Cold Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 3)

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  “Not she. They,” Singh said. The team looked at her. “This is a different blogger.”

  Roarke’s mouth was suddenly dry. “I thought you said she was using different IP numbers and rerouting—”

  “She is. And this blog author also calls herself Bitch. But the styling of this article is different. I ran it through a text analysis program to compare with the other blogs. It is a different writer entirely.”

  Roarke felt a shock as he tried to process it. Singh added, “Also this blog was originally posted less than a half hour after the Inty kills were called in. She is getting insider information.”

  Mills moved agitatedly. “Or she did it, you mean.”

  “She, or another of the group,” Singh answered.

  Epps looked ready to explode. “Hold up. These cybergroups. They break laws, they go beyond the pale, but there’s no record of anyone doing any killing.”

  “We also know she’s been monitoring the Street Action forums. She could’ve found out that way,” Mills pointed out.

  “All of these things are true,” Singh acknowledged. “But I have been monitoring the number of shares and retweets of Santa Muerte images. Hundreds of thousands. That number is growing every hour.”

  Roarke stared at her. “You’re saying our suspect pool just got bigger.”

  “I am saying our suspect pool is enormous,” Singh answered gravely. “It is safe to say that millions of people are now aware of this ‘call to action.’”

  Viral murder, Snyder had called it.

  Roarke was feeling the raggedness of no sleep and no discernible progress. He could sense that his agent was trying to express something more than the charts would indicate, but he was too near exhaustion to follow. “What are you getting at, Singh?”

  She actually avoided his eyes. “There is a purpose to this. I think we have underestimated the scope . . .” She paused, considering her words. “These articles are raising the circumstances to a meta level. Metaphors are powerful. There is a manifestation going on. It is taking on an energy of its own.”

  Epps looked agitated, and there was a warning note in his voice. “We don’t need to go mystical on this. We need to focus on facts. The blog articles started after the first kill, DeShawn Butler. And the real anomaly is that someone used a gun on that pimp on Inty. And left the offerings.” His eyes were fixed on the photo of the second scene. “A lot of Inty is Hispanic neighborhoods. Whoever did it, it was smart business, planting that stuff.”

  Singh was silent for the slightest moment, then spoke. “Agreed,” she said. Roarke was aware that he had been on edge waiting for her response. “The offerings both activate superstition and make a larger political point.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Jade to me,” Epps said, looking to Roarke.

  Roarke knew his agent was waiting for a sign from him. He nodded. “I’d like to get a closer look at those offerings.” He felt the room relax around him. They were back on track, on the same page.

  “They are upstairs in the lab,” Singh told them. “Lam and Stotlemyre are processing them.”

  Chapter 56

  In the crime lab, the team found places between the gleaming metal lab tables and refrigerators and scopes to face Lam and Stotlemyre.

  Roarke summoned himself and got straight to the point. “We now have six murders in the last four days.” He stopped as the word executions hovered in his mind. “Two in the Tenderloin. Two in Salinas. Two on International Boulevard last night. And each pair consists of a pimp and a john. We need to know how many killers we’re dealing with.”

  The two criminalists exchanged a look.

  “Officially, we have no opinion,” Stotlemyre said.

  “Understood,” Roarke said.

  Lam nodded. “Okay then. Unofficially, the two in Salinas are absolutely Cara Lindstrom. They’re just like her. But you knew that.”

  Stotlemyre continued. “Inty of course gives us more evidence left at the scenes. The offerings are a new element.” He stepped to a long lab table where the left objects were laid out in evidence bags, arranged to duplicate the crime scene photos of the original piles, which were propped up on the table.

  The tech gestured to the first pile. “These offerings were found in the alleyway, beside the pimp’s SUV. The candle was almost certainly brought to the scene. It’s been ritualistically prepped—that is, it was anointed with oil, and there’s carving in the wax.” He showed them the candle. Gouged into the wax was a crude skull. “I’ve called several botanicas to confirm the meaning: it’s a candle dedicated to Santa Muerte.”

  “Can we trace the candle to a specific shop?” Roarke asked.

  “The candle comes from a manufacturer who supplies esoteric shops all over the Southwest. They produce ten million per year.”

  The agents stared at him, all staggered by the number . . . except for Roarke. He’d seen the entire aisle of Santa Muerte idols in the botanica.

  Stotlemyre gestured to the table. “As for the other offerings at this first shrine: the tequila bottle is nearly full, although it was opened and some of the alcohol was spilled on the ground at the scene. The flowers are fairly fresh. The cigarettes are new. All of them were lit but burned out almost immediately. Apparently live fire is an important part of the saint’s worship.”

  Lam took over, stepping down the table to the next pile. “Now, in the second pile, we have a different set of objects: cigarette butts, a beer can, sequins, and flowers. Our feeling is these are improvised offerings. It’s all stuff anyone could have picked up on the street.”

  “Is that allowed?” Epps was being ironic, but Lam answered matter-of-factly.

  “The mother goddesses aren’t very picky about their votive offerings. Cigarettes, candy, soda cans, they’ll take any of it. It’s the thought that counts.”

  The rest of the team looked at him. He was speaking as clinically as he would about any forensic evidence, as if “mother goddesses” were an actual fact of life.

  The tech continued. “I think the sequins are an especially nice touch. I’m thinking this killer pulled the sequins off whatever she—or he—was wearing. There are broken threads still attached.”

  “This killer,” Roarke repeated. “As opposed to—”

  “The shooter,” Lam answered instantly. “Different doers for sure. Of course, that’s unofficial.”

  “But here’s what’s interesting,” Stotlemyre said. “The flowers are the same as from the first shrine. Carnations. Available at any street corner flower vendor.”

  Roarke looked at him, putting it together. “So the killer was in the alley and took flowers from the first shrine to leave at the second scene.”

  “Very possibly. Also, the slash to the neck of the second victim from Inty, the john, was a clean slice, like what we’ve been seeing all along from Lindstrom. The shooter’s weapon was a compact semiautomatic Smith and Wesson .45.”

  Roarke stood still, thinking. So was the second kill Cara? Leaving offerings to tie the scenes together? Trying to confuse things? Why?

  Mills suddenly spoke up. “’Kay, I’m just a lowly visitor to the Death Star, but here’s how I see it. We got maybe three killers, maybe even more, but so far it’s only Lindstrom who’s hit outside of the Bay Area. Our other two or however the fuck many are operating in our general area. Since we don’t know who we’re looking for, we’re going to have to find her, or them, on the street. So we’re going to have to stake out both sides of the Bay now. The TL and Inty.”

  He eyed Roarke and Epps.

  “And it’s not my call, but I would highly suggest the two of you go home and get some shut-eye before then. The kid and I can coordinate the stakeout and update you.” He nodded to Jones, who looked unperturbed at the diminutive. Roarke had been impressed with how well the junior agent had been getting along with the notoriously abrasive detective. Jone
s was coming into his own as a lawman, and Roarke felt a pang of regret that he had not been there to foster it himself.

  Then he realized Mills was right, on all counts.

  He nodded, slowly. “That’s the plan, then.”

  Chapter 57

  Roarke rode the escalator up from the BART tunnel to exit the station at Twenty-Fourth and Mission . . . and stepped into a swirling vortex of fog. He started toward home, more sleepwalking than walking. The pinprick drops of mist on his face were all that was keeping him upright. Despite his best intentions to follow Mills’ advice, he’d ended up wading through four hours of paperwork on the Salinas scene.

  Now that he was alone, he had to face the fact that he was vastly uncomfortable with the plan. Another stakeout, this time for three killers, or more, if someone out there was taking it viral?

  Multiple killers. Viral murder. Santa Muerte. If this genie is that far out of the bottle, what the hell are we doing?

  He turned abruptly down the shadowy side street, heading toward the botanica. The mural of Mexican artwork blazed on the building ahead. The shop was dark, and he briefly wondered what he would have done if it were open.

  Ask for a reading? Is that where I am?

  He moved up to it and stopped on the sidewalk, looking into the window at the skeletal figure of the saint: white-gowned, globe in one hand, scythe in the other, candles at her feet along with the now-familiar offerings.

  The offerings with the latest two murders. The deliberate association with Santa Muerte. Someone came to one of these shops, bought a candle, went through the ritual of anointing it.

  Would Jade do it? Would Cara?

  He didn’t believe it. It seemed more calculated than either of them. Someone was politicizing the case, grabbing for publicity.

  It’s official, then. A third killer, at least.

  As he turned away from the window, he suddenly recalled the words of the curandera: “Alguien cerca de usted le miente.”

  Someone close to you is lying.

  He walked the remaining three blocks to his street in a fog of his own. He trudged up the steps of his building and was reaching to unlock the front door when he felt movement behind and below him.

  He twisted around, reaching for his weapon—

  And saw a feminine figure in a tailored winter coat on the sidewalk.

  Rachel.

  She looked up at him through the drifting fog, focused on his hand, half-inside his suit coat, fingers on the holster.

  “I’m sorry. The office said you’d just left, so I took a chance you were coming straight home . . .”

  Roarke stared down at her, thrown. She had never been to his place. He hadn’t known she even knew where he lived. He hadn’t heard from her since the night in the Haight, when she’d told him to stay away from her.

  He withdrew his hand from his coat, walked down the few steps to the sidewalk. “I was pretty sure you never wanted to see me again.”

  She lifted her shoulders. Her face was blank, unreadable. “I came to tell you that I’ve got Becca.”

  He was so tired he didn’t understand what she was saying. “Got her?”

  “I drove down to Salinas this afternoon. She’s at the Belvedere House.”

  And finally it clicked. Rachel had gotten his message. And she’d taken Becca in, as he’d requested. He felt a rush of gratitude and some immense relief.

  She was watching him. “Have you noticed you call me every time you have a lost child?”

  It could have been accusatory, but instead her tone was ironic, almost teasing. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. If there were any other place I could take her—”

  She cut him off. “You don’t have to tell me about it.” The anger was back in her voice. But Rachel was Rachel. No matter how she felt about him, no matter how angry she was, he knew she wouldn’t let a child down.

  One of them is safe, then. At least there’s that. One. Out of how many?

  She was studying him. “You really look terrible.”

  He felt in his pocket and pulled out the MISSING flyer, extended it to her. She looked down at the photo and the text, then looked back up at him. He saw his own rage and hopelessness reflected in her face.

  “How . . .” he said, and didn’t know what he was going to say next. “How do you do it? There are so many. How do you not go crazy?”

  She smiled, but it was nothing but haunted. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  She looked down at the flyer again. “Does this have to do with your case?”

  He didn’t know how to answer that. It’s so much bigger. It’s so beyond me by now.

  “I don’t know what the case is anymore.”

  She watched his face. “Then why don’t you let it go?”

  Let it go.

  He pressed his hands into his eyes. “That’s not up to me. Even if I could—”

  “But it doesn’t have to be you, does it? You could let it go.”

  He looked out on the hazy night lights of the city and shook his head, not only in denial, but because he couldn’t talk to her about it, much as he wanted to.

  “I can’t.”

  She lifted her shoulders in what looked like resignation, and turned to go.

  “Rachel.”

  She turned back to him.

  “Thank you. For taking Becca, for—”

  “Shut up,” she said.

  He put his hand on her arm . . . then pulled her close.

  Across the street, sitting in the dark car, Cara watches as Roarke and the woman embrace.

  She is shaky from her long night, not yet recovered from the bloodshed. But she cannot sleep. Not now. The moon is large and very present, two days to fullness, and its light will reveal all, as it has just done at this moment.

  Roarke does not see it. But it is there, plain in the social worker’s body language. She is hunting.

  So Cara sits until Roarke has turned back toward his house, then starts the car and follows the social worker’s Prius through the dark streets, heading uptown toward the Haight.

  Chapter 58

  Roarke watched Rachel’s Prius drive off. He turned toward his building, then paused on the steps, feeling a strange reluctance to go inside. He knew Mills was right; he needed sleep before the night’s stakeout, needed it desperately. It had been nearly thirty-six hours, approaching the danger zone. But he stayed on the steps and turned from the building to look into the dark.

  Something’s not right.

  He stared out into the night, and he could almost feel the moon growing, somewhere beneath the fog. Full in less than forty-eight hours now. He felt a black hole of dread.

  There was no time to sleep.

  It wasn’t just the Santa Muerte element. It was Cara’s It, and the meta of it too, all of it. He couldn’t get his mind off what Singh had said.

  “There is a manifestation going on.”

  He didn’t know if he had metaphysical questions or purely forensic ones. He only knew that he felt out of his depth, and that lately Singh seemed to have a better grasp on the case than any of them. She knew something. He was suddenly desperate to talk to her.

  Instead of going upstairs, he went into the garage for his car.

  Chapter 59

  Cara follows the Prius on Haight, cruising past the clusters of teens on the corners. The social worker turns on Belvedere and stops the Prius outside the house where she works . . . but she parks illegally. It will be brief.

  Cara waits, watching from the street outside.

  The social worker comes out of the house within minutes, carrying an oversize tote bag, which she puts into the trunk of her car. Then she drives toward the park, drives the forested avenue that cuts through to the 101, which she takes south.

  Cara follows.

  The
night and the fog are excellent cover; no one could know she is on the Prius’ tail. She sits forward behind the wheel of the Toyota, watching out the windshield through the thick mist floating between towering pine trees on either side of the twisting road. Every so often she glimpses the red taillights of the social worker’s car.

  They drive the 101 South, out of San Francisco and skirting the west side of the Bay. Daly City, Millbrae, North Fair Oaks. The social worker has been nearly an hour on the road with no sign of stopping.

  The 101 extends all the way to Mexico; Cara has driven the entire length of it often. It may be a long night. But after Mountain View, the Prius takes the 85 west, then turns off a few miles later onto CA-17 toward the coast. And as Cara reads the road signs, she suspects where they are going.

  She focuses through the mist on the taillights in front of her and drives on.

  Chapter 60

  South of Market was a trendy, gentrified area of warehouses, condos, art spaces, and nightclubs. Roarke had been to Singh’s SoMa loft only a few times, just brief stops to drop her off or pick up a file that couldn’t be scanned. There was no parking to be found, of course. He used his official placard to park illegally on the street.

  He buzzed at the building entry, and when Singh’s dark velvet voice answered, he told the intercom, “Singh, it’s Roarke.”

  There was a silence. “One moment.” He waited, a long minute, and then was buzzed in.

  He rode up in a gleaming and modern elevator.

  In an upstairs hall, his agent opened a blue-painted door. She was dressed in a tunic of deep purple with a design of embroidered gold, and matching trousers, traditional Indian garb that perfectly complemented her dark beauty. Roarke had never seen her wearing anything other than a formal suit, and seeing her this way he had the instant and overwhelming sensation that he had done the wrong thing by coming by, after hours and unannounced. It was too personal, too many boundaries crossed. He stood on her doorstep in a sudden uncertainty, fumbling for words.