Dancing in the Dark

by Dee Davis

  “I think it's within the realm of possibility,” Eric said. “You're a mechanic. A damn good one to hear Sara tell it. And it certainly took someone in the know to sabotage my car.”

  “You have proof that the accident was deliberate?” Jack's surprise sounded genuine, at odds with his attitude. He was staring down at his hands again, his fingers still curled around the edge of the table.

  “Yeah. Someone managed to open my car's bleeder valves, which as you well know made the accident a forgone conclusion.”

  “What did you say?” Jack's head jerked up, his face going white.

  “I said that thanks to you my brakes failed.”

  Jack held up a hand, shaking his head. “No. Not that. I mean specifically what did you say.”

  Eric frowned, not certain what was happening.

  Tony however, appeared to be with the program, whatever the hell it was. “He said that someone opened the bleeder valves.”

  “Holy shit.” Jack buried his face in his hands, his expression bordering on horrified. “Holy fucking shit.”

  Chapter 20

  “You're sure it was the bleeder valves?” Jack's color was a little better, but not much. His chin was resting on his hand, the casual pose at odds with the lines of tension radiating from his shoulders.

  Tony tossed the report on the table. “See for yourself.”

  Jack reached for it, holding it between two fingers as if it might bite him. He skimmed the document, then looked up, his face reflecting his anguish. “I thought it was my fault.”

  “Thought what was your fault?” Tony's calm voice was a sharp contrast to Jack's discomfort. Designed to disarm, for once Eric thought it wasn't needed. Weston wanted to talk.

  “Tom's accident. The car.” He spoke in short bursts, as if he couldn't quite get enough air. “I thought I'd killed them.”

  “But now you don't?” Eric moved to sit in an adjacent chair, his attention now centered on Jack.

  “No. Not if it happened to you, too.” He motioned to the report.

  “You want to tell us what the hell you're talking about?” Tony asked, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

  “Sure. But there isn't much to tell.” Jack was back to staring at his hands. “In fact I told you part of it at the party.” He shot a look at Eric. “After the accident, Sara didn't trust the police report. So she asked me to look at the car.”

  “But you told me you didn't find anything.”

  “I lied.” Jack sighed. “There wasn't a lot of the car left, but the left front wheel casing was intact, along with the brake rotor and caliper.” He paused, his gaze encompassing Tony and Eric. “The bleeder valve was open. And the only way that could have happened is if someone left it open.”

  “Intentionally.” The word was sharp, Tony's expression harsh, as he considered the possibility.

  “Or accidentally,” Jack rushed to say, if possible, looking even more miserable. “I worked on the car a few days before the accident. Tom was kind of anal about his car. He didn't like the way the brakes felt. So I bled the system.”

  “And left a valve open.”

  “That's what I thought. But I didn't work on your car, Detective.”

  “It would have been easy enough for you to have access to it. It's not like you need special tools or anything.” Tony eyes narrowed as he studied Weston. Judging him.

  “I didn't do anything to your car.” Jack met Eric's gaze straight on, unflinching.

  “But you lied to Sara about Tom's car.”

  Jack dropped his gaze, his shoulders hunched inward. “It wouldn't have served any purpose. Tom was already dead.”

  “And you didn't want her to hate you.” Tony's observation was dead-on.

  The other man's head jerked up. “Would you? I love Sara. I've loved her for almost as long as I can remember. I'd do anything for her. The only constants she'd ever had in her life were Tom, Charlie, and me. If I'd told her that it was my fault she'd never have been able to forgive me, which would have left her with no one.”

  “Pretty arrogant, don't you think?” Tony asked.

  Eric clenched a fist and said nothing.

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “But I wasn't going to take the chance. You didn't see her. She was hanging on by a thread. The last thing she needed was to find out I was responsible for Tom and Charlie's accident.”

  “Of course there's also the fact that you could have been held criminally responsible for what happened. And with your record …” Tony purposefully let his words trail off.

  “So I did want to protect myself. I'm not pretending to be a saint. But I also wanted to protect Sara.”

  “Enough to have sabotaged Detective D'Angelo's car?”

  “No. I didn't do anything to his car. How many times do I have to say it? I wouldn't put Sara through that again. No matter what I think of you.” Again he turned his attention to Eric, anger mixing with remorse. “The point here is that in light of what happened to your car, I don't believe I left Tom's valves open at all.”

  “You're suggesting there's a connection between Eric's car and Tom's.” Tony's eyes narrowed as he considered the possibility.

  “Yes. Bleeder valves are a simple way to accomplish sabotage, but they're not common knowledge, and you certainly have to know your way around a car to be able to pull it off. Especially without leaving any evidence. It could be coincidence, of course, but given the connection to Sara, and the rarity of the method used, it doesn't seem that big a leap. Someone wanted Tom and Charlie dead, and that same person wanted Detective D'Angelo dead as well.”

  Eric looked across the table at Tony, who shrugged slightly, his expression guarded. “Did you document what you found on Tom's car?”

  Jack shook his head. “I just wanted it to go away. Wanted Sara to get on with her life.”

  “And with Tom out of the way, you were all set up.”

  “No.” His voice was soft now, his face full of pain.

  “But you said you loved her,” Eric prompted, trying to keep his personal feelings at bay.

  “Not like that.” Jack frowned. “Sara is like my sister. I told you, she's the only family I've ever had. And I swear on my life, I'd never do anything to harm her.” His eyes locked on Eric's. “Never.”

  And at least for the moment, Eric was inclined to believe him. Which left two murders, an attempted murder, and no one holding the bag. And, even worse, was the uneasy conviction that the accidents were only a prelude to something big.

  Something tied to Sara.

  And, quite possibly, to the Sinatra killer.

  The Doubletree smelled like chocolate-chip cookies. Even in the private office management had provided for the interview, the smell permeated the air.

  Amanda Moore was sitting across from Nate, her emotions securely in check, or perhaps it just hadn't hit her yet. Sara knew firsthand that the heart was capable of rejecting even the most valid of truths if the reality was too painful to bear.

  Allison's sister, Paige, was more open with her feelings, wearing her anger for everyone to see. “I just don't understand how something like this could have happened.”

  “The police say there was no forced entry.” Nate's voice was purposefully gentle. “That means she knew her killer. Or at least trusted him enough to let him into the house. Surely you can think of someone that might have had that kind of access.”

  Paige frowned. “She didn't have a boyfriend, if that's what you're getting at. And as far as I know the only other guys in her life were at work. And any friendship she had there wouldn't have included an invitation home.”

  “Well, someone got past her reserve.” Nate's words were cold, but the sympathetic note in his voice negated the harshness.

  “I know, and that's why it doesn't make sense.” Mrs. Moore tilted back her head, obviously exhausted. “Allison had so many locks on her door it made her security system superfluous. She simply wasn't the trusting type.”

  “How about workmen? Would she hav
e let them in?”

  “At that time of night?” Paige said, her frustration evident. “It doesn't seem likely.”

  “Well, the fact remains there had to have been someone.”

  “The only thing I can think of is the reporter. But that doesn't make any more sense than the rest of it.”

  “What reporter?” Nate leaned forward, frowning.

  Paige chewed the side of her lip, her eyes narrowed in thought. “The last time I talked to Allie she was all excited about some interview she was going to do. A story on social workers. The reporter told her she was going to the focal point. She couldn't decide what to wear.”

  Mrs. Moore began to cry, the tears slipping down her face unheeded. Sara centered the lens, framed the shot: mother and daughter immortalized in their pain. Suddenly feeling like a voyeur, Sara lowered the camera.

  “It's okay.” Mrs. Moore said, brushing her tears aside. “I want you to take the picture.” She squared her shoulders, forcing a wan smile. “If my photograph can make the world understand what this monster has done, then it's worth the price.”

  Sara nodded, wishing there were words to erase the hollow agony reflected in the woman's eyes. But there weren't. There simply weren't. Raising the camera again, she took the shot.

  “We just want to avail ourselves of every option,” Mrs. Moore said, her emotions once more under control.

  “There could be something in the reporter angle. I can check up on that for you. If there was an interview, there should be a record of it somewhere. Austin isn't that big. And if we find the guy, maybe he'll have information that can help.”

  Hope crested then waned in Mrs. Moore's eyes as she digested the information. “But if he could help, wouldn't he have already come forward?”

  “Possibly. Or he's not putting two and two together. Either way, it's worth following up on. Did you tell the police?”

  Paige nodded. “I don't think it made much of an impression.”

  “Probably more than you realize. Sometimes it's the insignificant things that matter the most.” Nate reached out for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “They're going to find the man who did this.”

  Surprise was replaced with gratitude and Paige offered him a timid smile.

  Sara adjusted the lens and took the shot, the soft click of the camera seeming loud in the quiet room. Paige pulled her hand back, her expression closing off again.

  “Do you have what you need, Mr. Stone?” Mrs. Moore slid a comforting arm around her surviving daughter. “I think we've had about as much as we can take for one day. And there are arrangements to be made.”

  Nate, who was still watching Paige, fumbled with his notes as Amanda Moore's question brought him back to reality. “I think so. You've been more than gracious. I realize how difficult this is, and I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”

  Mrs. Moore stood up, extending her hand, her smile for Sara as well as Nate. “I'm just glad that Allison's death won't go unmarked. You have my number in Abilene?”

  Nate nodded, taking her hand. “I really do appreciate this.”

  “You just do for Allison what you did for Lydia Wallace and I won't have wasted my time.”

  Nate swallowed, obviously overcome with emotion. “I appreciate your confidence. I'll give it my best.”

  “Well, that was interesting.” Tony strode into the squad room, his eyes narrowed in frustration. “You think he was telling the truth?”

  “Jack? Hard to say for certain.” Eric struggled against a rising sense of dread. “But he was pretty damn convincing in there.”

  “Unfortunately, I tend to agree.” Tony sat on the edge of his desk.

  “Well, we've got more than we had yesterday. We know that someone deliberately tampered with my brakes, and we know that it's possible that the same thing happened to Tom Martin and his son.”

  “And we know there's at least a tentative connection between Sara's caller and the time and location for the killings.”

  Eric nodded, his gut twisting into a knot. “So all we have to do is find a way to connect the dots.”

  “That's what we do, D'Angelo.” Jordan Brady walked into the room, his expression inscrutable. “We find answers where there aren't any.”

  “Aw, hell, I knew I should have read the damn manual,” Tony's eyes crinkled in a smile, then almost as quickly narrowed again. “You talk to the profiler?”

  Brady nodded. “Just got off the phone with her. Name's Madison Harper. According to Katie Brighton, she's really good. Been with the bureau a long time, most of it with the Investigative Support Unit. She faxed her report. Figured you guys would want to see it.”

  “Anything helpful?”

  “Yeah, in a weird hocus-pocus kind of way. Read it for yourself.” He tossed the fax on the desk. Eric picked it up, Tony moving to peer over his shoulder.

  There were a couple of introductory paragraphs restating the facts of the crime, then a list of attributes. It was the list that interested him most.

  Average looking white male between the ages of 25 and 35, probably closer to the end of the range, no obvious impairments; no long-term relationships with women; problems with dominant female in his life; orderly; persuasive but also insecure; high IQ; highly manipulative; probably holds a day job; no remorse; drives a dark car; externalizes through killings; repeat offender, possibly in another locale.

  “And we're supposed to believe she just pulled that out of thin air?” Tony asked.

  “It's pretty damn eerie, but honest to God, once she finished explaining it, she'd turned me into a believer.” They walked into the conference room, settling down at the table, Brady consulting his notes. “Why don't we start at the top? I think we can all agree that he's male. The age range is based on the fact that the amputations and planning are well executed, indicating that the guy's fantasy is well formed. That gives us an older killer. But when you factor in the overkill, and the violent nature of it, you're back to someone younger. Older killers tend to be more methodical, which is why she gave us a range.”

  “I admit that makes sense,” Tony said, “but how the hell does she know he's good looking?”

  “Actually the report says average looking. Whoever this guy is, he's not outwardly alarming. You know as well as I do that hookers have good radar. And this guy obviously didn't set it off. And in Allison's case, we have an overly cautious woman who just let the guy in. That also fits in with the idea of him being persuasive.” Brady tipped his head toward the list in Tony's hand. “The fact that the guy can't keep a girl ties into the fact that he has a problem with a female somewhere in his life.”

  “That one is pretty self-evident. I mean, we know that in the majority of cases where a serial killer targets seemingly unrelated females, he has an issue with a woman,” Eric said. “Usually a wife, mother, or girlfriend. And considering the severity of the object rape here, I'd say our guy is royally pissed about whatever it is and intent on inflicting his own brand of punishment.”

  “Now there's a blinding glimpse of the obvious.” Tony mumbled, still looking at the list. “I'm assuming orderly is postulated on the fact that the kills are so well executed. And that there's little evidence at the scenes.”

  Brady nodded. “That and the fact that he's obviously planning the killings ahead of time.” He consulted his notes again. “The high IQ is a given. These guys always skew that way.”

  “And the day job is based on the fact that except for Allison, the killings all happened late at night.” Eric narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the list.

  “His remorselessness is based on the fact that he leaves his vics in plain sight, still bound and not covered in anyway,” Brady continued. “And the dark car is evidently a common correlation with highly organized people. And we've already established that given the kill pattern and developed ritual, our guy is seriously methodical. The last two are also obvious, given the others. He's killing face-to-face, externalizing his attacks, and his ritual is too developed for Lau
rel to have been a first-time kill.”

  Brady put the paper down and blew out a breath. “So we've got a guy in his mid-twenties, easy on the eyes, who has a hell of grudge against someone.”

  “You just described half the males in Austin.” Tony shrugged. “And we looked for priors, twice, but nothing matched our guy. She say anything else?”

  “She thinks that so far the killings are ways for him to externalize his frustration, to sublimate it away from the real target. But the escalating violence is a sign that it's not working as well as it did originally. And, ultimately, she thinks he'll stop using surrogates.”

  Eric's skin tingled, his heart twisting inside, his mind conjuring images of Sara. He tried to assure himself that the connection wasn't solid, that it was spurious at best, but he couldn't quell the sick feeling in his stomach.

  “She's going to continue to study the files, and see what else she can put together.” Brady was still talking, unaware of the turn of Eric's thoughts. He forced himself to concentrate on the lieutenant's words. “She also suggested that we let the press know we've contacted the FBI and that their profile of the perp fits closely with the evidence.”

  “But it doesn't,” Tony offered.the killer doesn't know it. These guys like to believe they're winning, so sometimes tightening the noose can flush them out into the open.”

  “And get someone else killed.” Eric wasn't a fan of manipulating offenders. With serial killers there was a tendency for it to backfire.

  “Madison also offered to give us access to their database. We can take another look at priors. But the clock is ticking. You know as well as I do that the more distance we have from this thing, the more likely the trail goes cold. Start with the database and see if anything new pops up.”

  “We're already on it.” Eric stood up, rubbing his side, his ribs aching.

  Brady nodded, then turned on his heel and walked from the room.

  “You didn't tell him about Sara.” Tony's frank gaze met his.

  “I figured it could wait. It's not like we have anything concrete to tell him.” Eric shrugged, reaching for his beeper as it went off. “And besides, for the moment at least, we've got it covered.” He read the text as it scrolled across the pager's screen, his blood running cold.