There were four dead girls, he had informed her, all killed with the same pattern of sado-sexual mutilation and all within four months of each other. Camille could almost picture the case file in his hand as he broke down the stats in the infamous monotone that passed for his voice. When Crawley finally asked what her opinion was, Camille told him that she didn’t have one. When he pressed, she answered with one word: copycat.
There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his voice when he asked her to come back. No field work, he had assured her. Just hands-off consulting with the current field agents assigned to the case. Crawley was right to think that she couldn’t be trusted in the field. He was wrong to think that she could do anything to help him. But with four murders that looked depressingly similar to the ones committed by Daniel Sykes, and a Bureau full of anxious figureheads, Crawley may have felt that he didn’t have much choice.
The possibility that someone had decided to pick up where the Circle Killer left off angered Camille in ways she couldn’t describe. But she knew there was nothing she could do about it. Why she hadn’t told Crawley that right away was a question she couldn’t answer. She wanted to. She needed to. But she didn’t. Instead, she told him she would need time to consider his offer.
Crawley not so gently informed her that he didn’t have the luxury of waiting while she considered his offer. If the copycat held true to Sykes’ pattern, the next event could occur within the month, which meant he needed an answer, and he needed it immediately.
No matter how much Camille dreaded the idea of another murder, an immediate answer was something she simply couldn’t commit to. This required due deliberation, she told him; an adequate weighing of the pros and cons. The Bureau may have thought it had a lot to gain by bringing Camille back into the fold, but she had even more to lose.
Crawley eventually relented, but ended the conversation with yet another reminder of how important her prompt response was.
Camille bought the notebook with the hope that a pros and cons list would help facilitate a quick decision. It didn’t. In fact, she was no closer to a resolution now than when she started. And the longer that notebook remained blank, the longer it took to come up with even a single legitimate item to write on the con side of the page, the more Camille doubted her ability to tell Crawley no.
She sat at her desk after returning from the City Perk with a pen firmly pressed against the paper, as if the sheer force of her grip would summon the words that had thus far eluded her. An hour later she had nothing to show for her efforts other than a jagged hole in the paper created by the sharp fountain tip. Agent Crawley would have to wait at least one more day for her decision, and if Camille were being honest with herself, she would admit that tomorrow would most likely produce the same result.
Burying the notebook as far down in her desk drawer as she could, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to Jacob Deaver.
Curious to know more about him, she turned to her computer for the requisite Google search of his name. All she managed to find were two Boston Globe articles written in 2011 and 2013 respectively. Standard crime beat material. There were no images of Jacob or other bibliographical references. The results for Daniel Sykes’s supposed autobiography were similarly scarce. There was no title, publisher, or author information. If the book was as close to publication as Jacob claimed, there should have at least been some noise on the tabloid sites. But there was nothing.
Camille wanted to take this lack of information as proof that the details Jacob provided were not truthful, or, at the very least, grossly exaggerated. But she knew that when it came to anything related to Daniel Sykes, there was no such thing as a gross exaggeration.
Given the narcissistic, attention-seeking nature of most serial killers, Sykes’ desire to keep himself in the news made absolute sense, as did the timing of the book’s release. If he had any inkling of the potential copycat, he would do anything necessary to maintain his stranglehold on headlines that would certainly be taken from him once the details of the crimes became widespread.
There was also the matter of the copycat himself. Much like Sykes, he would be driven, at least in part, by the insatiable need to be noticed, feared, and admired. He would feel a connection to Sykes, but there would also be a natural sense of competition. And if Sykes’ book was seen by the copycat as an attempt to up the ante, there was a good chance that he or she would respond in kind.
Careful, Camille. You’re starting to sound like a profiler again.
She smiled even though there was nothing funny about the thought. She may have been operating on little more than theory, but the connection between the copycat and Sykes’ alleged book was becoming frighteningly clear.
What wasn’t clear was the extent of Jacob Deaver’s true interest in that book. The scavenging journalist explanation was the easiest one to latch onto. In Camille’s experience, however, the easiest explanation was rarely the correct one.
There was something more. It wasn’t just his words that told her that. It was the look in his eye; the quiet desperation in his tone. The fact that he’d written down his hotel room phone number prior to their meeting only confirmed what Camille already knew: their encounter was not accidental. That meant Jacob knew she was going to be at the City Perk. And the only way he could have known that was if he had been following her.
It wouldn’t be the first time a reporter had done such a thing. Most of them freely admitted to doing so. But Jacob could not have been more adamant in his denial; just as he had been adamant that his motives did not extend beyond a desire to help Camille tell her story.
She couldn’t help but question that, but she also couldn’t deny her curiosity to learn as much about this book as possible. She began to wonder if she had been too quick to leave the café. Even if the odds were ninety percent that Jacob’s story added up to nothing, the remaining ten percent was too significant to ignore.
As she looked up the telephone number of the Brown Palace, Camille told herself that it was about the book and nothing more. But in truth it was about a lot more. It was about a gnawing instinct she couldn’t shake. It was about a debt to Agent Crawley that remained unpaid. It was about a murderer whom she felt increasingly compelled to stop.
There was no logical reason to believe that Jacob Deaver could help her achieve any of those ends. But logic was a crutch that she no longer had the luxury of relying on.
She had just picked up her phone to dial the Brown Palace front desk when the cell lit up with an incoming call.
Camille couldn’t help but roll her eyes when she saw the word DAD flashing across the screen. This was the fifth time he had called today, and the sixtieth since she’d moved out of his house two weeks ago. Over-protective didn’t come close to describing Paul Grisham, especially after the turn his daughter’s life had taken in the past six months.
She ultimately couldn’t blame him. In fact, part of her welcomed the security that his obsessively-watchful eye brought with it. But the constant questions about the safety of her apartment building, the concerns about adequate street lighting, and the recurring offers to install deadbolts and motion detectors were starting to wear thin. He hadn’t been this concerned when she left for college sixteen years ago. Then again, she hadn’t been shot and nearly killed less than three months before that move – as had been the case now.
So as she had done with the previous fifty-nine calls, Camille took a deep breath and smiled before she picked up.
“Hey dad. What’s up?”
“Where are you?”
She shook her head at his terseness. “You mean you haven’t implanted the GPS yet?”
“I’m being serious, Camille.”
“I’m home, and I’m perfectly safe,” she sighed. “If you want me to check under the bed while I have you on the line—”
“I need you to come over.”
“Why?”
“Someone is here to see you.”
She struggled to clear the sudden l
ump in her throat. “Who?”
“It’s a bit much to try and explain over the phone. Just drop whatever it is you’re doing and get over here.”
Paul rarely barked orders, no matter how badly he wanted something done. But when he did, Camille listened.
“I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
“Do you at least want to give me a hint of what I’m walking in—”
The beep of a disconnecting call did not allow her to finish the thought.
Camille wanted to take a moment to digest what she had just heard, but there was nothing to digest aside from the near-frantic pitch in her father’s voice that was completely foreign to who he was. She could venture a guess as to what was behind it, but these days speculation only led to dark places. So she stood up from the desk, grabbed her car keys, and headed for the door without giving the action a second thought.
Her Dodge Charger was parked only a few feet from the apartment building’s entrance – a convenience that she gladly paid an extra one hundred dollars a month to enjoy.
But what she saw as she walked outside had instantly rendered it, and everything else around it, completely invisible.
CHAPTER THREE
UPPING THE ANTE
“Before you say anything Ms. Grisham, just know that I was telling the truth when I said I hadn’t followed you to the coffee shop.”
The tweed jacket that Jacob Deaver wore in the City Perk was missing, as was his messenger bag. But the smile – as inappropriate as any that Camille had ever seen – was still on bright display.
Camille’s shock quickly gave way to anger as she briskly approached him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Jacob stood back on his heels. “I think we can both acknowledge that our first conversation ended prematurely.”
Prior to now Camille would have actually agreed with that assessment. Her thoughts were very different now. “Why are you here?”
He looked at her with the eyes of an embarrassed adolescent. “Unfortunately I didn’t know any other way. You left the coffee shop without taking my phone number and I knew there was a lot more to be said – for both of us.”
“And your response was to follow me back to my apartment? Were you just going to lurk out here like the creep that you obviously are? Or were you going to wait until someone opened the door so you could slip inside?”
The expression on Jacob’s face flattened. “It’s not like that.”
Camille stopped a few feet away from him, only now noticing how much shorter he was than her five-foot-nine inches. The height advantage did nothing to mitigate the anxiety that his presence inspired in her. “What is it like, Mr. Deaver?”
“If we’re going to work together, I’ll have to insist you call me Jacob.”
Something that sounded like a laugh escaped Camille’s throat. “Work together? I’m two seconds away from calling the police on you.”
“There’s no reason for that. Besides, I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t touched you, I haven’t threatened you…”
“You showing up here isn’t a threat?”
Jacob continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I haven’t raised my voice in anger towards you. I simply want to have a conversation. Since when is that grounds for filing a police report?”
Camille paused to properly frame her response. “Okay, Mr. Deaver. I am telling you right now, in as calm a voice as possible, that I do not want to talk to you in any way, shape, or form, and I am asking you to leave.”
Jacob looked around the otherwise empty street. “This is a public place. I’m not really sure where I’m supposed to go.”
Camille threw her hands up in frustration. “Fine, I’ll leave.” She brushed against him as she walked past, knocking him off balance. She had intended to do more.
Jacob quickly gathered himself. “Are you really going to let Sykes win again?”
Camille stopped.
“Because if you walk away from me, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”
“You don’t know the first goddamn thing about Daniel Sykes. Or me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” It was in that moment that Camille first noticed the change; the dark edge that had suddenly settled in over Jacob’s face. “I know much more than you think.”
Despite her body’s pleas, Camille remained where she stood. Her stone-faced silence prompted Jacob to continue.
“I meant everything I said back in the coffee shop. I truly want to help you. People need to hear your story. The full truth of it, not the spoon-fed nonsense they’re getting from the media. At this point you probably don’t think my intentions are anything beyond self-serving. I suppose in some sense you’d be right. But there are others aside from myself that I’m serving. And they have expectations that I can’t fail to deliver on; expectations I won’t fail to deliver on. That’s why I’m here. Not because of me. Not even so much because of you. But because of them.”
“As far as I’m concerned, all of you can go to hell. Because whatever it is you want from me isn’t going to happen. That opportunity went right out the window the moment you decided to follow me home. Now, if I were you, I wouldn’t press my luck by staying here any longer.”
The smile that came across Jacob’s face did little to brighten it. “Oh, that’s right. You were going to call the police. I still think it’s silly and completely unnecessary, but I guess that’s your prerogative. It’s funny that it would even cross your mind though, considering the fact that they despise you.”
Camille stiffened.
“This stuff you’re involved in with the mayor’s husband has the entire department under scrutiny from what I understand. Two homicide detectives shot. One killed. And a lot of people are saying it’s because of you.”
“And I suppose these people failed to mention that my best friend was murdered too.”
Jacob nodded. “I’m aware of that, and my condolences go out to you and her family. I know the pain of that kind of loss all-too-well. But you’ve also experienced your share, which is why I figured you would be much more sympathetic to my cause.”
“I don’t know anything about your cause. All I know is that you’re trying to write a book and you need my help to do it. Help you are not going to get.”
“My cause is much greater than a book.”
“In that case, I wish you double the luck with it. Just make sure I don’t see you again.”
As if a switch had suddenly been turned on, Camille felt her legs spring to life and she quickly made her way to her car, once again brushing past him as she did.
Jacob walked up to the car as she climbed inside and started it. He had just opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by the roar of the engine. When she saw that he was preparing to speak again, Camille put a heavy foot down on the accelerator, filling the air with the sound of 100 crackling decibels.
He spoke as she pulled away from the curb, his words barely audible over the den of engine noise. But she was able to read his lips, and though she had become something of an expert at the art form during her academy training, she hoped that the skill had failed her in this instance.
“Don’t worry, Camille. You will,” was what she had interpreted his last words to be
CHAPTER FOUR
CLOSING THE DEAL
The red and white license plate of the Toyota Camry parked in her father’s driveway indicated that the car was a rental. Her first thought when she received the call was that Agent Crawley had made a surprise trip in an effort to expedite her decision. She had dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. Now, as she stared at the rental car, she couldn’t help but wonder.
If Crawley had made the long trip here unannounced, it meant that the situation with the copycat was worse than Camille realized. It also meant that she would have to look him in the eye to tell him no when he asked for her help; something she knew for a fact that she wouldn’t be able to do
.
Damn it.
Seeing no need to continue her uphill battle against the inevitable, Camille quickly made her way up the driveway and into her father’s open front door, not giving herself any time to think about what she would say to Crawley or what he would say to her.
“Just go in there, accept your Bureau visitor’s badge, and get it all over with,” she muttered to herself, her quiet tone laced with resignation.
She knocked on the screen door as she walked through it. “I’m here dad,” she announced before she saw anyone. “I would have been here sooner but I had an unfortunate run-in with…” She froze at the sight of the woman sitting on the couch. “Oh, hello.”
The woman’s heavy eyes lit up as she stood. “Hello.”
Camille looked at her father, suddenly confused. “Hey dad.”
“Hi Camille,” Paul Grisham said, rising to his feet. He looked flustered.
“Your phone call sounded urgent. What’s going on?”
Her eyes drifted back to the woman. The tall, slender brunette was dressed in a beige Anne Klein business suit. Camille had the same suit hanging in her closet; a holdover from her Bureau days. But this woman wore it much better. A matching clutch was tucked tightly under her arm, as if she was wary of putting it down. Were it not for the purse, Camille would have immediately tagged her as FBI. But the designer accessory, along with her nervous demeanor, made it clear that she was something else.
Paul approached his daughter while the woman stood frozen. His six-foot-three-inch frame momentarily blocked her from Camille’s view.
He gave her a light hug. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“Based on your tone I knew I didn’t have much of a choice.” She looked past her father to the woman, who was holding her purse even tighter now.”
“I suppose an introduction is in order,” Paul said as he stepped aside. “Camille, this is Meredith Park. Ms. Park, this is my daughter Camille.”
The Other Daniel - A Camille Grisham Novella Page 3
