Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  "But—" Renee interjected.

  "But what?"

  "I mentioned the case Strioski is working on?"

  Jordan narrowed his gaze. "Which case?"

  "The black kid kicked out of the movie theater by some big white bouncer guy. Kid claims he was brutalized because he's black."

  "I know that one. It's not a case. It's some punk kid trying to get a free ride at the movies."

  Renee grinned. "Willard thinks it's a history maker—battle of the races in San Francisco. Even gave his spot on the serial killer case to Mary Riggs."

  Jordan cracked a smile. "Renee, you're dangerous, you hear me?"

  She snapped her fingers. "You better believe it. Mary will be by in about an hour." Renee made a note and looked back up with a wink.

  "What's next?"

  "Becky called, and the chief wants a list of facts for the evening news."

  Jordan had anticipated that one of the heads would speak to the public. It was his job to determine what they would be told. Too little, and the tips line would be worthless in helping them. Too much, and they wouldn't be able to weed out the good leads from the bad. "Who's addressing?"

  "The mayor or maybe the chief. I don't think they've decided yet."

  "Either's fine. We need to have a tips line ready by tonight. Will you call in Monica Pradahn? I'd like her to lead up the group and handle the press." Monica, pronounced Mo-Nee-ka, was a petite, trim, energetic Indian woman who embodied the meticulous organizational and managerial qualities that were invaluable for a successful tips line. Beyond that, she invoked humor and calm at the craziest of times.

  When Monica joined the force seven years earlier, from the Los Angeles department, Jordan had continually mispronounced her name. Despite constant criticism from colleagues about his insensitivity and more embarrassment than he cared to recall, Monica never once lost her cool. Instead, she responded to each butchering by simply smiling and correcting him. Again.

  "I'll get her on the phone right now. Anything else?"

  The truck he had seen in front of Agent McKinley's house came to mind, and he pulled his notebook from his breast pocket. Tearing the page from the spiral, he handed it to Renee. "Will you have someone run a check on this license for me?"

  "Rush?"

  He nodded. "And I need to have you check with local departments about similar cases."

  "Who do you want to try?"

  "L.A. Try Detective Sherman there. I saved his ass two months ago. Maybe he'll return the favor. And try Portland—what's his name—"

  "Del Negro is there, isn't he?" she said, writing on her notepad.

  "Exactly. And Jimmy Atkinson in Seattle." He paused. "That's enough to start. Get anything they can think of. If they've got something—anything—I want to talk to them. And I want as much as you can get on what happened to FBI Agent Casey McKinley in Cincinnati."

  "Got it." She shifted the stack of files against her hip and stared him down. "You talked to Angie, Jordan?"

  The name felt like an uppercut to his gut. He stared at his feet. "Yep. And it still doesn't sound like she wants anything to do with me."

  Renee shook her head. "Don't be stupid, Jordan. The woman loves you. She'll come around. Now, don't go forgetting your father-in-law's birthday is in three days. I'll pick up a card."

  "Thanks, Renee."

  "And Will's birthday is in less than two weeks, Jordan. You don't want to be away from that boy on his birthday."

  He nodded. "I asked Angie to bring the boys up this weekend. Told me she wanted me to come to her. But I don't want to go stay with my in-laws."

  Renee waved her hand at him, dismissing his comment. "Of course not. She'll come up here. She just wants you to work for it. You should send those flowers."

  "It won't do any good."

  "Won't know till you try."

  Jordan eyed her, then shook his head. "I don't know..."

  "Oh, forget you. You men don't know a good thing till it's gone." She handed him a couple of files and pushed him toward his office. "Now, you get in there and dial up some shop and send your wife flowers. Write something real sweet, now, you hear me? I'll get on the horn and see about getting Warrior tickets. Between the flowers and the tickets, Angie couldn't say no."

  "Thanks, Renee."

  "Yeah, yeah. Now, git." She waved him off.

  Jordan sat at his desk and debated the merits of sending flowers. Somehow it felt like an admission of guilt. He hadn't done anything wrong, but that wasn't how his mother-in-law would see it. Damn, but he did want Angie and the boys back. It was getting lonely in the house.

  Finding a number in the phone book, he dialed a florist and asked the high-pitched male voice on the other end to send something bright and cheery with a card that read, "Come up here before I explode."

  "Oh my. Isn't that visual?" the salesman exclaimed.

  Jordan thanked him and hung up, a little uncomfortable at the florist's enthusiasm.

  With that done, he concentrated on making notes for the press conference later. Ray Zambotti's autopsy report on the black girl found in the alley described what few clues Jordan had. The facts were eerily familiar as he thought over the first victim's autopsy report.

  The girl's mouth was a regular sewing project. Her upper lip had been completely detached from her face and, from what the medical examiner could guess by some strange marks on the head, attached to her scalp.

  The medical examiner had called to confirm that the signature on the black girl's leg had been compared to that on the white girl, and were nearly identical. He was still working on matching the marks to a style of blade or weapon, though. Scalpel was everyone's best guess.

  Jordan told the M.E. to call in whatever resources he needed to determine what instrument created those marks. Maybe it could be used to track the SOB down. Jordan pressed the intercom on his desk. "Renee, could you come in here?"

  Less than ten seconds later, Renee entered, notebook in hand.

  "You still talk to that woman in records at Quantico?" Jordan asked.

  "Betty? Every Monday like clockwork."

  "Good. Call the M.E.'s office and request a copy of the photos of the killer's signature. Then, get a copy of it to Quantico and have them run it through their records. I'm hoping to hell they'll find a match."

  Renee nodded, writing.

  "And, Renee?"

  She looked up.

  "This one's a JBU." Just Between Us was a term Jordan and Renee had been using since their second day together. Renee used it almost as much as Jordan, and neither had ever let a secret out.

  "No problem. Betty'll take care of us. Anything else?"

  Jordan shook his head.

  "You want a report on that license plate you gave me earlier?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Registered to a landscaping company—Tim Ramirez is the listed owner. You want me to find out more about him?"

  Jordan frowned. He used to have such a keen sense about when things weren't quite right. Why had he felt that way about the gardener?

  He ran a hand over his stubble. He hadn't even showered today, and he'd been up since four a.m. That was why.

  "Jordan?"

  He shook himself from his thoughts. "No, Renee. That's it."

  "Monica's on her way."

  Back at his desk, Jordan made notes for the news release. His handwriting was atrocious, but he and Monica would go over it. Words had never been his strong suit.

  There was a light rap at his door, and Monica popped her head in. "Is this a good time?"

  He nodded and motioned her to the chair.

  She wore a navy pinstriped pantsuit over her thin, straight figure. Her hair was cut in a chin-length bob, its black color a sharp contrast to her complexion. Crossing her legs, she sat forward on the chair and propped a small device that looked like a calculator in her hand. She always used it, and Jordan could never remember what it was called. That sort of technology was unheard of in the police station. "You stil
l using that—"

  "Palm Pilot? Don't go anywhere without it. You really should get one."

  He waved her off. "No way. I can't even program the VCR without help."

  She shook her head in a mocking gesture.

  "You got that thing up and ready?" he asked.

  "Anytime."

  "Let's start with the press release. We can release location and identity of all three children," Jordan began.

  "It should concentrate on the places where the children were last seen—perhaps we can create a map of the areas," Monica suggested.

  "Perfect. Do it."

  Monica made notes on her little computer. Pausing, she looked up, the small gray stylus poised in the air. "What's the reward look like?"

  "I don't know."

  She nodded. "I'll check with Jackson's office."

  "Ask Sharon there. She also has the pictures of the kids to provide to the stations."

  "Anything else you need to tell me?"

  "I want Walter Jones to be given some key responsibilities," Jordan added.

  "The rookie who pulled over the guy with his wife in the trunk? I've heard he's good."

  "He is." Walter Jones was a rookie patrol cop, but he had the makings and drive to be a great inspector. In a recent case, he'd pulled over a car for running a red light. While requesting the driver's ID, Walter had noticed the suspect was shaking and perspiring heavily.

  On closer inspection, he noticed a large defense-type scratch on the man's neck, and that he reeked of booze. Without alarming the man, Jones called for backup. He and another officer searched the car under probable cause and discovered the man's wife in the trunk. She was unconscious and bleeding from wounds inflicted with a gardening tool.

  Thankfully, the paramedics on the scene had successfully stabilized the woman, and the man eventually was convicted of attempted murder and sentenced to twenty-to-life.

  "I think that's it," Jordan said. "We need to get something to the chief before nine tonight." He glanced at his watch. "That's less than two hours."

  Monica put her Palm Pilot away. "I'll write it up and have it there in an hour."

  "Then we need to get cracking on a tips line before he gets the word out."

  "I think you're going to need a dozen officers handling calls on this one. A multi-race killer. You've got a lot of scared moms and dads out there."

  Jordan wrote "twelve" in his notebook and circled it. Monica had an uncanny way of sensing how much feedback they would get.

  "Can I ask you something, Jordan?"

  He nodded.

  "How come no FBI?"

  Jordan crossed his arms and leaned back, frowning.

  She raised her eyes at his expression. "That bad, huh?"

  "Worse."

  "Political?"

  "You guessed it."

  "How about consultants? Anyone locally who can help?"

  Jordan had already considered some of the crime specialists in the area. "Not yet. I thought I had something." He paused and focused on Monica again. "But it didn't work out." He wished again that he had never heard of Casey McKinley.

  Monica nodded and rose from her chair. "I'll get started on this."

  Before Monica could reach the door, Renee opened it, her expression a tight frown. "We've got another body, Jordan."

  Jordan exhaled. "Damn."

  Chapter 9

  The darkness made his plan much simpler. Pulling down the ski hat, he moved into the shadows of the tall trees and down the slope of Casey's yard. He peered into her bedroom window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her sleeping. But the shades were carefully drawn.

  Disappointment stirred in his chest, but he cast it aside. A wasted emotion. He would see her soon—and so much closer. Billy had made that all possible. The attraction, the hospital meeting, perfectly choreographed, perfectly planned. He could play the part of the lover, the palm reader. And his disguises were the best—even his "lover" wouldn't know him if he saw him now. He had always had a sense of people's destinies, especially those close to him. And no one knew Casey's hands like he did. He paused to savor the richness of the excitement stirring his blood at the thought of touching Casey's hands again—the hands he had sculpted himself. So soon. It was coming so soon. He rubbed himself against the hard surface of Casey's house and then pushed himself back to the task at hand.

  Gripping the wire cutters in his gloved hand, he moved silently down the hillside, keeping his body pressed against the house. Taking every precaution, he had parked the van on the next block hours before, sitting and waiting until night before making his move.

  He had dropped off his latest artwork in a secluded area in a park in Pacific Heights only three hours earlier. He'd been sloppy in Cincinnati, leaving the evidence of his pleasure at the scene. Now he was careful to enjoy the kill privately. Nothing would lead them to him until he was ready.

  Every step had been planned to perfection, even an escape path down the slope below Casey's house. They would never catch him because he could not be caught.

  At the bottom of the slope, he pulled a penlight from his pocket and quickly surveyed the area. If the city building records were right, the outside circuit breaker would be at the far corner.

  Switching off the light, he crept along the side of the house until he found the small metal box. With the hook unlatched, he opened the box and found the switch. The inside of the house was still dark. He flipped the switch and waited, his ears honed for movement from above.

  It was silent. Placing the two-pronged current detector on the exposed wires, he waited. When no red light appeared, he knew the electricity was no longer running into the house. Wire cutters in hand, he traced the wires in and out of the box to assure he had the ones that led into the house, the ones without electricity.

  Clipping the wrong wire would mean electrocuting himself. He found the correct wire and clipped it, noting the steadiness of his pulse as he risked death. Even he could not believe his own power.

  With the wire cutters in his pocket, he moved back into the shadows. Pride at his own ingenuity welled as he returned to the nondescript white van parked down the street. He sat back to wait.

  Chapter 10

  Still slow with her bad knee, Casey hit the top of the hill and headed toward her house, the newspaper under her arm. It was almost seven-thirty, but the storm clouds made it seem like five a.m. Either way, she hadn't been up this early in nearly a year. Michael used to love the mornings. They would rise early, before Amy was awake, and have coffee and lie in bed, strategizing life. Michael had always had the clearest vision and the quickest responses.

  "I don't date lawyers," she had responded to his date proposal.

  "Good thing I'm only a law student," he had replied.

  "I don't date law students," she clarified, making a move from the conversation.

  Michael hadn't even blinked. "So if I were in law school to get advanced training in criminal law to apply it to my Ph.D. in criminal psychology you still wouldn't go out with me?"

  That stopped her. "You have a Ph.D. in criminal psych?"

  He grinned, and it was the corners of his mouth, the small dimple on one side, the light in his green eyes that kept her from walking away. "But I'm a law student."

  She hadn't been able to say no after that.

  No matter what life threw at them, Michael had an answer. It was the reason Casey had fallen for him. When the doctor told them Amy would be their only child, he'd been there, reminding her how perfect Amy was. What did they need with another child?

  Whatever life doled out, Michael could always make the negative positive. Whatever life had doled out until this.

  She looked down at his faded Yale sweatshirt and rubbed the worn cotton over her face. "Happy anniversary," she whispered to herself.

  Of all mornings, this was the one where she had lost electricity to her house. Her anniversary, thoughts of Michael and Amy, all of it made her suddenly restless. Needing an excuse to get outside, the dark
house had served plenty. Darkness had become her least favorite thing.

  A familiar stirring of panic had moved her more quickly than she thought possible when she realized the power outage could have been intentional rather than accidental. She'd called PG&E, but their service hours didn't start until eight. To be safe, she'd tucked a can of mace into her jeans, but she hadn't seen a sign of electricity all the way down the hill. The strange feeling yesterday, the lights out this morning, there was something.

  But it had to be the inspector's visit that was setting off her imagination: the reminder of the fact that Leonardo was still out there. She'd spent a year having panic attacks like this one. She should be used to them. Instead, her lungs still burned and the fresh air only partially subdued her racing heart.

  As she rounded the corner, she saw Billy's car parked out front. She frowned, wondering why he was there so early. She wasn't expecting him until ten. Hurrying home, she let herself in and called his name.

  "Oh, thank God." He grabbed her by the shoulders and nearly hugged her, his face flushed with worry.

  She glanced over his shoulder for signs of a fire or burglary. "Thank God, what? Why are you here so early?"

  "I called you."

  She shook her head. "I wasn't here. Has something happened?"

  He rolled his eyes and sighed, still gripping her shoulders. "No. Nothing's happened, but when I didn't get an answer, I was worried. Plus, there's no power. What's going on with the electricity?"

  Detaching herself from his grasp, she dropped the paper nonchalantly on the chair. "Why did you call? You see me every day."

  "I'll explain in a minute. Why isn't there power?"

  She rubbed her shoulders. "I don't know. It's been off since I got up. I don't think anyone else has power, either. I'll call again."

  He eyed the paper then turned back to her, his brow furrowed. "You were out this morning?"