Lily stood there for a long time, the damp night air blowing through her hair. She touched her finger to her lips, savoring the sensation. Almost every man she’d ever known had hurt her. Had the feeling she’d experienced with Anne been caused by the stress she was under, or was she merely making a natural progression, something she’d been headed toward for years? She shook her head as if to clear it, then turned and walked back to her car.
First thing in the morning, she would call a locksmith and change the locks. It was Bryce’s house, however, so she would eventually have to find another place to live. Then she would have to hire an attorney, file a petition for divorce, and decide how to divide their possessions, all while she was sitting two major trails.
As Lily drove home, a question kept reappearing in her mind. Was Anne the only one? Could it be possible that not all of Bryce’s former sex partners had been willing? And why had he been able to score with so many different girls to begin with? He wasn’t that good-looking, especially now that he’d gained so much weight. Had his father’s money bought him out of similar situations? Her outrage turned to hate. God help him if she ever found a reason to seek revenge.
TWENTY-FOUR
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
Mary trudged through a foot of snow in the parking lot, bundled up in her red ski parka, her feet encased in fur-lined boots. This was the time of year when she asked herself why she had left California. She missed the beach, the palm trees, her quaint little house a few blocks from Ventura College, paid for from the proceeds of her father’s life insurance policy. She’d used part of the money from the sale of her house to buy her mother’s condominium, but she worried about her living alone in Washington. What was she eating, had she been out recently, had she made any new friends at church? She had promised to go to lunch with her today, but she’d called last night and told her mother she couldn’t make it. The way things were going, she had no idea when she would have time to see her.
Last night they talked again about her getting a place in Quantico. Her mother had used the same argument, that there was nothing here but the FBI and the Marine base. When the weather was decent, she liked to jump on the bus and visit the museums and monuments in Washington. She rarely went out during the winter. Mary had sold her mother’s car three months ago. She refused to drive in a strange city, and all the car was doing was sitting in the parking garage.
But her mother had gone downhill since she had stopped driving. Washington and her daughter’s decision to join the Bureau were chipping away at her mother’s independence. If she’d stayed in Ventura, everything would have been fine. Her mother knew her way around, and there wasn’t that much traffic.
When she reached her office, Mary peeled off her gloves and sat down at her desk, keeping her parka on until she warmed up. Right now it felt like a refrigerator. Of course, the fact that the ISU used to be a bomb shelter didn’t help.
Adams had instructed them to work in teams of two, and Genna Weir was now her partner. That afternoon, they were having a meeting and everyone in the unit had been ordered to attend. Mary’s job was to organize the materials that would be distributed. She made folders for each agent containing the crime scene photos, as well as copies of all the forensic reports and evidence.
Agent East called her from Dallas. “I’ve got something for you.”
“Oh, really,” she said, thinking he was playing around. “It wouldn’t be between your legs, would it?”
“I’ve got that, but I was referring to your case. I stopped by and had a long chat with Mr. Khan last night. To our benefit, he has a morbid fear of anyone carrying a badge. I ran him through Interpol and found out he served time in a Pakistani prison for theft.”
“Wow,” Mary said. “You work fast.”
“Okay, here’s what I found out. A Caucasian male who went by the name of Chuck Brown walked into Khan’s station approximately a year ago, offering to pay a twenty percent fee for running credit card charges through on his service station account. Brown told him his customers purchased embarrassing things like sex toys and didn’t want them to show up on their credit card statements. Each week or so, Brown would fax him a list of charges and credit card numbers. Khan suspected that Brown’s business might not be entirely legal, but when no one ever complained, he continued running the charges through.”
Mary asked, “How often did he see this person?”
“Once,” East told her. “Brown mentioned he was flying back to Los Angeles the same day, then stated that he had numerous partner businesses such as Khan’s, which caused him to spend most of his time traveling.”
Mary’s foot started tapping on the floor. “Chuck Brown must be an alias, don’t you think?”
“More than likely,” East told her. “People do have common names. I have a college buddy named John Smith. I agree with you, though. It’s probably an alias. Hold on a minute.”
He came back on the line. “This isn’t the only case I’m working, you know. Okay, Khan claims he’s had no communication with Brown for over six months. The last time he ran charges through was last July. Khan is coming in this afternoon to work with our sketch artist. Brown’s description is five-foot-ten, one hundred eighty pounds, longish dark hair, hazel eyes, olive skin, with a tattoo of a snake on his forearm. Khan’s not certain if it’s on Brown’s right or left arm, but he said the tattoo was located about three inches from his wrist.”
Mary jotted down the description, then began drawing snakes on her pad of paper. “Is it vertical or horizontal?”
“Vertical. The head points toward the elbow.”
“Damn, Brooks, everyone and their dog has snake tattoos. Why couldn’t he have had something unusual? You know, the name of his girlfriend, his cell phone number. His social security and driver’s license number would be helpful.”
Brooks laughed. “He may have a Tinkerbell tattoo on his ass, for all we know.” He immediately fell serious again. “All Khan saw was his forearm. He’s not certain as to the guy’s age. His best guess is early to mid-thirties. Chuck is probably a nickname, so we went with Charles. I’ve got our guys running every possible combination based on the description. Without more identifying factors, I doubt if anything will come of it.”
“Send a forensic team to Khan’s station.”
“We don’t have a search warrant.”
“We’ll start working on it,” Mary told him. “Won’t Khan cooperate without a warrant?”
“Not without immunity. He served time, remember? We can’t cut a deal with him until we figure out if a crime was committed.”
“It’s obviously some type of credit card fraud.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” East told her. “Khan collected his twenty percent from Brown, so who was he stealing from? That’s under the assumption that Brown didn’t hike up the bills. Even if he did, Brown’s the one perpetrating the fraud, not Khan.”
“He’s a coconspirator, though.”
“Do we really want to charge Khan right now? I’d rather keep him in our pocket. Brown might show up again. We’re going to set up surveillance at Khan’s station.”
Mary was becoming frustrated. “Khan must have a means of contacting this person.”
“He swears he doesn’t, that Brown just faxed him the list, and he ran through the charges.” East paused and cleared his throat. “Brown was only in the station on one occasion. Since then, there’s no telling how many people have passed through that place, so pushing for a warrant doesn’t make sense. Khan isn’t set up for pay-at-the-pump. He makes the customers come inside. He has some of the lowest prices in town, and business is booming. I’m going back tonight to fill up the tank on my Porsche.”
“Did you trace the credit card charges?”
“We’re working on it. Khan claims he destroyed all the paperwork a few months ago, fearing the authorities would come knocking on his door if Brown had gotten himself arrested. We confirmed the number Khan
claims he received the faxes from through ATT. It’s been disconnected since September. The name on the account was Mabel Richardson. Her address was listed as 1313 Adams Road in Thousand Oaks, California. Mabel’s residence as of June of last year is Holy Cross Cemetery. Thousand Oaks is close to your old stomping ground in Ventura, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Mary said, scribbling notes to herself on a yellow pad. “Do you have a next of kin on Mrs. Richardson?”
“She was ninety-four and died in the Hillsdale Convalescent Home. Medicare picked up the tab. Seems the old girl must have outlived all her relatives. We need to find out what happened to the house.”
“You’re telling me,” Mary tossed out, doodling another snake.
“I managed to get in contact with someone at Hillsdale, and they said Richardson was brought to their facility in an ambulance. As far as they know, no one ever visited her. She had a prepaid burial plan.” East put her on hold again. “Sorry, we have a lead on a bank robbery suspect. Back to Brown. If you ask me, whoever he was working with probably rented the house in Thousand Oaks. Finding that person might not be that easy. It was probably leased through a real estate agent, unless it’s just sitting there empty, waiting for the taxes to pile up so the state can seize it.”
“Thousand Oaks is an expensive area,” Mary said, drawing a casket for some reason. “If you have something of value, you have heirs. When my dad was killed, twenty nephews, nieces, and cousins came out of nowhere, all trying to get a piece of the action.”
Mary typed in “Zillow.com” on her browser and found the house there. “The property is worth almost four hundred grand, cheap for California, but I bet Richardson owned it outright. That’s unless the relatives who let the poor old girl die alone already got her to sign it over to them. Chuck Brown might be her grandson or something.”
“That would explain why the utilities weren’t disconnected until three months after Mabel Richardson died. I’ll try running variations of Chuck Richardson and see if we come up with anything.”
“While you take care of that,” Mary told him, “I’ll ask the sheriff in Thousand Oaks to roll by the house and see if it’s occupied. In situations like this, I’m always afraid the local police are going to blow it and whatever evidence is there will disappear, along with the UNSUB.” Mary rolled her neck around to relieve the tension. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“You finally got a break in the case.”
“No,” she said. “I was certain the killer was a woman.”
“Well, look on the bright side. You have more today than you did yesterday.” He paused and then added, “How many men has your UBSUB killed so far?”
“Three that we’re aware of,” Mary told him. “We have no idea what the real body count is. Since the head and hands are removed, and the remains turn up in places they aren’t supposed to be, no one even knows where to start looking. This one is smart, let me tell you. He or she lets the victims do all the work.”
“I’m lost.”
“Join the crowd,” Mary said. “The killer isn’t the one concocting the alibis. We believe the victims belong to one of these alibi clubs. That’s probably what the credit charges are for, not sex toys or whatever.” She explained how the alibi clubs had seemingly gone underground. “They also have philanderers’ clubs, where married men and women look for people to have affairs with.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. What will they think of next?” The line fell silent, then East spoke up. “These are gruesome crimes, Mary. We know enough that we might be able to stop future victims from falling into the same trap. Has anyone talked about going public?”
“That’s Adams’s decision,” Mary said, already pondering the same issue. “We’re having a team meeting this afternoon, and I’m certain that’s one of the things we’ll be discussing. The problem with going public is we’ll tip our hand and the killer might disappear, then resurface years later. We haven’t made a dent in the alibi clubs yet. I’m almost certain this is where the killer is getting the victims. These cases are so complex, Brooks, even I have trouble keeping the facts straight. Can you imagine what a circus the media will make of this? You won’t be able to pick up a newspaper or turn on the TV without hearing about it. This is almost as sensational as Britney Spears shaving her head.”
East chuckled. “Serial killers generally put a damper on a person’s sense of humor. I’m glad you’re not letting this overwhelm you.”
“Hey, I’d rather laugh than cry.”
“Amen to that.”
“Are you still going to check out a possible transfer? Maybe I could talk Adams into bringing you on board.”
“You know I’m assigned to bank robberies,” East told her. “I don’t have the stomach for what you do. My mother is another problem I haven’t mentioned. Dad passed five years ago. My brother is living with her right now, but he needs to get out on his own. Mom has rheumatoid arthritis and has to use a walker to get around. Dallas is a great town. They always have openings here.”
Mary knew it had been too good to be true. Then an idea popped into her head. “How old is your mother?”
“Seventy-three. Why?”
“She’s almost the same age as my mother,” Mary said, excited. “Mom has a two-bedroom condo in D.C. Maybe they could be roommates. Then if they get to the point where they need full-time help, we’d only have to hire one person.”
“Pretty far-fetched, don’t you think?”
“Not really. We can introduce them and see what happens. They might get along great. They’re both Baptists, which has to account for something. Maybe I’ll fly Mom to Dallas once this case is settled. The weather here is killing her. She’ll probably like Dallas better than D.C.”
“You’re something else,” Brooks told her, laughing. “Who knows, maybe it could work. We could combine both our assets and our liabilities.”
Mary heard footsteps behind her. Genna Weir had come in and was setting up at the desk behind her. The room was small and each desk faced the wall. “I have to go,” Mary whispered, then raised her voice again. “Let us know the minute you get the composite. Good work, Agent Brooks.”
“Agent Brooks, huh?” Weir said, a grin on her face. “I thought his last name was East.”
Mary fiddled with some paperwork on her desk. “I just got his name turned around, that’s all.”
“Yeah, right,” Weir said facetiously. “I saw you last night in the hallway. ‘Oh, Brooks,’” she said, moaning. “‘Oh, Brooks . . . it feels so good.’”
“I didn’t say that,” Mary protested. “I could have said, ‘Oh, Brooks,’ because I forgot to tell him something, but I didn’t say . . . well, you know.”
Weir removed the wool scarf around her neck. “Looks like you mixed a little business with pleasure. Don’t worry. We’ve all done it at one time or the other. Just don’t make it a habit.”
Mary nodded. She was about to tell her what Brooks had found out when she decided something this good had to be shared. “Promise not to tell anyone?”
“Scout’s honor.” Weir hung up her coat on the rack, then sat down and typed her password into the computer. When Mary just sat there with a dreamy look on her face, she said, “So tell me, all right? We have about three minutes for socializing before we dive back into these murders.”
Mary scooted her chair back until they were facing each other. “He’s outrageously handsome, polite, and a Baptist, just what my mother ordered. Not only that, he’s a fantastic lover.”
“How fantastic?”
Mary’s eyes expanded. “I had five orgasms. Can you believe it? This was a first for me. I’ve had two, but never five. And they weren’t all at the same time, either. I think we’re in love, Genna. I mean it. This is the real deal.”
“Five orgasms,” the agent said, tapping her pen against her teeth. “Jesus, does he have a brother?”
“Actually, he does, but let me tell you what he found out about the case first.”
As soon as she updated Weir, Mary’s other line rang. “This is Rollins at the sound lab. I have some findings for you on the tape you submitted.”
“Great.”
“Your UNSUB must be a fan of NPR. Most of the voices are from a two-hour show called All Things Considered. The two women are Michelle Norris and Melissa Block, and the male is Kevin Kling. There’s a fourth voice that we couldn’t place.”
“It could be the killer’s.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Rollins said sarcastically. “The unidentified voice speaks only three words: hypothermia, entity, and perverted. Since these particular words aren’t commonly used on the radio program, the UNSUB may have become impatient and recorded them himself. Then again, the voice could have been pulled from somewhere else.”
“Is it a male or female?”
The Cheater Page 27