by Tami Hoag
“So there really is a serial killer,” Crane said. “Thank God you have him in custody.”
“Yeah,” Mendez said. “Thank God.”
“Thanks for your help, Dr. Crane,” Hicks offered.
“Anytime.”
“So, you’re off to join the search?” Mendez asked.
“Yes.” Crane looked at the skull again. “You see that . . . I hope we’re not too late.”
“This is a nightmare,” Dixon said. “They’re absolutely sure about the prints?”
“They’re a match for Sells and his nephew,” Hicks said, reaching for tuna salad on rye. They had called out for lunch and sat at the conference table, eating and catching up on the latest details.
“Someone brought those cars out to Sells’s field, through the back gate,” Mendez said, “wiped them down and left them.”
“And then what?” Dixon asked. “Walked back to town? Had an accomplice drive back? Or is Sells the accomplice?”
“You have to take Sells out of the equation with Warwick and Vickers,” Vince said. “He’s not the kind of guy who has a partner. Him doing his own thing, at his own place, disposing of his victim in his own backyard—that I can see. But that kind of murder and Lisa Warwick are two entirely different things.”
“We’ve got two killers,” Dixon said. “Un-fucking-believable.”
He got up to pace. He was in uniform and still looked starched and pressed, despite what the day had already put him through.
“We do everything in our power to keep this out of the media,” he said. “Gordon Sells is in custody. The press can keep their eye on him for now.”
“And you have to hope your UNSUB doesn’t get pissed off by that,” Vince said. “Sells getting credit could push him into something.”
“It’s a no-win situation,” Dixon said. “If we admit there’s still a serial killer out there, he gets his ego fed, then he wants more. He wants more, he does more—right?”
“Probably,” Vince conceded.
Dixon swore under his breath and shook his head. “We’re working three murders and a missing person with at least two different perps in a county that doesn’t see three murders in a year. We’ve got to break this down.
“Trammell and Campbell, check all missing persons reports from a five-county target area then work your way out if you have to. We’ve got to try to put a name to the victim at Sells’s. The Bureau of Forensic Sciences has a forensic artist who can come up with a likeness of the victim from the skull. And put some pressure on the nephew, see if he won’t crack.”
The two detectives grabbed their lunches and headed to their desks to start making phone calls.
“If we take Sells off the board, that leaves us where with Lisa Warwick?” Dixon asked.
“Nowhere,” Mendez said. “But I’m pretty stuck on the idea she was having an affair with Steve Morgan. We asked Peter Crane about it this morning—he and Morgan are buddies—and he about turned himself inside out trying to deny it.”
“I spoke to Morgan this morning,” Vince said. “He’s not interested in owning that. He’s a cool customer. I told him you’ve got semen on Lisa Warwick’s sheets. He said then you’d better test Gordon Sells’s blood type.”
Brow furrowed, Hicks abandoned his sandwich and dug through a stack of papers that had been left on the table over the morning while they were out.
“Here’s why,” he said, holding up a report. “I asked for labs back ASAP on the semen stains. No blood type available. Whoever left that sample for us is a nonsecretor. He wouldn’t be worried we’d match his blood type if he knew his blood-type antigens didn’t carry into his semen.”
“How many people know if they’re secretors or nonsecretors? Most people don’t even know what that means,” Mendez said. “And only twenty percent of the population are nonsecretors. It’s not like he had a fifty-fifty shot at being right. He had to know.”
“Having an affair doesn’t make him a sexually sadistic homicidal maniac,” Dixon said.
“Have you done a thorough background check on him?” Vince asked. “Has he been in any kind of trouble with the law? Where did he come from? What do you know about him? He spends a lot of time with at-risk women. That could make him the Man of the Year, but that same set of circumstances could attract a predator. Has he been involved with other women associated with the center?”
“Jane would never have it,” Dixon said. “If she caught a whiff of impropriety, he would have been out of there. It’s not like the world is short on lawyers.”
“When we asked Dr. Crane if he knew where Karly Vickers was going after her appointment, he suggested she might have stopped by the Quinn, Morgan offices to find out about getting time off to have her dental work done,” Vince said. “Has anybody checked that out?”
“If she left the dentist at five o’clock, the law office was already closed,” Mendez said. “The sign on their door says they close at four thirty.”
“They lock the door at four thirty. That doesn’t mean there might not have been someone still there,” Vince pointed out. “Appointments run late. Lawyers love to rack up those billable hours.”
“Check it out,” Dixon said.
“She probably never made it out of the dentist’s office. Janet Crane probably killed her and ate her,” Mendez said. “That’s the meanest woman alive. I don’t get why he would be married to her. He’s a successful, educated, good-looking guy. Why would he hook up with a ballbuster like that one?”
“Maybe he sees another side of her,” Vince offered. “Or maybe he’s a masochist. Can you picture her wearing leather and spike-heeled boots?”
“If I want to have nightmares.”
“Don’t add another killer to the mix,” Dixon said. “We’ve got enough trouble. If you can’t find anyone at Quinn, Morgan who saw Karly Vickers after her appointment, find out where Peter Crane was.”
“Home with the family,” Mendez said. “That’s his alibi. We’re not going to break that unless someone saw him somewhere else.”
“I’m meeting his wife this afternoon. I’ll see what I can find out,” Vince said, drawing a stunned look from Mendez. “I’m curious. What can I say? And she’s the agent representing the vacant building next to her husband’s office. A great place for a newcomer to start a business—or for a kidnapper to stash a victim while he establishes an alibi. I’ll scout it out for you.”
“I’ve made a call to the Oxnard PD,” Mendez said. “That was where Julie Paulson had her last two arrests for prostitution. They’ll get back to me if they can connect her to any johns who might have gotten caught up in a sweep with her.”
“Steve Morgan spends a lot of time in Sacramento,” Dixon said, grim-faced. “I can reach out to a friend in the PD, see if they’ve had anything going on up there. I hope to God not.”
“If we’re dotting i’s and crossing t’s,” Mendez said, “Someone has to account for Frank’s whereabouts last Thursday night. Otherwise it’ll look like we gave him a pass.”
“Talk to his wife,” Dixon said, checking his watch. “I told him we have to do this by the book, and no one is more by the book than Frank. He’ll deal with it.”
Famous last words, Mendez would think later. For the moment it was just one more thing on the endless checklist of a murder investigation.
41
Vince popped a couple of pills and washed them down with a locally bottled orange cream soda. Nice town, he thought again, as he walked down the pedestrian plaza. Nice place to settle—except for the serial killer.
He tossed the soda bottle in a trash can camouflaged with decorative wrought iron, and checked himself in the window of a parked car. In a smart dove gray suit with an orange Italian silk tie, he looked pretty damn good for a guy who had been raised from the dead.
Janet Crane was waiting for him when he arrived at the building next door to her husband’s dental office where a sign on the door declared the office was closed. A HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? post
er of Karly Vickers hung below the CLOSED sign.
She was an attractive brunette in her thirties with a head of puffed-up, sprayed stiff black hair, red suit, red heels, and a thousand-watt smile.
“You must be Vince,” she said, shaking his hand. She tilted her head just so and batted the eyelashes. She seemed a little too excited, a little too eager, her grip was a little too strong. “I’m Janet Crane. It’s so nice to meet you, and so nice to be able to show you this fantastic space.”
“Lovely to meet you, Ms. Crane. Any relation to the dentist next door?”
“Peter is my husband,” she said, letting go of his hand. The smile lost a couple of watts as he took away her tool of flirtation. “Do you know him?”
“I saw the name on the door.”
“Well, he’s the best dentist in town, in my humble opinion. If you were to lease this space, you could just pop next door when the need arose,” she said.
“I’ll hope that doesn’t become necessary, no offense,” he said, flashing the big white smile. “So let’s see what the place has to offer.”
“As you can see, this is the main retail space,” she said as they walked inside. “Like most of the buildings on the plaza, this building dates back to the mid-1920s and has all of the original detail such as the cove molding and the tile floors. But the electrical and plumbing is all up to date,” she said. “You’re new in Oak Knoll, Vince?”
“Visiting, actually, but I’m very taken with your little city. I can see myself staying.”
“Where are you from?”
“Chicago.”
“Well, you’ll miss the winters, I know,” she said, laughing at her own joke. “But this is a wonderful community. We have the college, a very good small hospital, wonderful restaurants, cultural opportunities. We’re convenient to both Los Angeles and Santa Barbara.”
“What about crime?” Vince asked.
The smile became a little brittle. “Generally, there isn’t much to speak of.”
“But I saw something on the news about a woman missing, and another woman being found dead in a park,” Vince said. “That’s pretty serious.”
“Yes, but the exception, not the rule,” she said. She didn’t like him steering her off her sales pitch. “What kind of business are you thinking of for the space?”
“Italian imports. Olive oil, gourmet foods, pottery,” he said as if he had given the idea a lot of thought. “The police are looking for a serial killer, I heard.”
“We also have an excellent sheriff’s office that takes care of the city as well as the county,” she countered. “Are you married, Vince?”
“Single, but I have two daughters. How are the schools?”
“Excellent. The top in the state for their size.”
“Nothing strange goes on there, I guess,” he said jokingly, even as he recalled Dennis Farman and the severed finger.
A muscle in Janet Crane’s jaw pulsed. “Not at all.”
“So it’s just the serial killer we have to worry about.”
Now she was getting pissed off. He could see it in the set of her shoulders, the quickness of her breathing, the little line of frustration that made an L between her eyebrows. He wasn’t letting her manipulate him, and she didn’t like it.
He chuckled. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Crane. I’m not going to be frightened away. After all, I’m not exactly a part of the target group of victims, am I?”
The brittle smile reappeared. “No, you aren’t.”
“Still, it’s a terrible thing to think about.”
“I heard the man responsible is in custody.”
“They called him a ‘person of interest’ on the news, not even a suspect. I don’t know that they believe he did it,” Vince said. “I’ve read about serial killers. They’re very clever, you know, practically chameleons. This guy could be a businessman, someone respected in the community, but with a dark side. I’ve heard of women being married to serial killers and not having a clue about their husband’s other life.”
“That seems hard to believe.”
“I know, but it makes you want to know if your husband really plays poker on Thursday nights, doesn’t it?”
“I trust my husband implicitly,” she said, tension pulling on the natural downward curve of her mouth.
“But should you?” Vince asked. “That’s the question.”
“You’re making me uncomfortable, Mr. Leone,” she said curtly.
Vince feigned shock. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—Oh my gosh, no! I’m the last guy . . . Really.” He started to laugh at the very notion. “Believe me, Mrs. Crane, I’m a lover not a fighter.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“No, no, of course not,” he reassured her.
“What with everything that’s been in the news . . .”
“I understand. And if you don’t want to go on—”
“No, no, I’m fine, really,” she said, a little embarrassed. She tried to cover it with a little joke that wasn’t a joke. “But for the record, my boss knows I’m here with you!”
She laughed. He laughed.
But having spent too much time with killers, Vince couldn’t help thinking, How did she know he hadn’t given her a phony name? As he followed her into the back of the building, why would she think she wasn’t in danger just because he was friendly, had a sense of humor, apologized for frightening her? It only took about four minutes to strangle someone to death. He could have done the deed, left her in the back of the store, and walked out via the alley. No one would have been the wiser.
She opened the overhead garage door and sunlight spilled into the dark space.
“As you can see, there’s plenty of storage space back here, and easy access for delivery trucks.”
“And another door over here—”
“To access your parking spaces. I’m afraid there are only two. That’s the only drawback to being on the plaza—the lack of parking. But the pedestrian traffic more than makes up for the inconvenience.”
The door also led to Peter Crane’s parking spaces, Vince noted. Karly Vickers could have come out the back of the dentist’s office, been grabbed and dragged into this storage space. No one could see back there from the front windows of the vacant building. The walls of the building were brick with a thick coating of old-fashioned plaster—virtually soundproof.
Vince walked around the empty space looking for something, anything a victim or her abductor might have dropped. A gum wrapper, a cigarette butt, a stray hair. Nothing. The concrete floor had been stained over the years by oil and paint. A splatter here, a drip there. Did anything look like blood? No.
Industrial shelving lined two walls. Former tenants had left behind old paint cans, rags, assorted odd boxes of stuff. Nothing that looked useful to a killer.
He asked a couple of routine questions and listened to Janet Crane with one ear while he pictured what might have happened if Karly Vickers’s abductor had approached her in the alley.
She knows him. She feels safe, happy even. She’s had an exciting day. She has no idea she’s in danger until he puts a choke hold on her and pulls her into the vacant building.
It takes him a matter of a few seconds to accomplish the deed. He pulls her inside the building and ties her up. He glues her mouth shut to keep her from screaming. He leaves her until dark, when he comes back and takes her to the place where he will torture, rape, and eventually kill her.
It was a workable theory—provided Karly Vickers had exited out the back of the dental office. But Dr. Crane’s ever-efficient receptionist had stepped out of the office to take some bills to the corner mailbox that day, and hadn’t seen the young woman leave.
If Vickers had left out the back, and the assailant was as organized and methodical as Vince believed, Karly Vickers had not been a victim of opportunity. He had chosen her. Which meant he had to know she would be there.
That had to be a short list of subjects. Someone connected to the Thomas Ce
nter; someone who overheard her at the hair salon; the dentist; Frank Farman, who had written her a ticket on her way to the appointment. She might have told a friend, could have been overheard at a restaurant or standing in line at the supermarket . . .
Maybe not such a short list after all.
The garage door rolled down.
“And the lease is six hundred a month,” Janet Crane said.
“Great. That seems very reasonable,” Vince said, flashing the big smile. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Crane,” he said, shaking her hand again. “I’ll definitely give it some thought.”
“Good!” she said, back to being a little too animated. She needed to leave him with that last good impression. “Your business would be a wonderful addition to the plaza. And I would be more than happy to show you some beautiful homes in town as well. I hope to hear from you again. Soon!”
She led the way to the front of the store, and Vince looked around at the space. Some warm yellow paint, old wooden display shelves filled with products imported from Italy, an espresso bar in the corner . . . As fantasies went, he thought, it was a good one.
42
Anne followed her students out of the building and watched them climb onto buses or into waiting cars. Not one child was being allowed to walk home.
Wendy’s father had come to pick her up. Janet Crane had come for Tommy. Anne ducked back behind the door to avoid being seen.
“Chicken,” Franny said. He grabbed her at the waist from behind and Anne gave a squeal of surprise.
“You’re just lucky I haven’t taken up a martial art,” she scolded. “You shouldn’t sneak up on women when there’s been a homicidal lunatic on the loose.”
“He probably doesn’t work at Oak Knoll Elementary,” Franny said. “Who were you hiding from?”
She rolled her eyes. “Janet Crane. I have never seen anyone more vicious or, frankly, out of her mind as she was in the office this morning. Shrieking about everyone she’s going to sue—including me, by the way.”