The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  “What if he disappeared because he’s sick? I told you he looked thin. Emaciated. Remember the store footage? He risked appearing on camera to buy a bottle of Pepto Bismol.”

  “I remember. That’s how we’ll find him—one day he’ll wander into a hospital and someone will recognize him. But I can’t depend on luck. I’ll track him down. Nobody targets my partner.”

  Gardy’s face looked sour as he tossed the rest of his food into the garbage.

  “You’re finished?”

  “This Wolf talk made me lose my appetite. Let’s go.”

  Still hungry, Bell gathered up her sandwich and fries and followed Gardy into the resort.

  CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

  The families and couples walking the boardwalk give him a wide berth. He’s dressed like one of them—cargo shorts, running sneakers, an ocean-green t-shirt with a surfboard on the front. Yet he is not one of them, and on a reactive, instinctual level they recognize the danger though they wouldn’t be able to explain why if asked.

  Full dark has set upon the boardwalk. Regularly spaced lamp posts drive back the night. To his right is the roaring surf, to his left the endless commercial ligature of bars, hotels, and food stands. A cover band performs a drunken version of an old Jimmy Buffett song. He stops at a bench and sits, one ankle balanced upon the opposite knee, and nods at a passing bicyclist as he sips at his soda. He slips the phone from his pocket and turns on the camera function. Ensuring the flash is off, he feigns texting and zooms in on the FBI agent sitting kitty-corner on a nearby bench.

  She is beautiful, he thinks. So much like his two victims. His selected. Shoulder-length blonde hair, green eyes, slim and shapely. He knows he walks a tightrope, much as he did when he revisited the bungalow so soon after the murder. And it almost got him caught. He feels the urge to toss the soda into the trashcan and leave.

  Yet the woman draws him.

  The man beside her is middle-aged, a few flecks of gray in his dark hair, but strong. And armed. The male agent will be a problem.

  When the male agent tosses his food into the garbage, he rises from his bench and follows the two agents from several paces back. A mother and father with two young girls fall in behind the agents. The girls, overtired and sullen, complain their feet hurt as the mother prods them to walk. Finally, the parents comply, and each parent hoists a sniffling child into their arms. The distraction allows him to follow the agents unnoticed, a ghostly shadow moving up a winding brick walkway toward the resort.

  The female agent stops and fishes the key card from her bag. She slides the card into the slot, and the hotel doors open.

  He slows his pace while the mother struggles to retrieve her own card. When she fumbles the card with an exasperated groan, he hurries forward and retrieves it.

  “Let me,” he says.

  The parents smile and utter thanks, too busy with their insolent children to give him a second thought. He slides the card into the reader, and the doors open. Then he hands the card to the mother, who snatches it between her fingers and thanks him again as he holds the doors.

  Now inside, the same prickle of excitement he experienced upon entering the women’s homes runs through his flesh. Invasion of privacy. No boundaries to hold him back. He held the ultimate power over them. Life or death.

  The lobby is sparsely populated, half as busy as during peak hours. He blends in with his surroundings. A chameleon.

  Across the room, the family enters a cage elevator with the two agents. No need to hurry. He takes a seat on a cushioned chair and thumbs through a gardening magazine, one eye following the elevator’s ascent. It stops on the third floor, and the male and female agents exit. The open design leaves them vulnerable, unshielded, and he watches until they stop in front of room 335.

  Interesting. They share the same room. This new piece of information throws a wrench in the works. It won’t be easy to catch her alone. No problem. He is stronger than her. Stronger than the man, too. Without their weapons, they are puny, weak.

  He enters the room number into his phone and wanders back to the boardwalk.

  He will have her soon.

  CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

  Bell awoke after the best night of sleep she’d experienced in months. She couldn’t recall her head hitting the pillow before midnight, only a nebulous recollection of slipping off her clothes and sliding under the covers, and no monsters or child abductors invaded her dreams. It was after nine. The Florida sun cut between the drapes and slashed a hot white streak across the television.

  Water ran in the bathroom. Gardy was in the shower.

  Bell thought of Lucas, one of the few solid foundations upon which her life rested. She checked her phone and found a message waiting. He’d written her at midnight to ask how the case was going, and now he probably wondered why she’d ignored him. She typed a response and promised she’d write again soon when there was more time. Then she hit send and stared at the ceiling pattern, guilty. Why? This was her job.

  But what did sharing a hotel room with Gardy have to do with tracking serial killers?

  She hurried into her sweatpants as Gardy finished. They exchanged sheepish nods outside the bathroom, Bell on her way in, Gardy dripping wet with a towel around his hips.

  Bell locked the door and stepped into the shower, running it sufficiently hot to work up a steam. The bathroom became a foggy morning on the Moors, and she felt at ease, safe, as though she’d walled away her problems. And maybe she had. Multiple walls and locked doors stood between her and Logan Wolf who, for all she knew, was a thousand miles away. A warm shower helped her relax and freed her mind, and the more she worked the case over inside her head, her conviction grew that Doss couldn’t be the killer. How did the killer find his victims? Random chance? Perhaps he spotted Morris and Tannehill in public and became fixated. That fit the hedonistic, sexual predator profile. Yet this killer was unlike Hodge and Longo. Those murderers were impotent in a social setting, men who lowered their eyes when women stared. The Palm Dunes killer was bolder, confident.

  A chill touched the back of Bell’s neck upon recalling the shadowed man across the street from the bungalow. She’d theorized the man was a nosy neighbor or Gavin Hayward. But Hayward was short and soft-bellied. The man across the street had appeared strong and fit. She considered the depths of the victims’ knife wounds. She cut the water off and dried.

  Dressed and seated on a lounge chair, Gardy dropped the tourism pamphlet when she opened the door.

  “Ready for breakfast?”

  “Before we eat you need to call Detective Phalen.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “What’s up?”

  “The man across the street from Tannehill’s. I think it was the killer.”

  Gardy phoned Phalen from the elevator. The sudden realization the brazen killer might have returned to the scene turned Bell paranoid, and she scanned the lobby. Instead, she saw only vacationing families, children darting among parents’ legs. A young couple in swimsuits carried boogie boards toward the doorway to the boardwalk, and Bell wished she was here with Lucas on vacation. No murderers, no evidence trail leading to a bloody finale.

  Smelling of hotcakes and syrup, the hotel restaurant offered indoor and patio seating. They chose the patio where they ate breakfast with an unobstructed view of the gulf waters. Several sunbathers lay beside the water.

  “So Jay wants us to check with the neighbor,” Gardy said between bites of french toast.

  “Where we saw the guy in the bushes?”

  “Yeah. He’s sending two uniforms to search for evidence in case it was the killer. We’re to talk to the neighbor first and make sure it wasn’t him or her watching from the yard.”

  Bell nodded. She pointed her fork at Gardy.

  “What did Phalen say about Hayward?”

  “It’s like we figured. The Palm Dunes Police Department got a call from The Informer’s law firm before Hayward made it into the interrogation room. He walked out the door
an hour later.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Hopefully, the arrest encourages him to be more cautious.”

  “Why? Last night proved we can’t touch him. Unless Hayward picks up a machete and aids the killer, there’s nothing we can do to keep him out of our hair. Well, my hair.”

  Gardy picked up a spoon and viewed his reflection.

  “Not my hair? I’m insulted.”

  Bell smirked.

  “There’s one upside to sharing a room with you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m gonna find that bottle of Just For Men.”

  Gardy coughed into his hand, and a long-haired man in a Hawaiian shirt offered to perform the Heimlich maneuver.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  Lynn Thomas shielded her eyes and leaned through the doorway, the top third of her back permanently hunched over. Bell guessed Thomas was closer to the century mark than ninety as the woman chewed her gums and gave them suspicious stares.

  “You could have gotten that out of a cereal box,” Thomas said, eyeing the ID badge Gardy flashed.

  “I assure you, we’re FBI.”

  “And her?” Thomas swung a pointy nose at Bell. “She FBI, too?”

  “Yes, we’re with the Behavior Analysis Unit.”

  “Never heard of it.” Thomas studied the badges for another moment, then nodded. “Can’t be too careful these days. With the Internet and those printers the kids use, anyone can make a fake badge and pretend to be the cops.”

  “Ma’am, is your husband home?”

  Thomas shot Gardy a you-must-be-an-idiot look.

  “Now that would be a story for the police.” She pronounced it poh-lease. “My Dean passed twenty years ago.”

  “My apology.”

  “No need to apologize. You didn’t kill him.”

  “Last evening,” Bell said, shuffling through the case photographs. “Did you have anyone over at your house? Family, a neighbor?”

  “No, it was only me, and I was asleep with Jared by seven o’clock.”

  “Jared?”

  “Why, yes,” Thomas said, as though the answer was obvious. “My Persian cat.”

  “Oh.” Bell couldn’t think of a better cat name than Jared. Except for Mitch. “So no one was in your yard after sunset?”

  “Not that I’m aware. But then again I was asleep.” A realization crossed her face, and she jolted. “It wasn’t the murderer, the man who killed the young girl across the street, was it?”

  “There’s no reason to jump to that conclusion,” said Bell. She didn’t want to alarm Thomas, but they’d need to ask permission to search the property.

  Thomas’s breathing slowed.

  “Thank goodness. I hope you catch the monster. Fifty years ago, we felt comfortable leaving the doors unlocked. Now, you need a security system to protect your home.”

  “Do you own a security system, Mrs Thomas? A security camera, perchance?”

  “No,” Thomas said, shaking her head. “But maybe I should get one installed.”

  A police cruiser pulled behind Gardy’s rental, and two male officers, one middle-aged and one young, climbed out of the vehicle. The older officer touched the tip of his cap and nodded at the agents as they followed a brick walkway to the porch stoop.

  “Mrs Thomas,” Gardy said, introducing the officers. “May these officers search your front yard?”

  She fretted with her hands and looked between the two policemen.

  “Oh, all right. But don’t trample my flowers.”

  The officers examined the yard between Thomas’s house and a tall, wooden privacy fence. Gardy and Bell bee-lined to the hedges where they’d witnessed the shadow figure. It didn’t take long before Gardy whistled between his fingers and drew the group to his position.

  Gardy glanced at Bell.

  “That’s a sneaker print. Our guy.”

  The partial print in the loamy soil was intact. The weather had remained dry the last few days. During the stormy summer and fall months, the print would wash away, but it had been dry for most of January. Bell bent closer to examine the print, marked by a pattern of hexagons and perpendicular lines.

  “Any idea what brand of sneaker?”

  “That’s a Nike running sneaker.” They turned to Adames, the younger of the two officers. “I’m going to say it’s the 5.0 Free Flyknit.”

  Haggleston, the older officer, crinkled a heavily lined brow. His confusion made the officer look like a Shar Pei.

  Adames shrugged.

  “What? I’m into sneakers.”

  Gardy looked up at Adames.

  “Is that a sneaker the average Joe wears around town?”

  “They’re affordable, especially in this neighborhood, but they’re running sneakers. Even in Florida I’d want to protect them. Save them for jogging and wear a walking sneaker the rest of the day. No sense wearing out the treads while you pick up groceries.”

  “I didn’t know you were so into sneakers,” Haggleston said, itching his forehead.

  “I’ve got a closet shelf of Air Jordan’s, mint condition. Stop by sometime and check them out.”

  “Uh, I’ll pass.”

  “Hey,” Gardy said. “Tannehill’s boyfriend is a runner.”

  The officers exchanged unsure looks.

  Bell nodded, a flicker of excitement in her eyes.

  “Detective Phalen said he ran marathons.”

  “That’s right, and he didn’t have an alibi.”

  “Let me borrow the folder for a second.” Bell took the folder and headed up the walkway. “Be right back.”

  Lynn Thomas had the door open when Bell climbed the stoop. She’d been watching them through the window.

  “You didn’t trample my flowers, I hope.”

  “Mrs Thomas, I want to show you a picture. Have you seen this man in the neighborhood?”

  “Hold a second.” Thomas slipped on glasses and looked down her nose at the photograph. “Yes, I recognize that man.”

  “Where have you seen him?”

  “He was the Tannehill girl’s friend. Boyfriend, I guess, but I mind my own business.”

  “Did he visit Tannehill often?”

  “Yes, at least once a week.”

  “Did you see this man the night Lori Tannehill was murdered?”

  Thomas thought for a moment, and then her eyes widened.

  “Oh, dear lord. Yes. The police asked me if I saw anyone outside her house, and I said I didn’t. What have I done?”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong, Mrs Thomas. In fact, you’re helping a great deal.”

  The elderly woman wiped at a tear with a finger gnarled by arthritis and age spots. She reached out with a quivering hand and gave the photo back to Bell as if desperate to rid herself of its filth.

  “I should have remembered the first time they asked.”

  “What time did the man arrive?”

  “I don’t recall the time. It must have been before sunset because it was still light outside. But he didn’t go into her house. He sat in his car right where the police are parked.”

  Thomas pointed at the police cruiser past the hedges.

  “Did you see him leave?”

  “Well…no. I went back to the living room and fell asleep with Jared. I woke up later on account of the sirens and lights.”

  “So it’s possible the man in the photograph entered Tannehill’s house after you fell asleep.”

  “I suppose he might have. Did I make a mess of things?”

  “No, not at all. You helped a great deal.”

  The woman’s tear-streaked face brightened a shade. Bell darkened. Not only did Matt Doss lack an alibi, a witness put him at the crime scene within hours of the murder.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE

  This was too good.

  Gavin Hayward aimed the Canon lens out the car window and focused on the pretty FBI agent. The 400 millimeter lens was cumbersome, but it allowed him to photograph celebrities from a footbal
l field’s length away and capture their faces in perfect detail. The 30-mega-pixel camera’s resolution was high enough for him to crop the image and blow the picture up several times without degrading the quality, and now he had Scarlett Bell centered in the frame.

  Hayward knew the public was fixated with serial killers, true crime, and sex, and Scarlett Bell was all those things rolled into one luscious package. Pure money.

  She bent to analyze something on the ground, and he pressed the shutter release button and captured a string of images in a split second. The male agent, the one who’d harassed him and called the police, knelt beside her, while two male cops looked over their shoulders. One picture captured Gardy in side profile. Hayward didn’t care if he didn’t get a good shot of Neil Gardy. The public wanted Scarlett Bell, and he’d damn well feed her to the people.

  Hayward knew he was a hack. It didn’t bother him. He’d paid his dues, spent the better part of two decades bouncing between small town rags, forever waiting for The Times or The Post to call. He’d attended a good school, graduated with honors from Northwestern, and landed an internship with The Chicago Sun Times. The world was his for the taking.

  Until he realized he was the one being taken.

  You didn’t get ahead through hard work and a strong resume. You got there through contacts—networking, they called it these days—and a pretty face. He owned neither.

  When Hayward felt inspired, his writing was every bit as eloquent as that of the national reporters, and his ability to research and ferret out difficult to acquire information put the competition to shame. He took the job with The Informer fifteen years ago and ascended from the back pages to the headlines, his salary growing five-fold. Sure, he’d stepped on a few people on his way up the ladder. They would have done the same to him, but he was the alpha predator now. Nobody could deny him power and glory. It didn’t take long before he became The Informer’s go-to reporter for crime and murder stories, and the more Hayward dominated the byline, the larger the tabloid grew. They ranked number one in the western world, and the Alan Hodge murders in New York set records for papers sold and online subscriber growth.