Web of Secrets

by Susan Sleeman

She ripped his shirt from his back, took a tighter hold on his ear, and cracked the belt across his naked skin. The pain bit into his body, racing along nerve endings, begging him to cry out. But he wouldn’t. Didn’t. Just as he hadn’t during the fire. She would see it as his carnal nature calling out, and she’d keep going, crack after crack until it was extinguished.

  Now he was the master and it had been worth it. Superb in every way. Untouchable, as long as he remained smart and in control. And he was smart. His control still needed perfecting, however. Molly had proved that.

  “See. I told you, you’re a loser,” Billy said.

  Reginald ignored him and stepped around the space, looking for anything he’d missed that could lead the police to his doorstep. At the shelves on the far side of the wall, he knelt on the ground to shine a flashlight into the dark recesses.

  There. In the corner. A hair thingy Allie—his lovely wonderful girl number seven—had worn. Powder blue, the same color of the eyes that had stared up at him for so long. He carefully retrieved it and stuffed it into his pocket. He’d been careless. Now he’d have to go back to the clearing to add it to the bag of clothing he’d buried last week. He’d kept it all for a long time. Touched it. Smoothed it over his skin when the urge grew too strong. But when he’d found Molly, and then learned Lauren was alive, he knew he had to divest himself of all traces of the other girls. For Lauren. She’d be jealous to learn he’d moved on.

  Lauren.

  Why had she deceived him? Faked her death.

  “And you were stupid enough to believe it all these years,” Billy mocked.

  “Everyone did.”

  “But you’re supposed to be this big guru. You should have known. Instead, you had to find Molly, then dig up Lauren’s coffin to look for her tiny ear bones to complete your collection.” Billy laughed. “Man, that was a day. You finding the coffin empty. Never seen you quite so shocked.”

  “Wouldn’t you be shocked to learn she’d faked her death?”

  “Nah, I’d go with the flow.”

  “That’s because you weren’t called on to save the world like I was.” He reached into his pocket and drew out the jeweler’s box. “But now, I know her escape was meant to be. She’s pure. She didn’t want what Molly wanted. What the other girls wanted when they agreed to meet me. She only came to me to save Molly. She was pure. And if she still has that purity, she could be the one.”

  He gently cupped the box. Blue velvet with a midnight-black lining that accented his mother’s pearls so nicely. They rested in slumber as she, too, rested. He ran a finger over the bright white lustrous orbs. Took one out. Stroked it along his cheek.

  His mother’s pearls. A gift from her father. The finest. Worth thousands. Not that he would sell them. They were for the woman he would marry.

  Maybe Lauren, when he found her.

  “She’s alive, Mother!” he exclaimed. “Really and truly alive.”

  He wouldn’t be alone after all. Lauren was the one. The only one.

  Chapter Three

  THE RAID OVER, Becca jogged down the steps of the tired two-story apartment building located on a busy thoroughfare of cheap hotels and rundown retail stores to get the evidence bags from her car. They’d apprehended one young teen without ID who would only say his name was Danny, and Connor was hauling him over to the transport vehicle. The kid had been belligerent and uncooperative, tempting Becca to shake some sense into him. But she had a weakness for wayward kids, so she’d resisted her urge.

  Becca continued on, catching sight of Taylor. She was almost comically stiff while standing guard at the raid. Becca remembered her rookie days—she would have been doing the same thing. She’d been so gung-ho, she’d likely have taken it up a notch from Taylor and would have still had her gun drawn.

  Becca approached Taylor. “Thanks for standing duty down here. Sam will go along with the kid to County to make sure his fingerprints are run immediately. I want you to go with him. Call me the minute we know anything.”

  Taylor frowned. “I’d really like to stay and observe. Wouldn’t it be possible for Sam to call us?”

  Odd. “It’s nothing you haven’t done a thousand times before. Forensics will process the scene, and we’ll catalog the evidence.”

  Taylor nipped her full lower lip. “Once I join the team, I won’t likely get this close to a murder investigation again.”

  Becca could sympathize with Taylor, but she wouldn’t let that sway her decision. “I need you to take the kid in, but then you’re welcome to stop back by here.”

  Taylor smiled. “Okay, then. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Let me grab some things from the back of the car first.” Becca turned and caught Connor watching her.

  Maybe watching Taylor? She was a beautiful girl. Thick dark hair, olive skin, deep brown eyes, and a curvy body. Becca could see him or any guy going for her. But it didn’t bother Becca that any guy might be attracted to Taylor. Just Connor. The man she had this love/hate thing with. Okay, to be fair, she didn’t hate anything about him. That was the problem.

  “You two got a thing going on?” Taylor asked.

  Becca snapped her mind back to the job at hand. “What? No. Nothing going on.”

  “Relax. So what if you two have a thing?”

  “We don’t have a thing.”

  “Okay, fine, not an actual thing. I get it. You’re both keeping it on the down-low, but it’s there. I’d have to be blind not to notice it. So hey, when I come back, I promise not to invade your territory.”

  Becca felt heat flush up her neck. “Come back if you want. Invade if you want. It’s none of my business.”

  She spun and marched to her car, grabbed the evidence bags, and slammed the hatch harder than necessary before returning to the apartment that had walls lined with bookshelves filled with the suspected stolen merchandise. A metal folding table held three computers, a printer, and a magnetic card reader/writer for making bogus credit cards. A stack of cards and plastic blanks for making others sat on the table, too.

  They’d located a gun of the same caliber as the one that killed Connor’s victim, but they had no proof it was linked to the murder he was investigating. So, as the warrant holder, she’d take the gun, plus the stolen merchandise and credit card paraphernalia, into evidence. She started by bagging the gun and ammo clip for safety, then sat down behind the table and turned her attention to logging the credit cards.

  “I guess all this stuff is what you were hoping to find,” Connor said as he came back into the room.

  “Yes.”

  He pointed a gloved finger at one of the computers. “It would be nice if we could take a look, but I know we have to wait for the techs.”

  She glanced at him. “Good to see you’re up on computer seizure protocol.”

  “It’s not hard to keep straight.” He lifted his index finger. “Number one, don’t touch them.” His second finger went up. “And number two, wait for the experts to take them.”

  She smiled at his simplified version of the procedure. “Your department has trained you well.”

  “You can thank our Detective Yates for that. He played solitaire one night on a vic’s computer while he was waiting for the ME to arrive.” Connor chuckled. “I don’t pretend to understand why we can’t touch them, I just know we can’t.”

  “The tech has to take an image of the hard drive to prove the state of the machine when we arrived, and that we haven’t made any changes.”

  “Okay, an image,” he said. “That tells me nothing.”

  “Think of it like finding blood on a crime scene,” she said, starting a story she’d told many times to officers. “You’ve just arrived and see a pool of blood. But before you can get out your camera to document the scene, someone walks through the blood and leaves footprints. You still ta
ke a picture, but you know you’ll have to explain to a jury why there’s a footprint in the blood.”

  “Once you do that, they’ll start questioning all of the forensics.” He nodded. “I get it. And computers are the same?”

  “Exactly. An image is like taking a snapshot of the hard drive. You start messing with a computer, and it leaves a trail, just like footprints in blood.”

  “Makes sense.” He gestured at the shelves. “So here’s the thing I still don’t get. They buy the stuff, but short of selling it on the street or on eBay, how do they get their money?”

  “They return it.”

  “But that would put a credit on the card, which doesn’t help them at all.”

  “They don’t use the card for that. They go to a different store to make the return without the receipt and get cash or a store gift card. If they get a card, they turn around and sell it to businesses that resell gift cards. I know it doesn’t sound like big bucks, but the ringleader recruits a ton of associates and the numbers add up.”

  Connor’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen.

  “It’s Sam,” he said. “He couldn’t possibly have fingerprint info yet. Maybe Danny gave up his full ID.”

  Connor answered the call, and she took the time to discreetly study him. He wore black pants with a black knit shirt that looked like it had been tailored to fit him. He suddenly squared his jaw, and his normal easygoing expression was replaced with an intensity that concerned her.

  “You’re sure?” He shoved a hand into his hair before starting to pace. “It’s Van Gogh, for real?”

  Van Gogh. Becca’s heart dropped.

  The abductor and killer of at least one fifteen-year-old girl in the mid-nineties, and likely two more. The girl had been in the system, like Becca and her foster sister Molly. Not only did he murder the girl, but he also cut off her ears and stored them in a jar, marked with the number one.

  He’d taken Molly and Becca, too.

  While she’d been held captive, Becca had noticed three jars sitting on the shelf, each holding ears, but only one body had ever been located. Becca had gotten away, but she suspected Van Gogh had killed Molly. There was no proof, though, so Becca had searched for Molly all of these years.

  Becca pressed her fingers against the back of her own ear, felt the scar from the tip of the knife pricking her flesh. She saw Van Gogh hulking over her, his meaty fingers with twisting scars clamped around the large serrated knife. Evil eyes, usually hollow and vacant, alive with excitement. She could still feel his intensity, as if he were standing over her now.

  “Could be a copycat,” Connor said, completely oblivious to her reaction. “I mean, we haven’t heard a thing about him in what, sixteen years?”

  Sixteen years, eight months, and fifteen days to be exact.

  Becca had continued to search for him, but he’d been silent. So why was he back now? Killing again. Maybe he’d learned of her name change and decided to come for her. Or had the body the police had just discovered been in the ground for years? Could it be Molly?

  Panic raced to overtake Becca, but she gulped in air to fight it off.

  Connor glanced at Becca, a quizzical look in his eyes. “Yeah, she’s still here. I’ll ask her.”

  Connor hung up, his probing detective’s stare locking on her. She obviously hadn’t done a good job of hiding her fear.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m good.” She bit the inside of her mouth to keep from crying out.

  “So, like I said, that was Sam.” He stepped closer. “We caught another homicide. A big one that will trump this investigation for the time being. A teenage girl found in Forest Park. The crazy rain we’ve been having washed away the soil and a hiker found her in a shallow grave.”

  “Oh.” She struggled to show little interest when what she really wanted was each and every detail about the killer who’d once kidnapped her.

  “Here’s the thing.” Connor lowered his voice. “We think it’s Van Gogh.”

  “Why?” she asked, dreading the answer.

  “The girl’s ears have been cut off.”

  At his official confirmation, Becca felt the color drain from her face and her knees go weak. She swallowed hard and tried to control the shaking of her hands, but they refused to cooperate so she shoved them under her legs.

  “I heard you say it might be a copycat. Maybe you’re right.” She hoped, prayed he was correct, and her worst nightmare hadn’t returned.

  Connor arched a brow. “Sam says you studied this guy at Quantico.”

  “All the rookie agents do,” she said, testing her voice for stability and deciding she was hiding her turmoil well enough to continue. “They dream of being the first law enforcement officer to crack the case. But they lose interest when they leave Quantico and find themselves up to their necks in their own workload.”

  “Not you, though, right? Sam says you stayed with the investigation and are the leading expert on Van Gogh.” He gave a mock shudder. “Kind of creepy, if you ask me. Why would you want to spend your free time on such a guy?”

  Because I witnessed Van Gogh’s depravity personally. And I left my best friend to die at his hands, she thought. But she would never tell him or anyone else about that. “One of my foster sisters, Molly, disappeared in the nineties, and we suspect she was one of Van Gogh’s victims.”

  “Oh, man, I’m sorry, Bex. No wonder you haven’t let this go.” He reached out to pat her shoulder, but she slid out of reach.

  She didn’t like him using her nickname. Her friends called her Bex, but Connor never had. That made this personal. Him personal. And it was more than she could handle right now, especially now that Van Gogh had resurfaced.

  Hurt flashed in his eyes for a moment, then he seemed to do a mental shrug. “You haven’t given up, right? You’re still into the case?”

  Into it? If he only knew how into it she was. But he wouldn’t. At least, he wouldn’t hear it from her, and he wouldn’t find any mention of Rebecca Lange in the police files either. He could find details on a fifteen-year-old Lauren Nichols who’d been taken by Van Gogh and escaped. What he wouldn’t find, however, was what had actually happened to that girl. When Van Gogh hadn’t been caught after three months had passed, the police had faked her death and changed her name. The lead detective had promised to keep that out of the files.

  “Becca?” Connor appraised her.

  She had to answer, or he’d start to dig deeper. “I’ve never given up on solving that case, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “So maybe you can give me some insight into the guy before I take off.” He looked at his watch. “The quick version, if possible. Once this scene is secured, I need to get up to Forest Park ASAP.”

  “A quick insight into Van Gogh? Hardly. He’s far too complicated for that.”

  “Come on, Becca. We could really use your help.”

  “Then I’ll go with you to the crime scene.” The words tumbled out before she took the time to think them through. If she had, she’d have likely chickened out, and run as far in the other direction as she could go.

  It was something she was good at. After all, she’d done it once when she’d left Molly in the hands of that lunatic to save her own life.

  Chapter Four

  CONNOR RUSHED after Becca and grabbed her arm before she reached the door. “What are you thinking? Running out of here like that. Van Gogh’s victim isn’t going anywhere, and their scene is secured, which is more than I can say for this one.”

  He expected her to be embarrassed by ignoring protocol, not to mention ignoring the case that a few minutes ago was top priority to her, but she seemed far too distracted to respond.

  “Becca?” he asked. “Did you hear me? Van Gogh might be a career-making case, but I h
ave a family counting on me to find the person who murdered their husband and father for his credit cards. I’m not leaving until we document the scene properly and your forensic team takes control.”

  “I got it.” She sounded more relieved than disappointed, confusing him.

  In his experience, she wasn’t one to waffle like this, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

  She went to the table and seemed to collapse on a chair, then started sifting through the stack of credit cards, effectively dismissing him. Not that he intended to go anywhere. He continued to watch her, trying to read the thoughts she wasn’t willing to share.

  Was this about Van Gogh? Or was she just trying to keep him at arm’s length, as she’d been doing from the moment they’d met? Met, shoot, she’d done it every time they’d run in to each other since then, including telling him outright to back off the day of Sam’s wedding.

  What a day that had been. As the best man, Connor had been thrown together with her all day. Her dress had been a seriously deep blue color that clung to every curve and was cut deep enough at the neck to fuel his imagination. It had been no hardship standing next to her. Or dancing with her. Until he hinted at dating. Then she’d gone into her I-don’t-need-anyone mode and said she wanted to keep things professional. Made him mad. Good and mad. Which was stupid, considering he wasn’t looking for a relationship either. No way was he giving another woman a chance to betray him the way his ex-fiancée Gillian had done.

  He’d never gotten around to telling Becca that or asking what was wrong with having a little fun together. She was just too serious about life for her own good.

  And it’s not your job to loosen her up. Forget about her and get this scene documented so you can move on to Van Gogh.

  He texted Sam to tell him Becca would be joining them, then grabbed his sketchpad and focused on drawing the layout of the small apartment. With Becca holding the search warrant, she or Taylor would perform the same task for the Bureau, but he wanted a clear record of the evidence for his case files as well.