Be a Good Girl

by Tess Diamond

  But if Wells’s partner had set him up for Cass’s murder, that was far from following Wells’s lead.

  Were they dealing with two dominant personalities? Or a follower/leader partnership that morphed into leader/leader? Had the student become the master and decided there could only be one?

  “Why would he protect someone who framed him?” Paul asked Abby.

  “I don’t know,” Abby said. “But I think I know how they met.”

  Of course she did. Paul briefly wondered if it was just his lot in life to be surrounded by tenacious, brilliant women. He seemed to be built for it, he thought as he got to his feet and walked over to the evidence board.

  “I talked to everyone who’d ever had a connection with Wells,” Abby said. The doorbell rang, and Abby jerked in her seat, whirling around.

  “Abby?” That was his sister Georgia’s voice. “Paul? You two aren’t doing something dirty, are you?”

  “Just a second, Georgia!” Abby called, scrambling to her feet. “Come on,” she said. “Do you want her to see? We have to get back.”

  Paul hesitated, torn, but Abby glared at him and he followed, closing the double doors of the study behind him.

  His sister was standing in Abby’s foyer, her arms crossed over her chest, an amused look on her face. “What was taking you two so long?”

  “Oh, we just got to talking about old times,” Abby said smoothly. “The rest of the soda’s in the shed, I’ll go grab it.”

  She hurried out the back door, and Georgia pursed her lips in a knowing smile.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Paul said.

  “Like what?” his sister asked innocently. She was three years his senior and was serving her third term as mayor of Castella Rock, which didn’t stop her from trying to meddle in everyone’s business.

  “Like you just caught me with my pants down,” he said.

  Her smile grew wider. She took after their mom, with her brown hair and blue eyes and sweet face. Paul was all their father—tall and broad and very blond. “I did no such thing,” she said. “I just think it would be nice if you found someone to settle down with.”

  Paul’s stomach tightened, and suddenly all he could think of was that night. The last time he saw Abby. That last fight. How it ended.

  “Drop it, Georgia,” he said, maybe a little too sharply, as Abby came back into the house, her arms full of the crates. He hurried over to help her, thankful that Georgia didn’t say anything else, just helped them bring the soda back to the meadow.

  As he went through the motions of the party, smiling and laughing, greeting and hugging people he hadn’t seen for a few years, his mind was racing—his body felt surreal, like he wasn’t really inside it.

  When he finally had a moment to escape, he crossed the meadow to the tree line, far enough out of earshot of everyone as the music rose and the sun set. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.

  “Hey, it’s me,” he said, when she picked up. “I need you to do something for me. And I need you to do it quietly.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “Get me every file we have on Howard Wells aka Dr. X,” Paul said. “Then get on a plane. You’re coming to California.”

  Chapter 11

  Abby woke up the next morning to a knock on her door, followed by Roscoe barking, the sound of his paws skittering down the stairs. Feeling like she hadn’t slept a wink, she squinted at her alarm, realizing she’d forgotten to set it. It was nearly nine.

  The knocking increased, along with Roscoe’s barking.

  Abby threw on one of the embroidered robes she’d gotten at one of those rummage sales on Orchard Row that were filled with treasures long forgotten in attics. Tying the length of dark blue silk around her waist, she hurried downstairs, trying to finger-comb her bedhead into some sort of order as she did.

  “Roscoe, in the kitchen!” she ordered the dog. He looked disappointed that he couldn’t keep barking, but obeyed, trotting down the hall.

  She opened the door, raising an eyebrow when she saw a petite girl with a cotton-candy pink bob and big, wide eyes standing there. She was wearing a circle skirt from the ’50s that had little bows painted all over it and a dotted Swiss blouse tucked into it. She managed to look modern and vintage at the same time, a curious combination that was charming with her doll-like prettiness and sharp smile.

  “Hi,” Abby said.

  “Hi!” chirped the girl. She couldn’t be more than twenty-three. “So, where can I set up?”

  Abby frowned. “Set up?”

  “I’m Zooey,” she said. When Abby continued to stare at her, she said, “Has Paul called you?”

  “My phone’s upstairs. I’m sorry . . . who are you?” Abby asked.

  “Special Technical Consultant and Head Forensic Expert Zooey Phillips,” she said, holding out her hand.

  Abby took it, shaking it. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  “So, where’s the evidence board I’ve heard about?” Zooey asked as Abby held the door open wider, letting her in.

  “Everything’s set up in the study,” Abby said. She looked down at her robe and ran her hand through her hair again. She must look a mess, but she didn’t really want to leave this girl alone with her evidence. She looked so young. How could she be head of forensics already? “Is Paul coming?”

  “I think so,” Zooey said. “Study this way?” She pointed.

  Abby nodded, following her down the hallway, opening the double doors. She’d opened the windows last night to let the cool air in, and the curtains were still drawn, letting light spill in the room. It made it look less gloomy, until you noticed what exactly was on those whiteboards.

  She felt more than a little nervous as Zooey strode into the study and looked at the boards. Abby knew she was no FBI agent, but she’d worked hard on covering as much ground as possible. She’d done all right, she liked to think.

  But the look on Paul’s face when he originally saw the boards . . . she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to erase that from her mind. The hurt, the horror, the realization.

  He still believed her, though. He had to, if he’d sent Zooey here.

  The girl let out a low whistle. “Wow, he wasn’t lying. You’ve been busy.”

  Abby shrugged. “I’m a journalist,” she said, by way of explanation.

  “I know,” Zooey said. “I read your piece on the rising maternal death rate in America on the drive here. It was so great I went back and read most of your work. I’m a bit of a fangirl now.”

  Abby smiled. “Well, that’s nice. Thanks,” she said, wondering if Zooey was just flattering her in order to put her at ease. And then she mentally winced at herself. She needed to stop being so suspicious.

  “I’ve brought some stuff from DC,” Zooey said, patting the satchel she had slung over her shoulder. “But the boss will be pissed if I show you before he’s here. Protocol and all.”

  “Paul is a stickler for rules,” Abby said.

  “Some of the time,” Zooey replied with a smile. “Me being here? Definitely against protocol.”

  Abby gestured for her to sit, and took the seat across from her. “He’s not going to get in trouble, is he?” she asked, concerned. She didn’t want Paul doing something stupid like risking his job for this.

  Zooey shook her head, pursing her scarlet lips. “Nah. He’s basically the agency’s golden boy. I mean, he looks like Captain America and he acts like him. What more could anyone want?”

  Abby couldn’t help but smile at the description. “I like that. Captain America. His nickname around here used to be Boy Scout.” She didn’t mention she was the one who gave it to him all those years ago.

  Zooey smiled, clearly delighted with this piece of information.

  “So, Head Forensic Expert,” Abby said. “That’s impressive.”

  “For someone so young?” Zooey asked, her eyes dancing.

  Something told Abby she got this kind of comment a lot. “Sorry,” she said. �
��I just . . . how old are you?”

  “Twenty-two,” the girl replied.

  Abby frowned. “I thought the FBI had age requirements.”

  “They do,” Zooey nodded. “Not so much for me, though.”

  So Paul had called in a girl genius who looked like she’d stepped out of a punky Doris Day world?

  “I’m very good at my job,” Zooey assured her.

  “I’m sure you are,” Abby said. “I really don’t mean to question your skill. I’m . . . this whole thing . . . it’s been a long week,” she finally managed to say.

  Zooey shot her a sympathetic look, reaching out and patting her hand. “I understand,” she said. “You did something pretty incredible, Abby. You saw something no one else did. All the experts, all the lawyers, and none of them saw what you did.”

  There was knocking at the front door, followed by Roscoe barking and dashing out of the kitchen to confront the new person in his territory.

  “Hey, buddy, it’s just me,” Abby heard Paul’s voice say. Then footsteps, and he was in the doorway of the study, wearing a plaid flannel shirt and jeans that had holes in the knee and he looked so much like himself, so much like the boy she remembered, her heart stuttered in her chest for a moment.

  “Whoa, boss, you’ve gone all country,” Zooey said. “Are those cowboy boots?” She whipped her phone out, taking a picture, cackling, when Paul shot her a disapproving look.

  “Did you bring everything?” he asked.

  Zooey nodded. “Can I set up in here?”

  “Let’s do it,” he said.

  The girl pulled a laptop and a digital projector out of her bag, setting them on Abby’s father’s old cherrywood desk and sitting down at it. “This is gonna take a few minutes,” she said.

  “Do you want something to drink or eat?” Abby asked, finally remembering her manners. She realized once again she was still in her pajamas.

  “I’m fine,” Zooey replied.

  “I’m going to get dressed,” Abby said.

  She had almost escaped down the hall when Paul’s voice stopped her at the foot of the stairs. She sighed, closing her eyes and steeling herself before she turned around.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Of all the things she was expecting, that was the last thing she could’ve imagined.

  “I shouldn’t have been so derisive about your theory at first,” he said. “You were right.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “This is going to be difficult,” he said. “I spent last night going through the FBI file on Cass. There are crime scene photos. I wanted to warn you before Zooey let you look at it.”

  There he went again, trying to protect her like she was still a little girl. A part of her prickled at the idea that she needed a warning. Another part felt the warm glow of safety. And yet another part was grateful, because there are some things you cannot unsee. And your best friend’s body is one of them.

  “I’ll be right down,” she said as her answer, and he didn’t try to stop her again as she went up the stairs.

  By the time Abby got back downstairs, Zooey had everything ready, her projector set up to beam against the wall behind the desk.

  “I took down the painting,” Zooey said, gesturing to the oil painting Abby’s great-grandfather had done of his hunting dogs back in the day. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s fine,” Abby said, taking the painting and setting it out of the way. “So, how does this start?”

  “I had Zooey pull up all the FBI files on Dr. X. Not just Cass’s case, but the other twelve girls.”

  “I read them on the plane,” Zooey said.

  “All of them?” Abby asked, shocked.

  “I read fast,” Zooey replied. “So here’s the thing.” She tapped on the portable keyboard in her hand, and photos of thirteen girls suddenly appeared on the wall. All of them had long, dark hair, and Cass’s photo was at the bottom of the row, with a red circle around it. “Cass was definitely X’s type. He likes sweet-faced brunettes. But there are a few things that stand out about Cass.”

  “Like what?”

  “All the others have girls who have dark eyes,” Zooey explained.

  “When there’s no variety like that, in such a large victim pool, that tells us that he has a very specific type. Deviating from that even a little is unusual,” Paul added.

  “That makes sense,” Abby said. “But we already know that X didn’t kill Cass.”

  “This is about the other guy,” Zooey said. “See, if we can narrow down the differences between Cass and X’s victims, then we can start to form a victim profile for our unsub.”

  “Normally, our profiler does this,” Paul told Abby. “But she’s on another case.”

  “And I’ve been working with Grace, learning profiling and experimenting with some algorithms,” Zooey said. “I’ve got five variables where Cass doesn’t match X’s other victims.” She punched a few keys, and the girls’ photos disappeared, and a list appeared.

  Eye Color

  Athleticism

  Only Child

  Two Parent Household

  Family Economic Status

  “So, you’re saying these things are why the unsub took Cass?” Abby asked. How could she be sure? It seemed like such an arbitrary list.

  “Maybe,” Paul said. “He may not recognize that he has preferences. Or he may be aware of them. It depends on how sophisticated he is.”

  “Oh, he’s sophisticated,” Zooey said.

  Paul frowned at her. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I didn’t want to tell you until my program finished running,” Zooey explained. “But I put Code Sibyl on it.”

  “Zooey,” Paul broke in, and there was warning in his voice. “That’s not approved yet.”

  “Only because the government is slow,” Zooey said. “Do you want to know what I found?”

  “What’s Code Sibyl?” Abby hated this feeling of being in the dark.

  “It’s a computer program I designed,” Zooey said. “To catch serial killers.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Abby looked at Paul, like, who the hell is this person?

  He sighed. “It analyzes a killer’s victimology and preferences, and identifies potential victims by working through all the records on John and Jane Does, current cases, cold cases, missing persons reports, etc. It hasn’t been field-tested yet.”

  “Well, I kind of did a field test. On the plane,” Zooey broke in.

  “What did you find?” Paul asked.

  “Our guy’s been busy,” Zooey said, and on the far wall, seven girls’ pictures appeared. “Meet the missing girls of I-5. The stretch of highway that goes through here, all the way up to Oregon, is full of transients, runaways, hitchhikers, campers, bicyclists, you name it. It has over a dozen rest stops, at least a hundred gas stations, thousands of acres of national forest and parks, and tons of outdoor attractions. And there are stretches where it’s nothing but deep forest for miles. It’s an active stretch of highway, so there’s a normal amount of criminal activity and accidents. But then, I went back fifteen years. I plugged in Dr. X’s victimology combined with Cass’s differences from the girls.”

  She pulled up a map of Northern California on the projector. There were seven red dots along the stretch of highway she’d highlighted. “Every two years, since Cass’s murder, a girl has gone missing on the I–5. Jessica Adams went missing on a camping trip in the Trinities with her parents. The rangers thought she’d gotten lost and must’ve died out there in the woods. Talia Hernandez was on a school trip to Mt. Shasta when she got separated from her group. No one ever saw her again. Ramona Quinn was a runaway from Chico who was last seen at the Castella rest stop by a trucker she’d hitched a ride with. Molly Bailes was working at the ski resort and never showed up for her shift. She commuted to work, on the 5, but no one ever found her car. Kathy Dove was an aspiring photographer who went out to take pictures of some of the old bridges and never came back. Imo
gen Meade was an experienced equestrian who did trail rides. They found her horse—they never found her. And finally, Keira Rice, she went missing almost two years ago, at a soccer meet in Yreka. She hurt her ankle during the match and her roommate said she went to get ice for it from the machine at their motel. They found the ice bucket at the bottom of the stairs.”

  Abby stared at the girl’s faces, chills running through her entire body.

  They all looked so much like Cass. She’d even remembered hearing about Keira Rice—she’d lived in the next county over—when she first went missing, and she’d remembered praying that her family would find her.

  There was a slamming sound, and Abby startled when she realized Paul had left the room abruptly, the double doors of the study rattling as he closed them behind him.

  Zooey’s eyes—already so big and doll-like—widened even more. “Shit,” she said. “I . . . maybe I should have approached that better.”

  It took her a second to recover, because she was feeling struck dumb. Seven girls? Were there even more, if they went back further? How long had Cass’s killer been in this area, slowly picking off the young women who suited his sick needs, doing it in such a clever, random way that no one suspected the connection until this girl with pink hair plugged a bunch of lines of code into a database.

  Abby’s head was spinning, but she needed to get it together. She needed to get Paul back inside—and back in the game.

  “I’ll go talk to him,” Abby said. “Just stay here. There’s drinks and apple pie and a ton of leftover BBQ in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

  “I didn’t mean to—” Zooey started, and her mouth drooped, and Abby once again realized how very young she was. She might be brilliant, but she was a baby in some ways, still. And she clearly idolized Paul as a boss.

  “Don’t worry,” Abby assured her with a tight smile. “He’s just . . . he cares. A lot.”

  “I know,” Zooey said. “He recruited me. I was on a . . . not so good path. He kind of saved me.”