by Karen Rose
“I thought the same thing. Have them do a scan before they start digging.”
“God, this gets better every hour.”
There was dread in Chase’s voice. And grief. “What happened?”
“Zach Granger’s dead.”
Luke felt the air leave his lungs. “But it was just an eye injury.”
“He had a brain hemorrhage about an hour ago. His wife was with him.”
“But . . . I was just in the hospital. Nobody told me.”
“We’re keeping it quiet.”
“Does Pete know?”
“No, not yet. Don’t tell him. I will.”
“He’s on his way to meet with the fire investigator in Dutton.”
Chase’s oath was hoarse and vile. “I wish I’d never heard of that damn town.”
“Join the ever-growing club. But we do have a lead on Granville’s partner. Beardsley heard Granville talking to some guy named Rocky.”
“That’s delightfully vague,” Chase said bitterly.
“It’s better than we had an hour ago. I’ll see you at eight. I’m going to the morgue.”
Chapter Nine
Atlanta, Saturday, February 3, 6:00 a.m.
Ma’am? We’re here. Ma’am? This is the airport. Ma’am?”
Susannah woke up, momentarily disoriented. She’d fallen asleep, finally. Too bad that it had been in the backseat of a taxicab and not in her hotel bed. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a long night.” She paid him and slid from the backseat. “Thank you.”
“No luggage?”
“No, I’m actually here to rent a car.”
“You’ll have to take a shuttle to any of the rental car joints.”
“I wasn’t thinking.” When she’d left her hotel room, she’d had one purpose—to escape the faces of the hundreds of runaways she’d been searching for nearly three hours. But there was no escape. She still saw the faces, some happy, some miserable.
All gone. What a waste. Of potential. Of hope. Of life.
She’d started out comparing each face to M. Jane Doe, but at some point her mind had wandered and she realized it was Darcy Williams’s face she saw in each picture.
Rattled, she’d pushed away from her computer. She’d needed a break and a car if she was going to get to Dutton for Sheila Cunningham’s funeral. So here she was.
“I can drive you there,” the cabbie said. “Get back in.”
She got back in, shivering. “Thank you.”
“It’s okay.” The cabbie was quiet as he drove the short distance to the rental car row. But when he stopped the cab, he sighed loudly. “Lady, this ain’t none of my business, but I think you gotta right to know. We’ve had a tail since we left the hotel.”
Annoyance had her frowning. Another reporter. “What kind of car?”
“Black sedan, tinted windows.”
“How original,” she said tightly and he glanced up in his rearview mirror.
“I just thought . . . maybe you were running from somebody.”
Only from myself. “I don’t think they’re dangerous. Probably just a reporter.”
He squinted at her as he took her money. “Are you some kind of a celebrity?”
“No, but thank you for telling me they’re back there. It was kind of you.”
“I got a daughter your age. She travels all the time for her job and I worry.”
Susannah smiled at him. “Then she’s a lucky girl. Take care.”
As he drove away she looked back. Sure enough, the black sedan hovered back, but definitely close enough to be seen. She’d turned to go inside the rental car office, when the sedan began to move, slowly. Susannah backed up, one step, then two, then stopped. The sedan wasn’t stopping. Instead, it continued by at a slow roll, and a shiver of apprehension raced down her spine.
Georgia license DRC119. Committing it to memory, she turned again for the rental car office, then it clicked. She whirled, her heart pounding, but the sedan was gone.
DRC. Darcy. It might have been simply a coincidence. Except for the number. One-nineteen. Six years ago, on January nineteenth, was the day she’d found Darcy, beaten and bloodied and very, very dead. And thirteen years ago, on January nineteenth, she’d woken in a hidey-hole covered in whiskey, raped and terrified.
Charles smiled. He’d finally gotten her attention. Susannah had always been the aloof one, sophisticated. At least that’s what everyone thought. But he knew better.
He’d always known there was a dark side to Susannah Vartanian. He could always tell. There was a look. A smell. An aura. He’d tried to lure her, all those years ago, but she’d gotten away, far away. At least that’s what she thought. But he knew better.
He knew everything about little Susannah Vartanian. Everything.
Wouldn’t the world be shocked by what he knew? Tsk, tsk, naughty girl. He chuckled. Soon he’d have her, one way or another. But he’d play with her a little first.
He waited until she exited the rental car garage, driving a sensible sedan. Nothing flashy for the good Vartanian girl. He pulled out behind her, knowing she saw him. He followed her to a Wal-Mart. Well, she had left New York the morning before with only the clothes on her back, so a little shopping trip made sense.
Staying back just far enough, he waited until she parked and started walking into the store before gliding past her one more time. He laughed aloud. The look on her face was priceless.
Charles had planned to wait one more year before taunting her with the DRC license plates, making it an even seven since Darcy’s death, but Susannah was here and vulnerable and he’d be a fool to waste the moment. When she was in the store, he parked, having no fear that she would call the police. She’d never tell what happened on January 19, either time. He opened his ivory box, this time pulling out one of his greatest treasures, a simple photograph. But it was so much more. It was a moment in time, frozen forever.
A younger version of himself smiled in black and white, standing next to Pham. Pham was old in the picture and knew he was nearing death even then. But I was blissfully unaware he was so sick. I was simply enjoying the day. Pham had been a big believer in enjoying the day but he’d also preached patience. The patient bird breakfasts on the juiciest worm.
But Charles believed in the American ideal of striking while the iron was hot, and over time, Pham had come to see the usefulness in the concept as well. An amazing team, the revered Buddhist monk and his Western bodyguard were admitted to homes everywhere they went. Whether Pham told fortunes, held healing services, or simply dealt in the fine art of blackmail, the homes in which they stayed were always much poorer after they’d departed.
I miss you still, my friend. My mentor. He wondered what Pham would have done if Charles had died first, as Toby had. Then Charles laughed aloud. Pham would have been whoever and done whatever would have made him the most money on that day, as if it were no different than any other. Pham was all about cold, hard cash.
Charles no longer needed the money, so his enjoyment at Susannah Vartanian’s expense was purely pleasure. Pham would have approved.
Atlanta, Saturday, February 3, 6:15 a.m.
Dr. Felicity Berg glanced up briefly when Luke entered, then again focused on the body on the table. “I was wondering when you’d get here. I was about to call you.”
“I’ve been a little busy,” Luke said, unoffended at her brusque tone. He liked Felicity, although many considered her cold. Luke imagined many considered Susannah cold as well, but he wondered how many people truly knew her. “What have you got so far?”
“A hell of a mess,” she snapped, then sighed. “Sorry. I’m tired. I know you are, too.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t had to look at this all night,” he said softly. “You okay, Felicity?”
Her swallow was audible in the quiet. “No.” Then she continued in a businesslike tone, “You have five females, all between the ages of fifteen and twenty. Two suffer from extreme malnutrition. Victim two and victim five here on the table.�
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“We think we have an ID on number five,” Luke said. “Kasey Knight. Her parents are coming to do an ID. They should arrive sometime around two.”
Felicity abruptly looked up, horrified. “They want to see her? Luke, no.”
“Yes.” Luke came closer, steeling himself, then swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. “Can’t you . . . Can you make her look any . . . better?”
“Can you convince them not to look at her? I can do a DNA ID in twenty-four hours.”
“Felicity, they’ve been waiting two years. They need to see her.”
She stood glaring at him, then her sob broke the silence. “Goddammit, Luke.” She stepped back, crying, her bloody gloved hands held stiffly in front of her. “Dammit.”
Luke pulled on a pair of gloves, pushed her goggles up to her forehead, then dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “You’ve had a long night,” he said quietly. “Why not go home and get some rest until the parents get here? She’s the last one, right?”
“Yeah, and I’m almost finished with her. Fix my goggles, would you?”
Luke did so, then stepped away. “I won’t tell anyone,” he said conspiratorially, and her laugh was watery and self-conscious.
“I don’t usually let them get to me, but . . .”
“I feel the same way. So what can you tell me besides two were malnourished?”
She set her shoulders, and when she spoke, it was all business again. “Victim five, Kasey Knight, has gonorrhea and syphilis.”
“But the rest don’t?”
“Right. Victim one has sickle cell, so that might help narrow down her ID. Victim two has had her arm broken, in the last six months. It wasn’t set very well. The other arm had radial fractures and looks like the events occurred in the same time period. I’d assume the breaks are due to abuse.” She looked up again, her brows bunched. “It’s weird. The two emaciated girls had high levels of electrolytes in their blood. And I found needle marks in their arms—like someone had administered fluids via IV.”
“We found IV bags in the bunker and some syringes and needles.”
“So this doctor that was killed, Granville. He was treating them?”
“I’m wondering if he wasn’t trying to get them ready for resale. Anything else?”
“Yeah. I saved the best for last. Come here.”
He came closer as she gently rolled the body of Kasey Knight to one side. He squinted, then bent closer to see the small area high on the right hip and his jaw tightened. “A swastika.” He looked up. “Is that a brand?”
“It is. All of them have one, same place, on the right hip. Size of a dime.”
Luke straightened. “Neo-Nazis?”
“There’s a bag over on the counter that might help.”
Luke held it up to the light. It was a signet ring with the AMA snake symbol. “So?”
“It came off Granville’s finger.”
“Okay. He was a doctor, this is the AMA symbol. Not to be obtuse, but so?”
Her brows lifted. “It’s got a false front. Trey found it by accident when he was taking it off the good doctor. There’s a little button on the side.”
Luke flicked it and inside the bag, the top of the ring swung open revealing the same swastika design. “I’ll be damned. Did this make those brands?”
“I don’t think so. The design is set too deep and there doesn’t appear to be any cellular residue on the surface, but the lab can tell you for certain.”
“I’ll see if I can track down this design. Felicity, one of the others can do the ID.”
“I’ll do it.” Carefully she pulled the sheet to cover Kasey Knight. “I’ll see you at two.”
Atlanta, Saturday, February 3, 7:45 a.m.
Susannah stood at the door to Luke’s office, willing her hands not to shake. After the black sedan had disappeared, she’d rented her car and driven to the local Wal-Mart to buy toiletries. Then she’d driven back to the hotel, growing more rattled with every mile, because DRC119 had appeared in the store parking lot, on the highway as she was driving back, even passing by the hotel as she gave her keys to the valet.
For a split second she wondered if Al Landers had told someone, but she instantly dismissed the possibility. Besides, if Al had known she visited Darcy’s grave every year, someone else might, too. She had to find out who’d registered that license plate.
Luke. She trusted him. So she’d stopped the valet, taken her car, and driven here.
She knocked and he looked up from his computer, the surprise in his dark eyes quickly followed by interest. For a moment their gazes locked and her mouth grew dry. Then his eyes grew shuttered and polite and the moment was broken. “Susannah?”
It didn’t matter if she wasn’t sure how she felt about his interest, she thought, because it would disappear if he knew the truth. He wouldn’t want me anymore. No decent man would. “I met Leigh coming in from her break and she walked me up.”
“Come in.” He moved a stack of folders from the chair on the other side of his desk. “I have some time before our morning meeting, so I’m doing paperwork from yesterday. Have a seat. I’ve been meaning to call you all night, but things got crazy. We got to Borenson’s cabin last night and he was gone. There was evidence of a struggle.”
Her chin jerked up as she sat down. “Do you think he’s dead?”
He slouched in his chair. “The struggle was a few days ago, minimum. If he’s wounded somewhere, it won’t be good. He’d have to have lost a lot of blood by now.”
“A few days ago was before all this broke loose with Granville. You were still tracking O’Brien then.”
“I know, but I can’t ignore it. He was connected thirteen years ago. He could very well be connected now.” He frowned. “Speaking of connected, did you notice any kind of mark or scar or anything on Jane Doe?”
“Like what?”
He hesitated. “Like a swastika.”
For the second time in two hours Susannah’s blood ran ice cold. “No. She was gowned and under a sheet by the time I saw her in ICU.” Good, you’re staying calm. “I would’ve thought the hospital would have pointed something like that out.”
“Me, too, but they were a little busy yesterday saving her life.”
“I suppose they were. Why not just ask them today?”
“Because.” He hesitated again. “Because someone tried to kill Beardsley last night.”
“Oh my God. Are you sure?”
“I have the crime lab’s analysis right here. Someone tampered with his IV.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. He had a bad few moments there, but he’s fine.”
“What about the girl? And Bailey?” And Daniel?
“And Daniel?” he asked quietly, with only a trace of reproach.
Which I deserved. “And Daniel. Are all of them all right?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure who I can trust. I hoped you’d seen a mark on Jane Doe.”
Her heart was pounding, but her voice was calm. “What’s the significance?”
“Every girl in the morgue has one branded on her hip.”
She swallowed hard, forcing her heart back down to her chest. It’s not possible. This is not happening. But it was possible. It was happening. Tell him. Tell him now.
In a minute. First, DRC119. “So it was Granville’s mark.”
“It appears so. But, you came all the way down here. What can I do for you?”
Calm, Susannah. “I hate to bother you with this, but a car followed me this morning.”
His dark brows crunched. “What do you mean?”
“I went to the airport to rent a car this morning. I’m going to Dutton for Sheila Cunningham’s funeral today.”
“Sheila Cunningham. I’d almost forgotten about the funeral,” he murmured, then looked back at her. “So what happened with the car that was following you?”
“I took a cab from the hotel to the airport, and a black sedan followed me. I went to the store afterw
ard and it followed me there, too. I have to admit . . . I was a little rattled.” Utterly unnerved. “Can you run a check on the license plate?”
“What is it?”
“DRC119. It wasn’t the normal layout, you know, with the peach in the middle. All the characters were together.”
“A vanity plate, you mean.”
“Yeah. I guess so.” Holding her breath, she waited as he typed it into his computer. And waited some more as he stared at the screen, his expression inscrutable. Finally she could stand it no longer. “Luke?”
He looked up, eyes guarded. “Susannah, do you know a Darcy Williams?”
Don’t you dare run away this time. “She was my friend. Now she’s dead.”
“Susannah, the vehicle is registered to Darcy Williams, but the picture in her DMV record . . . it’s yours.”
Her throat closed. No air came in. No words came out.
“Susannah?” He lurched to his feet and came around his desk to take her shoulders in his hands, his grip firm. “Breathe.”
She sucked in a breath, nauseous. “There’s something you need to know.” Her voice was no longer calm. “It’s the swastika. I have one. On my hip. It’s a brand.”
He exhaled carefully. His hands remained on her shoulders, kneading. “From the assault thirteen years ago.” It wasn’t a question. It should have been.
She gently pulled away and walked to the window. “No. It happened seven years later. On January nineteenth.”
“One-nineteen,” he said. “Like the license plate. DRC119.”
“January nineteenth was also the day of my assault by Simon’s gang.”
In the glass, she watched him go still. “Susannah, who was Darcy Williams?”
She leaned her forehead on the cool glass. Her head burned, but the rest of her was ice cold. “Like I said. She was my friend and now she’s dead.”
“How did she die?” he asked gently.
She kept her eyes fixed on the parking lot below. “I’ve never told this. To anyone.”
“But somebody knows.”
“At least three people. And now you.” She turned around, met his eyes. “Whoever followed me today knows. Last night I found out my boss has known since it happened. Part of it anyway. The other person is the detective who led the investigation.”
