, one of the most beautiful places on earth. And, for a boy, it had been filled with adventure. Hiking, fishing, boating, walking with his friends...learning their world and its history.

Richard Highsmith had been one of those friends.

Aidan hadn’t gone to the local station yet. Neither had he headed over to the center where Richard would be speaking. Jackson Crow had called Aidan with specifics about the last time Richard had been seen. In fact, Highsmith’s assistant, Taylor Branch, had feared that he’d just walked out—that he’d suddenly had an epiphany regarding politics and its negative, nasty side. Branch was sure that Richard would realize he was a different kind of politician, one who could bring about change, and that he’d come back. So he’d waited, entertaining the crowd with musicians hired for the event.

Richard had been missing for three hours before Branch had called the police. Then there’d been confusion. Next the place had been shut down and those who’d come to see him speak had been held and questioned, but finally they’d all been allowed to leave.

A search had actually begun last night around midnight. From Jackson Crow’s last call, Aidan knew that more people had been called out at the crack of dawn.

The police had searched through the night. Many of the tourist attractions in Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow—like Washington Irving’s Sunnyside and the old Philips Manor—had acres of farmland, surrounded by forest.

The police had called in all kinds of assistance. Officers from the county and state. Bloodhounds and other canine search-and-rescue units, including an Irish wolfhound and his keeper who seemed to have an extraordinary rate of success. Anything and everyone was out there—and now the information had hit the airwaves.

Aidan had decided to go on instinct. On the voices he heard in his head. He hated when that happened, loathed it. But the voices still came now and then. And today...

He’d heard Richard. Heard him when it was too late.

They got me, my old friend. They got me.

He wished he’d heard something different. Like, I’m in danger, old friend.

Cursing, he began to walk. First he climbed uphill, by the Old Dutch Church. But somehow he knew that was wrong, so he changed course, got back in his car and drove beside the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Finally, he reached the end and parked again.

It was fall; mid-October had just arrived. The day had been beautiful when he’d started driving and even when he’d first parked. The leaves were turning, offering brilliant touches of color here and there. The temperature was cool but not cold.

Suddenly a chilly breeze was whipping around him, and when he looked up he saw that the sky was gray and ominous.

A brook trickled between the boundaries of the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and Saint Andrew’s burying ground. He hopped over the brook, studying the expanse of trees that flourished everywhere—the plan when the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery was designed had been to make it a serene and beautiful place, a place where families might come to picnic and find peace while they honored their lost loved ones. And it was beautiful here. The dead rested between the graceful trees and gurgling water. Nature at its best.

The one land of the dead blended into the next. There hadn’t been a burial at the old grounds for a century while Sleepy Hollow Cemetery still accepted new denizens. But the old burying ground was just as beautiful, though not actually planned that way. Nature, on her own, had stepped in. The grounds were somewhat overgrown, yet that made them more forlorn and more poignant. Crosses rose in high grass; cherubs appeared by tombstones.

Angels wept.

There were vaults dug into the hill where the church had once stood, surrounded by trees and bushes. Tombs had been built above the ground, and these old mausoleums endured within a fairy-tale land where the dead rested and the living might contemplate the beauty of life—and the inevitability of death.

He passed one of the old vaults and crawled high atop it to survey the area. A stone angel knelt in prayer to his left, an obelisk rose to his right. He hurried by them and clambered down an overgrown path to the rise of a second hill. For a moment, he paused. He could hear the tinkle of water and saw where a tree had broken several stones.

The day was darkening; it was going to rain.

The breeze quickened and Aidan felt an urge to hurry. He walked across the hill, looking around. So many graves. So many years of men living in this region—and dying here.

He noticed that a new flag marked the grave of a Revolutionary soldier. He passed a general on horseback—a tribute to the men of the valley who had fought in the Civil War.

He walked over graves and by monuments, past mausoleums and vaults, and then he peered into the distance.

And saw a man. Or the shape of a man. The area suddenly seemed very dark, even though it was almost seven-thirty and the sun had surely risen. The breeze was now a wind; the sky roiled.

“Hey!” he called. There was no answer.

Was he imagining the man? The figure leaned against a free-standing vault with great pillars before it.

The wind seemed to be against him as he hurried over. He was fighting to get there.

The man didn’t disappear.

As he struggled forward, he paused at the sound of a dog barking. He turned.

A massive animal was racing toward the other figure, straining at his leash, which was held by a young woman in a black trench coat. He had the rather irrelevant thought that she resembled Cousin Itt from The Addams Family, since the wind had covered her face with her long brown hair. She and the dog—the wolfhound, obviously—were threading their way through crooked tombstones and monuments listing at different angles.

He heard voices. The dog and the woman were being followed.

He ran forward, too. The dog was in a rush—not after him, but intent on something else. Or someone else.

The figure leaning by the vault. The young woman tripped on a broken headstone but found her footing.

He continued forward himself, realizing that dog and woman were headed for the man—and at the rate the dog was going, they might well knock him over.

“Rollo! Slow down!” the young woman commanded.

Rollo passed Aidan and skidded to a halt within ten feet of the figure.

Running, Aidan barely managed to stop himself from toppling over onto the woman.

Then she came to a standstill so quickly that she lost her balance and fell back.

Into Aidan’s arms.

She gasped and he righted her.

She turned to apologize, pulling strands of hair away from her eyes. They were like crystals, gray-green and shimmering with flecks of both colors.

She didn’t speak but her beautiful eyes widened, as if wondering what she’d seen just before she’d fallen backward—into his arms.

Their eyes met briefly in that confusion.

Rollo, the giant wolfhound, kept barking.

And as they both turned to look at the man—the figure by the tomb—a horde of people came panting up behind them.

They were mostly men in uniform.

Aidan ignored them. So did the young woman and the dog.

They were still staring at the man who’d been propped against the vault. He wore a long billowing coat and black boots, and might have been casually waiting there.

He just didn’t have a head.

But something else about the scene didn’t seem right.

“Oh, my God!” someone shrieked behind him.

Aidan noticed that the headless man stood as if he were about to enter the vault—or perhaps ask someone to join him.

It was staged. It was staged to be horrific.

One of the newcomers stopped about three feet from the young woman.

“Well, I believe you’ve found the rest of Mr. Highsmith, Mo.” He stopped speaking. Perhaps, under the circumstances, all their minds were working a little slowly. The man frowned, then gave Aidan a thorough look and said, “This is a crime scene, sir.” He paused, his expression grim. “But...”

Aidan was in a suit and trench coat, certainly not clothing worn by any of the others here. He guessed—hoped—that he wore it with a certain authority.

“You’re with the federal government?”

Aidan nodded and presented his credentials. The older man studied him again. “Took them long enough to get you here,” he said. “I called last night.”

“Sir, I got the word about an hour and a half ago,” Aidan said.

The older man didn’t offer his hand; he seemed to be an old-time lawman. “Lieutenant Robert Purbeck, Agent Mahoney,” he said. “Glad you made it. Things like this don’t happen in Tarrytown. Except in stories, of course.”

Someone next to him was on a radio, telling someone else to get the M.E. and crime scene techs up the hill.

The wolfhound barked.

“Shh, Rollo,” the young woman said.

“Agent Mahoney, meet my lead men on the case—Detectives Lee Van Camp and Jimmy Voorhaven. And—” he gestured to the young woman and the dog “—Maureen Deauville. Mo...we have a Fed here. Agent Mahoney of the FBI. Oh, and that’s our wonder dog, Rollo.”

Aidan nodded in acknowledgment. The other cops, a weary-looking lean guy and his younger partner, watched him curiously as they shook hands but they didn’t appear to resent his presence.

“God help me,” Purbeck muttered. “I hope that’s the rest of Richard Highsmith. If not...”

He didn’t finish his sentence.

But Aidan knew what he meant.

They’d found Richard’s head.

And if this wasn’t the body that went with the head...

Well, there might be headless bodies and bodiless heads all over the Hudson Valley.

But, as he stood there, staring at the form, Aidan saw that the loose coat had fluttered open—and he understood what was wrong with the scene.

And he knew their worst fears were realized.

“I’m sorry to say this,” Aidan announced, “but that’s not Richard Highsmith.”

“What?” Purbeck demanded. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Take a closer look,” Aidan said. “That’s not a man’s body. It’s a woman’s.”

“What?” Purbeck demanded again. “Rollo found a body, a woman’s body? But...he was on Richard Highsmith’s scent!”

“He sure as hell found something,” Aidan said.

The young woman, Maureen Deauville, spoke quietly then.

“Rollo is— Well, he’s really a sight hound, but—” She paused, glancing around. “He’s never wrong. Richard Highsmith is nearby,” she said. “The, um, rest of him.”

Aidan looked at her, then at the headless body by the tomb. Ms. Deauville seemed very certain. In a second, he’d pulled on a pair of neoprene gloves.

Then he stepped forward.

There was an iron gate that guarded the tomb. Beyond that was some kind of heavy metal door.

Aidan pulled at the gate; it creaked, but gave.

He pushed at the iron door. It groaned on its hinges but opened.

Taking a penlight from his pocket, he flashed it over the inside of the vault. He saw a stone sarcophagus or tomb in the center.

And on the stone tomb, a body. In a suit.

“This, I think,” Aidan said, rigidly controlling the emotion that ripped through him, “is Richard Highsmith.”

2

Purbeck looked in and sighed. “Back out, everyone but Mahoney, Van Camp and Voorhaven. I don’t want evidence compromised. Get the M.E. and the crime scene people here,” he ordered.

Aidan followed him, then carefully stepped through.

He threw the beam of his flashlight over the stone floor. No hope of prints, since the stone was bare of dust. He walked carefully toward the body, touching nothing, keeping his light trained on the corpse.

Aidan wasn’t an M.E., but it seemed to him that the head had been cleanly severed with great strength and probably a single blow. Highsmith hadn’t been killed in the tomb; there wasn’t much blood. And, of course, Aidan couldn’t know if he’d been killed and then decapitated—or killed by decapitation. He found himself reminded of a history lesson: Queen Anne Boleyn asking Henry VIII for a headsman from France so her execution would be swift and clean.

Purbeck had come in behind him. He, too, touched nothing and studied the body.

As the two detectives—Van Camp and Voorhaven—also walked into the tomb, Aidan put down his flashlight and checked for Highsmith’s wallet with gloved hands. He found it in his pocket, just as he’d expected to.

“Anything in there?” Van Camp asked him.

“Wallet, keys...”

Carefully, Aidan checked Highsmith’s other pocket. Lint—and a matchbook. He held it up to Voorhaven’s flashlight glare.

“From some place called Mystic Magic,” he said.

“Whoa,” Van Camp muttered.

“It’s a new strip club down close to Irving,” Voorhaven explained.

“Doesn’t sound like Richard Highsmith,” Purbeck said.

Voorhaven produced an evidence bag, but Aidan briefly held on to the matchbook, flipping it open. He wasn’t surprised to see that Highsmith had scribbled something in it. “‘Lizzie grave,’” he read aloud.

“Odd name for a stripper,” Van Camp commented.

“I doubt it’s a stripper’s name,” Aidan told the others.

“Then what?” Van Camp asked.

“Maybe it has to do with a dead woman named Lizzie. Lizzie’s grave,” Aidan said impatiently, dropping the matchbook in the evidence bag.

Voorhaven snorted. “Ah, hell! Do you know how many Lizzies have died and been buried here over the last several hundred years?”

Purbeck shook his head. “Let the M.E. and the crime scene techs in now,” he said, turning to leave the vault. He paused at the door. “We have another victim out there—and another head to find.”

Aidan stayed behind for a minute, his gloved hand resting lightly on Richard’s arm. Rigor had come and gone; he’d been dead awhile. He’d probably been killed soon after he disappeared.

“Old friend,” he murmured. “I’ll get whoever did this to you.”

The young woman, Maureen—or Mo— Deauville, had not come in. She stood with her dog just outside the gates and Aidan felt her eyes on him, even though he was darkness and shadow.

He exited the tomb and approached Maureen just as Purbeck came up beside her. The place was now crawling with people. Voorhaven and Van Camp were by the corpse that had been so strategically arranged to look like a host—welcoming them, inviting them to enter the tomb. They had to discover the identity of this woman. Her death was as great a crime, as great a tragedy, as Highsmith’s.

“I know Van Camp already mentioned this, but are we sure it’s not a name? Lizzie Grave?” Purbeck asked Aidan. “Not necessarily a stripper’s name. Maybe someone he met?”

Aidan shook his head. “I’m almost certain it’s not,” he said. “I think he grabbed that matchbook wherever he was—could’ve been anywhere—and jotted down a note. I agree with you that it’s highly unlikely he was ever in that strip club—not when he was here on an important speaking engagement. I think he just saw the matchbook somewhere. In a dressing room or at a lunch counter, maybe. Or someone gave it to him. And I think Lizzie grave means...Lizzie’s grave. But the first thing we need to do is discover the identity of our other victim.”

“God help us,” Purbeck said. “We started out looking for a body. Now...now, we’ve got to find another head.” He turned to Mo Deauville. “You and Rollo ready?”

Aidan believed she was fighting her own mental battle, but she nodded. “Yes, of course,” she said. She brought the wolfhound to where the headless corpse leaned. The cops made way for her. The dog stood at a distance, but lifted his nose high—almost as if he were weighing the merits of a perfume.

Mo Deauville commanded the dog to sit, then approached the corpse and rested her hand gently on the woman’s shoulder.

As if she could...somehow feel something. A communication—from the corpse!

She lowered her head, then looked at Purbeck.

“We’re ready,” she said.

She touched the dog’s head. Aidan couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was giving Rollo some kind of signal.

Well, of course she was. She was asking him to find...the rest of the woman.

No, it seemed to be more than that.

But she quickly set off, tightly clutching the dog’s leash.

With the exception of the crime scene personnel and a few cops left standing guard, everyone trailed after her. They went up and down hills as they walked through one cemetery to get to the other, and eventually wound up on the street again.

“Oh, no. Oh, God, no,” Purbeck said.

Yes.

Across the street, at yet another headless horseman effigy, this one in front of a dry cleaning business, a crowd was gathering.

People weren’t alarmed; they seemed to be in awe.

There were pictures being taken.

The crowd wasn’t even being particularly ghoulish. The horseman stood in the midst of a Halloween display of pumpkins, bats, black cats and flying witches.

“Get the people away,” Purbeck said quietly.

Rollo woofed.

Voorhaven and Van Camp went running across the street, along with half-a-dozen men in uniform.

Aidan glanced at Mo. She stood there, holding Rollo’s leash. She didn’t turn away, although he could tell she wasn’t going any closer. There was a stoic expression on her face, but sadness in her eyes.

“Thank you,” Aidan murmured to her. He crossed the street and hurried over to the display. The area was now being cleared of people.

He knew the crowd hadn’t understood that the horseman with its witch’s head wasn’t part of this gruesome display. The head...was real.

Purbeck followed him. As Aidan stepped up onto a bale of hay beside a wire-and-plastic assembly, he heard the lieutenant mutter.

“God, I pray this means both our bodies are complete!”

Aidan thought they were. It was difficult to be sure, but he had to believe this was what they were looking for. The “witch’s” wealth of long dark hair had been adorned with a black pointed hat. Van Camp stood on a second bale near him, silently inspecting the scene. He motioned to one of the photographers to capture the image from a number of different angles. When the photographer finished the initial shots, Aidan turned to Van Camp, who nodded. He removed the hat and passed it down to Jimmy Voorhaven. Jimmy bagged it, then he carefully brushed aside the tangle of dark hair.

“Mid-thirties?” Van Camp murmured. “Attractive, good bone structure. It doesn’t appear that any of the bones in the face were broken or disturbed.”

“No bruises or contusions. Naturally, the skin is somewhat...”

“Yeah,” Van Camp said.

“You recognize her, by any chance?” Aidan asked him.

Van Camp shook his head. “No. And I guess we can’t be a hundred percent sure if this head goes with the body by the vault until...until the M.E. puts her together.”

The two men scrambled down; the police photographer got into position to take more pictures. Members of the crime scene unit assembled to search for trace evidence.

Aidan rejoined Purbeck. The man just stared at the display. He shook his head. “You know what our murder rate is around here? Practically zero.”

“Doesn’t help that we’re close to Halloween,” Voorhaven said.

That was probably true. There were few places in the country to rival the Sleepy Hollow area for Halloween. It came complete with the rolling hills, brooks, fog and spooky woods that first gave rise to legends and then to the stories written by the first American recognized as a great writer by the European community. So there were a zillion “haunted” venues: haunted houses, haunted hayrides, haunted happenings. Usually, it was an entertaining and commercially successful time—and the merchants were in a frenzy of happiness.

And the headless horseman reigned supreme.

“Whoever did this has to be stopped. Fast,” Van Camp said.

“Van Camp, I need you and Voorhaven to go to the station with Special Agent Mahoney. Get him up to speed on everything. Mahoney, you’re alone on this?” Purbeck asked him, apparently puzzled.

Aidan hesitated. It wasn’t that he couldn’t be a team player; he usually enjoyed working with others. True, he wasn’t completely familiar or completely comfortable with his new team yet. But he trusted that would happen in time.

Everyone wanted a trusted coworker at his back.

Still, he was well aware that he didn’t work like most agents. Sometimes his methods of investigation were...different.

Just as he’d heard that the agents in the Krewe had what might be considered different methods of investigation.

His methods worked—and that was why, he assumed, his superiors had decided to make use of him in a way that brought about results.

“We’ll bring in more people, I’m sure,” Aidan said. “When necessary.”

“Nice. Seems they give the locals some respect,” Voorhaven muttered sarcastically.

Aidan looked squarely at the man. “Detective, I’m here because Lieutenant Purbeck called my office. Because, thank God, there aren’t many murders in this area. I was sent because I grew up here. More than that, I grew up here with friends—one of whom was Richard Highsmith. I know how the man thought. I know his habits, his virtues and his weaknesses. I’m not here to step on toes. But I’m going to get whoever murdered my friend.” He realized that, without really thinking about it, he’d made the decision to disclose his relationship with Richard to these policemen, even though he hadn’t yet told Jackson Crow.

Voorhaven stared at him awkwardly. “I, uh, I’m sorry. By all accounts, Highsmith was a really good man.”

Aidan nodded. “Yeah.” He looked at the headless horseman effigy—with its head. “And now we have a Jane Doe and she might have been a good person, too, and if not...well, she’s still entitled to the very best law enforcement can give her. So, I’m willing to do anything it takes to get to the bottom of this.”

“Of course,” Voorhaven said.

“The kid just got his shield a year ago,” Van Camp told Aidan. “He’ll learn. When you’ve been around long enough and you see something like this, you’re happy to accept whatever assistance you can get.”

Aidan nodded.

“So, now we’ve kissed and made up,” Purbeck said. “Good. You two, give the nice Fed anything he needs or wants, okay?”

“You got it, yeah, sure, of course,” Voorhaven said.

Aidan looked across the street.

Mo Deauville was still there, Rollo at her side. She was watching them.

Purbeck raised a hand in a gesture of thanks or farewell or both.

She waved in return. For a moment, the wind caught her hair and lifted it around her. The Cousin Itt comparison no longer seemed the least bit apt and he wondered why it had ever occurred to him. She might have been wearing a trench coat, but she suddenly created an image in his mind. He pictured her as an ancient warrior princess. A Viking goddess, maybe.

A moment later, she was gone, but the image lingered.

* * *

Mo moved through the different cemeteries until she reached her point of arrival that morning—street parking by the Old Dutch Church.

Rollo trotted obediently along. She thought she should’ve put on his service-dog vest, since dogs weren’t really allowed in some of the places she walked through to get where she was going. But it was a Thursday morning, and although there were a few people in the various historical cemeteries and burying grounds, she remained at a distance and no one bothered her. Still, she did hear a few people exclaim what a beautiful dog Rollo was and, one girl squeaked that there was a woman walking around with a pony.

She pretended not to hear any of it as she made her way back to the car. Everything she’d seen that morning seemed to be imprinted on her mind.

The scenes she’d witnessed weren’t easy to forget.

“Remember, Rollo? We figured it would be such a lark, living here!” Mo said aloud.

Rollo let out a deep, rich woof, as if he understood.

She’d worked with the police for a long time. First in New York City and then—when she moved out here—with the county.

Fortunately, she could live wherever she wanted. She had a freelance career and was lucky enough to have a nice contract with a greeting card company. Many of her cards were e-cards, but many were also constructed of paper. Her company was actually based not too far away, in Connecticut, and she drove over for meetings once a month. Other than that, she worked on the internet and with graphic programs. She produced her paper creations by hand and on her own time, which allowed for her sideline of finding the lost and missing with Purbeck and Rollo.

Purbeck called her whenever a child went missing in the woods, and she and Rollo would find that child. It wasn’t always children. The last time she’d been called out, Mr. Husseldorf—one hundred and two, and looking forward to his next birthday—had wandered out of his nursing home. She’d found him down by one of the brooks, fishing without a pole. But the expression on his face and his every movement showed her that in his mind he was fishing.

She’d left the city because she preferred to find the living. In the city, it seemed, she too often found the dead.

But then, that was her real talent, wasn’t it?

Arriving at her car, Mo opened the door for Rollo to hop into the front, then walked around and slid into the driver’s seat. Technically, she was in Tarrytown and not Sleepy Hollow. There were signs that announced when you actually reached Sleepy Hollow.

She loved her home. It was right on a little twist on the river. She could stand in her backyard and see Sunnyside, the home where Washington Irving had lived for many years, and where he’d died. And sometimes, looking across the river, she could see him. He was older; he walked with a cane. But he was tall and lean, an extremely attractive older man. Sometimes, when a train went by, he lifted his cane as if cursing it.

Everyone in the area knew how much he’d hated it when the tracks had gone in. The trains blocked his view of the river when they went by, creating a nuisance with their horns and whistles and noise, day and night. After all, the writer had purchased Sunnyside because he loved peace and quiet. He’d added rocks to his stream so he could better hear the rush of the water and he’d built up a mound in front of his cottage so it wasn’t easily seen when visitors—or the curious—arrived via the road.

“Well, Rollo,” she murmured, “why do you think you and I live in a cottage and not a house? It means I’m going to have to look that up, the difference between a cottage and a house.”

Rollo had no answer, other than a wriggle in the passenger seat. She assumed he was trying to wag his tail, but he barely fit in the car.

Her home was surrounded by trees and stood about a quarter of a mile off the road.

It had always astonished her that you could leave New York City and less than an hour later, you’d reach a countryside of hills and vales and streams and trees. The wonder of it had been with her from the time she was a child.

She parked beneath the porte cochere at the side of her cottage. Once, the parking spot had been a carriage drop. She hadn’t closed it in, although sometimes, in the dead of winter, she ended up scraping a lot of ice off her windshield. She just couldn’t bring herself to add clunky garage doors to a spot that was so lovely.

Rollo went bounding out of the car, ready to find a tree of his own choosing.

Mo walked down to the river and gazed out toward Sunnyside. She shielded her eyes against the late-October sun that had risen through the clouds and the mist. And there he was.

Repair work was going on at Sunnyside, with scaffolding up by the porch where Washington Irving had often sat, enjoying the peace of the river—when the trains weren’t rattling by. There was no train at the moment.

Irving wasn’t sitting. He was walking, as if taking a midday constitutional. Shoulders high and squared, he moved slowly but with dignity, handsome in a jacket, vest and cravat. She watched him for a few minutes—and she saw him look down the slight bend in the river to where she stood. She wasn’t anywhere near close enough to see his face clearly, but she knew he was watching her, too. He waved at her, and she waved back.

She doubted he knew yet that his beloved Tarrytown–Sleepy Hollow area had been visited by a flesh-and-blood demon who was killing people—and taking heads.

During his life, people had often asked Irving whether he believed ghosts existed. Irving always said that if they did, and if he came back as one, he’d certainly haunt a place he’d loved. Sunnyside.

And, of course, there were frequent sightings of “the ghost.” He was often caught in “orbs” and “patterns” on film and digital cameras

This amused Irving no end. He’d told Mo once that he derived great pleasure from studying people as they walked around Sunnyside gaping at their photos—and swearing they’d captured his image in a slew of dust motes when he’d actually been standing right behind them as they’d taken the pictures.

She didn’t have the opportunity to speak with him often. It only happened on days when she went back to Sunnyside to walk the grounds and revel in the peace and beauty of the place.

And to shop in the gift store. She loved going in at this time of year; they always had delightfully spooky things for sale. Sometimes, the “essence” of Irving—as he liked to refer to himself—followed her into the store and teased her as she did her shopping. He was quite a prankster and particularly liked making her look as if she were talking to herself—ostensibly driven crazy by the ghosts of Sleepy Hollow.

“Rollo! Let’s go in,” she called to the dog.

He came loping over to her from the woods, where he’d no doubt had a number of good sniffs and marked several trees—an Irish wolfhound was capable of a lot of “marking.” She stooped to give him a massive hug. She’d taught him long ago not to jump on people, since he’d knock most of them to the ground if he did.

In the early 1800s, her home had been a one-room wooden farmhouse. Sometime before the Civil War, the Ahern family had come from Boston and purchased the house. They’d added a wing as well as a second story. During the war years, Sean Ahern had built another wing. He’d had a son killed at Shiloh and had turned his pain into a passion for helping wounded soldiers. He’d taken in many who had been displaced.

The ivied entrance with its small pillars led to a long hallway. The dining room was to the left of the kitchen, which came complete with modern conveniences. A door from the dining room led out to what was still called the “hospital porch.” To the right was the staircase and the parlor, and beyond the parlor was an office/library. Behind that, she had a large family room. The house was filled with marvelous little features—a recessed area in the office for a daybed, a bay window at the front of the parlor and built-in shelving for bric-a-brac and plates and books. The family room had French doors that opened onto the back porch with its view of the river. There were the trains, of course. That was okay. For her beautiful little piece of the world, she could deal with the trains.

She set her keys on the eighteenth-century occasional table by the door and pulled off her jacket, hanging it on a hook. Then she started a pot of coffee in the kitchen, and after that, went to the office to sit at her computer—and stare at it. While Halloween might be approaching, she was working on designs for Valentine’s Day.

His nails clicking on the hardwood floors, Rollo came down the hall and settled in her office, next to her desk. She tried to focus on the screen. She’d been working on a verse for a pop-up card she’d designed that revealed a cherubic cupid pulsing with sun rays when the card was opened. He was aiming an arrow with a heart for a tip, and so far she’d written, “Roses are red, violets are blue, my world is brilliant, since I have you.”

Mo loved what she did. She’d been a visual arts major, and while still in college she became fascinated with pop-up cards. She’d worked for a number of card companies, but eventually she’d started working at home. She did the artwork and the “paper engineering” on the cards before they were sent off to be replicated in large numbers.

She made a decent living from her art. She and Rollo never accepted money for working with the police; to her, it wouldn’t have seemed right.

“What do you think of my latest card, Rollo? Simple and sweet. Gotta tell ya, this isn’t easy when...”

She could still see that first horseman—with the head of Richard Highsmith on it.

Mo heard the slight creak of old floorboards and turned around. Rollo was already at her feet so she knew it wasn’t the dog moving.

Her heart quickened for a moment. She had just seen two people who’d been decapitated. Noises in the house didn’t usually bother her. It was old; it was constantly settling. And, of course, she had several resident ghosts—some better than others in their abilities to make floorboards creak and cause solid objects to move.

This time it was Candy Lewiston who had come to see her.

Even as a ghost, Candy was rivetingly beautiful. She’d come to the house through the Underground Railroad during the Civil War. Her heritage was mixed—African-American, European and Native American. She had large, dark eyes, her cheekbones were perfectly sculpted and she moved with effortless grace. Ghosts could appear to float, yes, but Candy moved as if she were still flesh and blood, graceful and lithe beyond measure.

She knew the good and the bad of history. As a child, she’d had a gentle master who’d been happy to spend time with his slaves, attend baptisms of their children and be as generous as a father. At his death she’d found herself the property of a new master; she said he was the cruelest man to ever walk the earth. The daughter of her first owner—who’d been forced to sell the slaves—had actually helped Candy escape, and in their friendship, they’d both realized how wrong it was for any man or woman to own any other.

They’d ended up living at the cottage down from Irving’s Sunnyside, and while Sarah Jane—Candy’s friend—had gone on after death, Candy had lingered. But that was because she’d fallen in love with one of the few Confederate soldiers who’d died here, brought north to be cared for by his brother, who had chosen to fight for the Union.

Colonel Daniel Parker remained in the house, as well. He and Candy were together in death as they’d never been in life.

Candy paused long enough to give Rollo a spectral pat. Rollo knew she was there. His tail thumped on the floor. Smiling, Candy perched on the desk and looked at Mo. “What happened? What did you and Rollo find?”

Mo sighed and gave up on work, leaning back in her chair. “A man’s head without a body, a woman’s body without a head, the man’s body—and the woman’s head.”

Candy stared at her in dismay. “How awful! Do they know, was it the politician from New York they were looking for?”

Mo nodded gravely. “And it’s not...it’s not just that he was dead. He was murdered. Horribly.” She went on to tell Candy about the morning—about everything they’d discovered.

Candy shuddered. “And with the village and all of Tarrytown bustling with our October visitors...that makes it even worse. I hope they find the murderer quickly.”

“Lieutenant Purbeck is running the investigation. At least, I think he is. An FBI man showed up, too,” Mo said.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Candy said. She might be a ghost, but she loved watching as time went by, even though—as she’d often told Mo—time didn’t always go by so well. Wars went on; people just didn’t seem to learn. Candy and her beloved Daniel Parker liked walking the grounds along the river—and keeping up with history as it passed.

“Well, Mr. Highsmith was an important man,” Candy said knowingly.

“Yes, very,” Mo agreed.

“And this FBI man, he seems to be capable and good?” Candy asked.

Mo thought about her answer. Then she nodded. “He was serious and seemed to understand that...that Rollo knew what he was after when we found a body that wasn’t the right body,” she said. Actually, she’d liked the man immediately. She wondered if she’d been influenced by the fact he was very good-looking. Tall, dark, blue eyed, altogether striking. If he walked into a room, anyone—male or female—would notice, even if he was in a typical dark suit. He wore the suit damned well. She remembered feeling stunned when she’d fallen into his arms. Just for a split second, of course, but he had given her pause.

“He looks capable,” she said. He looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ, she thought.

Candy nodded. “So, the police are investigating and the federal government is involved. What happened is devastating—unimaginable!—but you have done what they asked you to do. Now let them handle it. I understand that you can’t forget it. To suggest such a thing would be ridiculous. But let them do their work, and you concentrate on yours. Maybe you should take a vacation, leave this place until they find the killer.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“And why not?”

“What if...?”

“What if what?” Candy asked.

“What if the killer isn’t finished?” Mo wondered aloud. The very possibility chilled her. “What if it wasn’t a political assassination? I—I can’t leave now. Rollo and I might be needed again and if we are, there’s always the hope that we’ll find the next victim still alive. Before he kills him—or her.”

* * *

“Here’s what I have to tell you,” Dr. Mortenson said, leaning against one of the gurneys at the morgue. “The two bodies, when put back together, are definitely two people. Not more, in other words. Thank God. We still haven’t ascertained the identity of the woman, but we’re running fingerprints and searching out dental records.”

“How did they die?” Aidan asked.

Mortenson frowned at him for a minute, as though to say, They were decapitated. Wasn’t that perfectly clear?

But he quickly understood. He sighed. “I wish I could tell you it was the clean sweep of a sword or one blow from a big ax. A quick death.”

Aidan’s heart sank. He suddenly knew exactly what that expression meant. “But it wasn’t that way?” he asked.

Behind him, Voorhaven sucked in his breath.

“A hatchet job?” Van Camp asked. His tone was rigid. Aidan liked Van Camp; he seemed to be a by-the-book detective, calm, collected, doing his job with dedication and competence. But he had retained empathy for victims.

He was probably better suited for this job than Aidan. Because, like it or not, Aidan knew he wasn’t really calm, collected and by the book. He wasn’t just empathetic—he was involved.

“Yes, but...thankfully, the victims were dead before their heads were removed.”

“How were they killed?” Aidan asked bluntly.

“Strangulation. Manual strangulation. That should help you. Of course, with the chop job—sorry about that—it’s difficult to get a complete picture. But I couldn’t find ligature marks and there was heavy bruising around the neck. Now, the trauma could’ve come from the, er, removal of the heads.”

He paused. “I worked in the city for years and saw just about every form of murder out there, although some sick bastard will always find a new twist. In my opinion, however, they were manually strangled, something that takes a significant amount of strength, especially considering the size of a man like Highsmith. The heads were removed afterward, probably for effect, for theatricality—but that kind of theorizing belongs to you investigators. I’m merely stating the obvious here.”

“Or what appears to be obvious,” Aidan murmured.

Mortenson hiked up two bushy white brows. “Yes, well, as I said, I leave theorizing to you gentlemen.” He walked to one of the gurneys in the room. Both bodies had, mercifully, been covered with sheets.

Now Mortenson rolled back the first.

Aidan winced inwardly. He didn’t want to see what was revealed. He had to.

Mortenson started with the female victim.

“Female, between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-five. Approximately five foot seven in life, 135 pounds. In excellent shape and health, judging by the state of her heart and organs, muscles and bones. She was a blue-eyed blonde, no contacts, highlights in her hair. We’ve done a computer mock-up of what she looked like before the tissue and muscle damage to the face. We’re turning that over to the police now.”

Mortenson glanced at his clipboard and his notes, then pulled out several sheets, handing them to Aidan, Van Camp and Voorhaven.

Aidan studied the woman’s face. She had nice bone structure, large eyes, a small nose and a pert chin. But there was no life in the image; he wasn’t sure he would have recognized her even if he’d known her.

“What about her clothing?” Van Camp asked.

“Her personal effects are boxed and ready for you and the lab,” Mortenson said. “But due to the blood on the outfit and various fluids stiffening the fabric, I believe she was killed and then beheaded in the suit you saw on the body, under that big coat. I’ve rushed everything, and the lab has, too.”

“Thanks,” Aidan said.

“Now, as to Mr. Highsmith...” Mortenson began.

Aidan felt his muscles tighten. He steeled himself not to flinch, not to show emotion. He didn’t want to be hauled off the case.

Mortenson rolled the sheet back.

And there was Richard, the head placed where it should have been but showing not just the trauma of death, but of autopsy, too. He was almost unrecognizable.

Mortenson was all business, his gloved hands showing what his medical eye saw as he pointed out the bruising caused by the strangulation that had ended Highsmith’s life.

Aidan stared at the corpse on the gurney. Richard Highsmith looked like something created by a master of bizarre special effects.

Mortenson’s voice droned on and on, until finally the sheet was drawn back over Richard.

“I’ll keep you posted,” Dr. Mortenson said. “But I’m not sure what else I’ll be able to tell you.”

“Toxicology reports,” Aidan said. He was quiet for a minute. “The timing here seems to be virtually impossible. Richard was seen, then he disappeared—but he wasn’t put on the headless horseman until the very early hours of the morning. Whoever killed him must have gotten him out of the convention center and held him somewhere—dead or alive.”

“Well, we need to find the crime scenes, too,” Mortenson responded. “Both victims were dead when they were beheaded, but you’re still going to have blood somewhere.”

Aidan nodded, then indicated the bags of clothing and personal effects. “Wallet, cash, ID?” He already knew they were there; he’d checked before the medical examiner had taken Richard’s body from the vault.

“Yes. Of course, I’m not a detective, but...no robbery. He had about a hundred in cash on him, several credit cards and his New York State driver’s license.”

“No cell phone?” Aidan asked. “It didn’t show up in a secret pocket or anything?”

Mortenson shook his head. “No cell phone.”

“Purbeck was going to get a fix on its last location,” Van Camp murmured.

“It’ll be the convention center,” Aidan said. “If this killer is a psychopath, he’s a smart one.”

“Call us,” Voorhaven said, “if you get anything, anything at all.”

“We need an ID on Jane Doe as soon as possible,” Van Camp pointed out.

“I’m on it. Like I said, I’ve done dental impressions and taken her fingerprints. Swabbed her for DNA, but of course, we have to have something for comparison,” Mortenson said.

“Has the image of the young woman you showed us been made public?” Aidan asked.

“Definitely,” Mortenson said. “It’s been shown on the media. Uniforms are putting pictures up all over the city now.”

Aidan left, followed by Voorhaven and Van Camp. “On to the strip club?” Voorhaven guessed.

“I want to head over to the convention center to meet the assistant first,” Aidan said.

“You never met him?”

“No, I never had reason to, and it’s been a while since I’ve seen Richard.”

Van Camp shrugged. “We questioned everyone. We had police in there from the county helping out. We searched. We asked the assistant and Highsmith’s people if they’d stay around another few days, and they were agreeable.”

“The Fed doesn’t seem to think we did it right,” Voorhaven said in a low, sarcastic voice.

Aidan didn’t have to answer; Van Camp did it for him. “Don’t start with that crap, Jimmy. We have dead people here. We’ll give Mahoney our total cooperation. Maybe he’ll learn something more. He’s a pair of fresh eyes and we have new info, as in bodies,” he said, turning to Aidan. “Forgive the kid. He’s a good cop, but like I said, new to having a detective’s badge.”

“Sure.” Aidan shrugged “We don’t know what we have yet. I’d still like to talk to Highsmith’s assistant.”

“Sorry, yeah,” Voorhaven muttered. “We have dead people. I guess I think we’re supposed to resent federal intervention. And Lee is right. We need to stop this, whatever it takes.”

“We could split up, but I wouldn’t mind an introduction to Mr. Branch, the assistant,” Aidan said.

“Of course,” Voorhaven agreed.

“I’ll follow you,” Aidan told them.

Van Camp nodded and led the way to the cars.

Aidan paused, looking back at the morgue.

Most of his life, he’d hated it when he saw—or imagined he saw—what others didn’t. He hated whatever it was that made him see the dead walking.

He often denied it, even to himself.

But right now...

His thoughts were different.

Talk to me again, my friend. Talk to me, please. Talk to me again.

3

Somehow, Mo managed to get work done during the day, although she did keep the television on and listened as the news repeated the morning’s findings over and over again.

A police spokeswoman was shown frequently, assuring the public that all local resources, the state police and the FBI had been called in, and a task force was investigating. The killer would be pursued until caught. The public was warned, of course, to be careful when out; people should travel in groups and make sure they were carefully locked in at their homes or hotels.

Naturally, the press questioned the young woman about the possibility of a serial killer on the loose.

News media and the police constantly reinforced the fact that all investigative paths were being followed.

Mo jumped when Rollo began to bark excitedly. There was a knock at her door and she froze. But Rollo was wagging his tail, so he knew her visitor.

“Who is it, boy?” she asked.

At the same time, her cell phone rang.

She picked it up. “Hello?”

“Mo, where are you? Let me in!”

It was Grace Van Mullen, a close friend. Grace had grown up here, and throughout the years, the two of them had stayed friends, meeting whenever Mo and her family came in from the city. As an only child, Mo had always valued her friends, none more than Grace.

These days Grace was often her sounding board. She worked for a tourist company and during the Halloween season that included taking on the role of a character at the Haunted Mausoleum. There was actually more than one mausoleum at this particular tourist attraction, as well as a scattering of graves. They were situated on a property that had long been forgotten and lay in the middle of what was once a farm. The farm and the old graveyard both belonged to Grace’s employer now.

When the season wasn’t going on, there were still tours of the place, but they were more historical and factual in nature. From the end of September through the first days of November, however, it was a popular attraction. Like everything else in town, the burial ground on the property was decorated with the usual—spiderwebs, fake rats, skeletons and, of course, a headless horseman. At Grace’s main place of employment, though, live actors took on the roles of historic personages, legendary beings and all kinds of ghastly and ghoulish creatures.

“I’m on my way to the door.”

When Mo opened it, Grace burst in. She was full of fiery energy, a young woman with a generous mouth and a nose that was almost as generous. None of her features were exactly pretty, yet Grace was one of the most attractive people Mo knew. It was that energy of hers, Mo thought, or her simple love of life and her willingness to look for the best in everyone.

“Oh, my God, thank you! Even at your place, I don’t like waiting outside!” Grace gave an exaggerated shudder. “Not while all these terrible things are going on.”

Grace locked the door behind her. Rollo woofed and she greeted him appropriately.

“This is so awful. Can you believe it? You were probably there. You and Rollo... And such a good man dead. Oh,” she added. “I’m out of work. For tonight, at least.”

“What? Really?” Mo checked her watch. It was now going on five, and she was happy, relieved, to have Grace’s companionship for the evening.

“We just got word. They’ll announce all the closings on the media soon,” Grace told her. “I just wonder what they’re going to do. The cops, I mean. How soon do they think they’ll catch this guy? Maybe... Well, you’d have to be crazy or a monster to commit these crimes. So a crazy monster is running around here. And you’d notice a crazy monster, wouldn’t you?”

“Monsters can live right next door,” Mo said, and immediately regretted her words. Grace’s look of horror was absolute. Her mouth formed a silent oh.

“Of course, whoever this is...it could be political,” Mo said.

“If it was just Highsmith. But two people were killed.”

“She might have been in the way,” Mo said quickly.

“A government conspiracy!”

“Oh, Grace, I really don’t think so. I don’t believe that’s the case at all. But...I guess we should be vigilant for a while.”

“We’ll all go broke if we have to be vigilant for too long,” Grace said. “I don’t want to die! But I need to be able to pay my mortgage. I should have gone your route, Mo. As in having a real career. You have your art and you volunteer, especially with Rollo! But you have a gift for working with animals. I wish I had a gift.”

“You do have a gift! You know this area backward and forward. People love you. You’ve been given nothing but high ratings on the internet travel sites. And don’t worry, the police will handle this situation,” Mo said. “We’ll be okay.”

“Moneywise, yeah, I should be okay. I’m good at my job. The problem is I’m a shoe hog. Jeez, I’d have some financial backup if I didn’t go crazy buying shoes. It’s from all those years of watching Sex and the City. I should’ve been watching The A-Team or something.”

“Hey, we can always put some shoes up on eBay!” Mo laughed. “Anyway, I do have some savings.”

“Yeah...but that’s your money.”

“The police are being cautious, that’s all. I’m sure this will be over soon.”

“I’m feeling...trapped!”

Mo rolled her eyes. “You’ve only been in the house fifteen minutes!”

“Yeah, I know. You got any movies? Oh, wait, you’re working. Okay, you keep working. But I’d love to see a movie. Nothing scary or creepy, though.”

Mo went to her computer and saved her work. “We’ll find a comedy we feel like watching. The remote’s on the table by the TV. Pick out something on Netflix. I’ve done enough work for the day.”

“Really? I don’t want to mess you up, too. One of us needs an income!”

“It’s fine. I finished the Valentine’s card I was working on.”

“Great! I locked the door, didn’t I?”

“I’ll check,” Mo promised.

Grace headed to the family room in back, where the TV was, while Mo walked through the house to the front door, Rollo trotting behind her. She opened the door and carefully peered out.

Her house really was isolated.

Usually that seemed like a good thing, something she valued and enjoyed. But now...

The sky was overcast today. There was a breeze, and she could see the trees moving in the strange gray light. From her doorway, it was easy to imagine the past, the eerie land where darkness fell quickly over the groves of trees, and shadows chased each other beneath the moon.

There could be anything out there in those trees, she thought.

She closed and locked the door. It was late afternoon, and darkness would come soon.

* * *

Aidan knew that the convention center had been searched from top to bottom. Each of the thousands of attendees had been interviewed, a process that went on through the night, after which they were finally allowed to leave.

Taylor Branch, Richard Highsmith’s right-hand man, was staying at an elegant new hotel recently built by one of the major chains. A police officer was on duty outside his room when Aidan and the detectives arrived. The officer had a chair for his vigil but had been standing near the elevator. He recognized Van Camp and Voorhaven and nodded as he was introduced to Aidan, then indicated that they could move on down the hall.

Taylor Branch greeted them in his suite’s sitting room, wearing a long white robe. His hair was damp and he appeared to have showered. He was a young man—maybe thirty-five—although he looked older at the moment.

Lee Van Camp performed the introductions. Branch didn’t protest their arrival; he glanced at Aidan with red-rimmed eyes and asked, “How? We were backstage. Richard and I were in the greenroom together. I left when Ms. Macaby, the convention hall manager, came to see what he’d like to eat. When I returned, there was a cup of tea and a plate of cheese and crackers on the table in front of the sofa—but no Richard.”

“Why did you leave?” Aidan asked.

“I had to consult with security. There’s a laugh for you,” Branch said bitterly. “Well, sit down, please. I’m so tired and I’ve gone over it all so many times, in my own mind, as well as for others, I can envision practically every minute.”

They took seats. “There’s coffee on the counter there. And a bottle of whiskey,” he told them.

“Thanks,” Voorhaven said. “I’ll have some coffee. Anyone else?”

Aidan looked over at him and nodded. “Thanks. Coffee would be good.” The newbie detective was making himself comfortable and therefore making Taylor Branch comfortable. Which was smart.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” Aidan said. “When did you leave New York?”

“Let’s see...we left the city at around five in the morning yesterday. We checked in here. They were ready for our early arrival. Everyone loved Richard, even when they opposed him politically. Well, almost everyone,” he added glumly. “When I heard he’d been found—and how...”

His voice trailed off.

“So, you checked in here around seven or eight?” Aidan asked.

“I guess it was around nine when we got into our rooms.” Branch cleared his throat. “Richard was next door to me. His things are still there. Connecting door between these suites,” he noted, pointing.

“We’ll take a look before we leave,” Aidan assured him. “You have a key to the hallway door?”

“Ah, yeah. On the wet bar,” Branch said.

Van Camp procured the key.

“Go on, please,” Aidan encouraged Branch.

“You know, I’ve gone through all this so many times.”

“Yes, and I’m grateful you’re going through it again for me,” Aidan said.

Branch took a deep breath and then resumed. “We’d stopped for coffee. That always makes me nervous, but we were traveling with private security. Richard hired a team himself. He said too many people use public money for things like that. And, of course, he isn’t official yet, so...”

“So you stopped for coffee. How many in the security detail?” Aidan asked.

“Three men. The company is called Shields,” Branch told him. “And, of course, the men are still here. Richard called them Muscles, Mischief and Magic. Muscles is Cory Stile and you’ll see why they call him that. Mischief is the youngest of the guys and a flirt—real name Rob Little. And Magic is Ben Wilkes. He’s a retired SEAL. Knows his stuff and can get you in and out of anywhere in the blink of an eye. They’re good. They’ve been with us about a year—ever since the polls started saying Richard would win the mayoral race.”

“They’re in the hotel?” Aidan asked.

“Across the hall,” Branch replied.

“So, you left this hotel when?” Aidan nodded a thanks to Voorhaven as he handed him a cup of coffee. It was hot and black, and not bad for hotel-room coffee.

But then, in this kind of suite, Aidan figured it was probably gourmet coffee.

“We had lunch at a restaurant in Tarrytown. Richard was wonderful, as usual, meeting people, speaking with them, shaking hands. Then we went on to the center. Cops were already there. The place had been thoroughly searched and everything seemed fine. We met with the audio-visual people, then headed back to the greenroom so Richard could get in some downtime before speaking. He and I were in there, and Jilli had just left. She works on schedules and that kind of thing.

“A center employee, Bari Macaby, the manager I mentioned earlier, came to ask if we wanted anything. She went to order Richard’s snacks, and I went out to speak with Muscles, Mischief and Magic as well as the local cops. We were checking the metal detectors. When I came back in...Richard was gone. I hunted down Jilli first. She was onstage working with the AV people. She hadn’t seen Richard. I found Bari Macaby in the auditorium, where she’d been watching Jilli doing a sound check for the night. I panicked. I let everyone know I couldn’t find Richard. Then we tore the place apart.”

“You called his cell first thing, I assume?” Voorhaven asked.

“Of course. He didn’t answer.”

“Did the cell phone show up?” Aidan asked next.

“Not that I know of,” Branch replied. He looked at Van Camp, who shook his head.

“We’re going to need your help. We’ll need you to hang around for a few days,” Aidan told him.

Branch smiled grimly. “I wasn’t going anywhere. Helping Richard was my life. I swear, he was the best thing since Lincoln, to me, anyway. He had integrity and vision—he was an independent who was going to make it.” He sighed. “I’ll be here. I have to decide what to do with my life now. I figure I’m a suspect. But I was at the center when he disappeared. You can ask the security guys, Jilli, Bari... I didn’t leave until this morning, when I heard that Richard had been found.”

He sounded sincere. But Aidan had known some good actors in his day.

“What about Mr. Highsmith’s enemies? Anyone in the political arena—or any other—stand out for you? You’re his campaign manager, his chief aide, right? So, you’d be the man who’d know,” Aidan said.

Branch thought. “Every politician has enemies. Mark Jacobs from the far left, and Harvey Applebaum from the right. Lots of people just couldn’t believe that a moderate who looked logically at all the issues could actually get in! But Jacobs was speaking in Central Park at the time, and Applebaum’s wife is in the hospital with a heart condition. He was with her all day yesterday.”

“What about strip clubs?” Aidan asked. “Did Richard ever visit one?”

“What?” Branch was incredulous. “Richard didn’t have time for a strip club—or any other kind of club.”

“Come on, the guy was unmarried and you told us this morning that he wasn’t with anyone,” Voorhaven put in.

“I didn’t say he’d never dated or had a relationship!” Branch protested.

“What about a jilted lover?” Van Camp asked.

“His last long relationship was with Julia Underwood. They split up last year. She’s a kindergarten teacher and the political scene was too much for her. It was an amicable breakup,” Branch said. He opened his hands, staring down at them. “I’d give you a name if I had one, trust me on that.” He shook his head. “I can’t see anyone doing something like this! Not to Richard.”

“No. But they might pay other people to do it,” Aidan said quietly.

Branch shook his head again. He didn’t want to believe it. No one did.

“Did he have a close friend named Elizabeth or Lizzie?” Aidan asked. “Does the name mean anything to you?”

“There are a lot of Elizabeths out there,” Branch said. “No one who was special in Richard’s life, that I was aware of, anyway. He was an open man, but I didn’t pry. I admired him. He was my friend. That doesn’t mean I knew everything about his life.”

Aidan rose, setting down his cup on the table beside his chair. “Thank you. We may need to ask you more questions later.”

“Like I said, I’ll be here,” Branch told them, rising, as well. “I’m about to hit the whiskey—and try to sleep.”

At the door, Aidan paused. “Where will we find the security guys, Bari Macaby and Jilli—”

“Jillian Durfey. Jillian is down the hall on the other side of Richard’s room. The security men are across from us,” Branch said, pointing at the doors. “Muscles, Magic, Mischief. Did you want to go through Richard’s room? It’s locked because of the investigation, of course, but...”

“We’ll have a chat with one or two of the others first, Mr. Branch,” Aidan said.

“Sure. Whenever you need me, I’m available.”

“Oh, by the way, you know a woman was murdered, too?” Aidan asked.

Branch nodded dully.

“Any idea who she might have been? Was Richard seeing someone recently? Even casually? Did any aides or groupies or anyone like that disappear?”

“No. Richard was a straight shooter. He wasn’t seeing anyone right now. He was focused on the campaign. We traveled here with just the security men, Jilli, me and Richard. We’re not that far from the city, you know. This should have been a speech and some hand-shaking. But...”

His voice faded, but then he suddenly stared at Aidan, eyes narrowing. “Aidan Mahoney.”

“Yes.”

“Your name was on one of his lists. You were going to be invited to a dinner. You...knew Richard?” he asked.

“Yes,” Aidan said. “Thank you for your help. We’ll be in touch.”

Taylor Branch closed the door.

Aiden turned to see Lee Van Camp studying him. “You knew Richard well, didn’t you?” he asked.

Aidan nodded. “I hadn’t seen him in a while. I watched his career, though, with pleasure. He was always a good kid. A good guy.”

He waited for one of them to ask if he should be on the case.

Neither did.

“Let’s start our interviews with Jilli,” Aidan said.

They walked down the hall to her room and tapped on the door. It opened almost immediately.

Jilli was definitely affected by what had happened. Like Branch, it looked as though she’d taken a shower. Aidan wondered if it was a subliminal way to attempt to wash away the shock and horror of Richard’s death.

“You’re back,” she said, looking at Van Camp. “Do you know anything? Have you found out who did this? My God, I still can’t believe it!”

She had a glass in her hand, half full of some amber liquid—Scotch, he figured, or bourbon. Aidan had a feeling she’d already knocked back a few. Her eyes were red and swollen. She’d obviously been crying and crying hard for a long time. Even as she looked at them, a trickle of tears started down her cheeks.

Van Camp introduced Aidan. “So we’ve got locals and Feds,” she murmured. “Well, we may need magic police in on this one, because it was, like, poof! Richard just...disappeared.”

“Tell me about your day—and the last time you saw Richard,” Aidan said.

She didn’t offer them anything to drink and didn’t suggest they sit. Her room wasn’t small, although it was a junior suite. Nothing like Branch’s. But she had a desk, sofa, coffee table and small kitchenette.

Voorhaven leaned against the wall. Van Camp didn’t wait for an invitation; he walked across the room and took a seat on the sofa.

Jilli turned, her fingers curled around her drink, and sat on the bed.

“It was a good day. A good travel day that became a good campaign day,” Jilli said.

“Why was he campaigning up here?” Voorhaven asked. “He was a mayoral candidate in the city.”

Jilli smiled. “This is the Hudson Valley! It’s beautiful and it’s about two hours out of the city. People come here for respite. New York City residents buy property up here—time-shares, little cottages, condos—you name it. It’s an escape zone. Richard was from this area and he loved it.”

Yes, he had. He’d loved roaming the forests. His parents might have moved to Florida, but he still felt a strong connection to the place. He’d loved a campfire at night and all the haunted happenings that went on around Halloween. He’d loved Washington Irving and tales of the Revolution and the hardy Dutch settlers who had first farmed the land.

“Okay, so you arrived here with your security detail.”

She nodded, studying her glass. “Richard was good about his security, knew he needed it for practical reasons. But he truly loved people. It wasn’t fake or part of the game with him. He’d shake hands or talk with anyone who wanted a word with him. So, we’d seen people at lunch, and when we came here we were high on the enthusiasm he received. We were in the convention center. There were cops everywhere, plus the center itself had its own security, and we had Muscles, Mischief and Magic. They were just checking the scanners—metal scanners, you know—when Richard disappeared. At first, we thought he’d wandered somewhere to practice his speech. Or gone outside for a breath of fresh air. But...I’m telling you, it was as if he disappeared into thin air.”

“You were testing the audio when that happened?”

“Yes. If they get a level with one person, then they just have to tweak it when Richard comes out,” she said. “That was the idea.”

“But you and Taylor Branch and the convention manager—Bari Macaby—were the last people to see him, correct?” Van Camp said.

Jilli nodded.

“Did Richard ever say anything to you about a strip club?” Aidan asked.

There was shock in her eyes. “A strip club?”

Aidan smiled. “Most men I know—and women, too, for that matter—have been in one at some point. Bachelorette parties, bachelor parties, birthdays.”

“Yeah, but Richard? In the middle of a campaign?”

“Did he have a friend named Lizzie? Or Elizabeth?” Aidan asked.

She shrugged. “He might have. I didn’t know all his friends. Lizzie...or Elizabeth. Not an unusual name. I know several.”

“Thank you,” Aidan said. “I hope you get some sleep.”

She still looked confused by the strip club question. She hadn’t moved when they reached the door. “Come and lock this,” Aidan told her gently.

She rose like a sleepwalker. When they were out in the hallway, Aidan heard the bolt slide home.

“Muscles, Mischief and Magic next?” Van Camp asked.

“No, let’s do Richard’s room,” Aidan said.

Van Camp opened the door to the suite.

It was larger than Branch’s with a huge living area, a conference table that would seat twelve, a good-size kitchenette and a bedroom. Richard had been almost OCD neat; the outer rooms could be described as Spartan. Aidan headed into the bedroom. “See what you find out here,” Aidan told Van Camp and Voorhaven.

Richard’s clothing had been neatly hung and his shoes were lined up in the closet. His computer was gone. Aidan knew it was at the police lab so they could search for anything that might give them a clue.

There was a notepad by the phone. It was blank.

But Aidan picked it up and held it to the light. He could see where a pen had pressed into the paper.

He didn’t have a pencil to run over the slight indentations on the page. But he studied it for a minute, trying to make out the words.

They said Lizzie grave.

Aidan had the strange feeling that Richard had idly written the same words over and over again.

Because they were always at the back of his mind?

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