It did bring a little satisfaction to know the other officers were having just as hard a time getting him to talk as Cait and I’d had, but it would’ve been nice to get him at least to say his name, even if we weren’t the ones who’d gotten it out of him.
“James Coffer.” Flu sighed as he tossed the manila file onto my desk. I made no attempt to look at it. “We ran his prints to find his name,” he added.
“Any priors?” I asked.
“It’s all there.” Flu gestured toward the file he’d chucked onto my desk. “One theft charge from three years ago. He stole a jacket from the mall. No jail time. Just ten hours of community service.” Flu shrugged. “He’s compliant for the most part. He just refuses to talk.” Flu sat deflated in the chair. “Where’s Agent Porter?” He looked at the empty chair next to him.
“I.T.”
Cait had gone to I.T. to research Novak’s emails and to run another scan on my laptop. She said was determined to find out how Novak was able to hack past my firewall, but I had a feeling she was simply trying to keep her mind occupied. The shock of seeing her first dead body—especially in the condition Fionna and Pamela were in—would stay with her for the rest of her life. It was one thing to see a photograph or even a video of a murder. It was on a completely different scale to see the result in person.
Crime Scene had taped off Staleman Street and had canvassed the property for evidence. I was right about the parking lot: Three of the seven cars belonged to victims. The vehicles had been tagged and towed to impound, and they would be kept there for an indefinite period of time. Once the cars were no longer needed for the trial, the families could have them back.
“Well,” Flu said, “we have enough to hold him for seventy-two hours before we have to charge him or let him go.” He shook his head, worry and grief weighing down his face. “We got a search warrant for Novak’s residence in West Joseph. The team’s there now. And admin contacted Naples PD. If—,” Flu corrected himself, “when they catch him, they’ll contact us.” He paused. “They’ll hold him for questioning. And, if need be, we’ll make arrangements to have him brought back to West Joseph for formal charges.”
I understood the worry and the grief that haunted his face. The worry stemmed from not having a murderous mastermind in custody yet, but the grief—Flu, and this entire department, was about to lose a trusted friend. All the fond memories we had of him were now tainted. Flu had twenty years of memories with Novak. Within a single second, they had been ripped away.
“I’ll let you know if this kid starts talking or if we hear from Naples.” Flu stood from the chair and lingered. I got the impression he was looking for any excuse not to be alone but that he’d run out of reasons to stay.
“Are you doing okay?” I asked. I had never seen him this affected by a case before.
“Yeah.” He stiffly nodded—and then his hardened exterior broke. “It’s just… you think you know somebody, and then they do something like this.” He sighed and shook his head. “Maybe I should have known. He doesn’t have a wife. No kids. Nothing to keep him good.” He paused. “Maybe if I was a better friend. Talked to him more often….”
“You saw those women,” I reminded him. “You saw what he did to them. Nothing you could have said or done would have cured that kind of monster inside him.”
“Maybe.” Flu sighed and left my office without another word. I didn’t know if he was going to cry or punch something—or both—but I was certain he needed time alone. Flu was a caring person, but he didn’t let people see his vulnerable side.
I brought my attention back to Wilma Reynolds’ file and flipped through the pages of the report. The coroner had ruled it an accidental drowning and noted there was slight discoloration on her left bicep, possibly from a bruise. It was large enough to be a handprint but too faint to be sure. Her body had suffered a lot of damage from being submerged for almost two months—not just from waterlogged skin but from fish and insects nipping at her flesh.
Wilma Reynolds had been reported missing on July 11. According to her husband’s statement, she hadn’t come home from work that Saturday. So he’d stopped by her office, but her car wasn’t in the parking lot; he figured she’d gone to the grocery store and forgotten her phone at work. He told the police that he’d called her cell every fifteen minutes until two in the morning. But when she still hadn’t come home the following day, he filed the Missing Persons Report first thing Monday morning. He’d also stated that it was rare for her to go into work on a Saturday.
July 11 was a popular date to go missing. That was the same date Kristen Valeri had been reported missing. Assuming Wilma’s husband and Kristen’s boyfriend both had to wait the mandatory forty-eight hours to make their reports, then Kristen and Wilma went missing on the same date. It was highly probable that Kristen had filmed her audition on a Saturday, but how would Novak have time to orchestrate two very different murders in the same day?
I leafed through the individual pages of Wilma’s report until I came across her employment history. There, at the very top, was her most recent employer: Shulman’s Architects at 1167 Staleman Street.
Wilma worked in Novak’s building.
Had Wilma Reynolds walked in on Kristen Valeri’s murder? The building was normally closed on weekends, so Novak would have been very surprised to see a tenant stop by. Did she hear Kristen in the basement? Is that why there were those jumps in Kristen’s video? Regardless of how she found out about Kristen, the connection was clear: Wilma Reynolds’ place of employment was also Kristen Valeri’s crime scene.
But if Wilma was supposed to represent Lathan Collins’ third victim, Carmine Jenkins, how did her murder fit in? Wilma probably hadn’t responded to any ads looking for actors, so Novak would’ve had to change his MO. And Wilma wouldn’t have sat in front of a camera as she read from a script. Her murder was more spontaneous. Novak saw an opportunity to kill two birds in one day, and he took it.
Carmine Jenkins had been the oldest of Lathan’s victims. Wilma was thirty-one. Pamela Westlake was the oldest victim so far, so that wasn’t the connection. Carmine had been reported missing by her roommate, and Wilma had been reported missing by her husband. But that didn’t matter either; if this was an opportunistic kill, Novak wouldn’t have known who would’ve report Wilma missing. Wilma worked as a payroll manager, and Carmine was a server. Nothing there. Wilma’s body had been found underwater… and Carmine Jenkins had also been found underwater. She was the only victim of Lathan’s who had been weighed down.
The coroner’s report noted that Wilma’s ankle had been wrapped in algae. And it would’ve been possible for Novak to wrap the algae around her ankle, assuming she’d been unconscious when they got to Mirror Lake. But why go through the trouble?
Signature killers work from a script. They become obsessed with the process. Novak worked from an actual script—he went so far as to write the words he wanted his victims to say before their demise. Why would he abandon his audition for “Carmine” and replace her with an opportunistic kill? Had he not yet found an actress to play Carmine?
I massaged my temples with my fingertips and took a deep breath. The strain of dealing with today’s discoveries—and having to figure out Novak’s twisted mind—was taking its toll. As exhausted as I was, every part of my body craved alcohol. And lots of it.
I needed to embrace the part of my brain reserved for fun.
“Hey. You got a minute,” Cait said as she walked in and sat in the chair across from my desk.
“Sure.” I leaned into my chair. I needed to tell her about the connection between Carmine Jenkins and Wilma Reynolds, but it seemed like whatever Cait had on her mind was more urgent.
“I found something on your hard drive,” she said. “A tracking program. I don’t know how long it’s been on there, but it’s a newer program. Less than a year old.”
“How did it get there?” I assumed Novak was behind the tracking device. He was able to hack into the laptop’s camera
after all.
“I’m not sure. It’s third-party software, usually installed in-person. But maybe you could have clicked on a link and accidentally downloaded it.”
It was possible but not likely. I rarely clicked on links if I didn’t know who it was from. “Who would have sent it?” I asked.
“It could have been from your bank? Or an email that looked like it was from your bank? Something like that,” she said. “Typical phishing scam, easy to fall for.”
That was more probable. I requested account information from banks all the time, and usually they responded via email, with a link or an attachment to download. “Why didn’t I see the software?”
“You’re not supposed to.” Cait smirked. “It lies dormant until certain programs are opened.” Cait paused and worry filled her eyes. “There’s something else,” she said with caution coating her voice, and I got the impression that this “something else” was more perilous than the tracking program. “I was able to recover some of the data and programs from your laptop, and I went onto the Deep Web again. I thought if Alfa Mike was the one who’d hacked you, then maybe he would brag about it in the forums.”
“Did he?” My curiosity piqued.
“No. No one’s taking credit for the hack.” She paused. “If Alfa Mike was making noise, I wouldn’t be as alarmed.”
I understood what she met. If Alfa Mike had taken credit for the hack, then we would know who to keep a watchful eye on, so to speak. But the fact that the hack has remained anonymous meant that it could have been anyone. It’s a lot easier to watch one person than it is to watch one thousand.
Cait continued, “It makes me worry there’s something else planned—something he doesn’t want us to know about just yet,” she added.
Our suspect had three names: the Casting Call Killer, Alfa Mike, and Ryan Novak. According to one of them, I had five days left to find out who he truly was. I wasn’t exactly sure what would happen on the fifth day, but I knew it would be big. Another video, maybe? More gruesome than all the others?
“I discovered something too,” I said, hoping that focusing on our progress would overshadow the unanswered questions. “Wilma Reynolds, the woman who drowned at Mirror Lake?”
“The one the Casting Call Killer claimed?” Cait asked.
“Yeah. I found a connection to Lathan Collins’ third victim, Carmine Jenkins. Wilma Reynolds worked at building on Staleman Street. She and Kristen Valeri were reported missing on the same day. And Wilma told her husband she was going into work that day. What if she walked in on Kristen Valeri’s murder?”
“It’s probable,” Cait said, “but how does she match Lathan’s the third victim?”
“She wasn’t intended to be the third victim. I think the Casting Call Killer just saw an opportunity and took it. But Carmine Jenkins was the only one weighed down—and Wilma Reynolds was submerged underwater. It could be circumstantial, but I don’t think it is.”
Cait slowly nodded. “Has he talked yet?” She gestured toward the interview room.
“Not yet.” I shook my head. “They’re holding him for the full seventy-two hours. Hopefully someone can get him to talk.”
As I watched Cait, her face still awash in worry, I realized that her concern for this case stemmed from more than just human decency. A euphoric sense of trust came over me. I knew she genuinely cared about my safety. I could trust her with my life. If it really came down to it, I knew she would put her life before mine. That’s what made her a great a partner—and someone worth loving.
I looked at the clock above her head. It was almost 7:45, and neither of us had eaten since this morning. “Are you hungry?” I asked, although food wasn’t my only interest. I felt the need to celebrate the break in the case, and Cait deserved to be a part of that celebration.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat again,” Cait said. “Not after seeing those women today.” She had a sullen look on her face. “But I could use a drink?” Her face quickly beamed at the thought.
Anything I needed to work on could wait until tomorrow. My brain was too fried to actually comprehend words anyway, so staying would be a waste of time. Dinner and a few drinks would help clear my head.
“I’m ready when you are.” I stood from the desk. Cait rose from the chair and waited for me to walk into the hallway before she followed. As I closed my office door, Flu came walking toward us.
“Are you heading out?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I have my phone if you need me.”
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” he said. “The search team just called—Novak’s West Joseph house is clean. No sign of him. It’s immaculate too. No prints… not even on the remote control.”
That didn’t make sense. The old woman next door said someone was definitely staying there. “What about Naples?” I asked.
“He doesn’t live there. At least not in the residence that’s in his name. That place is rented to a family of four. They were questioned about Novak’s whereabouts, but they said they’ve never met him. They just transfer rent money into his bank account each month.”
Flu was just as perplexed about Novak’s vanishing act as I was. How could Novak be everywhere and nowhere at the same time?
“You two worked a long day—I don’t mean to keep you,” he said before heading back to his office.
It seemed that no matter how many clues we uncovered, it was never going to be enough to find him. Our biggest chance was James Coffer, and he wasn’t talking. At least for now he wasn’t. Spending the night in a cold, cement jail cell usually worked in our favor when we needed a suspect to talk. It was a ghoulish glimpse into the suspect’s potential life if he or she didn’t cooperate. If James was involved with the murders, he would spend the rest of his life in prison, no matter how much he cooperated. But parole was still a possibility—at least, we’d let him think parole was a possibility. I would do everything I could to make sure the Casting Call Killer and his partner would never see the outside world again.
“Still want that drink?” I joked as Cait and I walked toward the elevator.
“More than anything,” she said with a smile and pressed the “down” arrow.
The elevator reached us within a matter of seconds—the only perk to working late. As we stepped inside and the doors closed, I felt my guard go down. I was no longer in work mode. Details of the case still lingered in my mind, but I was technically off the clock and able to unwind.
When we stepped off the elevator and into the parking garage, I noticed three news crews parked in front of the station. I didn’t have to guess why they were there. Reports had leaked that West JPD had discovered two bodies, and each broadcasting station was determined to be the first to find out the names of the victims. But that information wasn’t going to be released until Flu had spoken to their families. That could be why Flu was still there.
I kept my focus on the news vans as we walked through the parking garage toward our cars. I bumped into Cait every few steps. “We’ll take my car,” she said. She must have noticed where my attention was. The reporters knew my car, and they would follow me. If I left with Cait, hopefully they would see my car in the garage and think I was still at work.
The taillights to Cait’s silver Lexus blinked as she clicked the “unlock” button on the remote control. I opened the passenger’s side door and sat in the seat, greeted by stale air that felt surprisingly good. It was mid-September, and evenings had become chilly. It was too hot during the day to wear a jacket, but by evening, I usually regretted not wearing one. I preferred warm nights to cold ones, and I wasn’t looking forward to winter.
Cait started the car and backed out of the parking spot. The section of the garage where she’d parked was completely vacant. She followed the signs that led to the exit and rolled down her window to swipe her temporary parking pass at the gate. The sun had just begun to set, and the purple clouds swept across the horizon. Images like this made me appreciate the beauty
in the world—even when the people in it only showed ugliness.
“I only know of two restaurants,” Cait said when we turned onto the main street. She drove right past the news vans, and the crews were completely oblivious that I was in her car. “They’re both across the street from my hotel,” she added.
“That’s fine,” I said. “Your choice.” It was best that we stayed close to her hotel anyway. It wasn’t my plan to get drunk, but I wasn’t exactly opposed to the idea. Knowing there was a bed within walking distance made the idea more appealing.
I hesitated to start a conversation with Cait. The last thing I wanted to talk about was the Casting Call Killer, but what else could we talk about? The case consumed our lives—it was the reason we were always together. And aside from the case, the only other thing going on in my life was my break-up with Abi—and I doubted Cait wanted to know that I had met with Abi only yesterday.
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