by Jenna Kernan
“We’re checking into it.”
“She’s sleeping with someone. Release her name to the press with a warning. We have to find him right now or our unsub is going to kill him.”
Whoever dug the hole in Tina Ruz’s yard had done a great job. The receptionist showed Nadine a photo on her cell phone first thing on Monday morning. The pit looked just like a shallow grave. It sat outside her town house window, directly below the balcony.
“One of the cops talked to my landlord. They’re not renewing my lease. Already got the notice.” She sighed, resigned as any child who had lived in the shadow of an infamous parent.
“They think you dug it?” asked Nadine.
Tina lowered her gaze and fiddled with her paper clip holder. “Not exactly.”
“Listen, Tina, I know about your mom.”
Tina’s eyes rounded. “How?”
“Demko. We did a background check. It showed on known associates.”
Tina nodded, but no longer met her gaze, and her cheeks flushed.
“You stay at your place last night?” asked Nadine.
“No way. Hotel on the North Trail. All the ones out by I-75 were booked up. World Rowing championships,” said Tina absently. “So it’s weird, right? You and me?”
“Yeah. You could say that.”
“So the murder up in Bradenton is related to your case,” said Tina. “Saw the news story. Reporter said police are asking for help finding some guy she’s with. They interviewed the husband. He’s both grieving and pissed. Said he’s suing the police.”
“Get in line,” said Nadine.
“I guess.”
She hoped that if Hope Kerr had been unfaithful, today’s news coverage would help them locate her partner.
“I heard you had a break-in a few days ago,” said Tina.
“Yeah. Disturbing. Similar to what happened to you. The person left me a reminder of my mother’s crimes.”
Tina put a hand to her throat. “Inside?”
“Afraid so.”
Tina blanched.
“I wasn’t there and I’ve been in a hotel since.”
“Should I, like, leave?”
“I don’t know, Tina. But I don’t feel safe at home now.”
“I could stay at the hotel, I guess. Or with a friend.”
“Might be wise.”
Detective Demko arrived in their offices and their conversation paused. He was unshaven and his clothing looked as if he’d worn them to run a 10K.
“Got a minute, Nadine?” asked Demko.
Nadine glanced to the clock. “Yes. Of course. But I’ve got to head to a competency hearing in a few minutes.”
“Have to wait. The FBI wants to see you.”
“FBI? What?”
“Yeah. I convinced the brass to bring them in. I’ve briefed them on what we have so far.”
“Maybe they can find him,” she said, thinking of the next victim in the series.
“Does she need a lawyer?” asked Tina.
Nadine glanced at Tina, shocked that she hadn’t thought of that, and also at the discovery that her assistant had her back.
“What? No,” said Demko. “They want her help with the case.”
“Are they taking over?” Nadine half hoped they would but was also reluctant to step aside. Deep within herself, Nadine still felt she needed to be involved in this case.
“Joint investigation. Or so they say. They requested the help of Dr. Crean and they’ve requested you.”
Crean seemed an obvious choice.
“Why me?”
“You have unique insights.”
“Translation, my mother is a serial killer.”
“And they liked your profile,” he said.
“Patronizing.”
“And they floated the possibility that this unidentified suspect may be imitating your mother’s crimes as a way of targeting you.”
Tina gasped.
“‘Targeting’?” The ringing in her ears returned. Her mouth went dry as she stared at Demko. That prospect was exactly what she feared and what she had tried to pass off as her own narcissism.
“That’s the word they used. Your recent break-in has them rattled. Me too, actually.” He placed his fists at his waist, waiting. “Do you need anything before we go, laptop, purse?”
“Go where?”
“They’re setting up a field office in town.”
“That was fast.”
He didn’t reply, just waited, her escort or jailer, she wasn’t sure.
It was clear they were going, whether or not she agreed. She and Tina shared identical blank stares. Their office assistant was more like Nadine than she had realized. They both had the same dead-eyed look. PTSD for the children of killers, a club that no one wanted to join.
“Come on,” urged Demko.
She retreated to her office and he followed. There she gathered her things, then trailed him out.
“Does Crean know about the FBI?” she asked.
“I told her. FBI had already been in touch.”
“How’d she take it?”
“Not sure. She’s hard to read.”
“I’ll say.”
They left the offices together.
“You get any sleep since I saw you last?” she asked.
“I sleep better with you there.”
His words both warmed and troubled her. Relationships were complicated under any circumstance, and she and he carried extra baggage.
Inside the elevator, he gave her a kiss that lasted until the compartment doors swept open. They stepped out in unison, like two trotter horses, in matched stride, professionals again, and she felt uncomfortable at sneaking around.
“You get a warning from your boss?” he asked.
She nodded. “You?”
He grimaced and inclined his head. “Yeah. Seems the least of our worries.”
She paused and looked out the windows that circled the lobby.
“Are the reporters still there?”
“A few.”
Nadine made a face.
She’d effectively avoided the reporters until she arrived at work. They got plenty of footage of her leaving her car and hustling to the entrance to her building. Reaching the office felt like standing on “home free” in a game of hide-and-seek. But she wasn’t home, and she wasn’t free. Neither one was in her future until she caught this killer so he couldn’t hurt anyone else.
“I visited my mother this weekend.”
“Really?”
“She mentioned my uncle again. I can’t find anything on him. Did you?”
“Zip. Maybe the Feds will have better luck.”
“I think we should get my mother’s correspondence from the prison.” And she knew she needed to read the letters her mother had written, a task she dreaded.
“Why?”
“I’m afraid that she and the killer are in contact.”
“I’ll tell the Feds. They’ll have an easier time with that one.”
“Did you give them the material from Robins?” she asked.
“They have it.”
Should that make her relieved or unsettled?
“I have to tell you something,” he said.
All her internal alarms sounded.
“I found a Halloween mask on my pool deck this morning.”
Whatever she had expected, this wasn’t it. Nadine’s brow knit.
“A what?”
“A mask. Or I should say the mask. Fucking clown.”
Nadine had her head cocked like Molly when she didn’t comprehend the command.
“I don’t understand the significance.”
Demko sighed. “Connor wore a mask when he broke into my dad’s medical offices and shot my father in the chest.”
“Oh!” It all clicked. “The mask.” Nadine’s eyes widened. “You found the same sort of mask that your brother wore that day.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you report it?”
&nb
sp; “Hell yes. Crime techs couldn’t lift a single print and it’s a goddamn latex mask. No fibers or hair samples.”
“You think it’s our guy?”
“Last Saturday, you had a break-in. Yesterday Tina Ruz found an open grave in her backyard. Now I find this mask this morning in what amounts to my backyard.”
“We need to warn Juliette!”
“Already on it. We have surveillance set up watching her place.”
“And you warned her?”
“I did. Personally. We were both at the scene in Robinson Preserve, so…” He seemed to be waiting for her reaction.
Her relief came in a long exhalation. “Thank you.”
He glanced about the empty lobby and then back to her. “I thought you were going to speak to her.”
Nadine shook her head. “I’ve tried. Left another message. She’s not taking my calls.”
He nodded and made a humming sound of consideration, but no comment.
“Where was it, the mask?”
“Propped up on a chair on the lanai, facing the sliders to the pool.”
“The story is out there,” she said. “Anyone could have done this.”
“Someone put a black plastic garbage bag on your bed before any of this got out.”
“You think it’s our perp?”
“That is what the guy from the FBI Critical Incident Response Group thinks.”
“That’s bad.”
The reassurance that she wasn’t losing her mind came with the knowledge that someone dangerous and disturbed was targeting each of them.
“This unsub brought us here and has left us each something to remind us of our parents’ crimes,” said Demko.
“Why involve us all? Why bring together the children of convicted killers and then begin this series of kills?”
“Unsure,” said Demko. “You have a theory?”
She shook her head.
“You asked me to find if Hope Kerr was sleeping with anyone. I haven’t turned up a single indication of an affair. But I did track down her ex-husband. Turns out he’s on our force.”
“Was he sleeping with her?”
“He says he wasn’t.”
“You believe him?” she asked.
“Let’s say I’m still digging, but nothing to prove otherwise.”
“Did you warn him?”
“I sure did.”
“You believe he understood the seriousness of this?”
“Nadine, he’s a police officer. He knows how to look out for himself. He understood that I believe Hope was targeted because of infidelity and that her partner, whoever that might be, is a second target.”
“Did he have any suggestions on who she was sleeping with?”
“No. He didn’t. Oh, you also asked me to alert you of any missing persons. We now have two.”
“Two?” Nadine’s stomach dropped as the emotional roller coaster launched again.
“Let me finish. They don’t match the profiles, but I wanted you to know. We have one female, a teenager, and I know your mother’s last victim was seventeen.”
Images of Sandra filled her mind.
Fetch, bitch!
“The other is only two years of age.”
She gasped and slapped her hand across her mouth. A child! He was speaking again, but his voice seemed far away.
“… toddler who might be with a family member, and the teen has a new boyfriend and the parents object.”
Nadine wobbled and he caught her by the elbow, steadying her. Her equilibrium was wacked. She was dizzy from spinning, but she had not moved. The vertigo receded.
A teenage girl. A teenage girl, just like Sandra. No. Too early. This wasn’t right. The killer wouldn’t change the series.
“They don’t fit. The toddler doesn’t fit. That’s not her.” She said this more for herself than for him. She needed to hear that again, out loud. “Not her.”
“Not her? Who?” he asked.
“My mother wouldn’t kill children. She’s a monster, but she wouldn’t…”
Nadine thought of Sandra Shank. Her classmate. Seventeen years old. A beauty full of potential, veiling a thin line of cruelty. She’d met her match in Arleen. If Nadine had remained mute, would she have killed the entire clique?
“But you didn’t find who Lacey was sleeping with?”
“It’s not Lacey. It’s Hope. This isn’t your mom, Nadine.”
She nodded in a frantic sort-of bob. “I know that.”
“Do you?” His hold on her elbow was tight enough to get her attention.
He drew her to a lobby bench that flanked a window. That alone made her anxious, but she was back in the here and now, trying to focus. Everything was happening too fast.
Was she having a nervous breakdown? No. There was no time. She had to concentrate, or she’d get away with it again.
“The FBI should speak to my mother.”
“They are. Or have.”
Nadine let her head drop back and stared up at the ceiling. Of course they were. Her mother had the FBI interviewing her. She’d be in heaven.
“Dee-Dee, trash night,” Arleen’s voice was musical.
The sound sent a chill up Nadine’s spine. She groaned. She was twelve now and preferred being alone. Her mother’s absences troubled her, but with Arlo gone, it was better by herself, because her mother’s drinking and erratic mood swings kept Nadine mostly locked in her room when Arleen was about.
She left her room and found her mother in the kitchen, naked, using the nylon brush and dish soap to scrub her nails.
“Stick that other bag inside the white one,” her mother said, working up a pinkish lather.
Nadine collected the kitchen trash and headed out. It was still daylight and the black plastic trash bag sat on top of the outside bin. She glanced back at the trailer, hesitating. Then she tore open the bag and dragged out a large pair of jeans wrapped around a familiar T-shirt and an unfamiliar bra, all sodden with blood.
A small mewling sound came from her throat as she lifted the lid. Nadine dropped in both bags, praying that someone would see the blood and stop her.
Demko took her hand. “You still with me?”
Her gaze snapped back into focus and she nodded. “I’ll tell them everything I know,” said Nadine. “I’ll give them my profiles and the binders.”
“They’ve already contacted the DA. They have everything on the case, or they will very soon. Just one more thing.” He sat beside her, taking her hand as he considered his words.
“What?” she finally asked, letting the anxiety leak into her voice.
“I have information about the contents of the bag found on your bed.”
Twenty
Wag the dog
The shiver took Nadine, and she began to tremble. He waited, watching. Had all the color left her face? Her hands and feet were freezing.
“Tell me,” she whispered.
“It was women’s clothing. Shirt. Denim skirt. Panties, stockings, shoes and a bra. All cut with a knife and covered in blood.”
He kept her from toppling off the bench as he continued.
“The blood was bovine.”
“Bovine? Cow blood?”
“That’s right.”
Nadine sagged. “Oh, thank God.”
“The bad news is that the clothing appears to be new and they recovered no hair or fiber evidence.”
“And no prints on the plastic bag. Like your mask.”
“Yes. Someone is leaving us reminders of our mother’s crimes. Or in my case, my half brother’s.”
He distanced his mother from responsibility for his father’s murder yet again. The courts had determined that his half brother had acted on her orders. But Demko continued to give his mother a pass. She didn’t like it.
But today was not the day for that.
The FBI had set up its own field office in a storefront off Main Street and Links Avenue in what was once a restaurant. They had papered all the windows and were feeding
the press a regular diet to draw them from the police station and their residences, including Nadine’s. The best part about their location was the walkover from the parking garage, which prevented the media from recording who came and went from their headquarters.
The Bureau had transformed the interior of the restaurant. Instead of an open space of tables and chairs, there were partitions and cubicles to rival any accounting firm in town. The Spanish tile floor remained, and the lighting was too ornate for an office, but the desks, computers and conference areas were all spot on.
Some stereotypes find basis in fact. But she was unprepared for the men who checked them in. They looked so much like the agents who had come to her high school to speak to her about Arleen’s murders that she did a double take.
Each agent maintained their regulation haircut, looking as if they just left some elite military unit and had substituted a uniform for a suit. Dark colors pervaded, heedless of the subtropical climate. All had service weapons clipped to their belts, and FBI identification cards hung on lanyards around their thick necks. One of their reception committee escorted them into the interview room.
“Dr. Finch.” Another man of identical height and haircut stepped forward. His face showed more age than the others, but his body appeared youthful and fit. “Thank you for coming in. I’m Special Agent Sean Torrin, out of the DC Field Office and lead investigator for this case. This is Special Agent Fukuda, also from DC. In addition, we’re coordinating with agents out of the Tampa Field Office.” He waved to the outer area and the men who had escorted her in.
She glanced from Torrin, whose fair coloring and features made her think he might have looked comfortable in a kilt, to Fukuda. His multiracial features blended in a handsome face, or he could have been handsome if he didn’t look so grim. His short hair was light brown and his eyes a deep brown.
“Gentlemen.” The calm in her voice was inexplicable and welcome. She felt focused and irrationally confident. Perhaps this was adrenaline. Whatever the cause, she was grateful.
They shook hands all around. Who would have guessed that suits came in so many selections of gray?
“Detective Demko, if you wouldn’t mind waiting out there?”
