* * *
The Stillborough storage center was little more than an enormous warehouse in the middle of a field, miles off the highway and accessible only by a narrow road riddled with potholes. Nick was quite familiar with Stillborough. The prevalence of street drugs and violence had landed him and his FBI colleagues in the old mill town more times than he could count, chasing the drug supply that fed larger surrounding cities. He hadn’t even needed to consult a map during the drive from Great Springs.
He couldn’t ignore the gnawing in his stomach. He took several detours along the way to the warehouse to check for following cars. Leaving the room again was a risk, but the information in those case files could help them to crack the case open. When the Arbor Falls P.D. was at a virtual standstill in its investigation, not taking the trip to Stillborough seemed the bigger risk.
Nick pulled his car into a spot near the entrance. He turned off the engine and looked at Libby. “Ready?”
She looked at him with those wide blue eyes and an impenetrable expression. “I’m ready.”
She was angry that he’d defended Dom. She stepped out of the car and proceeded toward the entrance without bothering to wait for Nick. He watched her for a moment, admiring the way her black wavy hair caught the sunlight, cresting midway down her back. His gaze then dipped lower, and he was momentarily hypnotized by the seductive sway of her hips as she marched away from him. Her focus was almost unbearably sexy.
Last night he’d sat on the bed while she’d bathed, waiting for her to emerge from the bathroom so he could apologize. Not that he was sorry for doing something they’d both enjoyed. Just thinking about the feel of her breath on his neck made him hard again. But he’d upset her somehow. He hadn’t meant to. She wasn’t making an apology easy for him, though. Each time he’d tried to talk about what they’d done, she changed the subject. He kicked himself mentally for complicating things between them just when it seemed they were starting to get comfortable again.
He exited the vehicle and followed her.
They walked through a single glass door propped open to admit fresh air into the dank warehouse. There was no reception area to speak of, just aisle upon aisle of gray industrial metal shelving, stacked floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes. To the right was a small office with an open door and a man sitting behind a mound of paperwork. He looked up at them over the bifocals sliding halfway down his nose. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Libby Andrews, from the District Attorney’s Office. I spoke with you a little while ago.”
“Yes, John Lankowsky. I manage the warehouse.” John was bald, with small brown eyes that darted to Nick. “Are you a Fed?” he asked.
Nick’s gaze shot to Libby as she tried to suppress a smirk. “Not today,” he replied.
The man placed the paper in his hand on top of an already staggering pile on the desk and stood. “State v. Henderson. I had the boxes pulled a while ago. We have thirteen of them, but there may be a couple more.”
“I’m sure Libby explained that we’d like to go through them,” Nick said.
“You can do whatever you want for the next eight hours,” John replied. “But after that we’re closing, and you’ll need to leave them here.”
Libby furrowed her brows. “Eight hours?” She turned to Nick. “Thirteen boxes. We’re going to need more time than that.”
“We don’t have more time than that, Libby.” Nick nodded to John. “You have everything set up in a conference room, I assume?”
He snorted. “You could call it that.”
He led them down a seemingly endless aisle to the very back of the warehouse, where a brown metal door opened to a small room with a Formica table. Cardboard boxes were stacked against the walls. Nick looked at the one closest to the door. The box was labeled State v. Henderson #8.
“Here you go,” John said flatly as he gestured to the room. “Make sure you keep this rubber doorstop down because the door locks automatically and you won’t be able to get back in if you leave.”
“Thanks,” said Libby as she walked toward the boxes and began to read the labels.
Nick scanned the surrounding warehouse, looking for anyone or anything that seemed out of the ordinary. A few uniformed employees appeared to be taking some kind of inventory of the boxes several aisles away from the room, but the warehouse was otherwise eerily silent. He drew his hand toward his hip, unbuttoning his holster to have quick access to his gun. Nick turned to Libby, keeping an eye on the door.
“What do you think, counselor? Any suggestions as to where we should begin?”
“Sure,” she replied as she pulled a box from the top of a stack and set it on the wobbly table. “But maybe I should defer to the Fed in the room.” She gave him a slight grin as she returned to the box and opened it.
Nick looked down at his clothes. “Jeans and a T-shirt. I hardly think it makes me look like a Fed.”
“It’s not your clothes, it’s the way you carry yourself.” She thumbed through the files in the box. “Let’s just say that no one would think you taught kindergarten.” She pulled a stack of papers from a file. “Here, I found the index.”
Libby placed the papers on the table and ran a finger down the top sheet. Nick came closer, catching the sweet smell of her perfume. His eyes scanned the typewritten list. “What are we doing with this?”
“I don’t know,” Libby admitted. “I sort of feel like we’re looking for a needle in a haystack, but I figure I’ll know it when I see it.”
The index was nearly thirty pages long and listed the files in each of the boxes. Libby’s eyes narrowed as she pored over the pages. “Dad was meticulous about his files. Everything in its proper place, labeled and cross-referenced.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
“Box five,” she said, ignoring the remark. “It looks like that contains information about witnesses.” She marched over to the stacks and began searching the box numbers. “You would think they would at least pile these things in some kind of reasonable order,” she muttered.
“You would also think they would have better rodent control in a document storage facility,” Nick said as he opened a box. “Here’s box five, but it looks like someone made a nest out of a notebook.”
“Yeah, well, half of these boxes are warped, and can you smell the mold?” She sighed. “Why isn’t anything ever easy?”
Nick was beginning to ask himself the same thing as she neared him and he was again encompassed by her smell. He didn’t know what the fragrance was called, but he’d always found it intoxicating. He remembered nights in Libby’s bed, when she was asleep, pressing his face against the side of her neck to inhale her scent: a heady mixture of woman and whatever this perfume was. Jasmine? Lilac? Like it mattered. Whatever the fragrance, it was making it impossible for him to focus on anything else.
He cleaned out the scraps of paper from the old mouse nest while Libby eagerly thrust her hands into the box. He watched with fascination as she removed a stack of files and took a seat at the table. The girl was unstoppable when she set her mind to something.
“Libby.” She looked up at him. “About last night...” He shifted from one foot to the other.
She stopped him with a quick wave of her hand. “Forget it.”
“What?” Impossible. That was the last thing he wanted to do, anyway.
She pressed her hands to the table. “Tension is high and we made a mistake. Let’s forget it.” She tilted her head slightly as he hesitated. “Right? Isn’t that what you were going to say?”
Well, no. He was going to tell her that he meant every word he’d said and that he didn’t regret a single second. He was going to tell her that she still drove him wild with desire and he could barely think straight anymore. But those words would obviously be wasted breath, because she didn’t feel the same.
“Forget it. Yes, I was going to say that.”
* * *
With every tick of the second hand on the large instit
utional clock on the wall, Libby felt her chest constrict. She wetted her dry lips, fumbling through the documents before her with clumsy cold fingers. Would the suspect interrupt to deliver his sign? She read the words on the page over and over, not making sense of the markings.
The clock continued its steady pulse. Each second brought her closer to day seven, and here she was with less than eight hours to pore over thirteen boxes of attorney files in the hopes of finding anything to shed some light on who might be trying to hurt her. Libby tucked her hair behind her ears. She had no idea what she was looking for.
The folders she grabbed contained pages of handwritten and sometimes typed notes documenting her father’s research in preparation for trial. Mostly the notes concerned witness interviews. “Interesting,” Libby said softly.
“What is?”
Nick was staring at her, and she blushed, realizing that she’d been talking to herself. She pointed to the pages in front of her. “I’m reading notes from an interview Dad had with a detective. Apparently after Henderson was arrested for the Arbor Falls killings, a few mugging victims in a separate investigation identified him. Looks like he used to hang out near bus stops and rob old ladies.” Libby shook her head. “Scumbag.”
Nick folded his arms across his chest and looked at the wall, apparently deep in thought. “What is it?” she asked.
“Maybe nothing.” He turned to face her. “But don’t you think it’s odd that a man would transition from mugging old ladies to playing some twisted psychological game?”
Libby blinked. “What do you mean?”
“In my experience criminals have their...modus operandi. They act in a way that works for them, and they don’t tend to stray from that path.”
“Sure, but there are plenty of criminals who evolve,” she reasoned. “I’ve handled too many domestic violence cases to count, and I’ve seen abuse progress from verbal insults to murder. It happens.”
Nick ran a hand through his thick, golden-brown hair as he thought. “I guess I don’t see it that way.”
“Oh? Then how do you see it?”
“In a domestic violence case, the abuse doesn’t change, it just becomes progressively worse. It’s a matter of degree. Here, you have a complete shift. If Will Henderson committed these crimes, we have to believe that he changed from a low-level creep who stole purses to a serial killer. And not just any serial killer, but a killer who tormented his victims and their families for days. He went from committing crimes of opportunity to becoming a calculated killer.” Nick grew silent, his mouth forming a tight line. “I’ve dealt with serial killers before, and something isn’t adding up.”
She shrugged. “I suppose it’s not fair of us to presume Henderson was guilty of those muggings when he was never brought to trial on those charges. Innocent until proven guilty.” Something on Nick’s face made her pause. “Why—what are you thinking?”
He looked down at a stack of papers in front of him, but she could tell that he was gathering his thoughts. “Maybe your dad locked up the wrong guy. Maybe Henderson was a mugger but not a killer. That could explain why someone would want revenge.”
Libby’s face grew hot. “Are you accusing my father of knowingly prosecuting the wrong person?” She tried without success to keep her voice from trembling.
“Not knowingly, Libby.” He held up his palms. “We can’t assume that. But I’m trying to explore all of the possibilities. Think about the pressure the police must have been under to find the Arbor Falls Strangler. Mistakes could have been made. Maybe they reached a dead end with the investigation and Henderson took the fall.”
Could it be possible? Had her father locked up the wrong suspect in the case that made his career? Her heart flailed in her chest and her hands shook. “My father was an honorable man. This is all speculation. We don’t even have any evidence.”
The metal door slammed shut behind him. They both jumped. “The doorstop must have been loose,” Nick said, and he stood and walked to the door. He turned the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. “That’s strange,” he mumbled.
Libby’s face was burning as she returned to the documents before her. She needed to calm down and remain levelheaded if she was going to get through these boxes in time. “What’s strange?”
“The door is stuck.” Nick twisted and turned the doorknob, but it held resolutely still. He started knocking on the door. “There must be someone out there in the warehouse who can help us.”
“Wait a minute.” The blood drained from Libby’s face as she rose from her chair. “Are you saying we’re locked in here?” So much for remaining calm.
“I’m sure someone will hear us,” Nick replied, but the tone of his voice did little to reassure her. He began pounding on the door, and the sound of his fist on the metal echoed through the room.
She pulled out her cell phone. “I have John’s number. I’ll give him a call.” She frowned at the screen. “Shoot. I don’t get a signal here.”
“I’ll check mine.” He pressed a few buttons and waited. “I have a signal, but it’s spotty. My call isn’t going through.”
Libby’s breath came in shallow gasps. Nick turned to her, his eyes wide with concern. “Libby, have a seat. I’ll take care of this.”
She was frozen, her chest tightening as she felt how small the room was. She eased herself back into her chair and leaned forward until her head was between her knees. Breathe, she told herself. There’s plenty of air.
But then her eyes were drawn to the corner of the room, where a thin white line was trailing from one of the boxes. Smoke. “Nick,” she whispered, her throat clenched.
He was pounding on the door with both fists now and shouting for help. He didn’t hear her. Libby was frozen. The smoke was coming out of the holes in the sides of the box, gathering thickly and bouncing off the ceiling to collect at the top of the room. “Nick,” she repeated, only slightly louder.
He continued to hammer at the door with his fists and then turned to throw his shoulder against the door. He bounced off and winced, rubbing his arm. Finally his gaze caught on the same spot where Libby’s gaze was transfixed. His eyes widened. “Libby,” he said.
“Fire!” She jumped from her seat as a burst of energy coursed like a jolt of electricity through her marrow. Her muscles twitched, and she thought for a moment that she might be able to scratch through the cinder-block walls. “Oh, God.” She joined Nick and started beating on the door. “Help us!” She grabbed the doorknob, twisting and pulling at it.
Nick raced to the smoking box and threw it to the floor. Flames leaped out the sides. “We have to smother it!” He stomped on the box, but that only succeeded in sending flaming pieces of paper flying. The fire began to spread.
“Why isn’t the alarm going off?” Libby was nearly hyperventilating as the room filled with smoke. Not this way, she thought to herself. I’m not dying this way. She looked around and saw a red light on the ceiling. A smoke detector. “Nick, we have to set off the alarm,” she shouted.
He raced to Libby’s side. “I’ll lift you up. See if you can set it off manually.”
Nick crouched down to wrap his muscular arms around Libby’s thighs, squeezing her tightly before hoisting her toward the ceiling. The room was bathed in a thick haze of smoke, and Libby fumbled blindly around the alarm, trying to find a button of some kind. “I don’t feel anything,” she said.
“Keep looking,” said Nick, his voice hoarse. He coughed.
She pressed her fingers against the plastic. “Nick, there may not be anything. It was just a guess.” She stopped as the smoke detector cover twisted off in her hand. A strangled scream escaped from the back of her throat.
Nick tensed. “What happened?”
“I broke it.” Libby started to squirm. “Put me down. Now!” He obliged and Libby tossed the cover of the smoke detector onto the table. Her eyes were stinging. “What are we going to do?”
Nick looked around the room and then pointed to the ceiling. “I
think I see a sprinkler.” He opened the nearest box and removed a thick stack of papers.
Libby coughed, trying to lift the weight settling into her lungs. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to set off the sprinkler.” He folded the papers lengthwise and held one end over the burning box. Once the paper caught fire, he sprinted to the sprinkler and held the flames against it. They waited.
“Nothing’s happening!” She was on the floor where the air was less smoky, her breath sputtering.
The papers in his hand were burning furiously. Nick dropped them to the ground and doubled over in a coughing fit just as a bell began to ring. Seconds later a spray of dirty water streamed from the sprinkler.
Nick lowered himself to the ground and crawled to Libby, who was still seated by the door and coughing. “Are you okay?” He placed one hand on the back of her head and lifted her face with the other.
She gripped his forearms and nodded, still unable to talk. Several sprinklers were spraying now, and the floor was covered with cold water. Nick pulled Libby against him and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s working,” he said, and the feel of his lips against her ear sent a shiver down her spine.
Nick’s hard body was warm amid the cold of the sprinklers, and the press of his arms around her shoulders felt so reassuring. Libby allowed herself to ease into the familiar comfort of his embrace as the water poured around them and the suffocating smoke began to dissipate.
They were sitting in this position, shivering, when Libby felt a rush of air and saw a figure in the doorway. It was John, the warehouse manager. “What’s going on in here?” He coughed as the smoke billowed into his face.
Nick sprang to his feet, pulling Libby with him as he ran out of the room. Libby choked as clean air filled her lungs, and she again doubled over in a fit of coughing. When she looked up, Nick had John’s back pressed against the wall, and was gripping the man’s shirt in his fists. “Nick, stop!” She ran to his side.
“I want some answers!” Nick was inches from the man’s face.
The Seven-Day Target Page 12
