by Kylie Brant
“Yeah.” Stallsmith tried a smile. Didn’t quite pull it off. “I guess that’s something.”
They stepped aside to make way for others wanting to speak to the man and turned to walk slowly back to where Cam had parked the vehicle. The radio clipped to his belt remained silent. Which meant there had been no visual of Vickie Baxter. He wasn’t really surprised. Nothing about this case had been simple so far.
He slipped his hand around Sophie’s waist ready to support her if she stumbled on the uneven grass wearing those death-defying stilts she called sandals. They were the same pale yellow as the suit she wore, and with her matching purse and halo of gilded hair she looked, he thought, like a walking sunbeam. “Briefing is tomorrow at eight. Are you ready with the profile on Baxter?”
“I have a preliminary one ready.” Her inflection was unmistakable.
He knew that tone. “It’s an evolving document. I get that.” He’d heard the phrase from her often enough. Maybe there’d been a time when he’d grown impatient with the distinction, but his investigations evolved, too. As more information came in the direction of their manpower was reshaped, refocused.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t rib her about the meticulous way she approached her work. “So if Baxter doesn’t show up here today, I think you can add a new aspect to the profile. She’s phobic. Doesn’t mind putting people in the ground, but she’s got a fear of cemeteries. What do they call that?”
The sharp poke of her elbow to his ribs was too precisely placed to be accidental. “Coimetrophobia? If that’s true, I can relate. I have an overwhelming fear of smart asses, myself.”
Cam smiled. A year ago…hell even a few months ago he would never have suspected the endlessly fascinating facets that existed beneath Sophie Channing’s polished professional façade.
He’d certainly never suspected he’d find them so alluring.
She dug in her purse for a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses and slipped them on. “The Department of Human Services’ files on Sonny Baxter after he was removed from the home as a child added a few details, but other than that facts about Vickie’s life were sketchy. The warrant that granted access to the DHS case from her childhood provided critical details for the profile. I’m still going through the files.”
“We’ll have even more answers when we’re finally able to interview Courtney Van Wheton.” With Sophie’s help the other woman had escaped Vance only to lie in a coma for weeks afterwards. Three days ago he’d been alerted that Van Wheton had regained consciousness, but her mental state so far had been deemed too precarious for interviews.
Cam scanned the fringe of the crowd near the gates of the cemetery for one of his agents. Caught the eye of a man in a dark suit with thinning black hair and a long taciturn face standing next to a tall redhead whose gaze was glued to her cell phone. Agents Tommy Franks and Jenna Turner. He steered Sophie toward them.
“No word on a sighting?”
Cam shook his head at Franks’ question. “It’s still possible that the cameras will catch something as the crowd disperses.” But he wasn’t holding out much hope. It had been a long shot to bank on Baxter being the sort of killer who got off on seeing her victim laid to rest. But with dwindling leads on the woman’s whereabouts, it had been a chance worth taking. He was all too aware that in the weeks since they’d missed her by minutes after she’d killed her deranged son, her trail had grown increasingly cold.
And despite Sophie’s earlier assurance, he’d never be satisfied with two out of three of the Cornbelt Killers in hand.
“Well, here’s something that might be of interest.” Jenna finally looked up from the screen of her cell. “You’ve had me watching the intra-state crime feed and Ellen Webster’s name just popped up.”
Cam frowned, flipping through mental files as he tried to place the name. A moment later it hit him. “Sonny Baxter’s social worker. The one that placed him in foster care when he was a kid. She’s retired now, right? What’d she do, swipe the pot at weekly bingo?”
“She was the victim, not the perpetrator. Boone county sheriff Beckett Maxwell responded to a vehicular fire seven miles south of Perry a couple days ago. There were no plates on the car, but the vehicle had cooled sufficiently to allow them to identify the VIN number today.”
Cam’s interest sharpened. Sheriff Beckett Maxwell of the neighboring county had been working with DCI since the case began. The first body found had been buried atop a burial vault in one the area’s rural cemeteries. Before the team had discovered the role Baxter had played in the killings, she’d been housed—at taxpayer expense—in a small home in Maxwell’s county.
“That poor woman.” He felt the slight shudder that went through Sophie’s frame. “Was it a car accident?”
Jenna impatiently reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear as her gaze returned to the screen of her phone. “Not a lot of details on here. Apparently the state arson investigator had a look and the death has been ruled a homicide.”
“I can’t think of a more horrible way to…” Sophie broke off then, catching the three agents contemplating her. “You’re wondering if Vickie Baxter could be responsible.”
“We’re nowhere close to that conclusion.” The response was automatic. Cam was circling the thought, but wouldn’t embrace it without evidence. “We need to get the particulars of the case from Beckett. Webster would have presided over hundreds of cases in her career with Child Services. Vickie Baxter would have been only one in a long line of people who would have a grudge against the woman.”
“It would be well outside the killers’ MO,” Jenna offered doubtfully.
“We know Baxter has killed nonritualistically before,” Sophie reminded them. “The body you found in that old cistern at the farmhouse where she’d been living is evidence of that.” Gladys Stewart, the owner of the farm had been shot with the same weapon found in a kitchen cupboard at the farmhouse. The lab had delivered the ballistics report only yesterday. The gun had borne Vickie Baxter’s latents. “And what are the chances that another disgruntled former family member experienced an emotional trigger at precisely the same time that Vickie did?”
“Trigger?” Cam’s cell rang and he glanced down at the screen, looked up again to give Franks a headshake. This call would have nothing to do with the facial recognition cameras they had posted around the cemetery. He stepped aside to answer the call, his attention half on Sophie’s response.
“The death of her son. Regardless of what she subjected him to as a child, there was still a bond. Somehow they reunited after he’d been in the foster care system for years. And the timing of Webster’s death is suspicious. She’s been retired—what? Two, three years? Her murder is too coincidental…”
The speaker on the phone had all Cam’s attention now. He listened, a sense of increasing urgency feeding his irritation. “Two days ago? And you’re just calling me now?” The forthcoming explanation was only partially mollifying. “I’m going to want to see for myself. No, don’t bother. I’ll come to you.”
Slipping the cell back in his pocket he turned to address the group. “The Homeland team at Des Moines airport say they’ve got a sighting of Baxter on their surveillance feed from Tuesday.”
Franks muttered an obscenity. “So a lot of good it’s done us to monitor Midwestern airports, train and bus stations for three weeks.”
“My thought exactly.” He narrowed a look at the man. “I’m going to leave you to supervise the facial recognition setup here. Even if there are no hits take the cameras back to headquarters and get a couple agents to help go over the feed.” His smile was grim. “Apparently Baxter can slip in places and never be noticed.” Switching his attention to Jenna, he said, “We’ll cover all bases. Head over to Boone County and get everything Beckett has on that fire. I’ll put Boggs on getting a canvass together for Webster’s address.” Corbin Boggs had only returned to light duty this week after being shot by Sonny Baxter when the man had tried to execute Sophie in her apart
ment. Even though he’d worn a vest, the agent had sustained injuries that had taken a couple weeks to recover from.
“What do you want me to focus on?”
In response to Sophie’s question he took her by the elbow and guided her toward the entrance of the cemetery. “Maybe you can teach me some meditation techniques on the way to airport. I’m going to need something to avoid getting slapped with an assault charge when I talk to the idiot who let Vickie Baxter slip through our fingers.”
* * * *
The Homeland Security Airport Unit was formed after 9/11 and staffed by officers of the Des Moines Police Department. Cam frequently worked with DMPD in the course of a case, most recently on this one, and usually with far greater success than at this moment.
“You’re sure.” His question was quiet. Maybe too quiet. The forty-something officer he was addressing had a gleam of perspiration above his lip that wasn’t owed to the air conditioning in the surveillance room.
“Yes, Agent Prescott, I am. You can watch the interior security streams yourself. I’ve downloaded copies and emailed them to you. Our focus has been on apprehension, and Vickie Baxter never stepped foot inside the airport. She certainly didn’t buy a ticket and fly out of here. Every airline agent in our facility has her likeness on their computer and took second and third looks at women traveling alone, just like you ordered.”
“She wouldn’t necessarily have traveled alone,” Sophie put in. At Cam’s cocked brow, she shrugged. “Realizing you’d be looking for her, it’d make sense that she would have tried to disguise not only her appearance, but the impression she’d present. Most likely she’d have found a man to travel with to give the illusion of a couple rather than a single woman.”
Her words had Reams, the security officer taking out a handkerchief to wipe his upper lip. “Regardless. She was never picked up on feed inside the airport. Just outside it at ground transportation. I’ve combined the sightings from all the exterior cameras she appears on into one sequence.” He picked up the remote and pointed it at one TV in the double row of monitors. The short clip replayed again. A ball cap was pulled low over her face, and her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but there was no mistaking Baxter. The film jerked at intervals, presumably where Reams had spliced feed from two different cameras together. Silently they watched her disembark from a shuttle with a handful of other people and approach the ground transportation area alone, where she hailed a taxi. The entire sequence took less than two minutes.
“Where did the shuttle come from?”
Reams reached for the bottle of water in front of him and drank before responding. “Long term parking. We’ve got two lots across the highway a couple blocks from here. Shuttle service runs twenty-four seven. I’ve talked to the driver on duty at the time and his name is on the report.” He indicated a slim sheaf of papers on the corner of his desk that Cam had yet to look at. “Unfortunately he sees a lot of people and can’t place Baxter.”
“Could she have come from a different area and walked to the shuttle service?” Sophie put in. “Maybe the return rental lot.”
Reams shook his head doggedly. “She didn’t rent a car here in the last three weeks. She wasn’t in the airport and I double-checked the surveillance stream near the rental areas myself.”
“She could have rented it prior to the alert we sent out on her,” Cam pointed out without much conviction. Baxter had owned a truck under the name Rhonda Klaussen, the alias she’d used for years. It was possible she’d kept another car under another name, stashed elsewhere. Nothing had ever shown up on the BOLO they’d put out on the truck. That could mean she had a place to hide it. But she could have just as easily left it unlocked in an inner Des Moines neighborhood where she could be certain it’d end up in a chop shop.
“I can check the interior surveillance feed from before the time we received the alert.” Reams spoke quickly, eager to make up for failing to scrupulously monitor the exterior security. “How far back you want me to go?”
“I’ve used those long term lots myself,” Sophie murmured. She aimed a slight smile in the other man’s direction. “You must have some system in place that checks the cards in and out, so you can tell how much to charge a person for parking. Maybe even with license numbers as identifiers.”
Cam’s mouth quirked. He’d said it before; Sophie would make a helluva cop. She’d protested that assertion once, claiming she was a coward at heart. He knew for a fact that was bull. It had required fortitude and brains to outsmart Mason Vance, and she’d done exactly that. The woman had more guts beneath that polished exterior than she gave herself credit for.
“Exactly. The lots are inventoried by license plates along with arrival dates and times.” Reams looked from one of them to the other. “I can call ABM for the information if you want.”
His chair scraped as Cam rose from it. “I’ll have a look myself.” He took the report from the officer’s desktop and allowed Sophie to precede him to the door.
“You sure?” Reams called after them. “Neither lot is shaded at all. It’s going to be hotter than hell out there.”
* * * *
Three of them, counting the parking cashier on duty were a tight squeeze in the parking booth. A square box fan hung on the wall and lackadaisically stirred the hot air inside. The attendant, a college-age girl with a fondness for facial piercings, was obediently writing down the license numbers of all cars that had entered the lot two days ago. Cam was taking a picture of the numbers his cell and sending the attachments to Brody Robbins, the newbie DCI agent on the task force. It would be Robbins’ job to run them through the Department of Motor Vehicles for owner names.
“Do you have a record of vehicles parked here on the day in question that may have already left the lot?”
“Sure, but there won’t be many,” the attendant said in response to Sophie’s question without lifting her gaze from her task. “I mean, the reason they call this long term parking is that it’s…y’know…long term. Most people just here for a day or two would pay the fee to be closer to the airport.”
“We’ll still want to check,” Cam affirmed, finishing his task. Sweat trickled down his neck beneath the collared shirt and suit coat. He cast a look at the fan desultorily pushing the air around. “Fan doesn’t provide much help in this heat.”
“Air conditioning is broke,” the girl said disgustedly, shoving a limp strand of hair away from her face. “I turned it on more because of the stench than anything else. Smells like something crawled into the weeds around here and died. It was bad yesterday but it’s way worse today.”
Cam stilled. “Did you notify anyone?”
The girl shrugged a meaty shoulder. “Lots of drivers mentioned it to me, like I wouldn’t have noticed it myself. We get skunks around here sometimes. Maybe it’s that.”
His cell rang. “You got a hit on this plate.” Robbins reeled off the number. “2012 Chevy Malibu. Green. Registered in the name of Kent and Heidi Flaugher. Stolen out of a Walgreens parking lot three days ago. Mrs. Flaugher said she just ran in for a moment, left the car running to keep it cool. It was gone when she came out of the store.”
“Thanks.” Cam disconnected and returned the phone to his pocket. Stabbing an index finger at the plate number on the list she’d prepared, he repeated the make and model for the attendant, following up with, “Where will I find that vehicle?”
The girl took her time turning to the monitor in front of her and punching the plate number in. “Lot two, southeast corner. Careful, though. That’s the area the skunk smell is coming from.”
He waited for Sophie to join him in the vehicle before he nosed it down the row of cars in the direction the girl had indicated. Parking behind the Malibu, he threw open the door and got out, shedding his suit coat and leaving it on the seat.
“Dear lord.” With a grimace of distaste, Sophie dug in her purse for a Kleenex to press against her nose. “That’s no skunk.”
“Not even close.” A f
amiliar feeling of dread tightening his gut, Cam popped the trunk of his vehicle and dug around inside until he found a crowbar.
He crossed back to the Malibu. As telling as the smell of putrefaction was, the faint buzzing inside the trunk was even more so. “Maybe you should wait in the car.”