Tracers 02 - Unspeakable

by Laura Griffin

“Nature trails.” Weaver looked at Elaina. “It’s an interesting pattern.”

  “Pattern?” Ric asked.

  “All the victims either disappeared from or were found in some sort of nature reserve,” she told him. “As a matter of fact, I think every one of the places is some kind of bird sanctuary.”

  “Maybe our unsub is a bird-watcher,” Weaver said.

  The waitress brought plates of food that the men had obviously ordered earlier, while they were waiting for Elaina. She gulped down the rest of her water and asked for a refill.

  “You should try the migas.”

  She glanced across the table and met the detective’s gaze over his plate of greasy eggs and sausage.

  “Knock that hangover right out,” he said.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” She took a sip of coffee and turned back to Weaver. “I don’t think he’s a bird lover. He’s more of a hunting type.”

  “Why do you say that?” Ric asked.

  “His weapon is a serrated hunting knife. And he literally hunts women. I believe he selects his targets, stalks them, and ultimately kills them. It’s like a sport to him. I also believe he’s intelligent, underemployed, and either has some background in law enforcement or wishes he did.”

  “A wannabe cop?”

  “Possibly. He’s been meticulous about not leaving behind evidence, with the exception of some yellow twine that can be found at any hardware store. He seems to know police procedure. He’s taunting the authorities. It’s possible he’s even inserted himself into the investigation already, maybe as a helpful witness or something.”

  “You sound like a profiler,” Ric said.

  Elaina didn’t comment. She aspired to be a profiler, but officially, she was just an agent. A new one at that.

  “How is he taunting authorities?” Ric asked.

  “I’ve received some calls from him.”

  His eyebrows tipped up at this. “You personally, or the police?”

  “Me personally.”

  “We’ve traced each of them to disposable cell phones,” Weaver added.

  Ric was frowning now, obviously not happy to hear she’d been singled out by the killer.

  “So you came all the way down here,” Elaina said, redirecting the conversation. “Did you bring any leads for us?”

  Ric forked up a bite of sausage. “I’ve got three banker’s boxes in my truck. Every one of them’s filled with files and photographs and interview notes that never went anywhere. Thought I’d sit down with some of you guys and see if any common names pop up. That is, if you’re working a suspect list.”

  “We are,” Weaver said. “Unfortunately, it’s much too long. Our challenge has been figuring out where to focus.” He turned to Elaina. “Your trip south of the river help give us a hand with that?”

  “Actually, it did.” She told them about the man the waitress had identified.

  “That doesn’t mean he was down there buying ketamine,” Ric pointed out. “He could have just purchased it online.”

  “True,” she said, “but this would have been much easier. And no paper trail. Given the amount of effort he’s spent trying not to leave behind DNA or fingerprints, I think he’d much prefer not to leave a paper trail.”

  “What’s the name again?”

  “Noah Neely,” she said. “Twenty-seven. Shares an apartment with a couple of guys over near the wharf.”

  “Twenty-seven is pretty young,” Ric observed. “You’re saying he started when he was in his early twenties?”

  “Earlier than that,” Elaina said. “If he killed Mary Beth Cooper, too, that means he’s been active since he was eighteen.”

  Ric looked skeptical again, and Elaina shifted uncomfortably. For a serial killer, this guy was on the very young end of the spectrum.

  “Did you tell Loomis about this?” Weaver asked. “And why are you looking at me like you’re about to need a favor?”

  “I do,” she said.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Detective Santos is going to be busy poring over the case files today.”

  “It’s Ric,” he repeated. “And I wouldn’t mind both your help with that. We’re talking thousands of pages of material.”

  “Gee, I’d love to,” Weaver said, “but I get the feeling I’m on stakeout duty.”

  “You are,” Elaina said. “But the good news is we’ve got some help.”

  Weaver looked at her expectantly.

  “Officer Chavez offered to lend a hand,” she said. “He’s part of the task force,” she explained to Ric. “He drives a dinged pickup with tinted windows. It’ll fit right in on the fish docks.”

  “That means Ric and I are in the Beast?”

  “Sorry,” Elaina said, knowing she was sentencing him to hours upon hours of unair-conditioned gloom in an FBI surveillance van. “Maybe you could spread the files out in back, cull through them and compare notes while you keep an eye on the suspect. And we’ll be taking turns. Cinco and I can take whatever shift you guys don’t want.”

  Ric looked from Elaina to Weaver, and she could tell he realized he wasn’t dealing with the A-team. “What’s the rest of the task force doing today?” he wanted to know.

  “Some of them are on the mainland, interviewing staff at the two parks,” Elaina said. “Another few agents are back in the Brownsville office working the phones and running down more background on the victims’ last days.”

  “And here we are at the beach.” Weaver sighed. “How come I feel like I’ve been relegated to the Island of Misfit Toys?”

  “Maybe because you have?”

  “Meaning what?” Ric asked.

  “Meaning the powers that be think we’re all chasing down dead-end leads,” Elaina said. “They’re letting us do it, but the heavy lifting is taking place elsewhere.”

  “And what do you think?” Ric asked.

  “I think you just brought us a major break,” she said. “I think your hikers are connected to our latest victims, and if we can solve one case, we can solve them all. So who cares what everyone else thinks? Let’s just suck it up and get working.”

  After the meeting ended, they stepped out of the restaurant into the blazing brightness of the parking lot. Elaina slid on sunglasses, and Ric walked away to take a cell-phone call.

  “What are you doing, Lainey?”

  She tore her attention away from the detective and looked at Weaver.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, although his worried expression told her precisely what he meant.

  “Troy. You said you were going to stay away from him.”

  Her stomach knotted, and it wasn’t just the nausea returning. Every time she thought about the way things had gone with him this morning, she felt sick.

  “I can’t talk about this right now,” she said. And she couldn’t. She felt too raw. Why on earth had she convinced herself she could sleep with a man without getting her emotions involved? For someone with a psychology degree, it was an incredibly stupid move. But she hadn’t exactly been thinking with her head last night. More like her libido.

  “I’m not going to say ‘I told you so,’” Weaver said.

  “You just did.”

  “Okay, but don’t make me say it again.”

  The knot in her stomach tightened. Don’t let it happen again—that was what he meant. And she had no intention of letting it happen again.

  But then, she’d had no intention of letting it happen at all until she was standing half-naked on his deck. And even looking at it now, in the brutal light of day, she still wasn’t sure that if she could go back and do it over again, she’d do a single thing differently. How crazy was that? Despite how miserable and embarrassed and amazingly stupid she felt this morning, she still wanted the man. Still. She still wanted his hands and his arms and the way he’d looked at her so intently last night, as if she were the only woman in the world.

  “Lainey?” Weaver was watching her with concern now, and the guilt kicked in. He was the only friend sh
e had down here—a fact she needed to remember.

  “I hear you.”

  “You say that,” he told her, shaking his head, “but I don’t think you’re listening.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Cinco mopped the sweat from his brow and glanced at the woman sitting next to him. She was that shade of greenish-white someone got right before they heaved up their lunch. She’d been that way for hours, though, so he didn’t actually think she’d do it, but still, she looked bad. The heat and the rotten fish smell wafting over from the docks probably weren’t helping any.

  “Long night?” he asked.

  She looked over at him but didn’t answer. It was none of his business. Which told him exactly what sort of long night it had been.

  She stared through the windshield at the run-down apartment building two blocks up, where nothing had happened for the past five and a half hours.

  “Too much tequila,” she said, confirming his suspicions.

  “Troy likes that shit. Me, I’m good with beer. Maybe some Jack and Coke sometimes, but you can keep the Don Julio.”

  She kept her gaze trained on the apartment building and managed to put up some kind of invisible wall. She didn’t want to talk. Which was fine with him, but, shit, they’d been here forever and he was bored out of his skull, and he needed something to take his mind off the hundred-degree heat.

  “Soon as this shift ends, you should go get some migas,” he said.

  She glanced at him.

  “Or Pedialyte. If you can stand the taste.”

  She unbuttoned the cuffs of her shirt and rolled her sleeves up, finally, after more than five hours. Cinco couldn’t imagine how she’d waited this long. He was in a short-sleeved T-shirt and he was broiling, so she must have been about to pass out. The right sleeve went up, and he noticed the bruises on her arm. Four little ovals, all in a line. Troy’s mom used to get marks like that.

  “Heard you got jumped down in Matamoros.”

  She looked at him. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Some of the guys.”

  She sighed and looked away.

  “Happened to me once.”

  Her head whipped around.

  “I was about seventeen,” he said. “I’d been down at the bars. Was heading back for the bridge, couple guys came at me in this alley. Busted my nose. Grabbed my wallet. Scared the shit out of me, too, I’ll tell you that.” He looked into her pretty blue eyes. “It could happen to anybody.”

  She turned away and shifted closer to the door. He knew body language, and this was another NO TRESPASSING sign. Well, damn, at least he’d tried. He pictured the stitches lined up on the side of her head. Had she just thought she could show up like that and no one would notice?

  “You ever get used to it?” she asked. “You know, the physical part of the job?”

  “You mean like arrests and takedowns?”

  “Yeah.” She turned to face him, and she seemed like just a regular woman now. His sister. His mom. Not some hotshot federal agent.

  “A little,” he said. “But there’s always that adrenaline rush, you know? It’s a good thing, being afraid sometimes. Keeps you careful.”

  She looked out the window. “I wasn’t being careful. I was walking around, so absorbed with my case, I forgot to think about what was around me.”

  She was opening up, and Cinco was glad. He liked her. Not that he planned to make a play or anything. Troy had dibs. But he’d gotten used to her, and he wanted her to feel comfortable here in his town. He wanted her to respect him as a cop, too, even though she had a federal badge and probably half a dozen degrees on him.

  She took her water bottle from the cup holder and finished it off.

  “You ever want someone to go down there with you, just let me know.”

  She glanced at him, and he could tell she thought he was just saying it, maybe to be polite or something. But he didn’t offer stuff like that unless he planned to follow through.

  “I mean it,” he said. “I can show you around. Teach you some of the local slang.”

  “You’d teach me Spanish?” She looked surprised at this.

  “If you want to learn, sure. You live here, right? You may as well pick it up. I’m happy to teach you some, at least enough to get by.”

  She looked at him, and he started to get uncomfortable. Did she think he was hitting on her?

  “Thank you,” she said. “That’s a very generous offer.”

  He was definitely uncomfortable now that she’d gotten all formal like that. She probably did think he was hitting on her.

  “I’ve been taking lessons,” she went on. “You know those tapes? But it would probably go faster with a real teacher. I’d appreciate the help.”

  Cinco’s phone rang, saving him from more gratitude. He handed the binoculars to Elaina and fished the thing out of his back pocket.

  “Chavez.”

  “Yo, it’s me. You’re staking out that apartment, right?”

  “Yeah,” he told Troy.

  “Word is, there’s something about to go down.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Cinco asked.

  “Maynard. Is Elaina with you?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced over at her. She looked disinterested, but she was definitely eavesdropping.

  “I want you to watch her back.”

  Cinco caught a glimpse of someone in the side mirror. The FBI guy. Weaver. “She’s right here. You want to talk to her?”

  “No. Just keep an eye on her.”

  “Will do.”

  They disconnected just as Weaver walked up to the window. Cinco noticed he’d been pretty stealthy, too, probably trying not to be seen by anyone in that apartment.

  “I come bearing gifts,” the man said, and handed Cinco a cell phone. “Elaina, that’s for you. Programmed with the same number you had before in case your mysterious friend wants to get in touch again. Scarborough is about to call and give you instructions.”

  Cinco passed her the phone.

  “Instructions for what?” she asked.

  “He’ll explain.” He looked at Cinco. “I have a present for you, too. You’re invited to the party. Come in your favorite Kevlar.”

  Elaina’s eyes widened. “But where—”

  The phone in her hand rang, cutting her off.

  “That’ll be Scarborough,” Weaver said. “He’ll explain everything.”

  Elaina stood beside the minivan, blinking sweat from her eyes as she stared at the map Scarborough had spread out on the hood. It showed a satellite image of Noah Neely’s apartment, which was just around the corner from the alley where the tactical team had gathered.

  “We got a corner unit, one entrance, two north windows, one south, and no balcony.” Scarborough drew an arrow with his pencil. “Loomis and his team go in here, south stairwell. You guys hit the door, get everyone under control. Where’s Chavez?”

  “Sir?”

  “You said there’re two males inside at this time? Noah Neely and somebody else?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, I want the second four-man team covering the north stairwell leading to the parking lot.” Scarborough scanned the faces around him, pausing briefly on Elaina. She wondered if she looked as hideous as she felt. Her stomach churned, her skin felt clammy, and the Kevlar vest seemed to be flattening her lungs.

  Scarborough’s gaze veered back to Cinco. “Landlady says the unit next door is vacant, but the rest are occupied. Any intel on the neighbors?”

  “A woman walked up several hours ago with a toddler,” Elaina put in. “I didn’t see them leave.”

  Scarborough lifted his radio unit. “Anyone entered or left the premises, last six minutes?”

  “Negative,” said the agent on point.

  “Okay, I want Callahan on that door.” He tapped the map with his pencil. “That’s Unit 23. Make sure no one pokes a head out to see what’s going on. This needs to be a straight in-and-out job. We grab him up, take him in for q
uestioning.”

  “And the friend?” someone asked.

  “We’ll talk to him here, run his ID. He checks out, he’s free to go. Here’s our man, people.” Scarborough held up an enlarged mug shot. “He recently failed a piss test, and his probation officer said he wouldn’t be surprised if he was tweaked out on something today, so expect the unexpected.” He passed the picture of Noah Neely around, but he didn’t need to. Neely was memorable. The waitress in Matamoros had remembered him. Elaina had remembered him from the marina. A park ranger and a bird-watcher from Laguna Madre National Wildlife Refuge had remembered him, too, which was why they were here right now. Both witnesses had picked his picture out of a photo lineup and reported seeing him on a hiking trail the day after Valerie Monroe went missing. That trail was less than a mile from where the last set of remains was found, remains that just this morning had been positively identified as Valerie’s.

  Elaina studied Neely’s mug shot, although she’d memorized it days ago. His hair looked ropey and dirty. He had bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils. More than anything, he simply looked wasted. He didn’t seem like someone capable of kidnapping and savagely murdering six women. But psychopaths didn’t necessarily walk around with swastikas tattooed on their foreheads.

  “McCord? You with me?”

  Her gaze snapped up to Scarborough. “Sir?”

  His brow furrowed. Then he turned his attention to the rest of the team. “Okay, let’s move.” And then to Elaina: “A word, McCord.”

  The teams loaded into the two minivans. Elaina’s heart thudded as she stepped over to talk to her boss.

  “You look like shit, McCord.”

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  “Next time you’re sick, call it in. This is a tactical operation. We don’t need a weak link in the chain. You got me?”

  “Really, I’m fine, sir.” Her chest tightened as she gazed into Scarborough’s cool gray eyes and knew she’d already lost the argument. “Just a bit warm from doing surveillance.”

  He looked at her for a long moment. “All right, you can stay. But hang back while the teams hit the door.”

  Elaina’s heart sank, and she knew what was coming next.

  “You can go up afterward and interview the tenants. Talk to that mom in Unit 23, see if she remembers anything funny about her neighbor.”