by Rick Murcer
“I’m extremely pleased that you weren’t shocked by my last statement. The others were. One drastically so. But you weren’t in the least. Why?”
Even through the slits in the mask, his gaze was electric, piercing, with just a hint of crazy. She’d met people who were teetering on the edge, their grip with reality as tenuous as ice in the sun—her ex for one, her neurotic boss for another. She recognized the mad glint in the eyes, but this was different. This man knew right from wrong, but his desperation had conquered his sense of morality. He’d clearly do anything to get what he wanted. What he needed.
“I’ve heard a few things in my life. Lines in bars that made me laugh and cry at the same time. Men trying to get into my pants, who couldn’t care less what happened to me after that. Those men are used to getting what they want. None of them got anything from me. You’re different. You’re serious, right? I take serious seriously,” she said, keeping her voice low, controlled, soothing.
“Yes. I’m always serious. Too much so, according to Kyle. But that’s me. I also get to the point. I feel I must. Wasting time on fruitless endeavors isn’t my style. I’ve learned a hard lesson or two.”
Removing his hand from her leg, he stood and turned his head from one side to the other without speaking. She wanted to say something, to break the silence, because it made her uncomfortable not to know what he was thinking. But she’d learned a few lessons, too. One of those was from an old car salesman. He said the first one to speak loses, and he’d been right.
After glancing briefly at the spot where he’d touched her leg, she looked up and smiled at him.
He turned and stepped away. As he did so, Joannie noticed something else. Kyle was no longer in her line of sight. She hadn’t noticed him move away from them.
She did her best to search the room, but he was nowhere to be found. Damn it. Was he directly behind her?
Then she heard it. Another wooden door—somewhere behind her?—scraped against the floor and closed ever so faintly. Kyle had left, or at least he wanted her to think that. Either way, she felt relief. It meant he wasn’t in charge of what happened next. Her hooded beau was in the driver’s seat.
Damon turned back to her, leaning nearer than before.
“Are you playing me, Joannie Carmen? Are you acting like this doesn’t bother you, that you’re not intimidated by this unorthodox way of getting to know one another?”
She leaned as close to him as she could, almost touching his face, her eyes bright and strong.
“If you want me to say that I’m comfortable with being tied, blindfolded, and gagged, sitting in an old wooden chair half-naked . . . Well, you figure that one out. And if you need help understanding that, I’m not the woman for you.
“Yes, I’m afraid. I’m also confused. I mean, couldn’t you have just walked up to me and asked me out?” Joannie said, keeping a quiet, strong tone in her voice.
He stiffened, and his hand twitched as he began to pace and mutter to himself. She’d touched a nerve and had to think quickly.
“Listen. I’m flattered that someone would go to this extreme to meet me. But—hey, sailor, couldn’t you have bought me a drink first?”
Stopping midstride, he moved back to her, and stood a short distance away. Not good.
“I could’ve, Joannie. I think I could have. But Kyle thinks I would have . . . sent you scurrying away. He says I need to meet women this way . . . that I need a captive audience, so to speak. I think he’s right.” He spoke as if he’d resigned himself to an inescapable truth. A melancholy certainty that affected him to the very core.
Out of nowhere, she experienced a wisp of compassion for this man. What drove him, and his brother, to this sort of thing was crazy, inexcusable, and terrifying, but there seemed to be a method to their madness—or at least a reason for it. Whether the reason had spawned the crazy, or the crazy had spawned the reason, Joannie felt his torment was genuine. “What could be so bad that you wouldn’t take a chance to talk to me?” she asked. “I’m not unapproachable.”
Reaching for the hood, he began to remove it, and then stopped and started pacing a third time
She felt her stomach clench. It’s the face, Joannie. The face.
Turning away from her, he pulled the hood off slowly and let it slip gently to the floor.
In a movement that reminded her of a slow-motion scene in some classic horror movie, her suitor turned her way, his blue eyes alive, searching.
“What say you now, my lady?” he said.
Any thought of acting, to facilitate an escape, melted into the deep recesses of her mind.
Joannie Carmen screamed.
CHAPTER 28
The list on his computer monitor jumped from the screen, giving him cause to stop, then he exhaled and continued.
Big Harv Patterson read each name, all thirteen, again, reaching out with a meaty hand to gently trace the letters.
Each woman had been counted missing over the last twelve hours, according to the people who had filled out the reports. The number of allegedly missing women was far above what was typical.
Perhaps the same creep who’d abducted the first three had actually abducted a total of thirteen, and the victims would soon all show up, sporting party dresses and snapped necks.
He reached for his third cup of coffee and took a huge gulp. The spike in reported missing persons was most likely a result of the media and Chicago PD communications. It was consistent with heightened awareness—and that was a good thing—yet he knew deep in his bones there was another victim, maybe more, on this list. He’d know more when the black-and-whites started reporting in. He’d sent one to each home address and work location to find these women. He’d be updated the second the report was filed electronically. He needed that to be soon.
He spun a half turn in his chair and reached for the copies of the forensic reports he’d already gone over once. The science stats and graphs made some sense to him, but he knew that Ellie was his best bet when it came to this stuff.
Ellen. She’d been determined and capable ever since she was born.
He focused only on her face, for the moment. It was impossible not to travel back in time to see the stages of her life dance into view and then pirouette away again, only to come alive in the next image.
He took another gulp from his cup and sighed. The only consistencies in any of those stages were her violet eyes and determination.
He’d always been proud of her but realized he hadn’t said so enough. Harv wrung his hands together. That wasn’t all. He hadn’t held her enough, hadn’t taken her to lunch, or let her skip school and go to the zoo or taken her to a Cubs game. He hadn’t done any of those things kids remember doing with their dads. She’d understood, just as her mother had. It came with the job. The problem now, for him, was trying to remember what had been so damn important. He knew the answer. He knew it all too well.
Sighing again, he glanced at the screen, then flipped open another file. He knew he couldn’t go back; besides, Ellie had turned out to be a strong woman. And he’d done his best during her divorce. Yet . . .
He shook his head. “Regrets? I’ve had a few,” he said.
There were only six hours left until the task force came back to share what they’d found, and he had a great deal to do. The FBI would have a profile prepared based on what they’d discovered and what the evidence files had revealed. They were good at that. A little stiff, a little distant, but the Feds knew their shit. He hoped they knew it really well today.
Reaching for the bottom file, he pulled out Oscar Malloy’s preliminary report and leafed through it again. He hadn’t made any connection between Oscar’s death and the deaths of the young ladies, yet. Something told him there was one, however. It didn’t take a genius to see that someone didn’t want the evidence from the second murder to be compared to the first . . . Or that his depar
tment had made a mistake and missed something that might break this case wide open. He wasn’t buying the random-act theory, no matter what it looked like. Still, there was no way to be sure. That’s where Ellie and her team came in—and Bella Sanchez. Sanchez was a royal pain and not the brightest of stars, but she had a gift. She just might see something in the street video that no one else had. Maybe. Damn. He hated this hoping-against-hope business.
The shiny new phone on his desk rang.
“Patterson here.”
“We’ve updated the list, sir. We’re down to four that aren’t accounted for . . . Wait, make that three,” said Sergeant Foster. “I’m also sending you the door-to-door reports to go along with the . . . Aww, shit.”
Big Harv’s heart skipped a beat. “What is it, Foster?”
“We’re down to one missing. She’s not at work, she’s not at home, and her car’s been impounded for not paying the parking ramp. We’ve already checked the hospitals, and she’s not on any of their rosters. Her name is Rachel Dupree, and she fits the profile.”
“Damn it. Get on this one, Foster. We won’t have much time. Get out that damn APB and text that info to all personnel.”
“Yes, sir.”
The phone went dead. Harv’s heart skipped a beat again—but this time, he felt the proverbial elephant sitting on his chest. He reached into his pocket to grab his nitroglycerin pills, but the light was fading, and he couldn’t remember which pocket he’d put them it. He began sliding to the floor; his knees buckled.
Somehow, through the pulsing spots dancing in front of his eyes, he found the pill bottle, but he couldn’t remove the top. His hands weren’t working, his fingers numb.
He slumped down onto the carpet, lying flat, blackness swirling around his head. His arms had turned to lead.
Drawing from strength he didn’t know he had, he flicked the top off the bottle and slid two pills under his tongue just before the darkness descended.
He wondered what Ellie would say when she found out he was hiding a bad ticker.
Big Harv didn’t have time to wonder again.
CHAPTER 29
“Where are you going and what the hell are you talking about?” asked Brice, running at Ellen’s heels.
She glanced back and kept jogging. “I’ll explain when we get back to my office. Just keep up.”
A minute later, Ellen sat down in her leather office chair, brushed the hair from her face, and logged into her personal document folder.
She heard Brice step into her office, alone. Steve wasn’t with him. But she realized some of the tests she’d asked him to run had probably matured, and he was going to bring her the results.
The screen flashed pale yellow as seventy-two separate file-folder icons exploded into six rows of twelve, then danced around the edge of the monitor, forming the word Queen. After five seconds, the icons rearranged themselves again and lined up at the top of the screen in alphabetical order by case name. She stared, fighting the tears as her smile grew.
Oscar had programmed that little jig just for her and had surprised her one morning after they’d spent far too many hours tearing apart evidence bags and breaking down the chemical compositions of the material they had gathered to help solve a downtown murder. She’d run across a substance that hadn’t belonged, and it led to the arrest of a gangbanger who hadn’t even been a true suspect. From that point, Oscar had called her the Queen of the Crime-Scene Techs and it had sort of stuck.
She reached out and touched the screen.
“You all right, Ellie?” asked Brice.
“Yeah. Just a little reminder of Oscar popped up on the screen,” she said, then exhaled. “I’m good.”
“All right. Good.”
“By the way, did you see where Steve went?”
“He said something about a solution analysis and headed for the main lab. Do you need him?”
She waved her hand.
“No, not really. I need what he’s working on. It has more to do with Oscar’s scene than this one, but one thing could lead to another.”
“I know how that works. Now what is it that we need to see?”
“We had this case a couple years ago, where a pissed-off woman drugged her old man after she found out he cheated on her. She took him to one of the old warehouses in the Bridgeport District on the South Side.”
“I know that area. Go on.”
“She tied him up, hooked him to an old pulley, and hung him there for two days. He could have gotten loose, but the way she ran the rope, he would have had to do serious damage to his manhood. So he stayed where he was until a squatter in another part of the building finally reported his delicate condition.”
“A woman scorned,” said Brice.
“True enough. Anyway, I processed that scene. She’d used the same type of nylon rope, different color and manufacturer, but close to what this killer has used to bind Clara and Holly. She had left the unused roll of rope in the warehouse, and it changed color because of the dust covering it . . . I thought. When I got back to the lab, I realized that the rope had actually changed color, not because of the dust, but because of the chemicals in the dust. The dust had a tiny concentration of bleach molecules that, once exposed to the dye and her husband’s sweat, had caused the rope to change color.”
“So?”
“The rope faded, but so did his skin from being exposed to the dust. When he’d perspired, the dust collected on his arms and the rope at the same time. He had bruises right next to each other that were different shades of color.
“Even though men and women have different levels of acids and bases in their systems and that can be affected by diet, body weight, and genetics, this could be something. My theory is that the degree and concentration of the actual perspiration caused the different degrees of discoloration.”
“Couldn’t that be just a different pressure level on the skin?”
“It could, and I didn’t go further in the analysis because we knew who the perp was. Still, ligature marks like these are surprisingly similar to that case. I couldn’t swear without proper time to process the information, but based on the chlorine content in those bleach particles that cause oxidation and remove the color, I think these women could have been in a warehouse.”
“So, Ellie, is this an educated guess that a good detective would make?”
His eyes were alive . . . and he was right.
“Yes. I can’t prove it, but I believe it.”
Standing straight up, Brice motioned to her.
“I need the address of that warehouse.”
“I’m printing it for you now. But there must be fifteen or twenty buildings in that area that could have this kind of chemical in the dust. You’ll need to be care—” She caught herself. The man knew a few things about what came next.
“Sorry. This ain’t your first rodeo.”
“No problem, and that is awesome work,” said Brice, pointing to her computer, but his eyes were glued to her face.
He stepped to her, hesitated, bent over, and kissed her. His lips were warm. It had been ages since someone had kissed her and meant it like that. And the tingle . . . No, the sizzle. Was she on fire? It was only on the cheek, but thirsty people drink whenever they can.
“Ahh, what was that for?” she asked, still a bit dazed.
“You’re incredible. This might save lives. And . . . well, it is way better than kissing Steve,” he said.
“I’m . . . Well, thanks, I think.”
He turned, snatched the sheet of paper from her printer, and rushed toward the door, cell phone in hand. Then he stopped and turned back to her. Was there a trace of red in his cheeks? She must have looked like a fire hydrant herself: a happy one.
“You coming? We could use you out there.”
The thought of going into the field with him—and who knew, ma
ybe receiving another well-aimed kiss—was an intoxicating thought. And of course, the possibility of cracking this case added to the lure. She shook off the temptation.
“I’m flattered, but I’m the lab rat, and you’re the field cop, remember?”
“True, but you could be a hell of a detective.”
A warm feeling ran through her insides. The man had no idea what these compliments did to her. But then again, maybe the kiss said he did.
“You need to get your ass out there and do what you do. I’ll stay here and do the same. I’ve still got tons of tests to finish on what evidence we do have. Oscar’s family will want an update as soon as I can give them one.”
“All right.”
“And Brice. For God’s sake, be careful.”
She meant it. She wanted to spend more time with him.
She leaned back against the chair, releasing a long breath. Kiss or no kiss, they had to find Joannie Carmen and the newly missing Rachel Dupree, and quite possibly more women who simply hadn’t been reported missing yet. Her smile faded as she focused on her palms. She hoped she had made the right call. She hoped that the Chicago Police Department had gotten a break and that she hadn’t sent her teammates on a wild goose chase. Except, she knew she was right. Clara Rice and Holly Seabrook had been in one of those warehouses. Maybe the cops would get lucky for a change—because luck was still a factor in everything.
“Speaking of luck,” she said as she reached into her desk and pulled out the cell phones from the first two victims. She still hadn’t had time to go over each phone with the fine-tooth comb—her forte. She’d only had a chance to take a first look at Clara’s. There had simply been too many interruptions.
Pulling the universal charger with multiple outlets from her desk, she plugged it into the USB port on her computer, snapped on synthetic gloves, and then carefully removed Holly’s phone.
This time, instead of looking at the screen of the phone, she downloaded the pictures to her computer to get bigger images. It just might help her find something she might otherwise miss.
