Wait for Dark

by Kay Hooper

  “So . . . if the doc is right, Perla Cross was killed either while her husband was in the house waiting for her, or else very soon after he left to come here.”

  “It couldn’t have been while Joe was in the house,” Mal objected. “Scuff marks or no scuff marks, she must have struggled, even if she knew the guy. Once she realized what he meant to do. Or cried out, at least. Joe would have heard something.”

  Hollis nodded. “Yeah, even in that big house I think he would have. Assuming she wasn’t drugged or otherwise rendered unconscious for hours, which we have to assume she wasn’t unless the tox screen tells us otherwise. So . . . the killer already had Perla with him, probably in the attic since it’s the one place that, according to him, her husband didn’t search. In the dark, and managed to keep her quiet while Mr. Cross was looking for her, waiting for her. Maybe her killer . . . made it a game. Something new and exciting in her life.”

  “My guess is that’s something Perla would go for, unless and until she felt threatened. One of the words she often used to describe her marriage was ‘boring.’”

  “And he would have known that.”

  “Hell, everyone in town knew it.”

  DeMarco said, “So that’s one possibility. That this death, this murder, was personal for him. He didn’t have to know her well to feel . . . somehow injured by her. She really doesn’t sound the type to have hidden the existence of a lover—from anyone. Apparently, she talked about everything in her life, so why not a lover?”

  Kirby, who had been pretty much silent since her comment about not having instincts yet, spoke up then, as serious as the others were. “If she was as visible as she sounds, as . . . dramatic and almost out of place as she sounds, she could have attracted the wrong kind of attention. What if she didn’t know anything until today? Didn’t even know she had a particular admirer. Someone might have been obsessed about her, watching her, for a long time. Stalking her.”

  Hollis nodded again. “We know stalkers invent complete relationships with the object of their obsession, and the fantasy, to them, is all too real. She could have done something in total innocence he viewed as a rejection. And that could have been enough to turn his obsession even darker, to drive him to kill her.”

  Hesitantly, Kirby said, “A stalker has a . . . very specific focus, right? His world was her. Would he have used the other killings to throw us off track? I mean—what if Mrs. Cross was his intended target all along, and we were just meant to lump her in with the rest?”

  —

  KEITH WEBB HAD been married to the second-oldest of the four Ferguson sisters, Carla, long enough to know that it would be a while before they had their house all to themselves again. And it wasn’t that he hadn’t expected they would be the ones to provide Joe Cross a temporary home after Perla had been so horribly killed; they had the largest house in what was in reality—and had been dubbed by most of Clarity—the Ferguson Compound.

  When you married into that clan, you ended up in a specific small neighborhood on the outskirts of Clarity. Whether you meant to or not. And if there wasn’t a house for you by the time you returned from the honeymoon, it didn’t take much longer to finish building one on the considerable acreage of Ferguson family land.

  Keith and Carla had anticipated having a large family, and so the house built for them boasted four bedrooms, plus a guest suite and a mother-in-law suite in the basement.

  They’d been married for ten years, and no kids so far, but Carla was only thirty and they were both still enthusiastically working toward having those kids any time now.

  In the meantime, at least for now, quite a few Fergusons were occupying those extra bedrooms, as well as other areas of the house, even if their own homes were only two doors down. And Joe Cross was going to stay in the guest suite.

  If, Keith thought, the shocked and grieving widower ever made it as far as the stairs. So far, he was still in the den just off the foyer. Keith’s den, where he sometimes slipped away to watch a movie or sports on his big flat-screen when the house was invaded by too many Fergusons.

  All the Fergusons were shocked and horrified and grieving the murder of the youngest sister, and all of them were handling that grief the way Fergusons handled any troubles in their lives.

  They stayed busy.

  Joe Cross, Keith knew, gave them something to be busy with, so he really didn’t begrudge Joe the guest suite in his home or even the far end of his very comfortable sectional in the den.

  Even if he was half convinced Joe’s tears had literally soaked into the one section he was sitting on.

  Carla bustled into the room with yet another box of tissues, sitting down beside Joe and using a handful of tissues to mop his wet face one more time.

  “I know, Joe,” she said. “I know.”

  He let out a wail and buried his face in his hands—and in the tissues Carla had expertly slipped into place. His sobbing was a bit muffled. Just a bit.

  Carla met her husband’s gaze and said, “It’s awful.” Her eyes were bright and hard, the way they would stay until she was alone with her husband in their bedroom, tonight or maybe not until tomorrow, and she could finally cry herself.

  “Yeah,” Keith said, meaning it because he had liked Perla very much; she was fun in a town that was otherwise pretty conventional. “It is awful.”

  “The boys want to get their guns and go hunting for the bastard that killed her,” Carla said.

  The “boys” were her four brothers, the youngest twenty-eight and the oldest nearly forty.

  “Best stop them,” Keith said. “Mal won’t put up with it. Besides, we don’t know who did it.”

  “Think those FBI agents know?”

  “Only been here a few hours. I doubt even FBI agents can figure things out that fast, especially in the dark.”

  Carla seemed struck by that. “True. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see.”

  She nodded. Then said, “Mama’s making her stew.”

  Joe wailed into his tissues, and she patted his hunched back several times. Rather briskly. “Perla loved Mama’s stew.”

  Keith, who had decided he wasn’t likely to see his bed before dawn, sniffed the air for the faint scent beginning to waft through the house from the kitchen. “Her chicken stew?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I love it too,” Keith said. “Is she making it for tonight?”

  “She’s making it for all weekend. And maybe next week. She has two big pots going, with all the chicken I had in the freezer.”

  “Good. That’s good. Keep her busy.”

  Carla nodded. “June’s chopping vegetables for her,” she said of the Ferguson sister who was now the youngest at twenty-six. “And Ally slipped out to go hide the boys’ guns.” Allison was the oldest, at thirty-two.

  “Boys drinking?”

  “Starting to.”

  Keith nodded. “Good, then. They’ll think better of it tomorrow. Sober.”

  “Or not,” Carla said.

  “Or not,” he agreed. He looked at Joe, and for an odd moment he fancied there was a sort of shimmer in the air just above Joe’s far shoulder. But then Joe wailed again, and shuddered, and began sobbing louder, and Keith forgot about shimmers in the air.

  “Think we’d better call the doc,” he said.

  “He’s on his way,” Carla said.

  “Good,” Keith said. The sobbing of his wife’s brother-in-law was beginning to set his teeth on edge. “That’s good.”

  —

  HOLLIS WAS LOOKING intently at their youngest agent. “His world was her. You’re right, Kirby. Assuming one exists, a stalker would have been obsessed with Perla. He might have gone after someone he felt or knew was a rival, but if that were so I’d have expected him to go after Joe Cross. These other victims . . . How could they have threatened his fantasy relationship wit
h Perla?”

  “Maybe it’s simpler,” Mal said. “Maybe he knew he had a motive to kill her. And no motive to kill the others.”

  Something Bishop had suggested as possible, Hollis thought. But she had an objection. “It wouldn’t be a stalker, then. Kirby’s right, a stalker’s world would have been her, his focus on her. All these . . . staged . . . accidents don’t make sense for a stalker.”

  DeMarco said, “But maybe they do make sense for a serial killer with very specific tastes.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s always possible. Even likely. But I keep coming back to the way Perla Cross was murdered,” Hollis said. “The abrupt escalation from staged accidents to an obvious murder just bugs the hell out of me. Because there’s no possibility anyone, even outside law enforcement, could look at how she was killed and not know they were looking at a murder. It’s not like she could have fallen out of the window and hit that tree the way she did; she had to have been pushed or thrown, and hard, with a lot of power. From all the evidence so far, he went out of his way at considerable trouble to stage accidents; this time he went out of his way to make sure we’d know this was murder. Why make murder obvious now?”

  “I’d say maybe he didn’t have a choice, that she somehow forced his hand and he decided to get rid of her,” DeMarco said—and then immediately shook his head. “It may have been done in rage, but there was a lot of premeditation in her murder. A lot of preparation. It took time and hard work to sharpen those limbs. Whatever else happened in that attic, he meant to kill her. And maybe she realized that at some point, either by instinct or because of something he did or said that told her she was in danger. Maybe he had to produce a gun or other weapon. Maybe by the time her husband came home, the killer had her tied up and gagged.”

  Cullen spoke up to say, “I didn’t see any ligature marks on her wrists or ankles. Though, to be honest, I wasn’t really looking for signs she’d been bound.”

  “I didn’t look at all,” his partner confessed, stating what the rest of them knew anyway.

  Almost automatically, Mal said, “The doc will be able to tell us if she was tied up. Or maybe she was right to look for a head wound, if the killer knocked her out.”

  In the same sort of tone, Hollis said, “If Perla was slammed against that tree with enough force to drive those limbs through her, I expect the doc will find the back of her skull crushed, or at least fractured. That could easily hide evidence of an earlier blow to incapacitate her.”

  “She definitely needs to go back and check the whole attic,” DeMarco said. “If the killer was up there with Mrs. Cross, I doubt he would have assumed her husband wouldn’t at least come to the top of the stairs. He wouldn’t have been standing out in the open.”

  Cullen said, “Plenty of stuff to hide behind, that’s for sure. Enough to hide him and an unconscious Perla Cross, if he had to use a blitz attack or drugged her. And if he did use bleach up there, maybe it was blood he had to clean up.”

  DeMarco was watching his partner. “What is it? You’re the most experienced profiler here.”

  Hollis wondered if he had said that to emphasize her leadership with the sheriff or simply as useful information, but the inner question was brief and easily pushed aside. She had another fleeting thought about a good meal and the no-doubt-comfortable bed waiting for her at the hotel, then pushed that aside as well as she half sat on the conference table with a sigh.

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  Mal asked, “What part?”

  “The escalation.” She brooded for a moment, then said, “I keep coming back to that. It’s in my head like neon. All the so-called accidents before tonight took careful planning, and over a period of time. He was very meticulous. He knew his victims, their schedules, where they’d be at the right time for his plans. Either because he knew them personally or else stalked them long enough to learn what he had to, and stalked them without being seen or at least noticed by anyone else. Right?”

  “Looks that way,” DeMarco agreed.

  “Okay. We know he took the time at some point to sharpen the limbs outside that attic window at the Cross home. That could have taken more than one trip when neither of the Crosses was home, and he had to clean up after his work, leaving no signs he’d been there, and he had to be pretty sure neither of them would notice, either from inside the house or from outside. Again, careful planning; he managed to get it done without being seen.”

  All three of her fellow agents nodded, but it was Kirby who said suddenly, “Oh—he had to know what time Mr. Cross got home from work. He had to know Mrs. Cross had the day off. Right?”

  It was Hollis’s turn to nod. “Right. If we find the same warning on her cell phone, then we’ll know his intent was to kill her tonight. Which is why, at the very least, I would have expected some planned distraction for Mr. Cross. Or some routine behavior the killer was counting on to get his victim’s husband away from the house for at least a couple of hours after dark.”

  Mal hesitated, then said, “I think Joe would have gotten in his truck and driven around checking out the hotels and motels Perla tends to be in when she’s left him in a huff.”

  “That was his normal reaction?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why not do that tonight?” With only a slight pause, Hollis answered her own question. “Because there was too much evidence at the house that she hadn’t run away, evidence that was obvious to him. She left behind her dog, her cell phone, her purse, any money she had—and she didn’t pack a bag. There was a matched set of red luggage in that huge closet of hers, and not a single piece was missing. Her jewelry, makeup, even her toothbrush, all still there.”

  “And all of it evidence to her husband that she hadn’t run away again.” Mal nodded. “That makes sense.”

  Hollis brooded again. “But if the killer knew her and was counting on her husband to react as he usually did, why would he have not made certain that it looked like Perla Cross had just run away one more time? It’s clear he had the time to do that, time before Joe Cross was due home from work. Why make it so very obvious she hadn’t run off again that her husband couldn’t possibly have reacted as he usually did?”

  DeMarco said slowly, “To up the ante? To give himself more of a challenge? A smaller window of opportunity in which to work?”

  Kirby shook her head half-consciously. “That would be taking an awful risk, though, wouldn’t it? I mean, nothing really stopped Mr. Cross from staying put and just calling the sheriff, right? He was probably less likely to drive all the way here after realizing none of her stuff was missing.”

  “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?” DeMarco asked.

  “Unless Mr. Cross hasn’t told us everything he knows,” Hollis said. “Or unless this unsub has escalated again, this time dragging a loved one into his delusions and fantasies. Unless this time the suffering was something he wanted to inflict on someone else as well as the victim.”

  Cullen noted, “He pretty much did that with the elevator accident. Friends, family, and her fiancé saw what happened to Karen Underwood.”

  “But that part of it, the audience, couldn’t really have been planned. Unless he was part of the wedding party, somehow managed to hide Karen Underwood’s purse so she’d have to go back up and get it, and suggest to the others that they wait. He couldn’t have controlled those events any other way.”

  Mal swore, not under his breath. “I have a list of everybody from the wedding party who was waiting for Karen. In fact, I have a list of every soul who was within sight of those elevator doors.”

  “And you interviewed them?”

  “One of my deputies or me talked to every person. But only about what they saw. We weren’t looking at anybody as a suspect, except maybe her fiancé. And we ruled him out pretty quickly. I’d bet my pension his shock and grief were genuine.”

  Hollis n
odded slowly. “The significant other is usually a prime suspect in murders, but not in serial cases.”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Mal said, “So one killer orchestrating all these deaths. And Perla’s murder was so different because the killer wanted to watch Joe mourn his dead wife. Is that what we’re saying?”

  “Or watch her murder destroy him. It’s at least possible. And if that’s it, then Joe Cross is who he really wanted to hurt, at least with Perla’s murder. But I doubt that was the trigger that set him off initially. More like . . . a fun little bonus for him.” Hollis reached up to massage one temple, hardly aware of what she was doing. The little headache she had felt coming on all day was beginning to explode into something very close to a migraine.

  At that moment, Deputy Emma Fletcher reappeared in the doorway, this time not holding a dog, but holding a cell phone. “Got it,” she announced triumphantly. “Hollis was right, the password was Felix.”

  “I assume that’s been dusted for prints,” the sheriff said, not really a question.

  “Yeah. Only Perla’s and Joe’s. More of his than hers, actually.”

  Mal nodded. “He probably tried to figure out her password when he saw she was gone and the cell had been left behind. He admitted to me that’s why Perla got a phone she could password-protect, because he’d been snooping, trying to find out who she’d been talking and texting to. What about texts, Emma?”

  “It’s here,” the deputy answered him. “Sent at three o’clock exactly from an unknown number. And since it isn’t an unread text, I assume Perla saw it.”

  “Wait for dark,” Mal said.

  “Yeah. Same as all the others. Wait for dark.”

  EIGHT

  They ate at the restaurant next door to the hotel, so it was nearly midnight when they finally checked in and went up to their rooms. The desk clerk informed them helpfully that he had put all of them on the same floor and into a block of rooms with connecting doors in case they wanted to move around and maybe work up there.