by Rebecca York
With the man's employment established, he put in a call to the Paoli police department. After identifying himself as a Montgomery County, Maryland, detective working on a local murder investigation that might dovetail with women missing from the Paoli-Valley Forge area, he was put through to one of the guys in the squad room, a detective named Paul Carmichael. Carmichael confirmed that a number of women had disappeared from the area without a trace, at three- or four-month intervals. Luckily, the abductions seemed to have stopped—indicating that the perp was either dead or had moved away or had been jailed for another crime. The detective couldn't, however, give Jack an exact time frame without checking back through old case files. But he promised to call back after he had a chance to check.
Jack added Carmichael's name and number to the file.
There was still nothing concrete to link Arnott to the Pennsylvania disappearances or to any in Maryland, for that matter. But the local problem had started after he'd moved here.
His next step was to check out the case files of the women whose names Ross had given him.
Penny Delano. Charlotte Lawrence. Lisa Patterson. Cindy Hamilton. Mary Beth Nixon.
Apparently nobody had studied the cases with an eye toward determining whether one man had abducted and murdered them all. But as soon as Jack saw their pictures, he started getting excited. They were all blondes with flashy clothes. All a little overweight. All between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. All from working-class backgrounds. And their addresses made it likely that they had frequented Montgomery Mall.
He had just closed the Arnott folder when his mind made a leap to another subject and served up a connection he'd been unable to make the day before. Reaching for the stack of case files on his desk, he shuffled to the bottom and found the Crawford file. Inside, he turned to the crime scene report from Frederick County.
He found what he was looking for near the bottom of the text. There hadn't been much physical evidence found with the body. But the technician had noted the presence of dog hairs. From a shepherd or a shepherd mix—dark gray hairs with light tips.
Like the dog hairs that had turned up where Megan Sheridan had been attacked.
When he'd first looked through this folder, he'd felt an unaccustomed sensation of cold travel across his skin. He felt it again. Christ, maybe he should have Stan send the dog hairs to the FBI after all. And see if he could get Frederick County to do the same.
And what did he expect to find? That the hairs were from the same animal?
Which would mean what—exactly?
ROSS slowed as he approached Megan's house. There was no car in the driveway.
Good. She'd gone to work after their confrontation this morning. And if there was any way in hell he could help Thornton find out who had gone after her, he was going to do it. Including invading her privacy, searching her house.
He drove at a moderate pace down the street, taking a look at the neighborhood. The houses were, wildly spaced, and judging from the lack of cars, it appeared that most people were at work. Anybody taking note of him would see a man delivering a package. He pulled in front of her house and set a brown-visored hat on his head that matched the bomber jacket he was wearing.
Retrieving a cardboard box wrapped in brown craft paper from the passenger seat, he pretended to check her address, then walked up the driveway to the side door. Pulling a set of burglary picks from his pack, he went to work on the lock.
It took almost no effort to get inside.
Christ, he'd have to talk to Megan about getting a new lock, he thought, until he remembered he'd committed himself to not communicating with her again.
With a grimace, he brought in the box, set it on the counter, then stood looking around the darkened kitchen, thinking about how he'd stood there last night holding Megan.
JACK got into his unmarked car behind the station house. He had a lot of checking to do, of course. But so far it looked like Marshall had done his homework.
His first impulse was to scope out Donald Arnott's property, at least from the road. Was it secluded? The kind of place where he could keep a victim captive, and then dispose of the body? But Jack didn't want to go there unless he was sure Arnott was at work.
So he headed toward Montgomery Mall, thinking that there were several advantages to that approach. He might be able to get a look at the guy.
As he pulled into the vast parking lot, he thought about his quarry, tried to see the job of a mall security officer from Arnott's point of view. The man probably liked exercising authority over other people. Plus the mall was a wonderful place to watch women and decide which ones he wanted to cull from the herd—which was doubtless the way he thought about it.
At this stage in the investigation, Jack didn't want it to get back to Arnott that the police were interested in him. So he pulled out one of the fake Provident Credit business cards that he'd had printed up with his name and a phone number that was out of service.
He found the hallway with the mall office and pushed open the door. When the secretary looked up inquiringly, he showed her the Provident card and asked if Donald Arnott was on duty.
"I'm sorry," the receptionist told him. "He went home sick today."
"He did?" Lucky I didn't go out to his house. "Hmm. Can I see his work schedule?"
"What's this about?" the young woman asked.
"He's applied for a loan. It's our policy to personally verify his employment."
The girl nodded and handed over the schedule. When he asked if he could have a photocopy so he'd be more likely to catch Arnott at the mall, she willingly obliged.
The look on her face suggested that she didn't much care for Mr. Arnott.
"So what can you tell me about him?" Jack asked conversationally.
"When he came in here a little while ago and said he was going home sick, he didn't look like he felt bad. He seemed excited—like he was going somewhere fun, not home."
"You're very observant," Jack remarked.
She shrugged. "He gives me the creeps. So I kind of started paying attention to him. Yesterday, there was this girl who got caught shoplifting at the drugstore. He brought her in here to wait for the police, and you could see how much he was enjoying himself."
"Like how?"
"Like giving her this mean look that made her cry. Like standing real close to her so his arm was against her breast." The receptionist made a face. "I mean, maybe she deserved to be scared 'cause of what she did. But he was overdoing it; you know what I mean?"
"Yeah."
"I guess I shouldn't have said all that," she murmured, but he could tell that now that she'd gotten started, there was more she wanted to say.
So he stood there looking receptive, giving her a chance to spill it. After another thirty seconds she came out with "I don't know what that woman from Indulge Yourself sees in him."
Jack had passed the store. It was full of gadgets that were way out of his price range. "You mean one of the sales clerks?" he asked.
"Yeah. She's got big blond hair. Wears flashy clothes. I saw them having dinner in the food court last night. She looked like she thought he was pretty special. Yuck. She must be desperate for a guy."
Christ. The receptionist had practically described the other women on Marshall's list of victims. "Well, you've been very helpful," he said. "But I would appreciate it if you don't mention to Mr. Arnott that I stopped by. We like to make our visits a surprise."
Apparently she bought it, because she nodded in agreement.
Jack left the mall office, wondering where Arnott had gone. From the receptionist's description of his behavior, it sounded like he was up to something. But what?
Hell, maybe he was just going to pick up a new television set or a hunting rifle, and he'd decided to call it sick leave.
Still thinking about that, Jack headed for Indulge Yourself.
ROSS'S chest tightened painfully, and he closed his eyes. But it was impossible to wipe out all the potent memorie
s assaulting him as he stood in Megan's kitchen. Maybe it was a mistake to have come here. Maybe he couldn't handle it.
Then he gave himself a mental shake. He was in her house, and he was going to do what he could to ensure her safety.
There was a spare bedroom that she used as a den or a home office. He'd check that out—after he looked through the bedroom.
It wasn't the most logical place to start, but he didn't seem to be operating on logic as he made his way down the hall.
Her scent filled his nostrils, filled his entire head like a cloud of perfumed fog. He stood there, breathing hard. Trying to keep his body from shaking.
When he could manage some measure of control, he stepped through the bedroom door.
He'd conducted searches before. But never when he could barely think.
He raked his nails across the back of his hand, the pain bringing his mind back into focus. Standing very still, he studied the room, taking in details that he hadn't noticed the night before. There were books and magazines on her bed stand. But little clutter in the room.
Bitterly conscious that he was violating her privacy, he turned to the bureau, poking through the drawers, the silky fabric of her undergarments abrading his nerve endings. But he found nothing hidden under the intimate apparel, and nothing of significance in the drawer where she obviously tossed things that she didn't know what to do with.
His next stop was the home office, where he started going through the papers on the desk.
In addition to the usual bills and bank statements, he found a family photo album. Leaning back in the chair, he smiled as he studied pictures of Megan as a baby, a toddler. A kindergartner. Megan with her sister, Dory. He could have spent the day wallowing in the images.
He had no family snapshots from his own childhood. Apart from the portraits taken every year at school, there were no cute little pictures of the Marshalls because Vic hadn't wanted any reminders of the children he'd lost.
His mother had saved the school pictures in the bottom of a bedroom drawer. He knew because one day he'd come home unexpectedly and found her looking at them. Michael. Himself. Adam. Jonathan. Troy. Only two of them were still alive. Himself and Adam. And he hadn't seen his brother in years.
Her eyes had been red, and she'd tried to hide the pictures. But he'd seen—and he'd backed away from the terrible look of sadness on her face.
He sat staring into space for several moments. Then gently laying the album back where he'd found it, he turned to the papers in the desk. When he finished searching, he was no closer to knowing who had attacked Megan than when he'd picked the lock on the door.
AS he stepped through the door of the upscale shop, Jack worked to keep his features neutral.
He'd just been looking at pictures of Penny Delano, Charlotte Lawrence, Lisa Patterson, Cindy Hamilton, and Mary Beth Nixon.
And this woman could have been one of their sisters. Probably at the upper end of the age limit, but definitely a candidate.
"Hi," he said, checking out her name tag. "I'm from Provident Credit, Miss Knight."
As soon as he said the word credit, a look of alarm crossed her face.
"I wanted to talk to you," he said, waiting a beat to see if she'd reveal anything more.
"About what?" she asked cautiously, her eyes flicking to what must be a drawer behind the counter.
"Credit," he said again, watching her knit her hands together. She stood there, her skin pale, her eyes guilty.
He gave her a little smile, let her worry for a few more seconds, then said, "One of our customers gave you for a reference."
She let out a shaky breath. "A reference."
"Is that a problem?"
"Oh, no. Of course not."
"Donald…" He paused, watching her expression grow expectant. "Samperson."
The punch line left her looking disoriented. "Donald Samperson?" she repeated.
"Yes. He listed you as a reference."
"He did? Well, I don't know anybody by that name."
"Hmm." He took out his notebook, flipped several pages, pretended to consult a previous notation. "Well, Donald Samperson definitely put your name down. Perhaps he was thinking we wouldn't check his reference."
"Yes. Well, I'm sorry."
He wanted to tell her that getting out of town for a couple of days would be a good idea. But that might send her running to her security guard friend for protection.
He left, wondering if she was into something illegal. Something with Donald Arnott?
He'd like to find out what. And he'd also like to make sure she didn't end up in a grave on the Arnott property.
As soon as he got back to the station house, he was going to run Arnott's license plate and arrange for patrols to keep an eye on his car when it was in the mall lot—and on Ms. Knight as well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
« ^ »
SHE WAS A creature of habit. Or maybe she just didn't have any imagination after all, Megan thought as she sat in the parking lot outside the Bio Gen office.
She'd told herself that she didn't want to go back to work this morning. Now here she was. Back at the scene of the crime. The spot where she'd been assaulted two days ago.
And as she sat again in the car, a few feet from where the man had grabbed her, her mind went back to the details of those terrifying few minutes.
The wolf. Ross. He'd known damn well who had rescued her. But he'd let her think it was some kind of fantasy.
She couldn't deal with that part, with his implicit lies and her own complicity. The evidence had been there. She just hadn't wanted to believe her own senses. Deliberately, she turned her thoughts back to the man who had jumped her. He hadn't spoken. He'd been wearing a ski mask. He'd given her very few clues to his identity. But she'd managed to scratch her nails across the skin of his neck. For all the good it was going to do her.
She made a muffled sound in her throat. She couldn't deal with that either. She would go crazy if she kept thinking about that night. Or about Ross.
Opening the car door, she marched into the lab, snatched up the assignment sheet, and silently dared Betty to engage her in conversation as she looked at the next test on the schedule.
In the lab, she started the procedure, working slowly and carefully, focusing on each detail so she wouldn't make any mistakes and she wouldn't have to think about anything else.
DONALD waited several minutes to make sure the little blonde wasn't coming back. Then he eased into gear again and drove past the door where she'd entered the building. A sign attached to the brick wall said BIO GEN LABORATORIES.
Did she work there? Was she going for lab tests or something?
He wasn't going to sit here all day wondering.
Knowing he was taking a chance, he slipped out of his car and walked back to the office.
There was a window in front with Venetian blinds cranked partway open. He could see a plump secretary inside sitting at a desk, typing at a computer. Taking a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket, he folded it into his hand, then opened the door.
The secretary looked up.
"Pardon me, I thought I saw a blond woman come in here a few minutes ago."
"Dr. Sheridan?"
"I don't know her name. But she dropped this in the parking lot." He held up the twenty.
"Oh, my."
Now that he'd established himself as a Good Samaritan, he figured he could ask a question. "Does she work here?"
"Why, yes, she does. Do you want to tell her you found the money?"
"Oh, no. I don't want to bother her at work. Just return it to her."
He stepped back out the door, hurried to the Land Rover, and slipped behind the wheel. There was a smile on his face as he pulled out of the parking lot. Jesus, what a day. He'd gotten the name of the guy—and his girlfriend, too. And he could feel an exquisite tension building in his chest. Things were coming together. He was making them come together. Because now he'd turned the tables on the guy.
<
br /> Ross Marshall had been stalking him. Now he was stalking Ross Marshall.
ROSS wandered into Megan's living room, sank into one of the chairs, and closed his eyes. He should leave. Now that he'd searched the place and found nothing significant, he had no excuse for being in Megan's house.
The temptation to simply sit here for a few minutes was overwhelming.
He took a deep breath of her scent into his lungs, held it inside himself, exhaled and drew in again, his fingers stroking the fabric of the chair arms.
She had touched that fabric, sat here, he thought, sinking deeper into the cushions.
His eyes blinked open, and he looked around.
Lord, this was crazy. What was he planning to do, sit in her house until she came home? Explain why he'd broken in?
He ordered himself to stand up. Ordered himself back to the kitchen door.
He had just opened it when he saw a car pull away from the curb.
The bulk. The shape. The metallic color. He hadn't been able to see the details in the fog. But he thought this was the same vehicle that had been here the morning after the attack.
Leaving the door open, the box inside, he pelted back to the Cherokee, jumped behind the wheel. But it was already too late. The bastard had gotten away.
Cursing under his breath, he returned to Megan's house, slipped inside, and checked to make sure nobody had come through the open door. Then he picked up the box and locked the door behind him.
DONALD took a ride in the country, to western Howard County to be exact. He could see that it had once been rural, much like the area where he lived. Now there were mansions and small developments sprouting among the cornfields and patches of woodland that still remained. Stony Brook Lane was off Route 99. The mailbox at 8572 said Marshall. It was at the head of a long drive that wound upward through a largely wooded plot. He slowed, seeing a rutted track where a number of the trees were posted with No Trespassing signs.
Apparently Ross Marshall didn't like visitors any better than he did. His detective job was probably just a cover for something else, the way Donald used his security guard job at Montgomery Mall.
