by Karen Rose
God, his life really, truly sucked.
He shifted, stretching out his arm along the top of the steering wheel so he could see her face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, the smoothness of his voice at odds with the temper he felt simmering inside, “but I have every confidence you will fill me in.”
Jenna sighed. “Steven, when did you see your first dead body. On the job, that is?”
It was his turn to blink. It was not the question he’d expected. “My second day. It was a suicide. Guy ate his gun.”
She winced. “And you still can see the picture in your mind,” she said softly.
He could, as clearly as if it were before him at that moment. He could see it and smell it and taste it. Death. The terrible sight, stench, taste of death. He’d woken in a cold sweat for weeks.
“How you discipline your son is nobody’s business but your own,” she said and gingerly laid her fingertips on his arm. His muscles clenched and quivered at her touch. “But what would happen if Brad actually stumbles on that young girl’s body? The first girl was stabbed, wasn’t she?”
Steven nodded, the idiocy of his actions closing in. “Viciously.”
Jenna swallowed hard. “Do you expect to find this girl stabbed as well?”
“Yes.”
“Then is that an image you want in your son’s mind for the rest of his life?”
Steven looked away. Dammit, she was right. He’d been totally wrong. He hated to be wrong.
“I’ll go now,” she murmured. “Should I take Brad with me?”
He jerked a nod and watched as she gracefully slipped from the seat and nodded to Mike, who’d been standing in the shadows. She hesitated, then leaned into the opening of the door. The dome lamp threw her face into shadow, but even in the muted light he could see the concern in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Steven.”
Once he’d welcomed her concern, but tonight it was a bitter pill.
“Just go,” he said, his voice raspy. “Please, just leave me alone.”
When she was gone, when she’d climbed into the car with Mike and Brad, he pulled himself out of the Volvo and approached Harry who’d been silently watching the entire exchange. “Well,” Steven asked, silently daring Harry to say anything remotely funny or personal, “where are we?”
Harry looked subdued. “Same place as before. Nothing. We did chase away a reporter.”
Steven’s hackles went up. “Big guy? Dark hair, late thirties, denim jacket, teal Dodge Neon?”
Harry’s eyes widened. “That’s him.”
“I don’t suppose you got his license number.”
“Actually, I did.” Harry rattled it off. “I’ll have Nancy run a check. Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” Steven said. “But I have a feeling that sooner or later I’m going to find out.”
EIGHTEEN
Thursday, October 6, 1:30 A.M.
IT WAS GETTING COLD. HE HATED THAT ABOUT winters here. Too damn cold. He jacked up the heat in his car. His clock said it was one-thirty. She should be here any minute. Little miss rah-rah.
Her name was Alev Rahrooh. She was Indian, from India. He normally liked white girls, but he’d been attracted by all that long, dark hair. It would look good in his collection. Besides, she was the only one available tonight. Available and willing to sneak out of her house and meet him.
Here. He looked across the street at the golden arches gleaming in the night. Thatcher hadn’t found anything behind the McDonald’s, just like he’d known. He’d been careful. He’d been smart.
So here he sat not a hundred feet from where he’d nabbed pretty Samantha. If Thatcher ever figured it out he’d be kicking himself. Right under his fucking nose.
His pulse jumped at the shadow approaching. Oh, goodie. Here she came. Alev walked. No bike. That was good. Meant he didn’t have to dispose of the bike afterward. He smoothed back his hair and pulled his collar up around his face, then leaned over and opened the door.
“Hi,” he said. “Hop on in.”
She slid in and pulled the door shut behind her. “I can’t stay long,” she said. Shyly. How cute. “My mom and dad can’t know I’m gone.”
They might have a cow, he thought, then laughed inside his head at his own joke. Hindus. Cow. Good one. Outwardly, though, he was silent. Waiting, saying nothing, just waiting for the moment she’d figure it out. That was one of the best parts. When they figured it out. And then, of course, it was way too late.
Alev was a lot slower on the draw than Sammie had been. Finally she peered closer into the darkness on his side of the car. “What—?”
Bingo! Her eyes grew wide and he could easily see the whites of her eyes against the darkness of her skin. “No! You’re not—” He had to hand it to her. She tried to struggle. Actually tried to scratch his face with her fingernails, but pretty little Alev was no match for his strength. He grabbed her wrists in one hand and with the other covered her nose and mouth with the surgical mask he’d prepared with such care.
She continued to struggle, her head pitching back and forth, trying to escape the mask. He simply pressed harder against her face, patiently waiting until she drew a desperate breath.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six . . .
Then she crumpled, gasping. Then she was still.
He pulled the surgical mask away and carefully folded it to keep the powder she hadn’t inhaled from going all over his car seat. Wouldn’t want to make a mess, after all.
He drove away. The night was still very, very young. He patted Alev’s cheek. So was she.
Thursday, October 6, 5:45 A.M.
Sheriff Rogers put a large brown bag and a thermos on the hood of Steven’s car. “My wife made nut bread,” he said. “And coffee. Help yourself.”
Steven looked at the burly man with as much of a smile as he could muster on the fifteen minutes’ sleep he’d had the night before. “Thanks, Sheriff,” he said. “It smells great.”
Rogers settled himself against the car and looked toward the horizon where the sun would start peeking up sometime in the next fifteen minutes. “Your boy get home all right last night?”
Steven felt his face heat and busied himself by pouring coffee into one of the foam cups provided by the thoughtful Mrs. Rogers. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“I got a kid that age,” Rogers said, still studying the horizon intently. “Pain in the ass.”
“I know the feeling,” Steven returned dryly.
“Wife keeps tellin’ me he’ll come around.” Rogers’s tone said he was clearly unconvinced.
“Women are optimistic souls,” Steven said.
Rogers glanced over at him with a grimace. “Good thing they make good nut bread.”
Steven’s mouth quirked up. “How long have the two of you been married?”
“Twenty-five years next summer. And yourself?”
Steven took a large gulp of coffee, wincing as it scalded his throat. “I’m not married.”
Rogers’s brows went up in surprise. “Then who—” He looked away. “Sorry, not my business.”
It really wasn’t, but for some reason Steven didn’t seem to mind. “It’s okay. Truth is, I’m really not sure myself.”
Rogers looked as if he were digesting this information along with his nut bread. “She seemed like a nice woman.”
Steven took another gulp of coffee, this time knowing full well how much it would burn on its way down. Maybe it was a form of self-punishment, Mike’s hair shirt and flogging strap, as it were. “Yes, she is. She really is.”
Rogers chewed his nut bread contemplatively. “Nice women who look that good in Wall Street business suits don’t come along every day.”
Sheriff Rogers appeared to be a master of understatement. “No, I don’t suppose they do.”
Rogers pushed himself away from the car, brushing the crumbs off his broad barrel chest. “My boys should be gettin’ here any minute, now. I’ll get the radios ready.”
�
��Thanks, Sheriff,” Steven murmured, looking up at the still-dark sky where the chopper would appear to take aerial photos as soon as day broke so that they could get on with their search for Samantha Eggleston. Trying to wipe from his mind the picture of Jenna’s concerned face, her Wall Street business suit, and the sound of her voice whispering, “Have courage.” Knowing he’d ultimately be unsuccessful. Jenna Marshall was in his mind to stay.
And his heart? She’d insinuated herself there, too. Down deep he knew it was true. What other woman would care enough to intercede on his behalf with Brad after being treated so callously? He’d left her Tuesday night without a word. And still she cared. Steven blew out a sigh.
So did he.
Thursday, October 6, 6:15 A.M.
Neil readjusted his body to fit inside the tiny Dodge Neon.
What had he been thinking, renting a soup can this small? He’d been trying to stretch his budget, that’s what he’d been thinking. His salary had been sufficient when pooled with Tracey’s. But without Tracey’s salary and with the alimony...He shook his head and blindly reached for the cup of coffee that was growing cold in the cup holder. That alimony was a real kicker.
But, just like every time he thought of his ex-wife, he couldn’t seem to dredge up any emotion other than regret. No malice, no hatred. She was a nice woman who just couldn’t seem to deal with the fact her husband was a jerk obsessed with a mistake that had cost four young girls and their families justice. She couldn’t deal with his sleeplessness, the dreams when he did manage to sleep. She couldn’t deal with the fact that the man she’d married was changing before her very eyes.
So she left. It was really very simple. He couldn’t say he blamed her. He couldn’t say he even really missed her and he supposed that’s why he felt no hatred or rage. Just regret.
Barrow never understood that. A loyal friend, Barrow usually had a few choice things to say about Tracey’s lack of loyalty, but Neil could never find it in himself to agree. Then Barrow would make that harrumping noise of his and say, “Well, at least you two didn’t have any kids.”
Neil would always say, “Yeah, you’re right.” And he believed that. He’d make a lousy father with the hours and the “Parker obsession” as Tracey called it. So it was good he didn’t have kids. He’d never really regretted that part. Not really.
Well, maybe sometimes. He would have enjoyed watching his kid play baseball. Or soccer. His mind went back to Monday night, to the look on Thatcher’s face when his son made that goal. Thatcher was a good dad. Made his kids’ soccer games. Cheered from the sidelines.
But it distracted Thatcher from his job. Neil thought about last night, when from his hiding spot in the trees he’d watched Thatcher leave the search area to get his kid, watched him hand the kid over to the woman with the long black hair. A different kid. Another distraction. He thought about the articles he’d read about the abduction of Thatcher’s little boy and wondered if Thatcher worried it would happen again. Neil knew he couldn’t live that way, always worrying if his kids were at risk. That would be the biggest distraction of all. So it was good he and Tracey hadn’t had any kids. Thatcher would probably be a better cop if he didn’t have any either.
A light came on in the Parkers’ upstairs window. That would be Mrs. Parker’s bedroom. Running true to style, she had her own room, just like she’d had in Seattle. He wondered if Mr. Parker was also running true to style. Back in Seattle, Parker kept a mistress in a posh apartment around the corner from his downtown office building. Convenient for the sonofabitch.
Another light came on, then another as the household roused itself for the day.
Neil shifted in the tiny little seat and prepared to wait. He’d wait until William emerged, then follow him again. Sooner or later William would choose his next victim. He’d have to leave his house to meet her. And Neil would be ready.
At that point, he’d call Thatcher and give him the damn road map showing him where to find his killer. There’d be an arrest and news media and fanfare. Thatcher might even get a promotion.
Neil smiled without feeling an ounce of mirth. Who knew? Maybe that’s how he got the last one. Maybe they’d promote Thatcher to a desk job where he could go home to his kids and the woman with the long black hair every night at five.
And leave the real investigating to the guys who weren’t so distracted.
Neil sipped at the coffee, now stone-cold. Although, he thought, watching the Parkers’ downstairs lights come on one at a time, he wouldn’t mind the distraction of Thatcher’s woman. He frowned. With his binoculars he’d seen her face. She had a classic beauty, haunting somehow. For a moment he’d been simply mesmerized. And when he’d closed his eyes that night in the privacy of his hotel room, it was her face he’d seen. It had been a relief, a comfort, for it was the first time in a very long time he’d dreamed of someone other than the teenaged girls William Parker had robbed of life. Instead he’d dreamed of her, of Thatcher’s woman. He could still see her face in his mind, even now as he sat, fully awake and waiting for Parker.
Neil sat up abruptly when the front door opened, then slumped back when Mrs. Parker appeared in a worn robe to grab the newspaper from the front porch. If today was like all the other days, William would be coming out any minute for his morning run.
Neil put the coffee cup aside. He could use a run himself. Sitting in this soup can was giving him a cramp in his ass. He—
He jumped at the bright light shining in his face, followed by a knock on the car window.
“Sir, please step out of the car. Keep your hands where we can see them.”
And he knew even before he turned around that this was not the way to start the day.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Thursday, October 6, 7:45 A.M.
Jenna paused, her hand trembling on her classroom door. “I’m afraid to look,” she said.
“I’ll look,” said Lucas and pushed open the door. “No piñatas, at least,” he said and Jenna peeked around him.
“No new graffiti,” Jenna added.
“Check your desk,” Casey cautioned, coming up from behind. “Maybe they booby-trapped the drawer or something.”
But a thorough check showed no new activity through the night.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Jenna motioned to the students who’d been gathering at the door. “Come on in, guys. Let’s learn some chemistry.”
They filed in, each looking like they expected a nasty surprise to catch them unaware.
The muted sounds of scraping chairs and settling bodies was interrupted by Kelly Templeton. “Dr. Marshall, can we talk about the extra credit points on this quiz from Tuesday?”
Jenna rolled her eyes at the look of suppressed humor in the girl’s eyes. At least it wasn’t extortion this time. “Yes, Kelly, we can. Bring your paper on up and we’ll take a look.”
She watched her students’ faces as Lucas and Casey took their leave. Most of the kids still wore the look of tentative caution, except for Kelly who smirked.
And Josh Lutz who looked very troubled. Troubled and torn. On one hand he looked to be on the verge of spilling his guts, but on the other, he looked ready to run at his first opportunity.
Jenna kept an eye on Josh, intending to talk to him when class was over, but when the bell rang he slipped away. She wondered what he knew. She wondered what he’d tell. She wondered, not for the first time, what went on behind the closed doors of the Lutz household.
Thursday, October 6, 9:45 A.M.
Steven glared at Assistant DA Liz Johnson as he walked into the reception area of Raleigh’s first district. “This better be important.” He’d come as soon as she’d called, once again leaving Harry point man at the search scene.
“What, were you actually doing the speed limit?” Liz asked sourly.
Steven grinned at her. “I can’t afford any tickets on a cop’s salary.”
Liz grinned back like the old friend she was. “Like I can afford any on mine?” She s
obered. “We’re going to Interview Two,” she said. “Lieutenant Chambers called me as soon as they brought the guy in. It seems he had some fascinating reading material Chambers thought we should see.”
“Has he said anything yet?” Steven asked, falling into step beside her.
Liz shook her head. “Nope. He insists on talking to you. Who is this guy?”
“He’s been hanging around,” Steven answered. “I saw him at my son’s soccer game Monday night and Harry said he was at the search scene last night. Looking for me. Told Harry he was a reporter. Harry was going to ask Nancy to run plates on him this morning.”
They came to a stop in front of Interview Two where Lieutenant Chambers stood frowning at the glass. On the other side sat the dark-haired man from Matt’s game, arms crossed over his chest. Chambers acknowledged them with a curt nod, handing Liz a thin folder.
“One of my patrol units picked him up this morning. A resident on Hook Street called with a complaint that this guy had been loitering there for a few days.”
Liz took a thoughtful look at the stranger. “So they shine their light inside his car and find his photo collection in plain view.” She handed the folder to Steven. “Four mutilated corpses.”
Steven glanced through the photos. “Before and after,” he murmured, looking at the pictures of the girls before they’d become mutilated corpses. “Pretty girls.” He turned the pictures over to look at the names neatly printed on the back of each one. “Did you run these names?” he asked.
Chambers nodded. “All murdered in Seattle three years ago. All sixteen years old. All cheerleaders.”
Steven sighed. “Damn. And his hair’s just about the same shade as the hair we found in the clearing last Friday.”
“So’s mine,” Liz said, her tone pointed. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
So’s Mike’s, Steven thought, then cursed himself. But that didn’t prove anything either. There was absolutely no way Mike was involved. Mike had seen his son home without incident. Steven felt the prick of guilt. He knew because he’d called Helen to make sure Brad was all right. Mike had ensured Jenna got home safe and sound. The prick of guilt jabbed deeper. Steven knew that because he’d called Jenna’s home number last night well after midnight, just to hear her answer sleepily. Just to know she’d gotten home all right. Hell of a friend you are, Thatcher.