by Lisa Regan
Josie’s phone buzzed as the elevator climbed and climbed, finally stopping on floor thirty-four. She looked at it to see a missed call from Noah. Clutching the phone in one hand, Josie tried to keep track of each turn she and Trinity made in the maze of hallways so she would be able to find her way back to the elevators when it was time to meet Jack Starkey. Josie was momentarily paralyzed by the breathtaking view that drew her gaze the moment she stepped over the threshold. An entire wall of Trinity’s apartment was made of windows that gave an expansive view of the city.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Trinity asked, wheeling Josie’s suitcase in and setting it next to the front door.
The view was fantastic, but to Josie, the apartment itself was small. “It’s huge by New York City standards,” Trinity assured her. The living room, dining room, and kitchen all seemed to be squeezed into a single space roughly the size of Josie’s living room. A short hallway led to a bedroom and bathroom. The furniture was sleek and white, everything small and understated, with gold and silver accents—abstract metallic wall art, shiny satin throw pillows, and tall glass vases with willow branches reaching toward the ceiling. It was modern and elegant, and Josie could imagine it being the subject of a magazine article. One of those celebrity-shows-off-her-home pieces.
“Do you like it?” Trinity asked.
“It’s beautiful,” Josie said, although she preferred a more homey space where she wouldn’t be so afraid to spill food on the furniture.
As if reading her mind, Trinity said, “Don’t worry about getting stuff dirty. I’ve got wear care on the upholstery. You can pour red wine all over it and it will come out in minutes.”
Josie wondered how much that cost. She moved into the living room space, where a large square of white shag area carpet held a couch, a glass-topped coffee table, and a large-screen television. “I have to call Noah back.”
“Go ahead,” Trinity said. “I made coffee. I’ll make you some while you call him.”
Josie nodded, taking a seat on the couch and dialing Noah’s number as she watched Trinity busy herself in the kitchen space only a few feet away. She had rarely seen her sister so happy and carefree. It occurred to Josie that beyond their parents, who would be proud no matter what, Trinity really had no one to share her life or accomplishments with. Josie couldn’t even imagine how high the rent must be for an apartment like this, but she knew Trinity had worked her butt off to be able to afford it. If they hadn’t lost thirty years, they would have shared everything. Not for the first time, Josie wondered how their lives—even their personalities—might have been different if they’d been together. She thought of Dr. Perry Larson and his study of how genes expressed themselves differently, and wondered if that also applied to tastes and preferences.
On the eighth ring, Noah picked up. “Hey,” he said. “I’ve got some news.”
He didn’t ask how her trip was or if she had arrived safely. It was their old rhythm. Right to the point. There was work to be done. Talking like this—like they always had—made her feel better about things between them. “Tell me,” Josie said.
“The Wawa mug? It came back with Gretchen’s prints on it.”
A gasp lodged in Josie’s throat. Part of her had been sure she was grasping at straws when she’d sent the mug to the lab for expedited processing. Even though she’d suspected the mug had been Gretchen’s, she was still shocked at the hard evidence. “Anyone else’s prints?” she asked.
“A partial, but the quality isn’t good enough for them to run it through AFIS.”
“Shit.”
Trinity waved to her from the kitchen, and she stood and walked over, accepting the cup of coffee Trinity offered, prepared exactly the way she liked it. On the phone, Noah went on, “I already got Loughlin down here. We met with Bowen. Loughlin wanted to question Gretchen about the mug—at least try to confirm that Gretchen owned a Wawa travel mug—but Bowen put the brakes on everything.”
“What?” Josie said.
“He’s concerned that an item found with Gretchen’s prints on it at a second crime scene will only do damage. He said if we want to charge her with the Wilkins murders, then we need to develop our own case. He’s not going to help us by letting his client answer questions.”
Josie sipped her coffee while Trinity opened a glossy magazine on the kitchen counter. Josie knew she was listening, though she pretended to be engrossed in the pages. “I guess I can see that, but there’s no way we can make the leap from a mug with her prints on it to double murder. Margie Wilkins was sexually assaulted. Gretchen didn’t do that.”
“Bowen thinks we’re going to nail her as an accomplice to the murders.”
“I can see Chitwood trying to do that. What I’ve been saying all along is that there’s someone else involved, but not as an accomplice.”
“Or maybe she is protecting her accomplice,” Noah suggested.
“No,” Josie said instantly. Gretchen was so frightened that she would rather punch a colleague in the face and be in prison than be exonerated. Like the spikes lining the windows of her house, her actions were driven by a fear of something, not by a need to protect a murderer.
“Well,” Noah said before she could start another argument between them about Gretchen’s guilt or innocence, “Loughlin’s going to give it another go with Bowen and see if she can’t get a conversation with Gretchen.”
“Keep me posted,” Josie said tersely and pressed End Call before she was tempted to have a longer conversation with him. They’d been over everything repeatedly. Nothing about either the Omar case or the Wilkins case fit—and now nothing made sense at all. Josie didn’t think for one moment that Gretchen had been at the Wilkinses’ house. She was certain that whoever shot Omar took Gretchen’s travel mug from her home and left it at the Wilkinses’ house after their murders. Why was a question she wasn’t ready to tackle yet. She needed more information. She had no idea where she would get it, but she would keep kicking over stones until she found something useful. Starting with ATF agent Jack Starkey and whatever he knew about Gretchen’s secret past.
“Well, that was tense,” Trinity noted as Josie rinsed out her coffee mug in the tiny sink.
Josie gave a wry smile. “We’re agreeing to disagree.”
“Sounds fun.” Trinity walked her the few feet to the door. “Oh, I should tell you. A professor from Drexel University contacted me. He’s doing some kind of study. Genetics or something like that.”
Josie groaned. “Epigenetics.”
Trinity arched a perfectly plucked brow. “Yes, that’s right. He’s doing a study on twins separated at birth. The only reason I took the call is because he told my assistant he had already spoken with you.”
“He did speak with me,” Josie said, irritation edging her voice. “And I told him we weren’t interested.”
She hadn’t pegged Perry Larson for the pushy type—not the kind of person who would go behind Josie’s back after she had already told him no.
Trinity put one hand on her hip. “You told him ‘we’ weren’t interested? Without even asking me?”
Josie raised a brow. “You can’t possibly be interested in a twin study. No, let me rephrase. You can’t possibly have time for one.”
Trinity said, “Well, that is true, although he was quite compelling. Apparently, it’s quite hard to find twins who were separated at birth.”
“Not my problem,” Josie muttered. “I’ve got murderers to track down.”
Trinity smiled. “And I’ve got news to report. But in the future, maybe we could decide something like that together?”
It was hard for Josie to get used to having a sister. She touched Trinity’s hand. “You got it.”
“Now, go meet your mystery ATF agent and call me if you need rescuing.”
Chapter Forty-Five
New York City was far easier to navigate on foot, even with the throngs of people filling every square inch of sidewalk and the men in polo shirts on every corner trying to sell tou
rist bus rides. As Trinity had instructed, Josie had asked Starkey to meet her at a restaurant not far from the apartment. It was a small pub on the ground floor of a narrow brick building sandwiched between two other tall structures. Josie found a small table in the back near the restrooms. Everything inside was shiny wood beneath hazy yellow lights. Josie checked her phone. Starkey was late. When the waitress asked if she would like a drink, she ordered a whisky sour and then immediately canceled it, ordering a Coke instead. If the waitress thought her indecisiveness was strange, she didn’t show it.
Josie played with her straw wrapper and had downed nearly all of her first Coke by the time Jack Starkey finally showed up. The first thing she thought when he slid into the seat across from hers, his rotund stomach pressing against the table’s edge, was that he was Santa Claus. His thick white hair was brushed back away from his face, flowing down to his shoulders. A robust white beard and moustache framed a jovial smile beneath a bulbous nose and twinkling blue eyes.
“You Quinn?” he asked.
Josie nodded, her eyes traveling down to the leather jacket he wore over a torn black T-shirt. The smell of tobacco and sweet-smelling alcohol drifted toward her. He didn’t look like any kind of federal agent that Josie had ever met. But if his team routinely worked undercover with outlaw motorcycle gangs, then he looked just right.
“Agent Starkey,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”
He waved the waitress over and ordered a beer. “Just Starkey. Sorry to make you go through all this,” he said. “A long time ago, Gretchen made me promise…”
He drifted off, his eyes glazing over just a bit, as if a sudden memory had taken him right out of the room. Josie cleared her throat to get his attention. “Gretchen made you promise what?”
“Maybe I should start at the beginning. You mind if I see your credentials?”
Josie raised a brow but replied, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Starkey chuckled and took a worn wallet out of his back pocket. He tossed it over to her. The leather was warm in Josie’s hands as she opened it to see his federal ID. He was considerably more kempt in his photo.
He studied hers a beat longer than she had studied his. “You were on TV,” he said.
“Yes,” Josie said. “Twins separated at birth. Trinity Payne is my sister. I’d really prefer not to discuss it, if you don’t mind.”
One of Starkey’s bushy eyebrows kinked. “Twins? Nah. This was a couple years ago. All those missing girls found up there on that mountain.”
The missing girls case had turned Josie’s world upside down and nearly destroyed the city of Denton. “Yes,” she answered. “That was me.”
“Well,” he said, “I can see why Gretchen would want to work with you. That’s a nice gash you’ve got on your face there. What happened?”
Josie smiled tightly. Her fingers itched to touch the cut, but she kept them on Starkey’s ID. “I fell,” she lied, not wanting to get into the truth behind it. As they returned each other’s credentials, Josie changed the subject. “Starkey, if you could tell me what you asked me here to tell me, I’d really appreciate it. Every moment I don’t figure out what really happened with this shooting is another moment that Gretchen is in trouble.”
The waitress arrived with Starkey’s beer, and he gulped down half of it in one long swig. Golden droplets of liquid sparkled in his beard. He dropped the thick glass onto the table with a firm thud and said, “I’m gonna need more drinks and more information.”
With a sigh, Josie replied, “What kind of information?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Who’d you work with in the FBI? When you caught that missing girls case.”
“Why do you ask? What does this have to do with Gretchen?”
“I need someone to vouch for you,” he told her.
Josie raised a brow at him. “Call my chief then.”
As the waitress brought another beer, Starkey said, “No. Someone not in your department.”
“My chief is new,” Josie said. “I only met him six months ago. He might as well be not in my department.”
Starkey slugged down half his beer. “Nah, I’d feel better if I talked to a federal agent. That missing girls case—there was a big police-corruption scandal, wasn’t there? Seems to me if the FBI got called in, they’d send someone from the Civil Rights Division. Those guys get paid to make sure everyone’s aboveboard.”
“You’re questioning my integrity?” Josie asked, defensiveness making her skin prickle.
“I have to,” he said. “It’s for Gretchen’s own good.”
“Fine,” Josie snapped. “Special Agent Marcus Holcomb. You want his number too?”
Starkey grinned. He took out his phone and stood up. “No need. I’ll get in touch with him.”
She watched him walk away from the table to the far end of the bar, punching numbers into the keypad on his phone. Josie clenched her fists beneath the table. She didn’t know whether she should tell him off or just leave. She wanted to do both, but she couldn’t shake the suspicion that this man had information that could help her sort out the mess Gretchen had gotten herself into.
After twenty minutes on his phone, Starkey sauntered back to the table, smiling. He plopped down in front of her and slurped down the rest of the beer he’d abandoned. “Talked to Holcomb,” he said. “You checked out.”
Through gritted teeth, Josie said, “I don’t have time for games, Agent Starkey. Are you going to talk to me about Gretchen? Because if you’re not, I’d just as soon get back to Denton and back to my investigation.”
Starkey signaled the waitress for yet another beer. “Fair enough,” he told her. “You ever heard of the Soul Mate Strangler?”
Chapter Forty-Six
Josie stared at him. “I’m sorry. The who?”
“The Soul Mate Strangler. He was a serial killer operating in Seattle in the early nineties.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t, I’m sorry. What’s this have to do with Gretchen?”
He held up a hand as if to tell her to wait. Lifting the mug to his lips, he gulped down the rest of the beer and signaled the waitress for another. “Well, I guess he wasn’t real famous outside of Seattle. He was never caught. In 1994, he broke into Gretchen and Billy’s house, killed Billy and raped Gretchen.”
“My God,” Josie said, unable to hide her shock. She hadn’t been sure what to expect from Starkey, whose strange paranoia had seemed particularly bizarre, but it wasn’t this.
“Yeah. She was the only one of his victims to survive.”
Now, Josie thought more seriously about the drink she had declined. “Please,” she said, using her straw to stir the ice cubes in the bottom of her glass, “tell me more.”
Starkey looked around as though someone might overhear them, but the other patrons were engaged in conversation or in the soccer game playing on the flat screen televisions that peppered the place. “Like I said, he was active in Seattle in the early nineties. Actually, from May to May—1993 to 1994. Had the whole city in an uproar. People were freaked out. With good reason.”
“Why was he called the Soul Mate Strangler?” Josie asked.
The waitress arrived with another beer, and Starkey slugged it down, nearly finishing it. He set the glass on the edge of the table and swiped a meaty hand over his beard. “Well the strangled part you can guess—he choked all his victims. But the press dubbed him the Soul Mate Strangler because he only ever attacked couples.”
A cold feeling crept up Josie’s spine. “How many?”
“Six couples.”
Josie felt punch drunk even though all she had had was soda. “Jesus. Gretchen and Billy were the last?”
“No. There was one more couple in 2004.”
“That’s a big gap,” Josie noted.
He nodded. “Ten years. It was a shock, ’cause honestly, everyone thought he was dead.”
“No chance it was a copycat?”
“Nah, see, he liked t
o take things from one scene and leave it at the next one. He took Billy’s knife when he left the scene at their house. Ten years later it turned up at the Neal crime scene—that was the name of the couple, Justin and Amy Neal—plus, everything else was the same. He disabled the power, got in through a window, tied up both victims with rope he brought with him, assaulted the female, and then strangled both.”
Josie couldn’t help but think of that damn Wawa cup making its way from Gretchen’s living room to the Wilkinses’ kitchen. And yet, Omar had been shot and Joel Wilkins had been bludgeoned—and during the walk-through with Robyn Wilkins, she hadn’t noticed anything missing.
Then there was the photo of the boy running through tall grass—with the date 2004 printed on the back.
“What did he take from the Neal scene?” Josie asked abruptly, leaning into the table. A waitress shimmied past with a tray full of drinks, and Josie longed for the burn of Wild Turkey sliding down her throat. But she kept her focus on Starkey.
“Nothing. That’s why we think he was done. Some people think he stopped. Gretchen said he was probably late thirties when he attacked her—although she never got a real good look at his face—so in 2004 he would have been in his late forties. A serial killer pushing fifty?”
“You think he aged out?” Josie said. “He knew he was getting older, less able to control a scene with two people, and so he somehow managed to stop himself?”
“That’s a theory that’s been kicked around, yeah. Some FBI shrinks say his testosterone levels would decrease as he got older, and his compulsion to assault and kill would lessen with time. Nobody knows. It’s all theories. Obviously, he was able to stop for ten years. Some people think he’s really dead this time. That, or he went to prison for something else. Although, if he had gone to prison, his DNA would be on file, right? He left DNA at every damn scene, and after twenty-five years, there’s still no match.”