“I agree,” Gilroy said. “This guy is practically throwing clues at us, so why can’t we identify him?”
Deming burst through the incident room’s door, walking inside with hands lifted as if to stave off any complaints. “I’m sure you all left a million messages, but I got locked out of my phone—the damn thing. I keep replacing it, but it keeps— Oh, forget it. Long story longer, it died just as I suffered a flat tire that I had to change myself, so please don’t give me a hard time. I’m hot, cranky, and hungry. Is that pizza? I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I’m starved.”
Ferguson smirked, turning his swivel chair toward the room’s entrance, eyeballing Deming as she walked toward him and the pizza box on his desk. “Hannah and Benton were blown off a yacht by a bomb, then half-drowned in the Boston Harbor. The bar is set too high for you to play the sympathy card.”
Deming’s hastily grabbed pizza slice hung inches from her mouth as she processed the news. When she finally took a bite, Vivian cringed.
“That pizza’s been sitting there since lunch,” Vivian said.
“I don’t care. I’m starving.” Deming took another bite, talking around the food. “The harbor, huh? Nice day for a swim.” She glanced at the bandage on Jack’s forehead, lifting her brows.
He touched it, having forgotten it was there. “I’m fine.”
“Hmm.” Deming swallowed, licking her lips. “How big was this explosion?” She took another bite of cold pizza.
“Big enough,” Hannah said. “When Charlie hands in his report, you’ll be one of the first to see it. Right now, we’re looking for connections between the victims.”
“Charlie again, huh?” Deming grumbled. “He’s the only forensic guy this department has?”
“You got something against Charlie?” Ferguson asked.
Deming shook her head. “Never mind.” She waved her hand, dismissing the topic. “After this morning’s revelation, we have more important things to talk about.”
“What revelation?” Hannah said.
“You thought Special Agent Benton was dead,” Deming said, scanning the faces of everyone in the room. “That’s big.” She frowned at Jack. “And I shouldn’t have to tell you that, Benton. You should have said something immediately. At least, given us a heads-up.”
“I only discovered it this morning.” Jack fought the urge to squirm under everyone’s censure. “Why do you care?” It was none of anyone’s business as far as he could tell.
“Because,” Deming said. “She loved you and thought you’d died. She was in mourning. Deep mourning from all appearances.” There was an implied you louse, but Jack ignored it as Deming took another bite of cold pizza. Jack tried to catch Hannah’s gaze, but she was looking everywhere but at him. Love, Deming said. Neither he nor Hannah had ever exchanged words of love.
Jack shook his head, feeling persecuted. “What the hell are you trying to say, Deming?”
“Yeah.” Gilroy frowned at Deming. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Hannah’s face had lost its color. “She’s saying Twoomey lost his wife a year ago.”
“And that Stone’s fiancée died in Afghanistan,” Vivian said.
Jack studied the murder board. “And Zelezny lost his wife four months ago.”
Deming nodded. “Broken love. The perp thinks he’s putting his victims out of their misery.”
“Bingo.” Gilroy smiled, wiggling his brows at Deming. “I knew you weren’t just a pretty face.” Deming batted her eyelashes at Gilroy and playfully preened.
Ferguson stood, as if his frustration could no longer allow him to sit still. “By having them mauled by dogs, drowned, or frozen to death?”
“Or blown up,” Hannah said. “We have a connection that makes sense. Good work, Deming.”
Deming lifted her pizza slice in salute. “You’re welcome.”
“But he made a mistake,” Hannah said.
“You can thank me later,” Jack said. She was alive because he was there to hustle her off the yacht before it blew up. Gilroy nodded, and sent Hannah some disgruntled side-eye.
“This guy doesn’t make mistakes.” Hannah looked right at him.
Gilroy frowned at her. “What are you saying? That the perp wasn’t targeting you?”
Hannah shook her head. “Jack’s not dead,” she said. “Maybe the perp figured that out and changed his mind about me.”
“I’d say you were giving the perp more credit than he deserves, but it fits with the theory he’s being tipped off by someone from inside the department.” Gilroy exchanged weighted glances with Jack.
“I no longer fit his ritual,” she said. “So maybe I’m safe?”
Hannah looked hopeful, and Jack wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or bad. He preferred her scared. A scared Hannah meant she wouldn’t take so many chances. Especially since Jack’s conclusion was exactly the opposite of Hannah’s. This information meant the perp knew Hannah had loved and lost, which meant the perp knew Hannah. Intimate details of her life. Her hope that this meant she was safe could only get her killed.
Chapter 11
Her case was breaking wide open. No, Jack’s case was breaking wide open. She’d lost control of this case because she’d become a target. Apparently, because Jack pretended to die. The repercussions of his mistake kept hitting her. It wasn’t fair.
Hannah consoled herself that she was still on the case, not sidelined because of her impatience at the yacht, so that was good. Still… Life had become a game of give and take. Jack was alive. Yay! Hannah wanted to kill him. Boo. New leads coming in fast and furious. Yay! But she wasn’t leading the case. Boo. Jack was alive and seemed happy to be an instant dad. Yay! Try as she might, she couldn’t find a boo to counterbalance that yay.
“So, Deming.” Hannah rubbed her face, trying to wipe stress from her expression. “What now? The killer failed. Will he escalate or back off and regroup? Or am I right? Jack’s alive. I’m safe.”
Ferguson bristled with impatience, pacing behind his desk. “She doesn’t have a crystal ball, Hannah. Charlie’s report on the bomb should tell us about this guy’s intent. Maybe we’re looking at a prepper, a vet, maybe a disgruntled ex-cop.”
“Who likes poetry?” Vivian said.
“Charlie’s report”—Ferguson stopped pacing to scowl at Vivian—“will be based on measurable intel, will lead us in the right direction with facts, not voodoo psychology. Sorry, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the last thing Hannah should do is assume she’s safe.”
“Hear, hear,” Gilroy said. Hannah scowled at the bald man. She didn’t know much about him, but from what she’d gleaned from the short time she’d been around him, he was a stick-in-the-mud. Gloom and doom.
Hannah caught the profiler’s attention. “Deming?”
“Vivian,” Deming said, “the perp is using poetry. Doesn’t mean he likes it.” Then she shrugged. “I agree with Gilroy.”
“You mean me.” Ferguson narrowed his eyes at her. The profiler ignored him.
“Our guy lacks a signature,” Deming said. “To conclude that you’re safe, Hannah, would be insane. The way he kills is different every time. Odds are we’re looking at two possibilities. He freaks and comes at you with everything he’s got—”
“Not what a planner would do,” Jack said.
“No, but he’s never failed to kill his intended target,” Deming said. “Not that we know of, anyway. It might push him into doing something rash. That’s my point. We don’t have enough information to predict his behavior.” Deming wrapped her hair into a scrunchie. “I’m beat and my brain isn’t working anymore, but having said that, yeah, you’re right. If you don’t fit his guidelines for a kill, you’re safe.”
“If,” Gilroy said, “she’s right. We can’t know for sure what motivates this guy until we catch him.”
“P
oetry.” Ferguson sneered, kicking his desk before sitting down again. “Why couldn’t it have been a good Grisham book? Are you sure the perp isn’t a chick?”
“The poem was written by William Blake,” Hannah said. “A man. Men have written most poems in existence.”
“If we don’t include Anonymous.” Deming winked at Ferguson. “And female serial killers are rare. That means it doesn’t happen often.”
“I know what the word rare means. What is this?” Ferguson scowled. “Pick on Ferguson Day?”
“Do we need to choose just one day?” Gilroy smiled at the detective, leaning back in his chair.
“Enough,” Jack said. “Deming, he’s getting something out of killing these people. You said he’s asexual. If not sexual gratification, what?”
Jack pulled at his collar, which brought Hannah’s attention to his hair. It had grown longer than she was used to. Unruly. She wondered if he’d grown it for his last undercover posting. It brought back memories of when she’d first met him. He’d been unrecognizable from the man he was now. Hair down to his shoulders, unshaven, leather and jeans, he was sex on a stick. His tight, faded black T-shirt had been ripped across his chest and belly, showcasing a six-pack. The knife that caused that damage had also sliced his skin enough to make him bleed, but not enough to cause more than discomfort. He’d been bloody, though seemingly unaffected. And damn, he’d rocked her world. She hadn’t known he was undercover at the time, so she’d only allowed herself to fantasize about him. When he caught her looking, she’d nearly died from embarrassment, but consoled herself that she’d never see him again. It was only the first of many wrong assumptions she’d made about the man since that day.
“There has to be video of the perp near or around the crime scenes.” Ferguson caught the IT tech’s attention. “Vivian, any news?”
“We have a uniformed officer watching surveillance videos, looking for leads,” she said. “It’s been underway for weeks now. Gilroy was with them for most of the day.”
Gilroy nodded, absently drawing his hand over his shaved scalp. “I’m supervising the techs. It’s a lot of feeds. Nothing so far.”
“This guy is watching,” Jack said. “Somehow. He can’t be that different from every other serial killer.”
“Agreed,” Gilroy said. “The rush of the kill is why they do it.”
“Jack, you bring up a good point,” Deming said. “There is no real typology. The emails, the stanzas, sure, but the actual deaths are totally different. That could mean we’re dealing with more than one killer. Many killers, in fact.”
“How likely is that?” Jack said.
Hannah shook her head. “If more than one person knows a secret, it’s no longer a secret.”
“It’s rare,” Gilroy said.
Deming nodded. “My point is behavioral science is based on statistics, and if we have nothing to compare these crimes with—” She allowed her words to hang in the air.
Ferguson grimaced. “We’re screwed.”
“If we’re dealing with a cabal of psychopaths,” Hannah said. “So how would it go? They divvy up Blake’s poem and become creative with their kills?”
Deming grimaced. “Statistically speaking, it’s unlikely, but it would explain a lot.”
“Yeah, well, so we do our jobs.” Ferguson stood. “We interview the families of the victims again and see what we shake loose.” He opened his desk drawer, took out his wallet, badge, and Glock. “Special Agent Cambridge, would you accompany me on the interviews?”
It sounded as if he were asking her on a date. The only things missing were flowers and too much cologne. Hannah’s first inclination was to say, “I have to get home to Ellen” but she stopped herself in time. Then she caught sight of Jack’s angry expression, and she wanted to say hell yeah. But Jack stared her down, silently willing her to abide by their agreement. Attached to his hip. Also, this was a perfect opportunity to have Jack’s back, and prove to him that she wasn’t attempting to subvert his authority.
“That would be up to Special Agent Benton.” She lowered her gaze to her desk, waiting, swallowing the bitter taste of being sidelined in her own case.
Jack didn’t hesitate to take up the mantle of team leader. “Deming, go with Ferguson. I want Gilroy hounding the techs on the security feeds.”
Gilroy stood, nodded, and was out the door by the time Deming also stood. She poured herself a coffee and headed out the door. “Ferguson, you’re driving. My spare is barely inflated and I don’t have the patience to break down again today.”
Ferguson didn’t look happy about the substitution, but Hannah refused to care. She wasn’t a ball to be passed between these men. She was exhausted, and they still had to generate a report for Pepperidge.
Ferguson was out the door moments later, with Deming chasing after him. “And I want a meal! Do you hear me, Ferguson? I will be fed!”
* * * *
Two hours later, Ferguson and Deming still hadn’t checked in, so she assumed they uncovered nothing new in their interviews, and Pepperidge, newly finished report in hand, ordered the team home. The lieutenant walked with them to the elevator, a bouquet of roses in hand.
“Nice,” Hannah said. The elevator door opened and they stepped on.
“Romantic.” Vivian smiled. Gilroy smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked uncomfortable.
“What did you do now?” Jack said. Hannah slapped his arm and turned to Pepperidge, about to apologize, but Pepperidge laughed.
“I have a date with Jolene at Jimmy’s Restaurant, and Jolene likes roses,” he said, “so I bring roses.”
The elevator arrived on the ground floor, the doors opened, and with an unapologetic shrug, the lieutenant walked out of the elevator whistling, with a spring to his step. Eight o’clock at night, after the day they’d had, Hannah thought it a miracle anyone could have a spring to their step. She was impressed.
Vivian reapplied her lipstick using a compact mirror while they followed the lieutenant down the hall to the exit. With a snap, she shut it and hung her purse over her forearm. “I’m beat. A nice glass of wine and a Jane Austen movie, I think.”
“Sounds good.” And it did, but Hannah didn’t see her night ending so sublimely. Not with Jack underfoot. Not with the coming interrogation about Ellen. He’d probably been honing it all afternoon. She gave him side-eye as they followed Vivian outside, thinking all she wanted to do was go home, hug Ellen, and lick her wounds. Odds of getting that without a bunch of drama was nil.
“Have a good night,” Jack said. Pepperidge went one way and everyone else went the other.
“You, too.” Vivian waved and walked toward the parking lot and her older model beige sedan.
“Wait up,” Gilroy said. “I’ll walk you to your car. My rental is there, too.”
Vivian pressed her hand to her chest and blinked at Gilroy, as if surprised, but she nodded and waited until he stepped to her side before continuing to walk toward the parking lot.
Then Hannah was alone with Jack. Again. It made her heart race as she slid into the passenger seat of his Camaro. Thanks to ample security lighting, she could see the federal building’s parking lot even at this time of night, and could see Gilroy stop with Vivian at her car, chat a bit, then wait until she got behind the wheel and drove off before he walked on, presumably toward his car.
Hannah thought about asking Jack to drive her to her car, maybe take two cars home. The Camry had Ellen’s infant seat in the trunk. It would be a perfect excuse to delay the inevitable. But a niggling fear of the perp maybe tampering with it, despite security, stopped her request. She couldn’t think of anything that would be more of a tempest than a car blowing up.
Like Jack’s had last year.
Memories of the charred body that was supposed to be Jack’s pressed against her consciousness. She hated the memory, especially since now
she knew it was a stranger. The poor guy. Whoever he’d been, she knew there had to be someone out there, mourning him, even if they didn’t know what had happened to him.
She settled deeper into the seat and rested her head back. The soft leather was cool to the touch and was so comfortable, she could have slept then and there, but for the worry of Jack’s inevitable questions and how she’d answer them. Now that she knew he was alive, she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with him!
Hannah buckled in and waited for the onslaught of questions. They were coming. She was sure of it. Five minutes later, as he drove through the city streets, and he remained silent, she began to feel as if she’d dodged a bullet. She relaxed so much her eyelids grew heavy. Then she remembered something relevant to the case, and a jolt of adrenaline had her sitting up straight.
“Hey,” she said. “Did forensics get us that report on the brownstone garden?”
“The pathologist called an hour ago with his report,” Jack said. “His team found lots of footprints and BPD officers spent all afternoon canvasing the residents’ footwear. No leads.”
“Charlie Foulkes,” she said.
Jack nodded. “Right.”
“Deming knows him. Do you know how?”
“She never said. Deming keeps things close to the vest. Separates her work from her private life.” He put the car’s directional on and changed lanes, speeding ahead. “Not a bad thing in a coworker. Makes things easy.”
“Unlike us?”
Jack frowned, but kept his eyes on the road. “Why do you care if Deming knows the guy?” He glanced at her. “Have you been seeing him romantically?”
The idea that she had time for romance was laughable, and none of his business, so she ignored his questions. “Every time his name is brought up, Deming practically flinches.”
“Doesn’t sound like her.” Still frowning, he kept glancing at her as if waiting for an answer to his question about Charlie. Well, he could wait forever. Jack died on her. She owed him nothing.
Catch a Killer Page 14