Double Vision

by Colby Marshall

  The last bit of the statement had been directed at her.

  “I don’t think so. There’s still just so much we’re missing somewhere. Something we’re missing about the grocery store massacre that doesn’t add up. Beasley is somehow involved, but he wasn’t the target. I’m sure of it. He’s still alive, and if the Triple Shooter—”

  “UNSUB,” Dodd cut in.

  Jenna groaned. “If the UNSUB has proven anything, it’s that he’s good at not leaving people that way,” Jenna said. As she said it, something nagged at her. Not a female. The Triple Shooter kills easily.

  “Whoa, wait. That’s one thing that keeps bugging me. The Triple Shooter—and yes I mean the Triple Shooter,” Jenna said, shooting Dodd a glare, “is really good at swooping in, carrying out his little chores for the Furies, and leaving without anyone being the wiser, even in places like the Target parking lot during business hours. The grocery store shooting doesn’t follow his normal protocol, but the break-in at the Winthrop house doesn’t fit his MO, either. And I don’t just mean that he didn’t shoot anyone.”

  “You mean because most of his kills were in broad daylight and in public? Don’t forget he killed victim three in her apartment,” Teva reminded her.

  “Maybe, but there’s just something about the style that’s different that I can’t put my finger on. Both are audacious . . . reckless, even,” Jenna said as a shade of blue flashed in with the word “reckless,” alongside thought of the break-in. Not quite the cornflower she associated with disorganization. This one was more confident, a little mixed with some sort of red or pink, though it definitely wasn’t the purple of impulse, either. Periwinkle. Reckless blue. The break-in at CiCi’s house, the blunt trauma to Eldred, the running away . . . it was reckless, for sure. She blew out a breath, relaxing for the color she associated with the spirit behind the other Triple Shooter crimes to wash over her, something that would mix the reckless periwinkle with the pomegranate red of confidence. A shocking pink flashed in that seemed to mix recklessness, impulse, and confidence combined. Daring. Bold. “He does what he wants when the Furies dictate it. He’s bold. He doesn’t have it in him to ignore it when he thinks someone needs to die or to wait until the circumstance is absolutely perfect. Three of his victims, not counting the grocery store fiasco, were killed and left in public places in the daylight. This guy just doesn’t feel like the stealth break-in type. Sure, he killed Ainsley Nickerson in her apartment, but I have this feeling it was only because it was where she happened to go right before he was ready to strike.”

  “You mean if Ainsley had, say, gone to the mall, he’d have killed her there because he was ready to kill her?” Porter asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So what exactly are you thinking accounts for the difference here?” Saleda asked.

  Jenna didn’t speak at first. After all, it was she who’d said all along that this grocery store massacre was the work of the Triple Shooter. Her opinion hadn’t changed. The colors matched . . . mostly. The times, date. The Triple was their maniac with the gun.

  Only now she’d seen those other colors mixing in with his attitude toward the crimes, colors that didn’t belong to him alone. Somehow they were being influenced, and suddenly she was no longer sure who was pulling his strings.

  38

  Yancy got off the phone with his supervisor. He’d called to let work know he would be taking a few personal days while he stayed with a friend after an attempted break-in at her house. They didn’t need to know he was staying just in case a murderous nutjob came back for CiCi’s father. He also texted Jenna to remind her about feeding Oboe.

  When he hung up the phone, CiCi stood in front of him, carrying a stack of sheets, a pillow, and a folded blanket. At some point she’d changed into a pair of fluffy pink pajama pants after the attack. Some days all that’s left is to give up and hole up until it’s over and the next day finally comes around. “I’ll go get Oboe and bring him over in the morning. Jenna said she could stop by and feed him later this evening,” he said.

  She nodded. “So now that the pooch is taken care of, right this way, knight in shining armor,” she said. “I’ll get you set up in your room.”

  He followed her up the winding staircase and into the guest bedroom off to the left. The oak bed had four posts, and each was draped with willowy, whitish-gray chiffon. In stark contrast to the fancy bed, the mattress was bare. CiCi lay the stack of sheets and blankets on the bed.

  “I usually keep the sheets and comforter from the other bedroom Dad’s using on this bed, but he wanted them in there. They were his and Mom’s. Bed was, too, actually, but he can’t sleep in it anymore because it’s too high for him to climb into,” she said. “If you get cold, there are more blankets in the linen closet at the end of the hallway, so just help yourself. There are quite a few books in the corner cabinet down in the living room, along with the TV, though you might have to fight Dad for it around now. Andy Griffith’s on. If you get really bored, you’re welcome to explore the basement. There is some neat stuff down there. Mom and Dad used to love to travel together, and Dad collected stuff from everywhere he went. The more bizarre, the better. It’s where he used to spend most of his free time. Said each thing represented a good memory. He doesn’t go down anymore, though.”

  As she turned and walked out the door, he couldn’t help but notice the way her waist curved into her hips, how those loose pink pajama pants didn’t quite manage to hide the perfect, round shape of her ass.

  He shook his head hard.

  You’re in a relationship, cool guy. There’s a ring in your pocket, and this woman is still technically married, even if her husband isn’t living here or abusing her. And she’s a prostitute. Don’t forget that part, cool guy. You feel me?

  When CiCi was out of sight, he closed the bedroom door. He made the bed using the sheets CiCi had supplied. When he’d finally managed to get the fitted sheet, regular sheet, blanket, and comforter onto the queen size bed, he sat down on the edge. This bed was softer than his . . . or Jenna’s, for that matter. He removed his gun from its secret compartment and laid the piece on the nightstand for easy reach should he need it. Then he leaned back.

  He practically sank into the lush bedding. God, he could sleep for years in this thing. He’d better hope if Eldred did need protecting while Yancy was here that he wouldn’t be in too much of a comfortable stupor to help him.

  Yancy stared at the ceiling. Tired as he was, he wasn’t sleepy at all. Too much on his mind. He’d killed a man, hidden his body. They might never find it, but if they did, there’d be hell to pay. And Jenna. He was lying to her over and over again. How was he supposed to ask a woman to be his wife if he couldn’t even tell her about one simple little act of manslaughter? But he wanted Jenna so much, and if she got pulled into his screwups, she stood to lose way more than him.

  He couldn’t take Ayana’s mom from her. He wouldn’t.

  A light knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Yancy said softy.

  The door opened, and there stood CiCi, this time wearing a satin pink bathrobe over the too-big pajama pants from before. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything,” she said.

  Her dark hair spilled around her shoulders, still damp from a midday shower. A droplet or two of water had fallen from her locks to her neck, where it lay sparkling against her fair skin.

  “Nah, I’m great. But hey, um, would you want to come sit for a little while? Just talk? It’s been kind of a long day for all of us . . . I figured you could use the ear or the company,” Yancy replied.

  She glanced back toward the other guest room where they had gotten Eldred settled, then back to him. “Yeah. That might be nice. God knows I’m not going to get any sleep anyway. That’s for sure.”

  Once CiCi’d stepped in and closed the door behind her, she walked over to the wicker chair in the corner. She tugged the pink
satin ribbon around her robe, and the robe loosened. She took it off, revealing the same solid white cotton T-shirt she’d been wearing with her pajamas earlier. She flung the robe onto the chair, then sat on top of it.

  “So you never told me. Why did you come that day? To take me to coffee? It’s not like all nine-one-one dispatchers make coffee dates with callers,” CiCi said.

  “It’s not? I thought that was the thing now. In fact, I’ve heard it’s going to totally replace Match.com and eHarmony in the dating market. All the emergency dispatchers make dates with their callers these days. You’re just behind the times,” Yancy said, smiling.

  Did you really just make a date reference, cool guy? You’re the moron who kept rationalizing how getting coffee wasn’t a date.

  “You’re a real innovator, huh?”

  “Franklin, Edison, and me,” Yancy said; his chest felt heavy but he managed a halfhearted smile.

  A shadow crossed CiCi’s face, and she looked down at her pink-polished toes. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened when you left that day?”

  The anxiety in her voice took over the worry in his own mind. She didn’t need this, either. She had enough problems to dwell on, what with owing a bunch of dirty cops money and the sick dad. The burden of knowing everything that had happened that night would be enough to break anybody.

  Yancy shook his head. “Nope.”

  “But . . .”

  He sat up and scooted to the foot of the bed until he was directly across from her. He held a finger to her lips.

  “You’re only safe if you don’t know anything. I’ve got you, CiCi. I’ve taken care of it, but you have to let me, okay?”

  CiCi nodded hard, tears welling in her eyes. Yancy could tell she wanted to protest but at the same time, wanted to do as he wished. She reached out and took both of his hands in hers, squeezed.

  “You know, I never knew someone . . . anyone . . . in the world would protect me just because it was, well, because they thought it was the right thing to do. Usually I’m all I have. I know I’d better take care of myself, because if I don’t . . .” She choked as a sob came out, and tears streamed her cheeks. “Well, nobody will.”

  Watching CiCi’s tears fall made something inside Yancy ache. He couldn’t stop himself. Before he knew it, he’d leaned forward and enveloped her in his arms. He rubbed her back through the soft material of her T-shirt, and she laid her head on his shoulder, his neck a cradle for her tear-stained cheeks.

  He inhaled deeply as he gathered her closer to him. She felt so small in his embrace, so unbelievably soft. “Well, somebody’s here to take care of you now.” He leaned into her more, squeezed her tighter. He gently kissed the top of her head.

  Strands of her long brown hair brushed his lips as he whispered, “I’ve got you, CiCi. I’ve got you.”

  39

  Justice watched the woman he’d been following most of the day slam the door of her red Toyota Camry, the same one with chipping paint he’d followed from midtown, where she’d run errands, all the way here.

  Her dark ponytail bobbed with her stride as she walked toward the Harford Suites. If she knew she’d been watched going into the hotel several times now, she might’ve bothered to put on those detestable giant sunglasses that made her look like a praying mantis–human hybrid. But the girl was blissfully ignorant of her audience.

  Justice rubbed his palm on the rough fabric of the truck seat beneath him. When that didn’t staunch the itch, he brought his palm to his mouth and moved his hand back and forth across his front teeth, the only thing that even remotely helped. This had to be over soon. He couldn’t wait any longer than today. If the itch stayed, he was going to go crazy.

  He’d known they were angry with him for waiting this long, but the itch had gotten worse just since morning. No more! Not another minute!

  Luckily, it was at that very moment the man burst through the double doors of the hotel. He made his way down the parking lot aisle to his silver Lexus, climbed in, and pulled out of the space. Now was the time to act.

  Justice jumped out of the truck and pumped his legs as fast as he could toward the building, turning sharply where, normally, a visitor would’ve gone through the doors. Instead he went to the back employee entrance he’d noticed, one he’d learned had no special requirements for entry other than knowing it was there.

  Once inside, he moved swiftly toward the elevator, but second-guessed himself at the last moment and took the stairs. Elevators were videotaped.

  He scratched his arm as hard as he could as he opened the door leading to the third-floor corridor. Sick. All he wanted to do was stop and writhe on the ground, let his body graze the industrial carpet until it rubbed his prickly skin clean off.

  Can’t get sidetracked. He’ll be back soon.

  It was the same every day. The woman arrived at her married lover’s hotel a short thirty minutes after her husband left for his own job. She went in, and the lover came out. He would climb into his Lexus, drive to his child’s school, pick up the child, transfer the child to hockey practice, then return to his mistress’s arms. The whole process usually took all of twenty minutes, so no time to waste.

  He strode through the hallway, stopping briefly as he passed a room-service cart set outside someone’s door after they’d finished their meal. Maybe so.

  Cart in tow, he continued toward room 354. He rapped on the door. “Room service,” he said. She’d never know that the man hadn’t ordered a bottle of wine or some fruit before he left. She wasn’t careful anymore; she didn’t worry it was someone she wouldn’t want to find her. He knew, because he’d watched.

  Sure enough, the doorknob turned. The door opened. Justice shoved the cart hard into the exotic-looking beauty. She fell backward, and he pushed into the room, closing the door behind him.

  Before she had a chance to recover from the wind being knocked out of her and scream, he drew his gun, silencer in place. He pulled the trigger once, twice, a third time.

  The itching, for one glorious moment, stopped.

  40

  “So let me wrap my head around this,” Saleda said. “You’re saying the Triple Shooter isn’t acting alone?”

  Jenna shook her head, pushing away the green color that flashed in every time she talked about the Triple Shooter’s list of conquests. “Not exactly. I think his triple shooting crimes . . . you know, the ones that involve triple shots . . . are his and his alone. But if someone else was involved, it would explain why the grocery store killings were such a divergence.”

  Saleda leaned back and folded her arms. “I’ll buy it. Maybe. But if someone else is involved and knows the UNSUB is the Triple Shooter and just sort of lets him be, then—”

  “Then we’re dealing with a really sick fuck,” Dodd cut in.

  Jenna conjured up red in her mind, a red she recognized as the dominant color that appeared any time she dealt with a case involving a dominant team killer and a submissive one, just to see how it felt. And yet, it didn’t match. Not quite. The Triple Shooter wasn’t a classic subordinate in that he had his own reasons for his kills, his own style, and his own course. In the classic team formulation, the submissive of the two killers was usually goaded into the kills somehow, be it for fear of losing or disappointing their dominant teammate or having a violent streak the more violent, dominant person had cultivated in them. The Triple Shooter, she was sure, had acted alone up until the grocery store. So what changed?

  “The target has to be the way we’re going to blow this thing open,” Jenna mumbled.

  “Back to square one then?” Teva asked.

  Dodd grunted. “Back to ‘Who’s That Sinner’ is more like it.”

  The phone in the middle of the conference room table rang, its little red light flashing with the promise of news. Jenna’s heart skittered as Yancy’s face came to mind. If Eldred was attacked again, at any
moment that phone could tell her Yancy was hurt. Or worse.

  “BAU,” Teva answered.

  Jenna watched Teva nod, her heart slowing. From the side of the conversation Jenna could hear, it just sounded like the local cops calling in a status report on their roadblocks, more or less notifying the BAU that there wasn’t anything to notify them about.

  “Sure thing. So if we need any further information about the manhunt as far as the roadblocks, we’ll call Hoskings instead of Officer Mullins,” Teva said.

  As Jenna watched Teva grab a pen and scribble a phone number on a white pad at the end of the conference table, her own cell vibrated in her pocket. Her pulse quickened as she pulled it out and pressed the button.

  A text from an unknown number.

  Jenna. Victor. Come to Harford Suites Hotel in lower Peabody. We’ve got a body, and let’s just say it has your number on it.

  • • •

  Jenna crossed under the crime-scene tape in front of the doorway of room 354 at the Harford Suites Hotel after showing her badge to the cop on duty. Dodd ducked under behind her. The two of them had been nominated for this glorious turn of events while the rest hung back and scheduled interviews with some of the potential targets still on the “Sinner List,” as Dodd called it.

  A man in a striped tie and gray trousers sat on the couch of the two-room suite, head in his hands. Cops bustled around the room, dusting for prints, and a clerk snapped photos of every nook and cranny.

  Feet away, the body of thirty-two-year-old Pesha Josephy lay wide-eyed on the dark carpet. She’d been shot in the chest three times, and the killer couldn’t have been more than a couple of feet away from her. Based on the placement of the bullet holes, it had probably been fast. All were right at the heart.