The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  The loading door behind the building.

  He bursts out of hiding and runs down the aisle toward the back. By now the woman must be in the parking lot. He imagines the car chirping as she clicks the key fob. The sign above the double doors reads Employees Only. He shoves the doors open and hurries through the loading area. Weaves between stacks of unopened boxes sleeping on pallets.

  Longo muscles open the jammed exit door and stumbles into the warm night. The corner of the building is farther away than he remembers. He needs to run again though he is out of breath.

  Her car backs up, the brake lights red. His F-150 is parked nearby. Momentarily, he panics and thinks he forgot his keys. He feels them in the front pocket chewing into his thigh.

  Then he climbs into the cab and fires the engine. He won’t let her get away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Gardy eyed Bell as though she’d sprouted an extra head when she removed a pizza slice from the hotel refrigerator.

  “What? Don’t you like cold pizza?”

  “I do, but I wouldn’t stick hot pizza into a refrigerator just to make it cold.”

  “Cold pizza is my super power. Deal with it.”

  He shook his head and tore a hot slice of tomatoes-and-peppers pie from the box. Bell sat cross-legged on the floor beside Gardy and leaned her back against the bed. The cutoff jean shorts and tank felt like heaven compared to the pant suit.

  The news was on. Some television weatherman with an obvious toupee stood along the Georgia coast while his jacket snapped in the wind. Bell scowled.

  “Once, just once, I’d love for a stop sign to fly by and clock one of these idiots in the head.”

  Gardy peeked over his reading glasses at her.

  “Has anyone ever said you have a violent streak? Maybe I should go back to my room.”

  “Stay and eat. A growing boy needs his pizza. Anyway, it’s not like those reporters are saving lives. It’s all for attention.”

  “Right, for ratings. Everyone knows that. No harm, no foul.”

  “But,” she said, pointing at him. “Every once in a blue moon, one of these bozos gets too close to the storm, and the emergency workers, who should be focused on saving innocent lives, are called in to rescue the reporter caught in the storm. They’re nuisances.”

  Gardy held an argument on the tip of his tongue until he saw the weatherman unnecessarily balancing on the edge of a pier while waves smashed over his knees.

  The latest forecast showed Hurricane Ana reaching category-three before it smashed into the Southern Georgia coast the following morning. The outer bands would affect Sunset Island, and already distant lightning interrupted the dark through the window.

  Gardy chewed his food without further comment. She caught him staring past the television, apparently transfixed by the shade of white paint covering the wall.

  “You’re quiet tonight. Something bugging you?”

  He reached over the bed and grabbed another slice.

  “Got off the phone with Weber before I came over.”

  Don Weber, the Deputy Director of CIRG, put Gardy in the doghouse after the Alan Hodge case in June. Hodge killed a teenage girl and nearly murdered another in Coral Lake, New York. Though Bell and Gardy stopped Hodge, Gardy totaled a vehicle in pursuit and nearly killed them in the crash.

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Let’s say he made it clear what our role is on this case.”

  “To stop a lunatic from killing anyone else. What other purpose could we play?”

  Gardy exhaled.

  “We’re consultants to the Sunset Island Police Department and nothing else. We lend our opinion, help them find this guy, but it’s up to them to take him down.”

  Bell tucked her feet under her thighs and sat taller.

  “Is this about Coral Lake? Sheriff Lerner all but laid the case in our hands.”

  “True, but don’t forget Lerner is a politician first, not a sheriff.”

  “So he wanted the glory, and now he’s in Weber’s ear trying to say we stole the case from him. What an asshole.”

  He shrugged.

  “Did you expect anything less?”

  “Nope. That’s one thing. What else has Weber’s shorts in a knot?”

  “More of the same. Logan Wolf is a hot media topic again.”

  Bell shivered. Elusive as a phantom, Wolf was the former BAU agent who murdered his wife and became the nation’s most notorious serial killer. Gardy was determined to capture Wolf.

  “But you aren’t leading the task force on Wolf.”

  “True, but I’m the senior profiler with Blottman retired. I haven’t cracked the code on Wolf, and ostensibly I’m the reason we can’t find the psycho.”

  The irony wasn’t lost upon Bell that Gardy often deferred to her when profiling serial killers. Weber not caring for Bell’s opinion didn’t surprise her. Bell wasn’t on his radar. The Don Webers of the world wouldn’t be happy until all female agents were relegated to desk jobs or secretarial positions.

  Gardy clapped his hands together.

  “Forget all of that. Let’s talk about the profile. What do we know about the unknown subject?”

  Bell pointed the remote at the television and turned the volume down. The ceiling vents hissed cool air.

  “Based on the evidence, I’d say the profile is similar to the Hodge case. Our target is disorganized and was abused as a child. He’s white and in his thirties or forties, has poor social skills, and probably works alone. Remember Hodge was a private contractor.”

  “Right, which isolated him from office settings and allowed him to find potential victims.”

  “Their poor social skills and disorganized natures often mean the unknown subjects have unreliable transportation.”

  “Not with Hodge.”

  “No, but it’s something to consider. The inability to communicate freely with others often forces the subject to hunt close to home. These guys travel little, don’t leave their comfort zones.”

  “A local. The mayor will love that.”

  Bell swallowed her diatribe on politicians. When she glanced at the television, the weatherman showed Hurricane Ana veering north over the next 24 hours.

  “You notice that, Gardy? Maybe we should check another channel.”

  Gardy held out his hand, and she gave him the remote. He flicked to the next news channel and saw a similar track displayed.

  “That’s not optimal.”

  “It’s getting closer.”

  “So it will come down like cats and dogs tomorrow. Nothing we can do about the situation. Good thing they got the body out of the sand before the rains came in.”

  He handed the remote back to Bell, who flicked off the television and slumped against the bed. She caught herself picking lint off her t-shirt, a nervous habit. Tracking a serial killer was difficult enough without torrential downpours and flooding bringing the island to a standstill.

  “Tell me more about Clarice Hopkins.”

  The ME had identified the woman by fingerprint and relayed the information to Detective McKenna, who called Gardy.

  Gardy reached into his folder and brought out a print of the woman’s driver’s license. She was pretty, Bell thought, though a rough life had cut deep lines into her face. She had long, flowing black hair and blue-green eyes, an unusual and striking combination. There was a hint of derision in her stare. Anger and exhaustion.

  “Hopkins was thirty-eight and originally from Beckley, West Virginia. She moved to Sunset Island nine years ago and worked various low-paying jobs. A lot of office temp work. McKenna said she’d received an eviction notice from her landlord. Hopkins was two months behind on her rent.”

  “So she was struggling with money.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How far away from the dump site did they find her car?”

  “About three miles.”

  “So her car breaks down on the wrong side of town, and she can’t call for help because the
bargain basement phone won’t hold a charge. Then what?”

  Gardy squinted his eyes and looked at the ceiling.

  “She starts walking.”

  “Because she doesn’t dare ask anyone for a ride. Not in that section of the city.”

  “But it’s a long walk to the boardwalk.”

  “Not necessarily. If she hustled she could make it in an hour. Beats the alternative of waiting for sunset when you’re in the wrong section of town. Let’s look at the map.”

  Paging through his briefcase, Gardy removed a street map and laid it out on the carpet. They both leaned over the map and nearly collided heads.

  “Sorry,” he said, sheepishly moving to the side.

  She smelled his cologne and freshly shampooed hair. Bell cleared her throat.

  “My fault.”

  A red dot marked where the car was found. A second marking showed where the police excavated her body.

  “Keep in mind,” he said as she ran her finger along the streets connecting the two points. “He could have killed her anywhere and dumped the body at the beach.”

  Bell shook her head.

  “It’s possible, but if we follow the logic that our guy stays close to home, it’s more likely the murder and burial are all within a few miles of each other. Somebody had to notice Hopkins walking. You see a pretty woman walking alone at night down those streets, you’re bound to wonder what she’s up to.”

  “The police canvassed the area. So far nobody saw her.”

  Bell reached for another slice of pizza and knew she’d pay for it at three in the morning. She ate too much when she was anxious.

  “Our target can’t hide in plain sight for long. He’ll make a mistake, and when he does, we’ll catch him.” She saw Gardy glance down at his knees. “Hey, why so glum? This better not be about Weber again. Be real, Gardy. It’s not like he can fire you over Coral Lake.”

  “No, but if this case doesn’t go well, I won’t be a part of the BAU much longer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The red light reflects bloody tones off the wet pavement. The power lines swing like jump ropes as the wind builds and the rain falls in buckets.

  His is the only vehicle on the road except the red Volvo. Longo knows to keep his distance. He wishes for traffic between the F-150 and the Volvo, something to distract the woman from the headlights following a hundred yards behind her.

  He considers cutting down a side street and decides it is a bad idea. Too much risk. He won’t be able to live with himself if he lets her get away.

  The Volvo is stopped at a red light up the road. The synchronized lights turn green simultaneously, but he sits on the brake and allows her to push ahead. She can’t move fast in these conditions. He can afford to be patient.

  When her taillights are pinpricks he checks the mirrors, sees the open road, and hits the gas. The truck lurches forward like an unleashed predator, kicks up water and sends waves cresting toward the gutters. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies his house. Sees the hedges girding the walkway. A tingle moves through his stomach. This is where he murdered the woman. Dragged her into the basement and chopped her into pieces.

  How he wishes to bring the new woman here.

  By now the police must have found the body. He doesn’t own a television, has no interest in reading newspapers or listening to the radio. He prefers quiet when he drives. It helps him think and plan.

  The F-150’s engine roars as he stomps the accelerator. He closes in on the Volvo and is only a block behind the woman when she turns toward the beach.

  Knowing he is too close, he hangs back until the car clears the corner, then he presses the gas and reaches the intersection. Another car is on the road a few hundred yards behind. Its headlights are blurry in the rain. He stops in the middle of the road and waits at the intersection, watching the Volvo weave around parked cars. The street is narrow, the population dense. Too many eyes.

  Longo considers whether he should follow the Volvo through the neighborhood when the car honks at his bumper and flashes its beams twice. An urge to throw open the door and stride to the driver’s window overcomes him. He imagines the driver’s eyes when Longo removes the knife from his pocket. Fingers curl around the steering wheel and squeeze until it hurts. Another series of honks.

  He turns and follows the Volvo as the driver curses him through the window.

  A few minutes later, he can smell the sea as the Volvo’s brake lights ignite two blocks ahead. The car stops, then cautiously advances through standing water. The flooding is sufficient to stall her car, and he wonders what he will do if that happens. He could offer her a ride. It would be easy to club the woman and drag her body into the truck. Take her back to his house. Even if he didn’t knock her unconscious, she’d be helpless to escape his truck. The passenger door handle is broken. The door only opens from the outside.

  The Volvo turns again, and they leave the overpopulated neighborhood behind. The houses are larger now, the space between properties growing. By the time she pulls into the beach house, there are no other houses in sight.

  The rain abates, and the ocean thunders. He cannot see it in the dark, can only hear the sea slamming against the shoreline.

  Longo kills the headlights and engine. He is far enough away that she can't see him in the dark. Around him in the newly developed community grow huge mounds of dirt. A flat slab of leveled terrain marks where construction will take place. It will be months before anyone lives here.

  The private solitude sends a tingling sensation down his back.

  The car door slams, and the Volvo chirps when she engages the locks. His eyes follow her silhouette along a winding, landscaped path. She climbs the stoop and punches a code into the digital lock. The door opens and she is gone.

  Longo climbs down from the cab and leaves the door open a crack. Steps over the curb and walks through the wet grass, the mud making sucking noises beneath his shoes. The roar is deafening. Ocean and wind. Power.

  Nobody bears witness when he enters the yard and stands amid the dark. The ocean grows in volume, and a salty spray carries to his face. Her mailbox reads Gwen Devereux.

  A noise brings his head around. A cat. The feline advances and stops several feet away, tail curling and uncurling. Longo ignores the cat until it is emboldened enough to paw forward and rub against his shin. The animal’s fur is wet. The cat purrs, craving his attention.

  He considers kicking it away but senses the cat belongs to the woman. Instead, he bends to rub the cat behind its ears, hand stopping beneath its collar. It would be so easy to snap the animal’s neck and leave the carcass on her doorstep. He imagines the woman’s horror when she answers the doorbell.

  The idyllic seclusion of the beautiful woman’s house changes Longo’s thinking. There is no reason to kill Devereux and take her back to his house. He will murder the woman and stay here. Eat her food and let the waves put him to sleep at night. No snooping neighbors to notice.

  As long as he keeps her body in the house, he will not require a small piece of her. No memento this time—

  The finger.

  His heart hammers.

  He forgot the lunch box. It’s still in the store. Where did he leave it?

  In the snack aisle, he remembers. Tucked behind the food containers.

  Longo stumbles, glances around in the dark and wonders how he could be so careless and forgetful. He feels eyes in the dark watching him. They seem to be everywhere, looking down from the heavens and out of the copse.

  He backs away from the house, furious with himself. Furious and frightened. Someone will find the finger. The manager has fired him by now for abandoning his shift. He can’t simply march into work and paw through the snack containers, searching for the lunch box. There will be too many questions. He needs to leave town. Yes, he must leave before they find him. And go where? He has no savings. The derelict house is his only equity.

  His head spins. Can’t put thoughts together.

&
nbsp; Longo runs for the truck.

  They’re coming for him now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The briefing room inside the Sunset Island Police Department could have seated an entire football team. Dawn had barely cracked, but inside the briefing room it looked like high noon. Bright floodlights beamed from the ceiling, enough to give Bell the beginnings of a migraine.

  Speaking in front of crowds always put butterflies in Bell’s stomach, and they were beating their wings vehemently while she scanned her notes. A baker’s dozen of officers faced the podium from their seats, murmuring and trading jokes while they waited for the meeting to begin.

  William Tanner, the Chief of Police, stood at the front of the room beside Detective McKenna and Gardy. Tanner was tall and possessed a long face with drooping eyes, a sad dog appearance.

  She watched Gardy nodding as they spoke, his eyes occasionally drifting to her place beside the podium. He winked, a promise she could handle this. A few of the officers, including a heavyset man in the back row, watched her skeptically. Bell noted there was only one female officer among the thirteen present.

  “If I can have your attention,” McKenna said, tapping the microphone. The talking abruptly ceased. “Special Agents Gardy and Bell from the Behavioral Analysis Unit were kind enough to join us this morning. They traveled a long way to get here, so I trust you’ll afford them the same respect you do me.”

  Laughter.

  “Okay, maybe a little more respect than that. The agents are here to lend their expertise and help us find a killer. So I will get this briefing underway and turn the microphone over to Agent Bell.”

  The officers glanced at each other and traded whispers. Bell felt the butterflies crawl into her chest and cleared her throat.

  “Good morning, everyone. Agent Gardy and I wish to thank Chief Tanner and Detective McKenna for allowing us to speak with you today. As you all know by now, the body of Clarice Hopkins was discovered yesterday at approximately…”