“Imagine carrying a body.” Becca swigged her water and started up the path again.
Her mind went to the sight that she knew awaited them, and her skin crawled.
She’d had nightmares of this day. Dreamt about it over and over for sixteen years. Awoke sweating. Terrified. Unable to breathe. Much of the time, she’d been seeking Molly who’d run away, becoming a whispery shadow on the horizon, and Becca had never been able to catch up to her.
It was fitting, considering that Becca had run from Molly. Just as Van Gogh made the first cut into Becca’s ear, Molly had offered herself instead. Distracted, he turned his attention to Molly without properly securing Becca. The chance to escape opened up, and Becca had taken it.
She’d run. Fast and far. Telling herself with each step that she was putting enough distance between them to be able to find help without risking capture. But she’d raced past help. Run hard. Down the road. Around corners . . . until she’d collapsed. Until she could run no more. Until she had no idea how to get back to the house where Van Gogh held Molly.
And Becca had never seen Molly again.
What kind of person left her foster sister to die at a lunatic’s hands? A terrible person. One who thought only of herself.
They crested the hill. Becca’s gaze went straight to the grave. Sam charged across the field and stepped in front of Kait. Becca slipped past him, not bothering to see if they followed. She didn’t care. She’d left Molly alone, and she deserved to be alone, too.
Connor stood on the far side of the grave talking to the medical examiner. She didn’t make eye contact with him, but could feel him carefully watching her. He was worried for her, and he wasn’t bothering to hide it. She appreciated his concern, but she hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t asked for anything from him. All she wanted was to be treated like a fellow colleague. This monster of a mess was the reason. She could never share her secret. Never tell anyone else she’d abandoned Molly. If she did, they’d run the other way. So even if she did feel more than a physical attraction for Connor—which she wasn’t saying she did—she wasn’t about to do anything about it.
And then there was the possibility that Van Gogh could find out she was alive and come after her again. Maybe hurt someone she cared about in the process. That was why she chose not to tell Kait or Nina. And no matter how big and tough Connor was, she wouldn’t risk exposing him to Van Gogh, either.
She moved closer, catching the fetid smell as she looked at the grave. The girl, the poor, poor girl wore the same style of nightgown Van Gogh had dressed Becca in, right before putting the pearls in her ears. Before the knife came out and he paused to stare at her, a sick smile plastered on his face.
Was he here, watching now? Did he see her? Did he somehow know, after all this time, that she was Lauren? That she was alive?
She searched the area and honed in on the trees, looking for life, for the man who’d terrorized her and Molly for days. She saw nothing, but he could be there. Deeper in the woods, binoculars in hand. Enjoying her distress.
Her throat closed. She could barely breathe. No. He couldn’t win. She forced her mind back to today and looked at the girl’s face. The mouth and eyes were open. Terrified. The face morphed into Molly’s face. This wasn’t Molly. The body was too young to be Molly’s. Besides, this girl hadn’t been dead for sixteen years. But still, Molly would have felt the same terror.
A strangled cry escaped Becca’s throat.
Connor grimaced and started for her, skirting Marcie with a deft foot. He gently took Becca’s arm and turned her away from the horrific sight. She usually reacted to his touch, but she was so frozen in shock and fear, she barely felt his hand.
“I’m thankful for your help.” He rested a hand on her shoulder and gave her a tender look that brought tears to her eyes. “But I wish you weren’t here.”
All she wanted to do was melt against his chest and let him hold her until the horrible memories of the night in the damp cellar disappeared, but she was here as an FBI agent and she needed to remember that. “I’m a law enforcement officer, just like you, Connor. I’m trained for this.”
“Training and actually viewing a decomposed body are two different things. I oughta know. I deal with homicide victims all the time.”
She wanted to heed his advice, but if she didn’t check out the details, she couldn’t help bring the monster Van Gogh to justice. “I’m good, Connor. Really I am.”
She stepped around him. The foul odor caught on the wind.
For Molly and the others, Becca reminded herself and made her feet move forward.
Marcie looked up, smiled tightly, then focused on Connor. “Before you ask, my initial assessment is that the girl’s been here for about a week. But there are so many factors when a body is buried that I can’t be certain. We do have the presence of coffin flies, and putrefaction has started. Her face is swollen and her abdomen full of gasses so she’s definitely—”
“That’s enough, Marcie.” Connor held up his hand. “We trust your skills and don’t need the details of how you came to your conclusion.”
She transferred her gaze to Becca. “Odd to see you here, Becca. You working a case that involves a murdered girl?”
“Becca’s an expert on Van Gogh,” Connor explained, grabbing Marcie’s attention. “Any ID on the victim?”
“No, but then we didn’t expect it, did we? Not if Van Gogh’s behind this.” Marcie shook her head. “Again, I’m not certain of her age yet, but this girl appears to fit his preference for fifteen-year-olds.” Marcie fisted her hands and looked like she wanted to punch someone. “At least, if she’s in the foster care system, we’ll be able to narrow down the field a bit. There will be fewer missing girls to look for.”
“Not necessarily,” Becca said. “She may not have been reported as missing. Foster kids run away all the time. Some are reported. Some aren’t.”
Marcie’s eyes widened. “How can that happen?”
“Most foster parents are on the up and up, but some are only in it for the money. If they don’t report when a kid takes off, the checks keep coming, and it’s one less mouth to feed.”
Marcie grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”
“Unfortunately, it’s reality. Still, it gives us a place to start.” Connor frowned. “Do you have a cause of death?”
“I can’t be sure until I do the autopsy, but I’d venture to say from the ligature mark around her neck that she was strangled.”
Strangled. Van Gogh’s MO.
Becca moved toward the body for a better look. As she stared down at the girl, Molly’s face kept replacing Jane Doe’s, and Becca had to back away.
“So is this a copycat or Van Gogh?” Connor asked, through clenched teeth.
That’s what Becca was hoping to check. One detail had never been leaked to the press or to anyone outside the investigation, but Becca couldn’t bring herself to raise the girl’s knee-length gown to find out. And she couldn’t tell the others without explaining how she knew about it. She could make up a story, she supposed, but she wouldn’t. She was many things, but she wasn’t a liar. Still, she couldn’t keep this to herself. They needed to know if Van Gogh truly was back. She needed to know.
She opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat.
Connor stepped up to her and searched her face, kindness lingering in his eyes. “I knew you’d react this way once you saw the body.” There was no accusation in his voice, no “I told you so,” just sadness at their situation. “Just tell me what you know about the killer and take off. Okay?”
“I . . . it’s . . .” She wanted to tell him everything about that night. Tell him her real name was Lauren. Even more, she wanted to confess her guilt. To admit aloud to saving her own neck and leaving Molly to be butchered by this madman. Her ears in his col
lection, preserved in mason jars.
Becca imagined Connor’s reaction if he found out. Would he still ask for her help if he knew she’d nearly been victim number five? That she bore physical scars from her run-in with Van Gogh? And what if he learned she’d left Molly behind? What would he think of her then?
Bile rose up Becca’s throat, and she swallowed hard.
“Becca?” Connor asked. “Is there anything you can tell us to help?”
She jerked her gaze to Marcie. “Check her stomach, Marcie. To the right of her navel.”
“What am I looking for?” Marcie asked.
Becca wasn’t going to tell them about the number. About Van Gogh’s great joy as he carved a number into each girl’s skin, branding them, claiming them as his. Not unless she absolutely had to. “Just look and describe what you see.”
Marcie adjusted the victim’s clothing. Becca’s hand went to her own stomach. She’d had the number five removed, but the feel of it was burned into her soul. Seeing him etch the number four on Molly’s stomach, a close second.
Marcie looked up. “That sick, depraved creep. He carved a number into her skin.”
“This is no copycat.” Becca managed to force the words up her parched throat.
“How do you know?” Connor asked.
“Van Gogh engraved a number on his victims’ abdomens.”
“A copycat could do the same thing.”
She shook her head. “This information was never released to the public. No one else could know.”
“Then how do you know about it?”
“I can’t reveal my source at this time.” She waited for him to push for the truth.
“And you’re sure your source is reliable?”
She pressed her hand against her waist again. “Positive.”
“So this is the work of Van Gogh, then.” Connor sounded resigned to the horrific confirmation. “What’s the number, Marcie?”
Marcie looked up, her face contorted with disgust. “Nine. This psychopath has killed nine defenseless girls.”
Becca knew that wasn’t true. Her body had been number five, so the max count could only be eight. And Becca still hoped that Molly was alive and the count was really seven. Still, even one girl losing her life this way was a horrific thought to ponder.
Chapter Six
TAYLOR SHOULDN’T be doing this. She’d only been an agent here in Portland for like a minute before she’d realized she had her work cut out for her. If she wanted to make it, she was not only going to have to measure up, but she’d have to find a way to stand out against the talent and expertise on the Cyber Action Team. Three strong women. Strong agents. Yet real and personable. And hard to shine around. So today, Taylor was taking charge, even if it ended badly.
She tucked the folder under her arm and entered the Multnomah County Detention Center. Taylor had honestly been shocked that the county jail was located in the middle of downtown Portland. How many people who strolled down Third Street realized a maximum security facility sat behind the building’s pristine architecture?
It took her only a few minutes to register and be escorted to a small square box of a room painted in a dingy gray, holding one table and two bench seats bolted to the floor. Her sweaty palms reflected her lack of personal experience in jailhouse interview rooms. She chose the seat facing the door and opened the folder to review Danny’s statement, along with the photos Becca had received from Connor.
When Danny was escorted into the room, he dropped onto the bench with a sigh and eyed her. “So, what? They think they can send a pretty agent in here, and I’m going to talk? You may be cute, but I’m not saying a word.”
It sure wasn’t what Taylor had expected the kid to say. Of course, she’d never done an actual interview, either. Although she’d spent hours role-playing with her fellow classmates at Quantico, she had no real-world experience, so she shouldn’t have any preconceived idea of what he might say. Still, he surprised her. She did know she couldn’t let him think she was just another pretty face, or he’d walk all over her. That much she’d learned from shadowing Becca and watching Nina and Kait in action.
“It’s my training and experience that you should really be watching out for,” she replied, eyeing Danny until he squirmed.
Good. Now that she’d set the tone to her liking, she took out a microcassette recorder. She turned it on and recorded the date, time, location, and the names of the parties in the room. She set it on the table and sat back, doing her very best to look confident.
“So, Danny . . .” She paused and drew out the silence. “Tell me how you happened to be in an apartment for which you don’t hold the lease. An apartment filled with stolen merchandise and credit cards.”
He shrugged. “I was just hanging with my buddy who lives there.”
“Okay, let’s assume there was a buddy there before we arrived. He have a name?”
“Puh-lease.” Danny snorted. “If I won’t give up my name, why would I give his up?”
“Then we’re talking about a guy. Thanks for narrowing it down.” She allowed herself a satisfied smile.
“You already got that from the lease, so don’t make it look like I’ve told you something new.”
“See here’s the thing, Danny.” She leaned closer. “People lie on leases all the time. So we don’t usually believe them until they’ve been confirmed. Which you just did.”
“Big deal.” He crossed his arms. “I didn’t give up his name, though.”
“If this friend is like you and has done nothing wrong, why not tell us his name?”
“You cops are all the same.” He fired an angry look her way. “You won’t believe a thing any of us say. I’ve seen it. Plenty of times on the streets.”
She looked at his fingernails, saw the ground-in dirt in his skin and under his nails, the ragged nail edges, the rough, worn skin. “Are you living on the streets then, Danny?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“I’m guessing you to be about sixteen, seventeen. Maybe you’re a kid who didn’t get along with your parents, so you took off. Only, living on the streets isn’t all that easy. You could have been recruited by an ID theft ring. And maybe you even want to get out of it, but don’t know how.”
She studied him in silence for a moment, then added, “Since we found the gun in the room with you, you’ll likely be charged with murder.” She threw the last bit in, even though she didn’t have a clue if the ballistics report matched.
He didn’t speak, but his defensive posture had lessened.
“I can help you, Danny. This can end now. Give me your ringleader’s name—the man who signed the lease—and I’ll make sure the DA goes easy on you. If you’re a first-time offender, there’s a chance you’ll be able to walk away from this.” His expression softened more. “Go home. Start over again.”
He tightened his arms and defiance returned to his eyes. “I’m not saying it again. No information.”
She might be new to interviewing, but she could read people. The kid wanted to talk, and he wanted to get away from here. But he didn’t want to go home. That was clear. She made a mental note to search for reported runaways, and since about a third of Portland street kids were, or had been, in the foster care system, she’d also check in with the Department of Human Services for missing kids. For now, she’d see if she could get a reaction from him on the other teens in the photos.
“Do you hang with any of these people?” She started flipping over Connor’s surveillance pictures, one by one, watching his face for a reaction. When she came to a cute girl’s picture, he visibly stiffened.
This girl meant something to him. She wasn’t old enough to be the ringleader, but maybe she was a friend, or even a girlfriend. Either way, Taylor wasn’t going to mention it and let him know she was on to the girl.
They’d lifted no prints from the gun, but DNA was another matter. Odds were that a DNA test wouldn’t be authorized for a fraud case, but she could unofficially get Danny’s DNA and find a private lab to process it. She’d pay for it herself.
“I’m thirsty, how about you?” she asked casually. “Want a Coke?”
“I could drink something.”
“Hang tight.” She went to the door to talk to the deputy. She doubted they had facilities to supply the kid with a soda, but that wasn’t going to stop her. She’d work her magic on the deputy, and the kid would have a Coke before she departed. Of that she was certain.
REGINALD HAD WORK to do. He’d have rather spent time daydreaming about Lauren than cleaning the old warehouse, but he couldn’t risk getting caught. When he called the police with an anonymous tip on where to find Molly, they’d swarm the place, poking and prying into every crack and crevice with their CSI tools. He loved forensics television shows, and he’d seen how a single hair could lead the police to the killer. He wouldn’t be that careless and give them anything to further their investigation.
He opened the back door of his van, snapped on a hairnet, and tightened the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt before putting on gloves. Completely covered, he grabbed his shop vac and carried it to the basement that was starting to smell.
“Hello, Molly,” he said, and paused to check the effectiveness of his rat screen. “Yes, good. I see they have left you alone.” He spun and went back up the rickety stairs to retrieve bleach and rags.
Back in the basement, he used the shop vac to suck up Molly’s waste, retching at the smell. He’d hoped to leave it as a special present for the police, but he’d questioned Molly in this very spot, and he had to make sure he removed every trace of his hair or skin cells. He moved the vacuum around the basement, concentrating on the cracks and crevices where evidence could hide.
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