The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  She prepared to argue, and Gardy held up a preemptive hand.

  “You were right, he was wrong, but you need to learn you get more bees with honey.”

  Rimmer was last to leave the room after a uniformed officer escorted McVay out. The chief exhaled, shoulders slumped as though a horse kicked him in the gut.

  “How did you know it wasn’t McVay?”

  McVay was in the lobby now. Camera flashbulbs strobed like lightning through the glass.

  “McVay doesn’t fit the profile,” Bell said. “He’s too thin and sickly. Our killer is strong, and I doubt McVay is a runner.”

  “But why confess to a crime he didn’t commit? He was looking at a long prison sentence, maybe life.”

  “Narcissistic fantasy,” Gardy said, folding his arms over his chest. “If you check McVay’s background, you’ll find he’s insecure and unnoticed, a guy who wants attention but doesn’t know how to get it. So he lies about his life, concocts stories to make himself seem important.”

  “Why not pretend he’s a multimillionaire or a rock star? A serial killer?”

  “Who knows? The more I work these cases, the less I understand the human mind. Let’s face it. This media circus made the killer bigger than a rock star.”

  Nonplussed by the altercation with Phalen, Bell struggled not to drop her eyes as she questioned Rimmer.

  “What will happen to McVay?”

  Rimmer rubbed at his scalp.

  “Jesus, what a shit-show. Lying to the police is a serious offense, particularly considering the implications. He perjured himself. Still, I can’t see the city throwing the book at him. The district attorney is overrun.”

  “McVay needs help.”

  “And he’ll get it. So what now? I suppose the focus turns back to the boyfriend.”

  “It’s possible Doss is the killer,” Bell said, flipping open the notebook and scanning her thoughts.

  “But you don’t believe it’s him.”

  “In some ways, Doss fits the bill. We know he’s athletic and runs marathons, and the sneaker print across the street belonged to a runner. He has a history of violence.”

  “And yet?”

  Bell fussed with a loose thread on her shirt. Despite recognizing McVay as a sham, she felt inadequate.

  “Doss was Tannehill’s boyfriend, but I don’t see a connection with Cheryl Morris.”

  “A serial killer doesn’t need a connection. He kills types, right?”

  “Sometimes the killer targets people he knows,” Gardy said, keeping his voice low as a group of officers milled in the hallway. “But it’s unusual for a serial killer to mix and match victims. Either he murders women he knows on an intimate level, typically crimes of passion, or he stalks strangers who remind him of someone from his past. Now, I can see Doss murdering Tannehill first because of their relationship, then branching out after he gets a taste for killing. But the other way around? I’m not saying it’s impossible. Just unlikely.”

  “And details about the Tannehill murder make little sense if Doss is our main suspect,” said Bell. Rimmer turned his head as the two agents volleyed theories. “Consider this. You hear a noise and go upstairs to check things out. If Tannehill sees Doss, her first impression is to wonder why her boyfriend is inside the house. She isn’t likely to panic. Perhaps he has a key and was napping while she was at work. Instead, she ran straight for the bedroom and locked the door. That points to the killer being a stranger.”

  “Unless Doss came out of the attic brandishing a knife,” Rimmer offered.

  “True, except Doss would have kept the knife hidden before he attacked. Why give her a chance to run?”

  Rimmer sighed and shook his head. His eyes held the redness of a man who hadn’t slept well in days.

  “We’re back to square one.”

  “Bell believes the killer needs to revisit the murder scene,” said Gardy. “She’s right.”

  “Detective Phalen relayed your interest in staking out the Morris and Tannehill homes.”

  “It’s a good idea. The sneaker print suggests he returned last night.”

  “Okay. I’ll throw a team together and procure a location.”

  After Rimmer left, Bell eyed the officers at the end of the hall. They stared in her direction, an unfriendly glare that expressed their displeasure with how she’d handled Phalen.

  “Apparently, I’m persona non grata.”

  Gardy looked in their direction and moved beside her.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Loyalty is important inside a police department. You ready to get back to work?”

  She chewed her lip.

  “Yeah. There has to be a connection between Morris and Hill. I don’t think this guy is picking women randomly. He knew them.”

  “Phalen’s team crosschecked work relationships, boyfriends. No common threads.”

  “Social media contacts?”

  “I didn’t notice anything in the report. Never hurts to check.”

  Despite Gardy’s insistence they take the back stairwell, Bell strode past the officers. She felt their eyes burn the back of her neck and caught a whisper of something derisive. The computer lab was on the far side of the lobby. A male police technician with blonde hair and glasses typed code into a terminal when they entered the room. His name tag read Yarborough. Officer Yarborough stood, a tad awestruck by their FBI badges.

  “Agents, what can I do for you?”

  His cordial nature told Bell the Phalen incident hadn’t reached his ears. As far as she could tell, the technicians worked outside of the daily bustle and didn’t have regular contact with the other officers unless someone needed a computer search performed. Every office in the building had a computer with access to CODIS and VICAP, but the heavy lifting happened in this room.

  Yarborough glanced at Bell over the top of his glasses as he typed.

  “What’s the deal with the confession?”

  “False confession. McVay didn’t do it.”

  “I bet that made Phalen’s day.”

  The unveiled sarcasm made Bell think Phalen had crossed Yarborough. At the very least, Phalen didn‘t impress the police technician. Gardy shook his head to dissuade Bell from piling on Phalen.

  Yarborough entered a string of keystrokes and sat back in his chair.

  “There you go. Cheryl Morris.”

  Bell leaned over his shoulder. Morris’s Twitter profile was a selfie taken from the stands at a crowded Tampa Bay Buccaneers game.

  “Can you build a printable list of her connections?”

  “Sure.”

  He called up a second terminal window and ran a script. A few seconds later, Morris’s followers appeared listed in alphabetical order inside a spreadsheet.

  “Perfect. Now call up Lori Tannehill’s profile.”

  “You’re looking for common connections.”

  “You got it.”

  Yarborough wrinkled his brow and stared at the screen. Bell stepped closer.

  “Something wrong?”

  “It doesn’t appear Tannehill has a Twitter account. I’ll try Facebook and Instagram.”

  The rapid fire click-clack of terminal keys filled the room. A puzzled expression came over the young technician’s face.

  “Either Tannehill used a fake screen name or she swore off social media, because I can’t find her anywhere.”

  Bell slumped into a chair and rubbed her temples.

  “Every path is a dead end.”

  Yarborough rocked back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his neck.

  “So he didn’t find them through social media. People send pictures through text messages all the time. You’re the experts, but there’s a mutual acquaintance in there somewhere.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE

  Should he laugh or succumb to the building fury tightening his muscles and sending tremors down his arms?

  The Florida sun blares through the windshield and douses his face with blistering fire. Though it is unli
kely anyone will pay him attention, he keeps the motor off, no air conditioning, and sits at the back of the parking lot away from the converging flock. The vulture media shoves its way up the steps toward the human wall of police officers who stand stone-faced, refusing to answer the reporters’ inane questions.

  The media reported the confession on the radio, and he didn’t know how to react. Who took credit for his murders? Across town at the time, he wheeled the car around and pressed the accelerator, knowing the press would scuttle to the police department. And that’s where he’d find the agent, the woman who so reminded him of his victims.

  A fat man with a bald head snaps photographs and shouts questions from the bottom step. He knows who the man is—Gavin Hayward, a scumbag reporter for The Informer. Sometimes he pages through the tabloid in the grocery market checkout line, amusing himself over presidential affairs and alien conspiracies. Now he realizes Hayward is a mobile beacon who will draw him to the agent. Provided he keeps tabs on Hayward, who is too stupid to realize someone is following him, he can find the woman.

  His heart thumps when the doors open and the female agent emerges. Scarlett Bell. He knows her name from Hayward’s tabloid. A trickle of excitement swims through his body. His next selected is a national celebrity. Her murder will make him famous. Children will utter his name in the dead of night as they do Bloody Mary and Candyman.

  Attached to her hip as always, the male agent descends the steps beside Bell. Neil Gardy. He learned Gardy’s name from The Informer, too.

  The reporters shout questions at the two agents as they push through the crowd. Hayward, the shark he is, beelines for Bell, but the throng cuts him off. A pair of uniformed officers impede the media and allow the agents to pass, but tension exists between the police and the BAU. He can smell it like fresh chum floating in the gulf.

  His eyes follow the agents toward the park, and when he risks losing sight of them, he flips the ignition and brings the car out of hiding. Drifts across the lot, the black shadow of a vulture tracking his prey. From the front of the lot, he can see them again. A vagrant plays the guitar in front of a cafe, and Gardy drops a dollar into his cup. Soon Gardy will be in his grasp, wide-eyed and helpless as he squeezes until the brittle agent’s spine snaps. He will do this in front of Scarlett. Show her what real power is before he consumes her.

  The agents stop inside a park in the center of town and sit beside a gurgling fountain. He considers moving the car closer to the park before a commotion on the steps claims his attention. More shouting from the reporters as the police assume their position blocking entry to the building. Cautiously, he opens the door and listens. Can’t make out their words.

  A young, leggy brunette in heels hustles toward the parking lot while a fat man hoisting a television camera follows. Their news van, he realizes, sits two parking spaces away from him.

  “Hey there,” he says. “What’s the excitement about?”

  Her eyes take him in. His athletic physique and clothing—cargo shorts, a Nike t-shirt, and sandals—make him look like an off-duty cop. She cocks an eyebrow, and he discerns the tip of her tongue running greedily over her lips.

  “Don’t you know? The shoe is on the other foot now, me delivering the inside story to you.”

  His smile puts her at ease.

  “I’m off today. Just coming in to grab my paycheck.”

  “You don’t have one of those radio thingies to keep you up to date?”

  “I do, but I learned a long time ago not to take my work home with me. The downtime keeps me young.”

  She stares at the angry red blotch on his forehead, and he self-consciously touches the wound.

  “You bumped your head.”

  “It’s nothing. Just an insect bite.”

  “Must have been a helluva bug.”

  “Well, they grow them big in Florida.”

  Her eyes move down his chest to his hips. Linger there. A discernible heat passes between them. She narrows her eyes, reconsidering.

  “Jennie Reyser, Channel 8 News.”

  “Detective Brent Hilliard, Palm Dunes Police Department.”

  “Detective, eh? Well, then. If you can’t trust a detective, who can you trust? Turns out the guy who confessed to the murders was bullshitting the department.”

  “He didn’t do it?”

  “Nope.” She sends the cameraman a pithy look, and he acknowledges her with an almost imperceptible wink before slipping into the truck. The female reporter edges closer. “I need to learn who the true killer is. Perhaps, after you grab your paycheck, you might snoop around and learn who the department suspects murdered those women.”

  “You’re asking me to obtain classified information. I could lose my job.”

  He smells her perfume, a flowery scent that brings to mind nature hikes during the humid monsoon season. She touches his chest, runs her finger to his abdominals.

  “You won’t lose your job. I can keep a secret.”

  He glances conspiratorially around the lot. Nobody watches.

  “Tell you what. Let me poke around and get that information for you.” He touches her arm. “Then maybe we can go somewhere and discuss who the suspect is. I don’t want anyone to think I’m a mole.”

  “Sure, we can do that. I’ll wait for you, Detective Hilliard.”

  A moment’s hesitation when he realizes he’s walking into a trap. He’ll never get past the cops guarding the front door.

  “I don’t know, Jennie. My partner is across the street right now. What if he sees us talking?”

  “He won’t.”

  “You’re asking me to risk too much. I could lose my job.”

  She pouts, lips locked in a cartoon purse, arms folded.

  “I need this story.”

  “Then work with me,” he says, brushing the hair away from her eyes.

  This elicits a giggle. She’s persistent.

  “What work shall we do, Detective?”

  “Hmm, nothing salacious. There’s a community park in the middle of the shopping district.”

  “Sure, I visit the park often.”

  “Meet me by the fountain in fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay. Should I go now?”

  “Yes, before my partner notices us together.”

  She locks eyes with the cameraman in the news van, and the engine turns over. The cameraman understands the routine and knows when to vanish. As the van turns out of the parking lot and merges with traffic, the faux detective turns to watch the newsgirl walk away. Her hips swim from side-to-side. Though she is not what he seeks, he concedes she is beautiful. He will enjoy their time alone.

  Two in one night.

  A cold smile twists his face.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX

  It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes before Rimmer got back to Gardy and Bell. Hoping to avoid the vitriolic glares of the officers who’d heard what happened between Bell and Phalen, the agents walked to the park at the edge of downtown and traded political wrangling for a thin slice of tropical peace. Bell’s mind kept straying to McVay. How sad must your life be to confess to being a serial killer?

  Gardy tossed popcorn at a flock of seagulls massing around a water fountain when Rimmer rang his phone. The discussion lasted only a minute, Gardy nodding and jotting down an address. He snapped his finger and pointed to the note, then gave a thumbs up. Bell picked the pad off his lap and recognized Levydale Avenue. Tannehill’s street.

  “Perfect. We’ll be there.” Gardy ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. “We’re set. There’s a blue Colonial next door to Lori Tannehill’s residence. The owner has a brother across town and told Rimmer we’re welcome to use the house. Drew Sowell is the guy’s name.”

  “He’ll stay with the brother?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Huh. That’s generous of him.”

  “You could say that,” Gardy said, crossing one leg over the other and resting against a stone wall girding the fountain. “The way S
owell sees it, we’re doing him a favor. Every time he hears a noise at night he worries the killer is back.”

  “He may be right.”

  “If that’s the case, we’ll catch the guy tonight.” Gardy checked his watch, then squinted up at the sun. “Looks like we’re pulling a late night shift. Not a bad idea to catch a few hours of sleep.”

  “What time does Rimmer want us at Sowell’s house?”

  “Six o’clock. Phalen and another officer will relieve us after two.”

  Bell groaned at the mention of Phalen. She worried the detective might cause a scene at shift change.

  “I could never be a cop, Gardy.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The shift work. Staying up late was easy when I was in college. Not so much now.”

  “But we’ve done overnight stakeouts.”

  “That’s only one night. I can’t imagine doing it five days in a row every month. I’d turn into a vampire.”

  Gardy popped a piece of gum into his mouth and offered her the pack. She shook her head.

  “Nah, you’d get used to it.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Bell spied a reporter who hounded them on the way out of the police department. A young brunette in heels.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t look to your left. It’s a reporter.”

  Gardy automatically looked left, invoking a harrumph from Bell. He ducked his head, but the reporter spotted them. The woman moved in their direction before a good looking man entered the square and stole her attention. She moved to him, and Bell wondered if the man dated the reporter. There was something familiar about him. She’d seen the man. Where? He dressed casual and exuded neatness. A welt on his forehead drew Bell’s attention, and she believed he was a cop who’d taken a punch in the line of duty, and now he was giving the inside scoop on the McVay fiasco to the female reporter.

  Before she could decide if she knew the man—and how was that possible? This was her first trip to Palm Dunes—he put his arm around the reporter’s shoulder and led her toward the clothing shops. Bell swore the man glanced back at her. No, he wasn’t a cop. More likely he was a reporter, too. Thank goodness neither bothered to harass Bell and Gardy with case questions.