The Last Victim
Page 23
She nodded.
“Security alarm’s already off,” he said as she started toward the keypad, so she turned back and waited for him. What she really wanted—no, needed—at the moment was to be alone. Usually her runs were her time to think her own thoughts, sort through things, clear her head. But being alone right now wasn’t smart; and if she couldn’t run alone, she would just as soon have Tony with her as anyone else. No, sooner, actually. She liked him a lot, and she certainly wouldn’t have to worry about the Boardwalk Killer with him beside her, which, she discovered as he followed her out the door into the pale morning light and the fresh ocean-scented air hit her in the face, was a bigger relief than she would have thought. With the rustle of the sea oats and the roar of the tide loud enough to drown out any noise up to, possibly, a siren, and the dunes to provide concealment if someone wished to hide, Charlie realized that, alone, she would have been feeling pretty vulnerable as she set out down the narrow wooden walkway toward the beach. With Tony only a couple of steps behind her, though, she did not.
That was the thing about a man with a gun.
“If you’d told me you were going with your boyfriend, I wouldn’t have busted my ass breaking through your ju-ju walls to get out here,” a growly voice said in her ear. It was so unexpected that Charlie almost stumbled on one of the weathered gray boards underfoot as Garland materialized beside her, looking disagreeable as all get-out. He was bleary-eyed, with stubble on his jaw, and if ever a ghost could look like the morning after the night before, he did.
“Go away,” Charlie muttered out of the side of her mouth.
“Cramping your style, Doc?” But to Charlie’s relief, he vanished as suddenly as he had shown up.
She was left to deal with a jumble of emotions, none of which were pleasant and all of which it was necessary to hide as she reached the beach and Tony caught up with her.
“Beautiful morning,” Tony observed, smiling at her. With his chiseled features, dark eyes, quick smile, and tall, well-built frame, he was good-looking enough to make any woman take notice. Charlie noticed, but, unfortunately, she was not in the mood to appreciate. She nodded, and set out.
The beach was perfect for running: firm and flat, a wide, white sand surface that she refused to compare to the soft, crumbly texture of the beach she’d visited in her dreams, although that comparison—was this the beach?—was what immediately popped into her head. Dismissing the memory with an inner snarl, she picked up her pace. To paraphrase South Pacific, she was going to run that … whatever he was, right out of her hair. To that end, she put one foot in front of the other and concentrated on the here and now. She deliberately didn’t look at the Meads’ house as she passed it, although all she was actually able to see of it from the beach was the second story, which had its own terrible connotations that she wasn’t going to allow herself to think about. As it was, she could almost feel Julie Mead’s anguish rolling out in waves from the master bedroom. As long as she kept going and kept her eyes turned toward the ocean, though, she could cope.
The view was spectacular. The sun was just rising above the eastern horizon in an orange and purple and pink blaze of glory. Rainbow-colored breakers rolled toward shore. The temperature verged on hot—probably low eighties—but it was not yet humid, and a nice breeze blew in off the ocean. Only a few others—a couple of joggers, a wader or two—had ventured out so early in the morning, so she and Tony practically had the beach to themselves.
“You usually do five miles, right?” Tony asked. He was between her and the dunes and the houses, Charlie noted, and wondered if he’d done that deliberately, positioning himself to act as a buffer for her against the most likely source of potential danger, sort of like a certain kind of man automatically walked on the outside of the sidewalk to protect the woman with him from runaway cars.
It was a nice gesture, but again, she wasn’t in the mood to really appreciate it.
Damn Garland anyway. Last night he’d invaded her dreams. Now he was invading her run.
“You found out I usually do five miles from the background check you ran on me, right?” Charlie asked with resignation.
“Yes.” He kept pace with her easily, although she was kicking it up because she really, really needed the endorphins. A sideways glance told her that he wasn’t even breathing hard yet. Athletic, which considering his build wasn’t really a surprise. Probably played some kind of sport in high school or college. Plenty muscular, although he was less so than—anyway, he was muscular, and from the way he’d had his gear with him and his current lack of difficulty catching his breath although she was setting a mean pace, she guessed he must run regularly to keep fit, too.
Here’s the guy I should be dreaming about, she thought sourly, and scowled.
“Like I said before, I was just doing my job,” Tony said, clearly misinterpreting her expression. Since it was impossible to explain how cosmically unfair it felt that she had found this great guy at the same time as she had been saddled with the ghost from hell who unfortunately seemed to possess the ability to invade her dreams and make her wild with lust, she changed the subject.
“Any luck identifying the car from the surveillance film Officer Price gave you?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It’s a gray Avalon. Right place, right time to be of interest. No visible license plate or identifying marks. Driver impossible to see.”
“Hmm. So how helpful is that?”
“We’re having a DMV check run to identify all local owners of gray Avalons. I imagine we’re talking a fairly substantial number. Will our guy be among them? Who knows? It’s one more puzzle piece.”
“That’s what you do, isn’t it? Put the puzzle pieces together.”
“We have to find them first.” Tony gestured at a banana yellow shingle house a little farther up the beach. “If you’re going for five miles, that’s the halfway mark. We probably want to turn around there.”
Charlie glanced at him. He was breathing a little harder, and there was sweat beading his brow. Well, she was breathing a little harder and sweating, too. Usually she ran at a more deliberate pace, but this morning she’d felt the need to clean out as many cobwebs as she could.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“I try to run every day. Keeps me sane.”
Charlie gave the cosmos a mental kick. The thought of seizing the day and suggesting they run together regularly in the future occurred, only to be immediately dismissed. Later she might count it as an opportunity lost, but for now she just was not in the mood to pursue this particular romantic path.
She had a ghost to deal with first.
They reached the house Tony had indicated and turned around. Despite her best efforts, Charlie had another flashback to that thrice-damned dream. Only as she forcibly rejected it did her mind’s eye focus on the other key player beside herself and Garland: Holly.
Holly in that pink prom dress.
The connection hit her like a baseball bat to the head. The only possible excuse she could make for not having seen it before was that she had been preoccupied with Garland.
“You know, I think the dance connection is key.” She was huffing a little as she spoke now, which was good. Despite certain unwelcome mental intrusions, she was already feeling much less tense. “Last night I …” Dreamed was what she didn’t say. “… had kind of an epiphany about Holly Palmer—my friend who was murdered.” Tony nodded to indicate he knew who she was talking about. “I think she might have gone to a dance in the days before she died, too. I wonder if all those girls did.”
“I’ll have it checked out, although I don’t remember reading anything about the victims going to dances in the original files.” His breathing was coming a little harder than it had been, too, as he frowned at her. “You realize that if it turns out the girls who were killed fifteen years ago also attended dances in the days before they died, it makes it more likely that we’re dealing with the original Boardwalk Killer than a copycat.”
“That the current killer possibly finds his victims at dances is something that’s not out there in the media. Even the local agents are unaware. We just started to look in that direction ourselves.” Tony sounded like he was thinking out loud. “So if this is a copycat, he must be basing his actions off the original files, assuming this information is in there somewhere. How would he have access to them?”
Charlie shook her head. “Maybe it’s not the files. Maybe at the time of the original murders there was speculation in the media that the Boardwalk Killer might be trolling dances for victims. Or maybe he has some kind of tie to the original killer, so he knows how the victims were selected.”
“All possibilities.” Tony’s face was a study in concentration as he kept pace beside her. “We’ve gone over the original Boardwalk Killer investigation with a fine-tooth comb. There’s no mention of dances in there, unless we just plain missed it, which I don’t think we did.”
Charlie stopped as she reached the point opposite the rented beach house where they’d started their run. Having finished with a flat-out sprint, she was panting. Tony stopped beside her, and she saw that he was panting, too.
She felt one hundred percent better.
“Look, I know you’re banking on this being a copycat. But at this point that’s not something we can be totally sure about.” Tony gave her an unsmiling look as they stood there catching their breath.
Charlie knew he was right. Still, she had to argue, and she knew why: to do anything else was to admit the possibility that the bogeyman who had stalked her nightmares for years was back. “This guy’s not using duct tape. And the original Boardwalk Killer definitely wasn’t subduing any of his victims with a stun gun.”
“So maybe he’s evolved.” Tony sounded impatient. “Charlie, I know this is hard for you. But you’ve got to keep an open mind. For your own safety, and for the investigation. Fixating on the idea that this is a copycat might cause you to miss something that’s important.”
Tony was right, of course. Charlie knew it. The idea that the vicious animal who had killed the Palmers was slaughtering new victims and possibly now setting his sights on her terrified her to such an extreme that she was doing her best to reject it at every level. She recognized that, and also recognized the possibility did indeed exist. The last thing she wanted to do was miss something that might assist in the search for Bayley Evans.
They had maybe four days left to find her alive.
“I’ll keep an open mind, I promise,” she said, and headed for the house.
“Good.” He followed her. Once inside, he asked, “Can you be ready to go in half an hour?” and she nodded.
After bracing herself to encounter him, Charlie felt a degree of letdown as she walked into her rooms and discovered Garland was nowhere to be seen. The TV was still on, but there was no other sign of him. She clicked the TV off, then considered. Having somehow gotten out of the cage she’d created to keep him safe, had he not been able to get back in, sort of like a dog with an invisible fence, which, having breached the shock barrier to get out is then stuck on the outside? That and a dozen other possibilities occurred to her as she quickly showered and dressed in order to get back downstairs at the appointed time. She had half expected Garland to materialize while she was in the shower—the salt barrier clearly wasn’t working, and that would be just like him—but he didn’t. By the time she was ready to leave, she was sufficiently concerned to use a DustBuster on enough of the salt crystals that he could get back in if that was what was keeping him out.
The possibility that something might have happened to him—like, say, he’d been whisked off without warning to the Great Beyond to answer for his sins—bothered her more than she cared to admit, even to herself.
Of course, there was always the possibility that he was here and just keeping himself invisible to mess with her.
Finally, as she was getting ready to exit the room, she couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Garland, are you in here?” Although she was careful to keep her voice to a near whisper, impatience sharpened it as she glared around at thin air. “I don’t have time to play games this morning. If you’re in here, kindly cut the crap and let me know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Nothing. Not even a shimmer. A knock on the door seconds later was the only reply. And it wasn’t Garland on the other side, Charlie knew.
“If you think you’re worrying me, you’re wrong,” she hissed, and opened the door.
“Are you sure there isn’t anyone else in here?” Kaminsky cast a suspicious look past her. “I heard you talking to somebody.”
“Oh, my God, are you still stuck on the idea that I’ve got some kind of naked sex god tucked away in here?” If Charlie sounded a little annoyed, there was good reason: annoyed was exactly how she felt. The really annoying thing about it was, the naked sex god in question had very annoyingly disappeared. “If you heard me talking, it was to myself.”
Kaminsky eyed her with something very close to out-and-out dislike as, closing the door behind her and casting a surreptitious look around the upstairs hallway for Garland, Charlie joined her on the landing. Kaminsky was in another of her body-hugging suits. This one was charcoal gray pinstripes. The blouse was pale gray, the shoes killer. In her own signature look of utilitarian black pants, sleeveless blouse—this one was coral—and sensible shoes, with her hair coiled into a loose bun at her nape in deference to the heat, Charlie felt frumpy in comparison.
She didn’t like the feeling.
My clothes serve their purpose, she thought defensively. Which was to look professional, not sexy. But at the time she’d put her wardrobe together, the population of men around to observe it had been such that her purpose was to obscure her femininity rather than play up her looks. But maybe it’s time I shopped for a few new outfits. For when I’m not working.
“I’ve been thinking about it: I know I saw what I saw last night.” Kaminsky gave her a piercing look. “A tall, blond, hot, naked guy was on the landing. The only place he could have gone was into your room.”
Kaminsky was exactly right, but there was no way Charlie was ever going to admit it.
“Ever think you might be projecting your own obsession with the opposite sex onto me?” Charlie parried, taking the war to the enemy camp as she preceded Kaminsky down the stairs.
“My obsession with the opposite sex?”
“It’s obvious you have one.”
“That’s total bull.”
“Is it? Examine how you’ve reacted to my inclusion in your group: you’ve been antagonistic from the beginning, and it’s quite possible that you’re having that reaction because you view me, another female, as a rival for the two males on your team. More specifically, as a rival for Agent Crane, who seems to be your primary focus. You two bicker endlessly, and that’s a classic sign of attraction. It’s understandable that you would resent another female, who you fear might start to encroach on your territory.”
“My territory …” Kaminsky was so outraged she sputtered. Gathering herself, she tried again. “If that’s an example of a psychiatrist at work, then I see why so many people, myself included, think psychiatry is total crap. If I’ve been antagonistic to you, it’s because Bartoli inviting you to tag along with us makes me feel like a babysitter. It takes me out of the field, when I’m needed there the most. And as for Crane, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I am not attracted to him, and I certainly don’t see you as a rival for him.”
“You even have pet names for each other
.” Charlie reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to look at Kaminsky, who was a few steps behind, glaring at Charlie. As a means of distracting Kaminsky from Garland, her ploy had hit the jackpot. As a means of making a friend of Kaminsky, probably not so much.
Can’t have everything.
“Pet names?”
“Buzz Cut. Lean Cuisine.”
“Oh.” Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Kaminsky looked briefly self-conscious. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we went to the same high school. He and my older sister—well, we all knew each other. I call him Buzz Cut because that’s what people call him sometimes, because he always had one. That’s where he got his nickname. His real name’s Eric. And as for him calling me Lean Cuisine, I gained forty pounds in college. I lost it by eating a lot of Lean Cuisine. My sister started calling me that instead of Lena. Buzz—Crane—picked it up. Until I told him I hated it, and he stopped. Mostly.”
Charlie could see from Kaminsky’s face that her emotions where Crane was concerned were all over the place.
“He’s obviously attracted to you,” Charlie said softly. In response, Kaminsky’s eyes showed the first sign of vulnerability that Charlie had ever seen her exhibit. Then her lips pursed tightly together and she frowned.
“I don’t want to—”
“Care for breakfast, ladies?”
Kaminsky broke off what she’d been saying as Crane emerged from the kitchen to toss them both a protein bar. Catching hers, Kaminsky immediately shot Charlie, who had caught hers, too, a drop-the-subject-or-die look. “We can grab coffee over at the RV. Bartoli’s already there, hard at work.”
After that, the day got busy. With Kaminsky researching Kornucopia and its associates at an adjacent desk, and having confirmed first thing that Trevor Mead’s cousin Cory’s age was twenty-six, Charlie sat in front of one of the oversized monitors in the War Room going over images of the crowd at the previous night’s dance. Facial recognition software had zeroed in on nineteen faces that met the broad criteria of the sketches and descriptions, but none of those identified struck a chord of recognition with Charlie. Crane was busy checking out those individuals and comparing them with the parameters they’d established. Charlie’s job in reviewing the previous night’s footage was to look for body language that didn’t fit the environment.