Vail looked at him.
“Keep your eyes on the road. And tell me I’m wrong.”
“Fine, right now I’m a hysterical mother trying desperately to save her son. But I don’t know what else to do. And I do know Jasmine, and I’m pretty damn sure she’s going after Jonathan.”
“I think you’re right. But we need some proof before we pull that fire alarm.”
“Because if I’m wrong, they’ll never give me any credibility? Right now I couldn’t give a shit about tomorrow. Or the day after. All I care about is tonight—making sure my son’s safe.”
“No, Karen. Problem is that they won’t deploy. And if we do get some proof, they’ll have already said no. It’ll be harder to convince them. You’d be the woman who cried wolf.”
“Fine. We’ll give it five minutes. At most. Meantime, call campus police, alert them to a potential problem.”
As Underwood looked up the number, Vail tightened her grip on the wheel.
Potential problem may be an understatement.
60
Jasmine stood inside the large, packed campus Starbucks café, a hot cappuccino in her left hand and her face seemingly fixated on her phone. But in reality she was watching the Phillips Hall exit for Jonathan Vail.
With the information Vail had given her, combined with some internet sleuthing, a phone call, and a couple of assumptions, she was able to ascertain that Jonathan was likely in one of five classes. Upon further narrowing the parameters following a conversation with a helpful junior, she figured he would be coming out of his criminology class at 6:03 PM.
At 6:02, with snow flurries falling and the temperature dropping into the twenties, Jasmine left the warmth of Starbucks and started walking slowly toward the building. It was possible she had miscalculated—her crack detective work notwithstanding, she had to admit she did not have a lot of time to think it through.
But she would deal with a failed attempt by withdrawing and living to fight another day. There were other ways to take care of business. And as long as she was smart about it, she would have enough time to get to both her father and Vail, even if it meant a direct assault rather than taking out Jonathan, someone who meant more to Vail than anything else.
There were, of course, advantages to offing Jonathan: Vail would be forced to live with the pain of having her son murdered by a killer she failed to recognize, despite years of interaction. It would be an ongoing nightmare.
As she approached the recessed glass doors—now only about fifty feet away—Jonathan emerged, phone pressed against his ear.
She quickened her pace, closing the distance, ready to begin her spiel.
“Yeah,” Jonathan said into the handset. “Just got out of class. Taking Uber. Be there in ten.” He started to cross H Street, where a white Toyota Camry had stopped in front of a line of cars.
Jasmine slowed. Change of plans.
Jonathan said something to the driver through the partially cracked window, then pulled open the rear door and got in. As he started to swing it closed, Jasmine grabbed it and stuck her head in. “Mind if I share?”
“This is Uber,” Jonathan said. “I’ve already paid—”
“Not a problem.” Jasmine dug into her purse and pulled out a twenty. “On me. I’ve gotta meet my girlfriend and it’s so cold.” She gave him an award-winning shiver and sad face.
“I’m going into Georgetown, friends are wait—”
“So am I. Please …” she said, drawing it out, again holding up the twenty.
A horn honked behind them. The driver, a slight middle-aged black man, swiveled in his seat and looked at Jonathan. “We need to get going.”
Jonathan took the money and slid over.
Jasmine pulled the door closed as the driver accelerated. “Where in Georgetown are you going?” She could feel Jonathan’s eyes on her as she sorted herself out, reaching into her purse and glancing up at him, then stopping to make eye contact. She could tell he was just now noticing her beauty.
“Uh—Booeymonger’s on Prospect.”
“So what are you studying at GW?” She giggled. “I saw you come out of Phillips.”
Jonathan glanced at the building out the rear window as it receded into the distance. “You know GW?”
“Alum. Criminal justice major.”
“Me, too. Really? Did you have Weitzer?”
“For criminology, of course.”
The driver turned left onto 20th Street, which was clear. He sped up and hung a left onto Pennsylvania.
She adjusted her left hand inside her purse and held out her right. “I’m Jessica.”
He took it and shook. “I’m Jona—”
But he did not get the word out because she yanked him close and slapped a soaked rag up against his mouth and nose. He tried to pull back, but she had done this too many times. She knew the way a person resisted, and she was ready. His fight lessened as he drifted into an unconscious state.
“Hey,” the driver shouted. “The fuck’s going on back there?”
“He passed out,” Jasmine said. “I’ve got him, it’s okay.” She removed the garrote from her purse and whipped it over the driver’s head and pulled it tight. Both hands left the steering wheel as he tried—as they all do—to pry the wire off his neck.
It never worked. Jasmine leaned forward, using leverage and her 135 pounds of weight to cut off the blood supply from the man’s brain.
The Toyota drifted right, sideswiped a car, and wedged itself behind another vehicle. The driver’s body went limp and she quickly gathered up the garrote and shoved it back into her purse. Jasmine grabbed his jacket and yanked him to the right, toward the passenger’s seat.
She had never done this before, and although he was thin and relatively short, he probably weighed 150 pounds. While she was accustomed to lifting weights in the gym, the confined space made this a much more difficult task: she could not use her powerful leg muscles very efficiently. It was harder to move him than she thought.
Jasmine did not have much time. Mere seconds had passed but the Camry was partially blocking the right lane and people had undoubtedly seen the accident, though it was unlikely anyone saw what transpired inside the dark interior.
She gave a quick glance around: it was a three-lane road in each direction and they were next to a small community park on the right side, so there were not many people in the area on a cold and snowy night. And cars were flowing around the Toyota, rushing to wherever they were going. Sometimes the apathy of time-stressed Americans was useful.
Jasmine got his torso draped over the center armrest—leaving enough room for her to fit behind the wheel. She turned off the dome light and opened the back door, careful to avoid the passing vehicles in the adjacent lane.
Jasmine forced her bottom onto the front seat, then grabbed the man’s jeans and pushed and lifted and groaned, then reached over and pulled his shirt forward, directing his head toward the floor. That helped, and she was able to get his ass onto the console. She bent his knees and wedged them up near his chest.
Seconds later, her upper body drenched in perspiration from the Herculean effort, she directed the Camry down Pennsylvania Avenue. She would use Washington Circle, only a few blocks down, to turn around and head back to Arlington.
She had not made it very far when she heard a noise. A cell phone vibrating? Stopped at a light, she leaned closer to the driver’s body—but it was coming from the backseat.
Jonathan.
As soon as she got the green, she made her way over to the right and parked in front of a bus stop. She got into the rear of the vehicle and dosed Jonathan once again to buy more time, then patted him down and found his phone. There was a text from someone named Patrick:
in the back. got a table.
And a missed call. From Vail.
Jasmine craned her neck tow
ard the windshield but did not see anyone taking an interest in the car. She returned to the task at hand and listened to Vail’s message.
She knew that voice.
Impossible.
I killed him.
No longer concerned about passersby, Jasmine pulled out her own phone and opened the SecureHome app for her surveillance cameras. She squeezed the handset while waiting for it to make the connection. Seconds later, she saw the basement of her house.
And Thomas Underwood’s body, which she had left on the floor in the middle of the hidden room, was not there.
I can’t go back there. They know.
Jasmine picked up Jonathan’s phone, returned to the driver’s seat, and pulled away. No need to use Washington Circle now. She had to find another place for her kill.
As she mulled that thought, she tore Jonathan’s iPhone from its case and tossed the device out the window. It struck the snowy asphalt and bounced a split second before a car tire crushed it.
And that’s when she figured out where she should go.
61
Vail’s phone buzzed—and Underwood answered. He listened a moment, then put it on speaker. “It’s Erik Curtis. That tracking device of yours is working.”
Thank god. “Curtis? What’ve you got?”
“Jasmine’s in motion, but so far we’ve got a clean signal.”
“Am I right? GW?”
“GW’s huge, but yeah, looks like the outskirts. On our way, not that far.”
“Can you text the location to us? I’m driving and Thomas has never used Uzi’s app.”
“Will do. And I’ll let you know soon as we get there.”
The second Underwood hung up, her phone vibrated.
“That was fast.”
Underwood shook his head. “It’s not Curtis. It’s a message from your boss, Lewis Hurdle. They’re locked onto Jonathan’s phone. Stingray.”
Vail straightened up in her seat. “Now we’re in business.”
Her Samsung dinged again. “Curtis’s text?”
“Yeah,” Underwood said. “He sent us the location.”
“Tell me where I’m going.”
“Uh …” His head jerked up from the screen. “They’re different.”
“What do you mean?”
“That tracker is not in the same place as Jonathan.”
“Call him, call Jonathan. If he’s moving, he’s no longer in class. He should hear his phone. Assuming he turned the volume up after class ended.” And assuming Jasmine doesn’t have him.
“I still need to call campus PD. Gonna do that first, get them on board. We could use their eyes and ears on the ground. They know their streets and buildings better than us. Then we can figure out what’s going on. Hurdle’s headed toward the Stingray location and Curtis is going after that tracking device you’ve got on Jasmine. We’re covered. Hang tight.”
Hang tight? Is he serious? Hang tight?
Underwood went through some verbal sparring with campus police but ultimately convinced them they could have a serial killer on-site and that a target could be a student, Jonathan Vail, who was leaving one of his classes. “Which one? Which building?” Underwood asked Vail.
“No idea. I asked him for his schedule but I don’t think he gave it to me. I just know he’s done with classes today at six.”
Underwood related that information and told them he had two potential locations. “Yes, this is a federal agent’s son. Vail, Karen Vail. FBI.” He listened a moment, thanked them, then hung up.
“So?”
“So I was right. They don’t know what to make of it. You have a photo of Jonathan? And Jasmine?”
“Nothing of Jasmine. But I took a good one of Jonathan a couple weeks ago with my fiancé.” She gestured at the phone. “In ‘gallery.’”
Underwood navigated the screen, tapping and swiping. “Got it. Sending it through to them now.”
“There’s probably one of Jasmine on her website. Have them google it. No idea what it is.”
“They’re getting a couple of cars out to circulate in the area and alerting foot patrols. But other than looking for Jonathan—which is why I wanted the picture—they didn’t seem to have a plan of action. Can’t say I blame them.”
“Open up that app. Let’s see if I can talk you through how to use it.”
Underwood had the program up and running as Vail turned right onto 23rd Street NW, now blocks from GW. As she began her explanation, Hurdle called through.
Vail reached over and put it on the Bluetooth speaker.
“We got a problem,” Hurdle said.
“I don’t want to hear about problems.”
Hurdle ignored the comment and continued: “Stingray had a fix on Jonathan’s phone along Pennsylvania Avenue and then it winked out.”
“Winked out? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means the signal disappeared. They said it can be caused by the phone powering down. But Stingray can do all kinds of shit, including tracking the phone even if it’s off.”
“And?”
“And they’re not getting anything. Which means the phone’s probably broken.”
Vail felt a knot in her intestines. “As in smashed.”
“Yeah, something violent, like hitting it with a hammer. Or throwing it from a moving vehicle.”
Vail took a deep breath, trying to keep herself calm. “Where on Pennsylvania Avenue was the last known position?”
“Near 22nd. But we’re here right now and there’s nothing. No sign of Jonathan. Or the phone. But there’s all kinds of shit in the road, snow and slush and salt. Not sure we’d find it unless we plowed it and went through the crap by hand.”
Dammit. Jonathan would not do this. She has him. “Can we all agree that Jasmine’s got him?”
Hurdle hesitated a second, then: “Yeah. That’d be my assumption.”
“That tracking device I planted on her, it started working again. Curtis has it up and running.”
“I’ll get the location from them. Keep me posted. I’ll do the same.”
Vail continued driving, unsure of where she was going or even what they would do when they got there.
“Where would she take him?” Underwood asked.
“Depends on why she wants him. Could be to lure me to her.”
“If she wanted you, she’d call you.”
“Then why else?”
“To kill him. I’m sorry, Karen. But now’s the time for independent, rational thought. You have to somehow divorce your emotions, think logically. Clearly. Can you do that?”
I’m his mother. How can I do that?
“I asked you a question,” Underwood said firmly. “Can I count on you to think clearly?”
“Yes. Yes.” Vail took a deep breath and slowed the vehicle. She had unknowingly brought it up to forty in a twenty-five zone, with college students milling about on the sidewalks. “If she wants to kill this victim, she’d take him back to her house in Arlington, where she killed her other victims.”
“Except that we have to assume that by now she’s looked in on Rusty.”
Vail nodded. “And she’ll see that he’s no longer there.”
“And in his place there’s a bunch of crime scene personnel.”
Vail pulled to a spot by the curb. “So she’d think we probably found her Arlington house, too. And you. Right?”
Underwood blew some air through his lips. “I don’t know. It’s possible she also had a camera there. It’s likely. Why not? That’s probably how she knew I wasn’t trying to escape. She must’ve looked in on me from time to time.”
“Wait. There were two victims the Blood Lines killer—Jasmine—murdered on-site. Deviations from her other kills.”
“Yeah.” Underwood nodded slowly, staring straight out th
e windshield. “Carla Rackonelli and Nancy Ermine.”
“Ermine was killed in Fredericksburg, Prince William Forest. The national park.”
“Yeah, that’s how we got federal jurisdiction to prosecute Marcks.”
Fredericksburg is too far away. “She offed Rackonelli somewhere in Georgetown, right?”
“Yes.”
Vail thought about that. “None of what’s going down right now was planned. Maybe Jonathan wasn’t part of what she wanted to do. She feels cornered. She now knows that we know she’s the Blood Lines killer. She’s desperate, thinking on the fly. Not much to lose. And now she wants to get back at the person who ruined her life, who figured out she was the killer. Me. And that’s why she took Jonathan.” She swung her gaze over to Underwood. “And if that’s the case, she needs a place to—” Her voice caught. “A place to kill her victim.” Focus, Karen. Get past this. Be objective.
“I agree.”
“She’ll go back to where she killed Rackonelli, a place she knows will give her decent cover. A place nearby. Do you remember exactly where her body was found?”
“Kind of—the general area. Head toward Georgetown, we’ll figure it out.”
Vail pulled away from the curb and accelerated.
62
The auxiliary light was still flashing, so Vail leaned on the horn and cars cleared a way for them.
“We need to get the exact location,” she said. “Don’t have time to guess wrong. Call Gifford. I’ve got his cell.”
A moment later it was ringing through the Bluetooth. Voice mail came on and Vail left a message.
“Try my unit chief. Look in ‘contacts.’ Stacey DiCarlo.”
“I’ve got it.” Underwood manipulated the phone and it again began ringing. “You think she’s still at the office this late?”
“No idea. Don’t know much about her. Except that I don’t like her.”
“DiCarlo.”
The Darkness of Evil Page 35