Face of Fear (A Zoe Prime Mystery—Book 3)

by Blake Pierce

Shelley frowned, her eyes flicking down a second later to the fifty-two neat rows of Zoe’s handwriting on the sheet of paper in front of her, the lines slashed through several of them. “What have you been doing?”

  The tone stung a little, Zoe had to admit to herself. “Working on my theory,” she said. “I have proof now. At least, my kind of proof. The numbers.”

  Shelley said nothing, just raised one of her eyebrows.

  Zoe plowed on regardless. “Listen. I got thinking after looking at the appointment book again. On Callie’s original booking, there was a mistake. One of the digits for her serial number was written down wrong, and then later corrected.”

  “So?”

  “So, if the serial number tattoos are the connection between them, then we have to consider any possible connotation that the numbers can bring us. Looking at it with the correct serial numbers, there is no connection between them. I know I went down the wrong road before, but my original theory was quashed when we found out about the extra digit that we were missing from John Dowling’s number. But that was with the correct numbers. When I looked at them in the context of the incorrect number that was originally written down for Callie, I came upon a new connection.”

  Shelley was looking at her with supreme hesitation. Her chin was pulled back at a sharp angle toward her neck, her mouth always just a little open as if she wanted to say something but didn’t yet dare. “Z,” she began, her tone preemptively calm and soothing. “Are you… getting, you know? Lost in the numbers, again?”

  “No,” Zoe insisted, shaking her head. “I have something this time. I know it just sounds like last time, when I was so sure then, but this one makes more sense. Each of them has three digits that add up to thirteen. It has just the right mixture of numerology with religious connotations that could really appeal to someone having a psychotic break, or undiagnosed schizophrenia. The kind of thing that could push someone over the edge and make them kill. If you are a history buff, why kill Holocaust survivor descendants now? Why not start by going after the few remaining survivors themselves? It just makes more sense that it would be about the numbers themselves, not the history.”

  Shelley twisted her mouth, but she did not disagree. “I’m going to look into some of these witness statements, okay? The captain brought me a whole bunch more from his guys. I want to see if there’s anything I can use to get Franks to talk before I go back in.”

  Zoe shook her head, but followed Shelley’s lead in keeping her thoughts to herself. She was chasing a ghost. Using her time to investigate a man who was as innocent as he repeatedly claimed to be. But it didn’t matter, not so long as Zoe was still working on the right track.

  She was right this time. She could feel it. She just had to prove it.

  She carried on working doggedly through the list. It was easy to cross off most of the names. A quick check of the math, and then a line through them. There were many combinations of three numbers that could add up to thirteen—but there were many that didn’t, and with only five or six digits to work with in total, most of the serial numbers could be ruled out right away.

  By the end of the list, she had seven. Three of them were the clients that had already fallen victim to the pattern: John Dowling, Callie Everard, and Naomi Karling. The other four were new, people who had not yet been on their radar. Certainly fewer than the number of employees she would have to investigate, going about it from the other direction.

  But it was still a bit of a problem, because Zoe was only one person. How was she supposed to keep track of four new people, all of whom no doubt lived in different areas of the city?

  That was her first stop: research. She looked up each of the names one by one, finding out their current addresses and checking that they were still alive. It wasn’t as easy as it should have been, given that Franks’s booking only took a name—there was no indication, for the most part, of identity in any other way. In the case of one individual whose name was common enough to cause confusion, she had to resort to sleuthing through social media profiles to find an image of a tattooed forearm that let her know she was onto the right person.

  Then she had them: a list of names and addresses, people who were at risk. All of them bore a tattooed serial number—thankfully, no more had been booked in for the next few weeks to complicate matters—which had a series of three digits adding up to the number thirteen. It sounded like such an innocuous connection. The kind of thing you might laugh about if you bumped into one another at the bar, because you had something in common, but nothing more than that.

  But Zoe looked at that list, and she knew. One of them was going to die, and probably soon, if she could not stop it.

  She needed help. The LAPD were the best resource that Shelley and Zoe had right now, and she was going to have to use them.

  “Shelley,” she said, her tone serious and heavy.

  Shelley looked up from the bundle of papers she was reading, almost all of them turned over onto the pile that she had finished with. Any longer, and she would probably have gone back into the interrogation already. Zoe had finished her work in the nick of time.

  “I know who the next victims will be.”

  Shelley blinked. “What do you mean?”

  Zoe lifted up her notebook, showing her the page where she had written it all down. “I worked it out. His methods—using the number thirteen, like I said. There are four people who fit the requirements, all of them listed in the appointments book. One of them will be the next to die.”

  Shelley frowned. “But they aren’t going to die, are they? Because we’ve got the killer in custody.”

  Zoe clenched her teeth together momentarily, trying to keep from losing her patience. What was it Dr. Monk had said? Steady breath in, steady breath out… “Shelley, I am telling you that there is someone else. Why can you not trust me on this?”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Shelley said. “It’s just that we already have a solution that makes sense. They say if you hear hoofbeats and neighing, you ought to assume it’s a horse, not a zebra. We don’t need to be looking for a zebra right now when we’ve already managed to capture the horse.”

  “A horse who vehemently denies he has anything to do with the hoofbeats,” Zoe countered. “Anyway, what does it matter if we look into these extra people? Just to be safe?”

  Shelley inclined her head slowly. “I suppose, just to be safe. What are you thinking?”

  “I need Captain Warburton to send officers to each of the potential victims. They will need to stay overnight, to ensure there is no danger. We should set up a sting operation of some kind. Keep watch and catch him in the act of approaching them for the attack. If we don’t have the killer, then we know for sure by looking at his pattern that he will kill again. Right now, he thinks the investigation is centered on Franks. This would be his best chance.”

  Shelley blinked again, then shook her head, the wisps of her blonde hair that had come loose from her normal neat chignon flying around her face. “No, Z, that’s too much. Do you realize what you’re asking for? It would be a major operation. We’d need to mobilize now, and it would take up all of the precinct’s resources. We’d need to bring in and brief the potential victims and make sure they’re fine with being bait, too. That’s too much.”

  Zoe let out a frustrated breath through her nostrils. “Too much even to save a life?”

  Shelley gave her a look that she had seen many a time before, though usually from others: disappointment. “Z, think it through. You would be asking Captain Warburton to put on a major operation that will cost taxpayers a huge amount of money, and also take the risk of allowing one of the victims to actually get hurt, all on the basis of a theory revolving around the number thirteen. You haven’t got any proof. As far as everyone here is concerned, we have our man. Why would they go set something up on this scale based on a hunch?”

  “It is not a hunch,” Zoe said, stubbornly.

  Shelley rubbed two fingers over the frown li
nes on her forehead with closed eyes, as if trying to smooth them away. “Zoe, I know you think you have something here. But you thought that last time, and—”

  “No.” Zoe stated it flatly, cutting across Shelley’s words, making her open her eyes wider and stare at her. If she was ever going to convince anyone of anything, it had to be now. She would fight for this, to give those people the best chance of surviving. “I know what happened yesterday. I know I lost my grip. But I did what you asked me to do. I went to the motel, I got some rest, I cleared my mind. I am clear now. This is not just a hunch. It is based on logic and fact. Let me explain it to you, and I know you will see it the way I do.”

  Shelley hesitated. “Fine,” she agreed, after a moment. “I’ll hear you out.”

  If Zoe had learned anything from watching Shelley work with others, anything at all, now was the time to put it into practice. She needed her partner on side. If she had Shelley working against her, it was all going to be far too difficult. “The tattoos all came from Dead Eye Dave’s, and all from Jasper Franks’s appointment book. We know this because we have him in custody and the book in front of us. But remember what I told you about the incorrect number in the book.”

  “The one that adds up to thirteen, when the real number doesn’t,” Shelley recalled.

  “Correct. If the man we have in custody is the killer, then his actions make no sense. This was my starting point. Why kill these particular victims and no others? He has so many Holocaust memorial tattoos on his record. Why snap now and why choose people from such disparate points of his timeline? One that was amongst the first he ever did, one six months old, one not even completed?”

  “Sometimes we don’t have an answer for what a psychopath does.” Shelley shrugged.

  It was Zoe’s turn to look disappointed. “There is always an answer,” she said. “You know that. Even if it does not appear to make sense, there will be an answer.”

  “But what are you saying? That just because there’s no reason for Franks to kill these victims—apart from his apparent extreme anti-Semitism—there has to be a different killer?”

  “Think about that, too,” Zoe pressed. “A man like Jasper Franks has to keep in mind high standards of safety. In his line of work, he knows about how disease can be transferred through needles, and so on. Would he risk having a Jew, or the descendant of a Jew, on his table if he was going to be breaking their skin? If he was truly anti-Semitic, he would be worried about contamination. He might not even want to touch them. Like our own segregation—black people forced to use even separate drinking fountains because of the fear of coming into contact with something seen as dirty. There is historical precedent. This is human nature.”

  Shelley opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. “All right,” she said, slowly. “Go on.”

  “But if someone else had access to the appointment book and looked through it, they would see the numbers. Perhaps they first saw John Dowling’s tattoo when he came in to have it replaced by the tiger, and they saw the connection of the numbers. It triggered something in them, and they began to keep a watch on the book itself. They began to stalk him, learning his routine, thinking of a way to be able to attack him so quickly he would not see it coming. Maybe at first it was just keeping tabs on him, before they decided that he had to die.”

  “That… makes sense, so far,” Shelley admitted.

  “Now they see Callie Everard, and they add her to their list, but they don’t check back later and see the alteration. They look ahead and see Naomi Karling, too, and all of the other numbers that get booked in. But there are only seven, overall, that fit the pattern. Four of them are left standing.”

  “Why target Callie next? Was she the next booking that fit the pattern, chronologically?”

  Zoe shook her head. “No. The next was another man, a Jake Holt. But look. I found him on social media.” She picked up her cell and handed it over to Shelley, the account already open for her to see. Jake Holt was a fitness influencer, a man who spent a lot of time in the gym working on his over-large muscles. He had strength and height on his side, and the bulk of someone who ate a lot to gain musculature. His neck was thick. So thick that it might make an attacker think twice about the possibility of drawing a knife across it.

  Shelley tapped the screen thoughtfully. “You think the killer skipped him and moved on to Callie because she was a more viable target?”

  “And, if he has been looking into their lives and following them, he might have found out about her gang connections. Coupled with the connection to John Dowling, it was the perfect red herring. Think how much time we wasted on that. It would be the move I would make, if I wanted to keep law enforcement off my back for as long as possible. He can keep Jake Holt for last, come back to him later, when he has already managed the others.”

  Shelley rubbed the skin on the side of her nose, beside her left eye. “You are starting to convince me, I have to admit.”

  “There are four remaining victims, Shelley. Jake Holt, Jeff Austen, Amy Vincent, and Kate Campbell. Jasper Franks tells us over and again that he is innocent. If you have ever trusted me before, you need to trust me now. I know this is right in my gut. And even if I am wrong, we have the possibility to save a life. Why risk missing that chance?”

  Shelley swallowed, then nodded. “All right. I’m still not fully sure, but I’ll help you do this. Getting my agreement is one thing, though—the LAPD isn’t going to be as easy. We should just go and collect the potential victims, bring them into protective custody. In the meantime, while they are safe, we can investigate the other employees at Dead Eye Dave’s. And if any of them have seen anything suspicious, they might give us a stronger lead to work on, so it’s a win-win.”

  It made sense. It wasn’t quite what Zoe had wanted—to catch the killer in the act and stop him for good—but it was enough.

  As far as she was concerned, no one was going to die tonight. Not on her watch.

  So long as they managed to mobilize the LAPD and get there in time.

  So long as the killer, who wasn’t shy about striking during the day, didn’t have the next victim in his grasp already.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  He was ready. He had been ready, waiting, for some time. He liked to make sure that he arrived early, got into position, just in case anything changed. He did not want to miss something again—like the return of the coworker at the last girl’s house. He should have known better than to charge in back then. He should have waited, slunk away into the night and returned another day. He should at least have spent twenty minutes watching to be sure the other man would not return.

  Tonight, he was willing to be cautious, although he knew that time was of the essence. So he sat and waited, until the neighbor’s lights moved to the upstairs windows and their curtains were closed, and there was no one left looking out onto the street.

  He made his move then. It was time. He got out of the car that he had parked on the opposite side of the road, a safe distance away, and he slipped across the street in all black clothing. He walked with a casual grace, intended to convey to anyone watching that he was merely out for a stroll in his own neighborhood. Nonetheless, he covered the ground quickly. Better not to be seen by anyone at all.

  He knew where he was going. He had walked this way before several times, always at night. First he would visit her at work, look through the windows, make sure that she was still engrossed in her daily tasks. That there was no hint of an illness, or a coat ready to go beside a chair, for an early departure.

  Then he came here. He had thrilled with fear the first time he did it, and today was no exception. If anything, it was all the stronger. Tonight was the most important night of all. The last time he would slip around the side of the building, down a pathway, and around to the back door.

  People and their back doors. It was funny, really, how many of them failed to protect themselves. Or maybe it was fate: the righteousness of his mission underscored by how easil
y he was allowed to go ahead. He stood in front of it now, out of sight of anyone who might happen to pass by on the road, and savored it.

  This was the moment of truth.

  He reached out and tried the handle, and it turned easily, clicking open to show him the interior beyond.

  He couldn’t help but smile to himself. He had chosen his timing well, and he knew he had more or less an hour before she would be home from work. Just enough time to explore a little, to choose his place, to settle in and wait. Not enough time for his legs to fall asleep or for him to get bored and lose focus.

  He had already chosen his starting point. He scouted around a little, looked in on the other rooms, checking that there was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would hinder his path, such as a blockage in the corridor. He set down a canister of fuel behind one of the doors and slipped out to the car one last furtive time to bring in two more. These, too, had their positions to take.

  Once everything was done, he settled in, taking a comfortable seat and shrouding himself with the comfortable familiarity of darkness. The house around him gradually coalesced into a stronger form, a more corporeal collection of shapes and textures that he made out better with his eyes adjusted. The wallpaper, a handsome floral pattern he had noticed the first time he broke in.

  His mind was almost on the verge of wandering, and so it was a good thing that there was almost no time left to wait. A good thing that a noise sounded outside, close to the house—close enough that it could only be her. She was home early. He tilted his watch, pressing the touchscreen to verify the time. Yes, she was early.

  But so much the better.

  He shifted his weight, standing soundlessly to take on a more ready posture. She was about to come in, and he was waiting for her. His fist tightened on the handle of the knife, the muscles of his arm bunching with tension as he prepared to make the strike.

  ***

  “This is it,” Zoe confirmed quietly, looking up at the house and away from the GPS. They had found it. The home of Kate Campbell, the potential victim that she and Shelley had chosen to go after personally.