Northern Virginia
June 16, 2004
Baldwin

Baldwin drove, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while Sparrow worked frantically on her laptop. It only took an hour door-to-door—lucky, considering the time of day and the usual traffic congestion in suburban D.C. They’d sailed up 95, got on the George Washington Parkway, skirted through the western edge of D.C., up the Potomac River and out to McLean, then took Georgetown Pike straight into Great Falls. Baldwin couldn’t help but notice when he passed Spring Hill Road; he’d dated a woman who lived in a neighborhood down there. It was beautiful in this part of the suburbs, ancient trees and horse farms and glens led to stunning houses situated far off the beaten path. Not the usual tableau when one considered murder, unless you counted the infamous story of the headmistress of the Madeira School, Jean Harris, who’d murdered her ex-lover, Scarsdale Diet pioneer Herman Tarnower. That had caused a bit of a scandal. Or the twisted Edward Chen, who’d murdered his family, then left them in their house to rot for four years before he and a friend cut them up and dumped their body parts in the Chesapeake Bay. Baldwin remembered that case vividly—he’d been working with the detectives who broke the case at the time.

And now the Clockwork Killer was adding his name to the mix. He would most likely overshadow any and all previous murder stories, and those to come in the future.

The Kilmeades, and Harold Arlen, lived off Walker Road, before the turn for River Bend Country Club. The houses were generous, both in structure and land, but the neighborhood they lived in was a cloister, allowing the houses to lie closer to one another, with garages below the living spaces. The architect had been going for a style similar to a British mew, and the environs reminded Baldwin of Notting Hill.

The sun drilled into Baldwin’s eyes as they got out of the car in front of the faux Tudor-style houses. He couldn’t help but steal a glance at Arlen’s front door, closed and locked, seemingly unaware of the storm that was about to batten its hatches.

They mounted the stairs to the Kilmeades’ neat, clean porch. Baldwin rang the bell, and a few moments later, Mrs. Kilmeade answered the door in a flour-covered apron à la June Cleaver. The delicious, yeasty scent of baking bread spilled out onto the porch.

“Oh, hello there. Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Kilmeade, I don’t know if you remember…I’m Supervisory Special Agent John Baldwin, and this is Special Agent Jessamine Sparrow. We spoke briefly two days ago—”

“Yes, yes, I remember. How could I forget? Such a terrible time for those poor families.”

“It is, ma’am. We were hoping to steal a few more moments of your time, if you’re available. We need to ask you a couple of questions about your daughter, Evie.”

Her face fell, then she pulled herself together. “Certainly. If you don’t mind me working while we talk, I’m in the middle of a project with my boys. We make our own bread weekly—we’ve got three loaves done right now.”

She allowed Baldwin and Sparrow into the house, her natural graciousness only barely hiding her perplexed look.

As promised, the boys were in the kitchen, quietly kneading dough. In the attached eating area, Mr. Kilmeade was reading a book so thick Baldwin’s first thought was encyclopedia. Mrs. Kilmeade leaned down and whispered in his ear; he turned and met Baldwin’s eye before standing.

Baldwin’s guess was close. When Kilmeade came into the kitchen, he brought the book with him—it was a world atlas.

“Some light reading?” Baldwin asked, trying to break the ice.

“Something like that.” He set the book on the counter. “We homeschool, you see. I was planning tomorrow’s geography lesson.”

The boys groaned in unison, but smiled at their dad.

Baldwin had a moment’s flashback of his own father helping him with his schoolwork. His dad always seemed to have time to help him; now he understood that he made time. Of course, that was before. Before Baldwin’s life got shaken into a million pieces.

His parents were killed in a car accident when he was just sixteen. His mother’s sister, Agatha, was his only living relative, and she was much older. He’d gone to live with her, on the west side of Nashville, attended a school of her choosing, Father Ryan. He’d hated most every moment of it. Though nominally a Catholic, even now Baldwin considered himself one of the fallen.

Memories started to flood in, but he wiped them from his mind. He had work to do, and revisiting the painful parts of his past wasn’t on the agenda.

He cleared his throat. “I understand completely. Would you mind if Special Agent Sparrow and I talk to you and Mrs. Kilmeade alone?”

Kilmeade looked startled for a moment, then nodded. “Boys, why don’t you go look through that geometry lesson we abandoned earlier. I’ll come quiz you in a few minutes.”

Polite and respectful, the Kilmeade boys rose from the kitchen counter as one and disappeared from the room. Kilmeade listened with a practiced ear until the soft noise of a door closing reached them, then turned to Baldwin with a smile.

“So, what’s happening? Julie said you needed to talk about Evie?”

“Are you up for a few questions?”

“Of course. Evie’s been gone for months. We’ve battled through as best we can with God on our side. He’s helped us stick to the path. She was a special little girl—we weren’t surprised that He decided to take her from us. She always was an angel on earth.”

The words sounded good, but Baldwin could hear the note of despair that lingered beneath them, saw the brief flash of pain in the man’s eyes. Kilmeade was a man, a provider, a father, and he obviously took those responsibilities very seriously.

“Besides,” chimed in Julie Kilmeade, “we’re working on adding to the family.” She touched her belly reverentially; Baldwin could see the slight swelling there, covered by the apron. Replacing their dead child with a living, breathing proxy?

The Kilmeades struck him as a happy family, solid and close, but with little brown edges like spoiled roses. Hardly surprising, considering the devastating loss they’d sustained so recently. Interesting that they hadn’t mentioned it when they talked before.

“Congratulations,” Baldwin said.

“Thank you.” Kilmeade reached out and took his wife’s hand. “Now, what can we help you with?”

“We need to talk about Harold Arlen.”

“Harry? Whatever for? Why would the FBI be interested in Harry?”

Baldwin took a seat at the kitchen table. “I have to ask you some difficult questions. Would you mind joining me?”

Everyone got seated, then Baldwin continued.

“We found a note on your daughter’s obituary page from Harold Arlen.” He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket, smoothed the wrinkles out and placed it on the table.

“Well, sure. They were buds, Evie and Harry. She adored him. He was quite crushed when she passed.”

“Mr. Kilmeade, you were aware that Harold Arlen was a sex offender, correct?”

“That was a part of Harry’s past. He was fully rehabilitated. He ran a group for those less fortunate than himself, those who still struggled with their urges. But Harry, no, he is one of the good guys. He hated that he’d done those things, and was so happy to be on a clean path. God smiled upon him in prison, you know.”

Doesn’t He always? If Baldwin had a dollar for every convicted felon who told him he’d found Jesus, he could retire.

“Mr. Kilmeade, you’re a psychologist, correct? You work with the incarcerated?”

“That’s right. I’m finishing my dissertation now. I’m planning to open a private practice specializing in criminal rehabilitation.”

“So you understand, on an empirical level, that sex offenders rarely change. They simply disguise their behavior.”

Kilmeade bristled, sitting forward in his chair and narrowing his eyes. “Are you insinuating that Harry did something to Evie? Because I’ll tell you, that isn’t the case. He was never alone with her.”

“Never? You’re absolutely sure of that?”

“Yes, I am. Listen, you may have some preconceived notions about Harry, but he is a good man. He loved Evie like she was his own daughter. When she died…” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat viciously. “When she died, he cried for days. He was right there the whole time, helping us. I know Harry. He could never hurt Evie. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Sparrow had about enough at this point, and jumped into the interview. “You didn’t find it at all alarming that a grown man with a history of sexual deviance was taking such an interest in your underage daughter?”

“Sparrow,” Baldwin said in an undertone.

Kilmeade waved Baldwin’s warning away. “No, that’s fine. I’m sure to an outsider this would look very strange indeed. But Harry is changed. He’d done some stupid, awful things in the past, but he really was changed by life in prison. He would never do anything, anything, that might jeopardize his freedom. I’m not an idiot. I’m a trained professional. My job is to help people like him. If I thought he was a threat, I’d have tossed him out on his ear. Like I said, he was never alone with Evie. Either her mother or I, or one of her brothers, was always in attendance.”

“Ralph?” Mrs. Kilmeade had been silent up to now, but her eyes were rimmed in red from the pressure of the tears she was holding back.

“Yes, honey?”

“May I be excused? I’d like to go lie down for a few moments.”

“Goodness, my dear, of course. I’ll come to you in a moment. I’m just going to see the agents out. We’re finished here, correct?”

There was a note of finality to the question. They were done, whether Baldwin wanted to be finished or not.

Baldwin nodded. Everyone hastened to their feet as Mrs. Kilmeade exited the room. Sparrow met Baldwin’s eyes, and he felt the message being sent. There was something very wrong with this picture. He couldn’t agree more.

Regardless, Kilmeade had said all he was willing to on the subject. They had what they needed anyway. Little Evie’s death could certainly be interpreted as a stressor for Arlen.

At the door, Kilmeade left them with a final thought.

“I’d appreciate it if any future conversations be conducted at my office. My wife is having a difficult time with the pregnancy, you see, and with all the hubbub still lingering over Evie’s death, it’s been terrible for her. You understand.” He shook their hands and shut the door behind them softly, leaving Baldwin and Sparrow on the porch, staring across the street.

What sort of monster lived behind those four walls?

And what kind of father let his dying daughter play with a sex offender?

Charlotte

It was late. Charlotte was hungry and thirsty, but she stayed rooted in her chair at her desk. She chewed on the end of a pen, thinking hard. She agreed with Baldwin that Harold Arlen was their suspect. The problem was, they still had exactly zero proof. Where was the evidence? And where was that warrant they needed so desperately? Maybe she’d have to take a trip down to the courthouse later, lean on some doors. See if that shook things loose. She hated having to take matters into her own hands, but they needed to get this case wrapped up. Child murderers gave her the creeps. She didn’t know how Baldwin could stand it.

Speak of the devil. Charlotte saw Baldwin approaching and felt her pulse race. She was always struck by his looks; he epitomized the very being of tall, dark and handsome. Now that she was in, she didn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. He was the perfect catch, the perfect man. Attentive and loving in bed, willing to take a few risks and not afraid to show his own feelings. He didn’t even snore. What a combination.

He was getting attached. She could feel that. Every look, every touch, screamed, you’re mine, woman. It made her feel all warm inside. She had to admit, she’d had him pegged from day one. He was a natural savior, a white knight, the kind of man who hated to see a woman cry, who was instantly drawn to fragility. She’d have to keep it up just a bit longer, then he’d be on the hook and she’d be set.

She hadn’t given a great deal of thought to settling down with one man, or one woman, for that matter, until recently. It seemed…an interesting concept. One person, for a lifetime. She wondered how long it would really last.

She may have to switch departments when they got married, but that was fine. She could easily lead in other areas. That might not be necessary after all: Baldwin was sure to be promoted out of the BAU—he was too good at his job, too adept, too thorough. He had Director written all over him. Oh, the power he would have. And she’d be at his side, the perfect helpmeet.

They would have to get a new place—his apartment wasn’t anything to write home about. There were plenty of lovely suburbs in the area north of Richmond, providing for a short commute. And they’d certainly need a place in D.C., preferably in Georgetown, so she could rub elbows with the real money. There was power in D.C., that’s what attracted her to the feds in the first place.

Oh, it was so nice to be with him at last. She’d been so careful, so subtle. And he’d always seemed so sad. Now, despite the horrific case they were working, he seemed almost chipper. Downright happy.

When he entered her office, Baldwin gave her a heart-stopping grin.

“Guess what we have?” he said.

“Herpes?”

He stopped in his tracks, eyebrows creasing. “What?”

“I’m kidding, silly. What do we have?”

“Oh. God, Charlotte, that’s not remotely funny. Goldman just called. They got the warrant for Arlen’s place signed five minutes ago. The Kilmeades admitted that Arlen had regular contact with their daughter. That’s a probation violation, which is enough for the judge. We’re in.”