The Seventh Victim

by Mary Burton

“That so bad?”

  “The images were painful. My mother and aunt looked so much alike and yet were total opposites.”

  “How so?”

  “My mother was the difficult, moody one, according to my grandmother, while my aunt was the light of her life. My aunt adored Cassidy. And in the end my aunt killed herself. My grandmother said once she always feared my mother would take her life. Never Aunt Leslie.”

  “Your mother ever consider leaving you in Texas full-time?”

  “My grandmother asked her every year if she would. They often argued over it. But Mom always took me with her in September.” She shrugged. “I always wondered why Mom just didn’t leave me in Texas. Motherly devotion wasn’t her driving force. Maybe it was pride. Or maybe it was as simple as Grandmother wanted me.”

  Beck didn’t press her for details as he took a second glance at the shadowed outlines and then moved down the hallway. When he reappeared minutes later he said, “All the windows are locked and secure. And there are no signs of a break-in, which is all the more reason for you to not hide that key outside anymore. Better, do you have someone in town you can bunk with for a while?”

  “Not really.”

  “What about that art lady?”

  “Cassidy? She hates dogs, and I don’t want to impose.” They got along well enough, and Cassidy would have taken her in, but asking her cousin for help went against the grain.

  He frowned, clearly irritated. “She’s family. She wouldn’t mind.”

  “I would. I can take care of myself. I spent a dozen summers in the area with my grandmother. And I’ve got Lincoln.”

  Frustrated by her stubbornness, he frowned. “A dozen summers. That’s a lot of time in the area.”

  “Four months out of the year I was here between ages six and eighteen.”

  “How were your summers here?”

  “For the most part fine.”

  He arched a brow. “For the most part?”

  “The first week I’d miss my mom. And then I’d start to get used to the place again, and then I’d have to leave. I hated leaving.”

  “Where’d you and your mother live?”

  “All over. Depended on where her husband at the time lived.”

  “Anything memorable happen during those summers?”

  “Memorable how?”

  “Anything that sticks to mind.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Cassidy and I were either here at the house or helping our grandmother in town at her shop. It was a good time.” She frowned. “Do you think someone from my past is the killer?”

  “I don’t know. I do know someone knew about that key and drugged your dog.”

  Shock and adrenaline gave way to anger. “Maybe some nut who read the morning paper broke into the house.”

  “Maybe the article did unsettle someone. Maybe the article and Lincoln are unrelated. But I’d bet my last dollar that the two are connected.”

  Fingers curled into fists. She had no answer to that puzzle. “How can you know that?”

  “I don’t, and until we know, be careful, Ms. Church. Keep the doors locked even when you are inside alone.”

  Her defenses rose. “I do.”

  A dark brow arched. “I walked in on you in your studio the other day.”

  Color rushed up her cheeks. “I was working and just got lost.”

  “All it takes is once.”

  Being spoken to as if she were a child grated. “I can take care of myself. I almost shot you.”

  Amusement lightened his gaze. “Not even close.”

  “I had my shotgun.”

  He leaned forward just barely. “If you’d not lowered it when I asked, we’d not be standing here having this conversation.”

  A deadly intensity swirled around him. She could argue all she wanted, but she was no marksman and would have lost to an expert. Nodding, she dragged a hand through her hair. “I get it. I will be careful.”

  His gaze held hers an extra microsecond. “I’m going to have DPS swing by every half hour. Someone out there is fixated on you.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s the Strangler.” She spoke the words, hoping he’d agree. “It could just be about the article.”

  He touched the brim of his hat. “Don’t you bet on it for a minute. Not for a minute.”

  Chapter 14

  Monday, May 27, 8 AM

  In the early hours of Monday, the third victim’s fingerprints scored a hit in the AFIS. The victim’s name was Blair Silver, age twenty-three years old. She’d been arrested two years ago for possession of cocaine. The girl’s well-to-do family had hired an expensive attorney, who’d arranged a plea agreement to a misdemeanor charge. Reports from Blair’s parole officer, however, had been positive. She’d been clean and sober for eighteen months and was finally going places with her life. Beck tracked down the girl’s mother and arranged a meeting at their home.

  Adjusting his tie, he rang the bell as he stood at the front entrance to the big, beautiful house. Beck shifted his stance a couple of times. He didn’t love big homes. Didn’t have anything against them, just wondered why anyone would need this kind of space. And this house, judging by the clean, sterile looks, wasn’t too old.

  As footsteps sounded on a tile floor, he rubbed the back of his neck, dreading delivering his message to Mrs. Silver.

  The front door opened to a petite, midfifties woman, who stared up at him with a wary gaze. Her hair was done, her makeup styled, and she wore dark pants, a white blouse, and a pearl necklace with matching earrings. The outfit was simple and expensive.

  He touched the brim of his hat. “Mrs. Silver?”

  She nodded. “You must be Sergeant Beck.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Won’t you come in?”

  “Thank you.”

  She escorted him to a sunroom filled with plants, overstuffed couches, delicate tables, and gilded framed pictures. Drapes, with the shimmer of silk, pooled on the polished floors.

  She sat on the sofa and motioned for him to take the seat across from her. “Can I get you something to drink? Sweet tea or a cola?”

  “No, ma’am, but thank you.”

  She smoothed her hands over her pants. “You said you had questions for me.”

  His seat was fashioned out of bamboo and struck him as too delicate for a man his size. He was careful not to lean back or to the side on the armrest. “Ma’am, I’ve not come with good news.”

  Her lips flattened into a grim line. “It’s about my daughter, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” No easy way to say this. “We found her body yesterday.”

  Mrs. Silver lifted her chin and curled manicured fingers into fists. “I’ve been waiting for a visit like this for a long time.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Blair has made some rather unfortunate choices in the last five years. I knew she’d been in recovery for the last year or so, but each day I feared she’d slip again. I kept telling her that her wild lifestyle would come to a bad end, but she refused to worry.” She drummed manicured hands on her pants leg. “We fought on Friday.”

  “That when you talked to her last?”

  “Yes. It was after eleven.” She drew in a breath. “Can you tell me how she died?”

  “She was strangled.”

  The older woman’s face pinched with surprise for just a brief moment, and then the expression vanished before she met his gaze again. “Strangled? I was certain you were going to tell me it was a drug overdose or an accident.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Silver sat so straight he thought her spine would snap. “Where was she found?”

  “Near the interstate.” Every death notice was different, many times unexpected reactions. Tears. Anger. Denial. Frustration. He usually got some kind of response. But Mrs. Silver was completely flat. It was almost as if she’d not actually heard him.

  He watched her closely. “Ma’am, can you tell me if Blair had boyfriends or acquaintances
that might have done her harm?”

  “Truthfully, I don’t know any of her friends anymore. The set of friends she had a couple of years ago were not good people. But she kept swearing to me she’d changed and her friends had changed. I just couldn’t allow myself to hope. I called her often. Was always checking up on her.”

  He couldn’t imagine not dogging a child who was headed toward trouble. “She listed your address as her permanent address.”

  “Well, I suppose you could say it was her last permanent address. She’s been moving around a lot for the last couple of years.”

  “What was she studying at the university?”

  “English. History. Economics, of late. She could have done anything. She was brilliant. But she chose to have a good time rather than apply herself. She was about to graduate but just barely.”

  “Mrs. Silver, I’ve got two other victims who might have been killed by the same man.”

  Her eyes widened as she struggled with unwanted emotions. “Her death didn’t have anything to do with her drinking or the drugs?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’m trying to retrace her last days.”

  “I wish I could help. But Blair and I didn’t communicate well. I called. We were polite, but our conversations had little depth and generally ended with us shouting at each other.”

  “When was the last time she lived here?”

  “She spent a night here about three months ago.” Mrs. Silver leaned forward and from a silver box removed a cigarette and lighter. She lit the tip and inhaled deeply. “It wasn’t a good visit. We fought. I was worried she’d start drinking again and she was furious that I didn’t trust her.”

  “Could I have a look at her room?”

  “Certainly.” Stiffly, she snubbed out her cigarette and rose. “Follow me.”

  He sensed beneath the ice, sadness and regret swirled in a destructive twister. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Silver led Beck up a cream-colored carpeted staircase that wound by walls sporting neatly framed watercolors. In his grandfather’s house the carpets had been worn and threadbare and the walls filled with pictures of Beck, his brother and his father as a child. There were images of Beck swinging a bat and posing with the football team. It was a chaotic mishmash of pictures. And he still found it warm and welcoming especially compared to the elegant sterility of the Silver house.

  Mrs. Silver led him down a center hallway toward a door on the back left. She opened the door and stepped back as if entering hurt. “Spend as much time as you’d like in the room. I’ll be downstairs waiting.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “There is a computer in her room. She didn’t take it with her but the last time she was here she spent time on it.”

  “Thank you.” He waited until she’d turned to leave before entering the room. Painted in a pale pink, the room was dominated by a large canopy bed with a white eyelet coverlet. Twin nightstands sported crystal lamps and a chaise set by a large bay window. It was the perfect little girl’s room.

  He sat down at a delicate, girly-looking desk, hoping it would support his six-foot-six frame. The chair groaned a protest but held steady. He pressed the computer’s power button. The screen saver was a collage of pictures taken of Blair and her friends over the last couple of years. In most of the images she was grinning, her arm wrapped casually around someone’s neck, a drink and cigarette in the other. In several, Blair’s hair was dark brown, in others she had dyed a streak purple, and finally she’d switched to blond—the color that had caught the killer’s attention. She wore deeply cut blouses and heavy makeup. Lots of gold bangles dangled from her neck and wrists.

  He shifted his attention to the men in the photos, wondering if any of them stood out. Many sported the ruddy cheeks and goofy expressions of a drunk and most appeared to be college age. Seven years ago, they’d have been in middle or high schools. Nothing caught his attention.

  He opened her e-mails. Two hundred and twelve messages appeared. Most were ads for clothes, shoes, some even from an online university. Only a few appeared to be from actual people, but that wasn’t surprising. Kids Blair’s age communicated via text or cell. E-mail, Santos’s youngest sister had once said, was for old people.

  The majority of the personal e-mails were from men and their messages dealt with setting up a meeting. Nothing specific was discussed, and Blair’s outgoing box showed no responses on her computer. He’d need to track down her cell phone records for that. He checked her browser history but found most of her stops were online stores and tarot reading sites.

  Beck rose from the chair and unplugged the computer, hoping Mrs. Silver would let him take it with him so his experts could search it. He could get a warrant but hoped she’d make this easy.

  He checked dresser drawers, which were empty, and he checked her closet. The clothes that remained were for a younger girl, and many of the dresses still had the tags on them. He could picture Mrs. Silver buying perfect clothes for a daughter who wasn’t so perfect and would never wear what her mother had chosen.

  He moved down the center staircase, the computer in hand. He found Mrs. Silver sitting in the living room where they’d first visited.

  She’d lit another cigarette and with a trembling hand lifted it to her mouth. “I never would have smoked in this house while my husband was alive. He hated the smell. I think that’s why Blair started smoking. She wanted to make him angry.”

  “Mrs. Silver, would you mind if I took Blair’s computer? I’d like my forensics experts to have a look at it.”

  She nodded. “Take whatever you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  She snubbed out the end of her cigarette in a crystal ashtray. “I read about a woman in the Sunday paper. Lara Church. The photographer. The article said she had survived the Seattle Strangler. And you said my Blair was strangled.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is the article about Ms. Church true?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s true.”

  “Do you think the Seattle Strangler is here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “But you have suspicions.”

  “Which I cannot discuss.”

  “Can Ms. Church give you a description of her attacker?”

  “She has no memory of the attack.”

  Dark eyes flashed with frustration. “There’s got to be a way to make her remember.”

  “We’re doing all we can.”

  Mrs. Silver shook her head. “Are you?”

  Her pain burrowed under his skin and grated against his nerves. “Yes, ma’am, we are.”

  “I made a lot of mistakes with Blair. Warning signs I shouldn’t have ignored years ago. I should have trusted that she wanted to get sober, but I didn’t. I failed her in so many ways, but there is one last thing I can do for her.”

  “What’s that?”

  Gray eyes hardened. “Make sure you find her killer.”

  “I’m giving it my best.”

  “You damn well better, Sergeant. You damn well better.”

  Mrs. Silver walked to the front door, each step controlled and brittle. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  He opened the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

  A quick nod was all she managed as she opened the door and watched him step onto the porch. She closed the front door with a soft click. Seconds later he heard the soft muffled sounds of her weeping.

  When Lara arrived in the lab with Lincoln, the room of students was unnaturally quiet. The students, who normally were chatting and texting and thinking about everything other than lab, sat tense and silent. As Lincoln lay down behind her desk, she set her backpack on the desk and carefully unzipped it. Beyond the silence, she heard the ticking of the clock and steady breaths of the kids in the front row.

  “I suppose you’ve read the paper,” she said without raising her head.

  No
one said anything, but several kids murmured back and forth at each other, hoping to find someone who would speak for the class.

  Lara pulled out her laptop. “If you have any questions, now is the time to ask because once I start my lecture I’m not discussing this again.”

  Tim Gregory, the big, beefy football player in the back of the room, half raised his hand. “Is it true?”

  Lara’s gaze met the boy’s. “The article in the paper about me? Yes, it’s true.”

  Annie, a girl who always wore athletic shorts, white tees, and a scrunchie in her long, black hair, sat taller. “So, like, you were strangled once?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  More murmurs rippled across the room.

  Tim’s smile looked more uncomfortable than jovial. “This dude killed six women before you.”

  “That’s right.” Her gaze skimmed the astonished faces to Danni, who stared with wide-eyed understanding.

  “So how did you get so lucky?” Annie said.

  Lucky. Lara had never thought that luck would have a double-edged sword. “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, but aren’t you afraid?” Annie said.

  Lara laid her hands on her desk. “Honestly, at this point I’m more afraid that the majority of you are going to fail my class this semester.”

  That caused several kids to sit forward in their seats.

  “I’ve tried to treat you as adults, but frankly most of you are more worried about the next party than you are about this class.” Indignation welled, jostling aside the lingering fear of a man she could not remember. “If you think it is an easy A you are going to be sadly mistaken. Most are going to have to hustle hard just to get a C. And for some, I know you need that C to remain on the roster for the fall sports teams.”

  Tim grumbled. “Coach said I shouldn’t worry about snapping pictures when I should be doing strength conditioning.”

  She smiled. “Coach is wrong if you want to pass, Mr. Gregory.”

  He groaned. “That’s not right. I worked hard for my spot on that team.”

  “You’re not working hard in my class, Mr. Gregory, and that is all I care about.”

  He opened his mouth to protest.