by Kylie Brant
Clearly Muller had noticed the man only because he’d suspected the stranger of having a fetish similar to his own. “Was he wearing sunglasses every time you saw him?”
Carl nodded.
Sophia clasped her hands on top of the photo. Leaned forward. “Even when you saw him Monday?”
“Yes, I said…” He stopped then, as if aware of the trap.
“You said you saw him Monday. He was always watching her, you said. So Monday you were at the same park as this stranger and the woman. This could be very helpful, Carl. Especially if you have a picture of the man.”
He shook his head violently. “I don’t. I don’t take pictures of men, anyway. I’m not like that. Only women. Pretty girls.”
“Of course. But he could have been in the background of one of your pictures.”
“I told you I didn’t take any!”
“All right.” He was growing too agitated to be much help so Sophia went about soothing him. “I believe you.” With the warrant coming through soon, the police would discover whether Muller were telling the truth. Any new pictures the man had taken could possibly be enhanced to include others in the background. “Do you remember what the man looked like?”
Muller shook his head violently enough to have his hair tumbling across his forehead again. Sophia pressed on. “Was he blond like you? Or darker?”
“His hair was a lot darker than mine. Sort of curly, too. He always wore a hat, though.”
“A hat? Or a cap?”
Looking confused, Muller said, “A hat. Like the one I got at a Twins game once. Only his hat wasn’t blue, it was black. I don’t know what team has black for its color.”
A cap then, Sophia surmised. Although given the popularity of that particular item it wouldn’t necessarily be a ball cap. “Was he as tall as you or shorter?”
Muller squinted his eyes. “Maybe my height. But stronger, maybe.”
“You’re observant.” Sophia’s smile was so bright that the man blinked. “I think you’re right. Quieter people tend to see more, don’t they?”
“I guess.” Muller scratched his jaw. “I mean, I do. Sometimes…it’s like I’m invisible, you know? But I keep my eyes open.”
“I’m sure you do. And I think that’s how you can help me, Carl.” Sophia deliberately kept the conversation personal. Muller wasn’t predisposed to do anything to help the police, who he feared. But she thought maybe she could convince him to assist her. “Have you ever seen TV where an artist does a drawing of a person described by a witness?”
“No-o. But once when I was a kid my mom took me to the Minnesota State Fair. And a guy drew a cartoon of me and let me keep it.”
“That’s sort of what I’m talking about,” she said encouragingly. “The other woman in the woods today. Do you remember the lady with red hair?”
Muller visibly slunk in his chair, and his voice went flat. “She’s a cop, too.”
“She’s an agent with DCI in Iowa.” The differentiation was deliberate. In order to get him to cooperate with Jenna, Sophia had to make him regard the other woman as he did her, rather than as he viewed law enforcement in general. “She’s my friend. We’re working together to help that woman in the picture. Agent Turner is a good artist, too. If you describe the man you saw a few times in the park, she could draw a picture of him.”
His expression turned sly. “If I help her will the police let me go?”
“I can’t answer that question, Carl. I’m not the police. But even if they don’t, I’m sure your lawyer could tell the judge that you assisted us. That and the promise of treatment you’ll have when I give you names of some of my colleagues who will help you…both will go a long way in your next defense.”
Seeming to mull over her words, the man took his time answering. But in the end he just lifted his shoulders. “I guess. I mean, what do I have to lose?”
Jenna’s initial entry into the room had agitated Muller so much that Sophia had offered to stay in the room. Although she was aware that the agent usually worked alone with witnesses in a non-threatening environment, she feared the man would shut down completely if she left.
And after she’d subtly positioned her chair around to be closer to Muller, the man had seemed to calm. Even more so when Jenna made a point of shutting off the camera in the room.
The agent’s tone was easy as she snapped open the brief case she’d retrieved from the trunk of Cam’s vehicle and withdrew her sketchpad and pencils. “Do you do any sketching, Mr. Muller?”
The man shook his head. “Not since I was a kid. I was never much good at it.”
“I’ve been drawing since I was young. With your observation skills, I know you can help me make a reasonable sketch of the man you saw watching the lady in the park.” The agent’s manner couldn’t have been more different from when she’d encountered Muller earlier in the day. But Sophia knew the man would remember that first meeting. She just hoped her continued presence here would ensure his cooperation.
But Jenna was experienced at putting people at ease. Rather than getting started right away she spent several minutes establishing rapport, going so far as to send out for the can of Sprite Muller requested.
“The way this is going to work is I’m going to listen to your description of the man you saw in the park and ask you some questions about him. I might show you some pictures I have in a notebook in this case, too.” Jenna thumped the briefcase on the floor with her toe. “That sound okay?”
The man’s gaze slid to Sophia, who smiled encouragingly. “I guess,” he muttered.
“You said you saw the stranger watching the lady in the park several times. How close did you get to him?”
“I dunno. The closest was about like from here to the door, I guess.”
Sophia measured the distance with her gaze. Eight feet. It was plenty near enough to elicit a good description, if the angle had been right.
“Tell me what you remember about him.”
Muller launched into a verbal description that differed little from the one he’d given to Sophia earlier. Jenna listened, her head cocked slightly, her gaze never leaving him.
“That’s pretty good. What can you tell me about his hair?”
“It was brown. Medium, I guess. Not that short because I could see it curl below his cap in the back.”
“How about around the ears?”
Carl had to stop and think at that question. “No-o. It didn’t hang over his ears.”
“What can you tell me about his eyes?”
“They were always covered by the sunglasses. And the newspaper. I never saw them.”
“The same sunglasses? Or different ones each time?”
Slowly, painstakingly, Jenna drew Muller out on each tiny detail the man could recall about the stranger in the park. Then she’d started to sketch. Sophia was fascinated by the way the agent could draw and talk to Muller at the same time, seemingly never getting distracted from either task. She’d draw, push the pad toward Muller and ask for further details. At other times she’d reached for the big book of facial images she’d brought in her briefcase. The notebook was tabbed in an endless array of sections. Some focused on chins, others on noses or eyes. And then she’d ask, “Which of these is most like the man you saw?” Sophia was amazed to see that there was even a section in that notebook for images of caps.
Under Jenna’s expert questioning, even Muller’s most vague answers became more exact. He examined the pictures she showed him closely, and the agent would change the composite to more exactly match his clarifications.
Even so, it was a tedious process. While Sophia found it intriguing, she was also aware of the passing time. Each minute that ticked by meant Courtney Van Wheton was further away. Or perhaps by now she was at her final destination. Maybe her torment had already begun.
Because there was no point in the thoughts, Sophia tried to push them away.
Jenna had been at it for over two hours when she finally said, “Are you sure? T
ake a good look now. Is this the man you saw in the parks watching the lady in the picture?”
“That looks like him.”
“Anything else you want to change?”
“Nope.” Muller slurped loudly from his can of Sprite. “That’s the guy I saw before. That’s the one who was watching her on Monday.”
Sophia leaned in to peer more closely when Jenna ripped the sketch off the pad and nudged it toward the man.
The man in the drawing had pleasant features. Attractive, even. Thick wavy dark hair could be seen beneath the black-billed cap he wore. The nose was straight. The mouth—in her estimation—a little sensitive. It wasn’t a face to stir caution if he stopped and asked for directions. This wasn’t a man to incite fear.
Staring hard at the sketch, Sophia wondered if the man depicted in it was the one who had raped and tortured six other women before dumping their bodies in open graves in Iowa.
And if he were the same man who had kidnapped Courtney van Wheton.
He roamed freely through her condo, picking up her things, looking at them, setting them down again. It hadn’t been difficult at all to find where Dr. Sophia Channing lived. Not for him. Her security alarm was better than most, but there was always a way around them.
And she didn’t have a dog. He fucking hated homes with dogs.
Mid-afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds. In broad daylight he chanced being seen by nosy neighbors, but all they could report was a van with the glass company’s logo across the street, and a man wearing the company’s uniform working on the broken glass in one of Channing’s small garage door windows. It was the same van that had been used to snatch his newest possession. Now a different color with a magnetic logo on both sides to match the glass company’s, it wouldn’t stand out even if the cops had gotten a description of it in Minneapolis. Sleight of hand. It was human nature to see normal in daylight, and threats at night. People saw what they expected to see.
Most people were idiots.
Carrying a case of tools he’d walked nonchalantly up to the garage door. It’d taken less than three minutes armed with a wedge of wood and length of wire to open the door. Anyone watching would believe he was repairing the window, and that he had an opener. He was that smooth.
It was important to get an idea of the home’s layout to plan his approach. Look for weapons first. He hadn’t found any guns, but there were still the bedrooms to search. Casing the place in advance gave him an idea of where she’d run, where he’d trap her, and a chance to plan an escape route.
A check of the spare bedroom showed no weapons and no men’s clothes. He paused in the closet, eyeing an empty place on the floor next to a large suitcase. Wheel prints left an indentation in the carpet. Maybe the doctor wasn’t home. Maybe she’d taken a trip and wouldn’t be back for days.
The thought of having to wait made his gut clench and his chest tighten. He slammed shut the double closet doors and the noise calmed him. Boredom hadn’t set in with his new possession. She’d entertain him until he found Channing.
But the bitch would pay for making him wait. They always had to pay.
More quickly now, he moved to the master bedroom. No sign of men’s clothes here either and something inside him eased a bit. A husband or roommate meant it’d be easier to grab Channing away from her home, but it was looking more and more like he could just slip in here anytime he wanted and surprise her. Maybe take her while she was having breakfast, or just climb into bed with her while she slept.
He dropped down on the lace coverlet, imagined holding her trapped and helpless beneath him. Some duct tape over her mouth and no one would suspect what he was doing to the stupid bitch. He could slit her throat when he was done, cut off her tits and stuff them up her cunt. Show everyone that she was worthless. And what she’d written about him meant nothing.
Bounding off the bed he crossed to the dresser. Opened the drawers and ran his gloved fingers through her things. He could do this. Touch what he wanted. Take what appealed to him. Just the way he’d do whatever he wanted with her.
One drawer held panties and he pawed through them, brought out a scrap of lace and ribbon to his face, inhaled deeply. He imagined it smelled like her. Tasted like her. Delicately, he licked the crotch.
Through the blinds he caught sight of a neighbor checking the mailbox and frowned. He’d only have a few hours with Channing and that wasn’t long enough. No, not long enough to show her that she was stupid and useless and a fucking disappointment. He wouldn’t be able to take his time and punish her the way she deserved. Unless…
He shoved the panties in his jeans pocket, deep in thought. There was no reason to hurry this when there was already a perfect spot to keep her. A spot where he could take his time. Make her pay for writing those things about him.
A slow grin crossed his face at the thought. It’d be a change from his usual strategy, but they were his rules to break.
And if ever a bitch needed to be shown her place, it was this one.
Chapter 7
“Well.” Sophie drew the word out teasingly. “I learn something new about you every day.”
“I’m an open book,” Cam murmured. His eyes were still closed. His breathing ragged. How was it possible to get more intense every time he touched her? Moved inside her? God help him. If it got any better he’d need a wheelchair to get out of bed. And still count himself lucky.
“Hardly,” she said dryly. “You’re about as forthcoming as a vault. But who would have thought the steely-eyed DCI agent was ticklish.”
He popped open an eyelid to consider her. “Steely-eyed? Please, this endless flattery is getting annoying. And my feet are sensitive, not ticklish.” He winced slightly when he got a pinch in response.
“Ticklish,” she said firmly. “In another minute I would have had you begging for mercy.”
Both eyes open now, he rolled to an elbow to consider her. “Honey, I was already at your mercy. And I seem to recall doing a bit of begging a few minutes ago, too.” Delighted with the immediate flush in her cheeks he leaned down to nuzzle his nose against the soft skin there. “You’re amazingly easy to embarrass.”
“I’m…not used to this sort of thing.”
Something inside him stilled at the admission. “Apparently talent like yours doesn’t require practice.”
Surprisingly she smiled, a lazy feline curl of her lips that had his gut clenching in response. God, he was pathetic. But her answer distracted his re-awakened desire. “No, I mean…this.” She gave a vague gesture between them. “Easy banter and post-coitus repartee. Is this normal for men or is it more customary to fall asleep?”
He felt a quick flash of amusement at the slightly academic tone. There was a scholarly aspect to the woman that was all the more fascinating in light of her naked and mussed appearance. “Since the only man I’ve been to been bed with is me, I’m going to have to plead ignorance on that.” He slid his hand over the lovely curve from hip to waist. Back again. “But in your case, I tend to think any man who’s so easily sated lacks both imagination and stamina.” Her quick laugh turned to a gasp when he lowered his head and replaced his hand with his tongue.
Her skin was satiny. Her body endlessly fascinating. Cam tested the curve of her hip lightly with his teeth. He couldn’t get enough of her. The shape of her, the feel, the smell. He wasn’t some damn teenage kid who’d just bedded his first girlfriend. The female anatomy held no surprises for him.
The thought was made a mockery when his mouth moved to explore the expanse of her stomach. There was a whisper of muscle below the silky skin. Strength below softness. That contrast was present in her personality, too. Polish glossed over competence. Beauty paired with finely honed steel. Intelligence coupled with the most gut-wrenching glimmers of vulnerability.
He paused to dip the tip of his tongue in the swirl of her naval. He needed to get a grip before this fascination turned into something more. Something…deeper.
The thought should h
ave sent a cold arrow of reason through his brain. But his mind remained pleasantly fuzzy. She drew a leg up then and he took the opportunity to stroke the sleek skin of her thigh. To follow the path of his hand with his lips. In his experience the hotter the start of a relationship, the faster it burned itself out. Endings were inevitable.
But damn if he was ready for this to end….
“Dammit, Sophie, pick up.” Cam left another terse message while pounding at the door of her condo again. Which was probably a wasted effort, since she’d already failed to answer the doorbell.
She was probably on her way in to headquarters. He glanced at his watch. It was still early, though. Barely seven. He normally didn’t see her around the DCI building for at least another hour.
Still in bed, then. He slipped his cell back in his pocket and propped his hands on his hips. That scenario was definitely one that didn’t bear considering.
They’d gotten back late from Edina last night. They’d stayed another day after Jenna had done that sketch using Muller’s description of the man he’d seen watching Courtney Van Wheton. They’d canvassed the area’s parks again yesterday, this time armed with photos of Van Wheton and the sketch. In addition to a few who’d recognized the woman were a couple of people who recalled seeing the man in the sketch, which at least made Cam certain Muller hadn’t been blowing smoke about the guy.
But no one had seen the man approach Van Wheton. No one remembered noticing him in the park on the day the woman disappeared. Nor had the woman’s traumatized daughters recognized the man.
The abductor had done some planning, he thought with disgust. The enhanced image from the security image at the bank showed plates on the van that had proven to be stolen. And as the vehicle had driven by the camera, the driver giving a friendly wave had been immediately recognizable.