by LENA DIAZ,
“Like what?” Dalton asked.
“Like whether he could have loosened a section of fence like he did behind the Brodericks’ house and taken her through the opening to someone’s backyard. From there, if he did the same trick he pulled with us, he could have gone through someone’s home while they weren’t home and into their garage where he had a car waiting. Then, all he had to do was drive out of the subdivision. There’s a guard shack at each of the two entrances. But the cameras only record people coming in, not going out. If he came in via the subdivision behind The Woods, like he did recently, he wouldn’t be on any of the guard gate’s cameras.”
Teagan raised her hand.
Bryson smiled. “You don’t have to ask permission to speak.”
She felt her face heat and lowered her hand. “You said earlier that you thought he might live in one of the houses in Bentwater Place, near the one we went through to that delivery truck. Did anything ever come of that?”
“The police ruled that out. He definitely isn’t one of the homeowners on that street or the neighboring streets. But one of those homes was vacant because it’s for sale. He could have seen that for sale sign and broke in to conduct quick surveillance on the house next door. Once he was sure the owners weren’t home, he used that house as part of his plan to abduct you.”
Dalton tapped on the table as if in deep thought. “How close is that path to the Bentwater subdivision?”
Bryson looked at Teagan in question. “What do you think? Half a mile? The Woods is huge. That path is in the center of the subdivision.”
She nodded. “Maybe even a mile, or more really if you consider all the twists and turns you’d have to take because of all the streets in between.”
“He didn’t walk from Bentwater to the path,” Bryson concluded. “It’s too far. There would have been multiple reports in the interviews that the police conducted after your abduction, reports of different people seeing a man walking toward that trail. There weren’t any reports. None.”
“Then how did he get in?” she asked.
He sat back, considering the question. “Getting back to basics, we have two choices. He walked or drove. Since no mysterious strangers were seen on the cameras at the guard shack, driving is out. But since he wasn’t seen walking through the subdivision by anyone interviewed after your abduction, walking is out too. Which leads to one conclusion. The time frame that the police covered when canvassing the neighborhood was inadequate.”
A few chairs over from him, Dalton nodded. “That’s the only explanation. He was already in place. He went into the subdivision before the time range that the police checked.” He turned toward the former police officer. “Brielle, I think you had that report on the video from the guard shack. How far back did they check?”
She was already typing. Then she punched a button and a report popped up on one of the big screens. “One week. Our killer had to be in place prior to that.” She turned her focus on Teagan. “I haven’t been in that development. But from what I’ve read, there aren’t any actual woods where someone could hide out that long and not be found, are there?”
Teagan shook her head. “No. I mean, there are plenty of areas with lots of trees and bushes. But it’s all personal property, or it backs up behind a strip mall on one side. The community areas are too heavily traveled, like those walking paths, to allow someone to camp out and not be seen.”
“I agree,” Bryson said. “And it goes back to the sheer volume of witnesses in that area. Even if he camped out, someone would have seen him at some point and reported it. Nothing like that happened. Which means he was in one of the houses. We already know he’s not one of the owners, based on the extensive reports the police did on every homeowner. If he was visiting someone who lives there, again, they would have mentioned it to the police. That leaves one last possibility. He was using someone’s house when they were out of town. We need a list of everyone who was out of town over a week before the attack.”
“On it.” Brielle started typing on her computer again. “I’ve got all of those types of records already from our earlier canvassing but didn’t put it together the way you just did. I just need to cross-reference a couple of spreadsheets and I’ll have it.”
A few minutes later, the dejection on her face told the story even before she spoke. “Sorry, guys and gals. As impossible as it seems in a place with that many houses, no one was on vacation in that time span. At least, no one who didn’t have a house sitter or friend at their place while they were gone.”
Bryson sat forward in his chair. “Then the house was empty. Whoever owned it didn’t live there anymore. How many homes were vacant, either for rent or for sale during that time frame?”
The tension was palpable in the room as they waited for Brielle once again.
She popped up the latest search results. “Three. All for sale, all vacant.”
“Bentwater Place, the house that was empty and for sale that the police thought our killer might have used as his home base with the Broderick murders,” Bryson said. “Does anyone have any additional information on that house?”
“Like what?” Dalton asked.
“The realty company. Better yet, the Realtor who listed it.”
Dalton smiled. “Of course. On it.”
“I’m on it too, for the ones in The Woods,” Brielle said.
A few moments later, Dalton sat back. “Pine Acres Realty.”
“Dang, I almost beat you,” Brielle said. “I’m calling it a tie. Two of mine are with Happy Meadows Properties.” She rolled her eyes at the name. “My last one, which happens to back up directly onto the path where Ms. Ray was attacked, is Pine Acres Realty.”
Teagan blinked in shock. “He’s a Realtor?”
“It appears likely,” Bryson said. “And he probably works for Pine Acres Realty. We need pictures.”
Bishop, who’d been quietly working on his own computer all along, punched a button. The screens filled with pictures of the smiling men and women who worked for that realty company.
Bryson arched a brow. “Thanks, Bishop.”
Bishop nodded.
“Bottom row.” Teagan’s voice was hoarse. “If the screen wasn’t so huge, I wouldn’t have even noticed. And now I know why no one in the neighborhood recognized the police sketch.”
“Why?” Dalton asked.
Bryson reached for Teagan’s hand beneath the table and she gratefully clung to it. “Because he looks completely different in that picture. Hair color, hair style, glasses. There’s only one thing that’s the same.”
“What’s that?” Dalton pressed.
“His eyes.” Teagan’s hand tightened on Bryson’s. “Pure evil, dead inside. That’s him. It’s definitely him. I’ve probably seen him on real estate flyers in the neighborhood. But I never connected the dots. His name?” She paused to draw a choppy breath. “I need to hear his name.”
“Chris Larsen,” Brielle announced.
She shook her head. “So average. So...normal.”
Brielle started typing again. “I’ll get this information to Mason and the team in Jacksonville right away.”
“I’ll give him a call,” Dalton added. “I’ll answer any questions he has about our thought processes and how we arrived at this conclusion.” He smiled. “How Bryson arrived at it. Good job, Profiler. And it’s good to have you back.”
Bryson seemed surprised by Dalton’s statement, but he nodded his thanks. “Call me with Mason’s update on the hunt for this guy?”
“You don’t want to hang around? If our team’s in on the takedown we might get a live feed.”
“I would, but my hip’s aching something awful.” He pushed to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, and motioned to Teagan. “I know you’d rather hang around, but I don’t think I can drive right now. Do you mind?”
She was struggling t
o maintain her composure with all of this information crashing down on her. And here he was, pretending that he was the one who needed to leave. She gratefully went along with his ruse. “I can get the updates later. I don’t mind.”
Once they were in his truck, the stress and worry that had been eating at her seemed to magically fade away. He had that effect on her, made her feel safe, more in control. “I know your hip really does hurt. But I also know you’d never admit that in front of your team. You did that for me, because you saw how I was struggling to hold it together. Thank you.”
“It was nothing. But you’re welcome anyway. How are you holding up? I can drive if I have to.”
“I know, but I’m fine. It was all so...intense back there, finding out who he was, and realizing he’s just a person. You know? Not some mythical monster impossible to stop. Hearing he’s a Realtor kind of takes the drama down a notch. Makes it somehow bearable, especially knowing it’s only a matter of time now before this is over.”
When they pulled into the driveway, his phone buzzed in his pocket. She parked while he spoke to Dalton. When she got out, he frowned, obviously wishing she’d wait so he could open her door. He’d just put his phone in his suit jacket pocket and grabbed his cane when she opened his door and offered her hand.
“There’s no one here but us, Bry. You can suck up your pride for a minute and let me help you. It is okay for a woman to help a man sometimes, you know.”
He avoided her hand and hopped out on his own.
She rolled her eyes and moved to his side. “What did Dalton have to say? Is JSO cooperating? Did they put out a new BOLO on the killer now that we know his identity?”
He smiled and unlocked the front door. As he pushed it open for her he said, “Yes, JSO is cooperating, although I’m sure they think it’s the other way around. A new BOLO was put out, but they already contacted the realty company to see if they had a lead on his whereabouts. That’s why Dalton called, to give us an update about the realty company.” He shut and locked the door, before giving her his full attention.
“They got him, Teagan. He’s on his way downtown right now in the back of a squad car. It’s over.”
She burst into tears.
* * *
BRYSON TOSSED HIS cane to the floor and lifted Teagan in his arms. He couldn’t make it very far, but he managed to stumble to the couch without dropping her. He settled back with his precious burden and held her while she cried out the hurt and the fear and the anxiety she’d been suffering for years.
It was a long time later before he settled Sleeping Beauty in his master bedroom that he’d given up while she was here. She’d readily invited him to stay with her in his bed that first night. But he knew the dangers. It didn’t matter how his head hurt, or the wounds on his back, or his hip, or where the bullet went through him, or, good grief, how sore his belly still was from the surgery. He was a mess, physically. But if he got horizontal next to her none of it would matter. There’d be no stopping either of them from taking full advantage of that situation. And then he’d probably end up in the hospital again. But oh how he wished it could be different.
He quietly shut the door. But he didn’t head to the guest room where he was staying. He had another destination tonight. And this one was too far for him to make using his cane. He’d used up the last of his stamina carrying Teagan. It was time to admit defeat, for now, and get the wheelchair.
A few minutes later he reached his office. As he opened files on the computer and began moving bits of information onto the various screens, he reflected on what Dalton had said at Camelot. He’d referred to his old moniker, Profiler. That one word, spoken by a fellow Seeker, had started an avalanche of thoughts in his mind.
Even though he’d been trying to work this case as best he could with a lingering concussion and his other injuries, he hadn’t tried to approach it as a profiler. He was too used to scorning his previous profession, thinking of his failures instead of focusing on his successes. But he didn’t think of it the same way anymore. Teagan had done that for him, made him start to accept that maybe he wasn’t the big failure he once thought himself to be. And Dalton, of course, welcoming him back. That had been a surprise. If Dalton didn’t blame him for Hayley’s near miss, maybe he needed to rethink that whole episode.
But mostly it was Teagan’s faith in him that was giving him a new perspective. Like that maybe he should trust himself, listen to the warning bells going off in his head. They were telling him that something wasn’t right.
They’d caught the man who’d abducted Teagan. They’d caught the man who’d killed the Brodericks. So why did he feel like there was something left unfinished? The niggling feeling wouldn’t leave him alone. So he was going back to the beginning as he’d once told Teagan to do. He was reexamining everything. And once he did that, he’d do what he hadn’t done in years, and had never thought he’d do again.
He was going to build a profile.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Teagan finished brushing her teeth just as the morning sun began to peek through the windows. After giving her braid one last adjustment, she left the master bedroom to find Bryson. Much to her frustration, even though he’d ensconced her in the master suite since she’d come here, he was sleeping in a guest room. She understood it was because sleeping together was too tempting. Neither of them would want to sleep. Which would just set his recovery back. But she was getting so frustrated wanting him to get better, and just plain wanting him.
Everything about him appealed to her. And the more she got to know him, the worse her obsession became. Whether he was in butt-hugging jeans and a T-shirt or one of those sexy tailored suits that showed off his broad shoulders, she wanted to peel off his clothes and explore every inch. As if his sexy exterior wasn’t enough of a turn on, Hot Guy was also intelligent, with a kind soul and the heart of a steadfast, loyal, intensely protective warrior. It was becoming nearly impossible not to weep with longing and desire every time he entered a room.
She could definitely fall in love with him. She was more than halfway there already. But she had no clue whether he felt the same. Oh, he liked her, a lot. And he wanted her. There was no denying the hungry look in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide. Clearly he suffered from the same affliction that she did. If they ever really got together, they’d probably spontaneously combust. But did he care about her? Really care, as in I could love you forever kind of care? She just didn’t know.
Shaking her head at her fruitless thoughts, she headed to his room just down the hall. He wasn’t there. The bed didn’t even look as if it had been slept in. Growing concerned, she checked the main rooms in this part of the house. She even looked out the back door at the dock, where he could be found most evenings. But he wasn’t there. She was just passing the little alcove to the left of the TV when she realized it was empty. Each night he stored his wheelchair there and used the cane the next day until the pain forced him to use the chair once again. But the wheelchair wasn’t there. Why? Had he suffered a setback to his recovery?
Increasingly anxious, she headed down the back hall and looked in every door that she passed until she reached the end, his office. Light shining under the door had her letting out a relieved breath. He must have come here last night for some reason, then ended up sleeping in the attached bedroom rather than head all the way to the front of the house.
She knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again. When he still didn’t answer, her overactive imagination conjured up all kinds of awful scenarios, like him lying on the floor in a pool of blood, his wounds ripped open. Just the thought of him in pain, needing her, had her opening the door.
He wasn’t on the floor dying.
And he wasn’t sleeping in the guest room.
He was in his wheelchair at the round table, oblivious to her entry as he spoke to someone on his cell phone. All nine of the giant monitors were filled wit
h documents. But that wasn’t what had her gasping in surprise.
It was the pictures.
He glanced over his shoulder, then punched a button on the control panel, clearing the screens. “Mason, I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Send me that list of dates as soon as you have it, all right? Yeah, thanks. Bye.” He set the phone on the table. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were there or I wouldn’t have had those pictures up.”
She fought against the nausea the graphic, violent images had awakened in her as she joined him at the table. So many women. So much...carnage.
“I heard you talking to Mason. Does he have you working on a new case already and you stayed up all night studying crime scene photos?”
He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with her questions. “I’m not working a new case, not exactly. I’m...reexamining an old one.”
“Why would you do that?”
Again, he paused.
She glanced at the blank screens, her mind’s eye trying to reconstruct what she’d seen seconds earlier. But she’d been too broadsided by the unexpected tableau to recall many details, even with her photographic memory. “How old is this case you’re looking into?”
He looked at his wrist as if to check the time. But he hadn’t replaced the fancy computer watch yet that Larsen had taken from him. “Is it morning already? I can whip us up something to eat.” He backed his chair away from the table. “How about omelets? I can’t remember the last time I—”
She leaned past him and punched the same key that he had earlier. The pictures popped back onto the screens.
