Web of Secrets

by Susan Sleeman

  He nodded, but he suspected there was more to her bad mood than she was letting on. Still, they didn’t have time before the meeting to discuss it, so he led her to the elevator.

  “Any updates on who stole Frankie’s identity?” he asked, trying to ease the tension between them.

  “I pulled credit reports for her and the kids last night. They each show several new accounts. Only, according to Elise, nobody has opened any new accounts.”

  “So, someone must have stolen their socials.”

  “It’s looking like someone has hacked her home network and accessed her computer tax preparation program.”

  “Can you figure out who’s behind it?”

  “Maybe. Taylor’s working on the logs for their home network, and she’ll hopefully turn something up.”

  The elevator reached their floor and issued a sharp ding. When the doors parted, he escorted Becca to the conference room and introduced her to the PPB team.

  “Welcome, Agent Lange.” Vance shook her hand, his gaze apologetic. “I’d like you to start our meeting by bringing us up to speed on Van Gogh.”

  “Be happy to,” she said, not even a hint in her voice of irritation at Vance for sending her packing yesterday.

  She took a position at the head of the table and opened a folder from which she extracted Van Gogh’s current sketch. She handed it to Sam who was sitting closest to her. She took a long breath and closed her eyes for a moment before recounting the same story she’d told Connor last night. But today, he had the luxury of watching her and seeing the nuances behind her words.

  Her voice sounded robotic, her tone flat and devoid of any emotion. It seemed almost as if she didn’t care about this girl’s murder, which Connor knew was far from the truth. The only hint she gave of her uneasiness was the way she was worrying the paperclip in her hands, as Sam and the rest of the team, comprised of Lieutenant Vance, detectives Frank Yates, George Adams, and Olivia Lee, fired off the same basic questions Connor had asked last night. Becca stood strong as usual, but he got the feeling that she could drop at any moment.

  “Van Gogh called himself Adam Smith when he chatted online with Molly, but the police exhausted all leads pertaining to that name,” she said, then seemed to sag, as if she was grateful to have the story told.

  “Has the Bee-ur-eau ever done a profile on the guy?” Yates asked in his usual snide tone. He was an Old Guy on the force, and many of the OGs didn’t much like FBI agents or women in law enforcement in general, so Becca had two strikes in his book.

  She nodded. “Do all of you hold the same opinion of profiling as Detective Yates, or would anyone else like the details?”

  “Trust me.” Olivia stared at Yates. “Very few of us at Central have the same opinion as Frank here. Especially not women. I, for one, would like to get more insight on Van Gogh.”

  Others chimed in, and Yates didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. Connor didn’t think he was a bad guy. He simply hadn’t adapted well to change.

  Becca tapped a finger on the sketch of Van Gogh that had made its way back to her. “We know from Lauren’s description that Van Gogh is a white male. At the time of her attack, she thought him to be in his early twenties, which puts him in his early forties now. He’s a detailed and organized man, rigid, and in control at all times. The placement of the graves at the crime scene confirms that he still has this need for symmetry. The ears in the jar that Lauren described were never recovered in the nineties, but she’d reported that they’d been pierced, with pearl studs in all three sets of ears. He had identical earrings waiting for Lauren and Molly. Lauren was wearing them when she was found.”

  Becca grabbed the table, as if to steady herself, clasping it hard before continuing. “It’s believed he was abused as a child by a woman, most likely his mother.”

  “Let me guess,” Yates said. “Mommy Dearest wore pearl earrings.”

  “Our profiler suspected, that yes, she wore pearls, but not necessarily earrings. They believed that the removed ears could hold another meaning for him.”

  “Like what?” George asked, seeming fascinated.

  “He may be trying to silence the girls. Or another theory is that the white gown the girl was dressed in, coupled with the angelic pose, expressed virginity, and he was trying to keep her from hearing something.”

  “Was his first victim a virgin?” Olivia asked.

  “No.”

  “Did this Lauren girl say anything about this being sexual?”

  Becca shook her head hard. “He never made any sexual advances and rarely spoke to the girls. He did, however, talk to his mother quite often. It was as if she was in the room, though she never made an appearance.”

  “Did they ever ID the first girl they found?” Olivia asked.

  Connor couldn’t help but notice she also took a personal approach to this case rather than clinical. Likely a woman identifying with a woman in a way the men in the room couldn’t do. Connor was glad to have her on their team.

  “No,” Becca said.

  Sam’s frown continued to deepen. “I assume the investigators visited local jewelers to see if anyone recognized Lauren’s earrings or to ask if someone had purchased multiple sets of pearl earrings.”

  She nodded. “Nothing came of it.”

  “What about the jars?” Vance asked.

  “Without having them in hand, it was hard to tell anything about them. Lauren’s description put them at standard sixteen-ounce canning jars.” Becca suddenly shivered and Connor wanted to rest his hand on hers, but this meeting wasn’t the place to get personal. Besides, she’d pull her hand back anyway.

  “The detectives suspected Van Gogh used formaldehyde as the preservative,” she continued. “And they did get a little traction on that. It wasn’t as readily available back then—no Internet orders at that time—which narrowed down the places he could have purchased it. They found a small chemical supply company in northeast Portland where a cashier remembered a man with a scarred face buying formaldehyde under a name and address that led to a dead end.”

  “I hate to ask,” Sam said. “But since it’s used as a preservative, and I’m guessing it doesn’t go bad, did he buy in bulk?”

  “Not really. Formaldehyde is sold by the liter. He bought three one-liter bottles, claiming he was a new science teacher and they were preserving frogs.”

  Vance grabbed a marker and went to the whiteboard. “Okay, so a liter is around thirty-four ounces, which means he bought enough at that time to fill six mason jars. With yesterday’s Jane Doe being number nine, he’d have to have replenished his supply.” Vance looked at Olivia. “Start with the original supply place to see if they’re still in business, and ask if anyone has bought in quantity.”

  He turned to Becca. “Okay, Agent Lange. This is where I ask you, as the leading expert on Van Gogh, how would you proceed if you were taking lead on this case?”

  “I’d start by trying to answer my own questions.” She didn’t take time to think through her answer, but Connor knew that was because she’d been thinking about this case for years. “How did Van Gogh get the girls up the trail without anyone seeing him? They weren’t heavy, but most of us climbed that trail yesterday and know it’s a bear. Can you imagine having a body over your shoulder? What does this crime scene have in common with the first burial? Why did he change locations? Should we be looking at nearby clearings?”

  “Slow down,” Vance said from the whiteboard where he was attempting to jot down all of Becca’s questions.

  She nodded, but started right back in. “Then there are the bodies. Are they all girls? All the same age? All foster kids? Do they have something in common besides foster care? Anything in common with the girl found in the nineties? She was strangled. Were these girls strangled, too?” Becca paused for a long moment. “And then the bigg
est question of all, why is this creep dressing young girls in white gowns, cutting off their ears to preserve them, and killing them?”

  “I can tell you’re not a detective.” Yates sneered. “It’s easy to ask all those questions, much harder to come up with concrete steps to answer them.”

  “You want steps?” she asked, sounding irritated for the first time. “Okay. Step one. Meet with the ME and anthropologist to see what they’ve learned. Is there a way to ID the skeletonized girls? Fingerprints, dental records, DNA, physical and race description, etc. If so, proceed with trying to ID them. In any event, search for missing girls in the area. Use all police records—city, county, neighboring cities, other states. FBI. Where there’s a likely match, interview their parents. Maybe we can get forensic sketches made of the skeletonized bodies to compare to the missing girls’ photos. Talk to street kids to see if any of the girls they know have gone missing. Then, of course, we’d want to follow up on any forensic evidence that has been collected and track down any leads from there. And, you’ve already mentioned the formaldehyde.” She looked directly at Yates. “Is that enough of a start for you, Detective Yates?”

  Attagirl, Connor thought and resisted giving Becca a fist pump for standing up to Yates. He did smile at her, though, and the corner of her mouth tipped up in satisfaction.

  “Okay, let’s get busy assigning all the items Agent Lange suggested.” Vance was clearly impressed. “And maybe along the way, we’ll catch ourselves a killer.”

  “I WON’T BE LEFT OUT here to wait.” Taylor planted her hands on her hips and stared at Jack.

  He quirked a tight smile. “Don’t see as you have any choice in the matter.”

  “Why? What are you hiding in there?” She tipped her head at the closed door behind him.

  “Not hiding a thing, but no one from the outside is allowed in the lab. I’m sure you can understand that.” He said it in a way that insinuated she wasn’t too bright.

  “I get it. But that also means once you turn over the evidence, you won’t be hanging out in the lab either.”

  He arched a brow, looking like a marauding pirate. “I’m giving a weapons seminar. Not something you’d be interested in sitting through. You’d likely fidget, squirm all over in boredom, and end up distracting me.”

  “I’d find your weapons seminar quite interesting.”

  “It’s for seasoned shooters.”

  “I’m seasoned.”

  “At your age?” He rolled his eyes. “A princess like you? Give me a break.”

  She curled her fingers into a fist. “I’m older than I look, and I’m no princess.”

  He just kept staring at her, and she glanced around, looking for a solution. She caught sight of his handgun, a tricked-out Kimber 1911 Custom II. An idea formed.

  “Tell you what.” She tried to keep the excitement from her voice. “I’ll prove my abilities. Give me your handgun. I’ll field strip and reassemble it in whatever timeframe you give me. If I don’t meet your goal, then I’ll sit out here. If I do meet it, you let me sit in on the seminar.”

  “My timeframe, huh?”

  She nodded. “As long as it’s reasonable.”

  “You’ve got a deal.” He stuck out his hand.

  She grasped it, and as she connected, a jolt of something fired in her belly. Stunned, she forgot to move . . . or breathe.

  “Hope your gun skills are better than your wimpy handshake.” He turned and pressed his thumb on a biometric reader that scanned it and unlocked the door. “Wait here while I deliver the evidence. Then I’ll come back for you.”

  “Ha! Like I trust you to come back.”

  “I always keep my word, Taylor.” His steely gaze scared her as much as it thrilled her. “If I say I’ll be back, I’ll be back.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take the evidence to my friend so she can get started.”

  Taylor didn’t know if she was being played, but for some reason, she believed him to be a man of his word. She gave him the can, then regretted it the moment it left her hands. He had to know he was good-looking. Maybe this whole unapproachable vibe was his way of garnering a woman’s interest. At least, it was working on her. She couldn’t resist a good challenge, and he certainly was that. He wore no ring, so she suspected he was single. Not that she was interested in a relationship while trying to establish herself in the new job, but she’d grudgingly admit she was interested in finding out what made the man tick.

  She sat in a stiff chair and composed a text to Becca. Waiting for the DNA results. This Jack guy is something else.

  Becca replied quickly. Cut him some slack. He’s hard to get to know, but he’s one of the most ethical and compassionate men I know.

  Taylor texted back. Hard to get to know, right! Try impossible.

  The door swung open, and he filled the doorway.

  “We’ll have the results in a few hours.” He gestured over his shoulder. “First door on your left.”

  She stepped past him, taking in everything in sight. The place was minimal in décor, but tight on security. Another biometric reader led to a windowless room. Jack opened the door, and she stepped into a conference room that resembled a bunker with more weapons mounted on the walls than she’d ever seen in one place. Rifles, automatics, semis. Pistols of every variety and make. Even a rocket launcher.

  She let out a low whistle. “Now I see why you have all the security.”

  “Wouldn’t do for someone to break in.”

  “But I don’t get how you’re connected to the lab.”

  “They require a similar level of security, so I lease a space with them. It’s worked great for us both for the last few years.”

  “You’re not actually associated with the lab, then?”

  He shook his head. “Just on friendly terms with the owner. She’s an old friend.”

  Friendly terms, Taylor thought. He was a fine-looking man, but unless he had charms that she didn’t see, his association with the lab owner was likely professional. Taylor hated to admit it, but she liked thinking he might not be in a relationship.

  “Okay, the test.” He picked up a cleaning mat and spread it out on the table, then snapped his Kimber from his holster and ejected the magazine. He grabbed an empty magazine, inserted it, and laid the weapon on the padded mat.

  “You have ninety seconds.” He looked at her with amusement.

  He expected her to fail. Of course he did. A Kimber wasn’t as common as a Glock or Colt. And it was more difficult to disassemble. He probably expected her not to realize that the spring was under tension, figuring she’d make the novice mistake of letting it fly, but she wouldn’t. She wasn’t a novice by any means, and the Kimber 1911 was one of her dad’s favorites.

  She picked up the gun and pretended to look it over as if she didn’t know what she was doing. It was a mean thing to do, but he was trying to play her and she intended to return the favor. She hadn’t told Jack that her father owned a gun range, or that she’d been raised around a variety of weapons. Her dad had always wanted a son, but got her instead. If she’d wanted to spend any time with him, she had to learn to love guns, too. His idea of fun was the field test he’d designed using his former military training. She’d taken his test so many times with a wide variety of guns, that she could take apart and reassemble many of them with her eyes closed.

  She hefted the gun in her hands, getting the feel of the amazing weapon. “Ninety seconds, huh? You sure you don’t want me to close my eyes, too?”

  He raised a brow. “I’m good with the conditions, but I admire your spunk.”

  His compliment slid over her like a warm blanket, and she totally got lost in eyes that had warmed to a cool gray.

  “Ready,” he asked, holding out his wrist to study his black diver’s watch.

  She shifted the weapon into her lef
t hand and banished thoughts of anything but the gun from her brain.

  “Start,” he snapped out like a starting gun.

  She ejected the magazine and pulled back the lever to make sure no bullet remained in the chamber, then went on autopilot disassembling the gun. She laid the seven pieces on the mat in military order as her dad had drilled into her.

  “There, field stripped and ready to reassemble,” she said as she reversed her actions. Once reassembled, she inserted the empty magazine, cycled the slide, and pulled the trigger.

  “Time,” she called out.

  “Fifty-five seconds.” Jack stood staring at her, admiration burning in his eyes. “You’ve obviously had weapons training. I can tell you’re not military, but you laid down the pieces in military order. ”

  “My dad’s a former Marine. He owns a gun range, and I was the boy he always wanted. I entered shooting competitions almost as soon as I could walk.” She laughed.

  “You might have mentioned that before we struck a deal.” Humor lightened his deep voice.

  “And you might not have jumped to the conclusion that, because I’m a woman, I don’t have much knowledge of guns beyond Bureau-issued weapons.”

  “Touché.” His smile widened, proving how irresistibly handsome he was. “You may look all soft and feminine, but I promise I won’t underestimate you again.”

  She hated that he admitted to letting her looks sway his judgment. Even in today’s world, she faced sexism on the job. But sexist or not, she liked seeing the warmth in his eyes when he let his gaze glide down her body and back up. Too bad she wasn’t going to work with him for long. Life could get mighty interesting.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THIS HILL WAS EVEN harder the second day. Becca figured it was because she knew what awaited her at the top, or maybe because she hadn’t gotten any sleep last night. Regardless, she tried not to show her fatigue as she trudged up the path alongside Connor, but her breathing had been labored for the last few minutes. Not Connor’s, though. He strolled on as if he’d stepped out for a walk down the block. They both regularly worked out and were in great shape, and yet, she was the only one the hike left breathless.