“The more I think about it, the less I believe so.” Surreptitiously, he glanced at his watch again. “Yeah, Torres was once a security guard and he knew one of the victims, but what’s his link to the others? Except for working near Janice Berlin, he has no connection. Remember, all these women apparently got into the killer’s car without protest. Only Wanda Mulroney struggled. How are they all connected to the killer? We don’t know.”
“We can question the families again,” Armand said.
“Yes,” Jonathan said and noted Armand’s grim expression. “My gut tells me Torres isn’t the man, and the Night Stalker is walking around somewhere, laughing at us.”
“Then find him,” Armand said harshly. “Give us the last laugh.”
“Happy-face rattle,” Hannah called out.
Christy peered into the suitcase. “Check.”
“Bunny jammies.”
“Check.”
“That’s it, thank heaven,” Hannah sighed and sat back on her heels. “Traveling with two babies is not for the faint-hearted. Thanks so much for coming over this morning.”
“I wanted to be with you.”
“The help was nice but having someone to talk to was what I really appreciate. I’m so scared about my dad…”
“I know, but they’ve made great strides in cardiac care in the past few years. People recover and lead normal lives.”
“I’m glad you’re a nurse. Other people deal in platitudes but you tell it like it is.”
Christy smiled.
“I’m sorry I won’t be here for you,” Hannah added.
“Jonathan thinks they’ll catch the guy soon.” Christy hesitated, knowing Hannah’s thoughts were elsewhere, but the words flowed out. “He told me about Diane.”
“Oh.” Hannah’s eyes fastened on hers. “I’m glad he did. Now you understand him better.”
Christy fiddled with the tiny T-shirt she’d been holding. “I understand there isn’t a future for us. He’s so guilt-ridden over her, he can’t take a chance on falling in love again.”
“And you? Sounds like you’ve decided how you feel.”
Christy sighed. “Ironic isn’t it? I realize I’m in love with him just when he tells me he’ll never get involved with another woman. Sounds like a soap opera, doesn’t it?”
“So what are you going to do? Just roll over and take it?”
Christy couldn’t help but smile. “Spoken like a tough FBI agent.” She frowned. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Fighting a phantom is impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible.”
“Even living with a man who’s in danger every day?”
Hannah’s hands stilled. “You’re asking how I cope with Troy’s job. And how he copes with mine.” She glanced at her wedding ring. “It isn’t easy for either of us, but I fell in love with a man who puts his life on the line, and that’s part of who he is. Same with him for me. Besides,” she added, picking up a pair of baby’s pajamas, “Jonathan’s not doing that anymore.”
“Except sometimes. And from the way he talks, that will continue.”
“Then you have to make a decision.”
Christy sighed. “If he gives me the chance. I—”
The phone interrupted them. Face pale, Hannah jumped up and rushed to answer. “Hello?” Her shoulders relaxed and she let out a sigh. “Oh, it’s you, Talbot. Yes, of course she’s here.” She held out the phone.
Christy took it. “Hi, I’m fine. I should be home in about an hour. I’ll call as soon as I get there. How are things going with you?”
His voice ripe with frustration, he answered, “Slowly.”
“Keep plugging,” she said and hung up.
Hannah glanced at her over the top of the suitcase. “My intuition says don’t give up on the guy just yet. If I were you, I’d follow my own advice—keep plugging.”
An hour later, Jonathan rubbed his eyes. All the names on his list of security guards were beginning to look alike. In the offices on either side of his, he knew Luis and Dell were scrolling through notes, scheduling family members and friends of the Night Stalker’s victims for further questioning. Would their efforts pay off? Damned if he could guess.
All he did know was that this was the most baffling case he’d ever worked on. The killer was one smart bastard.
He rose and stretched, then trudged into Dell’s office. Luis was there, too, leaning against the bookcase, drinking a soda. “Either of you come up with anything?” Jonathan asked.
“Nada,” Luis said, and Dell nodded.
“It bothers me that none of these women put up a fight. Victims number three and four were hefty gals—yet their autopsies show they did nothing to defend themselves.”
“The guy was so intimidating, they didn’t dare resist,” Dell suggested.
“Or,” Luis added, “he was such a pip-squeak they didn’t think they had to. Which puts our skinny janitor, Jackson Ealy, back on the list.”
The sound of Jonathan’s cell phone interrupted their conversation. He glanced at the screen and saw Christy’s home number. Relieved, he pressed Talk. “Hi.”
“Hi. Nurse Ratched reporting in. I’m home now.”
“Good. Keep everything locked up and call me later.”
When he hung up, Luis asked, “The chick?”
“Yeah.” Jonathan put his cell phone back in his pocket. “I’m worried about her. She’s home alone.”
“Why worry?” Luis asked, then said, “Ah, she’s a redhead.”
“Not that she admits it, but yes.”
“Mmm-hmm. A red-haired nurse,” Dell said.
“Exactly.”
“But would she get into a car…at night…with a stranger?” Luis asked.
“God, I hope not.”
Libby Hammond, a rookie cop, stuck her head in the door. “Dr. Talbot, you have a meeting in ten minutes with Armand, Chief Nichols and the mayor.”
Just what he needed to fill up his day. “Thanks,” Jonathan said, then stopped her. “Wait a minute. We need a female perspective here. Why would a woman get into a car with a stranger? Dell says because something about the man intimidates her. What about a man, other than size, would do that?”
“Fame. Looks. A combination of both,” Libby suggested promptly. “Trust me, if Johnny Depp offered me a ride, I’d get into his car so fast it’d make your head spin.”
“We’ll assume Johnny is not a serial killer. What else?”
“Authority. He has an ID that shows he’s a judge or a senator, maybe an astronaut. Or he’s a marine with a chestful of medals. Gosh, I’d even go for a package delivery guy in those cute little brown shorts.”
Jonathan nodded. “Authority. That fits with what I’ve said all along. Real or not, he projects it. I’m betting when the Night Stalker goes after his prey, he’s wearing a uniform.”
The meeting with the mayor took longer than expected, but held no surprises. The pressure was on. The mayor was getting flack; therefore he had to pass it on to the chief, who lobbed it to Armand and so on down the line. As the profiler, Jonathan had gotten a hefty share of it.
On top of his own frustration and his concern for Christy, this precipitated a foul mood. He stopped at a vending machine, bought lunch, a soda and a bag of chips and headed back to his office, then changed his mind.
He needed to get out. Another look at the crime scene wouldn’t hurt. He scribbled a note, put it on Dell’s desk, then left the building.
Christy wandered aimlessly through her house. Too big. Way too big. Yet she was as much a prisoner here as she’d been in San Sebastian. The terror outside was as real, no, even more real than the one she’d faced last week.
She opened the door to a pristine bathroom. Pretty guest towels and a basket with an array of scented soaps sat invitingly on the counter. Nothing in here had ever been used. By the time she and Keith had moved into “his” dream home, they weren’t entertaining guests.
As soon as this Stalker situation was over—if th
at ever happened—she’d put the house up for sale and move into smaller quarters, something more like Jonathan’s bungalow. For all she cared, whoever bought this palace could take everything in it, down to the last cake of jasmine soap.
She shut the bathroom door, plodded into the kitchen, and made herself a cup of instant coffee. She pressed the TV remote. The midmorning soap operas were on. Quickly, she turned the TV off. She had more than enough melodrama in her own life.
Maybe she’d bake Jonathan a cake. From scratch. That would keep her busy and would cheer him up after a day in the trenches. Pleased with the idea, she flipped through her recipe file and selected one for pineapple upside down cake. Seemed appropriate. He’d turned her life upside down.
“Flour, sugar… Heck.” The flour canister was almost empty. Christy went to the window and peered out. The street was deserted. Surely, in broad daylight she could make it to the supermarket and back without any trouble.
She hurried upstairs to get her purse and slipped the gun inside it. Halfway down, her conscience reared its head. “You promised,” it said sternly. She gave in. She’d always been one who followed the rules, and in this case the rules made sense.
Downstairs, she set her purse on the coffee table. She’d find something else to do after she put the ingredients for the cake away. She hadn’t yet looked at the morning paper. If she read every single article, no skipping, she should be busy all day.
She was headed back to the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
Startled, she jumped. On the way to the door, she replayed Jonathan’s warning: “Don’t let anyone inside.” She wouldn’t. She’d had one bout with temptation, and that was plenty.
She tiptoed to the door and looked out the peephole. A man stood on the porch. He was turned away, facing the street, and all she could see was his shadow, looming across the walkway.
Judging from the shadow, he was big. A giant. What did he want? He lifted an arm to lean against one of the columns on the porch, and she saw his muscles ripple. Dear God, he could batter the door down if he chose.
Trembling, she tried to decide what to do. Call Jonathan. Call 911. Better yet, call both.
The man turned. Christy let out a sigh of relief and leaned against the door to collect herself. It was Dell Cummings. She opened the door.
“Hi,” he said. “You okay? You look a little pale.”
“You just startled me. I wasn’t expecting anyone.” She stood aside. “Come in.”
He did. As he passed her, she smelled sweat. He must have been out at the crime scene again.
“Um, can I help you?” she asked.
“Jonathan sent me. He’s worried about you, but he’s tied up right now. He asked me to come by and pick you up. Thought you’d be safer down at headquarters.”
“All right,” Christy said. “I’ll just get my purse.” She started for the living room, then turned. “It was nice of you to come.”
He smiled. “No problem. We’ll make a quick stop and then head downtown. I’m glad to help out.”
Jonathan drove toward the site of the last murder. Just jogging from police headquarters to the garage had left him damp with sweat. Another hot summer day that made you long for evening. Tonight was a full moon. That always brought out the crazies. The mayor had promised to appear personally on the evening news shows on all three major Houston channels, warning women, especially those in the Medical Center, to take extra care tonight.
Within thirty minutes Jonathan reached the spot where Wanda Mulroney had spent her last moments. Technicians were still on site, searching for clues. A half dozen homicide detectives in blue police uniforms were there as well. Yellow crime-scene tape marked an area about ten yards square. Jonathan hailed Manny Parker, the guy in charge, and headed in his direction. “What’s up?”
Parker shrugged. “Not much. You can see by the way the grass is trampled along here that he dragged her over near the tree. First time he’s done that.”
Jonathan nodded. “You gotta wonder why none of the others put up a struggle.”
“I’d say he drugged them, but there was no evidence of anything in the autopsies.”
“Mind if I wander around?” Jonathan asked.
“Be my guest.”
Jonathan walked the perimeter, his eyes on the ground.
He wasn’t sure what he expected to find. Their man was too smart to leave a half-smoked cigarette or even a tissue behind. Near the tree, he stopped and studied the ground. Something caught his eye. At first he thought it was a bottle cap, but he bent to look closer.
A light blue button lay beneath a leaf, half-buried in the dirt.
He jogged back to Manny. “I’ve spotted something. Come take a look.”
Together they stared at Jonathan’s find. Then Manny straightened. “Hey, you-all,” he called. “Get over here.” When the others gathered around, he said, “Anybody lose a button?”
Looking puzzled, people checked their shirts. One by one, they shook their heads. “Dockens,” Manny ordered, “see that button down there? Get it into an evidence bag.”
The young man lifted the button with tweezers and dropped it into a bag. “Now take a closer look,” Manny said. “That damn button is a perfect match for the ones on every shirt you cops are wearing.”
The group stared at him, their faces stunned.
Jonathan’s eyes fixed on the small button in Dockens’ bag. A sick feeling spread from his stomach to his throat. He’d been correct in his assessment this morning. The man they were after wore a uniform when he killed. Unless an investigator who was here the other night had lost a button, the Night Stalker was a cop.
No wonder all the murder victims had gone with him. He’d probably stopped them for “speeding,” opened their glove compartments and slipped drugs inside. He “discovered” the drugs, then told the women they’d have to come down to the precinct. Trusting in “the law,” they’d gotten into his car. And taken the last ride of their lives.
Icy fear ripped through him. Christy. Would she get into a car with a stranger? Yeah, she would if the stranger was a cop. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed her number. The phone rang three times before it was picked up.
But it wasn’t Christy. It was her answering machine.
Chapter 18
Jonathan raced to his car as if the devil were at his heels. As he ran, he redialed Christy’s number. The machine again. “Christy,” he shouted into the phone, “pick up.”
Rage mingled with his fear. Where in hell was she? He jumped into the car, jammed the key into the ignition and gunned the motor. The car careened down the road, hit a pothole and bounced. Dammit, he’d told her to stay inside. Where could she have gone?
Think. She could be in the bathroom or up on a ladder cleaning specks of dust from the chandelier. Yeah, knowing Christy, that’s exactly what she was doing.
But hell, she knew he was worried about her. By the second call, she’d had time to climb down and get to the phone. He tried again. Still the damned machine. He tried her cell, got her voice mail. Cursing, he swerved around the corner and onto the next street.
Could she have gone to the hospital? Maybe someone couldn’t come in to work and Christy had agreed to substitute. Long shot, because she hadn’t called to tell him, but he phoned St. Mary’s just in case. She wasn’t there, hadn’t called, was still on vacation for all they knew.
Was she at a neighbor’s? He realized suddenly that he didn’t know the names of any of her friends and had no idea who to call. But again, she should have called to let him know if she’d gone somewhere. He played his messages at home, at the university and at police headquarters. Nothing from Christy.
He checked the dashboard clock. Still fifteen minutes to Christy’s. Ten if he got really lucky. He wished he’d commandeered a police vehicle this morning rather than using his rental car. He could use a siren right about now.
He thanked God they’d happened on that button at the crime scene. If not, he’d have called
a task force member who might be closer to her house to check on Christy. Not now.
Because one of them, one of the people he’d been working with on a daily basis, could be the Night Stalker. He’d never have thought it possible, but now it made perfect sense.
The Night Stalker knew too much about what was going on. He knew Jonathan was getting closer. He’d already tried to kill Jonathan without success. Next best thing was to do away with Jonathan’s woman.
So who—
His cell phone rang. Thank you, God. He punched Talk. “Yes.”
“Dr. Talbot, this is Mindy at the University of Houston.”
He’d been fully expecting the call to be from Christy and when the graduate assistant’s tentative voice came on instead, he was shocked into silence.
“Um, are you there?”
“Yes, what is it? I’m in a hurry.” He cut in front of a slow-moving SUV and ignored the angry honk that ensued.
“I wouldn’t be bothering you except—”
“Just get to it.” If Mindy were any more timid, she’d be a mouse. He had no time to bolster her self-esteem.
“You got this fax a few minutes ago and it’s, like, weird.”
Sure, bother him with some student’s bizarre thoughts on the criminal justice system. “Read it.”
“It says…well, it’s written by hand and, like, the writing’s sort of jumbled.”
And this woman had aspirations of becoming a trial attorney. He clenched his teeth. “Just read it the best you can.”
“I showed it to Nancy McKay, and we both think it says something like, well, like ‘Gotcha.’”
“Gotcha?” He braked at a red light.
“Or maybe ‘got her.’ Yeah, I think that’s what it says. Nancy thought it might make sense to you. Does it?”
Perfect sense. Too perfect. Jonathan felt his blood freeze at the implication.
“Um, shall I save it for you?”
“Do that, and tell me what number it came from.” When she read it, he knew immediately it wasn’t a fax from police headquarters. They all came from the same exchange. So the Stalker had gone outside to send it. Well, no one said he was stupid. Jonathan doubted that trying to track the fax would be useful. Where it came from wasn’t important. Who sent it was what mattered.
Stranger in Her Arms Page 19