by Melinda Colt
Gently, he set Kieran aside, sat up, and reached over to switch on the nightstand lamp. He wondered if anyone was at the office. It didn’t matter, he didn’t need any help at the moment. The Chief Inspector had told him to take the day off, but he wanted to work while everything was fresh in his mind. Taking his time, he climbed out of bed, then went to the bathroom to wash his face. In the kitchen, he made himself a double ham-and-cheese sandwich and ate it while Kieran kept him company. Afterward, he brushed his teeth, got dressed, and got going, locking the door behind him.
Other than the Gardaí on duty, there wasn’t anyone at headquarters. Evan loved the quiet as he walked into his office and switched on the lights. At his desk, he took off his jacket, opened his laptop, then left it to boot up. He took the stairs down to the evidence room, praying Nóirín had logged in Jenny Williams’s personal possessions. He knew the forensic techs wouldn’t have had time to process any of the evidence they had collected at the crime scene, but for now Evan was interested in Jenny’s phone. He searched the log, satisfied to see it had been checked in, along with her purse and all of its contents. He pulled on gloves, then retrieved the evidence bags from their slots.
He looked through the catalogued items—a dainty black purse with a gold strap, a wallet, a compact mirror, a lipstick, a phone in a gold, glittery phone case, a pack of tissues, tampons, several keys on a keychain, half a pack of cigarettes, and an elegant silver lighter.
Evan noticed there was no car key, nor was there a driver’s license in her wallet. She either didn’t have one, had her license suspended, or chose not to drive. That choice had led to her death. If she’d used a car service, that could have been how she got into the killer’s car. He might have posed as an Uber driver. He decided to work on that first.
Gently, he took the plastic bag that contained her phone and put the other items back. As he climbed the stairs to his office, he analyzed the object in his hand, turning it on all sides. It didn’t seem broken, having been protected by a quality phone case. It was still in the purse when Jenny had dropped it after her attacker had hit her, rendering her unconscious, temporarily immobilizing her. Remembering the images caught by the club’s cameras, Evan thought this was one cold son of a bitch. And Chelsea had been right from the first—both Shannon’s murder and Jenny’s were personal. He just had to find out what linked these two women.
At his desk, he unlocked the phone, grateful it didn’t require a password. He immediately checked the incoming calls Jenny had received yesterday—one was from her brother, one from someone called Dana, and a third one from a number that wasn’t listed in Jenny’s contacts. He checked to see if Jenny had called the number first. She had, most likely thinking she was ordering a car. From the logs, it was the only time Jenny had called or received calls from that number. Evan tried calling it, but the phone was off. Just as he’d expected. He did the obligatory search and knew even before he confirmed it that it was a prepaid number. He could have tried to trace it in real time via GPS, but it would be futile. That phone was probably at the bottom of the river, or broken into small pieces and tossed in some trash bin, miles away from the crime scene. A dead end, but not the end.
He continued to dig in her phone, piecing up what he could of her life, making notes while he was doing it. He deduced that Dana was Jenny’s best friend—apparently her only close friend, and was an assistant manager at a SPA salon. Other than her brother, Dana, and her boss, C.C. Malone, Jenny didn’t have many social contacts. She was probably a loner. So what was she doing going clubbing alone on Halloween? Had she arranged to meet someone at the club? If she had, there was no record on the phone of any date—at least not one arranged by calls or messages.
Evan stared at the phone, tapping his gloved fingers against his thigh. Following his earlier trail of thoughts, he accessed the dating website where Shannon had met Patrick. Technically, one had to be a member to access another member’s information, but he finagled his way around that and searched Jenny’s name. His heart raced, as it always did when he was onto something. There was a distinct feeling in his gut and he knew it was the right one even before he had the results. Jenny’s picture smiled at him, next to her description on the dating website: Nice girl with a sense of humor and a love for dance, would love to meet like-minded man for serious relationship.
Bingo! He drew in a sharp breath. This had to be it. This had to be where the killer picked his victims. He supposed there was a slight chance this was just a coincidence, but in a small country like Ireland… No. This website had to be the killer’s hunting ground. But how exactly did this help him find the murderer and stop him from picking another victim? Unless he already had.
“You won’t kill anyone else on my watch, you motherfucker.”
Straightening, he connected the phone to his laptop and got to work. He needed a bigger screen for this. First, he delved deeper into the dating website to see if Jenny had any matches, any invites, or messages. She had a few, but hadn’t accepted either one. Evan had hoped one of the men who’d contacted Shannon would also be in Jenny’s list of potential suitors. However, after doing a thorough check, none of them matched. Another dead end.
Frustrated, he got up and walked to the window. He stared outside at the lights of the cars spearing the darkness, some fast, some slow, always in motion. The killer was somewhere out there, probably still enjoying the thrill of the kill. Evan knew that euphoria wouldn’t last long, and he would need to do it again. The first time was the hardest time. After that, he would become either skilled or careless. But Evan couldn’t allow this sick fuck to practice anymore.
He went to the vending machine, bought a cola, and returned to his desk. He downed half the bottle, needing the rush of caffeine and sugar. Then he got to work.
He accessed Jenny’s social media profile, trying to get a feel for her life, her personality, her friends. Like Shannon, she was passionate about photography and visual arts. She had dozens of albums—some of them contained photos of herself, others were various photos of nature, landscapes, animals, places, people. To his untrained eye, there wasn’t a common theme. Another album contained drawings and sketches she had made, including some for the advertising company where she worked. Evan was no expert, but she’d been very talented, with a broad range of expertise, everything from charcoal sketches to elaborate color drawings. Judging by this, she’d had a promising career ahead of her.
He gazed at a vintage sketch of a pinup girl who looked as though she was trying to select something among a pile of lipsticks, eye shadows, and other paraphernalia artistically scattered in front of her. Probably a commercial for a cosmetics company. Was this a motive for murder? Maybe a coworker who wanted Jenny’s job? But how would that relate to Shannon Brody?
Evan shook his head. He had to look for something more personal than a job. He started browsing Jenny’s profile pictures, looking closely at each one, reading the comments below them. Like Shannon, she had been a lovely woman. There was a resemblance here, although it was hard to see when the two women wore different makeup, changed their hairstyles and hair colors often, used all sorts of filters to make their photos more artistic. But they shared some distinct features—rounded face, light-colored eyes, delicate nose, and full lips. Of course, many women had those features, but in this case he couldn’t rule out even this slight resemblance. Something had to tie these two brutal killings together.
The comments were all flattering, and Jenny answered with hearts and kisses to each one. She didn’t have many friends on social media either, but definitely more than in real life. That was the problem with these virtual people—you never knew who they were. Any of these people hiding behind nice profiles could be a stalker, a pervert, a killer. Since social media had started to gain traction, the number of crimes involving stalking, harassment, bullying, and even murder had increased tremendously. It was true that crime had flourished throughout time, yet it seemed to be more obvious these days. Hell, the temptation
was huge when the internet was full of people in the most intimate postures, especially half-naked women.
Jenny hadn’t been like that. Her pictures were tasteful, not provocative in any way. Even so, it was impossible to hide her beauty. Despite the admiring comments, Evan wondered how many of those virtual friends truly appreciated Jenny’s photos instead of pretending to while secretly jealous. As he continued reading comments, he stopped and leaned forward toward the screen. Someone hadn’t pretended. Someone had disliked Jenny enough to leave a rude comment. An angry face emoji.
It was Black Dawn. There might be some coincidences in this world, but a person who left angry-faced emojis to the photos of two murdered women was not one of them. As hot as Evan’s blood had pumped when he’d read the comment, now it ran cold when he focused on the picture itself. Jenny, her hair arranged in loose waves, her feet bare, was sitting cross-legged on a couch, smiling down at a black cat.
Evan’s heartbeat accelerated. As though he was moving in slow motion, he printed out the photo, then stood and walked to the murder board he’d set up. He pinned Jenny’s photo with the black cat next to the one he’d printed of Shannon holding Kieran. Walking back to his desk, he took out his phone and downloaded a picture on the laptop, then printed it out. He stared at it, dumbstruck. Getting to his feet, he walked to the board again. His arms seemed to weigh a ton and his fingers trembled when he pinned the photo of Chelsea holding Kieran next to those of Jenny and Shannon. Three women, all blonde, all with curly/wavy hair, all with light-colored eyes, all posing with black cats—cats that each one had owned as a pet at one time.
“What the fuck?”
For a second, Evan thought he must be going mad. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again and stared at the smiling faces. In his mind, they looked so much alike that he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. This was obvious, the resemblance, the things in common, even the frigging cats! What the hell did this mean? Was Chelsea the next victim? Or was she the reason the killer had chosen those specific women? Was she the ultimate target?
Questions, endless questions swelled and circled inside his head, but he could have staked his life on one certain thing: he had to find and question Black Dawn. How could he find out his or her identity? He didn’t have any solid evidence to request a warrant for the social media network to hand over this person’s information. Any judge would laugh in his face if he demanded to breech all those confidentiality laws because someone had left angry emojis. Hell, if one scrolled to the comments from a movie post or a soccer team, they would find much more suspicious and abusive remarks. He couldn’t count on the cooperation of the social media network. There was no legal way to find this person. He’d have to put on his black hat and work some magic. Unless…
He went to his jacket and dug out a memory stick, then inserted it in the laptop’s USB port. Kyle Shane had copied the unedited footage the security camera had recorded yesterday. Evan opened the video and skipped until the murder occurred, at 11:47 pm last night. Watching it again and again, he adjusted what he could from the screen settings, but it was futile. There was nothing visible about the killer that might distinguish him or her. But as he drove away, Evan paused the image and leaned close to the screen. He maximized the brightness, straining his eyes as he stared at the car’s license plate. Maybe with a video editor he could enlarge the image and clear it up enough to identify the numbers. He got to work, occasionally darting glances up at the murder board. He had no idea whether or not he should tell Chelsea about this. He might be wrong, and if he was, he’d be messing with her mind for nothing. But his gut told him he was right, and Chelsea was somehow involved in this mess. How could he protect her if she was the next target? Time had never been his enemy until now.
An hour later, Evan stared at the image he’d refined to the best of his abilities. It was still grainy, but the plate number was quite clear. Taking a deep breath, praying for conclusive results, he searched the database. He was surprised by his lack of excitement when the car turned out to be a new Tesla model, belonging to Jack Liam Dunhill.
Chapter Thirteen
Evan could admit he had wanted Dunhill to be the killer from the moment he’d learned of his existence and the man’s interest in Chelsea. Although he didn’t appear in Jenny’s match list on the dating website, that didn’t eliminate him as a suspect. Was Black Dawn Dunhill’s alias? Chelsea had thought it was a woman, but now it seemed most likely that Jack Dunhill was the illusive Black Dawn. However, it nagged at Evan that Dunhill would be careless enough to use his own car on his mission to murder Jenny. Was he simply cocky? More prolific killers had been caught for less obvious mistakes. Perhaps Dunhill had been sure he was out of camera range. One slight miscalculation on his part was the thing that would crack open this case where nothing was what it seemed.
Evan reached for his phone and dialed the contact number he had for Jack Dunhill. The phone was still off. The incriminating clues were piling up. He couldn’t wait to be face to face with this guy.
Biding his time, he tried to decide on his next move. In Ireland, a police officer didn’t need a warrant to arrest an individual suspected of committing a serious crime if he had reasonable evidence to take the suspect into custody. If he could find Jack Dunhill, he was free to drag his ass straight into the interview room. Technically, Evan could determine Dunhill’s location through GPS even if his phone was off, but legally he needed a warrant to track the device through the telephone operator Dunhill used.
Inspired, he called John O’Sullivan, briefed him and explained his need for a warrant, asking for advice. John promised he would take care of it, warning Evan that it might take several hours or even longer. Dispiritedly, Evan thanked him and promised to stay in touch. Next, he sent a heads-up to all patrol cars and foot Gardaí, transmitting the plate number of the car in question, and instructing they detain the vehicle and driver if they spotted it, then contact him asap. Grabbing his coat, he headed out.
Jack Dunhill lived in the south of Dublin, in an old, beautifully restored brick house that reeked of family money. Evan knew his address from a previous visit. He drove over there now, finding the house dark and apparently empty. Despite his repeated knocking, no one answered. There were no signs of any neighbors, nor was there any trace of the black car. So far not good.
Making a U-turn, he drove over to Chelsea’s house, still not sure how much he should tell her about her resemblance to the two victims. For the first time, he found himself emotionally involved with a coworker, who could also be a potential victim. They hadn’t taught him the protocol for such a situation at Quantico. They had taught him to be smart and objective. Putting aside his protective instinct, he knew he had to tell Chelsea everything. After all, she might have valuable information she didn’t know she had. If someone wanted her dead for some reason, there had to be clues somewhere. Together, they made a stronger team.
It was a little past 8:00 when he reached her house. The porch lights were on, and the living room windows were illuminated as well. Evan rang the doorbell, then shoved his hands into his pockets and waited. This was going to be difficult no matter how he approached it.
He heard soft footsteps, saw the peephole darken, then Chelsea unlocked the door. She wore a black robe, her feet tucked into fluffy red slippers, her hair framing her face. A twinge of worry tugged at his heart seeing the deep shadows under her eyes. She didn’t look like she had gotten any sleep.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi. Come in.”
He stepped inside and followed her through the house, taking in the snazzy interior, the paintings on the wall, the tasteful art pieces scattered in strategic places. Which of the paintings were hers? Art was another thing Chelsea and the victims had in common. He saw that now. An educated man like Jack Dunhill must appreciate talented women with good taste.
He swallowed audibly, unable to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach.
Once in the living room, she invited
him to have a seat on the red sofa.
“Do you want something to drink?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks. Chelsea, I’ve identified the plate number for the car the killer drove. It belongs to Jack Dunhill.”
Her lips parted in shock, and she dropped onto the sofa beside him, close enough that he could see her pale face. Incredulity was her first reaction, followed by confusion.
“Jack Dunhill, seriously?” Her voice sounded rusty. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I have to bring him in for questioning, but I still can’t reach him on the phone. I have to find him. John is trying to get a warrant so we can track his phone, but I don’t know how long that will take, and I can’t just sit around. Do you have any idea where he could be?”
Chelsea moistened her lips, her eyes still wide, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. She shook her head hesitantly. “I don’t know… Did you get his address?”
“I’ve already been there. No one seemed to be about. Didn’t he tell you where he was going, during your therapy session?”
Chelsea’s eyes snapped back to his. “Yes, he did. Uh…” She bit her lip, as though trying to remember. After a few seconds she snapped her fingers. “Malahide. That’s where he said his girlfriend’s parents live. It’s a village about half an hour away from Dublin. He said they would be spending the entire weekend there.”
Evan keyed the name into his phone. “Okay, thanks. I’ll find out if he’s there now. I’m thinking he must have tried to establish an alibi for last night.”
Chelsea rubbed her forehead, watching him sideways. She still looked stunned.
“It doesn’t make any sense. Would he be stupid enough to pick Jenny up in his own car, but smart enough to secure an alibi?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he got overly-confident. The only thing we know for sure is where his car was last night. Now, we have to find him. It’s way past time I meet this guy face to face.”