How could I forget?
“There’s a rock near the new graves that would serve his purpose?” Mike asked sharply.
“What purpose?” asked Tessa, looking from Cate to Mike.
“An altar to pose his victims on,” Cate said softly. “Long . . . flat . . . it’s where he took a lot of their photos before killing them.” She briefly closed her eyes, remembering the hard surface of the rock from that morning.
Were there any dark stains?
She hadn’t paid attention. A shudder rolled up her spine.
“Anyway, this former girlfriend said he’d taken photos of her on a rock near where the bodies were found,” Mike said. “Normal photos—fully dressed. But she asserted that he’d fixated on the rock in such an odd way it’d stuck with her. He’d joked that she should take her clothes off to pose on the rock, which disturbed her.”
“I trust that’s when she dumped his ass,” Tessa said, crossing her arms.
“He’d also told her it looked like a sacrificial altar. We never released information that the photos of the murdered women had been taken on that rock, but when she learned the bodies had been found nearby, she called.”
“Your investigation went on for almost six months,” Henry said. “Why did she wait so long to come forward?”
“She’d moved to Arizona. Wasn’t aware of the case.” Mike wrinkled his forehead and looked at Cate. “A family member eventually mentioned it to her, right?”
“A friend who still lived in Washington,” corrected Cate.
“That’s right,” said Mike. “Our witness said she’d broken up with him soon after the photos were taken, but we decided it was a good lead and started to watch Jeff Lamb.”
“He was a manager at a local winery,” Cate added. “Everyone there seemed to like him. We wanted to get his fingerprints before moving forward.” She grinned at Mike. “I remember you and I did wine tastings three days in a row, hoping Jeff would wait on us so we could get his prints off a glass.”
“We weren’t the only ones.” He smiled back at her.
He doesn’t make my stomach flutter anymore.
“What would you have done if the thumbprint didn’t match?” Henry asked. “You said it could have been a fake.”
“We would have eventually questioned him,” said Mike, “but we got lucky when the thumb matched.”
“Very lucky,” agreed Cate. “It helped everything fall into place.”
“What was his motivation?” asked Henry.
“We never were certain,” said Mike. “He wouldn’t say, but we had a few theories. We do know he found his victims through the winery. Most of them were from out of town. He’d get their addresses when they signed up for the wine club or some other promotion. I know he really enjoyed the stalking process.”
“Absolutely he did,” said Cate. “That was clear in his interviews. He almost bragged as he described following the woman he’d chosen. He’d tail one every day for several days as he worked up a plan to kidnap her.”
Tessa spread out the photos Mike had just set on the table.
Cate knew every face and name. Eight years had not dimmed her memory of the murdered women.
Jeff Lamb had a type. Long blonde hair, petite, and attractive.
At least that was his type of victim. The majority of the girlfriends Cate had interviewed had been tall and brunette. He’d been popular. Everyone at the winery had had nice words to say about him, as had his neighbors, but most of the girlfriends had eventually lost interest. “Inattentive,” “worked too much,” and “I didn’t feel special” were the most common complaints.
Cate hadn’t been surprised; the killer was a narcissist.
She reached across the table and gently arranged the photos in front of Tessa in order of their murders. Cate touched the first one. “February fifth.” And then moved on to the others. “June fifth. November fifth and then March, April, and August of the following year. All on the fifth.”
“No discernible pattern other than always using the fifth?” asked Tessa. “The months do get closer together. He probably thirsted for more thrills. Couldn’t wait as long in between.”
“We couldn’t find a pattern,” said Mike. “And we did feel he was ramping things up.”
“Glad you got him.” Henry studied the photos. “They’re all so young.”
“Jasmine Heath was the youngest at nineteen,” said Cate. “She had a three-year-old.”
“What about the idea of a potential copycat?” asked Tessa.
Mike leaned back in his chair. “I’ve started making a list of everyone who associated with Jeff Lamb back then, but it will take some time to get current statuses on these people. Cate, does anyone stand out in your memories?”
Cate had already spent time trying to remember. “There was an old roommate of his that keeps coming to mind. His name escapes me.”
Mike straightened. “I know exactly who you’re talking about, but his name . . .” He tapped on his keyboard.
“Why’d he make an impression?” asked Tessa, with a curious look at Cate.
“He had a domestic violence record,” said Cate. He was also memorable because he’d look past Cate to talk to whichever man she was working with instead of to her. Even when she’d asked the questions. It’d amused her. And annoyed her.
“Bryan Sowle,” announced Mike.
“That’s him,” agreed Cate.
“Let me find where he lives now.” Mike continued to type.
“Missing persons from the area should also be reviewed,” added Cate, glancing at Tessa.
“I did a preliminary search for the county,” said Tessa. “There really aren’t many, but I’ve compiled a list of missing women for the last ten years.”
“Do you need to go back further?” asked Henry. “If the case was closed eight years ago, he might have been using that as a burial ground for years before the original victims.”
“Or more recently if it wasn’t Lamb who buried the body,” said Cate. She nudged Henry. “How good are you at determining how long a body has been in the ground? The one from this morning was skeletal. How long does that take to happen?”
Henry snorted. “First of all, I have no hands-on experience with that. I’ve read about it, but I don’t remember specifics other than there are a lot of variables involved. Like how deep the grave is, what kind of dirt surrounds the body, how much water it is exposed to, how cold or how hot the area gets, how big the body is, or how—”
“Okay. I get it,” said Cate. “Neither of us really knows anything.”
“You can add me to that list too,” said Tessa. “That kind of knowledge is above my pay grade. We need a forensic expert.”
“Well, now, isn’t that convenient,” muttered Mike, who’d been focused on his screen as the rest of them had debated human-decomposition influences. “I found Bryan Sowle’s current address.”
“He’s close by?” Cate asked.
“Nope. He’s in Stafford Creek. Same prison as Jeff Lamb.”
The room was silent for a long moment.
“What’s he in for?” Cate finally asked.
“Second-degree murder. He’s been there for two years.”
Cate met Mike’s gaze. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I’m not either. But if we need to interview him, we can combine the trip with the Lamb interview. Efficient.” He nodded, a pleased expression on his face, reminding Cate how much he’d stressed efficiency during the time they’d dated. To the point that it had driven her crazy.
“You mean when you interview him,” Cate clarified. Mike had said we a few times, and she suspected he didn’t mean Tessa.
“No. You and me.” He raised a finger as she opened her mouth to protest. “Lamb liked you. We both know that. He talked to you more than anyone.”
Mike was right. Lamb had believed he was irresistible to women and saw Cate’s professional demeanor as a challenge. He’d been desperate for her to like him. She and Les, t
he lead on the case, had agreed to milk that to their advantage. Cate had stretched her acting skills, giving Lamb subtle hints that she was weakening. He’d eaten it up.
“Is that true?” asked Tessa. “Did you have a rapport with Lamb?”
“But Sowle won’t talk to me,” she said, grasping at straws.
“I can handle Sowle if an interview is needed,” said Mike.
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Tessa stated. “There’s a lot of work to do here before anyone runs off to prison.” She made a note on her phone. “I’ll expand the missing persons search. I’ll include Vancouver Island and the northern coastal counties of Washington. Tomorrow we can get started uncovering the other graves. We need to verify that’s what they are and if they hold women and lockets.”
“Everyone on the island knows something’s going on up there,” Henry pointed out. “Before the three of you arrived, I was asked about it at the bakery. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few curious gossipers decided to go take a look.”
“I’m posting someone up there all night,” Tessa answered. “I already worked out a shift rotation so no one is there for too many hours overnight. Bruce has been up there most of the day.”
“Do you need any more manpower?” asked Henry. “I’m capable of scaring off some snoops.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” said Tessa. “But I think we’re covered.”
“I’ll get Jeff Lamb’s visitor and call list from the prison,” said Mike. “I want to know who he’s been talking with for the past eight years.”
“Are we moving too fast?” asked Tessa. “Are we wrong to push forward so hard on the Lamb murder connection?”
“No,” said Cate firmly. “I’m positive this is related.”
She felt it in her gut.
5
Cate was distracted.
As she started to wipe down a table at the bakery, she realized she’d already cleaned it twice. Yet the next table over still had the flaky crumbs of a croissant spread across its top and under the high chair. The customer and her toddler had left more than ten minutes ago.
She gave herself a shake and tackled the crumbs.
Her focus was nonexistent, her mind constantly wondering what was happening at the burial site. Mike, Tessa, and the newly arrived forensic anthropologist had left for the location nearly six hours ago. She checked the clock behind the bakery counter. It was nearly three o’clock, and she hadn’t heard a word from anyone. She was being left out, and she didn’t like it.
Not my business anymore.
Then why am I on pins and needles?
Jane bustled out of the kitchen, a large tray of assorted pastries in her hands. She set it near the case and restocked. There was always a midafternoon rush on iced-coffee drinks and snacks. Cate wasn’t going to get rich running the bakery and bookstore, but she supported several employees and enjoyed the relaxing work.
And no one would shoot at her.
Hopefully.
The bells on the door jingled, and an older woman with a lovely genuine smile stepped in. Cate couldn’t help but smile in return. Behind the woman, Bruce pulled the door shut. He was in uniform.
Aha. This must be his visiting mother.
Cate wiped her hands on her apron. “Afternoon, Bruce.” He had dark circles under his brown eyes. No doubt a result of the long dull hours watching over the crime scene. He’d started to return her greeting when his mother stepped over to Cate and took her hand.
“I’m Patsy. Bruce’s mom. He told me about you, Cate. You have a darling little bakery.” She was a petite woman with long curly brown hair, beautifully streaked with natural gray and blonde.
Cate sensed a lot of strength in the small woman.
“Thank you.”
Patsy looked pleased, patted Cate’s hand, and turned to the bakery counter, where Jane stood watching the encounter, an amused look on her face.
“Oh my,” said Patsy, looking from Jane back to Cate. “The genes are strong, aren’t they? Clearly you two are related.”
“Jane is my grandmother.”
“So nice to meet you. Please call me Patsy.” Bruce’s mother took Jane’s hand the same way she’d taken Cate’s. “Oh! We’re going to get along wonderfully, Jane. I can tell already. There’s nothing better than being around other women with similar souls.” Her gaze went to the pastry case. “Tell me about that amazing-looking bun with the caramel.”
“She can be a bit much at first,” Bruce said softly as he stepped next to Cate. Jane and Patsy started to chat as if they’d known each other for decades. “I’m not surprised those two have hit it off. Jane’s reminded me of my mother since I first met her.”
“Patsy is wonderful,” said Cate. She was one of those people who emitted positive energy. It was palpable.
“We’re supposed to meet Chris here. He has the rental keys,” Bruce said. “I love my mother, but she and Julie are both strong personalities, and our home is too small for both of them. She’s only been here a few hours, and I swear my place has shrunk to half its size.”
Cate grinned at the exasperation in his voice, watching as Patsy whipped out a cell phone and showed pictures to Jane.
“Two grandbabies. Aren’t they beautiful!”
Jane enthusiastically agreed as Patsy shot a side-eye at Bruce.
“Stop it, Mom,” he ordered. “We’re not even married yet.” He snorted and turned to Cate. “Ever since both my sisters had babies, she won’t let up on me and Julie. Another reason to put some space between those two.”
The doorbells jingled as a tall bald man with a goatee came in.
“Hey, Chris,” Bruce greeted the real estate agent. He shook the man’s hand and led him to meet his mother.
Chris lifted a hand at Cate, and she returned the gesture, wondering how the mellow and reserved man would get along with Patsy Taylor. Cate suspected Patsy would overwhelm him within two minutes. Bruce excused himself, and Patsy immediately started chatting with Chris, whose eyes went wide at the ambush of her friendly energy.
He can handle it.
Cate’s phone vibrated in her apron’s pocket, and Mike’s name popped up on her screen. Cate strode behind the counter, through the kitchen, and out the back door, her phone clenched in her hand, subtle excitement vibrating in her bones.
“Mike?” she answered as she stepped into the quiet alley behind the bakery. “What’d you find out?”
“Good afternoon to you too,” he said.
Cate rolled her eyes.
“I knew you were invested in this case,” Mike told her. “You can’t resist a puzzle.”
“Just tell me what’s going on.”
“You were right about there being three graves. We’ve looked extensively, and I’m sure there’s no more . . . at least not at this exact site. Those three were in a perfect line—like we found at the original site—and we can’t see a hint of others beyond those.”
“Do we—do you need to bring in GPR?” she asked, referring to ground-penetrating radar.
“Not right now. Maybe later.”
“What was in them?”
Mike cleared his throat. “All three victims are female, and their remains are fully skeletal. The forensic anthropologist says they’re younger adults. Probably twenties and thirties. He’ll tighten up an age range later.”
“Any indication of cause of death?”
“Not yet, but he did notice knife marks on the ribs of one and a cracked skull on another.”
Cate nodded as Mike spoke. Jeff Lamb had done a variety of things to kill his victims on the stone altar. Cut throats, stabbings, blows to the head, asphyxiation.
“Lockets?”
“Yep. Two more. The faces are blurry as usual, but they’re clearly young women. Tessa is trying to compare them to some missing person photos, but it will take dental records to identify them.”
“Lamb did this, didn’t he?” asked Cate.
“No, I don’t think he did.”
“What? Why not?” It sounded exactly like Jeff Lamb to her.
“I saved the best for last. We found two quarters in one of the graves near the hip bones.”
“Where a pocket might have been . . .” Cate held her breath.
“The year on one of them is from five years ago.”
“And Jeff has been locked up for eight. We have an accomplice . . . or a fan,” said Cate. Her mind raced. Bryan Sowle was an option they needed to investigate.
No. Mike needs to investigate. Not me.
“We do. And I think while Tessa and our forensics expert work with the remains, you and I need to go to the Stafford Creek prison and talk with both Lamb and Sowle.”
Cate leaned against the rear wall of the bakery and looked up at the blue sky. At that very second she wanted more than anything to dive headfirst into the case. She wanted to match wits again with Lamb. Bounce ideas and theories off Mike.
A scent of chocolate and espresso wafted through the air, and her mind cleared.
That’s not my life anymore.
“I can’t, Mike. I’m done with that. And the FBI would nev—”
“I’ve already cleared it with Phillip.”
She blinked. “Like right now? You called him before you called me?”
“Correct.”
She wanted to fume about his high-handedness, but her pulse was beating too fast, her emotions building, torn between wanting to join and being scared of the consequences. “I can’t do the job anymore. I walked away for a reason.”
“I know why you left, Cate,” he said in a softer tone. “And I know the trauma has stuck with you. I don’t blame you one bit for stepping away. No one does. I probably would have done the same.”
“My edge is gone.” My confidence.
“This is just an interview. Nothing else. You don’t need an edge to talk to an imprisoned man. You know the case best, and you know him; you know how he thinks.”
True.
She’d worked many cases at the FBI, and some had stuck more deeply in her brain than others. Jeff Lamb had stuck. He was the killer journalists loved to write about. A popular man who seemingly had his life together. The guy who always got the girl, with his sincere smile and kind eyes.
Below the Bones Page 3