Hey, Denver, did you find her yet?
Hey, Denver, remember me?
Where had she seen it … ?
She pulled several files from a drawer and leafed through them. Not this one … not this one.
Then maybe here … Nope.
She returned the files to their places and opened the next drawer.
Here. Here it is.
Hey, Landry, remember me?
The note, on plain white paper, spelled out the message in letters of different sizes and colors—letters cut from magazines—giving a jumbled, schizophrenic appearance to the sheet of paper.
At the top of the page was a small circle with the number seven inside. Regan’s father had written that, she was positive. That was the way he numbered pages when he was setting up the earliest drafts of his work. He might take notes from several files and integrate them for a single chapter or project. The fact that this note was numbered—and the message indicated that there had been previous contact—made Regan think there were more notes from the same author. She pulled several files from the next drawer, and in the fourth one she went through, she found a manila file holding one more message, along with several pages of notes written in her father’s hand.
Hey, Landry, did you miss me? was numbered eleven.
Regan sat at her father’s desk and began to read through the pages he had written. She paused to flip the file over to read the notation he’d made across the top.
The Bayside Strangler.
She read the rest of the file, then picked up the phone and called information for the listing of the Bowers Inlet Police Department.
“I’d like to speak with Chief Denver,” Regan told the person who answered the phone.
“He’s not in. I can take a message.”
“My name is Regan Landry. I’m a writer—I write true crime … I have some information he might be interested in, in connection with the current homicides there.”
“You have information about the homicides?”
“I have information about some old cases … some notes that were written to my father …”
“I’m not following you.”
“Look, please leave my name and number for Chief Denver and ask him to give me a call. It could be important.” Regan hung up after reciting both the number at the farmhouse and her mobile number.
She went into the kitchen and made herself a pot of coffee, poured a cup, and took it back to the office. She sat and stared at the file she’d left open on her desk.
What did she really have here?
A couple of notes that someone had sent to her father some years ago. A few pages of preliminary investigation Josh had started. Was there more?
She sighed. Damn his lousy record keeping. If, in fact, he’d started numbering the notes as he received them, where were the others? Perhaps he’d handed them over to the police. To the FBI.
Maybe there was another file—or two, or eight, or a dozen. Knowing her father, there could be many more, or none. He could have passed them on. Or not. He could have lost them, thrown them out, or put them in a box and simply forgotten about them as another more interesting project presented itself.
She looked across the room to the long row of wooden file cabinets that she knew were stuffed with files and boxes of notes. In the basement, there were boxes of files she’d helped him move several years ago when he’d run out of room up here for his current works and asked her to empty several drawers and pack them up for storage.
Regan ran a hand through her hair and told herself to slow down. Just because the notes received by her father and the Bowers Inlet chief of police were similar—okay, they were exactly the same—but what did that mean?
Hey, Denver, remember me?
Hey, Landry, remember me?
Not exactly original thoughts. Someone from anyone’s past might say the same thing. And anyone being coy or cautious might structure the notes in the same manner, cutting out letters and gluing them to the paper. What did that prove, anyway?
She opened the file and took out the two sheets of yellow legal paper. At the top of the first sheet, Josh had written, Victims attributed to the Bayside Strangler, June 1979–August 1979. There followed a list of thirteen names. After each name was a date, and the name of a town:
Alicia Coors June ’79 Bowers Inlet
Carol Jo Hughes June ’79 Bowers Inlet
Cindy Shelkirk June ’79 Tilden
Terry List July ’79 Dewey
Mary Pat Engles July ’79 Tilden
Heather Snyder July ’79 Hasboro
Jill Grabowski July ’79 Killion Point
Mindy Taylor July ’79 Hasboro
Cathy Cleary August ’79 Tilden
Allison Shea August ’79 Dewey
Trina Wilson August ’79 Killion Point
Lorraine Otto August ’79 Hasboro
Regina Daley August ’79 Killion Point
The second sheet had no header and consisted of two columns, one of dates, the other locations, but no names. The dates spanned several years, and the locations varied, state to state. The names of the Bayside Strangler’s victims would be easy enough to trace. Perhaps Chief Denver could verify the names of the Bowers Inlet victims when he called back. If he called back.
Regan sat and stared at the yellow pages for a long time. She compared the two lists her father had printed up. Except for the inclusion of the names on the first list, they were identical in form.
If the first was in fact a list of the Bayside Strangler’s victims—names, dates, and places—what was the significance of the second list?
She studied it, line to line. No matter how long she stared at it, the list made no sense:
May ’83 Pittsburgh
February ’86 Charlotte
August ’86 Corona
March ’87 Memphis
January ’88 Turkey
November ’90 Panama
November ’91 Croatia
September ’93 Somalia
April ’95 Bosnia
February ’98 Pakistan
others????
Since it was in the folder along with the Bayside Strangler notes, could she assume it had something to do with those killings? And if so, what?
She stole a look at the clock. It had been more than an hour since she’d called Chief Denver. She’d have to be patient, give him a little more time.
Regan slid the lists back into the folder, added the two notes that had been addressed to her father, and placed the file on one corner of the desk. She took one more look through the big file and, convinced there was nothing more to be learned from it, replaced it in the cabinet. She lifted out the file behind it and returned to the desk. Settling into the big chair her father had used for more than twenty years, she began to page through the contents, front to back. Once satisfied she’d uncovered nothing that could add to the information in the thin file that sat on the corner of the desk, she put that folder back and took out another. And another.
She’d gone through five file folders by noon, another three by mid-afternoon, when she placed a second call to the Bowers Inlet Police Department. Denver was not available. She left another message.
Stopping only to eat a makeshift meal around seven that evening, she plowed through file drawer after file drawer. At eight-thirty, she stopped to make another pot of coffee, and it occurred to her however many files remained in the office, there were three times as many in the basement, and God only knew what Josh might have stashed in the attic.
So far she’d found nothing that referred to the list her father had handprinted with dates and places, nor had she found any other letters that may have been sent by the Bayside Strangler. Perhaps Josh had turned them over to someone in law enforcement after all.
But he would have kept copies, she reminded herself, if he’d planned on writing a book on the subject. He would have kept copies of all the correspondence, regardless. He’d done that before, she knew. Throughout the day she’d
come across several such files. But where were the files that would relate back to the list? They had to be there. It was a matter of finding the right drawers. Or the right boxes.
As Regan studied the mysterious list for perhaps the tenth time, the thought occurred to her that she could have already bypassed something that might be a clue to the lists’ meaning.
How will I find it if I don’t know what IT is?
Somewhat disheartened by the thought, but nonetheless determined, Regan read on through the night. Her father had always relied upon his instincts in times like this, she reminded herself. Perhaps it was time to put her own instincts to the test.
He stood upon the wooden boardwalk at the top of the dune and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with as much of the bay as he could draw in with one breath. This, more than anything, this scent, meant he was home.
With one hand at his forehead acting as shade, he scanned the horizon. Far into the bay, fishing boats headed to the Atlantic. The sun hung over the water like a red-hot ball. The narrow beach was littered with the remains of a dozen horseshoe crabs and hanks of seaweed. The scents all blended together, and if he closed his eyes, he’d be a kid again, searching the sand for treasure.
Across the bay, Old Barney stood watch. As a child, he’d played at the base of the Barnegat Lighthouse, had fished with his brother from the rocks. At least the lighthouse remained, whatever else might have changed.
And change had come to the bay communities, there was no denying that. Over the past week, he’d driven through all the small towns that dotted the shore, one by one, reliving treasured moments here and there. He’d been stunned by the amount of development that had come to the area since he’d been away, townhouses and condos and single family homes all the way back to the Pines, some built over what had once been marsh. Shopping centers out on the highway, flanked by fast-food restaurants and discount stores. It had made his head spin.
Well, a lot can happen in twenty-six years, he reminded himself. A lot can change.
Now, me, I haven’t changed at all.
In his eyes, he was still the same guy who had left at the end of that summer, armed with new skills he’d developed over the course of three months. The need inside him, once awakened, had been a tough taskmaster, demanding ever more satisfaction. Over the course of the years, he had fed its desires hundreds of times.
As lately as last night.
He smiled, remembering. How could he have thought he’d come all this way and not feel that drive within him build to a scream?
Especially after having visited the scenes of his earliest escapades. He remembered—and relived—each one.
He had an uncanny memory for such things.
He walked the length of the beach, rehearsing what he’d say to his brother when he rang the doorbell of their old family home later this afternoon. Reminded himself to smile, to pretend to be happy to see his family again after all these years. Be gentle with his sister-in-law, who had—let’s face facts here—never cared much for him. Admire the children. Beam at them, as if delighted by their very existence. He needed to get used to them, since he planned to be around for a while. It wouldn’t do to be estranged from the only family he had left. Might it not appear odd somehow, if he and his brother lived in the same town and never socialized?
He sighed. It all sounded so dreary.
There were lots of ways for him to pass the time, now that he was back. There were more places for him to visit, places he remembered well, when he was ready. He’d know when the time was right. Some things weren’t meant to be rushed.
He raised the binoculars to his eyes and focused on an osprey that was circling overhead, and felt perfectly content.
He’d promised himself a place on the water, and having already put the house in Texas on the market, there was no time like the present to start looking for a new home. A permanent one.
Right here in Bowers Inlet.
Six
Cass dropped her bag on the kitchen counter and plunked herself into a chair, grateful to be home after near round-the-clock duty for the past three days. With Spencer gone, she was once again the sole detective for the department, which would, under normal circumstances, keep her moving from sunrise to sunset. Throw a serial killer into the mix, and the hours of sleep each night diminish in proportion to the number of bodies found.
And just that morning, there’d been another body.
Cass had felt a twinge of guilt when she realized her first response had been relief to learn the body had been found in nearby Dewey. Once she’d finished walking the crime scene with Dewey’s chief of police, at his request and with Denver’s blessing, her boss had sent her home with instructions to get some sleep. But she’d run into Tasha on the way to her car. The county crime scene tech had all but begged Cass to photograph the scene for her since Dewey didn’t have anyone who could line up a decent shot. So Cass had stayed, and stayed, telling herself she could sleep later.
Well, right about now, she could sleep right here, standing in the kitchen. Or she could drag her tired bones into the living room and just pass out on the sofa. Yeah, that sounded even better …
She’d just stretched out and closed her eyes when a thought popped into her brain.
It was Thursday.
Shit. Thursday.
With a groan, she forced herself to sit, went into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on her face. Then it was a quick fly through the bedroom, where she changed into sweat shorts and an old T-shirt and pulled on her sneakers. Grabbing a headband from a drawer, she wrapped it around her wrist and picked up her gym bag. Back to the kitchen, where she took two bottles of spring water from the cupboard and tossed them into the bag she’d dropped by the back door. Already late, she hurried outside and hopped into her car.
Four minutes later, she parked and got out. It was dusk, and the lights on the poles surrounding the small playground had just turned on. From across the asphalt she could hear the distinct tap-tap-tap of a ball being dribbled. As Cass jogged across the court, that ball sped toward her, thrown by the lone player, a tall young girl whose white shorts were a sharp contrast to her long brown legs. Cass tossed her bag aside, then caught the ball with one hand. She started toward the basket, dribbling methodically, her eyes on her opponent. She took her shot, which was skillfully blocked. Back and forth they went for twenty minutes, until Cass, totally winded, called a time-out.
“I thought maybe you weren’t coming this week,” the girl said as Cass handed her a bottle of water. “I thought maybe you were too busy, you know, with that killer.”
“It has been a tough week,” Cass admitted as she opened her own bottle and took a long drink, “but Khaliyah, you know that I’ll always be here. Some weeks later than others. It was close, though. I didn’t get home until late.”
Cass reached into her bag, searching the contents.
“I have something for you,” she told the girl.
Cass handed over a cell phone.
“For me? This is for me? Really?”
“I’m thinking that with all that’s going on, you should probably have one with you.”
“You mean those women getting killed?”
“Yes.”
“He’s only killing white women, though, right? Older white women?”
“So far.” Cass ignored the reference to age. All of the victims had been around Cass’s age of thirty-two.
“Well, in case you need a reminder, I’m black,” the girl whispered as if sharing a confidence. “And I’m not old. Those women who were killed were all in their thirties, right?”
“And they also all had long dark hair.” Cass tipped her bottle in the direction of the girl’s hair, which was tied back in a ponytail. “Long dark hair like yours. Black or white, young or old—and some other time, we’ll talk about what is old and what is not—you never know what he’s thinking, Khaliyah. Best to have it, if you need it.”
“So, do I have, like, so many minutes a m
onth …”
“No. So you can call me anytime, day or night. I already programmed my numbers in. Home, office, cell. So you can always reach me if you need me. Here, let me show you …”
“I know how to use it. All my friends have them.” Khaliyah studied the phone for a minute, then touched a button.
Cass’s phone rang. She reached into her bag for it.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Detective Burke. This is Khaliyah Graves. I want to thank you for the new phone.”
“You are very welcome. Don’t lose it.”
“I won’t. I promise. It’s the best present I ever got.” Khaliyah’s eyes were shining. “Thank you, Cass.”
“You’re welcome.” Cass disconnected the call. “Now, tell me, how’d school go this week?”
“Well, it’s just summer school, and we only just started classes on Monday. At least I got the good Spanish teacher, but the trig teacher—so-so. We have our first test tomorrow. Jameer said this teacher gives the hardest tests.”
“So you’re still seeing Jameer?”
“Sort of. My aunt doesn’t really want me to have a boyfriend, you know.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Your aunt is a smart woman. As much as I like Jameer, I think you’re too young to be too involved with any one guy. And remember, at the end of the summer, he’ll be leaving for college.”
“Did I tell you he’s going to Georgetown to play basketball? Just like Allen Iverson?”
“Only about a hundred times.” Cass smiled.
“Maybe I’ll go to Georgetown, too,” Khaliyah said wistfully. “Maybe I could get a scholarship. My friend Tonya has a cousin who got a full ride there for track. Maybe I could get one for basketball. That’s what you did, right? At Cabrini?”
“Right. And I think your chances are great, if you keep the grades up and do as well on the court this season as you did last. We’ll talk to your coach and your guidance counselor over the summer and see what they think. I’m sure they’ll have some good ideas on where to apply and how to get the most financial aid.” Cass took a long pull of water. “Did you get your Advanced Placement scores back yet?”
“Yes.” Khaliyah smiled broadly. “All fours.”
Cold Truth Page 7
