Desperate Girls

by Laura Griffin

  “So . . . you’re saying she wasn’t one of his victims? But police found her necklace at Corby’s house.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Brynn just stared at him. The implications of everything he was saying were making her queasy. She thought of Lindsey’s theory that the necklace could have been planted.

  Mark leaned forward on his elbows, watching her closely. “What if someone else killed Lauren Tull?”

  “What’s your scenario?” She tried to keep her voice even, but she was freaking out.

  “Okay, hypothetically, say she met up with someone or had someone over, and he drugged her drink. The amount of Rohypnol in her system was pretty low. So imagine she comes to during the rape and begins to struggle and make noise. Then her attacker grabs a pillow and puts it over her face, ends up smothering her. When he realizes she’s dead, he panics.”

  “And then what?” Brynn asked. “Poses her like the other victims, with the knife wounds and everything?”

  “The term we use is ‘staged,’ ” he said. “ ‘Posed’ is when the killer arranges the victim’s body in a certain way to send a particular message. ‘Staged’ is when he tries to manipulate the scene to mislead police. That could be what happened here. He could have been staging the crime to look like the recent murders that had been in the news.”

  “But what about the necklace? You’re saying the killer took her necklace and somehow got it into Corby’s house?”

  “Or someone else did.”

  His words hung in the air. Someone, meaning someone on the investigation. As a defense attorney, Brynn had plenty of reasons to be cynical about law enforcement, but what Mark was suggesting stretched the limits, even for her.

  “It was a high-profile case,” Mark said. “I’ve seen it happen. The public is scared. The police are under intense pressure. Maybe someone pockets some evidence as backup to make sure that when they finally find the guy, he gets put away. And if it did happen—or something close to it did—that feeds into James Corby’s story that he was set up by police.”

  “You’re defending him?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You think he’s justified in his revenge quest?”

  Mark shook his head. “I’m not saying that. The prosecution put up convincing evidence that he killed three women. But as for the fourth, he might indeed be falsely accused. And the ‘trophy’ he supposedly took from her—the gold necklace—that was the key piece of evidence that sent him away for life, and there’s a possibility it could have been planted. I’m telling you, that’s the source of his rage now.”

  “You know, you’re not the first person to come up with this,” Brynn said. “Have you talked to Detective Leary?”

  Mark’s brow furrowed. “No. Why?”

  “She came to me yesterday morning with suspicions that the necklace might have been planted.”

  Mark looked surprised. “Then you’re right, I should talk to her.”

  “You should share this information with the FBI, too. Aren’t they spearheading the investigation while the marshals are leading the manhunt?”

  He nodded. “I spoke to agents on the task force this morning.”

  “Great. But I have to ask why we’re so focused on this now. Even if you’re right with this theory, James Corby still raped and murdered three women, then killed a prison guard, a cop, and a judge. Our first priority should be to find him, not retry his case.”

  “This is important now because it goes to motive,” Mark said. “What is his endgame here? The man escaped from prison, so logically, we might expect him to try to get away, maybe slip into Mexico. But we have to look at who we’re dealing with. I told you yesterday, Corby perceives himself to be smarter than everyone else. His conviction and incarceration—they’re a source of humiliation to him. The investigators and the prosecutors outsmarted him. They beat him, but maybe it was a rigged game. And they can’t be allowed to get away with that.”

  “This is still only a theory,” Brynn pointed out. “You need more evidence before you can prove it.”

  “You’re right,” Liam said. “But we need to consider it, because it could be dictating his actions.”

  Mark opened another manila folder. “What’s in here on Corby’s childhood is pretty limited. But based on the psych eval, it’s clear he grew up without a father and had a domineering mother who abused him, both physically and emotionally. The system failed to intervene and stop the abuse. Corby feels he’s been wronged his whole life, and his incarceration is just one more unfair punishment. Now it’s his turn. Killing a cop with his own gun, cutting out the tongue of the lawyer he believes lied in court to put him away, stabbing a prosecutor in the back—it’s all symbolic. And it tells us something crucial.”

  Brynn waited. She tried to keep her expression blank. But her chest felt tight, and her skin was breaking out in a cold sweat. She glanced at Erik, who was still watching her closely.

  “In James Corby’s mind, he’s justified,” Mark said. “He believes the system is rigged against him, and he may be right. He wants revenge, and accomplishing that goal may be more important to him than whether he lives or dies.”

  “That’s why we’re focused on this now,” Liam said. “A guy like that? He’s a formidable threat, because his mission is more important to him than his survival.”

  “He wants payback,” Mark said. “And he wants it to hurt.”

  As they left Liam’s compound, Brynn didn’t say a word.

  Erik had volunteered to take her back in the Tahoe, and Jeremy would return later that afternoon in Trent’s truck.

  “You okay?” Erik asked from behind the wheel.

  “No.”

  Brynn glanced in the side mirror, where she saw yet another vehicle was following them, this one containing the two new agents Liam had staffed for the job.

  I need my best people on this, he’d told Brynn at the end of the meeting. Jeremy, Erik, Keith. I’m also adding three additional agents, including myself.

  Brynn was still absorbing it all. They were at nine agents, even more than Liam had recommended in the beginning.

  Of course, much had changed since then. Mick McGowan was dead. Ross was seriously injured. And Corby had proven his talent for evading the police.

  Brynn had been wrong about everything.

  She turned to look out the window, feeling frustrated, scared, and confused—three of her least favorite emotions.

  “Since we’re in the area,” she said, “you mind if we swing by my house? It’s only fifteen minutes away, and I need to pick up some files.”

  “No problem.”

  Erik made a phone call relaying their plan to the other agents and rattling off Brynn’s address—which, of course, he knew. He knew everything, and she knew precious little about him.

  That was going to change.

  They took the highway headed south, and Brynn watched in the side mirror as the black Suburban followed.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  She glanced at Erik. With his mirrored sunglasses, she couldn’t read his expression. But the concern in his voice tugged at her.

  “I’m just . . . thrown by this whole thing.”

  “Mark’s theory?”

  “All of it. If he’s right, then Lauren Tull’s killer is still out there raping women. And he’s crossed the line to murder at least once.” She shook her head. Who was to say he wouldn’t do it again?

  “What do you make of his theory?” Erik asked.

  She appreciated that he called it a theory instead of treating it as fact.

  “I don’t know if I buy it,” she said. “I mean, Mick McGowan had a hand in everything—the evidence collection, the interviews, the back-and-forth with the victims’ families. The man had a stellar reputation. I can’t believe he would plant evidence.”

  “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe one of his detectives did.”

  “Or maybe it didn’t happen.” She looked at him. “Yes, smothering is different from strang
ling. But it’s not like Corby’s a preprogrammed machine. He’s a human being, subject to impulses. Who knows what he might do in the heat of an attack? Or he could have been experimenting with different MOs, refining his craft.”

  “Craft?”

  “I’ve read interviews, and that’s how some of them think of it. Serial predators. They talk like it’s a profession.”

  The queasy feeling was back in her stomach. She glanced at Erik beside her.

  He was in bodyguard mode again. No acknowledgment of the fact that they’d spent the night tangled up naked together. She looked at his hand on the wheel and felt a pang of yearning.

  Brynn turned away, annoyed by her reaction. It wasn’t like her to pine after a man.

  To distract herself, she checked her phone. Ross’s sister had left a message during the meeting, and her voice sounded tired but hopeful.

  “Ross is awake,” Brynn told Erik as she listened to the message. “Marshals just interviewed him, and then he took a round of meds. He might be up for visitors in the morning. I need to go see him.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “Thanks.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way to Pine Rock. As they passed the familiar streets and neared her house, Brynn’s anxiety started to lift.

  They turned into her neighborhood. The 1940s tract houses had been built well before Pine Rock was a suburb of Houston, back when it was its own separate town, with an economy based on logging and oil. As the sprawling city came closer, more people moved in, and many of the little houses on Brynn’s block were being torn down and replaced by hulking new construction. Brynn understood the appeal, but she had other ideas.

  They reached a white clapboard house with black shutters. It was dwarfed by the two-story monstrosity going up beside it. Erik pulled into the driveway, followed by the black Suburban with black-tinted windows. The vehicle looked like it belonged in a presidential motorcade.

  “Not exactly a low profile,” Brynn observed as they climbed out.

  “Not supposed to be,” Erik said.

  She crossed the lawn and led him up the steps to her front door, which was flanked by clay pots of shriveled petunias. Brynn unlocked the door and pushed it open, sweeping aside a week’s worth of mail that had been dropped through the mail slot onto her refurbished wood floor. Erik followed her inside, peeling off his sunglasses. The other agents seemed content to wait in their SUV.

  The house was warm and still, and the smell of sawdust lingered from her most recent project. Brynn scooped up the pile of mail and dumped it on the side table.

  “I usually get a neighbor girl to come by when I’m traveling,” she said. “But I didn’t want a child or anyone else here in case someone came looking for me.”

  “Good call.”

  She passed through her living room, comforted by the sight of her beautiful suede sectional piled with plush accent pillows. Her favorite chenille throw was draped over the back, and Brynn ran her fingertips over the cool softness on her way into the kitchen.

  “I’ll just be a minute here,” she said over her shoulder. “I need to do a few things and pick up some case files.”

  “Take your time.”

  She got a pitcher from under the sink and filled it with water. She glanced at Erik. He was in her dining room now, surrounded by ladders and drop cloths, surveying the freshly primed walls.

  “It’s a work in progress,” she told him. “I’m going room to room.”

  “You’re doing it yourself?”

  “Yeah. In my copious free time.”

  He stepped over to the built-in corner shelf that she’d sanded but not painted. Once upon a time, it had probably been used to display someone’s wedding china. Brynn planned to use it for books.

  “How long you been in here?” Erik looked at her.

  “Two years.” Which made it pretty embarrassing that she’d only managed to finish the living room and the master suite. The kitchen had hardly been touched. It was mint-green tile and linoleum flooring. Brynn didn’t mind the green, but the tile was chipped, and the grout was discolored, and she hadn’t decided whether to pull it out or restore it.

  Erik walked through the kitchen to her back door. He flipped the bolt and stepped onto the screened-in porch. Brynn had a wicker sofa out there where she liked to sip coffee or wine and do legal work.

  She scooted past him and watered a fern in the corner. He was standing at the screen, scanning her backyard, looking for God knew what.

  She wondered what he thought of her place. It wasn’t nearly finished, but could he see her vision for it?

  Brynn had grown up in a series of one-bedroom apartments, where she shared a room with Liz while their mom unfolded the sofa bed every night. After that, it was dorm rooms and shared apartments as she worked her way through law school. Brynn considered this her first real home. She’d earned the money for it. And when she pulled into the driveway each night, she felt a wave of pride, along with an underlying panic that was hard to describe. Sometimes she felt completely at home here. Other times she felt like someone from the mortgage company was going to show up and tell her there had been a mistake, and they were taking her loan away. She’d had dreams where it happened, and she found herself in a courtroom, arguing not to be evicted from her house.

  She returned to the kitchen. Erik followed and rebolted the back door.

  “It’s nice,” he said.

  She shrugged. “If you don’t mind paint cans.”

  “It’s a three-two?”

  “It was,” she said. “Now it’s a two-two. I had the master remodeled before I moved in.”

  “Mind if I . . . ?” He nodded toward the hallway.

  “Go ahead.”

  He walked down the hall to her bedroom, her most personal space. And she discovered she didn’t mind at all.

  She watered the plants in front, then left the pitcher in the sink and went into the spare bedroom, which she used as an office. In the closet, she crouched beside a row of file boxes and removed the lid of the middle one. She found the brown accordion file she’d been looking for. It contained handwritten notes from Corby’s trial. The official documents were still at the DA’s office. But her case notes and doodlings and half-finished thoughts—she’d kept those at home.

  Brynn grabbed the file and went into the master suite, which was her pride and joy. The big windows let in plenty of natural light, and she’d gone with muted colors that would relax her when she was home. In the center of the room was a king-size bed covered with a cloudlike duvet and satin pillows. Stepping into the bathroom, Brynn cast a longing look at her Jacuzzi tub, where she liked to soak in an ocean of bubbles after a long day. The spacious bathroom was decadent, and the Realtor had warned her that giving up a bedroom for it would hurt her resale value one day. But Brynn didn’t care. This was her place, and she wanted it exactly her way.

  She went into her walk-in closet and grabbed a tote bag. She threw in an extra pair of running shorts, then opened her lingerie drawer and selected a few pretty items—just in case.

  She found Erik standing beside the shower in her unrenovated guest bathroom. He was fiddling with the window latch.

  “Your lock’s rusted out,” he told her.

  “I’ll add it to my list.”

  “It’s a security issue. Don’t put it off.”

  He slipped past her and headed into the living room, where her other windows got the same inspection. Seeing him move around her home put a little tingle in her stomach, even though he was clearly here in bodyguard mode.

  Brynn opened the fridge and was happy to see a six-pack of waters—enough for her and Erik and the agents waiting in the driveway. She grabbed the drinks, checked the back door, and returned to the living room, where Erik was standing over her pile of mail.

  “Brynn.”

  His voice was sharp. She walked over to see what had his attention. He’d gone through the stack and found a slip of paper amid the bills and junk mail
. No envelope, no postmark, just a note in blocky handwriting: I’M WATCHING YOU.

  She clutched her hand to her throat. “He was here.”

  Erik let himself into Brynn’s apartment and found Skyler at the bar on her computer. Keith was in the living room on the phone, and he gave Erik a nod.

  “Hey,” Skyler said. “How’d things go at the courthouse?”

  “We’re all set up. They adjusted the cameras so they’ve got some angles on the street now.” He glanced down the hallway, then back at Skyler. She wore jeans and a black Wolfe Sec shirt. Her clothes looked fresh, but her eyes were tired and bloodshot. Since Ross’s attack, she’d been demoted to tech duty, but she was keeping a stiff upper lip about it and had thrown herself into the task of improving their surveillance capabilities.

  “Anything going on here?” Erik asked.

  “She swam laps upstairs, then took a shower.”

  He heard Brynn’s voice in the bedroom.

  “Who’s she talking to?” he asked.

  “Reggie.”

  “In her bedroom?”

  “On the phone.”

  Erik stepped past her and opened the refrigerator. He surveyed the contents, wishing he could grab a Coke for a jolt of caffeine. But he’d already blown his toughest rule, so the least he could do was stick to the easy ones. He grabbed a water, and when he turned around, Skyler was watching him with a concerned look.

  “What?”

  She cast a glance at Keith and lowered her voice. “Are you keeping your eye on the ball, Erik?”

  “Yes. Why?” He swigged his drink.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. How’d it go at the hospital? How’s Ross?”

  “Good,” she said, not sounding convinced. “At least, that’s what the doctors say. Personally, I think he looks terrible.” She shook her head.

  Erik didn’t bother trying to persuade her this wasn’t her fault. She wouldn’t believe him, just as he wouldn’t believe her if anything happened to Brynn.

  “You’re here until midnight?” Skyler asked.

  “Yeah. Brynn said she had some trial work to do and wanted to order dinner.”

  “Oh, yeah? You better talk to her about that, because I think she’s getting ready to go out.”