Ainsley collects the pictures and puts them back into the folder with finality. “It won’t get out, Chad. You have my word.”
“This will ruin me, Cole.”
Ainsley continues to speak about the confidentiality of the photographs and asks Eldridge to speak with his staff. Perhaps the cleaning crew might have seen or heard rumors of a visitor after hours. Ainsley’s questions are meant to distract Eldridge from what we all know will come—press coverage that kills the business. While the two men talk, I walk around the rich library and examine the intricate artwork and leather-bound books.
Snapshots showcase Eldridge’s family at the beach, skiing, and huddled around Christmas trees. A large collection of CDs lines one shelf, all featuring the sermons of a Baptist minister that I recognize from my late-night television viewing habits. He’s the one who built that colossal glass palace in Florida. Wasn’t he recently indicted for tax fraud and stealing money from parishioners? I pull out one of the CDs. It’s only then I realize that the beautiful hardback books that line the shelves are not real, but hollow spines with titles set in gold lettering.
I look over my shoulder again at Eldridge’s ironed shirt and the initials sewn into the cuffs. This man is all about appearances and producing the image of his wealth to others. He’s a narcissist, I realize, empty underneath that sparkly gleam of money. Narcissists are highly insecure and cannot handle any sort of criticism—one of the most brittle of personality disorders. Without professional help, Eldridge won’t survive the collapse of his business. I make a mental note to find a referral for him from victim services. It’s hard for me not to feel sorry for Eldridge. He simply hired the wrong man, and for that, he most likely will lose everything.
Brushed-gold-framed photography catches my eye. A series of three black and whites are perfectly mounted, each with a different close-up perspective of a lush, wooded area. It’s a location I know well—God’s View—the visual from the crest of the hill along the path to Stonehenge.
When Rowan and I first began dating, we visited many museums of art. I was willing to go anywhere as long as it was with her. Rowan insists that every work of art tells a story. At a photography exhibit she taught me how to read a photograph through the lines of composition and its distinct focal points. Now it’s the borders of Eldridge’s photos that I narrow in on. It’s the hidden place, according to Rowan, where many artists choose to make the work their own. The edge of this photograph holds miniature suns in each of the four corners, a tiny, swirled circle with protruding rays that could easily be missed unless you’re searching for it.
A signature. Rowan has her own, the namaste symbol that she embeds into each painting. She explained the signature as something every artist has, a mark that proves the work is original, the seal of the artist herself. It used to be the way ancient artists would distinguish their work from imposters’.
“These photographs.” I interrupt Eldridge and Ainsley, who are chatting. “Who is the artist?”
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they? I couldn’t take my eyes off them in the gallery.” Eldridge stands beside me to view the photographs. His strong and expensive-smelling cologne engulfs me. “It’s funny how many different ways you can look at the quarry and still keep it so engaging. It’s a local woman, not much older than a girl, really.”
“Kaitlin.”
“You know her? I’m fascinated by her work.”
“Kaitlin certainly is fascinating.” With a collection of photographs that study the quarry over time, it’s clear Kaitlin knows a whole lot more than she’s told me.
*
Outside, in the parking lot, Ainsley trails after me, and I hear him curse as he sinks into the ruts of the snow and ice. “Damn it, Hansen, slow down!” His pullover rubbers give him no traction.
“Get some real boots,” I grumble. Who wears skinny little rubbers in this type of weather, anyway? I slump against my car and wait for Ainsley, my arms crossed over my chest. He slips and catches himself, then stumbles toward me. I don’t move to help as he clutches the side of the car for dear life.
“This weather’s for the birds,” he mumbles as he gathers a foothold against the ice. “Should’ve let you take the interview.”
I groan at his insincerity. “Davis told you to wait for me.”
“Here we go. I knew you’d get your panties all in a wad. Look, I’ve known Chad for years.”
“And so you two were just casually catching up about what? Your religious values?” I unlock my car door. “Did you tell him about the One True Path connection?”
“No, darlin’.” Ainsley sarcastically digs another knife into the wound. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“As if I can trust you.” The words explode and I practically spit the consonants out into his face. “How do I know you didn’t clue him in to what I would ask? The conversation wasn’t recorded. We’re supposed to be a team, Ainsley, a concept you’ve clearly forgotten.”
Ainsley groans. “Miss All-High-and-Mighty. When you gonna get over last night?”
Un-fucking-believable. Get over it? “I’ve known some like you in my career—bulldozers who knock down everyone with their narrow-minded ideals.” Turning from him, I open the car door.
Ainsley scoffs. His face is beet red against the cold afternoon. “Narrow-minded, huh? I’ve put up with you on my team, haven’t I? You want to talk about professional behavior? Bringing your lover in on the case when she has no law-enforcement training like she’s a teammate? Housing her on the taxpayers’ dime?”
I slam the door of my car closed and don’t bother to wait until Ainsley teeters over to grab hold of his own car. Gunning the engine, I rip his balance away from him.
To hell with Ainsley. I’ve got a killer to find.
Chapter Twenty-two
Karma: the way I see it, everything comes down to second chances. Rowan tells me the concept is much more complicated than merely a do-over, but all I envision is the world’s largest Ferris wheel of important moments that spins and spins. There is so much more at stake with a second chance; the problem is, I don’t always recognize it as such until it’s too late. This case has had more circling moments than I care to admit, and they just keep coming around and around.
Hamilton Street is next to empty while Ainsley maneuvers in the dark at a near crawl. The tires crackle over refrozen sections of ice as we search for unit 621-R. At 7:21 p.m. the entire town of Willow’s Ridge has tucked themselves away behind locked doors. The eerie silence drafts the streets in ghoulish shadows around every corner.
After our argument at the Eldridge Funeral Home, Ainsley stayed away from the station most of the day. Target practice at the shooting range helps him clear his mind. He says it’s the focus required of him for each shot, the enormous concentration on something outside himself, that does the trick. Ainsley finally returned to the station after dusk with something no one knew we’d been looking for: the address for Kaitlin’s shared artist space.
“How did you get this?” I interviewed the same manager at the photography store only hours before Ainsley. Jasper Morgan put up a significant fuss over my request even though Kaitlin hadn’t shown up for her shift. No one in the store had heard from her in over twenty-four hours.
“Everyone knows me, Hansen. Morgan just needed a little more time, a little more push from someone he trusted”—he winks—“and the bogus threat of a warrant.”
Outsider. In such a small town, witnesses will be most comfortable with one of their own, not me. With all the emotion brewing over the last few days, I’ve made some amateur mistakes. I certainly rushed the interview with Morgan. I was angry with Ainsley, and my mounting frustration left the slow burn of acid in my gut. I let my emotions rule the interview and gave up far too easily when he offered the slightest resistance. And then there was the Eldridge interview. My biggest mistake on the case so far? Not trusting the judgment of my teammates, including Ainsley.
After my fumbling apology, Ainsley e
ventually nodded his acceptance. “I’ve got a big bite, Hansen.” Then he smiled in the Cheshire cat sort of way. “Sometimes you just got to tell me to keep those jaws closed, even if you are a Democrat.”
Learning about Ainsley’s son’s death changed everything. How would my own father have lived his life if I’d chosen to do what Tim did? My anger at Ainsley’s bullheadedness and controlling ways has vanished. I can’t help but smile at the old gray-hair, to notice the way his eyes crinkle with laugh lines when he teased me. He must have been one of those fathers who insisted on being a part of everything: the baseball team carpool driver, the Boy Scout father who took the troop camping and fishing, the one at every activity cheering Tim on from the sidelines. In other words, he’s a whole lot like my own father and so many others in law enforcement—a good man, but not perfect. The fact that Ainsley hadn’t shriveled with the death of his son, wilted away on some couch watching bad daytime TV, drinking his hours away or, worse, committing suicide himself, shows me he loved his son despite the suicide. That knowledge tells me more about Ainsley’s devotion and loyalty than any medal of honor ever could. I’ll never tell him about my trip with Davis to the graveyard. It’s funny how sometimes you can see into the future, look forward to how you’ll be able to keep secrets with such certainty.
“What’s bothering you?”
“Hmm?” I’ve been working hard on what’s left of my thumbnail, the metallic tinge of blood on my taste buds. “What isn’t bothering me? Why, why, why.”
Questions loop around my mind: Why did the killings restart in the last few years? What’s so important about this time of year to the killer? Rowan has found no tie between the artist or the photos and lesbianism. Why this series? Out of the whole wide world, why these girls in Willow’s Ridge, Ohio? My biggest question, though, has to do with Kaitlin. What is her connection to One True Path? She’d been quick to declare herself straight when we last talked. Could she be a member as well? These questions nag, pulling at the edges of my mind.
Ainsley shrugs and waits for the red light to turn green. “Do we ever know the why of most cases? It could be as simple as the killer studied Klosenova’s photography series in high school and had a crush on the art teacher. Or maybe these photographs are what started his fascination with crosses. The reasons are so twisted with these guys that it does more harm than good to dwell on such things.”
“I know what the general profile says. Opportunity is the element most important to the killer, along with a remote location. But you’ve spent all these years working on Marci’s case. You connected the cases through the clues that everyone else dismissed. What’s your theory?”
The light turns green and Ainsley gives the car some gas and considers the question. “Picasso is relieved.”
The quick arch of my eyebrows asks Ainsley why.
“He knows we’re close. He senses the end is near. Just this one final push to complete his destiny, to finish this series.”
I’m not completely satisfied. There is the flipside of Ainsley’s theory. Our killer is most likely intuitive in his own way, but how many times has law enforcement taken serial killers down when they least expected it? These guys believe they are untouchable. Untraceable. What I do know for sure is that seven murders will never be enough for Picasso. He has the taste for murder now, the need. He may have been apprehensive and unsure of himself when he killed Marci, but those fears have subsided and he believes he’s on a mission that can only be stopped by God.
Ainsley rolls the car in front of 621-R, the rear of a secluded warehouse. The only address marker is scribbled in bright red spray paint across the heavy steel door.
“I still say we go straight to the horse’s mouth,” Ainsley says, falling back on his usual clichés. “Sambino’s the one we need to be talking to, not this girl.”
I throw my hands up in frustration. “We have no leverage against him! Besides, these two are connected deeper than we know. I feel it.”
We both know Sambino won’t talk to us. That’s the whole point of tracking down Kaitlin. We’ve been over this a million times. If we can get something from her to confront him with, make him think we know something, we might be able to get Sambino to talk.
“Davis will be resistant to any sort of deal with this twit.”
“That’s why we have to get some information to make Sambino think we know more than we do. No deals.”
Ainsley taps his leather-gloved fingertips along the edge of the steering wheel, his thoughts churning.
“I can get more out of her alone,” I say.
Ainsley shakes his head. “She didn’t tell you about this connection with Sambino.”
“Is she a member of the One True Path group?”
“Not one that I interviewed. Why?”
“She’s a lesbian, Ainsley. She’s fighting her desire, but it’s there.”
“Hansen, come on. You saying I can’t interview a”—I wait for the slur, but instead Ainsley puts his hands in the air and makes air quotes—“lesbian?”
Ainsley’s got his back up again and I settle those feathers. “I’m saying she was willing to talk to me before, and I’m guessing that has a lot to do with my sexuality. Throw a man into this interview and everything will be stilted.”
Ainsley ponders this, then ducks to look through the top of the windshield to a window on the second floor. A strong light filters through the beveled glass that makes it impossible to see inside. “Is this one of those gaydar things?”
“Gaydar?” A burst of quick laughter spills from me.
“Isn’t that what you all call it?” Taking his glasses off, he chuckles and rubs his red eyes. We’re both exhausted from stress and the long work hours.
“This Superman act is going to get your butt blistered with Davis.”
“But I’m not solo.” I unclip my cell phone from my belt and shake it at him. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, bust down that door.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Davis never needs to know.”
“Famous last words.” Ainsley dismisses me. Still, he’s in.
*
The thick, frozen steel of the warehouse door is hard as a rock against my fisted bang. I continue to pound until eventually I hear the clatter of heeled footsteps descending a metal staircase. There is no peephole, so when the door swings open, Kaitlin examines me with squinty eyes heavily made up with electric blue mascara. She wraps her skinny arms around herself to keep the chill away from her bird-thin sleeveless arms. She looks over my shoulder to make out who’s in the car.
“Did you find the killer?”
“We’ve got a strong suspect.”
“Who?”
“I’ve got more questions for you, Kaitlin. May I come in?”
Upstairs in the large wide-open studio, I follow her along tiled floors that remind me of the floors in school buildings. The ceiling is a mass of protruding, winding pipes that occasionally knock and ping. Kaitlin and the others have set up space heaters throughout the large room and covered the oversized casement windows with thick plastic to avoid losing heat. Surrounding me are art exhibits in different stages of development. Some of the walls hold pinned-up sketches and others display collections of prints. A clothesline runs from one corner of the room to a windowsill, hung with prints, and paint tubes litter the space under the windowsills. The smell of darkroom chemicals stings my eyes, while Kaitlin prattles on as if unaware of the smell. It reminds me of walking into someone’s home that stinks of cat piss. The owner has smelled it so frequently she no longer recognizes the bitter stench.
Kaitlin chatters away, mindless talk that I take as a sign of a strong case of the nerves. The key is to find out why she’s so anxious. She pops her knuckles as she paces and avoids eye contact with me. Instead of asking questions about what we’ve found and who we’ve arrested, she talks about this old building and how it’s an abandoned factory that was leased out as studios and shops.
Either Kaitlin knows something has led me back t
o her and she’s involved, or the fact that we are alone upsets her, further evidence of her struggle with her sexuality.
I lower my voice and remain as still as I can, tactics designed to help a nervous interviewee. “You’ve got a nice setup here. A lot of artists would kill for a space like this.”
Rowan has always used a dedicated room in her home as a studio. The space to create, she explained when she first walked into the barn on our land in Dublin, was one of the most liberating moments of her life. The previous owners of our house had used the barn as a storage unit and hadn’t given much attention to the building. Rowan cleaned it up and applied a fresh coat of bright purple. “Who says a barn has to be red, anyway?” she asked with her fists planted firmly on her hips.
While Kaitlin gathers paint-splattered stools from around a worn table, I take a closer look at a string of photographs hanging near me. The clothesline is filled with a number of shots taken in a wooded area. I immediately recognize the hilly landscape, the multilayered limestone, and the heavy tree line, winter-barren of leaves. She’s taken both color and black-and-white shots of the caverns, the ravine, and most of all, God’s View. There’s even a multitude of photos from the famous Staircase—a location inside the quarry where the earth has created a layered, stair-step of limestone down a sloped hill. What strikes me most, though, isn’t the location of the photos, but the weather conditions: snow and layers of ice gleam from the landscape.
“When was the last time you were in the quarry?”
Kaitlin sets the stools down with a thud that sends the steel floor beneath us vibrating. “These photos are part of a series that examines the landscape in changing seasons.” There’s the quick lilt of defensiveness in her voice. Of course, she’s not selling out, she explains, only targeting the seasonal tourists who flood the area in the fall. “The new calendar unveils in September for the leaf-peepers.”
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