Skin Deep

by Michelle Hanson

  “He’ll be sending us Kristen Valeri’s video,” Cait added. She closed the file and placed it on her lap. “I think we should have a few undercover officers sitting in the coffee shop or the restaurants. Maybe someone will see something.”

  “That is a great idea,” Abram said and smiled at Cait. “I’ll run it by Flu.”

  I glanced up and gave him a puzzled look. Organizing a stakeout was definitely above his pay grade. Although Abram may have meant well, everything about him irritated me today. He was like a best friend’s kid brother: a constant annoyance.

  “I’m authorizing the stakeout,” I said and turned my attention back to the sheet.

  “Of course, Sergeant,” Abram said. “I’m on my way to Flu’s office now. I can let him know your plan if you’d like?”

  “No need,” I said. “Thanks for the list.” I forced a smile, hoping he would notice the fact that his presence was no longer needed.

  “Certainly,” Abram nodded. He strolled past my desk and brushed against Cait’s leg as he walked out the door.

  “It’s six o’clock,” Cait said. “We should get there soon. If the videos are being sent between nine and eleven—”

  “We’ll need to set up early, I know,” I cut her off. I was mentally exhausted and emotionally drained from my session with Dr. Tillman, and I didn’t need Cait and Abram both telling me how to do my job.

  “Don’t let him get under your skin,” Cait said. “For as annoying as he is, he’s also a big help.” She gestured to the list of restaurants in my hand.

  “You’re right,” I sighed. I picked up the handset and began to dial Flu’s extension. The cold plastic cupped my ear, and the captain answered on the second ring.

  “Evans,” he said without a greeting. “Abram said you’re running a stakeout tonight. Excellent idea.”

  I took the phone from my ear, squeezing the handle with both hands as I envisioned myself choking Abram. I grit my teeth together. I brought the phone back to my ear. “I’ll need four undercovers,” I said.

  “Sure thing,” Flu sad. “I’ll make the calls and have them meet you in the conference room in about—” he paused, and I imagined him looking at his watch as he estimated the time. “—thirty minutes.”

  “All right. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and looked at Cait. “Thirty minutes in the conference room. We’ll be at the plaza no later than seven.”

  “Will that be enough time to set up?”

  “It has to be.” I knew as well as she did that we were against a ticking clock. Maybe I should have scheduled the undercovers sooner, but there was nothing we could do about it now. “Is that Kristen Valeri’s file?” I gestured to the manila folder in Cait’s lap, though I knew full well it was.

  “It is.” Cait handed it to me.

  “What do we know?” I opened the folder and read the first page.

  “Kristen Valeri, age twenty-eight. Originally from Dayton, Ohio, but moved here five years ago,” Cait said, reciting the details of Kristen’s life as I turned each page. “She’s a full-time nanny during the week.”

  “When was she reported missing?” I flipped through the pages until I reached her Missing Persons Report.

  “July eleventh of this year.”

  “July?” I asked. “The other two victims were reported missing in July as well.”

  “Their videos weren’t sent until late August,” Cait added.

  I opened the bottom right-hand drawer of my desk and pulled out the files for Pamela Westlake and Fionna Michaels. Their Missing Persons Reports were the front page of each file. “Pamela Westlake,” I said. “Reported missing July eighteenth. We received her video August twenty-fifth.” I opened Fionna Michaels’ report. “Fionna Michaels, reported missing July twenty-fourth. We received her video September first.”

  “Kristen Valeri,” Cait chimed in. “Reported missing July eleventh, and we’ll probably receive her video tonight—September eighth.”

  “All abducted in July,” I mumbled as I stared at the files in front of me.

  “Why abduct someone and wait to kill them a month later?”

  “I don’t think he did wait,” I answered. “Those girls are clean in the videos. Makeup is fresh, hair is perfect. Not a spec of dirt on their clothes. He isn’t waiting to kill them. He’s waiting to send the videos.”

  “If Pamela Westlake replied to an ad for an audition, I think it’s also probable the other two victims responded to the same ad or a similar one,” Cait said. I could hear her wheels as they turned. “Do we have Fionna Michaels’ computer?”

  “We do. I.T. is running a scan on it. We’ll be able to look at it tomorrow,” I said.

  Cait nodded. “How many people respond to an ad? A dozen or so, depending on what it is? How many of those actually follow through… maybe half?” She was more or less just talking to herself at this point.

  “He’s killing multiple women with one ad.” I pieced her thoughts together. “But how many women responded to his ad? If he’s already killed them all and is just waiting to send the videos, there’s no telling what his body count is up to.”

  “No bodies have been found. So that begs the question—where are they?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “If he dug graves somewhere, who knows when we’ll find them.” It seemed no matter how many questions we were able to answer, it wasn’t going to be enough to have a solid lead. We were at the mercy of the Casting Call Killer making a mistake or being sloppy if we had any chance of catching him.

  I looked at the clock above Cait’s head. “The undercovers will be here in ten minutes,” I said. “We should head to the conference room.” I stood from the desk and led the way down the hall. As we walked, I thought about the killer’s motive for sending the videos.

  If he hadn’t sent the videos to West JPD, we would be completely clueless as to what had happened to these women. They would just be one of the thousands of people reported missing each year. That thought alone was enough to make me feel completely defeated. Unless the killer threw in the towel, we were going to lose the fight before it had even begun.

  CHAPTER | NINE

  CAIT AND I SAT in a city-owned blue sedan in the front parking lot of the West Joseph Shopping Plaza. She was in the driver’s seat, and I sat in the passenger seat with the three case files on my lap. It was late enough in the evening that we didn’t need to have the air conditioner on in order to survive a few hours in a vehicle. With all four windows halfway down, a gentle breeze blew into the car and provided us with enough fresh air that it was hard to remember we were there for work purposes and not a date.

  The shopping plaza was the length of two football fields, configured into an “L” shape. Each store alternated between light stone and dark brick exteriors. Storefront windows neatly displayed the current week’s sale items, and customers walked back and forth from their cars to the store like ants marching toward a melted popsicle.

  It was completely impossible to have a visual on all four locations that offered Wi-Fi to its customers. Three quick-service restaurants and one coffee shop each had one undercover officer posing as a customer. The undercovers were instructed to choose a seat that overlooked as much of the restaurant as possible. If they saw someone with a laptop, they were to keep their eye on him or her—and, when the moment was right, walk past that person to see what was on the computer monitor. If something was suspicious about their behavior, they were to radio me and Cait, and we would intervene.

  It sounded like a good plan, in theory. In practice, the odds were against us. We didn’t have the manpower for such an intricate stakeout over this large of an area. We had to make the best of what we had and hope that luck was on our side.

  I looked at Cait, who had both hands on the steering wheel, her right thumb tapping intermittently against the wheel. She looked out the front windshield as she stared toward the naïve patrons walking by.

  “Is it bad that I hope the video we receive is of Kristen Valeri?” C
ait dropped her hands from the steering wheel and looked at me. “If it’s her, then maybe she’s the last of them. Maybe there aren’t more women to be found.” Cait shook her head. “If we receive a video of someone other than Kristen Valeri….”

  “We’re going to catch him,” I assured her, although I didn’t necessarily believe it myself. It was how I felt during the Lathan Collins murders. To the public, and to my department, I acted as if I was one step ahead of Lathan. But the truth was: I never was. And now, here I was, a year later, and it was as if I was chasing Lathan Collins all over again.

  But the Casting Call Killer was smarter and more cunning than Lathan. He took more pride in his work than Lathan ever did. And that scared me. I had a feeling this killer considered himself to be a god. He wanted to be worshipped, either by his victims or by the public—maybe both.

  It was 8:37 p.m., and the dusk sky, with its beautiful purple and orange hues, had faded to dark blue at the horizon. Soon it would be pitch black. I had intended on reading the case files while we waited for information from the undercovers, but with the darkened sky approaching, reading was impossible. We would no longer blend in with the crowd if we sat in the car with the dome light on.

  Neatly trimmed hedges outlined the parking lot and created a barrier from the busy street that led into the plaza. Newly developed condos and hotels broke the clean skyline, and I noticed the name of the hotel where Cait said she was staying. The “Westerly Inn” sign proudly shone in bright white letters over the parking lot where we had parked. It was eight stories high, with ten tinted windows across each floor.

  “Is that where you’re staying?” I gestured toward the hotel.

  “Yeah,” Cait answered. She rested her elbow on the driver’s side door and propped her head against her fist. She kept her eyes on the plaza, as if she could zero in on the suspect just by what he was wearing. “I’ve counted seven people with laptops so far.”

  I sank into the seat and looked out the side window. The stores closed at nine o’clock, but the coffee shop and restaurants stayed open until eleven. We were camouflaged by the dozens of cars parked around us. But once the stores closed, most of the cars would be gone, and we would be among a handful of patrons still parked in the lot. Hiding in plain sight wouldn’t be as easy.

  “Can we see the plaza from your room?” I asked.

  “Hm….” Cait broke from her trance. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “When the stores close, we’ll need to be somewhere less obvious. Whoever’s sending the videos is careful enough to mask his identity. I’m sure he’s smart enough to check his physical surroundings too.”

  “You’re right.” Cait picked up the black two-way radio that sat in the cup holder between our seats and pressed the button with her thumb. A low beep chirped from the speaker, and she brought the radio close to her mouth. “This is Agent Porter to all units. Changing location to Westerly Inn. Proceed as normal. Over.” She slid her thumb off the button.

  A few moments of silent resonated before “Copy” emitted from the radio four times.

  Cait set the radio back into the cup holder and started the car. The air conditioning roared from the vents, and I quickly turned down the controls. Cait put the car into drive and flipped on the headlights before she pulled from the isolated parking spot and maneuvered through the lot toward the hotel.

  The narrow driveway into the hotel blossomed into a full-sized parking lot. Bushes and floral landscape outlined the fifty-plus available spaces. Cait pulled into spot in the side lot and turned off the ignition. She opened her door without saying a word, and I followed her toward the front of the hotel.

  The glass double doors automatically separated as we approached the hotel’s vestibule. The cream-colored marble tiles reflected the light from a large chandelier, which cast a soft yellow glow over the lobby. Maroon club chairs surrounded three sides of a large coffee table on the right side of the lobby. The front desk was off to the left. The clerk wore a stark white button-up and a kelly green vest. He nodded at us as we walked by, and I followed Cait to a pair of gold-colored elevator doors, which were adjacent to a hallway with a sign that pointed guests toward the fitness and pool areas.

  A deep scent of chlorine and cleaning solution permeated my nostrils. Cait pressed the “up” button and tapped her foot as we waited for the doors to open. I held the case files in my hand, seeing this as a good opportunity to inconspicuously read over them. The elevator on the right opened first, and I stepped inside after Cait. She pressed the button for the sixth floor, and the doors quickly closed.

  Dark wood paneling covered the three walls of the elevator. Each had advertisements for nearby entertainment as well as the hotel restaurant’s breakfast and dinner menus. Cait and I were alone, which was good. The elevator was the size of a golf cart, and as soon as the doors closed, I felt myself gravitate toward Cait. I firmly planted myself in the corner farthest away from her, and I gripped the side railings on the wall. I remembered feeling this aroused by her the last time we were in an elevator together. Maybe it was the thought of being in such a confined space, behind closed doors, with her. I hadn’t felt an urge to be with her when we were alone in the car together—or any other time we were alone together. It was just inside elevators when my mind wandered.

  The doors opened as soon we reached the sixth floor, and I bolted like a dog from his crate first thing in the morning. I stopped once I reached a fork in the hallway and turned around. I didn’t know her room number.

  Cait walked effortlessly past me, and I followed her down the narrow hallway, odd-numbered rooms on the right, even-numbered rooms on the left. Cait stopped in front of room six twenty-eight. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a key card.

  She slid the white plastic into the slot, and a low grinding noise grumbled from the door. She pressed down on the brass handle and pushed the door open with ease. The handle collided against the inner wall of the dark narrow entryway. She reached her hand inside to flip on the switch, and a burst of fluorescent light reflected off the mirrored closet doors. She stepped inside the entryway, and I waited until she was a few feet in front of me before I followed her.

  I peeked inside the bathroom to the right. Her toothbrush and toothpaste were next to the chrome sink. Tiny bottles of shampoo, soap, and lotion neatly lined the counter. Disheveled hand towels clumped together under the sink next to the plastic trashcan. The off-white tiles stopped at the edge of the door, where they met light brown carpet with black paisley-esque swirls. The carpet stretched from the narrow entryway into the rest of the room.

  The door closed behind me, and an abrupt click echoed through the tiny room as the latch locked into place. The room was smaller than I expected it to be. Part of me imagined she would have stayed in a luxurious suite; the logical part of me, who knew the state wouldn’t pay for such extravagances, wasn’t surprised by the small double bed and basic complimentary toiletries.

  Coconut white curtains covered the large window on the opposite side of the room from the front door. The bed had been neatly made, probably from early-morning housekeeping visit. The bottom corners of the comforter had been tightly tucked underneath the mattress, as if a military sergeant had supervised the staff. Six white pillows were stacked in rows of two against the oversized micro-suede headboard. A large three-foot-by-two-foot horizontal painting hung above the bed. The canvas portrayed a log cabin surrounded by a blossoming forest. The deep blue sky was cloudless, and the sun was left out of the painting—as if the artist didn’t see the need to include it.

  On either side of the bed was a nightstand with a lamp atop each. The one between the window and the bed had an alarm clock and a telephone on it. I assumed that was Cait’s side of the bed—the remote control was also on that nightstand. Across from the foot of the bed was a large dresser with a flat-screen television on top of it. To the left of the dresser was a small table with a coffee pot and four Styrofoam cups wrapped in plastic. Between the window an
d the dresser was a desk and an office chair. On the desk was another lamp and a leather-bound book, presumably containing information on local attractions and restaurants. And I knew if I opened the nightstand drawer, a crisp, clean bible would be resting inside.

  The room was complete—except I couldn’t help but notice something was missing.

  Whatever feeling of lust I had for Cait inside the elevator was no longer with me. Here we were, inside a space whose sole purpose was for sleeping—or for sleeping with someone—yet I felt nothing. No ache to kiss her. No yearn to touch her. I was completely void of all sexual desire to be with her.

  That scared me more than my momentary urge inside the elevator. Maybe it wasn’t just Abi whom I no longer wanted to be with. Maybe I no longer wanted to be with anyone. Had I become so emotionally detached from romance that I no longer felt anything when I was with a beautiful woman? Even someone whom I was once in love with? Even a grieving widow still aches for her spouse. How dead inside was I?

  As I looked at the bed next to us, wanting so badly to want Cait, I couldn’t picture myself with her, or with Abi, or with anyone. My heart was so dry that it had become ashes at the bottom of a fire pit.

  As I forced myself to try to remember what it was like to feel something for someone, all I could do was remember my session with Dr. Tillman from earlier this afternoon. Reliving the moments, the moments of stupidity that allowed Lathan Collins to catch me, had finally caught up to me. I thought the stress and fear that I felt in her office this afternoon would stay there, in her office, but I was wrong. They had wrapped themselves so tightly around my body that it felt like a coating of liquid latex. I couldn’t breathe—I couldn’t move. The only signs of life I had were the tears that had formed behind my eyes.

  A throbbing ache hammered at the back of my head. I could leave, but what excuse could I give? I was working. This was my job. If I didn’t want another person to go through what I did, to feel what I was feeling now, I had to stay and catch the son of a bitch responsible those videos.