by Cassie Miles
“An erotic fascination with the dead?” Sterling tossed down the scalpel and scoffed. “Upon what do you base this conclusion?”
“These were young women,” Treadwell said. “The fact that they were all of a similar physical type suggests an attraction.”
“Why is it always about sex with psychologists?”
“Not always,” Treadwell said in defense of his profession. “However, in Graff’s case, there was most certainly a sexual component. He was obsessed with the witness, Cara Messinger.”
“From what I understand, Dr. Messinger was not precisely the same physical type as the other victims. She was more mature. A bit taller.”
“A few years,” Treadwell said. “A few inches.”
“Important differences to a real scientist.”
“Excuse me,” Flynn interrupted. “This isn’t about Graff anymore. We’re looking for a different killer—the man known as the Judge. Dr. Sterling, where were you yesterday afternoon?”
Though it seemed impossible, his already impassive features froze. “What are you suggesting?”
There was no point in tiptoeing around the question, no time for subtlety. “Everyone is a suspect. Even you.”
Hostility radiated from Sterling like heat off a stove. “I suppose your assumption is logical. I was Russell Graff’s mentor at this dig site. However, Agent O’Conner, your suspicions are absurd.”
“You fit the profile,” Treadwell said.
“Profiling again?” Sterling gave an angry snort. “An arbitrary listing of characteristics.”
“Based on probability. Mathematical probability.” Treadwell’s voice was cool. He seemed pleased that suspicions had come to rest upon his intellectual adversary. “Our killer is probably a single white male. Mid-thirties to mid-forties. Unmarried. Educated. Arrogant.”
“That profile also fits you, Dr. Treadwell.”
Undeterred, Treadwell pushed a little harder. “Our records show you were in San Francisco at the time of the Judge killings.”
“And where were you?” Sterling asked.
Flynn knew the answer to that question. Though Treadwell’s primary residence was in southern California, he consulted in San Francisco. Though he didn’t appear to have a similar connection to the Mesa Verde area, he could have come here for a fishing trip—like the vacation he was on right now. Suspect everyone. Treadwell, too?
“Your occupation,” Treadwell said as he glared at Sterling, “suggests a fascination with death.”
“A naive, misguided deduction. A forensic anthropologist studies bones in order to understand how a society might have developed or changed. And I completely respect the remains.” He gestured to the row of skulls. “Each bone is labeled with the location where it was found. When I’ve finished processing, they will all be returned to their resting place. I am one of the very few individuals authorized by the Navajo, Ute, Hopi and Apache to disturb the bones of their ancestors.”
“No one is challenging your credentials,” Treadwell said.
“Just my innocence.”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Flynn repeated, “where were you?”
“I went into Cortez to the post office. Then I spent the night at a motel where I often stay.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“No.”
He had no alibi. Flynn scanned the other equipment in the trailer. Computers. Microscopes. Containers and vials. Filled with what? Chemicals? He had access to drugs. Like the hallucinogenics used by Russell Graff? Did he have explosives like the C-4 used on the chopper?
“Dr. Sterling,” Marisa said, “we need to search this trailer. Do I have your permission?”
He inhaled through his nose, puffing himself up. Then he expelled the air in a dry whoosh. “No warrant is necessary. But I insist upon observing your search. I have a great deal of sensitive equipment that I don’t want broken.”
“Do you sleep in here?” Marisa asked.
“Certainly not. I have another trailer for my private use. Quite often—as I did yesterday—I take a room at a motel.”
“Why?”
“My dear Agent Kelso, I’m long past the age when I consider staying at a dig site to be romantic. I much prefer a soft mattress and a hot shower. Though Cortez isn’t a gourmet capital, there are a few decent restaurants. Yesterday evening, I ate dinner at the Long View.”
“Did you eat alone?” Flynn asked.
“Yes.”
“What did you have?”
“A T-bone with a side of green chili and a glass of Burgundy wine.”
If Sterling was their killer, it meant he’d blown up a chopper, shot the pilot, abducted Grace Lennox and then gone to the Long View for a leisurely dinner. Ignoring the FBI search? Leaving his victim unguarded?
Flynn couldn’t accept that scenario. That level of arrogance went beyond comprehension, even for the Judge.
AFTER A TEDIOUS SEARCH THROUGH Dr. Sterling’s lab and his separate trailer, Marisa’s eyes ached. She hadn’t come to this site looking for another suspect, and Dr. Alex Sterling was as inscrutable as the epidemiology texts he kept beside his bed for casual reading.
She and Flynn and Dr. Treadwell were again in the Explorer, tailing Sterling’s truck to Cortez since he had decided to spend tonight at his favorite motel as well. She glanced into the backseat, where Jonas Treadwell was uncharacteristically quiet.
“What do you think, Dr. Treadwell? Can you give me a read on Alex Sterling?”
“In my unscientific way,” he said peevishly. “I can sum up his personality in two words. Arrogant. Bastard.”
She didn’t have the patience to deal with Treadwell’s hissy fit. It was too damn bad that Sterling hurt his feelings. “Is Sterling the Judge?”
“You know I can’t give you a definite answer. Sterling certainly has the hubris. An overwhelming belief that he’s smarter than everyone else, which fits with the Judge’s need to taunt law enforcement.”
“What about the way he never smiles or frowns?” Flynn asked. “What does that indicate?”
“An extreme introvert. He relates better to dead people than to the living.” Treadwell was beginning to warm to his topic. “It’s my guess that Sterling was isolated as a child. Obviously of high intelligence, he probably skipped ahead a few grades in school. Never learned to relate to his peers. Or to women.”
“Sexual hang-ups?” Flynn asked.
“Absolutely,” Treadwell said with relish. “I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he’s a forty-two-year-old virgin.”
“I don’t think so,” Marisa said. “When I searched the drawers in his private trailer, I found condoms. Lots of women find genius to be very attractive.”
“Do you? Find intelligence to be a turn-on?”
She glanced into the backseat. Again, he was flirting with her. And she’d picked up a similar vibe from Sterling when he shook her hand. Definitely not what she wanted, but she’d use it if necessary. “Come on, Dr. Treadwell. I’ll bet you’ve used the genius ploy. Showing off your knowledge to impress the ladies.”
“Would you find that tactic appealing?”
Before she could answer, Flynn jumped in. “You’ve got to be kidding. She’s a Fed. Marisa needs a he-man.”
“I disagree.” Treadwell flashed his dazzling white teeth. “Just because she wears a gun on her hip, it doesn’t mean she isn’t looking for sensitivity. Poetry and roses.”
“Not this lady,” Flynn said. “In her apartment back in San Francisco, she has a framed sharpshooter certificate on the wall. Her idea of poetry is reading crime stats. As for flowers? She’s got four house-plants. All cacti.”
“And a Boston fern,” she said. “And I don’t have to defend my sense of style to you or anybody else. If I had the time, I might—”
“Her bedroom is black and beige,” Flynn said. “Not a speck of pink and pretty.”
“I wouldn’t expect Marisa to be girlish,” Treadwell said. “Not in her profession. However, I suspect there
are signs of femininity. Perhaps she wears fanciful shoes. Or soft, flowing lingerie.”
“Her underwear,” Flynn admitted, “is pretty nice.”
“Enough,” she said. “We’re getting off topic here.”
“We were talking about sex,” Flynn said.
“Sexuality as it pertains to Dr. Alex Sterling. This isn’t about me.” If he said one more word about her lace underwear or silk nightshirts, she’d rip his throat out. “Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled. “I’m just saying that when a woman tries to hide how sexy she is, that woman might be a prude.”
“Actually,” Treadwell said, “that’s not true. I’ve treated nymphomaniacs who dressed like nuns.”
“You’ve treated nymphos?”
“Gentlemen!” Marisa snapped. “We’re in the middle of an investigation here. Dr. Treadwell, how does Sterling’s sexuality apply to the profile of the Judge?”
“I can’t be sure.” He hesitated. “Of course, there’s a sexual component to the Judge, but it’s difficult to understand. Because the bodies are burned we have no way of knowing if the victims were raped.”
“Is Sterling a viable suspect?”
“I would have to say yes.”
Though she wasn’t convinced that Sterling was a serial murderer, several pieces of circumstantial evidence pointed to him, starting with his lack of alibi for yesterday afternoon. He had the knowledge to dispose of bodies, and he admitted to being Graff’s mentor. It was enough to justify surveillance on Dr. Alex Sterling.
Marisa glanced at her wristwatch. Almost six o’clock. Twenty-seven hours since the victim was abducted. Tomorrow—Saturday—would be the second day. Then they would have only twenty-four hours until the end of the third day. The fourth day was when the Judge made his kill.
Chapter Eight
Flynn didn’t have the patience for a stakeout. Even though he’d just had a burger, he was hungry and thirsty. His entire body was tired, and his butt was numb, but his mind leaped restlessly from one topic to another, always coming back to rest on Grace Lennox. A sharp pang stabbed into the center of his skull as he remembered their last conversation, standing on the porch at the safe house. She’d thanked him. And he’d failed her, failed to protect her. Damn it, Grace. Where are you? Where has he hidden you?
He fidgeted again in the front seat of the Explorer. He and Marisa were parked on the opposite side of the street from the Dolores Motel in Cortez where Dr. Sterling was staying for the night. It was almost eleven o’clock, and Sterling had been in his room for an hour, following his dinner at the Long View Restaurant. The bugging device they’d planted in his room was quiet except for the occasional shuffle of footsteps and a toilet flushing.
This neighborhood was off the main drag. Very little traffic. On this side was a strip mall that had closed down a couple of hours ago. At the corner, separated from the strip mall by a six-foot cedar fence and some shrubs, was a convenience store. Still open.
Flynn peered through binoculars at the motel—a two-story stucco with a red tile roof and curlicue wrought-iron banisters on the stairs and the upper story. Sterling was staying in Room 229, the last room on the second floor. In order to leave, he had to walk across the front of the building and then down the staircase.
Flynn switched the binoculars to infrared night vision, then back to regular. Infrared. Regular. “We’re wasting our time here.”
Marisa looked up from the laptop propped in front of her. The reflection from the screen lit her heart-shaped face with a weird bluish glow, but she still looked good to him. “Have you got a better plan?”
He didn’t. “I hate waiting for the Judge to make his next move.”
“All part of his plan,” she said. “He sets us up and then holds back. We wait. And with every minute that passes, we feel more helpless and frustrated.”
“Like it was in San Francisco.”
“We can’t let him lead us down that path. Not again.” No. This time, Flynn was more in control of himself. This time would be different.
He stared through the windshield, trying to find something to occupy his thoughts. “Not much of a night life in Cortez. Not even on a Friday.” He remembered that she’d grown up in rural Wisconsin. “Does this remind you of your home town?”
“A bit.”
A beat-up old Chevy rounded the corner. The car windows were open, and he heard the heavy thump of hip-hop bass and hoots of laughter. Teenagers on the prowl, looking for adventure. The music faded as the hip-hop Chevy drove away.
“Tell me about it,” he said. “What did you do for fun?”
“The usual stuff.”
“Beer bashes?” He couldn’t resist teasing. “Streaking naked through the pasture? Cow tipping?”
“I was never a troublemaker,” she said.
“Yeah, sure. On a hot Friday night, you’d be at the local quilting bee.”
“I’m sure my high school experience wasn’t all that different from yours.”
“Don’t bet on that.”
Their eyes met. Old memories flowed back and forth between them. He’d never revealed much about the east L.A. high school where he’d been a marginal student. A marginal human being, really. Arrested twice before he was sixteen. If he hadn’t gotten into sports, he might have ended up in prison like his brother.
She asked, “Are you finally ready to talk about it?”
“Finally?”
“In all the time we’ve known each other,” she said, “you’ve always pulled the curtain on your youth. You shut me out.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“I don’t believe that for one minute.” She looked away from him with a sigh. “As close as we once were, I never really knew you.”
Secrets had always stood between them. Physically, they’d been as close as a man and a woman could be. But she was correct. There were parts of his life he never wanted to share. Not now. Not ever.
He focused on the Dolores Motel. “What do you think Sterling is doing in there? He hasn’t talked to anybody on the phone. He doesn’t have the television on.”
“Reading?”
“Why bother coming into town to read? He has a perfectly good bed in his trailer at the dig site.”
“You heard his explanation. He wanted to take a long shower and eat a decent meal.” She held the laptop screen so he could see. “According to his credit card bills, Sterling stays at this motel at least once a week.”
“What else have you found?”
“Cell phone records show he doesn’t waste phone time on friends. And he has no family to speak of. His mother is still alive, but his father died and Sterling was an only child.”
“Like Treadwell suggested.”
Her head jerked as she shot him a cold glare. “Let’s not replay that conversation.”
“About sexuality?”
“Don’t you dare start talking about my underwear.”
He fondly remembered her bras and panties. Always white or cream-colored with lacy trim. Her bras fastened in front. When they had been making love on a regular basis, he’d always looked forward to the moment when he unhooked the bra and her full round breasts slid free. She always gasped, as if his touch was a surprise.
He remembered the smooth texture of her silk panties, bikini-style with a lace band below her firm waist. He wanted to do a whole lot more than talk about her underwear.
She closed the lid of her laptop. “Everything is under control for the night. I checked in with Montoya in Santa Fe where Eric Crowe is being watched. And there are two more agents assigned to keep an eye on William Graff, Russell’s father.”
“Three teams. Three suspects.”
“I’d like to get somebody to take our place here,” she said. “So I can be free to respond if either of the other suspects makes a move.”
“I could put in a call to the guys at the safe house, Zack and Wesley.” Zack had already driven into Cortez to pick up Dr. Treadwell and take him back
to his fishing cabin.
Her cell phone signaled, and she answered. Even in the dim light from the street, he could see her expression change. There was trouble.
She disconnected the call and turned to him. “That was Jane Montoya. Eric Crowe slipped away from her surveillance. Damn it, Montoya had all the high-tech equipment in place. GPS tracking on his cars. Heat-sensing cameras focused on his house.”
“When?” He knew technology wasn’t the perfect tool everyone claimed it was.
“She can’t say for sure. Might have been a couple of hours ago.”
Crowe was on the move. That didn’t bode well. “What about his girlfriend Becky?”
“She’s gone, too.”
As he stared down the street toward the convenience store on the corner, a black-clad figure stepped out from behind the fence onto the sidewalk. Arms braced in front. Legs slightly apart.
Flynn didn’t need his binoculars to figure out what this person was doing. He grabbed Marisa’s arm. “Get down.”
A gunshot echoed on the quiet streets of Cortez.
THE WINDSHIELD CRACKED. Marisa heard the thud where the bullet tore into the ceiling of the Explorer. She’d ducked in time. So had Flynn. They were both safe, crouched down in their seats.
Why? It didn’t make sense. A direct assault wasn’t the Judge’s style. He preyed on helpless victims, not armed FBI agents.
Flynn raised up on an elbow and peered over the dashboard. “I don’t see him.”
“Was it Crowe? Was it Eric Crowe?”
“I don’t think so.”
She drew her handgun. “Let’s find him.”
Simultaneously, they opened their car doors. Using the door as a shield, she aimed her weapon down the street. There was no one in sight. Either the shooter had fled or he was lying in wait. Lowering her weapon, she flipped open her cell phone and called for backup from the local police.
Flynn came around to her side of the Explorer. “Did you see the shooter?”
“No. Give me a description.”
“Average height. Baseball cap. Slim.” He hesitated. “Could have been a woman. He or she was hiding behind the fence near the convenience store.”