Once Craved (a Riley Paige Mystery--Book #3)

by Blake Pierce

  “An abduction,” he said. “Interesting. Hardly his MO. Was the girl a teenage hooker?”

  “We don’t know. We haven’t identified her. She seems to have been a runaway. The woman who saw her said she had a backpack.”

  Hatcher stroked his chin as if deep in thought.

  “The whole prostitution thing—an ugly world, isn’t it? Now, I’m all for men and women doing whatever they want. But it’s all about choice. I’ve made my own choices and I’ll live with them. Everybody should have that opportunity. But a kid on the streets, well …”

  He paused for a moment, then said, “There are shelters for kids like that. There are groups that help get them out of the trade. You need to check them out.”

  “We’ll do that,” Riley said.

  Another silence fell. Riley felt distinctly uneasy. Had she made this trip for nothing?

  “I don’t have time to play games today,” she said. “A girl’s life might be hanging in the balance. Tell me what you know.”

  Again came that grim chuckle.

  “No,” Hatcher said. “Tell me what you know.”

  *

  The man who called himself T.R. sat in a chair in his basement, facing the girl who was bound to another chair by duct tape. Her mouth wasn’t gagged at the moment. She was too sedated to scream. She kept rolling her head and moaning.

  “You shouldn’t have run away from home,” he said.

  She tried to focus her eyes on him. He wasn’t sure whether she could understand what he was saying.

  “Your mother must be worried,” he said. “Didn’t you ever think about how worried she’d be?”

  Again, she didn’t reply.

  He didn’t like this at all. When he’d picked her up yesterday morning, he’d thought she was just another whore. It was a stupid mistake. He’d been tired, scared, and unobservant. Besides, she’d said she knew Socorro. He remembered her exact words …

  “We go way back, Socorro and me.”

  It had only taken a few minutes for him to realize that she was lying. She was just a runaway teenager who’d say anything for a ride. But by then it was too late. The whore back on Conover Avenue had recognized him, and now the girl could identify him.

  Fortunately, he’d been able to sedate her right there in the car. And now he had no choice but to kill her. He wasn’t used to killing out of necessity. There was going to be nothing epicurean about this murder. It was a nasty thought, having to kill with no enjoyment.

  But it couldn’t be helped, and he didn’t feel guilty. This was all the girl’s fault, after all, for running away. And her mother’s too. The girl had been calling for her mom off and on ever since he’d taken her.

  “Your mother should have taken better care of you,” he said. “You shouldn’t have run away.”

  She moaned softly. She still didn’t seem to understand.

  He wasn’t sure just why he hadn’t killed her already. Keeping her alive was rather a lot of trouble. Every so often he’d coax her out of her stupor for a little food and water. A couple of times he’d even unbound her so she could use the basement bathroom. She was far too drugged to be anything but docile.

  Still, killing her was inevitable, and he knew it. He seemed to be waiting for just the right moment, and that moment had not yet come. He was, after all, a civilized man who liked to do things in a civilized way.

  But holding her captive was risky. He’d already had one brush with danger. Another might be his undoing. He didn’t like risks. He didn’t like danger.

  She was moaning a bit more loudly now. She was able to focus her eyes on him. He saw fear rising in her eyes. He reached for a hypodermic needle and stabbed her arm with it. She was instantly quiet again.

  *

  “You’re getting warm,” Hatcher said with a dark smile.

  Riley had no idea what he meant. What did he think this was, a childhood game of hide and seek?

  A full two hours had passed without either of them moving from their chairs. They had talked incessantly. So far, Riley hadn’t found the interview to be informative, but it was far from dull.

  Hatcher had grilled her for specifics that even Morley or Brent Meredith wouldn’t have demanded. He seemed especially intrigued by the enigmatic Garrett Holbrook, the brother of victim Nancy Holbrook. Hatcher found it odd that Holbrook had insisted that Nancy’s murder become an FBI investigation, only to stay on the periphery ever since. That had struck Riley as odd too.

  “What do you make of him?” he’d kept asking Riley.

  Riley wished she knew. She still didn’t know.

  But Hatcher seemed less interested in what she’d observed or learned than in her actions and reactions—what she’d actually been doing and how it had felt, down to the last sensory detail. He demanded to know everything she had experienced since she and Bill had boarded the FBI jet bound for Phoenix last Saturday.

  What had it felt like to visit an actual brothel? How had she felt when she’d pretended to be a whore? When she’d rescued a runaway teenager? Or when the suspect slipped through her fingers at the truck stop?

  Then he returned to her posing as a prostitute.

  He said, “That I’d really like to see.”

  When she made no reply, he added, “You’re a good-looking woman. How are you and your partner getting along? How does he like it that there are other guys in your life?”

  She ignored those questions too. Finally, he nodded and moved to another topic.

  The questions had become disturbing. Hatcher’s interest in Riley’s inner life struck her as twisted, even voyeuristic. She felt more and more as if he were obsessed with her. Had she flown all the way out only to entertain his twisted curiosity?

  Eventually, the conversation had turned toward what Riley couldn’t help but regard as irrelevancies. He’d demanded to hear a full account of April’s breakdown, and how Riley had defied Morley to rush back and help her.

  And just now, he was grilling her about her visit to her father, of all things. He was insisting upon hearing every word of their ugly visit. To the best of her memory, she’d recited all of it.

  Why? Riley kept wondering.

  It was just about the last thing she wanted to talk about right now. She wanted to be through with her father once and for all. She hoped with all her heart that she’d never have to see him again.

  Hatcher seemed to be toying with her. She liked it less and less by the minute.

  Finally, he leaned back in his chair, his glasses resting low on the bridge of his nose.

  “You’re getting warm,” he said again.

  The words were infuriating.

  “What do you mean by that?” she said

  He sat there smiling in silence again.

  “I like that daddy of yours,” he finally said.

  Riley stifled the urge to say that she didn’t like him at all. She said nothing.

  “He and I have got a lot in common,” Hatcher said.

  Now Riley had to stop herself from saying she agreed with him. Hatcher and her father were both monsters in their way. They both had done more than their share of killing—her father in Vietnam, Hatcher in the streets of his youth. They were manipulators and users of other people. And neither one of them seemed truly capable of regret.

  “You don’t give your daddy enough respect,” Hatcher said.

  Riley’s anger was rising. She fought it down. He’d only enjoy it if she blew up at him.

  He leaned forward toward her, peering deep into her eyes, smiling grimly.

  “You’re getting warm,” he said. “You should listen to your daddy.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he turned around and called out, “Guard, I think we’re through here.”

  He got up from his chair as the guard opened the sliding barred door.

  “Is that all you’ve got say?” Riley asked.

  “Oh, I’ve said a lot, honey. I’ve said exactly what you needed to hear. One of these days you’ll tha
nk me. Believe me, you’ll thank me.”

  Hatcher followed the guard behind the open door. The guard slid the door shut again with a heavy iron bang.

  “And we’ll meet again,” he said through the bars. “Mark my words, we’ll meet again.”

  *

  A little while later, Riley was in the FBI jet watching the Catskill Mountains creep along below her. Had she learned anything from Hatcher? If so, she couldn’t put her finger on it. However, he’d been awfully emphatic about something …

  “You should listen to your daddy.”

  She’d told him every word her father had said to her during their visit. He’d picked up on something. Had her father tipped her off without either of them knowing it?

  Riley was tired and she closed her eyes. She slipped back into the nightmare of her captivity, the flame gleaming in the darkness. She wondered if maybe she should stay here, in this memory, in this private darkness. After all, the dark recesses of her mind had served her well in the past. She’d been able to enter into the minds of the cruelest of killers.

  But then with a chill, she remembered something her father had said …

  “You’re not dealing with a monster. Hell, you’re not even dealing with evil. You’re dealing with what folks call normal.”

  And she remembered how he’d described him …

  “The opposite of me—and the opposite of you.”

  Perhaps—just perhaps—her father had put his finger on the very problem. Was it possible that she was finally dealing with a killer whose heart wasn’t as cold and dark as her own?

  With her eyes still closed, she imagined herself rising out of that captive darkness, away from the flame, up into the sunlight.

  Yes, she felt closer to him now. She was on his trail. And she’d find him to be in the daylight of everyday life, in a world populated by people who weren’t monsters at all. Because he himself wasn’t a monster. Or at least didn’t see himself as a monster.

  Not like my father, she thought. And not like me.

  Her mind was in broad daylight now. She could feel herself seeing the day through his eyes, feel the sun on his skin, the embracing comfort of a respectable life.

  And yet she could also feel his apprehension and fear. Those emotions were alien to him. He didn’t know how to handle them. He was accustomed only to friendship, respect, self-confidence, and even a feeling of righteousness. Even now, he didn’t feel that he had done anything wrong. But he was out of his depth, and exhausted, and scared, and he’d never felt that way before.

  She smiled to herself. She remembered those words that Hatcher had kept repeating.

  “You’re getting warm.”

  It was true. She was getting warm. Now she needed to touch base with Bill. She called him on her cell phone.

  “Did you get any information?” Bill asked.

  Riley thought for a moment. “You should check shelters for runaway kids. Start with the shelter where Jilly is. Ask if maybe the girl might have been in a shelter somewhere in Phoenix. And check on Jilly for me.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Bill paused. He seemed to have something in mind.

  “Riley, I’ve got an idea,” he said.

  “What is it?” Riley asked.

  Another silence fell.

  “I’m still processing it,” he said. “I’ll tell you when you get back. Will you be back in Phoenix in time to meet me at headquarters at eight?”

  “Sure,” Riley said.

  “Then meet me there,” Bill said.

  They ended the call. Riley wondered what Bill had in mind. Well, she’d find out soon enough. And in her gut, she knew that something was about to break. Tonight, in fact. She was absolutely sure of it.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Bill felt vaguely sickened as he watched the girls at the shelter for teenagers. Brenda, the resident social worker, had led him to the rec room. The girls inside were talking, watching TV, playing games on cell phones, like any teenagers would. But these kids weren’t ordinary.

  This damned case, he thought.

  Over the years, he’d come to think that he was immune to horror. But this place disturbed him deeply. It was, after all, a halfway house for kids who’d escaped from hell—and might yet go back there someday soon.

  He looked at his watch. He still had plenty of time before Riley got back. He’d make the necessary arrangements for their meeting later. He hoped that his hunch was right. He wanted to close this case as quickly as possible.

  Meanwhile, there was a girl to save. A girl just like these. But for all Bill knew, she might be dead already.

  He could see that a few of the girls were visibly bruised. Most of them had a wary look that he recognized as a sign of emotional bruising. All of them had been brought here because they were novice prostitutes or had been trying to become prostitutes. They’d been found wandering at the edges of a lifestyle that he and Riley had seen too much of lately. The girls had already been victims of one kind or another.

  He remembered that Riley had asked him to check on one in particular.

  He asked Brenda, “Which one is Jilly?”

  The social worker pointed her out—a skinny, dark-skinned youngster sitting at a table with a group playing a card game. She clutched her own cards close to her chest.

  “Your partner seems attached to Jilly,” the social worker said.

  “She is,” Bill replied. Then he thought that a little explanation might be called for. “But Agent Paige has a teenager of her own who’s been through some difficulties recently.”

  The woman nodded in understanding. Bill thought about going over and introducing himself to Jilly as Riley’s partner. But he had no idea how she might react. How would she feel about being approached by a male FBI agent? It seemed best to keep his distance, at least for now. But he could report to Riley that Jilly seemed to be OK.

  Brenda said, “When you called you said you wanted us to check on another girl.”

  “You may have heard about a serial killer we’ve been tracking down,” Bill said.

  Brenda nodded. “The one who kills prostitutes.”

  “That’s right,” Bill said. “We’re afraid he’s picked up a runaway, a teenage girl.”

  Brenda gasped. “They’re so damn vulnerable. Who is the girl?”

  “That’s the problem. The FBI has mounted a search, but we don’t even have an ID on her. Just a vague description. It might help if we knew more about her. It would be great if we could find a picture.”

  Brenda thought for a moment.

  “Yesterday, you said? None of ours have gone missing in the past few days. But we get alerts from all the shelters. Let’s go check.”

  Brenda led Bill straight to her office. She sat down at her computer and started to search.

  “What do you know about her?” she asked Bill.

  Bill remembered some details. Jewel, the prostitute who had witnessed her abduction, had given them a description.

  “She’s probably about fourteen,” Bill said. “Five foot six, maybe a bit shorter. Blonde, blue eyes, pale skin, thin. She was wearing a backpack.”

  Brenda skimmed a list of names.

  “Here’s something from yesterday,” she said. “Her name is Sandra Wuttke—Sandy, they call her. She disappeared from a center on Windermere Avenue early yesterday morning. If she was in one of our shelters, this has got to be her.”

  Brenda clicked the name and brought up a photo on the screen. It was a thin, blonde girl with a defiant expression. Bill nodded. It certainly looked like the girl Jewel had described.

  Brenda dialed up the center and got the director on the line. She put the call on speaker.

  “Claudia, I’ve got an FBI agent here with me,” she said. “Agent Bill Jeffreys. He’s worried about a girl who fits Sandy Wuttke’s description. She might be in danger.”

  Claudia’s voice sounded worried.

  “What kind of danger?” she asked.

  “I’m sor
ry to say this,” Bill said. “But she may have been taken by the serial killer you may have read about lately.”

  “The man who’s killing prostitutes?” Claudia said, her voice trembling with alarm. “But that doesn’t make sense. Sandy’s not really a prostitute. She’s traded sex for rides or food a couple of times. Then someone steered her here. But she’s been restless. I wasn’t all that shocked when she took off.”

  Bill asked, “Was she wearing a backpack?”

  “She was, according to the girls who saw her leave. But I can’t believe she’s been taken by that killer. Maybe she just went home. We haven’t had time to check. We’re so understaffed. There are so many girls.”

  Bill sensed that the woman was trying not to believe the worst.

  “Could you get me information on her family?” he asked.

  Brenda seemed to looking into her own records.

  “There’s only her mother,” Claudia said. “Colleen Wuttke. She doesn’t have a phone. I could send somebody to her house to check.”

  “Thank you, but it’s better if I go,” Bill said. “Forward everything you’ve got about her to the local FBI. Brenda, jot down her address for me.”

  Bill thanked both women, and the call ended. Then, armed with the address for Sandra’s mother, he left the shelter.

  His feelings were mixed. He was grateful that workers like these were here to help Jilly and other youngsters.

  But why are there so many of these girls? he wondered. Why is it so easy for predators to find prey?

  *

  When Bill arrived at the address, he saw that it was a rundown apartment building. Kids were playing on the sidewalk, and some young guys sat around on the front steps. The guys glared at him, but then looked away as he passed by them and entered the building.

  The dark stairs and hallways were lit only by tiny windows at each landing. Apartment 4D was at the end of the hallway on the fourth floor.

  When he knocked, he heard someone stirring inside. In a few moments a woman cracked the door open a little and looked out at him.

  “Oh,” she said with a kind of trembling growl. “I was expecting … well, not you, anyway. Who the hell are you?”