“I think everyone in this room can attest to the fact that a cold case doesn’t mean it’s unsolvable. Throw enough manpower and money at anything, and you’ll get an answer.” Dad crossed his arms over his big, barrel chest, daring me to keep going.
I stared him straight in the eye. “If all of these men were truly murdered, someone would have figured it out before thirty-three died.”
“You sound more like a defense attorney than a prosecutor, Grace.”
Taking a drink of my club soda, I chewed on a chunk of ice. “You’re the one who taught me to think like the defense if I wanted to win an argument before I could write my ABCs.”
Dad shoved away from the table and paced slowly at the front of the room. “I know we’ve got basically jack for evidence. I know that based upon the fact this perp has managed to cover up thirty-three murders as suicides, we’re dealing with an intelligent psychopath who would make Bundy look like a drooling invalid. I also know that every odd is not stacked in our favor, but no one—no one—takes the law into their own hands in my country. Not without facing the consequences.”
I waited for someone else to bring it up since my devil’s advocate card was about to be revoked. The five others circled around the table stayed quiet.
Reaching for my pen inside of my purse, I made a note in the margin of the evidence sheet. “Won’t we be taking the law into our hands by launching this private investigation?”
“The purpose of this task force is to gather the evidence that leads us to the perpetrator, who we will promptly hand over to the proper authorities upon capture.” Dad slipped his hands into his slacks’ pockets, still pacing. “We will reserve punishment for the justice system, a courtesy this person has not been compelled to trust in.”
“You catch this guy, you realize you’re going to have a mess of people cursing your name for nabbing the guy killing pedophiles, right?” the bulging tower of Titus said, his voice sounding exactly the way a person would assume it would given the mass of the man in possession of it. “I think it’s safe to say at least half the population is not going to congratulate you for finding this perp.”
I tipped my pen at Titus in agreement. What this person was doing might have been wrong in the law’s eyes, but the public would view it differently.
“Maybe not at first.” Dad stopped moving, staring at the wall across from him. “People will come around after the dust settles. They’ll come to understand that if we allow one citizen to operate as though they know better than the law, that kind of thinking becomes dangerous, spreading like a contagion.” The creases at the corners of his eyes bled into his cheeks, the corners of his mouth tipping downward. “We’ll have neighbors shooting neighbors for encroaching on their property, people on the street dealing out death penalties for an exchange of heated words. Those damn kids shooting up schools because they get picked on is going to increase ten-fold. You want the Wild West out on those streets”—his finger stabbed at the door—“I dare you to let this vigilante go unchallenged. With each kill, he becomes more emboldened, convinced he’s invincible.” Retrieving his bourbon from the table, Dad lifted it as though making a toast. “Let’s force him to question that notion.”
A stretch of silence followed, no one about to be the first to follow up that speech with a question or statement. As designated daughter who’d lived under the cloak of my father’s disappointment, I didn’t have any acclaim to lose in his eyes anymore.
“What’s your motive for doing this?” My pen tapped the binder. “Using your time and money to catch someone the police aren’t convinced is out there?”
One silver brow breeched into his hairline. “Does a person need a motive to
do the right thing?”
“Not to mention it won’t look too shabby when you finally decide to run for mayor like everyone’s been pushing you to consider.” Don finished what was left in his glass, winking at my dad.
“That’s a little short-sighted.” Dad’s mouth worked. “Why settle for cleaning up this city when the whole country’s in need of a good scrubbing?”
“Silas Payne, 2028.” Will’s hand moved as though he were reading from a billboard in the air. “The American Dream a Reality.”
That earned Will another shoulder clap from my father, a gleam in Dad’s eyes suggesting Will was the son my parents had never birthed. Ages ago, my parents had been hopeful Will and I would one day become Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, but those dreams were promptly vanquished when a recess could rarely pass without the two of us getting into some sort of scuffle involving words or fists. And then there was the whole getting pregnant by a mere stranger on a one-night stand. That really solidified the notion that dear Will and me would not wind up together in unholy matrimony.
“Let’s stick to the case,” Dad continued, patting Will on the back before motioning across the table from me. “Samantha, would you go over your initial profile with us? I know it’s in its infancy, but it will be helpful to begin sketching an image of this criminal in our minds.”
She flipped to another section in her binder, though she didn’t consult it. “He feels his kills are justified, righteous even.” Her eyes swept over each of us as she spoke. “We’re dealing with someone who knows the law and is able to get close to these kinds of men. Maybe he grew up disadvantaged or is a former criminal himself.”
“I think the label of serial killer allows us to drop the former justifier,” Phinn interjected.
Samantha barely deigned to acknowledge his rebuttal. “He has the means to roam the nation for his victims. Whether that suggests the time, money, or career that allows it, we’re looking for someone who lives an uprooted existence. Likely single or divorced.” Her gaze drifted my way again, her attention dipping to my binder. She didn’t continue until I’d flipped to the profile section. “This is a male, white, likely middle class, with a list of priors. Probably assault charges stemming from getting into fights. He’s in his late twenties to thirties, larger framed, and strong enough to overpower other men in their primes.” When she finished, she scanned the table, waiting for questions.
“Probably? Might be? Maybe?” I tapped my pen at the same words typed in front of me. “What happens when we target our search to these parameters and never find him because his profile is entirely different?”
Samantha folded her hands in her lap. “A profile is a guide. It’s not intended to be a solution.”
“Everyone in this room knows the strengths and pitfalls of criminal profiling.” Dad rolled his chair out from the table, but he didn’t take a seat. “We’re not going to catch this guy from a profile, just like we’re not going to catch him off one piece of evidence. It’s going to be a collection of information, paired with the collaboration of the experts I have assembled in this room. That’s how we’re going to put this son of a bitch behind bars.”
Flipping to another section in the binder, I shook my head at the thought of how long it would take to read the documents alone, not including the time involved to find a person who was so skilled, no one had known of his existence until last week.
“Where do we begin with something this massive?” My private thoughts became public.
“The last kill, while everything’s still fresh,” Dad replied. “We’ll interview neighbors, dig into anyone who might have had a motive to want Darryl Skovil dead. We’ll grease some wheels in the police department to see what direction they might be taking with the case. We start with Skovil and work our way back to the beginning.” His eyes dropped to his watch. “I’ve taken up enough of your time for one evening and I’m sure you’ll all want time to familiarize yourself with the information we’ve assembled in the binders. I’m in the process of securing an office space for us to utilize in a central location, but in the mean time, the Highlands has agreed to let us borrow this space. You have any questions, concerns, insights, you name it, this thing is permanently attached to my ear.” He tapped his cell lying on the table beside his binder. �
�We’ll reconvene this weekend to divvy up the workload and responsibilities. I want to get to this guy before he realizes we’re after him, which means no one talks to the press about this. Complete media silence, understood?”
“How much extra are you paying us for discretion, Silas?” Don teased as he closed his binder and rose from his seat.
My dad gave one of those wide smiles that implied he had a secret. “I’m paying you in my own discretion.” He grinned wider. “And the arm and a leg I’m paying each of you for your assistance. Except for you, Gracey girl.” Dad’s smile fell. “I promised Stan you would serve as nothing more than an occasional advisor on this, an uncompensated consultant. We don’t need to get buried in conflict of interest issues before we get going.” He stopped when he noticed the look on my face. “That okay with you? I figured the trust fund I’ve left in your name is more than enough to cover whatever favor your dear ol’ dad might ask of you.”
I gathered up my things with everyone else, ignoring his question since I took it to be a rhetorical one.
“Thank you, everyone,” Dad droned as they filed out of the room.
Teddy paused as he was passing me, tapping my arm lightly. “Good to have you on the team.”
I replied as he moved on, resisting the instinct to glare at Will when he waved at me before leaving.
Dad waited until everyone had filed from the room. Hands capped over the headrest of his chair, he licked his lips. “So? Have I made a convincing case? Are you on board?”
“I need time to review the information before I make my final decision.” I squeezed the binder at my side. “Either way, you’ve assembled one hell of a team here. You won’t need my help to find this guy.”
“Blood is thicker than water,” was all he said, as though that were the explanation to every question I could pose.
“And messier.”
His nostrils flared before he took a deep breath. “I need you on this, Gracey.”
A huff echoed in my chest. “Now I know you’re lying.”
“Fine.” He lifted his hands. “I’d like you on this.”
“Because I worked the Skovil case?” I guessed.
“Because of that”—his head moved—“but because you’re good as well.”
The familiar sting burned in my eyes, emerging from out of nowhere, without my consent or knowledge of its manifestation. Gathering my purse, I made my way toward the door before he could notice.
“You know what’s sad?” I stood in the doorway, shaking my head. “After nearly four decades of being a daughter, I still can’t discern if my father’s mocking me or issuing a compliment.”
“Gracey?” he called as I continued through the door.
“I’ll help,” I replied, leaving before I could take back my answer—before doubt could bubble to the surface, hissing reminders and rebukes that I was already failing my current commitments. But that was the way doubt was, sneaking in when we were most vulnerable, leaking into the cracks and scars that had yet to heal.
By the time I made it home that night, Noah was in bed asleep, as I guessed Andee was given the lack of light streaming from beneath her door. On the front porch was the dinner I’d scheduled to have delivered tonight at eight, untouched and unnoticed. Even if I was hungry, I knew better than to touch sushi that had been sitting out unrefrigerated for hours.
After dumping the bag in the outside garbage, I tucked myself into the corner chair in the living room and opened the heavy binder, eager for the distraction it would offer.
I read the entire thing, cover to cover, not surfacing for so much as a drink or bathroom break. That was how Noah found me the next morning, pouring over the hulking binder, eyes bloodshot, yesterday’s suit rumpled around me. He inspected the mess of highlighters and sticky notes I had scattered about.
“God, Grace.” Noah blinked the sleep out of his eyes, checking the time on his watch. “Have you been up all night?”
“Yeah,” I answered absently, jotting down a thought as it struck me.
“What’s so important it demands an all-nighter?” He wandered toward the kitchen, probably to start the coffee.
I scribbled down another note. My mind was all over the place, part genius and part mad, brought on by the lack of sleep.
I tore my eyes away from the binder when Noah padded back into the living room. “A serial killer.”
Ten
“Andee, I’m heading out. There’s money on the counter if you want to order pizza or anything.” I bounced down the hall, switching feet as I slid on my heels.
As usual, I was running late for a non-work related event. Noah would meet me at the restaurant once he finished with his last patient. His office was located in the U District and the restaurant we were meeting Dean and his date at was nestled in the Pike Place neighborhood close by.
“Andee?” I stopped outside of her bedroom as I wrestled with my earrings. There wasn’t a response, but I heard signs of life inside.
“What the hell!” I shouted after flinging open the door to find my sixteen-year-old daughter lying topless beneath an equally topless young man.
“Shit!” Andee cried, more from annoyance than embarrassment as the boy scrambled off of her, reaching for his shirt at the foot of her bed.
“What are you thinking, Andee?” I asked, though I kept my glare pinned on Austin—who was casually tugging on his shirt now that he’d confirmed I wasn’t brandishing a sidearm. “Are you . . . are you having sex?”
She swatted her shirt away when Austin tossed it to her. And when and where had she found the bra she was wearing?
“Gross. We are not having this discussion.” She flailed her hand in my general direction. “And you promised me you’d honor the closed door policy.”
“Not when I hear heavy breathing coming from behind it!”
“Yeah, I’m going to bail.” Austin adjusted his jeans as he stretched his legs over the bed to leave.
“You don’t have to leave,” Andee said.
“Yes, you do.” I stepped aside, waving him out the bedroom door. The urge to commit varying degrees of assault was dizzying.
Andee threw her back against the headboard, crossing her arms. “I can’t believe you.”
“You can’t believe what exactly? That I’m not eager to let my sixteen-year-old pick up whatever venereal disease a guy like that is crawling with? Or that I’d like to keep you from getting pregnant before you’ve graduated high school?” I marched over to her dresser and ripped out the first shirt my hands touched.
When I flung it her direction, she let it lay where it fell. “Oh, please. That’s classic coming from someone who got knocked up in college during what was supposed to be a one-night stand. Not the life sentence you two turned it into.” She reached for her headphones resting on her nightstand.
“That was different. I was twenty-two when I had you, not a sophomore in high school.”
“You might as well have been,” she muttered not quite under her breath.
“And your father was a decent guy who didn’t run at the sight of that second pink line. Guys like the one you just had fumbling his way around you in here are sprinters. They vanish at the first hint of a pregnancy.”
“You don’t know anything about him,” she snapped.
“I know enough.”
Her expression cracked momentarily. “I hate you,” she whispered, repeating it once more at a level that was unmistakable.
“For this whole tough, take-no-shit act you sell all day long, it’s disappointing that you’re no different from all the other girls you roll your eyes at. The ones who let the first cute boy to look their way into their pants.” The words lashed like fire from my tongue. “It’s so predictable it’s disappointing.”
Slipping her headphones on, she turned her back to me before I could see her reaction. I’d literally spewed every wrong word to utter from The Parents of an Angry Teenage Daughter handbook. At that moment, she wasn’t the only one present in
the room who hated me.
She huffed. “That dress? At your age? And you’re calling me disappointing? And if you want a definition of predictable, let’s dive into your addiction to Botox and antipsychotics.”
My back stiffened; she paid more attention than I gave her credit for. “They’re antidepressants, not antipsychotics.”
“Yeah, what about the ones you take for sleep? Anxiety? Migraines? You pop more pills than the corner junkie.” When she glanced at me, she shook her head. Then she looked away for good. “There’s nothing real about you, from your hair color to your mood.”
Her music was cranked up so loudly, I could make out the faint din leaking through her headphones. On her nightstand, I noticed a new photo of Miss Evelyn with the Washington Monument in the background. I knew Andee and she corresponded through email regularly, and guessed my daughter trusted her former nanny with her secrets more than she did her mother. Even I, at times, had entrusted the kind old woman with my own burdens, none of them too monumental or baffling for her to offer some kind of fresh perspective on. This family needed Miss Evelyn—I was a poor substitute for the real life Mary Poppins.
I should have said something to Andee. Apologized. Talked out what was going on between her and Austin. There were a hundred things I should have said, but I did the last thing I should have—I left.
My face felt puffy as I crawled into my SUV. It wasn’t until I checked the rearview mirror that I realized it was because I was crying. Before I hit the highway, I’d wiped the tears away until there was no sign of sadness to be found on my face.
Behind it was a different story, but the world only perceived what we presented on the outside. The real person hiding inside might never be known by another living soul, because that was the way people worked. They saw what they wanted to see, hinged upon the veneer we presented. The real person remained sealed safely inside for all eternity.
The traffic downtown was dying when I exited the I-5. The Seattle skyline twinkled against the dark, starless canvas behind it, an idyllic postcard for a city saturated with as much pain and crime as I knew it to be capable of.
These Violent Roots Page 10
