“Things are going to hell, Garrett. Taylor’s bodyguards just killed the Zodiac copycat at Sam’s office. Sam is missing. Our best lead is dead. Everything is falling to pieces.”
“I know that. Which is why I needed to talk to you. I’ve spoken with the director. We’re reactivating you and rescinding your suspension. There’s too much happening out there to have our best player on the bench. Try to stay away from the media, but get a handle on these copycat killers and wrap this case. Where are you with things?”
It was about time.
“I’ve been working the angle with Ewan Copeland, trying to figure out who he is and where he’s from. He’s been working at Forensic Medical as a death investigator named Barclay Iles. We nailed his sister—she’s the shooter from North Carolina. She’s from Raleigh, North Carolina—the SBI are on that part of the case. Her name is Ruth Anderson, and she’s on the run. Copeland can’t be far behind her—he sent Taylor a CD with the license plates of the copycats. He blew their cover on purpose. It was probably just another part of the game, or he got bored. Who the hell knows. And the true-crime blogger is dead.”
“I heard. Salt says they have one of the other copycats in custody. I want you to talk to him face-to-face.”
“He’s in Knoxville, Garrett. I need to stay here. The game in is Nashville.”
“The pawn of the game is in Knoxville. You need to get up there.”
“But—”
“Baldwin, your return is conditional. The director feels the media attention to the case warrants finding out why three men decided to start pretending to be famous serial killers. We have too many dead, all over the country, and two more killers in the wind. This fool has had direct contact with the Pretender. The director wants answers, and results, and he thinks the key to the case lies in Knoxville. So get up there. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make plans to get to Knoxville right away.”
“Let me know what you find out. And no cameras, you hear me?”
“Got it.”
“Good. One other thing. On a more personal note.”
Baldwin knew exactly what that meant. Garrett had news about the child Charlotte claimed to have aborted.
“He’s overseas. A foreign adoption. That’s all I’ve gotten, but I’m still working on it.”
Baldwin felt the breath whoosh out of him.
“He’s okay though, right?”
“It’s been at least two years since anyone’s seen paper on him. With Charlotte’s death, all sorts of agencies got involved. You know how the government octopus works. That picture is very outdated. I’m doing the best I can.”
“All right, Garrett. Thank you.”
He clicked off. The traffic was finally moving. Once he got past the 440 split, things went smoother. He could see downtown clearly. The clouds had retreated, typical Nashville weather, teasing a storm and delivering sunshine instead. The cold sun glinted off the buildings. It all looked so normal. It felt so right.
The idea of leaving Nashville for Knoxville scared the hell out of him. He couldn’t leave Taylor unprotected. It was bad enough that they’d split to work different angles of the case. He needed to be with her, by her side, helping her track down Copeland and Sam.
But if he defied orders when he was on such precarious ground, everything he’d worked for all these years would go out the window.
A week ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He’d have said to hell with the FBI and attached himself like a limpet to Taylor’s side.
But there was his son to consider now, too. Garrett’s support in finding the boy had been phenomenally helpful. Could he purposefully turn his back on his boss, his friend—his son, maybe—to follow his own path?
He never thought he’d have to choose. He was going to fail this test, he could feel it in his bones.
He got on the phone to Kevin as he took the exit to swing through downtown to the CJC. Arranged for a chopper to take him to Knoxville. If he had to go, he needed to do it quickly.
The CJC was a mess when he arrived. The roads were closed at the bridge. He had to park on Second Avenue, in front of Hooters, and walk himself in. He did it quickly, worried. There was an ambulance, but the EMTs were standing around, not acting. When he turned onto the street, two fire engines pulled away. First responders were done. Was all this for Colleen Keck? Or had something else gone down?
He felt a moment of sheer panic. Taylor. Where was Taylor? He flipped open his phone to call her and broke into a run. The call connected, then went to her voice mail. Damn it. Did she have her phone off? Or had Ewan Copeland’s final piece of the puzzle dropped into place?
The medical examiner’s van pulled up to the light next to him. He ignored the red hand telling him to stop and sprinted across the street. Marcus Wade was standing on the corner, talking to Lincoln Ross. Taylor’s boss, Joan Huston, was taking Lincoln’s weapon from him. But he didn’t see Taylor.
He ran up to them. “Where’s Taylor? Is she okay?”
Commander Huston turned to Baldwin. She was calm, collected. Sadness tinged her eyes.
“Hello, Dr. Baldwin. The lieutenant is fine, so far as I know. We lost a witness in the parking garage, and the suspect who killed her. Detective Ross was forced to employ his service weapon in self-defense. This is a crime scene, so I need to ask you to remove yourself. This is a local case, it has no bearing on the FBI.”
She was right: he had no right to be there, no reason. But Lincoln was his friend, as was Marcus. He didn’t want to leave. And where in the hell was Taylor? She should be here by now.
He looked over to Lincoln, who was gray with misery. Marcus was standing next to him, speaking quietly. He squeezed his arm, then nodded to Baldwin.
Without speaking, Marcus walked away, back toward the CJC. Baldwin fell into step with him. They took the long way around the building, to the back entrance, then stopped on the stairs to talk.
“What the hell is going on?” Baldwin asked.
“Chick had a knife and she was inside the zone. Linc had no choice but to shoot her. He’s pretty messed up. It’s a clean shoot, straight self-defense. Problem is, three people saw what happened, and two of them are dead. He’s on leave, he’s going to get sent home for the day at least, after he sees the shrink.” Marcus slid his key card through the reader. “Where’s Taylor?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out. I was hoping she was here already. She asked me to meet her. She’s looking for Sam. We think Copeland’s got her. I thought you were with Fitz?”
“I was, but when I heard Sam was missing, I got back here pronto. I’ve got two guys I trust on him. He’ll be fine. This day just keeps getting better and better,” Marcus said.
“What caused Colleen Keck to blow up?”
When they were inside the Homicide offices, Marcus went straight to Taylor’s office and beckoned Baldwin to follow. He shut the door so they could talk freely.
“Lincoln had a set of her prints run. Turns out she was living quite the lie. Her real name is Emma Brighton, and she’s from Forest City, North Carolina. Copeland’s hometown.”
“Taylor said she thought Colleen was tied to Copeland in some way. That she recognized the name.”
“That’s what Lincoln was trying to get out of her when she snapped. He thinks she was the rape victim from when Ewan was sixteen. She was in the group home with him.”
Baldwin smacked his forehead with his hand. “My God. That makes perfect sense. No wonder he was targeting her—he’s wrapping up loose ends. She started her life over under a different name. Got married. Had a kid.” Another thought hit him. “Her husband’s murder was never solved, right? I bet Copeland was responsible somehow.”
“It’s possible… He was killed on the interstate during a drug interdiction sting—all caught on camera, but whoever did it knew how to shield his face. They knew it was a man, just by the size of him, but that was all they got. The ballistics never matched anything, it was a clean gun.”
“That sounds like Copeland. He found his old flame Emma living as Colleen Keck. He knew who she was married to. He used Keck’s name to visit his mother three years ago. He spent years looking for her, then decided to systematically ruin her life. At her most basic, she was a witness. We know he’s changed his face cosmetically several times since then. He’s been posing as Barclay Iles, from Forensic Medical. One of my profilers is serving the plastic surgeon he’s been using with a warrant right now.”
“No shit?”
“Nope.” Another thought hit him. “The blog name. Felon E. E for Emma. I wonder if she did that intentionally or subconsciously? I bet after her husband died, she couldn’t help herself. But who was the woman Lincoln shot, the one who killed Colleen?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. She doesn’t have any ID on her.”
Baldwin stood and paced for a minute. “The clues that he sent us, with the license plate numbers and Sam’s address. There was a leftover letter—an E. E for Emma Brighton, E for Felon E.”
“Makes sense.”
“I didn’t ask—how was she killed?”
“Gruesome. Her throat was slit.”
It hit him in a rush. “Marcus, we’ve got to go back out there. I think I know who Lincoln shot in the parking structure. And if it’s her, this just became my case, too.”
Fifty-One
The man who would be Richard Cooper loved this hotel. He figured he was due for a splurge—being on the road for several days, the pressure of imitation, the stakes, the hunt and the kill—he was simply exhausted. After he checked in, he’d utilized the exercise room, worked up a good sweat, then opened his pores in the sauna, followed by a cool bath with a fine green-tea scrub that had him clean and rosy pink. He ordered a clean lunch—organic greens, papaya and pineapple, a small piece of grilled salmon. He felt lighter, emptier than he had in days. Food on the road, in a rush, drive-throughs and greasy spoons, none of this was compatible with his lifestyle. He took care of himself. His body was his temple. He didn’t drink or smoke. He rarely, if ever, took medications. He committed to treating his body the way it was meant to be treated, nothing fake, nothing artificial. Fresh, whole foods, things that could be grown, captured or hunted.
Especially hunted.
He set his empty plates back on the cart and wheeled it out into the hallway, so the scent wouldn’t linger and spoil his appetite. He closed the door, triple locked it, then went to the luxurious leather chair situated at just the right angle to watch some television. He planned to watch the news then read the afternoon away, perhaps take a stroll, though it was so nippy outside. He was disappointed they hadn’t done this in the summer, the hotel’s pool was exceptional.
He found the remote stashed in the drawer of an oak side table within easy reach, turned the television on. Thank goodness for cable news, at your fingertips twenty-four hours a day.
His heart dropped as he watched the flashing red Breaking News! banner cross the screen. He turned the volume up carefully. Listened as the anchor described his past few days with stunning accuracy. The whole game had been discovered.
It was one thing for Troy to summon them without warning—he hadn’t appreciated that. He’d done a lot of work lining up his kill in Cincinnati, and he didn’t like walking away from a plan. But it was a completely different issue to have the media on top of the story.
It was on all the major stations. He flipped through a few times, then caught a name. His name. Not his real name, of course, he wasn’t that stupid, but the name he’d been using in connection with this contest. The name he’d used for the hotel.
He forced himself to stay calm. He needed to walk out of the hotel immediately. He’d leave the rental car, he’d already wiped it down, a nightly precaution he took, and take apart the BlackBerry. He’d succeeded this long because he wasn’t stupid, though now he was questioning his intelligence in getting involved with a man who was obviously on a death mission. Troy Land, he called himself, though he knew that name was as fake as his own current nom de plume.
He packed his duffel quickly, put on his clothes. Put on the baseball cap he’d used when he checked in to keep his face off the cameras. Decided to take the linens and robe with him; though he’d only sat on the edge of the bed, he might have left a DNA trace somewhere and he didn’t need that hassle. He ran a piece of masking tape along the edges of the chair and on the floor underneath. He always ate with gloves, so prints weren’t an issue, and he’d washed the silverware in hot water with soap to get the DNA off them, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He opened the door carefully, no one in the hallway. Thankfully the maids hadn’t removed the tray yet. He bundled everything together; he’d burn it once he was clear of town.
He didn’t like the South anyway. Too quiet. All those birds chirping, and people smiling. They made eye contact here and talked to you, expected an answer back, noticed you if you ignored them, a truly dangerous combination. He needed the dingy city life, too many people with too many issues to give him a second glance. He fit in well anyway, on the tall side, brown hair, brown eyes. Not handsome, but not ugly either. He had no distinguishing characteristics. He got his hair cut at a walk-in place. Shopped at chain grocery stores, though it made it harder to eat the organic food his body craved. The specialty stores had fewer customers, they had a tendency to recognize the regulars. He wanted to be regular, not be a regular.
He’d borrow a car from the parking garage and drive to Atlanta, drop it there. Buy something cheap and disposable from one of the many scam lots, take it to Florida. Miami. A port town. He’d make a reservation to take a cruise to South America.
But he wasn’t really going to leave. No, after he’d laid the trail, he was going back to Indianapolis, to the adorable hostess at the steak house. That was as good a place as any to start over.
Oh, well. The game had been fun while it lasted.
Maybe he’d drive by the target’s office, just for the hell of it. Wave goodbye. A shame, really. It would have been fun to watch her die.
Fifty-Two
Taylor wasn’t a big fan of assisted-living facilities. It was purely psychological—her grandfather had been an Alzheimer’s patient before Alzheimer’s was de rigueur, when it was just called dementia and the nursing homes were dark and silent, aside from the moans of pain or murmured recollections that emanated from the mouths of the inmates. It had smelled wrong, she remembered that. She’d been young when he’d passed away, but the stench of the home where he lived wasn’t something she’d ever forget. Neglect, and sadness, and rot, mingled with urine and the sweet, yeasty smell of imminent death. That was what she remembered.
So when she entered the front door of the Guardian facility, she was surprised to smell roses. It was bright, and happy. Clean. Smiling faces. Completely incongruous with her expectations.
She went to the front desk and gave them her name, stated her business. A woman dressed in pink scrubs overlaid with purple and white hearts grinned ear to ear when she heard Taylor asking for Joshua Fortnight. He didn’t get a lot of visitors.
The facility had a small indoor garden, a greenhouse, and they grew roses and orchids and a few irises and hydrangeas to boot, which, as the intake nurse explained, kept the patients happy. It gave them something to do. Especially in the cold winter months when they were stuck inside, and their field trips consisted of going to malls instead of the park or the zoo.
Joshua, it turned out, had an affinity for growing flowers. His specialty was the hard-to-manage orchids. Twice a day, he lovingly played his flute for them, though he was getting more and more deaf, a congenital handicap related to his Treacher Collins, and the notes were sometimes a bit sharp.
“Please don’t upset him,” the pink nurse said. “He’s doing so well with us.”
Upset him. Yeah, that nurse was going to be seriously pissed off in a couple of hours, when she found out Taylor had dragged poor Joshua back through the worst days of his life. She had no tim
e to sugarcoat this.
It took ten minutes to round him up. He shuffled up the hall on her arm, ruined face turned away. She took him to the greenhouse, beckoned for Taylor to follow. Once he was settled, she smiled, touched his shoulder gently in assurance, and left.
He had his back to Taylor, didn’t turn around. When he spoke, he slurred his words, sibilant and soft.
“I remember you,” he said, his pale hands embracing the pot of a delicate white orchid. Using his forefinger, he felt the soil. It must have been all right, he nodded to himself.
“My name is Taylor,” she said.
“You have a gun. I can sssmell the metal.”
“I’m a police officer, Joshua.”
“I know. You killed my father.”
She flinched. Coming face-to-face with the ones left behind was never easy. Being in the same room as the child of the abhorrent serial killer, who’d mocked her, used her, and finally forced her to take his life, was possibly the hardest thing she’d done in years.
“Joshua—”
“Don’t. Jussst, don’t. He wasss a bad man.”
That won the understatement lottery. Eric Fortnight was a sick, twisted bastard, one who was forced to stop killing only because of a crippling case of rheumatoid arthritis. His body wouldn’t cooperate anymore. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, when the urge to kill became too much to contain, he’d enlisted his sociopathic daughter to find him a helpmeet. A killer to kill for him. An apprentice.
Charlotte had chosen Ewan Copeland.
“Are you happy here, Joshua?”
“I miss the birdsss.” He turned to her now, and she forced herself not to suck in her breath. His face, his poor face, looked like a melted candle. His eyes were where his cheeks should be, one on either side, pointing out and down, so very like the birds he loved. His nose was a pinpoint with nostrils, his chin practically nonexistent. Strangely, his lips were normal, a bit wide, but full and lush, a bright red, his tongue, thickened by the disease, visible inside. Like he’d bitten into a bloody apple.
So Close the Hand of Death Page 27