by Whitley Gray
“Ms. Nementhal?” Beck asked.
The woman nodded. “Yes, I’m Rhys Nementhal.”
“I’m Detective Stryker with the Denver Police Department.” Beck showed his badge. “This is Agent Littman from the FBI. We’d—”
“Is this about Denny?”
“Denny?” Beck glanced at Zach.
“My husband.” The hand clutching the door blanched. “Did something happen?”
“No. No, this is about Annika Unger. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Oh. I don’t know how I could help you.”
“Mind if we come in?” Beck gestured toward the door.
“Okay.” She stood aside and waved them in.
The entryway floor had harlequin-patterned tile in black and white. In front of them a staircase ascended to the second story. To the right was a living room full of sheet-draped furniture. She led them to the kitchen. A small table and four chairs, nothing to indicate kids. Zach began, “Is your husband available?”
“No. It’s his skydiving day. That’s why I was worried about cops on my doorstep.”
Ah. Well, Rhys was better than nothing.
“Please have a seat. The living room is being painted.” She offered coffee and water. After each of them had a glass in front of them, she asked, “How can I help you?”
“You’re acquainted with Annika Unger’s disappearance this past December fifteenth?” Beck started.
“I am. The Ungers live less than a mile from us.” She hesitated. “Are you reopening the missing-persons case?”
Beck shot Zach a questioning look, and he gave a slight nod. Beck said, “Ms. Unger’s remains were recently discovered.”
“That’s…so sad.” Her eyebrows slanted up. “You must be from homicide.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Beck pulled out his notebook.
“And that’s why the FBI is involved. Kidnapping.”
Not exactly, but close enough; serial murder wasn’t something Zach wanted to discuss with an assistant DA. “We’re assisting.”
Beck took over. “Did you ever see Annika around the neighborhood?”
“I can’t say that I did. When the picture ran in the paper and on the news, she didn’t look familiar. Only the last name rang a bell.”
“On the night in question, do you recall what you were doing?”
She raised her chin. “Am I a suspect?”
“Not at all.” Zach kept his tone soft and disarming. “We’re trying to uncover anything that might give us a clue about what took place that evening. Do you remember what you did between six and ten p.m.?”
“Yes. The only reason I remember is because there was such a fuss made by the neighborhood association and Matt Unger regarding what happened that night. Not that I blame him,” she added, cheeks turning pink. “I’m sure it was devastating.”
Beck flipped a page in his notebook. “What do you remember about that evening?”
Her eyes became unfocused, as if she were seeing that night. “It was less than ten days until Christmas, and it was snowing. There was a big holiday party that night at Edward Day’s house.”
Hello. This could help. Zach leaned forward. “Attorney Edward Day, the managing partner of Bellwether, Fontana, and Day?”
“The very same.” Rhys smiled. “BFD’s annual holiday get-together.”
“Did you attend with your husband?” Beck glanced at his notes. “Denny?”
“Yes. I think we got there about…eight and left around ten.”
Zach held back a groan. They wouldn’t have seen Annika’s captor, at least not at the time of the abduction.
Beck asked, “Were there unfamiliar vehicles in the neighborhood that night?”
“There were lots of cars. It was a challenge to park within two blocks of their house. Other than that, nothing in particular caught my attention.”
“Do you remember who else was at the party?”
“Mmm…yes. There was a liberal sprinkling of attorneys, some neighbors, and then a group of the Days’ friends. It’s a huge house, and people were coming and going all evening.”
“Would you be able to make a list?” Zach kept his voice level.
“I suppose.” Reluctance colored her tone. “Mr. Day could probably give you the guest list.”
But would he? According to Beck, BFD had not been cooperative so far. Any portion of the guest list—even an incomplete one based on Ms. Nementhal’s memory—would be helpful. At least it would be names. Zach said, “Anything you could give us would be appreciated.”
Beck made a note. “Were all the district attorneys invited?”
“No.” She pursed her lips. “I think we got invited because we’re sort of neighbors, and because I had interned at BFD’s office in the past.”
A zing of excitement went up Zach’s spine. “When did you clerk at their office?”
“Last summer and the one before that. I graduated from the University of Denver Law School last December and then took a job with the district attorney’s office.”
Beck frowned. “You didn’t want to work for BFD after graduation?”
“They offered me a position in wills and estate planning. I wanted to go into criminal law.”
C’mon, Beck. Ask her the million-dollar question.
“Did you know a law student by the name of Nathan Andrew Perny? He did an internship with BFD.”
The green eyes narrowed. Rhys swirled her glass. Ice cubes clinked. She set down the tumbler, and for a moment she said nothing. Then, “Yes. Why?”
BECK WANTED TO give Zach a high five. Now they were getting somewhere. Zach was studying Rhys. Stick to the facts, Stryker. “It may have some bearing on Annika’s disappearance.”
“Mmm. Is he a suspect?”
Uh-oh. Beck held the pen over his notebook. “I can’t discuss the details of an ongoing investigation.”
“Habit. Sorry.” She gave a rueful smile.
Beck nodded. “Were you acquainted through school?”
“No. He went to school somewhere in the Midwest… It might have been Iowa or Nebraska. At any rate, last summer I heard he was trying to swing a transfer to the University of Denver.”
“Why would someone do that?”
She shrugged. “To study at a more prestigious university, or to access a special class.” She looked at Beck. “Did he get the transfer?”
“He did. He started at the University of Denver in January of this year. You knew him through BFD, then?”
“We were both summer clerks there but worked for different attorneys. I knew who he was, but we weren’t friends.”
Not friends. So Perny hadn’t been comrade-in-arms material. “Acquaintances?”
“At most. We rarely spoke.”
“Was he friends with other clerks at BFD?”
“Not that I know of. There was something about him that made people uncomfortable.”
Hmm. The guy looked pretty unassuming in his license photo. “Was he at the party?”
“He was.”
“Did you talk to him there?”
“No. I saw him across the room; we didn’t speak. He was talking to a blonde woman. I don’t know her name, and she didn’t look familiar.”
Lucky the blonde hadn’t gotten in Perny’s car. “Okay. Going back to the summer internships. Do you remember which attorney he worked with?”
“I think it was Edward Day.” She glanced upward for a moment. “Yeah. Day. Pretty sure that’s correct.”
Perfect. The guy who wouldn’t give Beck the time of day. There had to be some way around BFD to get information about Perny and his associates.
Rhys gave him an appraising look. “Why all the questions about Perny?”
Beck kept his game face. He and Zach should’ve discussed whether to reveal Perny’s death. The last thing the investigation needed was furor about a serial killer. Beck bumped Zach’s foot under the table.
Zach tapped his index finger on the table.
Rhys looked at Zach’s hand, and he gave Beck a slight nod. Tell.
Here we go. “Mr. Perny died a week ago.”
Rhys’s grass-green eyes flared. “Oh my God. What happened?”
“He was murdered. It happened out of state.” Beck watched the attorney’s face. She paled, surprise morphing to horror, then settling back into neutral. A courtroom face.
After taking a sip of water, she asked, “If you’re investigating the death of the Unger girl, you think Perny had something to do with it?”
“No.” Beck made it emphatic. He wasn’t giving away so much as a crumb about Perny’s activities. “No. It’s possible he and Annika came across the same person. We’re seeking connections.”
Zach ran his thumb down the side of his tumbler. “Did you and Mr. Perny have friends in common?”
“Doubtful. He was a year behind me in school, and a transfer student.”
Who had known this guy? He couldn’t have operated in a vacuum for five months. Someone had seen him, observed his activities. Frustrated, Beck chose a different tack. “Would he have had a particular place to study?”
“The law library is a possibility. If he was accepted into a study group, they might have met in a room there.”
Beck’s pulse sped up. “How would we find his study group?”
“In the entryway of the law school there’s a bulletin board. The groups are posted. Groups with vacancies also advertise there.”
Chapter Seventeen
The sign taped inside the glass door of the law school said CLOSED UNTIL MAY 25TH FOR END-OF-TERM BREAK. Zach tugged on the door anyway. He returned to the car and Beck.
“Closed until Tuesday,” Zach said. “‘Closed’ might be the most aggravating word in the English language.”
“I’m not too fond of the word ‘no’ myself.”
“Yeah.” Zach blew out a breath.
“Now what?”
Zach drummed his fingers on the armrest. Connections, connections. “We read up on Jane Doe 114 and Perny.”
* * * *
At the station, Beck was buried in the murder book on JD 114 when his phone rang. He looked at the cell and grimaced. Matt Unger couldn’t list patience as one of his virtues. It hadn’t been forty-eight hours since his last call.
Beck picked up the call. “Stryker.”
“Hello, Detective. I’m downstairs, and I’d like to talk to you. In person.”
“Mr. Unger, I’m tied up right now—”
“It would behoove you to speak with me, Detective.”
Behoove? Who used that word in conversation? “I have nothing new to tell you,” Beck said warily.
“I think you do.”
What was going on here? “Such as?”
“Such as there’s a serial killer operating in Denver, and I have a responsibility to update the public.”
Fuck. How in the hell had that happened? They weren’t ready to go public yet. “I have a responsibility to this investigation, Mr. Unger.”
“We need to talk.” Unger’s words were sharp and brooked no argument.
The man wasn’t about to give up. “Fine. Come on up.” Beck punched End.
“Trouble?” Zach asked.
“Yeah. Matt Unger. Someone must’ve tipped him. He knows there’s a serial killer, and he plans to broadcast it on the news.” Beck didn’t need more problems. “We’ll be swamped with tips from everyone who thinks their neighbor or coworker is a little off.”
“Which serial killer?”
“I’m assuming the Follower. The Wexler murder likely piqued his interest, and he must have a source inside the department. I need to see how SJ wants to handle it.” Beck headed for the bull pen.
As they walked Zach said, “If the higher-ups don’t know, now is the time to tell them.”
“And if they want to feed us to the wolves?”
Zach smiled grimly. “We’ll have to roll with the punches.”
The door to robbery/homicide swung open, admitting the hulking figure of Matt Unger. He was casually attired in jeans paired with a shirt and blazer. With a few long strides, he made it to Beck’s desk. A wave of spicy cologne wafted over, something no doubt as expensive as it was overwhelming.
Beck forced a smile. “Mr. Unger, this is FBI profiler Zach Littman. Zach, Matt Unger, Annika’s father.”
The two men shook hands.
“Have a seat, Mr. Unger.” Beck indicated the seat next to his desk. Zach took Van’s spot at the other desk.
Unger dropped into the chair. Even seated, the man was intimidating. He folded his hands in his lap and gave Beck a direct look.
Beck stared right back. “If you panic the citizenry, it’s going to result in a flood of false leads and hinder the process.”
“The ‘process.’ Right.” Unger gave a mirthless chuckle. “With the FBI involved, I’m sure you can whittle those leads down. Are we going to talk, or am I going ahead with what I’ve got?”
“We need time—”
“You had time. Five months’ time. I’m not going to stand by while someone else’s child is slaughtered.” Unger’s jaw jutted forward. The effect was all lethal linebacker. Reasoning with him wasn’t going to happen—not with the fresh grief over Annika’s death.
Plan B: damage control. “Let me call my boss.”
“You do that.” Unger gave no hint of a smile.
To gain some privacy, Beck headed for the conference room. The macabre list on the board negated plausible deniability. They had a serial killer. He punched in SJ’s number.
* * * *
They scheduled a press conference for five. Unger departed with a triumphant smirk. In Zach’s opinion, Beck had handled it well, diplomatically dealing with Unger and then scheduling an evening task force meeting for four thirty.
“Why did the Follower kill JD 114?” Beck studied the victim list on the dry-erase board. “What did he get out of killing that particular person?”
“Good question. You’re starting to sound like a profiler.” Zach pulled up the autopsy summary on a laptop. “Omaha’s Jane Doe 114 was found quickly—in less than twenty-four hours. No GPS coordinates. She was young and healthy. Hair bleached blonde—the roots were dark. Old scar on her flank. She’d had her heart excised with surgical precision. She did not have a number carved into her flesh.” Zach paused. “She had no fingerprint match and did not come up on any Nebraska missing-persons reports, so very little for victimology. It would help if we had an identity.”
Beck nodded. “The case went cold within a month, except to Hogan. He worked it when he could, but he was swamped with the Crossroads cases, courtesy of Perny.”
“Okay, let’s look at victimology on the other three. We have two females and one male. No consistent hair color, build, location, occupation. Annika’s body was hidden—no coordinates sent to law enforcement.”
“He’s killed in Omaha and Denver. He must have transportation.”
“Agreed. And he’d have to keep the vehicle in good shape in order to travel those distances.” Zach turned to a blank dry-erase board and wrote a header: the Follower. Beneath the label he wrote: has transportation. “Age. I’d say he’s late twenties, early thirties, and has a criminal history. He didn’t start with this. He worked up to it.” On the list Zach put: 20s-30s. Criminal past.
“ViCAP give anything on the Follower’s victims?” Beck asked.
Zach snorted. “Yeah. It spit out a match to Xavier Darling.”
“What he does resembles Darling’s signature.”
Not exactly. “Xav was into prolonged torture and rape in addition to excising hearts and digits. The Follower’s method involves abbreviated torture and no sexual assault.”
“And the Follower uses numbers.”
Numbers went up on the list. “Xav didn’t number, and we don’t understand the Follower’s system. JD 114 had no number.”
Slowly Beck said, “It’s almost like he’s saying, You’re not mine. You don’t count. You don’t dese
rve a number.”
Zach leaned on his fists on the table. “Not worthy? Or…not his? Not the Follower’s victim.”
Beck raised his eyebrows. “There’s no way someone else murdered Perny and Wexler. He definitely did JD 114. Annika is pretty likely.”
“I’m not saying he didn’t kill them. The first to die was JD 114. No ID, no name, no number.”
“Like a practice run? She could be ‘the numberless one’ from his poem.” Beck paused. “But then what was Annika?”
“Maybe,” Zach said slowly, “maybe she was victim zero.”
“Who starts a body count with zero?”
“Maybe the Follower does.”
* * * *
In the DPD briefing room, a podium held a bank of microphones. Cables snaked across the floor. Reporters from all types of media fidgeted in chairs. Against the back wall, cameramen jockeyed for position with photographers. The air hummed with hushed voices, feedback from the mic, the test click of a camera. Excitement. Murder, they whispered among themselves. Murder.
Anticipation ran over Beetle’s skin like an electric current. He’d saved what little had made the newspapers, of course, and printed out the online articles. Reading had nothing on the live atmosphere of a conference in his honor. The hot plastic smell of electronics mixed with the aroma of the reporters and a whiff of floor polish. If they only knew he stood among them…
Oh, yes. Insinuating himself here was almost as good as being in on the investigation. This attention was a thousand times better than merely reading about his exploits. Voices would turn his deeds to music.
This would be his affirmation, the declaration of his ascension to fame, his superiority. Perny had been a nobody, felled by Beetle’s blade. Beetle had drawn the quarry into the net and dispatched him, and the mentor had been proud.
The mayor trooped in, followed by an overweight man in a police uniform. The chief of police. Good. Behind him was a woman Beetle recognized as the head of homicide—Captain Fisk. A couple of plainclothes cops accessorized with badges and guns came next. And then… Ah, there you are, Dr. Littman. In the game at last. Closely following Littman was a blond man wearing dark dress pants, a shirt and tie, a gun and badge. He stopped next to Littman. A bodyguard?