Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

"Not yet. She's no longer listed in the area. I haven't called records yet. She could've gotten married, divorced, whatever."

  "Try everything, but find her. We need someone who can paint us a picture of the new George Allister."

  Jones nodded and left the room, less enthusiastically than he had the last time.

  Jordan thought he was beyond disappointment. But he felt the familiar stir himself. He picked up the phone and dialed his in-laws' phone number.

  "You've reached the Thomas residence. Please leave a message at the beep." The voice was Ryan's, and Jordan felt a physical pain at the sound of it.

  It was almost eight o'clock. Jordan was surprised no one was home. "It's Dad here. Just calling to check on you guys. Angie, give me a call at work when you get in."

  He hung up the phone and suddenly felt tired.

  Standing, he gathered the notes and files from his desk and packed them in his bag to take home. "Want to grab a bite?"

  Jordan looked up to see Harry McClerkin leaning in his doorway. "Sounds great."

  Just then, Renee appeared wearing a solemn face. "What is it?"

  "A call just came in—a missing kid reported at Corte Madera mall." Jordan sagged, weighted with dread. "Damn."

  Chapter 27

  Casey watched the police car stop in front of the hospital before she realized that the car said San Francisco Police and she was standing in Berkeley.

  "Casey McKinley?" the officer asked as he stepped out. He was a tall slender white man with light brown hair and eyes. Everything about his appearance sent off alarms in her mind. She took a step back toward the hospital entrance.

  "I'm Officer James West. Inspector Gray asked me to pick you up."

  She smiled, then turned and walked back into the hospital.

  "Agent McKinley," the officer called after her, sounding puzzled and slightly annoyed. "Inspector Gray said you might be skeptical. Said you should call him."

  Once she was safely inside next to the information station with at least a half dozen people staring at her, she glanced over her shoulder at the officer.

  He stopped several feet from her and pulled his radio off his shoulder. "We're supposed to call him on the radio."

  She folded her arms. "Go ahead."

  The officer fumbled with the radio, and after seeming to figure out which button was which, called in.

  Nearly a minute later, she heard Jordan's voice. "Officer West? You're at the hospital?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. Now, McKinley, are you giving my officer a hard time?"

  Casey snatched the radio from the officer's hand and pushed the button using the knuckle of her other hand. It seemed easy enough to her. "What the hell were you thinking sending a white guy with size ten shoes over here?" she chastised.

  Officer West stared, puzzled, at his feet.

  Jordan laughed into the radio. "Do you have to yell?"

  Casey could feel the stares, people wondering why she was complaining about the white guy.

  Meanwhile, Officer West was staring at his shiny shoes.

  "Don't give my rookie a hard time. Just get in the car and go with him."

  She frowned. "Why aren't you here?"

  "I'm at the scene," Jordan said, his tone suddenly sober.

  "Shit," she responded before realizing she was still speaking into the radio.

  "Exactly. You coming or what? The whole world is hearing this, you know."

  "See you in a few." Casey handed the radio back to the officer. "Sorry," she said to whoever was listening and started for the door again. West was right on her tail. She turned back to him. "I apologize for that."

  "Don't worry. Inspector Gray warned me."

  She smiled. "He did, did he?"

  West cracked an awkward smile. "You know what I mean."

  "I certainly do." As soon as he pulled out onto Ashby, Casey began asking questions. "When was Gray called to the scene?"

  West stared through the windshield. "I don't know."

  "Is this a new victim of the same killer?"

  "Couldn't say, ma'am."

  "Is this victim black or white?"

  West glanced at her before responding. He clearly thought she had an issue with race. "I don't know," he finally said.

  "Boy or girl?"

  He shrugged.

  "What do you know about the most recent victim?"

  He didn't even flinch. "Nothing."

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "I don't know." As soon as the words were out, he looked over, turning red.

  "Let me take a guess here. Inspector Gray told you not to answer any of my questions, right?"

  The officer nodded without meeting her gaze.

  "You mind telling me where we're going?"

  "To the scene, ma'am."

  Casey rolled her eyes and leaned back against the seat. "Great," she mumbled.

  * * *

  "I'm glad you're here," Jordan said as he met Casey at the officer's car. From his tone, though, she knew it wasn't because he was happy to see her.

  She looked around at the sloped hills surrounding Point Reyes. It was different than the other locations, more scenic. It would mean something to Leonardo, and she needed to spend some time to figure out what.

  The first was a residential kill—the girl burned in her home, though she hadn't been discovered first. The second girl was dumped in the city—behind an abandoned warehouse. Next, there had been the girl in the alley, also in the city, then the girl in the park. And now this.

  This was his first truly suburban kill. This wasn't far from where he was living. Or he had spent some time here. She looked up at the houses that lined the hills, their rear windows facing the sea. "Check and see if any of the places with views of this site are rented."

  Jordan glanced up. "You think he's watching?"

  "I think he'd love to be if he's not." She turned her attention to the scene. "What've you got?"

  Jordan stared at his small spiral notepad as if he hadn't just been looking at the victim in person. "Caucasian male, eleven, somewhat undersized for his age."

  "Male?"

  Jordan nodded.

  "That's odd. This one from a mall?"

  Jordan nodded again. "I've got cops casing all the malls, looking out for uniforms. There just aren't enough cops to patrol every place."

  "Was he reported missing?"

  "I got the call right after I spoke to you yesterday. Couple has twins—a girl and a boy. They were at Corte Madera mall. Parents left the kids to play in a toy store while they ran an errand. Girl went to one end, boy to the other—looking for different toys."

  Casey nodded, making mental notes.

  "A while later, the boy comes to show his sister a toy she might like." He looked down at his notepad. "Some new game their friends have. Boy finds his sister talking to a police officer. Maybe our guy didn't realize the brother was so close by."

  "Wouldn't make sense," Casey argued. "He'd have watched the parents and kids come in. Probably the father and son came in separately, trailing or something."

  Jordan nodded. "So, the boy finds his sister talking to a cop. According to the little girl, the officer tells the kids that one of them needs to come with him to meet their mom while the other one waits there."

  "And the kids don't question that?"

  Jordan glanced at his notebook and shook his head. "Doesn't look like it. All I've got is that the little boy insisted he should be the one to go. Wanted to be a cop when he grew up."

  Casey pictured the little boy fighting his sister for the honor of going with the cop. "Guess the girl's lucky she didn't have aspirations for law enforcement," Casey said, trying to lighten the fierce nausea in her gut. "And the mother?"

  Jordan nodded without comment.

  "How similar?"

  "I've got a picture in the car—similar enough. And I figured out why they all look like you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Karen and Jeanette Allister."<
br />
  She remembered Jordan telling her his theory after seeing the crime scene photos. "You got pictures of them?"

  He nodded.

  "We look alike?"

  "There's a resemblance."

  Casey digested that and nodded. There was nothing more to say. Leonardo still had her in his sights, and now she knew why. Dismissing the tight knot in her stomach, she returned her attention to the scene. "When did the body turn up?"

  "A couple of early joggers stumbled across it this morning at about seven. I got here an hour or so before you."

  "A quicker turnaround than the other victims," Casey commented. Leonardo had never seemed like someone who liked to be rushed. Was he getting bored? She knew there was a pattern, a method of some sort. She needed to home in on it to learn where and when the next would happen—to be there before it did. "This makes five?" she asked, starting up toward the body.

  "Yep," Jordan said.

  Up on the hill, the huddle of people worked like a pack of wolves around the body, taking pictures, dusting for prints, collecting anything they could find. It was one of the more organized scenes she'd seen. A slender Chinese man in a carefully pressed white lab jacket ordered his team around with quick, easy directions.

  Standing on the edge of the crowd, Casey took in the sight of the body. She hadn't been on the scene of a child death for over two years. Even when she'd seen one every few months, it had always been the worst type of job. The first thing Casey noticed about this boy was the blue party hat that had been propped on top of his lifeless face. "The hat is the same color as the one you found on your son at the Warriors game?"

  Jordan stared back at the hat and shivered. He didn't have an answer.

  "Not many more colors in the rainbow," Casey said.

  Jordan nodded. "I had Renee check. The hat only comes in six colors."

  "It probably won't end when he runs out of colors," she said softly.

  Jordan nodded in agreement, but Casey could tell that he had hoped maybe the end of the rainbow would bring the end of the deaths.

  "We've got a whole set of those things now," the Chinese man said.

  Almost, Casey thought. One left.

  Jordan motioned to him. "This is Al Ting, head of the crime scene team."

  With her hands shoved in her pockets, Casey said hello. His own hands covered in medical gloves, Ting made no move to shake.

  "And Ray Zambotti, our medical examiner," Jordan said, pointing her in the opposite direction.

  Casey swung around, and the short balding man practically grabbed her hand right out of her pocket to pump it heavily. "Good to meet you. Great day, isn't it?"

  Unlatching her hand, she nodded and replaced the now sore fist in her pocket. Traveling around the country to crime scenes, Casey could safely say she'd met all types. But the medical examiners were often the oddest.

  Jordan lifted the sheet that had been draped over the body. "We have the same components as the priors. Duct tape, a standard white sheet, rope. All of it matches."

  "Got some nail scrapings this time," Ting said.

  Jordan nodded. "Right. Looks like there might be some tissue under the nails."

  Casey looked at the paper bags tied over the boy's hands to preserve whatever might be beneath his nails. She suspected it would turn out to be the child's own tissue if anything at all.

  "How about cause of death?" Casey asked.

  "Looks the same as the others."

  "I'll know more when I can get in there," the medical examiner added a bit too enthusiastically.

  Casey gave him a strange stare.

  He returned a little shrug.

  Jordan rolled his eyes and brought the focus back to the victim. "We've got less mutilation than in the prior cases—he's got a couple broken fingers is all."

  Casey frowned. It didn't sound right. "You sure it's the same guy and not a copycat?"

  Jordan nodded. "Positive."

  "How?"

  Pointing to the boy's thigh, Jordan explained, "You can see his standard mark—here on the thigh."

  Casey glanced at the marks and felt a stabbing pain rip through her fingers. It was agony reborn from memory. She glanced away and then forced her eyes back to the wound. She could feel the knife on her thigh as though it were fresh.

  With her hands tucked under her arms, she pushed her arms down until she could feel the pain in her hands from the pressure. Somehow, the physical reminder was a relief from the excruciating pain in her memory.

  "Maybe he was rushed," Jordan offered.

  Casey looked at the boy and shook her head. "I don't think so. This killer doesn't put himself in a position to be rushed when he takes a child. From what you've said about the circumstances, it's more likely that the boy wasn't the original target."

  "He wanted the girl, you mean," Jordan said.

  "It seems like it. That, or he's saving himself for the next one. Maybe he even has the next one already." She was thinking out loud, hoping something would fall in place.

  "You think he's saving himself for a finale?"

  Casey thought about the last color in the rainbow—purple. It was the color of power. Wasn't he exerting his power over all of them? She wondered who he would choose for the rainbow's finale. If all the children's mothers looked like Casey, it only made sense that Casey would be his ultimate victim. Or Casey's child. Amy? Was Amy in danger? She was so far away. But why go from killing adults in Cincinnati to killing children whose mothers looked alike, unless Casey herself was the key? Damn, she couldn't find an answer.

  "Casey?" Jordan repeated. "Are you okay?"

  Pulling herself back, she nodded and ran her hands over her arms, fighting off the chill. She forced herself to concentrate on the case. She had put the crime scene photos aside before studying all of them. "These marks, they've been on each of the victims?"

  Jordan nodded. "We're not sure about the girl from the fire, but the others, yes."

  Casey knelt beside the boy and studied the marks. "They're not done freehand."

  The medical examiner scurried up behind her. "What do you mean?" he asked, his face only inches from her own.

  Jordan, too, leaned in to take a closer look.

  "Can I get gloves?" She wanted to touch the boy's skin, but skin was a wonderful surface for fingerprints, and she didn't want to leave hers.

  Jordan handed her a pair, and she pulled them on, awkwardly. Kneeling in the grass, she ran her finger across the surface of the cut. "It's an L in the center for Leonardo, and the sideways figure eight is the sign for infinity. It's his way of saying Leonardo forever. See how perfect they are. I think he's got an instrument for this."

  "No way," Zambotti hollered in her ear.

  Casey cringed.

  "Settle down, Ray," Jordan said.

  "I studied them against an entire file of scalpel cuts I have," Zambotti retorted. "They're nearly a perfect match to a sixteenth-inch scalpel."

  "Maybe nearly, but not perfect," Casey said. "If you compare each mark to the others, you'll notice they're too similar to be freehand."

  "What are you saying, Casey?" Jordan asked, laying his hand on her shoulder.

  "I'm saying it's some sort of cookie cut he does on the victim. He didn't do it on the first three victims in Cincinnati, but it showed up on the fourth. I believe he does it in two parts. The infinity sign first, and then the L for Leonardo when he's done with his work. His signature if you will."

  "Two parts?" Ray asked.

  Casey nodded.

  "How do you know?" Jordan continued, ignoring Zambotti.

  She turned to Jordan and lowered her voice. "I've seen it before."

  "It's impossible to tell from that," Ray muttered.

  "Where have you seen it?" Jordan pressed.

  Casey looked around. Everyone had stopped what they were doing, and they were all turned toward her, listening.

  "Yeah, where have you seen it?" Ray echoed.

  Casey stood and touched the fly o
f her jeans. It was a hell of a lot easier to open them than it would be to get them done up again. Cursing, she pulled the fly free and pushed her jeans to her ankles. Then, turning her leg toward Zambotti and Jordan, she pointed to the sideways figure eight on her thigh.

  "Holy shit," Zambotti said, reaching to touch her leg.

  She punched his hand away, and he jumped back. "It's only the infinity sign on me." She looked at her audience. "He obviously never got a chance to finish."

  Chapter 28

  Rick Swain felt the rhythm of excitement drum in his stomach. Mueller wanted to see him. He hadn't been excited about the job since Cincinnati. Maybe someone was finally going to tell him what had happened. Maybe they realized the investigator had screwed up, and Swain wasn't at fault after all. Or for all he knew, Mueller was about to fire him.

  He couldn't even count how many times in the past year he'd considered quitting the Bureau, but he knew he couldn't leave—not without knowing what had happened in Cincinnati. He knew what people thought of when they saw him. It was like letting his own sister get injured. He had done his job. McKinley's apartment had been carefully wired that night—he'd done it all himself, and he'd checked and double-checked. The question was, what the hell happened after he left?

  His worst mistake was not questioning why the apartment had remained quiet even after he'd seen McKinley enter. Shit, how much noise do people make going to bed? But at least he should've heard running water or a toilet flush. They'd wired both Casey's apartment and her partner's as a precaution, but Swain hadn't been expecting activity. It was going to be a cake job. He'd never imagined the killer would actually show up there. The killer had sent McKinley some strange correspondence. Maybe the Bureau actually expected him to show up there, but they certainly never told Swain that.

  Swain took a final drag of his cigarette and headed above ground to Mueller's office. It was 9:07. He was supposed to be there at nine sharp, but Swain knew Mueller liked to keep people waiting. It was a sweating game up at his office. He did it to everyone, and Swain was sick of the fucking games.

  As he stepped off the elevator, Swain squinted at the bright natural light that streamed into the building. It was cloudy and raining outside, but even the gray sky seemed impossibly bright compared to his lock-down.