The killer had to be playing with her. There was absolutely no way he knew everything about her past, especially anything regarding that fateful night.
It was a secret that she would take to her grave.
As for Agent Roche, he was completely wrong. She’d never been married. At least, not legally. There wasn’t an official record in any courthouse of her marrying anyone, and she would absolutely testify to that fact. Unfortunately, it was true that she had been losing sleep, because his assertion meant that the killer was someone from her past.
Most likely, someone who she’d known from high school.
The door to the restroom suddenly opened, so Quinn quickly feigned turning on the faucet and washing her hands. She’d come so close to calling Agent Roche at three o’clock in the morning. He’d given her his card a couple of weeks ago, which she assumed had his cell phone listed. She’d even pulled the card out of her backpack and studied it in anticipation of dialing his number, getting lost mulling over the decision as she stared at the stark white card with its colorful raised seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It had taken two full glasses of wine for her to come to her senses, though. She’d gone over and over that fateful day in her mind, and only two people had known of her secret.
Both of them were dead and gone.
“Are you okay?”
The question had come from Rhonda, who must have followed Quinn into the restroom. She glanced up and gave a quick smile, hoping it came across as sincere. They’d both grown up in Winter Heights, but they’d run in completely different circles. It was only natural for Rhonda to be curious about the conversation Quinn had just had with Agent Roche. It was a relatively small sleepy suburb, and everyone here was following the investigation.
“I saw you talking with that FBI agent,” Rhonda continued, walking closer until she was able to lean against the second sink. She was wearing a white dress shirt with a thin black apron tied around her waist. By this time, Quinn was shaking the water droplets off her hands and reaching for the paper towels. “Why is he still hanging around town if the police already made an arrest?”
Quinn concentrated on drying her hands, not wanting nor willing to answer that question. Besides, she’d made a promise to Agent Roche, and she intended to keep it. She still wasn’t sure what kind of game he was playing, but she wasn’t about to let him play her.
There was something about him that set her on edge.
He was over six feet tall, had dark hair that wasn’t cut quite as short as the other federal agent involved in the case, and brown eyes that she swore could see beneath the surface that she’d solidified in place many, many years ago. Had they met under different circumstances, she might have even had a drink or two with him just to figure him out.
She decided to switch tactics with Rhonda.
“I’m not sure why Agent Roche is still in town,” Quinn replied with practiced ease. Some might say with a little too much effortlessness. “That’s why I went over to his table. My podcast is in an hour. I was hoping to give my listeners some insight on Oliver Stevens.”
“Isn’t that crazy?” Rhonda finally turned around to face the mirror once she realized that Quinn didn’t have any juicy details to share about the case. “First, they suspect Bright. Then they go and arrest Oliver Stevens, who just so happens to be a federal agent’s nephew. It’s downright crazy.”
Quinn thought back over the last six months from when the first murder had been committed in June. As sad as it was to admit, a murder wasn’t that big of a deal, given the headlines in today’s national news. It hadn’t been until the second murder of a widow in town that Quinn had begun to suspect there was more at play than the women being random targets.
The third victim had the feds becoming involved, along with Quinn being in the spotlight for having given the killer his moniker. She’d only given him the nickname in order for the other widows out there to take notice of the threat this psychopath represented, although she understood how some could believe she’d done so solely in order to raise the number of her subscribers.
“How is Bright doing after all that garbage went down?” Quinn asked, crumpling the paper towel and tossing it into the garbage can. “The pub doesn’t look as if it took a hit in business.”
“Are you crazy?” Rhonda asked with a laugh, leaning forward so that she could get a better look at her lipstick. “This place has been packed for two weeks straight, even during the weekdays.”
Daryl “Bright” Brighton had formerly been the number one suspect in the case due to several reasons. Quinn had known him for many years, although he’d immediately joined the service after graduation and moved away from their sleepy little suburb. The fact that he’d only returned to town to buy the pub from Connor Pryor months before the killings had started certainly hadn’t been in his favor. Other factors of his presumed guilt had been that his brother had died, leaving behind a widow and a two-year-old daughter.
Didn’t profilers such as Agent Roche always say that serial killers had some sort of psychological trigger, thus initiating his or her killing spree?
Bright had initially fit all the checkboxes from what Quinn had been able to gather, but she’d known the man since she’d practically been in diapers. It wasn’t like they were close friends, but she would hope that growing up in the same town would have given her some measure of insight into who might be capable of murder.
“I’ve been working double shifts, but I’m not about to complain.” Rhonda rubbed a finger along her lower lip to wipe away a smudge of lipstick. She then smacked her lips together and straightened away from the mirror. “The tips have been really amazing. I might be able to pay off my car by summer if this rate keeps up. Speaking of which, I better get back to work. See you tomorrow.”
Quinn waited until the door closed behind Rhonda before grabbing her backpack and jacket that she’d set down next to the sink. She had a podcast to air and an afternoon full of research. Oliver Stevens was being released, there was possibly another murder victim, and the killer had begun sending her messages again.
It appeared that the investigation was back on track.
Quinn would continue her routine for the sake of appearances, but she was honestly scared to death. Someone capable of taking a human life with no more remorse than dismissing a bothersome speck of dust was treating her as if she was his friend. It was wrong on many levels.
The Widow Taker was simply using her as some sort of sounding board.
He was doing his best to manipulate her into slanting her stories in his favor, making him out to be some hero in the eyes of the public, as if he was doing a public service. It was evident that he’d lost his grip on reality, but he was still sane enough to utilize intimidation tactics to bully someone to get his way.
Everyone had secrets in their past and skeletons in their closet.
She believed that the killer had used those statistics to take a random guess that she had a skeleton in her closet, too. Only she wasn’t printing his letters or sharing his story because he was blackmailing her. She was doing so in order to issue a warning to all the widows of Winter Heights that a killer was hunting them one by one. The fact that he’d threatened to continue his killing spree if she didn’t print his letters hadn’t come into play. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe otherwise.
Quinn hadn’t even taken a step forward when she heard her cell phone ring. She quickly retrieved it from the side pocket, seeing Katie’s name on the display. The local reporter was a friend and a source who kept Quinn in the loop.
“Hey,” Quinn greeted, opening the restroom door so that she could get a head start to her car. “I saw your text. Were you able to confirm that the crime scene was another related murder?”
“The coroner’s vehicle just pulled up, plus we all saw the same federal agent in charge of the case walk inside with the sheriff. I’d say it’s reasonably confirmed.” Katie must have lowered her phone to speak with someone else. There were
murmurs of conversation, but it was hard to hear her over the crowd at the pub. Quinn bent her head and put a finger to her left ear in order to make sure she didn’t miss anything. “The victim’s name is Pamela Griffith. Get this—she was a sixty-eight-year-old widow. I’ve got to go. I’ll keep you posted.”
Katie disconnected the line, allowing Quinn to lower her cell phone and weave throughout the lunch crowd without bumping into anyone. The podcast she had scheduled today would need to be altered to include the latest murder, but she wouldn’t reveal that Oliver Stevens was being released from jail until an official statement was released from the lead agent on the case.
Quinn had made a promise, and she intended to keep it. If one wanted to get ahead in this business, one didn’t burn bridges.
Agent Roche could claim that he’d been enjoying lunch at the pub every day for the last two weeks, but she had no doubt that he’d personally been monitoring her movements. He’d never approached her, nor had she ever really caught him looking in her direction. He was very good at playing the nonchalant, unconcerned patron. That didn’t negate his desire to uncover the secrets that she’d purposefully concealed for the sake of others.
“…hear that Pam Griffith was murdered? Her daughter called the police and…”
She had caught random bits and pieces of conversation as she walked past the bar and toward the front door. Rhonda called out another goodbye, prompting Quinn to raise her hand as she finally sailed through the door. In mere hours, a press release would be issued that Oliver Stevens had been released from jail and The Widow Taker was continuing his reign of horror over the terrified small city of Winter Heights.
Quinn had finally come to the realization that if she wanted to continue to protect her own secret, she first needed to confirm that the serial killer was bluffing about his knowledge of what happened so many years ago.
To do that, she was going to have to revisit a past she’d thought was long buried.
The local reporter had walked right by him on the street without being any the wiser of his true identity. She appeared to be in quite the hurry, too. He couldn’t stop a smile from spreading over his face at the most likely reason. His good deed from last night was finally going to hit the airwaves, and the community would be rejoicing in recognition of his contributions once again.
Pamela Griffith was finally at peace.
No longer was she suffering without the company of her husband, and no longer were her family and friends obligated to provide the assistance they felt compelled to pledge. He’d been the one to do that for them, too.
Only him.
The undeserving man, the one who had been arrested, had been given the credit that The Widow Taker so rightly deserved. Unfortunately, it had taken him longer than usual to determine the daily routine for Pamela Griffith. She then had to become sick, postponing his plans until he’d given her enough time not to be contagious.
The services he provided were up close and personal.
It wouldn’t do if he was to become sick. The last thing he needed was to catch the flu while he had such heavy responsibilities to the people of Winter Heights.
He’d finally been able to complete his mission last night, and the experience had been both uplifting and joyous. Now that the public would be apprised of his latest gift to them, his dutiful work, he could serenely go in search of the next widow in need of release from the encumbrance placed upon society’s shoulders.
He was the only one who could make it better for her…for any of them.
Chapter Four
“Let me guess,” Special Agent Dean Malone said after Linc had entered the residence of one Pamela Griffith. “You must have been at the pub monitoring Quinn Simmons. I still don’t understand why you’re so fascinated by her connection with this case. The unsub is clearly manipulating her desire for fifteen minutes of fame to reach the public. Nothing more.”
Pamala Griffith’s residence was an older home that had been meticulously taken care of over the years—a sure sign of pride in ownership. The two-story house was filled with furniture designed and produced in the 1980s, though the old tweed recliner might have been from a decade or two earlier. The family had certainly gotten good use for their value.
Upon pulling into yet another quiet subdivision of Winter Heights, it hadn’t been too difficult to locate the residence in question. Numerous police vehicles, an ambulance, and a couple of unmarked cars with government plates had been clustered together on the right side of the suburban street. One of the deputies had even left his lights on, almost as a beacon for Linc to pull his rental car next to a wayward snowdrift on the side of the street.
A fresh blanket of snow from last night covered the lawns, but the roads were relatively clear from the sand trucks working double time to keep up with the weather. The cold front hadn’t stopped a small crowd from forming behind the yellow crime scene tape that had been liberally used by one of the deputies. Unfortunately, the media had been a part of the gathering mob.
Linc purposefully held off sharing with Dean what he’d discovered about Quinn. It was best to compile more information before he explained his theory. He’d already reached out to some fellow agents at Quantico, hoping they could dig deep into her past to find the man who she’d married.
Despite Quinn’s denial, there had to be a reason that the unsub referred to her as Ms. instead of Miss. The unsub wasn’t the kind of individual to make that kind of mistake. Granted, he could be using it as a generic address, but her reaction to the unsub’s reference had told Linc otherwise.
“We’ll talk about it at the station,” Linc responded, scanning the crime scene before him. “I’m still working my way through a theory.”
Pamela Griffith had been posed on the couch in a rather peaceful position, with her hands laid across one another holding a single long-stemmed pink rose. The color of the flower left behind usually had something to do with the victim. Whether it was a favorite color or that of the flowers that had been ordered for the victims’ husbands for their funerals, there had never been a murder that Linc hadn’t been able to tie the color to in some manner. “Pink. Did you notice the victim’s slippers?”
Linc did his best to focus on the details. He’d learned early in his days at the academy to separate himself from the deceased. It wasn’t something someone was able to do automatically, but instead a learned professional ability that also benefitted one’s mental health.
The pink color of the slippers matched the petals of the rose.
That wasn’t a mere coincidence.
“Yes. The unsub also made sure that the victim was covered properly with her robe,” Dean pointed out with his pen. “Notice the lapels closed tightly over her chest.”
Dean had unbuttoned his long black dress coat, revealing his grey suit underneath. The wool was a bit heavy for the warm house, but he wouldn’t remove it.
He was the epitome of what a federal agent should look like in the eyes of the public, all the way down to the classic men’s black leather gloves. Linc, on the other hand, preferred to dress more like an off-duty police detective. He could get away with a dark pair of jeans and a casual sweater, usually because he was back at the station working on the unsub’s profile. It was rare that he was out in the field or in front of cameras.
“Deep penetrating stab wounds from what will turn out to be a heavy-bladed fighting knife, the body posed in a peaceful manner, and a single rose placed in between her hands. We’re dealing with the same unsub,” Dean conjectured, scribbling something down on his notepad. “The media is going to have a field day pontificating on how we wasted time by arresting the wrong man. Not to mention how we stopped investigating once we’d convinced ourselves that we’d caught our man, thus enabling the unsub to hunt this woman unfettered. We all know differently, of course, but that’s how this situation is going to be painted.”
Linc had gone to bat for Dean with their Supervisory Special Agent, John Archer. He’d wanted both Dean a
nd Linc to pack up their files and head back to their respective field offices after the arrest of Oliver Stevens. The only reason a bit of leeway had been granted was the fact that Stevens was the nephew of Special Agent Frank Rowe of the New Haven field office.
The black eye given to the bureau had been swift and severe.
Dean’s reputation had taken quite a hit when he’d basically had to go strictly by the evidence, in spite of his gut feelings about who the suspect might be and in the face of a marked disparity with Linc’s profile.
“You’ll be hailed as a heroic investigative genius by the time this is all said and done,” Linc muttered, giving his colleague something else to think about.
Dean had a thing about heralding anyone’s accolades, most likely linked back to his time in the United States Marine Corps. Those who were among that group had an unwritten rule about rewarding expected behavior, never publicizing pomp and circumstances or determined acts of effort.
The Corps was strictly task oriented, more so than many of her sister services. The tradition of undercutting the awards process and only recognizing the pinnacle of accomplishments led to an atmosphere where only perfection was acceptable.
A zero-defect mentality.
Dean had always maintained that the term hero had been meant for the ones who’d given their lives for their country. He was right, but that didn’t mean his service hadn’t been deserving of some measure of recognition.
“Have you contacted Frank?” Linc asked, knowing that task had been on Dean’s to-do list after discovering that another life had been taken.
“Yes.” From the curt tone of Dean’s voice, the conversation hadn’t gone over too well. Special Agent Frank Rowe had been having a hard time of it lately, from his wife asking for a divorce, followed by the arrest of his nephew. He’d basically been sent back to the New Haven field office with his head hung low, but he had subsequently requested time off to spend with his sister. “It went about as well as one could expect.”
The Isolated Widow (The Widow Taker Book 2) Page 3