“They’re teenagers. How self-aware can they possibly be?”
“Very. You’re looking for an incredibly intelligent person, Lieutenant, one who is well-read, well versed in everything from mythology to naturalism to botany. Someone who has skills, who can be a natural leader. Someone who has learned that darkness carries a current, who thinks that they can feed off the energies of the night, and can scare the hell out of all of us who strive to work for good. And you may want to check his athamé for blood. I assume that’s what he used to cut them.”
“What do you know about that?”
“The cuts? The pentacles? It was all over the news. It’s something to excite, to titillate. To guarantee it’s all that’s talked about. The killer is exceptionally egocentric—he wanted to leave his signature behind.”
Ariadne shifted in her seat, her tone more serious now. “This wasn’t some guy shooting from a clock tower, Lieutenant. This was methodical, planned, and it might not be over. You need to be looking for someone with a very special skill set.”
“Someone like you,” McKenzie remarked.
Untroubled, Ariadne said, “Yes. Someone like me. But I would never kill to further my goals. That is strictly forbidden. You of all people know that. Besides, it’s against my own personal code.”
“You know an awful lot about this, Ariadne,” Taylor said. “I can’t help but wonder how. And not through any of these gimmicks, either. You know details, and you’ve actively interfered in an official police investigation.”
“That is true,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips.
“We have a man in custody who says he committed the murders,” McKenzie said. “He also claims to be the king of the vampires.”
Ariadne threw up her hands, her long hair swirling around her like a wave. “Tcha. The Vampyre Nation is a joke. They are parasites, vermin. This so-called vampire king is lying. The warlock who did this is too smart to turn himself in.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Though he will want to brag, of course. Has he sent you a letter yet? I thought I picked up words last night.”
McKenzie gave her a long look. “You’d make a good cop, Ariadne,” he said at last.
Taylor leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed. What was the agenda here? Yes, this was a splashy case, plucking at the heartstrings of everyone involved. And it wasn’t entirely unusual to have people surrender themselves, admit to knowledge of the crimes. She’d had self-proclaimed psychics try to horn in on cases in the past, people who claimed they could see the missing, could communicate with their spirits if they were already gone. They’d always ended up being charlatans, glory seekers, redirecting the investigations to suit their own twisted purpose. She couldn’t take that chance, not on a case this big. She realized she’d made her decision already.
“Ariadne, I’m going to read you your rights. You understand that I’m going to have to treat you as a suspect—you’ve really given me no choice. This is for your protection as much as for mine.”
Ariadne nodded in agreement. “Do what you feel necessary, Lieutenant. I have nothing to hide—my heart is pure. You must do what your path tells you. I am not offended in the least. As a matter of fact, if you hadn’t, I might have been suspicious.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because now I know that you believe me.”
Twenty-Five
She’d left McKenzie with the witch. He’d be able to ferret out whatever it was that Ariadne was holding back.
Truth be told, Ariadne made her desperately uncomfortable. Mind reader or no, she was entirely too perceptive. Taylor had noticed her eyeing the bouquet of white roses Memphis had sent, wondered if she’d had the audacity to read the card while Taylor had been conferring with her team in the corridor. Probably. Frauds, the lot of them, these people who claimed to use the supernatural as their guide. She most certainly didn’t believe the woman was a witch, but she did believe she was involved. And since it wasn’t unusual for suspects to inject themselves into cases, Ariadne certainly fell under suspicion.
What was the deal with that creepy Barent man? Claiming he was a vampire, that Taylor had killed him over and over. Marcus had submitted the paperwork to get the warrant, they were playing the waiting game now. She was surrounded by kooks.
And by one clever killer, who had them chasing their tails, looking into the dark shadows for answers.
It gave Taylor chills to pull back into the Kings’ driveway, but she needed to talk to Letha before she went further. There were multiple cars in the driveway, well-wishers and neighbors bringing covered dishes and morbid curiosity. Taylor had always felt vaguely uncomfortable with the southern tradition of the wake—too many people seemed to live for tragedies, were surrounded by death and sickness. They were the first in line to comfort strangers, to offer help when victims’ families were more interested in battening down the hatches and healing themselves. This scene was being repeated all over Nashville this afternoon.
She knocked on the door, surprised when Letha herself answered. Her face had been scrubbed and her hair was clean, the black polish gone from her nails. Her eyes were clear.
“Letha, Lieutenant Jackson. We met yesterday. I’m so sorry about your brother. Can I come in?”
Letha glanced over her shoulder. “Do you mind if we talk out here? It’s really crowded inside.”
“Certainly.”
The girl came out and closed the door behind her softly, as if she didn’t want to alert anyone of her actions. Taylor stepped to the porch railing, leaned against it.
“So. I was at the school this morning, and your name came up. You hang out with the Goth kids?”
Letha bent and picked up a broken limb that had fallen on the stoop. “I don’t hang with them, not really. I was just…experimenting.”
“Who do you hang out with?”
“I’m a floater. I don’t belong to any of the cliques.”
“Theo Howell told us that you found Jerry yesterday, and called him and his sister to come over to help. You must be friends with them if they were your first recourse.”
“Theo and Jerry are friends. Were friends. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What about the police?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t want to get Jerry in trouble.”
Taylor tried not to groan aloud. The logic of teenagers.
“You should have called 911 as soon as you found him. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. So you aren’t part of the popular crowd?”
“I told you. I don’t hang out with anyone in particular.” She tossed the branch out into the lawn. Taylor could see the lines of anger in the girl’s shoulders.
“What do you know about drugs at school?”
Her eyes darted away, and she mumbled, “Nothing.”
“Vi-Fri? You’re sure you don’t know anything about it?”
Now she was truly discomfited. “How do you know about that?” she asked.
Taylor nudged a fallen leaf with the toe of her boot. “Theo told me. Was Jerry doing drugs?”
She nodded meekly.
“Were you?”
“Maybe a little X, here or there, but nothing major. Just on weekends. Like Jerry. He gave me some of his, if he was in a good mood. Please don’t tell my parents. They’ll be really mad at me.”
“Only if you tell me who Jerry bought the drugs from.”
The girl hung her head. “His name is Thorn. He’s a freshman.”
“What’s his real name?”
“I don’t know. It’s something foreign. I don’t remember. Can I go back in now? My mom’s going to notice I’m gone.”
“Juri Edvin?”
She looked startled—she knew the name. “Maybe. I really don’t know.”
“What does Thorn look like?”
“I don’t know. Short, like me. Kinda heavyset. He’s really part of the Goth crowd.”
&n
bsp; Taylor watched the girl. She was biting a thumbnail, obviously upset. Was she lying? Or just not telling the whole truth? Taylor didn’t think so, but it never hurt to ask.
“Letha, your brother and Brandon Scott had a fight last week. Do you have any idea what that might be about?”
“No,” she said, quick and sharp. She clamped her lips together, leaving Taylor to think the real answer was yes.
“Letha. Was it the drugs? Were they fighting about Juri Edvin? Thorn?”
“I really don’t know,” she said.
“Is there anything else you can think of that might help me catch your brother’s killer?”
She shook her head, mute.
“I figured as much.” She gave the girl her card. “If you think of anything, please let me know.” She turned to go.
“Ma’am?”
She faced the girl again. “Yes?”
“Is it true, about Brandon? That he was…mutilated?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Umm…I saw the video online. Was that real?”
Taylor wrestled with her answer. Brandon had been a very good-looking boy. She watched the girl sweat it; she was genuinely concerned. There was the link.
“It may have been. Letha, do you know Brandon?”
The girl’s eyes flooded with tears, all her stoic walls crumbling. “We used to date. We broke up a while ago though. He was…seeing someone else. Jerry was so mad at him, so mad for hurting me. That’s what it was about, I’m sure. They’d been arguing a lot lately.” She sounded much too bitter to be fourteen.
“I’m sorry,” Taylor said.
Letha just nodded, then slipped silently through the front door into the house, closing it firmly behind her.
Strikeout. The girl didn’t know anything more. Taylor could tell that she’d been telling at least most of the truth. Time to call in the big guns.
Twenty-Six
Quantico
June 16, 2004
Baldwin
Jessamine Sparrow was sorely misnamed. Baldwin thought she should have been called bulldog—her tenacity was one of the things that he was most impressed with when he hired her. So when she said, “Hey, boss. Come take a look at this,” with an indefinable note of curiosity in her voice, he dropped his files and mentally crossed his fingers.
Baldwin stretched and stood, shaking away the cobwebs. He’d been staring at evidence files for the better part of two hours and his head was aching with all the tiny print. He didn’t need glasses, not yet anyway, but the words were swimming before his eyes, refracting in the harsh fluorescent light of the conference room.
Sparrow couldn’t have felt much better. She’d been cruising the online world for nearly twenty hours.
Her computer screen was a mess, with open windows of every conceivable size, shape and color. She clicked one of the windows on the top left, made it fill the screen. It was an obituary notice from The Washington Post, dated January 12, 2004. A small face smiled sadly at him, a little girl, maybe eight, nine years old. She had no hair—his first thought was cancer.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Her name is Evie Kilmeade. Nine years old. She died this past January after a battle with leukemia.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Sparrow spoke without the conviction many women would have given the statement. Though only in her late twenties, Sparrow was unmarried, with no real prospects, and no burning desire to populate her life with either a man or a baby anytime soon. She could still look at children and their suffering with a dispassionate eye. Baldwin had wondered if she was gay, then pushed it out of his mind. Her sexual orientation had absolutely no bearing on her ability to kick ass at her job, and Sparrow was one of the best hires he’d made in a long time.
“So what’s the catch?”
“Well, the name sounded familiar. Kilmeade isn’t terribly common, and when we did interviews with Arlen’s neighbors, it stood out to me. Then I see this, and when I put it all together, I found her address. Guess where little Evie lived?” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was watching, then popped it up on the screen.
Baldwin read it three times in disbelief. “You’re kidding,” he said finally, mind whirling.
“Nope. She spent her last days on this earth living across the street from the big bad wolf.”
Baldwin thought back, grabbed a mental image of the house across the street from Arlen’s. That’s right. He’d talked to them briefly two days earlier. The Kilmeades had been an open, friendly, caring couple, with two young boys. They’d never mentioned a little girl, and they were the only people who showed any sort of empathy toward their perverted neighbor. Kilmeade was some kind of psychologist, and he worked with prisoners.
“What color was her hair?” Baldwin asked.
“Funny you should ask. After some serious prodding and a probable-cause warrant, Sears sent over all the negatives from every one of Arlen’s shoots. You can thank Butler for that later. Evie Kilmeade has a file with them. When she still had hair, it was blond.”
“Let me see.”
Sparrow clicked her mouse a couple of times, and a full-color photograph came up. It was the same girl, though in this picture, she was healthy and happy, with long, cascading blond hair.
“So she physically fits the victim profile, she lived across the street from our main suspect and she’s dead. But there’s no evidence of murder—she died from leukemia complications, right?”
“Yes, she did. Six months ago.”
“The connection, Sparrow? I need something more.”
“I looked back through the online obituary guest book. There was a note from Arlen. I’ve printed it out for you.”
She handed him a piece of paper. He got chills when he read the words.
Dear Evie,
I will miss your bright smile, your inquisitive nature, your charming laugh and your long hugs. Rest in peace, little one. You deserve a break.
Love,
Your Harry
“Son of a bitch. Your Harry? In his own words, he’s admitting a relationship. Sparrow, you know what this means, right? He had personal and physical contact with a minor. That’s breaking his probation. At the very least, Fairfax County can pick him up for that. We can sweat him ourselves if need be.”
Sparrow nodded. “On the surface, at least, it looks like Evie and Arlen were friends. I’m thinking her death might have been the trigger. He loses Evie, then starts to re-create her, acting out all the horrible fantasies he’s been having about her all this time. Finally, the fantasies weren’t enough, and he started to kill.”
Baldwin turned back to the image on the computer, traced his finger over the little girl’s sharp chin. Of course. If Arlen had found a compatriot, a little girl he could act out with, and she betrayed him by dying on her own…well, that could easily have caused the break that got him started. If Arlen was their suspect, they had a good basis for motive. Baldwin ran his hands through his hair like he was pushing all the thoughts back in, and breathed a deep sigh.
“Nice work, Sparrow. That most certainly could be the case. Now let’s go talk to her parents, find out just how close their daughter was to the local pedophile. Where’s Charlotte?”
Sparrow didn’t look at him, just started shutting down all the windows on her computer. “She’s at the crime lab, I think. Something about double-checking one of the evidence tags.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Sorry, boss, I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“It’s no problem.”
They started from the room. Baldwin held the door for her, let her go out before him.
“Hey, boss?” Sparrow’s wide, clunky heels clacked on the linoleum floor.
“Yeah?” Baldwin answered, distracted. Could this be it? Could they have found that little link that explains everything?
“Speaking of Charlotte?”
That brought him back to the conver
sation. He warily answered, “Yes?”
Sparrow bit her lip, then dropped his gaze and shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing, boss. Never mind.” She walked out ahead of him, and Baldwin felt all the breath go from his body. They knew. They probably all knew. Son of a bitch.
And that little bit of uncertainty from Sparrow was all he needed to help him make his decision. He knew what he had to do. He must put the team first. They were in his charge in more ways than one.
Twenty-Seven
Nashville
7:00 p.m.
The hospital corridor was too bright, glaring and overly white to Taylor’s tired eyes. She was heading to Brittany Carson’s room first, then planned to sit down with Juri Edvin. His surgery had gone well—he was out of Recovery. Ready to be grilled. She was going to have answers before she left this hospital, no matter what it took.
Vanderbilt University Medical Center was always busy, packed with people young and old, in varying degrees of sickness. She’d been here many times—visiting the psychiatric ward to interrogate suspects deemed too violent or too insane to be booked into the regular system; attending to vicious wounds in the emergency room; even riding along on LifeFlight from a scene once, a desperate and frenetic evening that ended in tragedy despite their best efforts. It always smelled the same, bitter and astringent, overlaid with the sickly sweet smell of premature rot that emanated from the most dire cases. She hated hospitals.
The Immortals Page 18
