A notorious serial killer is back
An edgy female police detective... An ambitious FBI special agent... Together they are at the heart of the ticking-clock investigation for a psychopathic serial killer. The bond they forge in this crucible sets the stage for high-stakes suspense.
Detective Kara Quinn, on leave from the LAPD, is on an early morning jog in her hometown of Liberty Lake when she comes upon the body of a young nurse. The manner of death shows a pattern of highly controlled rage.
Meanwhile in DC, FBI special agent Mathias Costa is staffing his newly minted Mobile Response Team. Word reaches Matt that the Liberty Lake murder fits the profile of the compulsive Triple Killer. It will be the first case for the MRT. This time they have a chance to stop this zealous if elusive killer before he strikes again. But only if they can figure out who he is and where he is hiding before he disappears for another three years. The stakes are higher than ever before, because if they fail, one of their own will be next...
Praise for The Third to Die
“Riveting, terrifying, and simply fantastic. Brennan ratchets up the tension to the breaking point. This is classic crime fiction at its best…from the queen of the thriller.”
—J.T. Ellison, New York Times bestselling author of Lie to Me
“You’ll be turning the pages as fast as you can, rooting for Matt and Kara and the FBI team. The best part? The Third to Die is the first thriller in Brennan’s amazing new series.”
—Catherine Coulter, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Labyrinth
“Allison Brennan does it again! An edge-of-the-seat, can’t-put-it-down thrill ride of a story… Once you start reading, you won’t be able to stop!”
—Marcia Clark, bestselling author of Snap Judgment
Praise for Allison Brennan’s writing
“Brennan is a master.”
—Associated Press
“A world-class nail-biter.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Lee Child on Love Me to Death
“Brennan knows how to deliver.”
—Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Poisonous has it all. A twisty and compelling read.”
—Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author
“Buckle up and brace yourself.”
—Sandra Brown, #1 New York Times bestselling author, on Notorious
“A fast-paced, suspenseful read with sinister twists that keep you turning the pages for more.”
—Karin Slaughter, New York Times bestselling author, on Poisonous
ALLISON BRENNAN is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of over thirty novels, including the Lucy Kincaid series (Nothing to Hide, Stalked, Reckless) and the Max Revere series (Abandoned, Maximum Exposure, Compulsion). She was nominated for Best Paperback Original Thriller by International Thriller Writers and the Daphne du Maurier Award by Kiss of Death. A former consultant in the California State Legislature, Allison lives in Arizona with her husband, five kids and assorted pets.
AllisonBrennan.com
The Third to Die
Allison Brennan
This book is for Dan Conaway, agent extraordinaire, who loved this story from the beginning. Third time’s the charm.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Acknowledgments
1
Wednesday, March 3
Liberty Lake, Washington
12:09 a.m.
Warm blood covered him.
His arms, up to his elbows, were slick with it. His clothing splattered with it. The knife—the blade that had taken his retribution—hung in his gloved hand by his side.
It was good. Very good.
He was almost done.
The killer stared at the blackness in front of him, his mind as silent and dark as the night. The water lapped gently at the banks of the lake. A faint swish swish swish as it rolled up and back, up and back, in the lightest of breezes.
He breathed in cold air; he exhaled steam.
Calm. Focused.
As the sounds and chill penetrated his subconscious, he moved into action. Staying here with the body would be foolish, even in the middle of the night.
He placed the knife carefully on a waist-high boulder, then removed his clothes. Jacket. Sweater. Undershirt. He stuffed them into a plastic bag. Took off his shoes. Socks. Pants. Boxers. Added them to the bag. He stood naked except for his gloves.
He tied the top of the plastic, then picked up the knife again and stabbed the bag multiple times. With strength that belied his lean frame, he threw the knife into the water. He couldn’t see where it fell; he barely heard the plunk.
Then he placed the bag in the lake and pushed it under, holding it beneath the surface to let the frigid water seep in. When the bag was saturated, he pulled it out and spun himself around as if he were throwing a shot put. He let go and the bag flew, hitting the water with a loud splash.
Even if the police found it—which he doubted they would—the water would destroy any evidence. He’d bought the clothes and shoes, even his underwear, at a discount store in another city, at another time. He’d never worn them before tonight.
Though he didn’t want DNA evidence in the system, it didn’t scare him if the police found something. He didn’t have a record. He’d killed before, many times, and not one person had spoken to him. He was smart—smarter than the cops, and certainly smarter than the victims he’d carefully selected.
Still, he must be cautious. Meticulous. Being smart meant that he couldn’t assume anything. What did his old man use to say?
Assume makes an ass out of you and me...
The killer scowled. He wasn’t doing any of this for his old man, though his father would get the retribution he deserved. He was doing this for himself. His own retribution. He was this close to finishing the elaborate plan he’d conceived years ago. He could scarcely wait until six days from now, March 9, when his revenge would be complete.
He was saving the guiltiest of them for last.
Still, he hoped his old man would be pleased. Hadn’t he done what his fa
ther was too weak to do? Righted the many wrongs that had been done to them. How many times had the old man said these people should suffer? How many times had his father told him these people were fools?
“The system is fucked! It’s us versus them, kid. They think they know it all. They think they have all the answers. They take everything I have and leave me with shit.”
Yet his father just let it happen and did nothing about it! Nothing! Because he was weak. He was weak and pathetic and cruel.
Breathe. Focus. All in good time.
All in good time.
The killer took another, smaller plastic bag from his backpack. He removed his wet gloves, put them inside, added a good-sized rock, tied the bag, then threw it into the lake.
Still naked, he shivered in the cold, still air. He wasn’t done.
Do it quick.
He walked into the lake, the water colder than ice. Still, he took several steps forward, his feet sinking into the rough muck at the bottom. When his knees were submersed, he did a shallow dive. His chest scraped a rock, but he was too numb to feel pain. He broke through the surface with a loud scream. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t think. His heart pounded in his chest, aching from the icy water.
But he was alive. He was fucking alive!
He went under once more, rubbed his hands briskly over his arms and face in case any blood remained. He would take a hot shower when he returned home, use soap and a towel to remove anything the lake left behind. But for now, this would do.
Twenty seconds in the water was almost too long. He bolted out, coughed, his body shaking so hard he could scarcely think. But he had planned everything well and operated on autopilot.
He pulled a towel from his backpack and dried off as best he could. Stepped into new sweatpants, sweatshirt, and shoes. Pulled on a new pair of gloves. There might be blood on the ATV, but it wasn’t his blood, so he wasn’t concerned.
He took a moment to stare back at the dark, still lake. Then he took one final look at the body splayed faceup. He felt nothing, because she was nothing. Unimportant. Simply a small pawn in a much bigger game. A pawn easily sacrificed.
He hoped his old man would be proud of his work, but he would probably just criticize his son’s process. He’d complain about how he did the job, then open another bottle of booze.
He hoped his father was burning in hell.
He jumped on the ATV and rode into the night.
2
Liberty Lake
7:30 a.m.
Los Angeles Police Detective Kara Quinn was technically on vacation. Technically, because she was being paid. She hadn’t come up here to Liberty Lake willingly. But the only reason she hadn’t thrown a complete fit with her boss was because she had been wanting to check in on her grandmother anyway. Emily Dorsey had been sick over Christmas and unable to visit Kara in Santa Monica as she’d done every year since Kara moved from Liberty Lake to California. So the mandatory vacation—otherwise known as paid administrative leave—was a good excuse to come up to Washington and visit.
But that didn’t mean Kara was going to sleep in or watch television half the day.
She didn’t relax well; she needed something to do. Anything.
The cold morning air burned in her lungs as she ran along the familiar eight-mile Liberty Lake Trail. She’d already run the loop her second day here, worked out at a gym in nearby Spokane the next day, and was taking the trail again this morning. She much preferred to exercise outdoors than in a gym, no matter how cold it was.
A February storm a few weeks earlier had left behind two feet of snow that was now a slushy mess. While there would likely be at least one more good snowfall before spring officially arrived, right now Kara took advantage of the unseasonably warm weather—if anyone could call the expected fifty-eight degree high warm. She was surprised that she didn’t hate the cold as much as she thought she would after living in LA for the last twelve years. In fact, she found it refreshing. Of course, anything was better than ten degrees in the middle of January, as it had been when she left this place for good at the age of eighteen with a GED in her pocket and the hope of being a cop in her heart.
Eight miles was a good run for Kara. Longer than the five miles she regularly trekked. She liked to push herself. If she didn’t challenge herself, who would?
She stopped at the four-mile marker, drank half her water bottle, and stretched. The morning sun glistened off the water, refreshing and calming. When she first arrived on the trail, a low layer of thin fog had covered the ground, but as the sun rose, the fog evaporated. She almost wished it hadn’t—she loved running in the mist, where she couldn’t see the rest of the world around her, where she felt like she was wrapped in a damp blanket, the only person on the planet. She’d commented about that feeling once to a long-ago boyfriend, and he said he thought it would get lonely. She just smiled and let him think he was right, but truth be told, she liked solitude.
People, mostly, sucked.
The fog would return. March in the Pacific Northwest? Oh yeah. She’d see rain and fog and more snow before she left—if her boss held her to the two weeks he’d ordered her to take. She’d already been laying the groundwork for an early return, but she couldn’t ask her sergeant for at least a week. That gave her three more days here to suck up her punishment before plotting her return. Maybe she could sneak back early to LA and grab a case before Lex even knew she was in town. He probably expected as much, so what would be the harm?
It’s administrative leave, Kara, not a vacation. You lost it with a suspect.
Lex’s voice bounced in her head. She wished she could make it shut up.
The snow that had built up along the banks was nearly melted, except in the shadows the sun couldn’t touch. No one else was running this early. Liberty Lake was a tourist town during the summer when the population more than doubled, but in March? Only the local yokels. One of the benefits of living in the middle of effing nowhere was that she didn’t have to see anyone if she didn’t want to. She loved Los Angeles, but she didn’t like all the hordes of people. Fortunately everyone in LA tended to ignore everyone else. She took comfort in that—unlike going to high school in Liberty Lake where everyone knew everyone else’s business.
She wasn’t naturally a people person, though she could be if she had to. She could be anyone she needed to be. That was her job.
Her grandma wanted her to move back to Liberty Lake permanently. If Kara was going to do anything for anyone, it would be for Em.
“Spokane isn’t far. They need detectives in Spokane. The nice policeman who didn’t arrest you when you vandalized that car in high school? Remember him? His mom—Bridget, I think. Yes, Bridget Maddox. She’s always asking about you, says her son talks about you from time to time.”
Such was the life here—where no one forgot anything. She’d slashed the tires and dented up the car of a bastard who’d drugged and raped Kara’s one real friend. People forgot about that, because, you know, no fucking proof of rape. But no one forgot what she did to the rapist’s damn car.
Of course Kara remembered Brian Maddox. He’d been a cop in Liberty Lake at the time. He’d stopped her from doing something more stupid than vandalism, taught her more about right and wrong, crime and punishment, than her parents ever had. He hadn’t wanted her to drop out of high school, but when she was eighteen, she had had enough. She got her GED, and he then suggested she test for the police academy.
“I’m transferring to Spokane. More opportunities. They could use a cop like you. You have great instincts, Kara, especially for a kid. The sky’s the limit with a little training and experience.”
It was because of Maddox that she became a cop, that she hadn’t followed in her parents’ criminal footsteps. She’d been so angry as a teenager—angry at everyone, including herself. Mostly, she recognized now, her anger stemmed from feeling she had no control o
ver her life. That the luck of the draw or a cosmic joke had given her two of the craziest, stupidest parents who had ever procreated.
No way she’d move back now to this seven-thousand-person town after living more than a decade in a city of millions where she cherished her anonymity. It wasn’t like Liberty Lake—or even the larger neighboring Spokane—was really home to her; she hadn’t had a real home growing up, not until her mother dumped her at her grandmother’s house when Kara was fifteen.
“Just for a few months, baby, until we get back on our feet.”
Right. Kara knew it was a lie the minute her mother opened her mouth. As if her mother—or any of her asshole boyfriends she ran with when she wasn’t with Kara’s father—could actually do anything productive with their lives. Now the only time Kara heard from either of her parents was when one of them needed something—money, a place to crash, bail. Losers. Both of them. Every time one of them walked into her life, shit happened. She had enough shit in her job, which she actually liked, that she had no desire to deal with anyone else’s shit.
But for all intents and purposes, Washington’s Liberty Lake was Kara’s hometown. She loved her grandma Em in all her weirdness. At least Em had given her a home base. Still, as soon as her boss cleared her, Kara was going back to LA. The longer she was away from her job, the more nervous and jittery she got.
What did that say about her? She was an undercover cop—all she did was play the part of anyone except herself. She preferred it. Who was she anyway? She’d much rather be another person and forget the two who’d spawned her.
Kara started to run again, but the break had tired her out more than rejuvenated her. All those damn memories that coming home had stirred up. She should go back to the gym and beat on one of the dummies. That always brightened her mood.
She was only a few minutes past the marker when she saw deep tire impressions in the mud off the path heading toward the lake. Riding ATVs was a blast—she’d loved it as a teenager. But why go toward the lake? It was usually too rocky and thick with vegetation to maneuver effectively.
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