He wondered if Paul got a similar feeling when he walked through his multimillion-dollar home. Did his chest puff out with pride when he saw the dainty antique chairs and the obviously expensive canvases that hung on the walls? When he locked the front door at night, did he still get that sense of relief that no one had managed to take it all away from him? There was no arguing that the man had made a good life for his family. With the pool out back and the screening room in the basement, you’d never guess he had spent his early years perfecting the role of a juvenile delinquent.
Paul had never been quick, but he was street smart and even as a kid, he knew how to make a dollar. Abigail was obviously the brains in the family. She was right behind Will in figuring out what had really happened that morning in the Campano home. Will had never in his life seen someone so stricken with horror as when the woman realized that she had probably killed an innocent man—worse, an innocent man who might have been trying to help her daughter. She’d become hysterical. A doctor had been called to sedate her.
Typical Paul, he was working the angles before his wife’s head hit the pillow. He’d taken out his cell phone and made two calls: one to his attorney and one to his influential father-in-law, Hoyt Bentley. Ten short minutes later, Will’s own cell phone had started ringing. Once again, the governor had contacted the director of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, who had pressed Amanda, and she in turn had pressed Will.
“Don’t fuck this up,” Amanda had told him in her usual supportive way.
The procedure in kidnapping cases was simple: have a cop with the family at all times and have the family by the phone for the ransom call. Even as the doctor stuck a needle in her arm, Abigail Campano had still refused to leave her home. There was a guest suite in the carriage house. After making sure the apartment was not part of the crime scene, Will had sent the parents there along with Hamish Patel, a GBI hostage negotiator. Paul had bristled about being assigned a babysitter, which meant he either had something to hide or thought he could control the situation without the police getting in his way.
Knowing the way Paul worked, it was probably a little of both. He had been so uncooperative during questioning that Will was actually looking forward to the lawyer showing up so the man could tell his client it was okay to give a straight answer. Or maybe Hamish Patel could work some of his magic. The hostage negotiator had been trained by Amanda Wagner when she’d led the GBI’s rapid extraction team. He could pretty much talk the fleas off a dog.
Again following procedure, Will had put out an APB on Kayla Alexander’s white Prius and issued a Levi’s Call, Georgia’s version of the Amber Alert, for Emma Campano. This meant that all the highway message boards in Atlanta as well as radios and television sets in Georgia would carry some sort of warning asking folks to come forward if they saw the car or the girl. Will had also set up traces on all the family telephones and cell phones, but he doubted there was a ransom call coming any time soon.
His gut told him that whoever had taken Emma Campano didn’t want her for money. One look at Kayla Alexander told that story. The young woman had been beaten and raped by a sadist who had probably enjoyed every minute of it. There was only one reason to take a hostage from the scene, and it wasn’t for cash. All Will could do at this moment was hope that he found something—anything—that pointed the way to the man before he killed again.
Will stood out in the hallway as he watched the crime-scene tech taking photos of Emma Campano’s bedroom. He was trying to get a sense of who she was, but nothing stood out except for the fact that she was a tidy young woman. Neatly folded clothes that were waiting to be put up lined the top of a velvet bench with silk tassels and the books on the shelves were stacked in straight rows. Some sort of floral air freshener gave the room a sickly sweet smell. Outside the window, a small wind chime tinkled from a rare summer wind.
Though Emma’s personal mark did not stand out, there was no mistaking the space belonged to a very fortunate teenage girl. The four-poster bed had a bright pink coverlet with purple sheets and heart-shaped pillows. The walls were painted a soothing, light lilac that complemented the geometrically patterned shag rugs on the hardwood floor. There was a flat-panel television mounted over a large fireplace. Two comfortable-looking chairs were by the window. A book was pressed open on the arm of one—a romance from the look of it. Two purses had been thrown onto the other chair. A backpack was on the floor, stuffed with schoolbooks and loose papers. Two pairs of identical flip-flops had been kicked off by the door. One set was a larger size than the other.
That at least explained why the girls were barefoot.
The tech took a couple more photographs, the flash filling the room. He asked Will, “Anything specific you want me to cover?”
“Can you test the fluid on the bed?” The sheets were bunched up in a knot. The dark purple material made signs of sexual activity obvious.
“I need to get the kit out of my truck,” the tech said. “You need anything else?”
Will shook his head and the man left. Outside, a heavy door slammed, making the familiar thumping sound that Will always associated with death. He walked to the window and saw Pete Hanson standing behind the coroner’s van, hand flat to the back door as he took a moment to pay his respects to the dead bodies inside. Pete had given Will a preliminary rundown, but they wouldn’t have hard facts until the autopsies were performed tomorrow morning.
The Atlanta Police Department had moved from a primary to supportive role now that there was a kidnapping involved. Leo Donnelly was probably calling his accountant at the moment, trying to figure out if he could take early retirement. Will had tossed him the task of tracking down Kayla Alexander’s parents and telling them that their daughter had been murdered. That seemed punishment enough, though Amanda might have something to say about that.
Will tugged on a pair of latex gloves as he prepared to search Emma’s room. He started with the two purses on one of the chairs. Methodically, Will searched each one. He found pens, tampons, candy, loose change at the bottom—exactly what you’d expect to find in any woman’s handbag. The leather wallets in each were identical, both with the same designer logo on them, and he assumed the girls had bought them on a shopping trip together. They each had a Visa card with their name on it. Their driver’s license photos showed images of two remarkably similar-looking girls: blond haired, blue eyed. Emma Campano had obviously been the prettier of the two, but there was a defiant tilt to Kayla Alexander’s chin that made Will think she was the one who’d gotten all the attention.
Not anymore. The news crews were still swarming outside. Will was sure every station had broken into regular programming with the story. Thanks to the endless and annoying commercials, the Campano name was well-known to Atlantans. Will wondered if the family’s notoriety would help or hinder the case. He also wondered what was happening to Emma Campano right now. Will looked at her picture again. Maybe he was reading too much into it, but there seemed to be an air of reticence about her, as if she expected the photographer to find fault instead of beauty.
“Adam David Humphrey,” Faith Mitchell said. Like Will, she was wearing a pair of latex gloves. Also like Will, she was holding an open wallet and a driver’s license in her hands. This one belonged to the dead man downstairs. “He’s got an Oregon State license. No car registered in his name in either state. The principal at the girls’ school has never heard of him and he was never a student there.” She handed Will the plastic ID card. Will squinted his eyes at the tiny letters. “One of the guys back at the station is trying to get in touch with the local sheriff up there. The address makes it hard.”
He patted his pockets, looking for his glasses. “Why is that?”
Her tone was almost as condescending as Amanda’s. “Rural route?”
“Sorry, I left my reading glasses at the office.” A rural route with a box number would not necessarily correspond with a physical address. Unless the Humphreys were well-known in town, this added ano
ther hoop to jump through before the dead boy’s parents could be informed. Will sat back on his heels, studying the license photo of Adam Humphrey. He was a good-looking kid in a geeky sort of way. His mouth was twisted into a grin and his hair was longer in the photo, but there was no mistaking that Adam Humphrey was the man lying dead downstairs. “He’s older than I thought.”
“Nineteen is still young.”
“What’s he doing in Atlanta?” Will answered his own question. “College.”
Faith checked through the wallet, calling out what she found. “Six dollars cash, a photograph of an older couple—probably grandparents. Wait a minute.” The gloves were too long for her fingers, making it difficult for her to dig around. Will waited patiently until she pulled out a photograph. “Is this Emma?”
He compared the photo against the licenses he had found in the two purses. Emma was happier in the picture from the wallet, her mouth open in laughter. “It’s her.”
Faith looked at them both, then nodded her agreement. “She looks younger than seventeen.”
Will said, “Adam’s got a thing for Emma, not Kayla. So why is Kayla dead?”
She put the photo back into the wallet and dropped them both in a plastic evidence bag. “Maybe she got in the way.”
Will nodded, though the vicious manner in which the girl had been raped and killed made him think there was more to it than that. “We’ll know more when Pete does the autopsy. Do the parents want to see her body?”
“The parents don’t even know yet.” Will’s mouth opened to ask why the hell not, but she talked over him. “The school principal told Leo that the Alexanders are on a three-week vacation in New Zealand and Australia. They left emergency contact numbers for their hotels. Leo called the manager at the Mercure Dunedin. He promised he’d get the parents to call as soon as they get back from sightseeing, whenever that might be. There’s an eighteen-hour time difference, so it’s already tomorrow morning for them.” Faith added, “I sent a cruiser to their house on Paces Ferry. No one was home.”
“They couldn’t have left their daughter alone for three weeks.”
“She was seventeen years old. She was old enough to take care of herself.” Her face flushed as she seemed to realize that the exact opposite was true.
“Did Abigail Campano give you anything when you talked to her?”
“It was a different conversation. We both thought her daughter was dead.”
Will recalled, “She’s the one who told you that Kayla would probably be at school.”
“Right. She even said, ‘At least Kayla is safe.’ ”
“Did Leo ask the principal about the girls skipping?”
“She confirmed it’s been a problem. Students aren’t allowed off campus during lunch, but some of them sneak out and come back in before the bell rings. There’s a hole in the security cameras behind the main class building and the kids take advantage of it.”
“Send some extra cruisers to the school. Until we know there’s no connection, I want to make sure we keep a close eye on the rest of the students. Also, let’s try to get a dump on the Alexanders’ phone. There has to be an aunt or a family friend who’s been checking in on her. Send a uniform to knock on the neighbors’ doors. It’s coming on suppertime. People should be getting home by now.”
She had tucked the wallet under her arm as she wrote down his instructions in her notebook. “Anything else?”
He looked at the book bag, all the papers spilling out of it. “Send someone up here who can work fast to go through all these notes. Tell Leo to talk to the school principal again. I want a list of Kayla and Emma’s known acquaintances. If any of the teachers are still at school, tell him to talk to them, see what the girls were like, who they hung out with, then I’ll go back at them tomorrow after they’ve had the night to think about it. The girls were truants, so they might be hanging out with kids from other schools.” He stopped, going back to the dead kid downstairs. Finding out who Adam was and what he was doing in Atlanta was the only tangible lead they could follow.
He took out one of his business cards and handed it to her. “Call back that sheriff in Oregon and give him my cell number. Tell him to call me as soon as he gets anything on Adam Humphrey’s parents. For now, I want you focused on finding out why Adam was in Atlanta. Track down the college angle first.”
She shook her head. “He’d have a college ID on him if he was in school.”
“If he came here all the way from Oregon, then it was probably for something specific: law, medicine, art. Start with the big schools first, then move on to the little ones. Emory, Georgia State, Georgia Tech, SCAD, Kennesaw … There has to be a list online.”
She was incredulous. “You want me to call every college and university in the city, track down the registrar who’s probably already gone for the day, and ask them to tell me without a warrant whether or not they’ve got Adam Humphrey on their rolls?”
“I do.”
The scowl she had given him before had nothing on her expression now.
Will was fed up with her attitude. “Detective Mitchell, I think your anger is commendable, but the fact that I banged up six of your guys for skimming off of drug dealers doesn’t mean a hell of a lot to the parents who lost their kids today or the ones who are waiting to find out whether or not their daughter is still alive, and since the Atlanta Police Department mishandled this case from the get-go, and since the only reason you are still involved in this case is because I need people to do my scut work, I expect you to follow directions no matter how mundane or ludicrous my requests seem to you.”
She pressed her lips together, fury burning in her eyes as she tucked the photograph back into the wallet. “I’ll bag this as evidence and start calling the schools.”
“Thank you.”
She made to go, then stopped. “And it was seven.”
“What?”
“The cops. It was seven that you banged up, not six.”
“I stand corrected” was all Will could think to say. She turned on her heel and left the room.
Will let out a deep breath, wondering how long it was going to take before he kicked Faith Mitchell off this case. Then again, it wasn’t like he had the whole police department behind him, so maybe he wasn’t in a position to be choosey. Even though Faith seemed to despise him as much as the next cop, she was still following orders. There had to be something said for that.
Will stood in the middle of the room, trying to decide what to do next. He looked down at the rug, the circular patterns that resembled something out of a 1970s James Bond movie. Emma Campano should be his priority right now, but the confrontation with the Atlanta detective still nagged at him. Something rattled loose in his brain and he finally understood.
Seven, Faith Mitchell had said. She was right. Six cops had been fired, but one more had also been affected by the scandal. A police commander named Evelyn Mitchell had been forced to retire. Because Evelyn’s daughter was a detective on the force, Faith Mitchell had naturally caught Will’s attention. She had a fairly solid record, but her promotion five years ago to detective had raised a few eyebrows. Twenty-eight was a little young for the gold shield, but it was hard to prove that any favoritism had been shown. Nepotism aside, Will hadn’t found anything warranting a deeper dig into Faith Mitchell’s life, so he had never met the woman in person.
Until now.
“Crap,” Will groaned. If there was anyone he’d met today who came by their hate honestly, it was Evelyn Mitchell’s daughter. That must have been what Leo had been trying to tell Will when everything started to fall apart—or maybe he’d assumed Will already knew. The investigation had ended several months ago, but Will had worked on at least a dozen more cases since then. Other than being aware of the wall of hate surrounding him at the Campano house, his focus had been on the crime at hand, not the particulars of a case that had been resolved months before.
There was nothing Will could do about it now. He went back to his search, c
hecking the drawers, the cabinets that held the sorts of things you would expect to find in a teenage girl’s room. He checked under the bed, then between the mattress and the box spring. There were no secret notes or hidden diaries. All her underclothes were what you would expect, which was to say there was nothing overtly sexy that might indicate Emma Campano was exploring a wilder side of life.
Next, Will went to the closet. From all appearances, the Campano house was thoroughly modernized. You couldn’t get blood from a stone, though, and the closet in Emma Campano’s room was as the architect had originally intended, which was to say that it was roughly the size of a coffin. Clothes hung packed so tightly that the rod was sagging. Shoes lined the floor, row after row—so many of them that they were double stacked in places.
Among the Mary Janes and tennis shoes were black knee-high boots and impossibly high heels. Likewise, the light-colored blouses were punctuated by dark black jackets and black shirts with strategically placed rips held together by safety pins. Altogether, they looked like something you’d wear in the military if you were stationed in Hell. Will had worked cases with teenagers before. He guessed Emma was going through some sort of stage that compelled her to dress as a vampire. The pastel sweater sets would indicate her parents were not pleased with the transformation.
Will checked the top shelves, feeling under sweaters, taking down boxes of more clothes and methodically searching through each one. He checked pockets and purses, finding blocks of cedar and sachets of lavender that made him sneeze.
He got down on his hands and knees to search the bottom of the closet. There were several rolled-up posters in the corner, and he opened each one. Marilyn Manson, Ween and Korn—not the sort of groups he would expect a wealthy blond teenager to be listening to. The corners were all ripped, as if someone had torn them down. Will rolled the posters back up then checked Emma’s shoes, moving them around, making sure nothing was hidden inside or under them. He found nothing to report home about.
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