by Lisa Regan
“Peyton,” the girl mumbled.
“Peyton, you did a great job in there.”
The girl looked forlornly at the sunroof. The water was nearly to the top. “My mom?” she said.
Claire’s smile turned to a grimace. She shook her head and squeezed Peyton to her. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
She looked at the other two girls, both with thick brown hair in braids, curly tendrils surrounding their faces. Twins. They clung to each other. The one who had been unconscious in the vehicle had a large gash on her leg. Claire looked beyond them to the shore and almost wept with relief. Several people had made their way to the bank from the bridges. Two men were swimming out toward them and another was on the bank, pulling his shoes off.
She looked down at Peyton. “Let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Stryker brought up the PowerPoint presentation he’d prepared for the Soccer Mom Strangler briefing. Near the door, Captain Boggs flicked the lights off. In the back, several people moved to lower the miniblinds, plunging the room into semidarkness. Stryker moved his fingers across the tablet before him and brought the first slide up on the white screen.
A blonde woman in her midthirties beamed at them. Two young boys clung to each of her legs. Her hands rested on their backs. They stood in front of a mustard-yellow single-level ranch home. The woman was large breasted and curvy.
“This is Hope Strauss,” Stryker said. “Age thirty-six, mother of two young boys, ages four and six. She lived in the Pocket area. She was our first victim. Her murder took place in April. She had taken her children to Parkway Oaks Park for a playdate with a friend. She left her phone in her minivan, so she left her children in her friend’s care and went back to her minivan to get it. She did not return. After about a half hour—the other mother is not sure how long it was, since she was playing with the kids—this same friend finds Hope Strauss dead in her minivan.”
Stryker swiped his tablet and, this time, Hope Strauss appeared in death, partially clothed and lying across the first rear seat of her minivan. Her shorts and underwear had been torn from her body, her tank top and bra had been pushed up over her breasts. The killer had left her upper body partially propped against the far smoke-glassed window. One of her arms was flung over her head, the hand twisted in the seat belt. One of her legs lay straight, the other bent at the knee, her foot flat on the floor. Her eyes were fixed, staring glassily at the ceiling. There were deep-purple bruises around her throat and angry red bite marks on her breasts.
The silence in the room grew heavier with each close-up that Stryker swiped across the screen. “Hope Strauss was sexually assaulted. There was evidence of one type of semen in her vagina. Tears and abrasions consistent with rape. She was manually strangled, and, as you can see, the perpetrator bit her three times on the breasts. There were hundreds of different prints in the minivan. Most could be accounted for by working our way through her family and friends. There are two fingerprints that we cannot match to anyone in her life, but we can’t say for certain that they belong to the perpetrator. We ran them through AFIS and got nothing.”
He swiped the tablet again and another woman appeared on the screen. Her hair was longer and more sandy brown than Hope Strauss’s blonde locks. This woman smiled from the driver’s seat of a vehicle, giving a thumbs-up to the camera. “Sofia Hapi,” said Stryker. “Mother of a fourteen-year-old girl and a seven-year-old boy. Resided in Midtown, which is where she was killed. Almost the same story. Ms. Hapi was at her son’s soccer practice, which was in September, before the season started. She smoked, so she snuck off to her vehicle for a cigarette and did not return.”
The death photos were nearly identical to those of Hope Strauss except for the interior of her vehicle, which was beige instead of gray. Stryker swiped through her death photos a little more quickly. “She too was raped, strangled, and bitten on the breasts. No prints this time, looks like he hastily wiped the vehicle down—everything was smeared. The same with Faith Stine.”
He swiped to another photo of a smiling, curvy blonde woman. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail as she stood beside a young boy outside of the Sacramento Zoo.
“Faith Stine, victim three, was the mother of a five-year-old boy. Lived in North Natomas. Same MO. The perpetrator attacked her while she was alone at her minivan during her son’s soccer game. The game was in North Natomas. This happened two weeks ago. Stine was raped, strangled, and bitten on the breasts. We’ve got bite impressions, DNA, but no prints.”
Another round of graphic crime scene photos—these so similar to the first two sets that they were almost interchangeable. Then Stryker pulled up the photo of the last victim, introducing them to Ellen Fair, who had also been at her daughter’s soccer game, this time in Pocket, when she was murdered in her SUV after having returned to it alone for some minor item. Fair had had brown hair, but she had the same figure as the other women, and she had been raped and murdered in exactly the same way as the women before her. Again, the perpetrator had made a halfhearted effort to wipe prints away, even though he had left his DNA all over the crime scene. For their purpose, it really didn’t matter that he had wiped his prints away, because they’d be able to match him via DNA and dental impressions—it would just take longer. As Stryker went over the details of Ellen Fair’s murder, Connor swallowed, his throat dry.
Stryker lingered on an up-close photo of Fair’s breasts where the perpetrator had bitten her hard enough to break the skin. “The coroner has concluded that the bite marks on each victim came from the same perpetrator, so we’re looking for one guy. We had been keeping the biting from the press. Unfortunately, the press caught wind of it this past week, which means we have a leak. Not sure if it’s here or somewhere else, but if I find out someone in this room is leaking sensitive information to the press, I’m going to have your ass. We need to catch this guy. Yesterday. And we need all the help we can get, so I expect everyone to keep their fucking mouths shut about this case. No one but me talks to the press from here on out.
“I want four teams,” Stryker continued as he swiped to the last slide in his presentation, photos of all four victims side by side, as they were in life. Smiling, happy, hopeful. Connor’s stomach burned.
“Each team will be assigned to a victim,” Stryker went on. “You’ll run down the leads. Talk to every person who was on the scene the day of the murders. Talk to every person who lives in that area. Every person. Even kids if their parents will consent. Reinterview everyone who’s already been talked to. No stone unturned. We’re putting cameras and undercovers on every soccer match in the city until further notice. I’ve got someone compiling a list of every youth soccer player in this city and cross-referencing to see if any families were at all three games, in case this is a relative or friend of one of these kids. The press has a tip-line number they’ll be running on every newscast for the foreseeable future. Someone will be manning that number 24-7 until we catch this guy. We’ve got to shake down every registered sex offender within five miles of each crime scene. Tomorrow we’ll have an FBI profiler here to review our evidence and give us an idea of who we’re looking for. As soon as he is ready to present his profile, we’ll all be back here to get briefed on that. Team leaders—you know who you are—you will check in with me every hour from six a.m. until eleven p.m.”
A collective grumble went up across the room. Stryker extended a finger, pointing toward the mass of bodies in the center of the room. “Yes. Every hour, every day. Those are everyone’s absolute minimum hours, every day, until this piece of shit is found. Now, on the conference room table to your left, you will find boxes of files on each victim. Everything you need to know will be in there. Teams, get your boxes and get to work. Thank you.”
Connor saw Captain Boggs nod with satisfaction in the doorway as he watched Stryker conclude the meeting. Boggs suppressed a grin—there wasn’t much that satisfied him. Just as he was about to turn to hunt up Stryker, one of the Office o
f Investigations’ younger detectives, Matt O’Handley, stepped past Boggs and poked his head in. He panned the room until he found Connor.
“Parks,” he called.
Everyone else had moved toward the file boxes, but Connor headed toward the door where Stryker and Boggs now stood. “What’s up?” Connor asked O’Handley.
“It’s about Claire.”
CHAPTER SIX
By the time they got all the children to shore and in the capable hands of paramedics, the riverbank was teeming with police officers, emergency responders, bystanders who had stopped to help, and even a few members of the press. What had been an oasis of peace only an hour ago was now complete chaos.
Claire left Brianna talking to a uniformed police officer while she slogged her way back to the Jeep with Wilson. She was soaking wet, her boots still three times as heavy as they’d been before she had gone into the water. She knew she had a blanket in her own vehicle. It was the one she put over her back seat so Wilson didn’t shed all over the place. She would smell like wet dog but she didn’t care. She was shivering, even though the sun was now high in the sky and the temperature had increased.
Wilson followed close beside her, not stopping to explore the myriad smells she knew were tempting him. She had her head down, concentrating hard on each step so that she wouldn’t think about all the memories being in that river had brought back. She wanted to get in her Jeep and drive home, retreat to the quiet of her house. It was tempting, but she knew that like Brianna, she would have to speak to the police. She would have to tell someone about the driver.
Claire was so focused on her boots that she collided with a wall of a man, bouncing back away from him and nearly falling flat on her behind. Firm hands gripped her shoulders. She looked up, an apology on her tongue.
It was Connor.
“Claire,” he said. “You’re okay.”
She stared up into his blue eyes. She knew the look—knew all of his looks. He was relieved to see her upright and unharmed. He looked her over as Wilson tried unsuccessfully to get his attention. He had grown a beard since she’d last seen him. It suited him.
The swell of emotion that she’d been pushing back since she saw the children in the car hit her hard and fast, propelling her into his arms like she was some kind of jumping spider.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed, but caught her and folded her into his arms, his touch, as always, firm but gentle. He held her close, and she pressed the length of her wet body against his, reveling in the feeling of calm that flooded through her. She had forgotten about this. How he could make her feel safe, how his embrace could keep the memories at bay.
His chin nuzzled her scalp, his facial hair catching on her unruly curls. She inhaled deeply, smelling him instead of the river, instead of fear and panic and death. She could tell by the smell of coffee, pastries, and the hint of stale sweat covered by copious amounts of deodorant that he had likely been working for a few days straight with little or no sleep.
“You okay?” he murmured into her ear.
She shook her head but said “Yes” anyway.
Why shouldn’t she be okay? She’d just saved a bunch of kids from drowning. But the image of the suicidal driver’s face and her silent refusal to spare her own children wouldn’t leave Claire.
She kept picturing the woman’s mouth forming the word no.
Claire knew she should end the embrace with Connor. She had sent him away from her. She told herself to let go, to back away, but she couldn’t.
Lucky for her, Wilson could no longer be ignored. He jumped up, pawing at Connor’s arms, emitting a needy whine that matched Claire’s internal cries. Connor let go of her and bent to pet Wilson, working over the dog’s back and sides until Wilson settled, swooning, against his legs. Connor stood and looked at her again, a half smile on his face. Claire motioned to his suit, which bore an imprint of her. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Your suit …”
Connor looked down at the wet spots and laughed. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’ll dry.”
Claire was vaguely aware of someone approaching them from behind Connor, although she kept her eyes on him. Then she heard Stryker’s voice. “You found her?”’
Stryker, who had been trotting, pulled up short beside the two of them. He gave Claire a once-over, his usual hard features softening into a smile when he realized she was all right. “You’re okay,” he said. He touched her arm and leaned in to kiss her cheek.
Claire smiled at him. She had always adored Bobby Stryker. He looked and acted the part of pit bull, but beneath all that was a whole lot of soft and fuzzy. “Hi, Stryke,” she said.
“I saw your sister,” Stryker said. “She’s still talking to the uniforms. We heard over the scanner that there was an accident. Someone said you two were here, so we came to—”
A female voice interrupted him. “Bobby Stryker, don’t you have a serial killer task force to run?”
The woman came from behind Claire. Given the notebook in her hand, the gun at her waist, and her Spartan clothes—black slacks and a white polo shirt—Claire pegged her as a detective. She looked to be in her midthirties: thin but ample chested, tall for a woman, her brown hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. She smiled sunnily, her face lighting up even more when she noticed Connor. “Hey, Parks,” she said.
Connor nodded in her direction.
“Stand down, Webb,” Stryker said. “It so happens I’m in command of the task force as we speak.” He held up his cell phone. “This is my command center right here.”
The woman chuckled. EMTs wheeling an empty gurney back to their ambulance passed by them, and the woman moved out of their way, shifting so she was next to Connor. She raised a brow at Stryker. “Mobile command, huh?”
Stryker nodded and used his phone to motion toward Claire. “Miss Fletcher here is an old friend. I came to make sure she was okay. Claire, this is Detective Jade Webb.”
The detective stuck her hand out and Claire shook it numbly. “Miss Fletcher—just who I’m looking for!”
Before Detective Webb could say more, Stryker cut in. “What’ve you got on this?”
Webb flipped a page in her notebook. “We received a few calls about a woman in an SUV on the I-5 driving erratically and way too fast. The SUV collided with two vehicles up top.” Webb pointed toward the overpass. “Four fatalities. The SUV crashed through the guide rail and into the river. We know there was an adult female driving with five children in the vehicle. According to witnesses, Miss Fletcher here went into the river and pulled the children out of the vehicle with some people who had been driving by and stopped to help. All the kids were pulled out of the river alive and taken to Mercy General for evaluation.
“The vehicle is registered to Leah Holloway, a thirty-seven-year-old woman who lives in Pocket. I’ve already sent uniforms to her home.”
“Jesus,” Stryker said. “Four fatalities.”
“It could have been so much worse,” Brianna said, joining the circle. She quickly hugged Connor and introduced herself to Detective Webb. “If Claire hadn’t acted so quickly, those kids would be dead. She had to break the glass in the sunroof.” Brianna nudged Claire with her elbow. “What did you use, by the way?”
Claire met Connor’s eyes. “The Leatherman.”
“No shit,” Brianna said.
“She wouldn’t unlock the doors or windows,” Claire went on stiffly.
Detective Webb’s brown eyes zeroed in on Claire like a hawk on a small rodent. “She was alive when you got to the car?”
Claire licked her dry lips. She could feel all their eyes on her. She looked down at her boots, then back up into Connor’s eyes again. “She was unconscious when I got to the vehicle. I tried the passenger’s side first. By the time I got to her window, she had come to. The child safety lock was on. I yelled at her to unlock the vehicle, and she wouldn’t do it.”
Webb’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean she wouldn’t? She refused?”
Claire looked at t
he woman. Webb had put a hand on Connor’s arm, balancing as she lifted one of her feet and swiped a large insect from her pant leg. The intimacy of the gesture caught Claire off guard. Connor didn’t seem to notice. He kept looking at Claire expectantly.
“Claire?” Brianna prompted.
Claire shook her head briefly, bringing her focus back to Webb’s question. “I told her to unlock the car so I could get them all out, and she said no. Then she—she drowned herself. She opened her mouth and purposefully took in the water.”
Claire realized she was hugging herself. Brianna wrapped an arm around Claire’s shoulders. The three detectives looked momentarily stunned.
“Well,” Webb said, flipping pages in her notebook. “That changes things, doesn’t it?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“You’ve got a mass murderer on your hands,” Stryker said to Webb.
Her easy smile had been replaced with hard lines, pursed lips, and a set jaw.
“She was going to kill her own kids?” Brianna said incredulously.
“We’re looking at homicide,” Webb agreed.
Connor swiped a hand through his hair. His gaze hadn’t left Claire.
“What kind of woman tries to kill her own children?” Brianna asked.
A desperate one, Claire thought.
Only Claire had seen Leah Holloway’s face, looked into her terror-stricken eyes, and recognized what was there. Claire didn’t have children. She had no frame of reference for what it meant to be a mother, let alone what it would take to drive a mother to do what Holloway had that day, but whatever it was—it was bad. Very, very bad.
“Maybe she was mentally unstable,” Connor offered.
“Seems a fair bet,” Webb said drily.
“More likely drunk,” Brianna said.
Stryker shrugged. “Or both.”
Webb shook her head as she pulled her cell phone from her pants pocket and punched in a number. “Excuse me,” she muttered as she stalked off, phone pressed to her ear.