“Sure. You might have a hard time tying down the guy on that Bridgett Simons case. It’s David Collier with LAPD.”
“No kidding? The one and only? What’s the deal with that jerk anyway—his career in so much trouble he’s got to go around charging innocents? You’ve heard he’s working that Leeza Kiley murder, haven’t you?”
“Be careful what you say, Ty. We’re not working his case. Messing with the local cops’ jurisdiction will get us both in hot water. It just isn’t considered politically correct. Don’t question him about the Shea case. Off the record, I agree. She probably didn’t do anything. Bad timing and the wrong enemy to have, maybe, but murder, I doubt it. But that’s his mess, not yours. When you reach him, stick with the topic at hand.”
“No problem. I can be politically correct, I suppose. It just doesn’t sit well with me when a cop does the bullshit things that Collier does to get a conviction.”
“It’s not our case. Please try not to cause me any grief on this one? The chief of police can be a real ass to deal with. They don’t like us treading. Oh, you might also want to talk to Claire Travers. She’s a tabloid journalist.”
“What would I need her for?”
Loretta took a drink, then wiped her mouth daintily with the napkin. “She writes a lot of that gossipy crap about the rich and famous. Apparently when this girl Bridgett went missing, Claire wrote an article about how the girl had been a small town girl with hopes and dreams, blah, blah, blah.” She waved her hand back and forth. “She even took a trip to Idaho to talk with her mother. The cops chalked it up to the porn industry lifestyle, like I said. Shit like this happens all the time in that line of work. Girl doesn’t show up for work one day and no one thinks too much about it. But apparently this girl had a spark, and after a few days, people noticed that she’d disappeared. No leads, nothing. But who knows, maybe this gossip columnist picked up something or will remember something that Collier won’t.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I think you’re on the right track, Ty. Stay with it.”
The two agents finished their lunch before Loretta got on the phone to track down David Collier. Three hours after Tyler arrived in Pasadena, he had a tentative meeting set up with Claire Travers.
Tyler knew he was getting closer to this freak, beginning to figure him out. He also knew that the boys who played in this bad guy’s league were very slick and dedicated killers. The only way he’d ever stop was when he wound up dead or behind bars. Either way, it had to be soon, before another girl became his trophy.
CHAPTER THIRTY
As nighttime rolled around, Frankie switched on the television, then quickly turned it off when she saw her parents and herself on the screen. She couldn’t go to school for a while or hang out with her friends. Her mother’s lawyer said that even having friends over could be a detriment, since visitors might be subpoenaed to testify against her mother. Outsiders were no longer welcome. The family had to band together. Oh, to be a normal teenager with a normal family. Was it too much to ask?
Frankie sat on her bed, trying to get into the latest Stephen King novel. There was a knock on her door, and Helena came in without waiting for Frankie’s permission. Frankie pulled her knees up to her face. Helena sat down beside her, not saying anything for a moment. Finally, Frankie said, “The reporters think you or Dad could’ve killed her, don’t they?”
“That’s one theory, but it’s not true.” Helena touched Frankie’s dark hair.
“I know it isn’t true, but they’ll talk like it is. It’s like before, but worse. I can’t even see my friends. The reporters and your lawyer are ruining my life.”
“We’ll just have to get used to it, ignore them, and put up with these inconveniences, but it’ll only be for a little while. Then they’ll go find some other tragedy to exploit.”
“Ignore them? Inconveniences? Are you kidding? There’s like a gazillion reporters out there, and we’re supposed to ignore them? I can’t go to school. I can’t even ride my horse, because the paparazzi might get a picture of me.” Hot tears burned her eyes. She quickly wiped them away. “God, Mom! I mean, I’m happy that you’re not in jail and I know you didn’t do it, but when do I get my life back? This is what I get for having a famous model for my real mom?” Frankie watched Helena flinch, wishing she could take back her harsh words. She hated hurting people, and things had been going so well between them.
“You have no idea how sorry I am for all of this. I wish there was something I could do to make it better.”
“Well, obviously you can’t.”
“Don’t talk to your mother that way, young lady.” Frankie saw her father standing in the doorway. “This is difficult for all of us. We love you, honey, and we’re all going to get past this.” He walked over and handed a mug to Helena. “Here you go. Thought you might like some tea.”
“Thanks.”
“What about you, Frankie? Want me to make you a cup?”
“No thanks. I want to be left alone. Just when you think it’s all gonna be okay, boom!” She smacked her hands together. “It’s not. Those people out there don’t care what they say or do to us. They want to ruin you, Dad, me, everything. Exactly like before. It’ll never end, I just know it.”
“Listen sweetie, you’ve got a right to be angry, you really do. And we will get our lives back soon. Then we can go forward. But please know how much we both love you.” Helena and her dad left her room
Whatever. If we ever get our lives back, Mom, it’ll be like starting all over again. Gee, that sounds grand. More shrinks, more trying to prove to ourselves that we’re as regular as the next family. Sure.
As soon as her parents were gone, Frankie reached for her phone. She needed to get the hell out of here. She’d sneak past all the jerks outside and at least see a few friends. It was Saturday night. After everything she’d been put through, she deserved a good time. And she was going to have it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tyler figured on his little soirée being fascinating. He wasn’t disappointed. The meeting he’d arranged with Ms. Travers also worked perfectly into Collier’s schedule—interesting, that anything would work in Collier’s schedule. Such a busy guy. Ha! Tyler had worked briefly with Collier before, and no love was lost between them. Collier didn’t have a clue about the intricacies of psychological profiling; he’d called it witchcraft, and had said some ugly things about Tyler Savoy. But Tyler wouldn’t let an almost washed-out detective bully him.
He had no idea what to expect from Claire Travers. After leaving Loretta’s house, he went straight to the library to read her articles on Bridgett Core. He found it interesting that her latest articles included several pieces on the Shea/Kiley scandal and a recent by-line on a news piece about the Kiley murder. Although tabloids weren’t Tyler’s thing, he’d discovered that Claire Travers was a good writer. Tyler remembered that Susie had enjoyed reading the gossip rags for fun, occasionally filling him in on the lurid lives of the rich and famous.
As was his custom, Tyler was early for their meeting, so he reread Ms. Travers’ articles. He became so engrossed in the stories about Leeza that he didn’t notice when the gossip columnist and the detective walked in. Ms. Travers certainly pricked his bubble of concentration.
“Another fan, I see.”
Claire Travers was nothing like he’d imagined. She was quite pretty with green eyes and blonde hair, cut into a short pixie style; her black skirt showed off shapely tanned legs.
For a moment, he was speechless, until Collier growled, “So what’s all this about, Savoy?”
Tyler looked square into Collier’s eyes. “Nice to see you too, Dave. It’s been awhile.” Tyler stretched out his hand to Ms. Travers. “Hi, I’m Tyler Savoy. I’m with the CASKU division of the FBI.”
“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Savoy.”
“Call me Tyler, please.”
Collier rolled his eyes.
“Call me Claire, Tyler.”
&nbs
p; “Nice to meet you, Claire.”
“Okay, formalities over,” Collier said. “Let’s get this over with, ‘cause I’ve got things to do.”
“Right. You wouldn’t want to miss a repeat of Miami Vice,” Tyler said, and with a laugh motioned for the waitress, ordering three beers on tap. Before Collier could respond, Tyler spoke up again. “I understand you both did some investigating on a missing persons case back in ’95? A young woman by the name of Bridgett Simons?” He pointed to a photograph from Loretta’s file.
“You mean Bridgett Core?” Claire cut in.
“One and the same.”
Collier shifted in his chair. “I worked that case, yeah. No real leads. You know, one of those things. Girl was in a nasty business, sometimes there are nasty consequences.”
“Actually, that’s not completely true,” Claire said. “I found out that girl was fairly decent. She had a rotten upbringing and was only trying to make life work for her.”
“Come on, Claire. I’ve seen this plenty of times. These broads don’t wanna better themselves. It’s all about the money.”
“I didn’t know you were such a chauvinist ass.”
“Okay, I didn’t call you here to discuss Miss Core’s morals. I’ve found a connection with her murder and two others,” Tyler interrupted.
Collier’s face turned ashen. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “What? Are you talking about a serial case? Come on, man, don’t pull that hoodoo voodoo crap you profilers do. The girl ran with a bad crowd, pissed someone off, and that was that. Curtains.” Collier drew his finger across his neck.
“Were you aware of the formaldehyde found in Bridgett Core’s remains?” Tyler asked.
“Could’ve easily been a mistake by the lab. Those techs use that stuff all the time. They’re not infallible. Maybe it was on their hands when they did the autopsy. Hell, I don’t know. They also found drugs. Who knows, maybe she was into some weird smack. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen people take.”
“That girl wasn’t into weird smack,” Claire said.
“She was a junkie, Claire.”
“She was misguided. It was that simple. Yes she probably used a bit, but she wasn’t a junkie. She wasn’t a bad kid. Tyler might be onto something.”
Tyler turned to face Claire. “Look, I’m working on a Jane Doe case. I think the two are connected, plus at least two more.”
Claire leaned in. “What makes you think that?”
“We’ve found traces of formaldehyde in all the vics, and I have a hunch.”
“Hunch?” Collier interrupted. “Aw, c’mon, Claire, Savoy here thinks he’s the Miss Cleo of the FBI’s Psychic Friends Network. He solves cases through his so-called feelings or visions or whatever the hell he calls them. It’s bullshit, if you ask me.”
“I don’t think its bullshit. And I didn’t ask you. It’s been proven that profiling works. We aren’t living in the dark ages anymore, Dave,” Claire replied. “Besides, I did some research of my own today. I found out that Tyler has solved quite a few serial murders. He’s truly a known asset to the FBI. Not only is he considered an excellent agent, he’s renowned for his work in profiling.”
“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”
Tyler smiled. He liked Claire Travers, and he enjoyed how she handled Collier. However, he did get the feeling that there was some type of intimate connection between the two of them. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Thank you very much, dear lady.”
“Oh cut the chivalrous crap and tell us what you want.” Collier asked checking his watch.
Tyler ignored the remark, remembering Loretta’s pleas. “Information. Any information you two can remember. I need anything that might help me to connect these cases together.”
“Savoy, I don’t know if you read the papers, but I’m kinda busy these days. I’m the lead detective on the Leeza Kiley murder. I’m sure you’ve heard of it?”
“Oh yes, sir, and guess what? I got a hunch you’re taking the wrong lady to the gallows, buddy.” So much for being politically correct.
“Don’t tell me you got a vibe about that murder, too, Savoy? I hate to tell you, but we’ve got it all figured out. It’s only a matter of getting solid evidence.”
“I thought you might say that. You’re looking to shake down Helena Shea, or the Kiley woman’s ex.”
“I think that’s obvious.” Collier took a gulp from his beer.
“You’re wrong.”
“Oh shit, Savoy, what the hell did you drag us out here for? I don’t need a lesson in how to do my job—past, present, or future, thank you. My record speaks for itself. Now as far as the Bridgett Core thing, I’ll have one of my guys get back to you with the info. Like I said, I’ve got other fish to fry.”
“Best be careful who you’re putting in the pan there, Collier. You might wind up wishing you’d done a little better investigating before this Kiley/Shea thing is over.”
“You know what, dickhead, that’s my case! You can take your hocus-pocus bullshit elsewhere. Let a real cop do his work. Come on, Claire, we’re out of here.”
“Actually,” she replied as she looked up at Collier, who was now standing. “I’d like to listen to what this man has to say.”
“Fine. Then Prince Charming can take you home.” Collier turned on his heels and marched out the door.
They watched him storm out of the restaurant. “Something tells me he’s not going to be much help with my case,” Tyler remarked.
Claire shrugged and replied, “Doesn’t look like it. I’ll do what I can, though I’m not sure what that might be. I talked to Bridgett’s mother and a few people she’d worked with. I’ll have to check out my files and see what I can come up with. It’ll take a few days, though. Anything written two years ago or more I’ve boxed up and put out in my garage. Can you wait?”
“I guess I’ll have to.”
“I don’t think I can tell you much more than what you’ve already read in my articles.”
“Try me. There’s a real sense of urgency here.”
“Why?”
Tyler didn’t want to scare her, so he sugarcoated his answer with, “Because I like to solve cases at record speed.”
“Yeah, whatever. Tell me the real reason.”
“You’re good.” He weighed his answer and decided to drop the bomb. “By the way, this is all off the record.”
Claire nodded. “On my honor.”
“I need to solve this case because this guy does what he does well, and I’m pretty sure he does it a lot. And if I’m not mistaken, he’s gonna do it again soon if we don’t put a noose around his neck first.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Frankie’s friends waited for her at the cove at Summerland beach, anxious to hear her version of what was going on. Getting the real story made it worth their while to sneak out of their homes after the dinner hour.
For her escape, Frankie wore a black turtleneck, jeans, and her dad’s Raider’s cap. There were several security cops around the ranch, but one savvy teenager who’d combed every inch of the place, using a little ingenuity, could get out. The few media stragglers left outside were the least of her worries. Her father’s ranch was huge, and if she played it right, she knew how to get down to the beach.
Next to her room was a guestroom with French doors opening to a patio. Her mom was staying there. Luckily her parents were still out in the family room talking with the attorney. Ella was lying on the bed. She lifted her head as Frankie entered, whining and wagging her tail. “Shh, girl, hush.” Ella laid her head back down, continuing to eye her.
Frankie knew that motion detectors were set up all around the backyard. Just another challenge—not like she hadn’t done it before. She made a game out of it, pretending she was some sort of spy-007, girl-power style.
She unlocked the doors and slipped out, staying close to the wall. She ducked low and crawled around the edge of the backyard. There were steps leading down to
the pool, but she worked her way through the landscape. Once she’d slid down on her belly to the bottom of a small knoll next to the pool, she stood and wiped herself off. She hadn’t triggered the motion detectors.
But as she stood up, a large Doberman came bounding along, his pal close behind. Damn! “Merlyn, Morgan, go back!” she whispered loudly. The dogs had triggered the automatic lights as Frankie sprinted for a large palm tree to hide behind. She heard her dad open one of the doors.
“Merlyn, Morgan, come here! No, no it’s nothing, only the dogs playing, don’t worry about it.” Frankie heard her dad say.
Frankie breathed a sigh of relief and waited until the lights turned off. Next to the palms was the wrought-iron fence. This was where things could get dicey. Her next step was to scale the fence, by no means an easy task. She fell back once and nearly split her jeans, but with a little effort, she was off the property, having been noticed only by the dogs.
She made her way to the back road leading to the cliffs. Thankfully the reporters hadn’t discovered it, as it was really only known to a handful of surfers. She knew her parents would kill her if they found out, but she had to get away from the house for a little while and hang out with her friends—people who didn’t judge her or her parents by the news reports.
Once she’d reached the cliffs, she scrunched down to begin the steep descent. Part way down, she stood back up, brushing herself off. She took off her backpack for a minute to rest. She looked at her watch. Her friends expected her in twenty minutes. Sneaking out was fun. Getting away with it was even better. When she was much younger, her dad had called her his little Indiana Jones. Frankie had always enjoyed adventure.
She closed her eyes, breathing in the salty air, listening to the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below. She loved it out here. Her friends would hang out, talk, and some would drink beer, if any had filched some from their parents’ fridge. Frankie wasn’t into the drinking scene after knowing what her mom had gone through, but she certainly wasn’t one to judge friends who didn’t judge her.
Mommy, May I Page 17
