Trigger Effect

by Maggie Price

  “No problem. My grandpa’s got a lot worse excuses for a road on his ranch, so I’m used to getting my bones rattled.” She estimated they’d gone at least three miles since she’d seen a street sign. “I don’t think I could have found wherever we’re going, even with a map.”

  “The guy apparently knew where to stash Gillette’s Jag so it wouldn’t get spotted easily. The scene is on the far outskirts of Oklahoma City. Less than a quarter of a mile north, the jurisdiction falls to a county sheriff. It was just a fluke that one of our guys had a slow day and patrolled the area.”

  “Is this the ward Councilman Gillette represents?”

  “Yes.” Ryan slid her a look. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  He nodded toward an upcoming one-lane bridge. “The scene’s about a mile on the other side of that bridge.”

  “Too bad it’s not on this side.” Paige held her breath as the ancient-looking wooden structure creaked and moaned beneath the cruiser’s weight.

  Once they had again gained firm ground, she forced her shoulders to relax. To pass the time, she said, “I know how the Dallas PD handles discovery of evidence relating to a case that’s been locked down, information-wise. What’s OCPD’s policy?”

  “It’s pretty cut and dried. McCall flagged the plate when he first put out an alert on Gillette’s missing Jag. So today when the patrol cop ran its tag, the computer alerted the dispatch supervisor. The cop was told to treat the Jag like a crime scene and keep discussion of it off the air. The supervisor then contacted me.” Ryan veered around a pothole that looked big enough to swallow a compact car.

  “So, I’m guessing the only person at the scene will be the uniform who called in on the Jag? And maybe one CSI, whom you got to handpick because the Gillette case is high-profile?”

  “Right. Keeps the people in the know to a minimum.” One-handed, Ryan clipped his badge to the breast pocket of his tan overcoat.

  Past the next curve, Paige spotted the lone black and white parked on the side of the road. Behind it sat a white van with Crime Scene Unit printed across the rear door. Neither vehicle had its light-bar flashing, a precaution against attracting news-team helicopters flying over the area.

  Looking past the vehicles, she saw a hulking uniformed cop standing about fifty feet from the road. He had his shoulders hunched beneath his black insulated jacket while he watched the parka-clad CSI walk a wide circle around Lauren Gillette’s hunter-green Jaguar. Every few steps, the CSI paused to snap a photo. His red plaid bomber cap with the flaps hanging down like hounds’ ears made Paige think of Elmer Fudd.

  She pulled on her leather gloves then slid out of the cruiser. And instantly hunched her own shoulders against a blast of icy wind. She tugged up the collar on her coat, giving thanks that, in addition to her red cashmere sweater and white turtleneck, she had on wool slacks and leather half boots with a low, practical heel. Even so, the gravel-and rock-strewn ground made the going slow as she and Ryan walked toward the cop.

  The captain nodded, then instructed the uniform to call a wrecker to the scene and have it stand by. The cop moved away a few steps while he punched a number into his cell phone.

  After a few more snaps the CSI lowered his camera and looked in their direction. Acknowledging their presence with a nod, he set his camera on top of a metal crime scene kit and headed their way.

  “Ulysses Wright, meet Paige Carmichael,” Ryan said. “Ms. Carmichael is a civilian consultant, working with McCall on this case. She’s authorized to receive all information.”

  “Nice to meet ya,” Wright said, extending a latex-gloved hand toward Paige. The ear flaps on his cap mimicked wings in the wind.

  “Same here,” Paige said, returning the man’s firm handshake. He was medium height and thin, and she estimated his age to be near forty.

  Wright looked back at Ryan. “Guess you lost my memo requesting that I get called to outdoor crime scenes only when the temp is above freezing?”

  “Guess so,” Ryan murmured. “But since you’re here…”

  “Yeah.” Wright sent a resigned look toward the road. “How long until McCall shows up?”

  “Best estimate is half an hour,” Ryan answered. “When I got the call on the Jag, he was testifying in court.” Ryan looked at the car. “What do we have so far?”

  “No outer damage that I can see. Both driver and passenger doors are locked. Key’s in the ignition. Small amount of what looks like blood on the steering wheel. There’s a purse with its clasp open on the passenger seat. Trunk hasn’t been pried or the lock popped.” Wright glanced down. “There’s too much gravel and rocks to try to get casts of tire and footprints.”

  Ryan nodded. “Are you finished taking pictures?”

  “Not yet. I need to get more from a couple different angles. I’ll do that while we wait on McCall.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Ryan said.

  Although Ryan was ranking officer, Paige understood that his—and her—function was merely to “protect” the scene until McCall arrived. He was the primary on the Gillette investigation. He had the most intimate knowledge of the case and it fell to him to follow it from cradle to grave. Therefore, the handling of and all testing done on the Jag was under his direction and would not commence until he arrived.

  So, even though the wind was like a razor, slashing at exposed skin, they waited.

  McCall’s cruiser pulled in behind Ryan’s fifteen minutes later. Which was perfect timing, since Ulysses Wright had just finished photographing the exterior of the victim’s car.

  Standing in a huddle with Ryan and the patrol cop, Paige watched McCall stride across the uneven terrain, gravel and rocks crunching beneath his feet. As he moved, the wind whipped his dark hair and blew back the flaps of his black wool coat.

  He did a quick study of the Jag before he joined them. “What have we got, boss?”

  Ryan briefed him on the CSI’s observations.

  Nodding, McCall looked at Wright who’d joined them. “Nice hat, Ulysses. It ought to get you on the cover of Field and Stream. You have a slim jim on you?”

  “You’ll be begging to borrow this fine hat when your ears freeze off, McCall. And, yeah, I got a slim jim. You want me to unlock the Jag?”

  “I do.”

  McCall fell in beside Paige as they moved toward the Jag. “How’s it going, partner?”

  For an instant she thought she detected a hint of warmth she’d never heard before. She slid him a look, saw only the intensity of a cop focused on the job. “It’s going. How was court?”

  “The scumbag’ll get the death penalty. I feel it in my bones. In the middle of my testimony, the judge called a recess to check some point of law. So I paid a visit to the office of Elizabeth LeMonde’s attorney lover. Long story short, I believed him when he said he’d never met Lauren Gillette. We need to do some behind-the-scenes checking to verify that, but I doubt he’ll get to the top of our suspect list.”

  They paused near the Jaguar. “What about you?” McCall asked. “Anything new to report?”

  Paige thought about the statement by the catering company’s waiter that had raised questions in her mind. Then what Wade Crawford had determined about Isaac’s e-mail, and the photo of her that had been attached. “A couple of things. They can wait until we’re done here.”

  They watched as Wright retrieved the slim jim. As the CSI threaded the thin piece of metal between the driver’s window and the door, a wrecker pulled into view.

  “I’ll tell the driver to stand by,” the patrol cop said, then crunched off toward the road.

  McCall met Paige’s gaze. “Since you’ve worked Homicide, I guess you know what happens after we check the Jag and send it to the lab for processing?”

  The frigid air stung her cheeks, scraped her throat like little bits of ice. Even so, she smiled. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed working Homicide. “The immediate area around the car will be searched,” she said. “S
ince the lid is on the case, we can’t call additional officers to help us do that.”

  McCall raised a brow. “And you look happy about that because?”

  “Got it,” Wright said before Paige could answer. He eased the slim jim out of the Jag’s door, then pulled it open with a gloved hand. Bending in, he shone the beam of a small flashlight at the stain on the steering wheel. “Looks even more like blood up close,” he said. “Might be another swipe of blood here on the driver’s headrest. Won’t know until I get this baby to the evidence bay and run a test.”

  Paige mentally reviewed the autopsy report on Lauren Gillette. The only wound she’d sustained before being strangled was a single blow to her left cheek. If it was her blood on the steering wheel and headrest, she had apparently encountered her killer while sitting in the Jag’s driver’s seat. Thus, making it the crime scene.

  Wright looked back across his shoulder. “McCall, you got a description of the purse the vic had when she went missing?”

  “Small gray leather.”

  “This one’s a match.”

  “It’s a pretty sure bet it’s Gillette’s so we don’t need to check for ID now,” McCall said. “Dust it for prints when you get to the bay. We can inventory the contents there.”

  “Will do. Ready to take a look in the trunk?” Wright asked, holding up the key he’d pulled from the ignition.

  “Ready,” McCall answered.

  They moved en masse to the Jag’s rear. Wright unlocked the trunk, lifted the lid. “Got a metal suitcase. And a box. The type you get at a department store when you buy clothes.” He looked at McCall. “Want me to open them here?”

  “The box, yes. The suitcase only if it’s unlocked.”

  Seconds later, Paige heard the distinctive snick of latches releasing. She watched Wright raise the suitcase’s lid. Then do a double take. “Jay-sus!”

  In unison, she, McCall and Ryan stepped closer.

  Good thing she’d once worked a stint in Vice, Paige thought. Otherwise, she’d have no clue as to the ID—and use—of some of the items in the suitcase. But she had worked Vice, so she readily identified the cock and nipple rings, gel balls, dildos, clamps, suction devices, leather strap-ons, soft leather bondage cuffs and keys, a ring gag, riding crop and numerous battery-operated instruments. “A lot of sex stuff,” she said.

  “A heroic amount,” McCall added. “Gives a new definition to exactly what type of extracurricular activities Gillette was into. What’s in the box, Ulysses?”

  “Let’s see.” The CSI eased off the lid. “A black leather dress. And a mask. The kind that fits over your entire head.” He used a pen to nudge at the leather. “Looks like it’s got dark gauze over the eye holes.”

  The description had Paige leaning in for a closer look. In the gray afternoon light, she couldn’t make out enough of the mask’s detail. “Sergeant Wright, can I borrow your flashlight?”

  “Here ya go.”

  Paige directed the beam at the mask. And felt a chill ripple through her that had nothing to do with the biting wind. “I don’t believe this.”

  McCall leaned in. “What don’t you believe, Carmichael?”

  Turning her head, she met his dark gaze. “Except for being smaller, Gillette’s mask is an exact match to the one worn by the guy who mugged me.”

  Chapter 14

  “Now that we’ve thawed out, let’s talk about masks,” Paige said as she scooped up a spoonful of stew. The steaming, hearty mix of beef and veggies was welcome after the afternoon spent in the biting wind.

  Once their painstaking—and futile—search of the area surrounding Lauren Gillette’s Jag was completed, McCall had suggested either dinner at a restaurant or a stop at his place for what he claimed was the best stew on earth.

  He’d been right.

  “Specifically,” McCall began, “the two identical masks you’ve run up against this week.” Sitting across from her at the small pine table in the middle of his kitchen, he spooned up stew from his own bowl. “One worn by a mugger, the other by a woman into group sex. With an apparent hard-core twist.”

  “You don’t just walk into any store and find a full-headed leather mask with dark gauze covering the eye holes,” Paige commented. “You buy those in sex shops. Over the Internet. What are the odds of my coming into contact with that type of mask on two totally unrelated cases?”

  “I’d say huge. Finite.”

  “Agreed.” Sipping her coffee, Paige swept her gaze around the kitchen. When they’d first arrived at the brick house that looked deceptively small from the outside, McCall had mentioned he lived there with his younger brother. Both men obviously spent little time in the kitchen, which was neat enough to indicate it was seldom used.

  She sat her mug aside. “Despite the odds, the mask deal could be a coincidence. One that seems almost impossible.” She raked a hand through her hair. “You did say you believe in coincidence.”

  “I do.” He gazed at her over the rim of his coffee mug. Earlier, he’d stripped off his suit coat and rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue dress shirt. His navy tie was still perfectly knotted. “And the seemingly impossible types are the kinds that actually happen. There’s no way to logic out why they occur. They just do.”

  “True.”

  “You don’t look convinced, Carmichael.”

  “I don’t have a reason to think these two cases are anything other than unrelated occurrences.” Except for a deep, intuitive disquiet that had gnawed at her stomach since she’d seen the leather mask in the Jaguar’s trunk.

  McCall leaned back in his chair. “Let’s go at this from a different direction. If the mask deal isn’t a coincidence, that could mean your mugging and the Gillette homicide are related. I don’t see how. But if you do, speak up.”

  “The only connection is the masks. Well, and me. On one investigation I’m a paid consultant, on the other I’m the victim.”

  She shifted her gaze to the door through which they’d entered the house. The top half was glass; on the other side, the evening sky had already turned black. Dammit, she hated thinking of herself as a victim. But somewhere in the world’s dark abyss, sexual predator extraordinaire Edwin Isaac was possibly hunched over some cybercafe computer, cooking up another e-mail to send her. Or worse.

  God, what plans were brewing in the shrink’s brilliant, twisted mind? From what direction would he come at her next? How long would he wait? A Day? One week? Six months? A year? Years?

  The press of McCall’s hand on hers had her jerking her head back to face him.

  “You’re thinking about Isaac.” Both his expression and his voice were even and level.

  Too bad her heart rate didn’t stay that way, she thought as his fingertips glided over the numb flesh that bordered her scar. Unnerved, she eased her hand from beneath his.

  “Have you started reading minds, McCall?”

  “No. I’ve just been around you enough to peg the look you get when you think about the bastard.”

  “Speaking of the bastard, Wade Crawford thinks he tracked the origin of Isaac’s e-mail to an Internet café in Cairo. I haven’t had a chance yet to tell you.”

  “And I haven’t had a chance to mention I called Crawford while I was on my way to meet you and Ryan at the Jaguar. He filled me in. The photo of you taken while Isaac was locked up is solid proof he’s had someone working for him. Maybe still working for him.”

  “In my mind, there’s no ‘maybe’ about it. I never could buy it was Isaac who mugged me. Granted, he’d have planned it because he wants me to feel vulnerable. Exposed. Head games, after all, are his speciality. But actually doing the mugging?” Paige shook her head. “No, Gentleman Jim’s into observation. He likes to watch his victims use a scalpel to mutilate themselves. He does get into the act by cauterizing their wounds. But that’s just so they won’t bleed to death until he’s finished with them.”

  “You know him better than anybody,” McCall said, his expression grim. “Crawford mentioned
you think Isaac put a reference to Egypt in his e-mail?”

  “‘I shall soon leave the warm, sunny Eden in which I placed myself,’” Paige quoted, then explained about Egypt and the land of Goshen. “Sort of negates my theory that Isaac was blowing smoke about being in some warm, sunny locale because he said he’d placed himself there, not that he was there.”

  “Just goes to prove statement analysis isn’t a totally accurate discipline,” McCall drawled.

  Paige felt her defenses shoot up. “Tell me one that is.”

  He studied her, his expression somber. After a moment he tapped a fingertip against her empty bowl. “Want more?”

  She eased out a breath. “Yes, but I don’t have any room to put it.” She relaxed deliberately, muscle by muscle. “The stew was delicious.”

  “Told you.” He grabbed both bowls, rose and crossed to the sink.

  “Which of your sisters made it?”

  “Morgan. In addition to being a cop, she’s an awesome cook.” He sat the bowls in the sink, then turned and leaned against the counter. “Morgan thinks the only kitchen appliance Josh and I are capable of operating is the microwave.”

  “Is she right?”

  “No.” He sent her a quick, self-satisfied smile. “But why clue her in? She might stop feeding us.”

  “Good point.”

  McCall crossed his arms over his chest. “While we were dealing with the Jag, you said a couple of new things on the case came up, but they could wait. What things?”

  “One was what Crawford found out about Isaac’s e-mail.” Paige leaned back in her chair. “The other is that I finished analyzing the statements from the guests who attended the Gillettes’ party on Saturday night. Except for a few mentions of the mystery argument between the host and hostess, I didn’t pick up on anything of real concern. But there’s a statement from a waiter named Leandro Ramirez that got my attention.”

  “Why?”

  “He started out calling Lauren ‘the party’s hostess.’ Later, he said she was ‘the lady.’”

  “She was both.”

  “True. But something caused him to use different terms when he referred to the same person. Where statement analysis is concerned, that’s a red flag.”