Like today. All had fallen into place with his first step upon the dune. Now, turning back, he knew exactly what he needed to do, and how he would accomplish his goal. Wasn’t that lesson learned long ago, drummed into his head over and over by his father?
“You can’t accomplish a damned thing without goals,” the old man had lectured time and time again. “You want to succeed at something, you set the goal, you pursue it with everything you have.”
Well, that was probably the only thing the old man had ever said that had made much sense to him, and had thus been worth remembering.
The ringing of the phone shook him back to the present and the situation at hand. He answered on the second ring. Of course they could meet at the Brighton Inn. The others had already been contacted and they all agreed. Meet at seven, first one there gets the table and orders and pays for the first round. Just like old times.
Now he had his goal, he had his plan. Buoyed by optimism, he turned back and walked across the beach until he reached the dune. Without so much as a backward glance at the ocean he’d missed so much for so many years, he returned to his car and dusted the sand from his feet. He had less than thirty minutes to run home and change before meeting the guys for dinner.
He was looking forward to more than just a good meal.
“I’m glad you decided to join me,” Rick said after the waitress had served their entrées. “You look a little worn-out. My gram always used to say that the best cure for that kind of weariness was a good meal and a good night’s sleep.”
“Well, with luck, tonight I’ll have both.” Cass rearranged her napkin on her lap for what Rick thought might be the fifth or sixth time.
“Luck shouldn’t have to factor into it. You ordered a great dinner, and as soon as you’re finished eating, you can go back up to the second floor and crash for as long as you need to.” He remembered his conversation with Mitch. “Or at least until it’s time to get up tomorrow morning to make our ten o’clock meeting.”
She frowned. “Are you sure you need me along?”
“Would I rather leave you here alone?”
“I’ve been looking out for myself for a long time, Rick.”
“And God willing, the day is near at hand when you’ll be looking out for yourself again.” He lowered his voice. “But until we have this guy in lockup or on a table in the ME’s office, my time is your time.”
“It can’t happen soon enough for me. I want to get back to work.” She picked at her plate of scallops. “Besides, it seems as if everyone is waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s been three days since he attacked Lucy. That’s the longest he’s gone between attacks since this started.”
“How likely is it he’s left town?” He appeared about to say something else, but stopped as the waitress led a well-dressed man to a nearby table for four.
“Anyway, let’s hope we can put this together soon, before he makes his next move.”
“What are the chances we’ll be able to do that?” She put her fork down. “Realistically.”
“Mitch says he’s got a number of DNA matches, coast to coast. We’re waiting for the DNA results on the blood that was swabbed from your back door. I’m betting it’s a match, all the way around.”
“No offense, but DNA matches won’t help us if we don’t have a suspect.”
“We have the potential for four.”
“How do we quickly cull the herd?”
He smiled. “You sure you’re not from Texas?”
“I had a roommate once who was.” She resumed eating.
“While you were in the shower, I called the boss. He’ll have the sketch artist here by midday tomorrow, so within twenty-four hours we should have a fair idea what this guy looks like. I’m willing to put money that someone will recognize him right away. Denver or Phyl, probably.” He paused, then added, “Maybe even you. But in the meantime, we’ll take a few hours tomorrow to go over what Mitch has compiled, see if anything stands out.”
“I’m betting nothing does.” She shook her head. “That’s the thing about this guy. Nothing about him seems to stand out.”
Two more middle-aged men walked past them and were seated at a table to their left.
“Sooner or later, he’ll give something away.”
“What makes you think so? He’s been at this game for twenty-six years without a slip, Rick. What makes you think he’ll get careless now?”
“Because it’s personal to him now. I don’t think he’s used to failure. And the attack on Lucy ended in failure. No rape. No murder. It’s got to rankle. That makes it personal. And let’s talk about the fact that he’s got to be pretty pissed off at you. You interfered with his plans, not once, but twice.” He watched her face while his words sunk in. When she offered no response, he said, “You know that nine times out of ten a pissed-off killer is a careless killer.”
“We don’t know if he’s failed in the past. We only know about his successes.” She winced at the use of the word.
A gentleman passed and was greeted loudly by the group nearby.
“And that’s what we’ll focus on.” Rick glanced up as laughter erupted from the table where four men now sat. “Sadly, it’s his successes that will lead us to him. We’ll have to try to be patient while we piece the entire picture together.”
She brightened slightly. “Oh. Speaking of which, while I was upstairs changing right before we came down for dinner, Phyl called me.”
“Phil?” He frowned.
“Phyl Lannick. Chief Denver’s assistant. She said she remembered that a woman who lives across the street from her is on the board of the bird sanctuary. She spoke with her when she got home this evening.” Cass speared a slice of carrot with her fork.
“And … ?”
“And the neighbor told her that, yes, they did use that hawk stamp on the backs of the hands of all paying customers and volunteers at the all-day fund-raisers or at weekend events. They still use the same motif.” She put her fork down. “And it was her recollection that my mother had submitted the original design for the hawk.”
“She did?”
“That’s how Phyl’s neighbor remembers it.” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Wouldn’t it be odd, if that’s the key to finding this guy? That after all these years, something that came to me through hypnosis, something I don’t even consciously recall, would lead to the man who killed them? Not only my family, but all of these women.”
“And that that something had been first sketched by your mother?” Rick nodded. “I don’t know that I’d find it as odd, as much as fitting.”
She put her fork down.
“Every time I think about what he almost did to Lucy …”
“But he didn’t, Cass. He didn’t because you didn’t let him. You bested him.”
“That time.”
“What do you mean, that—”
“I think I need to turn in now, I’m very tired. Do you mind? Are you finished?” She folded her napkin and set it next to her plate.
“Yes, I’m finished, and no, I don’t mind. But Cass, if you’re thinking you should have been able to save your mother … save your family … save anyone … You can’t possibly think you could have.”
She pushed her chair back without meeting his eyes.
“I think I’ll go on up to the room, if it’s okay. Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.” Without waiting for a protest, she stood, and after removing her handbag from the back of her chair where she’d earlier hung it, she left the room.
Rick signaled for the waitress to bring the check. He hastily wrote in a tip, signed his name and room number, and followed Cass to the lobby, hoping to catch up with her before she barricaded herself in her room, the way he suspected she was going to do.
From his seat, he had a perfect view of her, could at times read her lips. He watched her leave the table and hurry from the room.
Lovers’ quarrel?
No. She and the Fed weren’t lovers. Not yet, any
way. Perhaps in time—there appeared to be a genuine interest there, on both their parts, whether either realized it—but not yet. Too bad they wouldn’t get to explore that.
Well, the Fed would get over her. He’d remember her as a dream tragically unfulfilled, that sort of thing. Despite his rugged appearance, there was a sensitivity about the Fed. It was there in the way he looked at Cass, in the way he watched her face when she spoke. But he’d move on. Everyone moves on.
It was clear something had upset her. Of course, the cause of her disturbance was immaterial to him, and whatever it was would pale in comparison to what he had planned for her. As it was, it was all he could do to keep his mind on the conversation around him. All he could think of was putting his hands around her neck and squeezing until her eyes went blank—and how very good, how very satisfying, it would feel.
He watched the Fed sign the check, watched the waitress turn to walk to the cashier.
“Miss?” He waved her over, beckoned her close, and whispered, forcing her to lean into him slightly. “Bring us a bottle of champagne, would you? And four glasses?”
She smiled and nodded, totally unaware that his gaze had fallen to the check she held casually in one hand.
He couldn’t read the signature, but the name of the Fed was totally unimportant. He’d gotten what he wanted.
Room 212.
The second floor used to be all two-or three-room suites. He wondered if it still was. That would make sense. It was clear to him that she and the Fed weren’t sleeping together, but the Fed was sticking as close as he could. A two-bedroom suite would certainly fit the bill.
A satisfied smile crossed his lips. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d do with the information now that he had it, but he was certain it would come in handy. Perhaps a quick trip to the second floor—merely to get the lay of the land—was in order.
“Excuse me,” he said to his companions. “I’m going to hit the men’s room. Order the bluefish for me if the waitress comes back, would you?”
He strolled through the room, which had filled up considerably since he’d first arrived. He waved at an old acquaintance or two on his way to the lobby. Once there, he entered the empty stairwell and climbed undisturbed to the second floor.
Room 212 was at the very end of the hall. Convenient. But which side of the building was he on? He couldn’t remember. It had been too many years.
He walked to the opposite end of the hall and looked out the window to orient himself. The room overlooked the street.
Not good.
Not insurmountable, but not good.
A glance at the room locks proved encouraging, however. He’d gotten through more challenging locks with his eyes closed.
He whistled all the way to the stairs, and all the way back down to the lobby. He might need to change his plans a little, but so what? Plans should be flexible, right?
One of his companions looked up as he approached the table. “You’re in fine form tonight. You look like the old cat that ate the canary.”
“I always hated that cliché,” one of the others said.
“Well, this cat isn’t all that old.” He slid back into his seat. “What say we order another bottle of champagne?”
“You buying?” the friend on his left asked.
“Sure. Why not?”
He was still grinning, couldn’t help himself. He had the rest of the evening all worked out in his head—Plan B, he was beginning to think of it—and he was feeling fine.
He lingered in the lobby after the others left, on the pretext of making reservations for Saturday night.
“My brother’s wedding anniversary,” he explained when he left them at the door. “I’m sure he and his wife would love to celebrate here.”
He did stop at the desk to ask some inane question of the young and inattentive woman on duty. There were so many people milling about the lobby and the front porch, he thought it best to make a quick surveillance of the exterior of the Inn. The windows for room 212 would be easy enough to find.
He walked around to the back of the building, and as he’d anticipated, he had no trouble locating the room, which, to his surprise, had a small balcony. Now, that had possibilities that needed to be considered. He took a few steps closer, thinking this was perhaps the way to go. But there was nothing below the balcony to climb from. He frowned, displeased. He would’ve liked to have gone that way.
He stood half-hidden in shadow, recalling a time when he might have been able to make the leap from the ground to the balcony, but those days were, sadly, behind him now.
Ah, youth …
“Hey, buddy, you staying here?” The voice cracked through his consciousness like splintered glass.
Startled, he turned to find a classmate standing on the walk not ten feet away.
“Ah, no. No. I was just …” Just what? Shit. Just what was he doing here?
“You here for the party up in the second-floor ballroom? Todd Lennin’s?”
“Ah, yes. As a matter of fact, I am.” He twisted his mouth into a smile and stepped onto the walk. His brain was almost boiling over. Great. Let’s have a party on the second floor and invite tons of people who have known me all my life. And Todd Lennin, of all people. Like he’d be caught dead at any party Todd Lennin would have.
He took a quick look around to see if the man—Carl something or other?—was alone. He appeared to be.
“You took the same shortcut we took.” Carl—Cal?—gestured toward the end of the lot.
“We?”
“My wife and the Davises. You remember George Davis?” Carl/Cal was weaving slightly. From all appearances, he’d started the party a bit early.
Carl Sellers. That was it.
“Sure, I remember George.” George Asshole Davis. Who didn’t remember him? Only guy in the class more of a nerd than George was Carl. “Is he coming along, then?”
“They already went in. I stopped for a pack of cigarettes—can’t believe I’m still smoking. It’s not like I don’t know any better.” Carl shook his balding head and patted his jacket pocket. “I just can’t seem to stop myself.”
“I know what you mean.”
“You smoke?”
“I’m embarrassed to admit it, but yes, I do. As a matter of fact, when you came along, I was actually looking for my lighter. I think I dropped it along the path here.” He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and tried to look forlorn. “I wouldn’t care, except it belonged to my dad.”
“Oh, hey, that’s rough. And good lighters are hard to find, aren’t they?” Carl reached into his pocket. “Me, I use these Bics. But if I had one of those old lighters, I’d use it. I love those things. My dad had one, too.”
He swayed slightly again. “Hey, I’ll be glad to help you look for it. Where do you think you dropped it, somewhere around the walk?”
“That’s the only place I can think of. You know what it’s like, you want to smoke around a place like this, you feel like you have to go someplace where you won’t be seen.”
“That’s the gospel truth, man.” His voice took on a touch of indignation. “Like we’re pariahs or something.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll help you look for it and then we can go up together.”
“Hey, thanks. That would be great. We can catch up on old times.” Like they had any old times to catch up on. Carl was never part of his crowd.
Carl followed him around the corner of the building, his head down.
“Kinda dark back here, don’t know how you’re going to find anything. Maybe we should wait until the m—”
One blow to the back of the head and Carl was down. One quick and expert twist of the neck made sure Carl was down permanently.
Looking around to assure himself no one had stepped onto the path, he lifted Carl’s body and carried it to the Dumpster at the back of the building. With a grunt, he tossed it unceremoniously over the side. He then bent over at the waist, his hands on his knees as he struggled to
catch his breath.
Damn. In his prime, he could toss a body over his head without breaking stride.
Yeah, well, those were the days. He’d turned forty-five in February. Not exactly prime time, not for this sort of thing.
He brushed his hands off as he walked back to the parking lot, asking himself if that had really been necessary.
Yes, damn it. It had.
There was so much burning anger inside of him right then, the blood in his veins felt molten. The pressure was becoming unbearable.
Carl had ruined his night, coming along when he did, and seeing him where he’d been standing. If at some point in the future a woman was found dead in room 212—that damn room right up there—surely Carl would recall whom he’d seen in the parking lot that night and he’d remember where he’d been looking.
Especially if the woman was Cass Burke.
Besides, he was feeling pissy. More than pissy. The night had started out so promising, but with a party three doors down from her room, he’d have to wait. He couldn’t take the chance he’d be seen. He cursed under his breath.
The blood was pounding in his head so loudly, it sounded like the ocean. And his hands were starting to shake—never a good sign. His skin was beginning to itch.
There was only one way to scratch that itch.
Looks like he’ll have to go to Plan C.
Somewhere, there’d be someone. Someone with long dark hair and promise in her eyes.
Before the sun rose tomorrow, he would find her.
Twenty-four
“Tell me again why we’re going to Plainsville?” Cass sat back in the bucket seat of Rick’s Camaro and strapped the seat belt.
“We’re going to exchange information.”
“I think we’ve given Mitch pretty much everything we have. What’s left to exchange?”
“He’s apparently hit the mother lode with his request for information from the law enforcement agencies he contacted. He says he’s got a pretty impressive time line of our man’s activities over the past twenty-some years. I’d say that alone is worth the trip.”
“Why doesn’t he fax it to us?”
“Apparently it’s still coming in. Remember, it’s been less than a week since he sent out his requests. Some agencies are still getting their data together.” Rick stopped at the corner and turned to her. “Is there a problem here that I don’t know about? Is there a reason you don’t want to go? Because if there is, let’s talk about it now, before we get onto the highway.”
Cold Truth Page 25
