by T. R. Ragan
Also by T.R. Ragan
Abducted (Lizzy Gardner Series #1)
Dead Weight (Lizzy Gardner Series #2)
Also by Theresa Ragan
Return of the Rose
A Knight in Central Park
Taming Mad Max
Finding Kate Huntley
Having My Baby
An Offer He Can’t Refuse
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 T.R. Ragan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer
PO Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781611099850
ISBN-10: 1611099854
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012923474
DEDICATION
To Cathy Katz, my sister and best friend, thank you for the countless brainstorming sessions, and for taking the red pen to all my manuscripts, over and over again, and for doing it with enthusiasm and joy. Thank you for the long walks and endless talks, for the amazing trips and sisterly advice, and for making my life truly magical. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
We serial killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are everywhere. And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.
—Ted Bundy
John and Rochelle
Sacramento
June 2007
John Robinson loved the way his fingers felt, entwined with hers. One year, three months, and two days. That’s how long he’d known Rochelle. So many people never found someone to love, but he was one of the lucky ones. Rochelle was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He knew that better than most since he’d never known his father and his mother, who died when he was young. After living in a string of foster homes until he was adopted at the age of thirteen, John had learned that love was fleeting. That’s why he appreciated his relationship with Rochelle all the more.
She squeezed his hand, and just that small gesture made his blood flow faster through his veins—made him feel alive. He’d asked her to marry him, and she had answered with an emphatic YES!
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Of course he was all right. Filled with joy, he wanted to reach for the sky and tell the world about his good fortune. They had seen a show not too far from his house and were now walking back to his car so he could drive her home. She had declined his invitation to come inside for a nightcap. Rochelle tended to be demure at times, but he didn’t mind. He was in love.
“I’m fine,” he told her. In the moonlight, he saw her eyes sparkling—hazel eyes, the color more gold than green. “Better than fine,” he added. “You make me happy, Rochelle.”
He stopped and pulled her close to his chest. “Let’s elope.”
“Tonight?”
He nodded. “Right now.”
“Mom would never talk to me again.”
“You’ve got a sister and a brother. One of them will get married soon. She’ll get over it.”
Rochelle laughed the sort of laugh that told him his grand plan was not going to happen. No reason to rush things, he thought, especially since his only goal was to make her happy. Not that he was a fool or anything. It was just that making Rochelle happy made him happy.
They started walking again, the clicking of her heels loud against the concrete walkway. She shivered, and his first thought was to offer her his jacket, but then he felt a tug on his hand. He looked at her and saw worry etched across her face. “What is it?”
“Do you know those people?”
His dark-blue Toyota Camry was still a block away, but sure enough, there were two guys up ahead. One man sat on the hood of John’s car, and a big beefy guy leaned against the driver’s side door. He heard laughter. “Looks like a couple of guys having a good time.”
“I think we should be safe instead of sorry,” Rochelle said. “Let’s call the police.”
“The police? Are you kidding me?”
She stopped walking and let go of his hand, clearly not happy with his tone. “OK,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’m going to go back the way we came, and I’m calling a taxi. It sounds like they’ve been drinking.”
He planted his hands on her shoulders. “You stay right here. I’ll get the car and pick you up.”
Her shoulders slumped. “You really think they’re harmless?”
“I do, but I don’t want you to come with me if you’re uncomfortable.”
She exhaled. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “Everyone is always telling me I need to grow a spine, so I might as well start now.”
“You’re the smartest, bravest woman I’ve ever met. Who said you needed to grow a spine?”
“My brother. He accuses me of being afraid of my own shadow.”
He didn’t know what to say to that since he still wasn’t sure what to think of her brother. Whenever he went to her parents’ house for dinner, he felt as if her brother was staring at him. It was like he was waiting for John to make a wrong move so he could pounce.
John forgot all about Rochelle’s brother, though, when the guy leaning against his car saw them coming and straightened to his full height. He stood well over six feet. Even from here, John could see that the guy’s hands were uncommonly massive—the size of small boulders. He found himself thinking that fifty dollars for a taxi might have been money well spent. Tightening his grip on Rochelle’s hand, ready to make an about-face, he heard someone say, “Chuck, I think this car belongs to these people. Get off.”
The guy sitting on the hood quickly obeyed and slid off. His feet made a clunking noise as he hit pavement.
There were only two guys. John figured he could handle them. As long as Rochelle didn’t have to squeeze by either of them, they could climb into the car and quickly hit the lock button. His Camry was equipped with a smart key, which would make their getaway easier. No need to insert a key to start the ignition. Just one push of the button and they would be off.
As they approached his car, he could see pockmarked faces and bloodshot eyes. Rochelle was right again. These guys were definitely on something. He took a quick look around the neighborhood, at the chain-link fences and windows covered with plywood. The front yards consisted of dead trees and bushes, more weeds than grass. No wonder Rochelle had no interest in coming inside. Maybe it was time to move. The third house on the left had a light on, and he could see a silhouette of a person inside. It looked like his neighbor Claire Schultz was either peeking through the blinds o
r fiddling around in the kitchen—it was hard to tell.
“How’s it going?” one of the guys asked just as John’s fingers curled around the door handle. The car beeped, telling him that all the doors were unlocked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two more guys coming toward them. What the hell was going on?
The moment Rochelle climbed in on the other side and shut the door, he breathed easier.
It was then that he noticed his backpack was no longer in the back of his car. He enjoyed photography and had been taking a class at a local college.
How did they get inside? No broken windows as far as he could tell, and all the car doors were locked. The blood flowing through his veins thickened, but he decided not to confront them. He’d drive straight to the police station and fill out a report.
He opened the door, his jaw clenched.
“I asked you how it was going,” one of the guys said again.
Ignoring the question, John climbed in behind the wheel, shut the door, and locked the doors.
He pressed the ignition button.
Nothing happened.
Shit.
He pressed it again.
Laughter erupted outside his door. He didn’t bother to look at them.
The punks would pay.
If he had his way, each and every one of them would be held accountable for the anxiety they were causing, not to mention his stolen backpack and whatever else might be missing.
He reached into his jacket pocket, grabbed the smart key, and held it next to the ignition button. He’d had to do this once before. Only this time nothing happened. The car wouldn’t start. Shit. He didn’t have to get out, lift the hood, and look at the engine to know that the punks standing around were responsible.
Rochelle pulled her cell phone from her purse.
A giant fist slammed through her window. Shards of glass hit his face.
And it was all chaos, broken glass, and regret from there on.
CHAPTER 2
Look down on me, you will see a fool. Look up at me, you will see your Lord. Look straight at me, you will see yourself.
—Charles Manson
Sacramento
Monday, April 30, 2012
Lizzy looked up as her assistant, Jessica Pleiss, came through the front door of her office downtown. Lizzy was drowning in a mountain of work and needed all the help she could get. “Are you all moved in?”
“I am and I’m ready to get to work. What have you got for me?”
Jessica wore a pair of electric-blue fitted pants and a ribbed cardigan over a white blouse. Her brown hair hung in one long thick braid over her right shoulder. She wore little makeup and didn’t bother trying to hide the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose.
Jessica had recently switched from attending school full-time to taking a night class and two online courses. Now that she was living away from home, she needed to earn a full paycheck.
Lizzy scribbled a reminder on her calendar and said, “I’ve got plenty for you to do.”
“Something not too dangerous would be great. I’ve already been shot at and I’ve been kidnapped,” Jessica reminded her for the hundredth time. “I don’t mind surveillance jobs. They bore me to tears, but I’ll do it, of course, if that’s all you’ve got.” Jessica waggled a finger at Lizzy. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll follow some stranger on the highway for more than five miles. A few miles should give you and your boyfriend enough time to take over.”
Lizzy tried to listen as Jessica rambled, but her cluttered thoughts made it difficult to concentrate. Two months ago she’d moved in with her boyfriend, FBI agent Jared Shayne. Things were going well between the two of them, but adjusting to her new environment was proving to be exhausting. Every movement she made in her old apartment had been instinctive. She could move around blindly and still know where everything was: scissors, pens and pencils, her gun. Nothing was the same at Jared’s place, and it was getting to her. It was probably time for her to have a talk with her therapist.
“What’s wrong? It’s Hayley, isn’t it?” Jessica asked. “Have you heard from the attorney?”
“Not yet. We should have a release date any day now.” Lizzy shuffled through the papers on her desk, located a manila file, and handed it to Jessica. “I’d like you to get started on the Danielle Cartwright case today.”
Jessica sat on the chair facing Lizzy’s desk and skimmed through the file. “Danielle Cartwright is thirty-nine,” she read aloud. “She’s been married three times and she’s—”
“In a nutshell,” Lizzy cut in, “Danielle tends to fall for men who could easily be categorized as womanizers. It’s left her with a sour taste in her mouth. Her past experiences have made her distrustful, but not enough to stop her from getting engaged to a man named Dominic Povo.”
“She doesn’t trust him?”
“She doesn’t trust anyone. She’s been burned too many times.”
Jessica flipped through the pages. “So she wants us to do a basic search on this Povo guy. Makes sense.”
“I’d like you to do an in-depth background check. The works: any criminal record, driving history, past addresses, credit reports, any and all phone numbers. His name, birth date, and Social Security number—it’s all in there.”
“OK,” Jessica said. “Does Danielle know she’ll be working with me?”
Lizzy nodded as she grabbed another file from the stack on her desk and handed it to Jessica. There was a list paper-clipped to the front.
Jessica mumbled under her breath as she looked over the list. “Five of these are workers’ compensation cases. Looks like I’ll be sitting in the car every day.”
Lizzy nodded again.
“And the last name on the list is Adele Hampton,” Jessica said. “Another adoption case—a mother is looking for Adele, the daughter she was forced to give up eighteen years ago.”
“Do you think you can handle it all?”
Jessica stood. “I guess I better get started.”
“That would be great.” Lizzy read another e-mail, but her heart wasn’t in it. She scratched her forehead, grabbed a rubber band from her top drawer, which she used to pull back her dirty-blonde hair, and then shoved the pencil back in her mouth.
It was no use.
Until she had a sit-down with Jared and told him she was thinking about moving back to her apartment, she wasn’t going to get a whole hell of a lot of work done.
CHAPTER 3
I’m a sick person. I know that. How could a normal guy do what I did? It was like another guy was inside me.
—Albert DeSalvo
Maureen and Charles Baker
Placer County
August 2011
Maureen brushed her fingers over the leather seats. She’d never been in a limousine before, and she’d always wanted to take a ride in one. She looked longingly at her husband, Charles. It wasn’t often in their fifty years of marriage that they were able to dress up and go to dinner, but tonight was special. A friend and bridge club member had written up a short article about their big anniversary. A man had called Maureen at home, telling her that an anonymous donor had read about their love story in the local paper. The mystery man wanted to treat Maureen and Charles to a night out on the town. An anniversary extravaganza, he had explained to her over the phone.
Although Charles didn’t like the idea of allowing a stranger to pay for their dinner, he would never deny her an opportunity of a lifetime. You had to be somebody to get reservations at La Vue, a famous restaurant in the area. Maureen had been talking about going to La Vue since they first met. But they didn’t have much money now that Charles was retired, and they couldn’t afford such extravagance. She planned to order the bacon-wrapped king salmon and hoped to talk Charles into ordering the medium-rare Angus New York strip with a balsamic reduction sauce served on chard. Her stomach rumbled and her mouth watered at the thought.
She continued to admire the way Charles looked, all dressed up. There was nothin
g Charles disliked more than putting on his suit and going to a fancy dinner. Her husband had served many years in the Navy. In the late sixties and early seventies, he was part of a Navy SEAL team and was involved in unconventional guerilla-warfare situations. The proud recipient of the Purple Heart, Charles was also the suspicious sort, which is why he had called the restaurant to see if reservations had, in fact, been made in their names. They had.
Charles was her protector, and he made her feel safe.
Maureen was wearing her best dress, the one she had found on sale to wear to her neighbor’s funeral, bless his soul.
The limo wasn’t a stretch, but it was long enough to fit three more couples, Maureen figured. She was so eager she could barely contain her excitement.
Charles, on the other hand, was still apprehensive. He pulled his gaze from the view outside and looked at Maureen. “What is the driver’s name?”
“Andy.”
“Isn’t La Vue located downtown?”
“Yes, but I don’t know the exact address,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “The caller said that it was an anniversary extravaganza with more than a few surprises planned for us, so stop your worrying.”
Charles sighed. “I’ve gone this route before. Unless he turns off this road soon, there’s nothing but farmland and cows for miles.”
“Oh, come on, Charles. Don’t ruin this. How often do we get out of the house? Just go with it. You called the restaurant yourself.”
Despite his tugging at his tie and staring out the window, she could see that Charles was trying to loosen up. Relaxing just wasn’t in his genes.
A man’s soothing voice came through a speaker at the back of the limo. “Help yourself to the champagne,” he said. “It’s chilled and ready to drink, compliments of La Vue.”
The lights were dimmed, making it difficult for Maureen to see as she looked around until she saw the champagne bottle wrapped in a dark napkin and nestled in ice. Charles reached for the bottle, saw that it was open, and poured Maureen a glass.
Charles knew his wife would argue with him if he didn’t pour himself a glass, too, so he did. “Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against Maureen’s. “To the best fifty years of my life.”
