Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  "And?"

  She looked up to see Billy staring at her, wide-eyed. She shrugged and shook off the strange sensation that something wasn't right. "It's weird is all. It doesn't make sense for an organized killer to risk taking a child in a crowded place. Normally those sort of abductions are committed by someone who knows the child."

  "You think he could know both children?"

  She shrugged, downplaying the fact that Billy had just told her one was a tourist. If that bit of information was correct, it seemed virtually impossible that he could have known both children. "I'm sure the police are looking into it."

  She looked back down at her notepad, frustrated at how little information she had. She wondered what the detective on the case was doing, how he or she was attacking the evidence. Suddenly, a tiny part of her ached to be back in the game.

  Studying her notes again, she puzzled. Something wasn't adding up. The sensation reminded her of the Cincinnati case. The killer's methodology had been so mixed. It had taken them nearly three weeks to confirm all four killings had been the same killer. A chill jetted across her shoulders, leaving a tiny wake of shivers. She shook them off and pushed the paper away.

  Dropping the pen, she began to stretch her already cramped fingers. It was a waste of time. She wasn't an FBI agent anymore. She would never be an agent again.

  "Glad it's not my case," she said, sensing it was something less than the truth.

  Chapter 3

  "Aaron, I said stay with me," Elizabeth Weisman snapped, grabbing her son's hand and yanking him away from the Tommy's Toys window.

  "But, Mom," he whined, resisting her pull.

  Elizabeth spun around, Emily propped on one hip. "Aaron." She gave him a hard stare, hoping he wouldn't put up a fuss. Emily started to whimper and Elizabeth bounced on her toes as she turned and started to walk away. "Enough, Aaron. We have to go."

  "Mom, I just want to look. Mom, pleeeaaase."

  Elizabeth felt her body numb in anger. Why was he doing this? She spun back to Aaron and crouched over, sticking her finger in his face. "Stop your whining. We're not shopping for toys today."

  Aaron looked back at the toy store window, ignoring her.

  She grabbed his arm and shook him. "We need to get a present for Daddy's secretary. That's it. Then, we have to get home. Emily needs to be fed, and Mommy needs to start dinner."

  Elizabeth wondered if James was with his secretary now. He certainly hadn't made much of an effort lately to be home before his daughter went to bed. His secretary got more of her husband's damn attention than she did. Now Elizabeth was buying her a present for her birthday. Ironic.

  Dragging Aaron by the arm, she pushed through the crowd toward Nordstrom. What did she get a woman she suspected was sleeping with her husband? She pictured her hands wrapped around the woman's neck. That was it, she'd buy her a scarf.

  Aaron pouted as she pulled him onto the escalator. Putting her free arm around him, she gave him a hug and pointed to the lights strung from the ceiling high above.

  Her son's eyes grew wide as he took in the bright lights. "How do they get the lights way up there, Mom?"

  She smiled. "Maybe really tall ladders. What do you think?"

  Aaron nodded slowly. "Really, really tall ladders."

  She smiled and rubbed his curly blond hair. "Or maybe they fly."

  Aaron looked back, wide-eyed and serious.

  She grinned and raised her eyebrows.

  He shook his head and laughed. "No, Mom. They can't fly."

  "How come?" she countered as she led him off the escalator. Emily's head rested on her shoulder, and Elizabeth could feel the wetness of the drool that had soaked through her blouse. Thankfully, it wasn't silk. She had given up silk when she'd stopped working. Had it already been six years?

  Aaron took her hand and stopped at the banister at the top of the escalator, his grip tight in hers as he peered over the edge. "What would happen if you fell, Mom?"

  She clenched his hand tighter. "You'd be in trouble."

  He nodded slowly.

  With Aaron's hand in hers, Elizabeth backed away from the banister. Before she could focus, she was knocked forward. A strong hand grabbed her arm and helped her balance. She shook her head and regained her step.

  "I'm so sorry," a man's voice said.

  Elizabeth looked around and found Aaron. She pulled him against her leg as she righted Emily on her hip.

  "I wasn't even looking where I was going," the man continued.

  Elizabeth eyed the man before her and took a step back, smoothing her blond hair and wishing she'd taken more time getting dressed today. "It's no problem, Officer."

  The man's gray eyes flickered as he smiled. "Not like me to be so clumsy." He tucked his forefinger under Emily's chin. "What a doll."

  Elizabeth smiled at Emily, sleeping like an angel on her shoulder. She was thankful the officer hadn't caught Emily during one of her tantrums. "Thank you." Her eyes found his badge as she settled on his name. A. Obsgarten. She pointed to the badge. "How crazy. That's my maiden name."

  The man looked down at his badge. "Obsgarten, really?" He pronounced it Aub-sgarten.

  She nodded. "Only we say O-bsgarten."

  "Hmm." He nodded. "Well, I ought to be going. Got to get this little one back to Mom."

  Taking Aaron's hand again, Elizabeth thanked him. She gathered herself and thought about the coincidence. Obsgarten was such an uncommon name; she would have liked to find out where he was from.

  Only then did Elizabeth notice he held the hand of a girl about Aaron's age. Glancing back, she watched him walk away. The girl looked over her shoulder. "Wave good-bye, Aaron."

  Aaron hesitated.

  "Wave, sweetie."

  Aaron frowned and waved slowly, but the little girl wasn't looking back anymore.

  Elizabeth rubbed his head and took his hand. "Let's run our errand and get home. I'm making your favorite tonight—yellow chicken." Since he could talk, Aaron had called her curry chicken "yellow chicken."

  But Aaron didn't answer. He was still looking back at the little girl.

  Chapter 4

  "I think you'd better take this," one of the patrolmen said, handing Jordan a phone.

  "Inspector Gray," he announced, despising San Francisco's antiquated title. Couldn't he just be a detective like everybody else?

  "Inspector, this is Sheriff Fletcher over in Marin County."

  "Hi, Sheriff. What can I do for you?" Jordan hated being interrupted at a crime scene. He stood in the mouth of the alley. The girl's body had been taken to the morgue two days ago, but Jordan's men were still working the scene. The litter in the area had made sweeping the scene for evidence a much larger task than they were used to. With the body count up to two, Jordan was determined to stay until they came up with something.

  "Well, I thought you might want to hear about a case I had over here."

  Jordan stared at the ground, concentrating. "I'm listening."

  "Little girl, ten, burned inside her father's tool-shed," the nervous sheriff continued.

  Jordan shook his head. "And?"

  "We ruled it accidental. Didn't do much in the way of an investigation at the scene."

  "Okay?" Jordan prodded.

  "Well, this happened about two weeks ago. Her father cleaned up the debris and found a partially burned remnant that reminded me of your case."

  "What is it, Sheriff?"

  "It's a party hat, Inspector."

  Jordan's breath caught. Damn. "What color is it?"

  "Appears it was red."

  * * *

  Jordan stormed into the station, moving as quickly as he could to avoid comment. Everyone knew about this case. The entire station whispered behind his back like thirteen-year-olds in a coed locker room. Jordan had gotten the bomb case. No case put more pressure on a police force than a child murder. And he had multiple child murders. If he didn't solve the case soon, it was going to explode in his face. He straightened his tie
and strode toward the captain's office.

  Captain Tapp was a burly man with a thick neck and arms and legs to match. He had the appearance of a lumberjack. Only his height of five-nine suggested he wasn't a forest giant. It was as though he had been destined for six-five or six-six when he had stopped growing upward but continued to thicken.

  Jordan had known the captain for ten years, and in that time he had discovered little more about the man than he had learned at their first meeting. Tapp hadn't taken vacation in seven years, and he was never sick. There were rumors of a wife and children, but no evidence that Jordan could see. Tapp's finger bore no ring, his desk, no pictures.

  And in the ten years they had worked together, Tapp had never been heard taking a personal phone call. He spoke rarely, and never about anything personal. His once curly reddish hair now covered only a third as much of his head as it had back then. And the gray had taken over like a killer vine.

  Tapp motioned Jordan in and pointed to a chair.

  Jordan sat, leaned back, and waited.

  Tapp refused to be rushed. Even in the most high-pressured cases, the captain managed to keep his cool.

  After another beat of pause, Tapp turned to Jordan and smiled. "Heard you got a rough one."

  Jordan nodded. "Pretty bad. And I got a call from the Marin County Sheriff's office that links another death—that's three now."

  Tapp nodded. "I heard."

  Jordan frowned, but Tapp offered no explanation.

  Instead of asking, Jordan leaned forward, ready to make his pitch. "I've got three victims—two Caucasians, one black. All female. All done up with party hats like the killer's mother missed his tenth birthday and he's making up for it now." He paused.

  Tapp didn't blink.

  "I'd like to send it to Quantico. I think they could profile it for us, help us narrow down what we're looking for."

  Tapp steepled his fingers and rested his chin on their points. His thick, hairy hands bulged from his shirt cuffs like two partially inflated balloons. "I'll think about it."

  Jordan sat forward on his chair, prepared to push as hard as it took. "Captain, I've got three dead children. The media has the scent, and they're tracking us like bloodhounds. I need to give them something."

  Tapp nodded. "Mixed races, though. Maybe it's not one killer."

  "The dissection of each one, the puppetlike staging, the party hats, the same M.O.—it's got to be the same guy."

  Tapp shrugged. "Stuff leaks."

  "Maybe some stuff. But what about the strange signature on the legs—they're identical from case to case. That wasn't given to the press."

  "Stuff still gets out."

  Jordan frowned. "Are you suggesting a cop was involved?"

  "Not necessarily."

  Jordan waited. He needed to do something. He tapped his toes inside his shoe, fighting off impatience.

  Tapp swiveled in his chair, his hands still steepled at his chin. "I'm still not convinced you've got one killer, but I'll think about the idea."

  Jordan tightened his jaw to keep it from hitting the floor. He knew he shouldn't push. Tapp was as stubborn as he was reserved. When he spoke, his mind was made up as sure as if his words were cast in gold.

  Jordan shouldn't need to explain the merits of the FBI to a captain. The FBI had the most sophisticated profiling ability in the world. Jordan couldn't help himself. "Captain, I need help here. I'm working this one alone, and the scenes aren't telling me a goddamned—"

  Tapp raised his hand and halted Jordan mid-sentence. "I told you I'd think about it. In the meantime, put together a task force."

  Jordan started to speak again when Tapp picked up his phone and turned his back.

  "Bye, Gray," he said before punching a few numbers and speaking to someone. "I need the records on the Great Western robbery/homicide, please."

  Jordan clenched his fists and removed himself from the office. As he shut the captain's door behind him, he couldn't help feeling like he'd had the air punched from his lungs. What the hell was going on? Sending the file to Quantico should have been the next step.

  His head lowered, Jordan moved toward the exit.

  "Rough meeting?"

  Jordan looked up to see his old patrol partner, Harry McClerkin, walk up beside him. Harry was built almost exactly like Jordan—six-four and slender. People used to joke about them being brothers. Apart from the fact that Jordan was black and Harry Irish, it was an easy enough mistake to make. The two men had been inseparable for six years. They'd been split up since, Jordan moving into the homicide department of the inspector division, Harry working narcotics and some white-collar stuff. But they still got together to exchange ideas or discuss station politics, and Harry was a member of the five-man card game on Thursday nights.

  Unlike most partners, Harry and Jordan saw eye-to-eye on almost everything. Besides saving each other's lives on more than one occasion, their first children were born within three months of each other, their second within a year. And Harry and his wife had separated only two months before Angie went back to L.A. "Rough isn't the word," Jordan commented.

  Harry slapped his back. "Let's go to Sal's. I'm buying."

  Jordan shook his head. "Shit. I don't even know if I could eat."

  Harry shook his head and motioned for the door. "Nothing's that bad. Remember the ice robber?"

  Jordan nodded. When he and Harry had first started out as inspectors, there had been a string of six armed robberies in Pacific Heights. Before leaving each residence, the perp had removed all the ice from the freezer, placed it in bowls, and ordered his victims to stick their hands and feet in it without moving for forty minutes. The perp had claimed he could tell if they moved and would come back and shoot them.

  One older woman had done as he told her and was hospitalized for frostbite. She ended up with gangrene and one foot had to be amputated. Eventually, the gangrene had killed her.

  "You ate through that one," Harry added.

  "We had living witnesses for that one."

  Harry opened the door and headed out into the street. McClerkin and Gray had done some of their best work at Sal's, sitting at a booth in the back corner, thinking through cases without the distraction of phone calls or other officers. Sal had treated them like family, eventually putting up a "reserved" sign on the corner table on the days he expected them. Seven months ago, though, Sal had dropped dead of a heart attack. Jordan guessed he'd eaten too much of his own food.

  Since then, the place had lost most of its charm. The yellow walls seemed pasty and sick colored. The new owner, Sal's son, Tony, dressed like a pimp and had a series of nasty-looking characters around the place. All of the old staff except one cook had left. And Tony didn't seem to appreciate his cop clientele like Sal had.

  Jordan suspected pissing off Tony was the single reason Harry still ate there. It certainly wasn't because the food was good. And the once bad coffee now tasted like caffeinated swamp water.

  At ten-thirty in the morning, the place was almost empty. Tony was nowhere to be seen, and Jordan suspected he was still sleeping off whatever nighttime activities he was partaking of these days. Harry led them to the back table and sat down, hailing the waitress for two coffees.

  The woman showed up with two mugs and a pot of coffee, pouring without the slightest pause. "You want to look at the menu?"

  Jordan hadn't looked at Sal's menu in years. "Two eggs over easy and a side of toast—wheat, no butter."

  Harry held up two fingers. "Make it two."

  The waitress nodded and walked away, mumbling something under her breath.

  Jordan stared after her.

  "So what's going on?"

  Jordan looked over at his friend and shook his head. "This kid killing case is a nightmare. I want to send the files to Quantico."

  Harry narrowed his eyes. "And Tapp said no." It was less a question than a statement.

  Jordan took a long sip of coffee, eyeing his friend. Jordan knew when Harry was holding some
thing back. "What the hell's going on?"

  Harry cast a glance over his shoulder and leaned forward. The gesture was so familiar, Jordan could have smiled. Instead, he leaned forward and listened.

  "Way I heard it, Chief Jackson had some kind of fight with the director after the way the Mail Killer went."

  "Which director?"

  "FBI."

  "Purcell?"

  Harry nodded. "You remember how fucked up things got when they brought the FBI in. Jackson went ape. FBI criticized the way the department handled the evidence and the investigation, but Jackson's convinced they were the ones that screwed things up. Made us look like morons."

  "It's been almost two years."

  "Department still gets hammered over that one."

  "We got hammered over Stinson, too, and we didn't have the FBI on that one."

  McClerkin shrugged.

  Jordan shook his head. "I can't get help from FBI because Jackson's afraid they'll screw something up and we'll take the rap?"

  Harry took another glance over his shoulder. "That's what it looks like."

  "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

  Harry shrugged. "You're fucked, basically."

  "Thanks, asshole."

  McClerkin grinned. "My pleasure."

  "You have any bright ideas?" Jordan asked.

  He shrugged. "Not much of one."

  "I'm listening."

  They paused as the waitress brought their plates. She set one down in front of each man and then said, "Hmm. I hope I got those right. Well, you can always switch them." She chortled and sauntered off.

  "Smart ass," Harry called after her.

  She grinned back at him.

  Jordan smiled, then looked back at his friend. "You were saying?"

  "I figure when the case gets bad, Tapp will get desperate enough to go to Jackson."

  "And I'm supposed to sit on my ass until then."

  "There's one more thing."

  Jordan swallowed a bite of eggs and washed it down with coffee. "What?"

  "Remember that lecture series we went to a year ago February?"