I just hoped it was all enough. Without knowing how long ago she’d been taken, it was hard to say.
Meanwhile, the shift change was filing past us into the JOCC. I saw a lot of bleary-eyed cops, either because they were just finishing for the night, or just getting started for the day.
“I’m going to cover all of this inside,” D’Auria told me. “I figured you’d want a heads-up.”
“I appreciate it, Tom.”
“If you need to talk—”
“I’m good,” I said. “I’ll be right in.”
Every cop I know gets overwhelmed sometimes. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I always encourage my people to talk it out when they need to. We’ve got an employee assistance program for that, but there’s also supervisors, coworkers, shrinks, clergy, whatever. You just have to choose someone, is what I tell people.
Sometimes I take my own advice, and sometimes I don’t.
I walked down the hall and locked myself in the handicapped bathroom by the stairs. I just needed a minute to breathe.
This wasn’t my fault. Not technically. I knew that. But it was also true that I’d had more of a chance to stop it from happening than just about anyone else. I could have pushed harder to get Rebecca into protective services. I could have worked more closely with McIntosh County.
But I didn’t. I’d made a perfectly justifiable call, on paper. Now three more people were dead, and one very little girl was missing. Again.
I turned on the sink and splashed some water on my face, as cold as I could make it. When I looked up again, I guess I caught sight of myself too fast or something. I couldn’t help it—my fist came up and smashed the mirror into shards. It was a dumbass move, the kind of thing I’d yell at anyone else for pulling. All it got me was a bunch of broken glass and some bloody knuckles.
And the kicker was—my crap day had only just begun.
CHAPTER
43
I SPENT THE MORNING PULLING TOGETHER EVERYTHING I HAD ON THE REILLY family and faxing it down to the FBI in Atlanta. I gave them what we had on Amanda Simms as well, for whatever that was worth. We still didn’t know if both of these “pregnant girl” cases were linked or not.
Beyond that, I spent way too much time trying to get someone to answer at the Bureau’s Savannah satellite office, but that was just an exercise in frustration. Hopefully, they were all out in the field, getting the job done.
The one piece of relative good news was that Rebecca had been taken at all. Given the three homicides, it meant that the kidnapper—or someone—wanted to keep her. That was better than the alternative. At least it left open the possibility that she could still be found.
Then, while I was sitting on hold with Savannah for the third time that morning, I heard my name called out from somewhere else in the squad room.
I stood up and looked around. Across the cubicles, Huizenga was standing in the door of her office with Jessica Jacobs. When she motioned me over to join them, I pointed at the phone in my hand.
“Hang up!” she yelled back, and headed inside.
I didn’t have to think hard about what this might be. Jacobs was the lead investigator assigned to Cory Smithe and Ricky Samuels, the two young hustlers who had been killed. I felt numb walking over to Huizenga’s office, like there wasn’t room for anything else right now. Not that it mattered.
Huizenga had her head in her hands when I came in. Jacobs was on the phone, scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad.
“Marti?” I said.
“Number three,” she said, without looking up. “Young white male, single gunshot, multiple stab wounds, no ID.”
“A jogger found the kid,” Jacobs said, with a hand over her phone. “Way up at Lock Seven on the C and O Canal.”
“Lock Seven,” I said. “That’s Maryland, isn’t it?”
Huizenga nodded. “Montgomery County’s already on the scene. You may see the Bureau before the day’s over, too. I’ll talk to D’Auria. This is the chief’s call, but I’d rather not open this up if we don’t have to.”
Three murders committed in a similar fashion put this case squarely into serial territory. That’s usually when the FBI starts asking questions. They can be hugely useful, given the resources the Feds have, but they can also be an impediment, especially if anyone starts getting turfy about this stuff. I’ve been on both sides of that fence, and I know.
In the meantime, before I headed up to Lock Seven, what I needed was a vending machine, a cup of coffee, and a reset button for my brain.
I got two out of three, anyway.
CHAPTER
44
RON GUIDICE STOOD IN THE FRONT HALL OF THE OLD PLACE AND LOOKED around. The house was like some kind of time capsule from 1979. There was gray shag carpet on the floor. A powder-blue toilet in the bathroom.
Still, it was solid, with three bedrooms, a backyard, and plenty of privacy. Also just ninety minutes from the city. The perfect hiding place for his growing family.
“Don’t mind all these boxes,” the rental lady said. “I have one of those Got Junk trucks coming this afternoon. Unless you see anything you’d like to keep.”
“Just the furniture. Everything else can go,” Guidice told her.
The woman, Mrs. Patten, stopped to look down into the Snugli, where Grace was fast asleep against his chest. She’d been fussy in the car but had tired herself out by the time they got to Virginia.
And it was Grace now. Not Rebecca. Not ever again.
“They’re just little gifts from God, aren’t they?” Mrs. Patten said. “How old?”
“She’s three weeks today,” Guidice said. “And yes, they really are. I fell in love the second I laid eyes on her.”
That much was true. Mrs. Patten smiled, the way women always did when men showed even a hint of softness. Like he’d just done her some kind of favor.
“Would you like to see the back?” she asked.
“Please.”
He followed her into a large eat-in kitchen, with a picture window over the formica table. Outside there was a wooden swing set at the back of the overgrown yard. It didn’t look fit to use, but he could fix it up. Beyond that, Guidice could see a horse paddock through the trees. Half a dozen brown mares were munching on the spring grass.
Emma Lee was going to love it here. They all were, even Lydia, once she got used to it.
“I hope you don’t mind vintage,” Mrs. Patten said, “if that’s what you call all this. Mr. Schiavo seemed to have stopped shopping quite a while ago.”
“It’s fine.”
“A pity, really, how he died so suddenly. But I think he’d be happy to know there was a young family moving in. What do you do, Mr. Henderson?”
“I’m a journalist,” Guidice said. “But I’m looking to take some time off.”
Like Grace, he had a new name here, too. He’d used pseudonyms before, never as a byline, but sometimes to cover his tracks when he was chasing down a story. Paul Henderson was the one he’d used the most often, and the one for which he had passable identification, including a rarely used credit card. It was enough to secure the house, in any case.
“How about your wife?” the rental agent asked brightly. “Will she be staying home as well?”
“My wife isn’t with us anymore,” Guidice said. “We lost her on the night Grace was born.”
Mrs. Patten stopped and put a hand to her mouth, covering the little O that had just formed there. “Oh my lord. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Of course,” Guidice said. “I’m just looking for somewhere quiet where my mother, my daughters, and I can put our lives back together in private.”
She looked like she might actually cry. Guidice hoped not.
“How old is your other daughter?” she asked.
“Emma Lee’s four and a half. She misses her mama, but she’s very excited about being a big sister.”
“And you have your mother as well. That’s a blessing. I’m sure she’s wonderful with the gi
rls.”
“Yes,” Guidice said. He glanced down at the soft little angel curls on the top of his daughter’s head. “Because there’s nothing more important than family. Isn’t that right, Grace?”
CHAPTER
45
LOCK SEVEN ON THE CHESAPEAKE AND OHIO CANAL IS ORDINARILY A LITTLE recreational area just off the Clara Barton Parkway. Today, it had a yellow tape fence around the entrance. Later on, this quiet spot was going to be all over the news.
Our latest victim had been found just before noon. His body was entangled in the old drop gate mechanism of what used to be an operating lock. The original purpose of the canal was to run material goods over a 184-mile stretch between Georgetown and Cumberland Park, Maryland. Now, it was mostly something to run, bike, or walk along, though very few people got this far up the tow path anymore. My guess was that the killer didn’t expect the body to be discovered so soon.
The Montgomery County detective assigned to the case was an older guy I knew and liked, Bob Semillon. He met Jacobs and me in the parking lot and walked us down through the woods.
“Our ME’s already gone, but I assumed you’d want one of your folks to take a look,” Bob said. “It all sounds like the same character you’ve been dealing with down there in the city. Pretty awful stuff.”
That was one way of putting it.
All indications were that the murder itself had taken place up here on the trail. A dark patch of dried blood in the dirt had been found about halfway down the hill, and there were some pretty clear drag marks between that spot and the canal.
They had the body laid out on the grass when we got there, giving me a sickening sense of déjà vu. There was the one gunshot wound to the face, and then multiple stab wounds around the hips and genitals.
Also, there was a water factor. Cory Smithe had been found in the Potomac, Ricky Samuels in Rock Creek, and now this.
The only real difference I could see, besides location, was in the knife work. Each victim seemed to have been stabbed quite a few more times than the one before him. This boy’s jeans were bloodstained all the way down to his neon green shoes.
Jacobs knelt next to the body. I could tell she was doing what I did sometimes—forcing herself to get close and absorb as much as she could, subconsciously or otherwise.
“What’s this guy so pissed off about?” she said. “What’s he trying to work out here, do you suppose?”
She seemed to be homing in on some of the same anger I’d been seeing in all these cases. That word kept coming up.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But it can be a vicious cycle. The harder he tries to scratch that itch, the more he’s going to find out it can’t be done, and the more desperate he’s going to get.”
“Or enthusiastic,” she said, fingering one of the perforations in the kid’s pants with a gloved finger. “Or both.”
The gunshot was a means to an end, I felt pretty sure. It was the knife work where his emotions took over. In every other respect, he seemed to be extremely well disciplined about the whole thing. These weren’t spontaneous murders. Each one of them required some forethought and planning.
And that brought up the other big question here.
The last time around, in Rock Creek, our victim hadn’t been alone. There were two bodies that night, most likely from two different killers.
The Montgomery County CSI unit had already made a first pass up and down the canal, and they were still dragging the woods, but it seemed clear to me by now that this was another solo job.
But why? What had changed? Or changed back?
I had no idea, but even as I stood there taking it all in, some part of me was already bracing for what came next. Whatever game these people were playing, it wasn’t over yet.
And the score was three to two.
CHAPTER
46
IT WAS JUST BEFORE DARK WHEN I FINALLY WRAPPED UP AT THE CRIME SCENE. I’d been there longer than I meant to be, but then again, I always am. I walked back up through the woods to the parking lot and toward my car.
When I got there, someone was waiting for me. It was dusk, and I couldn’t see who it was at first, but then I recognized the beard. Even the hoodie and cargo shorts were the same as the last time.
“Ron Guidice?” I said.
Sure enough, he turned around. I’d been right all along. It was him.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” I said. “We need to talk.”
“Oh, now you want to talk?” he said, immediately aggressive. “Last time I got the brush off.”
I took a deep breath. Part of me wanted to cuff him and throw him in the back of the car. But that wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I pressed on instead.
“Listen, I’m not going to pretend that I understand exactly what you went through six years ago. But what you’re doing now? It’s not helping anyone.”
“I guess that’s a matter of opinion,” he said.
“I want you to know that I’m sorry for your loss,” I told him. “I really am, but—”
“But what, Alex? I should just shut up and go away? I already tried that, but it didn’t help. You and your department are just as incompetent as you were six years ago.”
I looked him in the eye, trying to gauge how put together this guy was—or wasn’t. Were there emerging paranoia issues here? Was Guidice one hundred percent? I wasn’t convinced.
“It’s not just my life you’re making difficult,” I said. “You’re potentially putting future victims’ lives at risk here. Do you understand that?”
“That’s funny,” he said. “Because I write what I do to protect the people you’re putting at risk.”
“You’ve got the wrong idea,” I said.
“Do I?” he said. “What about Rebecca Reilly, detective? Can you tell me where she is? Because as far as I know, she disappeared on your watch.”
He was just baiting me now. That much was obvious. I wasn’t going to be able to placate this guy, and I wasn’t sure it was worth trying anymore.
But I did have one other thing to say.
“All right, fine,” I told him. “You want to blog your bullshit, that’s your right. But I’ll tell you something else. If I find you tailing me when I’m with my family again, we’re going to have a very different kind of problem. Do you understand?”
He stepped a little closer. Guidice was a big dude, and obviously not intimidated by much. But neither am I.
“Are you threatening me, Detective Cross?” he asked. “Is that what’s going on here?”
I hadn’t even noticed the recorder in his hand until now. He’d been palming it, just out of sight. Before I thought too much about it, I snatched it out of his hand and threw it as far as I could into the woods. Probably a mistake. Another one for my resume.
“You think that’s going to stop me?” he said. He laughed without smiling before he went on. “This is your other problem. You’ve started to believe your own publicity. Alex Cross, the Dragonslayer. Alex Cross, the Sherlock Holmes of MPD. Alex Cross, the second goddamn coming of Christ! You’re a paper tiger, Alex. A phony! And people need to know about it.”
I was already walking away.
“This isn’t over,” he called after me. “Not even close!”
“That’s one place where we agree, Guidice,” I said as I got into my car. “It definitely isn’t.”
It was time to hit this guy from another angle.
CHAPTER
47
IT’S NOT LIKE I WAS COMPLETELY UNSYMPATHETIC TO GUIDICE. I LOST MY OWN first wife to senseless violence. It was the worst day of my life, and in a strange way it connected the two of us.
But that didn’t mean I was going to let him keep going unchecked. If he wouldn’t talk to me, in a real way, then I had to do whatever else I could to stop him.
I spent the evening pulling everything we had on Guidice, and digging for anything else I could find. Commander D’Auria let me piggyback onto his LexisNexis access, and that
turned up what was basically a bibliography of Guidice’s past work. It gave me a whole new lens on him.
What I already knew was that he’d been with the US Army for several years before receiving an honorable discharge in 2005. That was where he’d cut his teeth, journalistically speaking.
Most of his work in the army had been with administrative and communications units, first at Fort Bragg, then in Newark, New Jersey, with one six-month deployment to Baghdad for the Army Times. Overseas, he’d written a series of PR pieces highlighting US humanitarian efforts and infrastructure projects in Iraq. All of that was a matter of public record.
Then there was everything that came after his discharge. I don’t know what happened to Guidice in the army, but by the time he started writing freelance—and well before Theresa Filmore died—it was like he’d turned a one eighty. His focus at that point was almost entirely on the overreach of the US government, both at home and abroad.
He’d traveled back to the Middle East a few times for some small presses, and he even won a few obscure awards for his work. At the same time, he wrote pieces on everything from police brutality to time-card falsification in law enforcement, and several scathing articles about MPD’s supposed mishandling of the Al Ayla terrorist attacks in DC in the fall.
The one thing he seemed to have never written about directly was the death of his fiancée. For whatever reasons of his own, he’d left that incident off the table, but I could only imagine the kind of fuel it would have poured onto the fire he already had burning.
Now, all of it seemed to be bubbling up to the surface, including the blame he was laying so squarely at my feet.
I didn’t know what exactly to expect from him next, but it was clear to me that I hadn’t seen the last—or the worst—of Ron Guidice yet.
CHAPTER
48
Alex Cross, Run Page 11