Kenna retraced her steps a few feet, reaching for her phone. It wasn’t in the pocket of her jacket, reminding her that she’d set her cell down on the counter. An image of Spartacus inside alone was enough to make her advance forward, but she stopped just shy of the entrance. If she had her carry permit, she would have been armed and not in a position to fear entering her own house. Her dad had been harping on her to file the paperwork, but she just hadn’t gotten around to it with everything that had happened lately.
The faintest of meows could be heard through the house from behind the door that led to the kitchen. Spartacus was calling out to her, and here she was letting her imagination run away from her. Well, she wasn’t going to be that indecisive individual who couldn’t make a decision. She also wasn’t going to stand outside in the cold one bit longer.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“None of the victims had a significant other,” Dean murmured, staring at the monitor. He’d brought up the profiles of each widow, comparing certain data points. “Did you notice that?”
“I’m pretty sure there’s a reason there are widows and widowers,” Evans pointed out wryly from behind his laptop. He’d officially been pulled from undercover duty, and he was currently running a search with the new parameters that they’d all come up with throughout the day. Dwight shot him a look of fake contempt, but Evans shrugged it off. “What? Don’t act like that observation didn’t cross your mind, too.”
“Linc, none of the victims were actively dating,” Dean clarified, dropping his feet from one of the empty chairs. It wasn’t that this information would help them narrow the search for the unsub, but it did fit into Linc’s theory that the unsub was aware of their lack of dating activity. “The unsub is targeting widows who were having trouble integrating back into their circle of family and friends.”
Linc turned around to look at the monitor while Dean reached into the middle of the table for Viola Chambers’ file. He flipped it open, turning to the statements taken from her parents. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for in the notes.
“My daughter never got over the death of her husband,” Dean quoted the mother of Viola Chambers. He then used his finger to scan down the page, this time to a statement taken from one of her colleagues. “Viola didn’t even want to get together for a surprise birthday party for her best friend. It seemed odd at the time.”
“Tamara Johnson’s father said that his daughter had been completely withdrawn since the death of her husband. There hadn’t been anything they could say or do to help her through her grief,” Linc confirmed, having located the statement in the folder he was still searching through from this morning. He’d been combing through it on and off throughout the day, fully believing the answer lay somewhere with her. “We know that Meghan had only lost her husband nine months before her murder. She never had much of a chance to reintegrate.”
“The death of a spouse isn’t something that one can simply move on from,” Dean replied, recalling the grief that his mother had gone through after his father had died. She’d had two little boys to take care of though, and her grit and determination had pulled the family through in ways that he could only appreciate in his later years. “What does this do to the profile?”
“It confirms the unsub’s motive.” Linc leaned back in his chair. “Like I said before, we’re dealing with someone who felt a deep responsibility toward his mother after the loss of his father. You’ll find that friends and neighbors helped when they could, but he experienced a sense of profound neglect that overshadowed everything else. In turn, he became a caretaker.”
“Or in this case, a widow caretaker,” Chaz murmured, stretching his neck muscles as he stood from his chair. “I’m calling it a night, folks.”
The visit with the governor had been tense, setting everyone on edge for the rest of the day. Meghan Vance’s uncle wanted answers, and he was willing to use his position to push the issue politically. Unfortunately, his position didn’t come with enough power to produce the results needed to solve this case. Hell, they’d all put in close to a fourteen-hour day. They’d made progress in terms of broadening the criteria to run searches in public databases, but it would take a while to sort through the new information. Dwight had already accessed two of those archives and would continue to do so with the others over the next few days.
Before Dean could agree with Chaz that they should wrap things up for the evening, a bit of commotion commenced in the bullpen. Linc was the first to reach the door upon recognizing that Quinn Simmons was at the window, demanding to speak with the federal agents on the case.
“Let her through,” Linc demanded after throwing open the door. “Now.”
The night deputy didn’t look pleased as he turned away from the window, but he wisely chose not to argue. He pressed the button and released the lock, allowing Quinn to rush through the thick, reinforced steel-grey door. She pushed her long brown hair away from her face as she all but shoved her phone into Linc’s chest.
“The Widow Taker texted me on my new phone, Agent Roche.” Quinn’s tone was almost accusatory as she took a step back. It was as if she no longer wanted to have anything to do with her research into her serial killer story. “He says he is going to murder someone tonight, and there’s nothing I can do to stop him.”
“Slow down,” Linc advised gently, having barely caught her phone before she released her hold on it. He stared down at the lit display, before slowly holding it out for Dean to take a look at the message. “Miss Simmons, we spoke at length about the unsub’s motives. Whether or not you published his letter was not a guarantee that he wouldn’t continue to take the lives of innocent people. This is not about you or your actions.”
“It sure as hell feels personal,” Quinn exclaimed, her anger directed solely at Linc. “That’s my new private number, Agent. He didn’t contact me on my work phone, he didn’t leave a comment on my blog, and he didn’t leave some random note for me to find. He has my number that I just got two weeks ago. Nobody has that number yet.”
Dean was only half-listening as he focused on the text displayed on Quinn’s phone. He had to read the message twice in order to comprehend the ramifications of the information provided. It was rare that he experienced deep-seated fear, and he could literally count on one hand the moments in his life where he’d experienced such terror…with plenty of fingers left over. The time his mother had sat him and his brother down with news that their father had died was always first and foremost in his mind. Then there was the occasion that he and the rest of his unit had been briefly pinned down by transplanted foreign fighters during the battle of Al Qa’im during Operation Matador in May of 2005.
Reading the description of the unsub’s intended target this very evening had Dean’s blood running cold throughout his body. He hadn’t even realized he’d pulled his own phone out of his pocket and had dialed Kenna for reassurance that she was home safe and sound with the alarm system activated. By the third ring, Dean was already instructing Chaz to send the nearest patrol car to Kenna’s residence.
Black hair.
Green eyes.
Porcelain skin.
Had they been wrong about the unsub’s profile? His victims had struggled to find another path in which to find happiness. Kenna had worked through her grief and discovered who she was after losing her husband, and Dean had been honored when she’d chosen him to move forward with in her newfound life. He hadn’t told her what that had meant to him, and all he could think of was that there was a possibility he never would.
“Dean, the patrol in her area took a burglary call—”
He disconnected the line and tried again, throwing Quinn’s phone at Chaz. There was no time to backtrack, and Dean’s car keys were in the conference room. He snagged a pair of keys off the deputies’ rack, taking note of the car number as he rammed the door with his arm and shoulder, activating the bar to release the lever as he called out to Chaz that he also needed to send a unit to Bre
nda Reinhardt’s residence. She fit the same description, and they couldn’t afford to leave her unprotected either.
Kenna’s phone continued to ring, and his only thought was to get to her as fast as possible. She had to be safe. The other alternative was unacceptable in his mind.
“Bob, I truly appreciate you doing this,” Kenna called out as he walked to the back patio door that was visible from the living room. He flipped the lock as Rocky and Adrian wiggled their tails in hopes of getting another treat. “I shouldn’t have left the garage door open when I brought Rocky home, but it all happened so fast that I didn’t think twice when Rocky came up the driveway. I’m sure it’s fine to go inside, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
Kenna stayed in the small foyer near front door, not wanting to get his carpet wet from her boots. She’d thought back to all the warnings her father had given her as a teenager and numerous other times as an adult. Dean’s words of wisdom were also making her cautious tonight. With the black vehicle parked across the street, she wasn’t going to take any chances.
“It’s no problem,” Bob replied, advancing toward her only to stop midway through the living room. “I have the tea kettle on the stove. Let me turn it off before I walk you home.”
Kenna smiled and nodded as she watched Bob disappear from view. She’d never been inside his home before, and it was quite immaculate for a single male. She didn’t mean to stereotype, but she’d caught sight of the inside of Bob’s garage a time or two. He came across as a bit of an organized hoarder. There was a pretty wooden shelving unit to her right filled with various pictures of Bob’s past. She really only knew the surface of his life, and that he worked for the electric company. The black and white wedding photo with him in a tuxedo and a beautiful bride in a princess designed gown took Kenna by surprise, as did the numerous photographs that showed a son throughout his younger years. It appeared he now had a family of his own.
“That’s Randy, my son. He moved to Colorado right after college and works for one of the ski resorts. Can you believe it? He married an Olympic skier.” Bob shook his head as if to say that he was the one who couldn’t believe his son had married such a talented athlete. He wasn’t looking at their family picture, though. He only had eyes for his wife. “Lucy. I miss her more every single day. It doesn’t get easier, does it?”
The question took Kenna by surprise, not having spoken in depth to Bob about Justin’s death. Neighbors just didn’t do that kind of thing, unless their friendship was much deeper. Bob had only ever been the guy who walked his dogs and waved hello from time to time. The odd manner in which he was staring at her, awaiting her answer, set her on edge.
Once again, Kenna found herself questioning whether or not her imagination was working overtime. Bob was simply a neighbor…nothing more and nothing less. He owned two rambunctious bulldogs. A serial killer wouldn’t own two such slobbering pets, would he? She found herself changing her mind when he finally took a step toward her.
The rose looked so beautiful in her pale hands. He twirled one of her black strands around his gloved finger, resting it softly against her cheek.
She looked so at peace now that he’d released her from her anguish and sorrow.
“I made it better for you, didn’t I?” he whispered, closing her eyes one last time.
She couldn’t answer him, of course. She was somewhere else, her soul floating free of the confines she’d found herself trapped in for so long. He’d been the one to do that for her…to set her free. He’d been the one to end her suffering.
He’d been her champion.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dean cut the steering wheel hard to the left in order to make the turn into Kenna’s subdivision, allowing the backend to come around. The wet asphalt actually helped make the rotation possible as he drifted into the cul-de-sac sideways, and it wasn’t long before he shoved the nose of the front end of the patrol car up her slanted driveway. He’d flipped on the siren and lights before even vacating the parking lot of the police station, knowing he’d need every possible advantage to navigate through traffic at this hour. He’d tried numerous times to call Kenna on her cell phone and the new landline she’d had installed for the alarm system, but she’d picked up neither.
He scrambled for the handle on the driver’s side door after having slammed the gearshift of the car into park. The garage door was gaping wide open and the pitch blackness inside was enough to cause Dean to draw his weapon. He purposefully shut off all thought about the devastation that could be awaiting him on the inside. It wouldn’t help Kenna any to have him make a mistake that could end up costing both of them their lives.
Other sirens could be heard in a distance, telling him that Chaz and additional support officers weren’t far behind his lead. Linc would have stayed at the station and had Dwight try to trace the number that the text had come from. The other deputies already on patrol in the area hadn’t made it to Kenna’s residence before him, but Dean couldn’t wait for backup.
He’d unconsciously checked his surroundings when he’d pulled to a stop, his training ingrained to notice the slightest change to the neighborhood he’d been entering and exiting for the last two weeks. The black car opposite the driveway was the make and model of one that had been on their radar, which just raised his assessment of the threat level. Two silhouettes were advancing from his right, but it was the click of the light in the garage that held the majority of his attention.
“FBI,” Dean yelled, aiming his firearm directly at the chest of the target exiting Kenna’s kitchen into the garage. It took every ounce of strength not to squeeze the trigger. “Down on your knees, Brighton. Hands behind your head, fingers interlaced.”
“It’s not what it looks like!” Brighton tried to explain, although he did just as he was ordered to do once he saw that Dean clearly intended to discharge his weapon if warranted. He had frantically landed on his knees with his fingers laced behind his head, still trying to deny that he’d been doing anything wrong. “I was just checking to make sure—”
“Face down on the ground, Brighton! I will shoot if you make any sudden moves!”
“Kenna, let the agent do his job.”
Dean had been monitoring the progress of the two shadows, recognizing Kenna’s form almost immediately even though she was wearing her winter coat. She had the habit of pulling her hair low to the side of her neck, scrunched into one of her numerous hair ties. Her neighbor, Bob, was holding her back by the arm as she tried to step forward.
Dean resisted the urge to collect her in his own arms and hold her tight until his mind accepted that he wasn’t going to find her posed in her living room with a single red rose placed between her hands. It was a gruesome image that wouldn’t dissipate from his thoughts, but he never once broke the Weaver stance that he’d practiced so many times at the range.
Daryl Brighton was being placed under arrest, and the town of Winter Heights could rest easy knowing that a sadistic serial killer was off the streets.
“Kenna, I want you to go back to Bob’s house with him. Stay there until I come and get you,” Dean instructed in a clipped tone, the cold and wet air finally penetrating his shirt. He hadn’t taken time to collect either his suit jacket or his dress coat, and the adrenaline that had been rushing through his veins that had maintained his body temperature was slowly dissipating. Now that he’d momentarily shifted his gaze to Kenna and could see that she was unharmed, reality was beginning to settle in. “Brighton, no sudden movements. Don’t do anything foolish. You are to remain face down with your hands behind your head until my backup arrives, is that understood?”
“Yes, yes, but all I was doing was making sure that Kenna was okay,” Brighton continued to contend, his words muffled now that he was speaking into the floor of Kenna’s garage. “I didn’t do anything—”
Brighton’s denial that he was innocent of any wrongdoing was cut short by the piercing sounds of more sirens and screeching tires of patrol cars pulling
up directly behind his that was now blocking Kenna’s driveway. Chaz had arrived, along with a second vehicle, maybe more. Dean didn’t have to turn around to know that it was most likely one of the deputies that had been taking the burglary call.
“Status?” Chaz called out, even though he’d already taken in the details of the scene.
“The suspect is down but not secured. The situation is contained. No shots fired,” Dean replied, giving the deputy the authorization to move forward and subdue the suspect. “Cuff him. Read him his rights, and then take him to the station. He is not to talk to anyone before I get there. We’ll get his statement then. If he wants a lawyer, he can make the call after I arrive.”
Dean had to force himself to lower his weapon, his fingers stiff from the overwhelming desire to eliminate what he saw to be an imminent threat to Kenna’s life. Eight minutes was how long it had taken to reach her residence from the station. Eight minutes that could have resulted in her death.
“Go,” Chaz murmured as he monitored the progress of his deputy, who had already put Brighton in cuffs and was leading him out of Kenna’s garage. Only then did Dean holster his firearm. “I’ll secure the house and search his vehicle. Brighton isn’t going anywhere but a jail cell back at the station.”
Dean had observed Bob’s inability to remove Kenna from her side yard. She had maintained a safe distance away while he’d done his job, but there was no convincing her to leave the scene. The moment he began to walk her way was the second she gave herself permission to meet him halfway. He caught her against his body, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her tight.
There was nothing more beautiful than the sound of her uneven breathing in his ear. Her warm breath was heaven sent, and he couldn’t get enough of her sweet fragrance. He wasn’t even going to contemplate how these last two weeks had changed his life. There were times when the here and now were enough to sustain him, and this moment was one of them.
The Forgotten Widow Page 22
