Charlie didn’t even look up at Garland as he came to stand beside her. She stared out at the night, at the swaying pines, black and tall, at the far end of the yard, at the hammock moving with the breeze closer at hand, at the lightening sky.
“You know, I’m starting to not like that guy,” he said reflectively, and at that Charlie did flick a look up at him.
“You sound like you’re jealous.” She was deliberately cool, deliberately off-hand, deliberately creating as much distance between them as she could, because she was horribly afraid that the alternative was going to make her life unbearable one day soon.
She could feel him studying her. “Except for being dead, I’m a pretty normal guy, and I just fucked you to Sunday and back. So, yeah.” He hunkered down beside her. “You want to tell me what’s with the attitude?”
There were flowers growing over by the garage. She tried to decide what kind. “What attitude?”
“Charlie.”
He was right beside her, gorgeous as always—but unbelievably, achingly dear now, too. And that’s what was twisting her heart, Charlie realized. Almost unwillingly, she met his gaze. Even through the shadows, his eyes were heartstoppingly blue.
“Look, we both know that … what happened … was a one-time thing,” she said. “I don’t regret it, precisely, but I have to move on. So do you.”
His eyes held hers for a moment, and Charlie watched as his hardened and cooled.
“FBI guy what you’re planning to move on to?”
“Maybe. We’ll have to see how things work out.”
“After I’m out of the picture, hmm?”
“Yes.”
He stood up abruptly. Charlie looked at him. His face was unreadable now. “You’re a smart lady, Doc. I always did think so.”
Whatever she might have replied to that was lost as Kaminsky came bursting through the door. “Bartoli sent me to get you. Come on, we’re on the move.”
By the time she finished speaking, Garland was gone.
“He’s escalating.” Tony was staring at the computer monitor in the War Room at Command Central. Kaminsky was seated in front of it, having called up the pictures of the seventeen most viable suspects, which were staring out at them from the screen. In Charlie’s usual seat in front of the other computer, Crane was running checks on credit card, phone, and work records that should provide at least some of these so-called “persons of interest” with an alibi for the previous night. It was not quite seven a.m., and Charlie had already drunk so much coffee she was wired. Any thought that wasn’t centered on finding Hannah Beckett she had blocked out of her mind.
“Big-time,” Charlie agreed. “Also, the attack was more savage. In the other murders, only the mothers bore more than one or two stab wounds. With everyone else, it was just enough to kill them and no more. Nothing egregious. But Phil Beckett was slashed to pieces. That’s a sign that the killer was very angry.”
“Why?” Tony stared at the screen as if the answer was right there, if only he looked hard enough. “Why was he so angry?”
“Something must have interrupted his routine. For whatever reason, he didn’t get to play his fantasy out to the end,” Charlie said.
“Are you thinking he killed Bayley Evans before he meant to?” Kaminsky glanced back over her shoulder at them.
“Before he wanted to,” Charlie corrected. “Something must have gone wrong.”
“What?” Kaminsky asked.
“Once we figure that out, I’m pretty sure we’ll have our killer,” Tony answered.
“With Hannah, there wasn’t a dance,” Charlie said slowly. She looked at Tony. “I think that after he killed Bayley, he went looking for a substitute to take her place. To finish out the fantasy. If, as we’re assuming, he spotted Bayley at the Sanderling, he would have seen Hannah there at the same time. He’s continuing the fantasy with her, not starting anew. But it’s not the same. It’s throwing him off. He’s frustrated. And, like I said, angry.”
Tony’s hands were so tight on the back of Kaminsky’s chair that his knuckles showed white. “Which means we may have even less time than we thought. Instead of a week, maybe two days, you think? If he’s using her to take Bayley’s place.”
“There’s no way to be sure.” Charlie massaged her temples. Her earlier nausea had morphed into a killer headache. “Now that he’s off his routine, there’s no way to judge it.”
“Okay, eight of these guys are definitely out. I’ve got records placing them somewhere else at the time the Beckett family was attacked,” Crane said.
His tie didn’t match his shirt—one blue-striped, the other green plaid—Charlie noticed. Of course, pulling on your clothes at four a.m., which was the approximate time the call had come in, was the equivalent of dressing in the dark. She glanced down at herself, just to be sure: white blouse, black pants. The good thing about an unofficial uniform was it was hard to go wrong. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail. Charlie looked at Kaminsky, who was wearing her usual suit and high heels: no mistakes for her, either.
“I’m sending you the info,” Crane said. “Take ’em off the grid.”
Kaminsky nodded. A moment later an icon flashed on her monitor. A click of a button, and their prime suspect list was down to nine.
“Still too many. Who else can we eliminate?” Tony looked at Charlie.
“Pets. He won’t have pets,” Charlie said.
Tony shot a sideways glance at Crane.
“On it,” Crane said. “Pet licenses.”
“A lot of people have pets without licenses,” Kaminsky pointed out.
“But if they do have a pet with a license, they’re out,” Crane retorted.
“Younger siblings,” Charlie prompted, just as Crane whooped in triumph.
“Two with pet licenses. See there, Lena, some people are law-abiding.”
“Seven.” Kaminsky’s tone was sour. “And stuff it, Crane.”
“Both of you stuff it,” Tony snapped, then looked at Crane again. “Younger siblings,” he said.
“Three with younger siblings.” Crane smacked a hand on the desk beside his computer with enthusiasm. “We’re getting somewhere.”
“Four left,” Kaminsky announced. “Always supposing Dr. Phil knows what she’s talking about.”
Charlie didn’t even bother to shoot her a look.
“Anything else?” Tony cast an inquiring glance at Charlie. Staring at the faces left on the screen, hoping for inspiration, she had a painful throbbing at her temples and a dry mouth and nothing else.
She shook her head. “That’s all I can come up with right this minute. Sorry.”
“Good enough.” Tony straightened. She could see his tension in the restless gleam of his eyes, in the tightness of his jaw and mouth. Shadows beneath his eyes made it clear he hadn’t slept properly in a while. Like the rest of them, he was jacked up on coffee and adrenaline. Unlike Crane’s, his shirt (white) and tie (blue) matched. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the five o’clock shadow already darkening his jaw, he would have looked as if today was nothing more than business as usual. “Names and addresses, Kaminsky, and if there’s any place besides home they’re likely to be at this time in the morning, I want to know it.”
“We going to go bring them in?” Crane sounded surprised. Charlie remembered what Tony had said about the need to find the girl before arresting even the most viable suspect.
“We’re going to go look at them. For a broken front tooth.” Tony glanced at Kaminsky as the printer started to hum, and she said, “Got it.”
“Then let’s go.” Tony was already on his way out the door.
Early as it was, Central Command was packed. The electricity in the air was palpable. Phones rang nonstop, every computer was occupied, and two orange-vested deputies were huddled with what looked like a civilian volunteer in front of a new search grid that had been hung on the wall. A cop talked earnestly with Sy Taylor, who perked up as he spotted the four of them coming toward him.
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“Agent Bartoli, can you hang on a minute? I’ve got a question for you,” Taylor called.
Tony waved a hand at him. “Later.”
Then they were out the door.
Outside was a circus. The cops were doing a good job holding the perimeter, which was cordoned off with sawhorses strung with crime scene tape, but beyond that a sea of media stretched in all directions. White vans with satellite dishes attached were everywhere. Charlie saw from some of the logos on the vans that the coverage had gone national: CNN and MSNBC caught her eye in particular. Reporters with camera crews and microphones rushed the barrier as soon as the four of them came into view. So many questions were shouted their way that Charlie couldn’t understand any of them. Part of that, she was sure, was because the drone of the helicopters circling overhead drowned everything else out.
Tony opened the passenger-side door of the SUV for her, and she got in. The door slamming shut behind her cut off the worst of the din, and moments later they were on the move. Only instead of trying to go through the frenzy, Tony reversed, and to Charlie’s surprise they went bumping over the beach.
“Way to avoid the media, boss,” Crane said from the backseat with approval.
“I don’t want them following us.” Tony seemed oblivious to the surprised looks of a couple of joggers and a man wading in the shallows with a bucket, apparently digging for clams. The sky was a bright clear blue with scarcely a cloud in it, and the ocean was as smooth as glass. The sun was the pale yellow-white of a scoop of lemon sorbet. It was going to be another hot one, Charlie could tell already, but so far the heat was bearable and the humidity wasn’t too bad.
“Driving on the beach is illegal, and we’re probably going to get stuck in the sand,” Kaminsky pointed out. She sounded grumpy. It had been a hellacious day so far, and it was only just getting started, so Charlie was with her on that. Glancing back, Charlie saw that Kaminsky was riffling through the papers on her lap. They were the pages she’d just grabbed from the printer.
Tony shook his head. “Four-wheel drive.”
They didn’t get stuck, and when they drove up the public access boat ramp and out onto the road, no one was following them, prompting Charlie to give Tony a mental thumbs-up.
“Where are we going, Kaminsky?” Tony glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
“I’ve tried to arrange them nearest to farthest,” Kaminsky replied. “But it’s hard, because I don’t have any way to be absolutely sure any of them will be where they’re supposed to be, and—”
“Kaminsky,” Tony said.
“Hampton Moore. He lives out in the county, but right now he should be opening the Blue Wave Coffee Shop on Seventeenth Street.” She gave the street address, which Tony punched in to the SUV’s GPS. “He’s twenty-six years old, six-one, hundred eighty-five pounds, a local. He works at the coffee shop mornings and for Frigate nights and weekends. He was at all three dances.”
“Um, did you say we’re going to go look at these guys to check for a broken tooth?” Crane asked. He did not add Why? but it was there in his voice.
“Beckett fought the unsub, who may have sustained a broken front tooth,” Tony said. “The only way to keep all four of these guys under constant surveillance is to get the locals involved, and once we do that, the potential for leaks goes up astronomically. We spook this guy, let him know we’re coming, he’s going to kill Hannah Beckett. If we find one of them has a broken tooth, we’re going to watch him ourselves, see where he goes.”
“What if none of them has a broken tooth?” Crane asked.
“Then we’re going to have to go to Haney, give him these names, and try to persuade him to keep them under surveillance for twenty-four hours. If we’ve got nothing by that time, there’s no way I’m going to be able to stop him from moving in on them. Hell, we’ll have to move in on them.”
“We might have a problem, leak-wise,” Kaminsky said. “Suspect number three, bartender Eric Duncan, is the first cousin of Kill Devil Hills Police Officer John Price.”
A moment of silence greeted that. Then Tony said, “Damn small towns, everybody’s related,” half under his breath, and with that they reached the Blue Wave Coffee Shop.
Crane went in, and minutes later came back out carrying a blue plastic bag.
“You buy something?” Kaminsky asked as Crane got back in the car.
“What, did you want me to just walk in there and say ‘Let me see your teeth’? I bought doughnuts. From Hampton Moore, who goes by Ham, by the way, who was working the counter. He smiled at me. His teeth are fine. No sign of facial or any other kind of injuries, either.” Crane paused. “That’s six dollars and two cents on the expense account, boss. Anybody want a doughnut?”
Charlie shuddered at the thought.
“Keep your receipt.” Tony pulled away from the curb, sticking his hand into the backseat with a silent waggle that Crane interpreted, dropping a glazed doughnut into it. “Who’s next, Kaminsky?”
“Terry Kingston. A used car salesman who also delivers pizzas at night. He, too, works part-time for Frigate Security. Unless you want to wait until after ten, we’re going to his home.”
“We’re going to his home, then.” Tony washed the doughnut down with a slug of his coffee, which they all had, in white Styrofoam cups nestled in the cupholders.
Kaminsky gave the address.
Crane asked, “Uh, what excuse are we going to give for showing up at his house and peering closely at his teeth?”
“Can’t think of one,” Tony said cheerfully.
“He’s trying to sell a used motorcycle. I’ve got a copy of the ad right here.” Kaminsky looked up from her papers. “Crane, you could knock on his door and say you’re interested in buying it.”
“Why me?”
“Because Bartoli looks like a fed, Dr. Stone looks like she’s never ridden a motorcycle in her life, and I’m wearing a skirt,” Kaminsky snapped. “Lose the jacket, take off that hideous tie, and go with it.”
“Good plan,” Bartoli said approvingly, while Crane muttered, “My tie is not hideous.” A pause. “Is it?”
“Pretty hid—” Kaminsky began, only to break off as a fire truck came screaming up behind them, then swerved into the opposite lane to pass. A minute later, a volunteer fire department car, siren blaring, did the same thing. “Looks like somebody else is not having a good morning,” she said.
The road they were driving down was rural—two-lane blacktop, with piney woods on one side and farmland on the other. Only a few miles out of town, the houses were already starting to be widely spaced.
“Something’s burning,” Crane agreed.
Charlie could see the dense column of gray smoke rising ahead.
“Shit,” Tony said as they topped a rise and Charlie, along with the others, got a first glimpse of the fire. It was a house, small and off by itself … and totally engulfed in flames. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s our destination.”
“You’re right,” Kaminsky said.
Three fire trucks were parked in front of it. It was—or had been—a single-story white-frame house, Charlie saw as they got nearer. Orange flames now belched from it, reaching for the sky, spewing sparks like a fountain, while gray smoke poured into the air. The sulfurous burning smell penetrated even the closed windows of the SUV. Suited-up firefighters worked frantically in an attempt to save it, and as the SUV drew closer Charlie saw that they were pointing hoses at the worst of the flames. An ambulance, a couple of police cars, plus maybe a dozen other vehicles lined the road out front. Civilians whom Charlie took for neighbors stood in clumps near the edge of the action and in the field across the road, watching and talking among themselves.
“What are the chances of this guy’s house burning down today?” Having reached the lineup of cars, Tony was already looking for a place to park. His tone was savage.
“You think Hannah Beckett might be in there?” Kaminsky’s voice was sharp with alarm.
“I’m not a big
believer in coincidence.” Tony pulled the SUV right onto the edge of the lawn, behind the first fire truck, shoved it into park, shut off the engine, and jumped out. “Come on, let’s go see if there’s any chance somebody could be in there and still be alive.”
They all piled out of the SUV. Tony, Kaminsky, and Crane ran toward the house, while Charlie hung back, not wanting to get in the way. The roar of the fire was truly terrible. Combined with the shouts of the firefighters, the hiss of the water shooting from the hoses, and the various clangs and pops and thuds coming from the collapsing structure, it was overwhelming.
Another fire truck arrived, siren blaring, and Charlie hurried to get out of the way. She was watching Tony, with a cop on one side and a firefighter on the other, gesture forcefully at what seemed to be the house’s basement when something flashing in her peripheral vision made her turn.
She wasn’t sure, but she thought she’d seen a blond teenage girl slide between two vehicles parked across the street.
Her first thought was that it was Hannah’s ghost, and she had just died in the fire. Heart in her throat, Charlie hurried across the street to check. Her second was that maybe it had been Hannah, alive, and she had somehow escaped the fire. Her third was that maybe it wasn’t Hannah at all.
Of course, the girl was gone when she got across the street.
Charlie hesitated, looking around. It was bright daylight, lots of people, all kinds of activity everywhere. But really there was no place that the girl could have disappeared to, so …
Eyes looking at her from behind the tinted window of the small van her left side was practically pressed against caught her attention, had her looking back. There was the girl she had seen, inside the van, turning away from the glass now.
Charlie’s heart started to pound.
“Hannah?” Charlie knocked sharply on the window, peering through the glass. The girl looked at her.
Charlie just had time to realize she wasn’t looking at Hannah at all, but at Bayley Evans, when she heard a footstep behind her and started to turn.
The Last Victim Page 32