Say You're Sorry

by Karen Rose

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 11:15 P.M.

  Gideon drove Hunter’s SUV slowly, staying even with the man, who was following a very happy dog. The dog didn’t seem to have been abused. It was almost too friendly.

  It was difficult to reconcile the image of a doting pet owner with the killer who’d mutilated Trish’s body. And the others.

  “Reynolds!” Hunter called. “He’s pulling hard toward that house.” He pointed at the tidy little ranch-style house with roses climbing up one side.

  Gideon looked up ahead and for a second could only stare. Because smoke began to billow into the air. Oh God. “The one on fire?”

  Hunter’s eyes widened at the smoke rising from the house. “Shit.” He opened the backseat of the SUV and the dog jumped right in. “There’s a fire extinguisher under your seat.” He slammed the door and ran around to the driver’s side, opened the door, and grabbed the extinguisher as Gideon called 911 and gave the address to the operator.

  Hunter ran toward the house and Gideon followed, leaving the dog safe in the SUV. He drew his weapon, clutching it in his left hand, as he approached the house, where flames were licking up the exterior walls.

  The bastard had set the beige Chevy on fire after fleeing the scene at Macdoel. Now he’d set fire to a house. Hunter was emptying the fire extinguisher on the flames, but it wasn’t going to be enough.

  Fuck. This had to be where Zandra had been held.

  Gideon looked around for something to use to fight the fire, even if just to slow it until the fire department arrived. He started around the perimeter, stopping short when he saw the water spigot and a hose next to the climbing rosebushes. And a stack of eight big bags filled with soil.

  “Hunter!” he shouted, pocketing his gun and yanking at the hose with his good hand.

  Hunter rounded the corner and skidded to a stop. “Let me do that,” he said when he saw Gideon pulling the hose toward the flames, which seemed to be confined to only one wall at the moment.

  “I’ve got this. You take the bags of dirt. We can dump them on the fire.”

  “Will do.” Grimly, Hunter hefted a bag of dirt onto each shoulder and followed Gideon around to the back of the house. He ripped the bags open and began hurling dirt at the flames while Gideon soaked the wall with water.

  “This isn’t going to be enough!” Hunter shouted over the crackle of the flames.

  “We don’t have to put it out,” Gideon shouted back. “Just keep it from spreading. The firehouse is only a few blocks away.”

  Nodding, Hunter went back for more dirt and returned with two SacPD uniforms who’d just responded. Between the three of them, they threw the rest of the dirt on the flames, and then one of the cops took the hose from Gideon.

  He thanked them and dialed Molina. “It’s Gideon,” he said when she answered.

  “What the hell is going on there?” she demanded.

  “We found the house. He’d set fire to it.”

  “Sonofabitch,” she spat.

  “We may have slowed it down a little, Hunter and I and a few SacPD cops.” Loud sirens got louder as the fire truck barreled down the street. “Fire department’s here.” He gave her the address as Hunter gestured him toward the front of the house. Gideon and one of the SacPD cops followed.

  “I’m going in,” Hunter shouted. “He could have more victims in there.”

  Gideon nodded at him. “Get a warrant,” he told his boss, “but Hunter and I are going in.”

  “I heard,” Molina said. “I want you to sit this one out, Gideon. You’re too close. I will not lose this fucker because you get accused of planting evidence because he fucking shot you. For which you are on medical leave. I’m serious.”

  Hunter gave him a questioning look. Gideon just pointed at the SacPD cop. “You two go. I’m sidelined.”

  With a sympathetic nod, Hunter turned to the cop. “Ready?” The cop nodded and Hunter kicked in the door. The two disappeared into the house.

  Gideon ground his teeth, knowing she was right, but not liking it one little bit. “Hunter’s in,” he told his boss levelly. “I’m not.”

  “Thank you,” Molina said. “Stay on the line with me. I’ve got a judge signing the warrant and my clerk just looked up the property record. The home belongs to Carson Garvey. People related to him are . . . his father Paul Garvey and . . . bingo. Sydney Garvey, Paul’s wife. Paul Garvey owns a charter air service.”

  Carson Garvey. Finally a name to put with the evil.

  “He won’t be here,” Gideon said. “He set the place on fire and took off.” He looked in the garage window. “There’s a Jeep in there. I’ll talk to the neighbors to see if he had another vehicle. He may have just stolen one again. I’ll call you right back when I know.”

  He ended the call and crossed the street to where a group of neighbors had gathered. “I’m Special Agent Reynolds. Did anyone see a car leave the property within the last ten minutes?”

  They all shook their heads no, but several had seen a black Mercedes parked there a few hours before.

  “He never has visitors,” one woman said. “I noticed the car because I was surprised to see it there.”

  Several other neighbors nodded their agreement.

  “Thank you,” Gideon said. “I’ll be right back.” He walked away and dialed Molina again. This time he was put on speaker. “Do either Carson, Paul, or Sydney have a black Mercedes?”

  “Checking the DMV records,” a male voice said. That would be Jerry, Molina’s clerk. “Yes,” he said a minute later. “There’s a black Mercedes Cabriolet, S class, registered to Sydney Garvey, age forty.”

  Gideon whistled. “Those start at a hundred and thirty grand. Not exactly inconspicuous. We need a BOLO, but make sure any photo comes with the caveat that he uses disguises.”

  “Done,” Jerry said.

  The phone picked back up, speaker disconnected. “I’m sending two more agents to the scene,” Molina said. “They’ll take care of interviewing the neighbors.”

  Gideon had to bite back his disappointment. “Got it.”

  “For what it’s worth?” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I understand.” And he really did. It just sucked.

  “Gideon,” she said quietly. “You’ve performed above and beyond. You were just operated on less than thirty-six hours ago. What if he shows back up? And has another gun? He shot you once. I’m not going to lose a good agent because you want in on the action. There will be other cases.”

  “Yeah, I know. Speaking of which, I’d like to do a facial recognition search on two of the members of the Eden cult. I’ve had their photos age-regressed.”

  “Send them to me,” she said. “And stay out of the line of fire. Got it?”

  He huffed. “Yes, ma’am.” He ended the call just as Hunter came out of the killer’s house, looking grim. And pale.

  He met up with Hunter at the SUV. “What did you find?” Gideon asked.

  “If that house had gone up, all the evidence would have been gone. He’d doused the inside with gasoline, down the basement stairs.” Hunter dipped his head in a respectful nod. “So fast thinking with the dirt. Looks like SFD was able to put it out.” He rubbed one hand over his face, leaving behind streaks of dirt. “Two bodies in the basement. Both female. One about forty. She was on a bed in a soundproofed room. Strangled. The other was younger, but hard to say. She’d been stuffed in a chest freezer.”

  “Shit,” Gideon murmured, then cleared his throat. “The house is owned by Carson Garvey. The forty-year-old is probably Sydney Garvey, wife of Paul. Paul owns a charter air service.”

  Hunter nodded. “All fits.” He held out his phone. “There’s a cabinet down there. I pried it open.” He swallowed. “Took photos of the contents.”

  Gideon dropped his gaze to Hunter’s ph
one. “Oh my God,” he whispered, looking at the rows of driver’s licenses, of the necklaces and bracelets and rings hanging from hooks beneath the respective licenses. His souvenirs. “How many?”

  Another hard swallow. “Thirty-one.”

  Gideon’s horrified gaze jerked up to meet Hunter’s. The other man looked equally shaken. “Thirty-one?”

  “Zandra Jones was not one of them,” Hunter said. “Nor was Sydney Garvey. But Trisha Hart is. And Kaley Martell. And Eileen Danton. I’m sorry.”

  Gideon’s chest hurt, and he realized he was holding his breath. “Thanks.” He enlarged the photo and sighed. “The hook under Eileen’s ID is empty.”

  “So is the one under Trisha Hart’s.”

  Gideon gave Hunter back his phone. “Send those to Molina, if you will.”

  Hunter nodded. “I was going to after I showed you.”

  Gideon found a small smile of thanks for the gestures of respect. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “As soon as our backup arrives, I can take you back to Daisy’s house. Then I’ll take you both to the ER to see Zandra.”

  Daisy was no longer Miss Dawson, Gideon noted. He glanced in the SUV’s window when a furry paw gave it a smack. Right. The dog. “What do we do with him?”

  “That’s a damn good question,” Hunter said. “Maybe ask a K-9 cop? They might recommend a place to keep him. I’d hate to see him go to a shelter.”

  “We could. But one of the victims was abducted while walking her dog.” Gideon rubbed at his temples. “If it belonged to her, her family might want it back. The woman from Seattle. Janice . . .”

  “Fiddler,” Hunter said quietly. “I heard Zandra say her name a few times. You look like you’re in pain, Gideon.”

  Gideon nodded. “I am. My head more than my arm, I think.”

  Hunter went to the hatch of his SUV and pulled a bottle of water from a cooler, then fished something from the glove box. “Here,” he said. “Water and Advil.”

  Gideon took the pain reliever and chased it with the water. He met Hunter’s concerned gaze. “Thank you . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know your first name.”

  “It’s Tom.”

  “Thank you, Tom.” Gideon drained the bottle. “Hell of a welcome to Sacramento you’ve had.”

  Tom gave him a wry smile. “I hate to be bored.”

  “Then this is right up your alley.”

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 11:45 P.M.

  He took the exit for the airport, watching for cops but seeing none. He didn’t have a lot of time, after all. Once the fire at his house was discovered, they’d be focused on putting it out. Luckily, gas fires burned hot and fast, so by the time the fire department got there, they’d be containing it versus extinguishing it.

  But once they’d eliminated the danger of the fire spreading to other houses, they’d figure out he lived there. Then it wouldn’t take them too long to figure out he worked for a charter airline.

  But by then he’d be in Mexico. He’d have a plane, so he’d have income. Hell, he could even do drug runs like his father had. The only difference was that his father would only risk it occasionally, when they needed a revenue boost.

  I’d do it full time. I’ll have a business built in no time. And I’ll make a new life.

  He’d miss his basement guest room, but it wouldn’t be too hard to build another.

  He’d put his blinker on and entered the turn lane onto their access road when he saw the flashing lights. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  There were police cars everywhere. Surrounding his hangar. The doors were open, the planes shining in the hangar’s overhead lights. A SWAT van out front. Uniformed men and women walking around in tactical gear with AR-15s.

  Oh my God.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  They know. He whipped back onto the main road, earning a horn blow from the guy behind him. They know it’s me. They know where I work.

  How? How did they know? How had they gotten here so quickly?

  His gut roiled. “What am I gonna do now?” he whispered aloud, cringing at the fear he heard in his own voice.

  You are not going to lose it. You’re going to think.

  He needed to figure a different way out of town. He could drive. But it was nine hours to the border and that was if he hit no traffic, which wasn’t likely to happen. Keeping to back roads would take far longer. Plus he’d need to buy a fake ID from somewhere. And a fake passport. And if he encountered any roadblocks, he’d be fucked.

  He didn’t know how to cross borders on land. He’d always flown.

  I should have killed Zandra when I had the chance. But he hadn’t and now she was a key witness against him.

  But . . . what if she wasn’t? What if she died? His house was burning this very minute. There would be nothing left to incriminate him. He’d burned the car up north, had left no fingerprints anywhere.

  They have your DNA. Daisy scratched you in the alley.

  Damn forensics.

  But . . . there had been no other witnesses to her attempted abduction. He could say she’d been willing. That she’d changed her mind and fought him. That he’d let her go when he realized his mistake. Without witnesses it would be his word against hers.

  And she’s an alcoholic. Nobody will believe her.

  He nodded to himself. That could work.

  So basically the only thing between him and freedom was Zandra. It was time to snip off that loose end. But first he had to ditch the Mercedes. It would stick out like a sore thumb.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 11:45 P.M.

  “Daisy, you’re making me crazy,” Frederick said quietly. “Please sit down, honey.”

  Daisy paused in the middle of her living room, midpace. “I can’t.” Despite poor Brutus’s best attempts. “Those were fire trucks, Dad.” She’d heard the sirens, seen the flashing lights as the trucks had passed by at the end of her street. That they were going to the killer’s house was a certainty in her mind.

  He’d set fire to a car on Saturday to get rid of any DNA he’d left behind. Like his blood that I spilled onto his car door. He was hurt badly enough to take that nurse. Then to kill her. And desperate enough to kill the owner of the truck.

  And evil enough to murder at least eight women. And still out there, which was why a SacPD cop sat in her driveway and another stood guard at the back door. Because, according to the cop, Gideon and Agent Hunter had found the house, but the killer was gone. He could be anywhere now. He could be waiting for me or for Gideon. Or his next victim.

  “Gideon’s out there somewhere, already hurt,” she said, knowing she was headed toward a panic attack, because Brutus was alternating between licking her fingers and patting her arm with her little paw. “Now he’s dealing with a fire?” While I’m stuck here doing nothing.

  “I know,” Frederick said calmly. He sat on the sofa, one arm resting on the back, his posture relaxed as if he were getting ready to watch a football game.

  She glared at him. “How can you be so calm?”

  His lips quirked up. “Meditation.”

  Her glare turned to an openmouthed stare. “You? Meditation? Really?”

  “It calms . . .” He waved his hand in the direction of his head. “The static. Upstairs.”

  Static upstairs. She wondered what those two little words really meant.

  He lifted graying brows. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I do.” The words burst from her in a rush, but abruptly fizzled. “I’m . . . Well, I’m . . . surprised, that’s all.”

  “Meditation helps,” Mercy said softly.

  And Daisy spun to look at her. Mercy hadn’t said a word since they’d entered her apartment. She’d been examining the murals since sh
e walked in.

  Daisy tried to think of what to say, then said what was in her heart. “I’m glad.”

  Mercy’s smile was small, but there. “Plus therapy. Lots of therapy.”

  “Yep,” Frederick said, and Daisy looked back at him, even more surprised.

  “You’re going to therapy?” She walked to her chair and sank into it, the moment having become almost surreal. Cuddling Brutus up under her chin, she added, “Really?”

  He nodded, his smile rueful. “Really.” He sighed. “After . . . well, after you and Taylor found out about . . . you know.” He glanced at Mercy, who was studying him closely. “I was a POW in the eighties,” he told her. “In El Salvador. It was . . . unpleasant.”

  “You were tortured?” Mercy asked her question in a barely audible whisper.

  “I was. It changed me. Changed how I thought about things,” he confessed. “How I reacted. Screwed my logic up, like the pathways in my brain became like tangled string.”

  Mercy only nodded, but her eyes held deep understanding.

  “From what little I know, you were also a prisoner,” Frederick went on so gently that Daisy’s eyes burned with tears. This man, this kind, gentle, empathetic man, was not the father she’d known.

  And she was ashamed to realize she wasn’t entirely happy to see him like this. The tense father who’d drilled her and Taylor like they were a paramilitary force—that was the father she knew. The father who’d made a snap, rash decision that had led to the death of her older sister . . . that was the father she knew.

  And, she realized with a small intake of breath, the father she’d never forgiven.

  She still blamed him for Carrie’s death. And she was certain that he blamed himself.

  Which might not be entirely fair. Carrie had somehow managed to lay her hands on drugs when they were hours away from the nearest town. She’d been wild even before they’d gone to the ranch.

  Who knew? Maybe, had they stayed in Oakland, Carrie would have run away and OD’d even sooner. No one could know. Yet still Daisy blamed him.

  That wasn’t fair at all. And it wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t right.