The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  So far, however, no sign of Delilah Rose.

  “Night of the twenty-seventh,” Sal was saying, “Tommy got a call on his cell phone. Took it in his room, very hush-hush. When he came out, he announced he was off to meet a friend. He was practically bouncing, his mother said, grinning and rushing his way out the door. Her gut reaction at the time—definitely the friend was female and definitely he was excited to see her. Now, understand Tommy hadn’t been in town for four months. So if it was a female friend, most likely it would have to be a former acquaintance. Which made her wonder …”

  “If it wasn’t the mystery girl from his senior year.”

  “And,” Sal finished with gusto, “locals confirmed that the dirt road where Tommy died was Alpharetta’s version of lovers’ lane. Heavily wooded, lightly traveled. Perfect place for Tommy to rendezvous with la femme fatale.”

  “Who then turned around and shot him?”

  “Maybe absence had made her heart grow fonder. She was making a late quarter play. Tommy, on the other hand … Hey, a good-looking kid like that going off to college. I doubt he spent the fall sleeping alone.”

  “So first our mystery chick dumps him, then when she can’t have him back, she kills him?”

  “I agree,” Sal said. “Women don’t make any sense.”

  “Oh please. Like men are such a walk in the park.” Kimberly finished the comment more bitterly than she intended, then returned to her moody study of the passenger’s side window.

  Sal drifted into silence. Guy seemed to only have two modes, eating and talking. At the moment, both were annoying the snot out of her.

  She saw a girl exit the establishment, big blond hair, shockingly short skirt, sky-high heels. She had her arm hooked around the elbow of a man three times her age, with the requisite mustache and comb-over. Sonny Bono for the new millennium. The girl was giggling and cracking her gum as they sashayed away.

  Guy like that you’d think could put out for a hotel room. Instead, he’d probably demand a blow job in the front seat of his Porsche, fulfilling many fantasies at once.

  She’d once given Mac a hand job while they’d been driving down the interstate at night. He’d almost careened off the road and killed them—not quite how it played out in the Cosmo cover stories. Once they’d made it home, however, things had gone much better.

  That had been in the early days, of course. When they’d both been young and flush with new love and not afraid to be reckless.

  Did you ever get those days back? Or was this just it? They would hammer away at each other, finding fresh faults and old annoyances to govern their week to week. Until she gave up, or Mac gave up, and they joined the national statistics.

  Her mother had never forgiven her father. Bethie had fallen in love with Quincy, married him, and borne his children. And still he hadn’t come home at night. She had never, ever gotten over the slight. And he had never, ever stopped feeling guilty.

  How could death be more important than your family?

  “What ya thinkin’?” Sal ventured.

  Kimberly tore her glance away from the window.

  “I’m thinking about fetal development,” she announced crisply. “I’m thinking that babies react to loud noises at eighteen weeks in the womb, but the inner, outer, and middle ears aren’t fully developed until twenty-six weeks. So at twenty-two weeks, just what level of hearing are we talking? The womb is a noisy place, heart beating, blood swishing, food digesting. Maybe the baby can’t hear at all. Or maybe she heard everything. Or maybe she just heard the loud parts, the really bad parts. Is that worse? I don’t know.”

  “Your baby can hear us?” Sal was staring at her belly in fascination. “You mean, like right now, he, she, it is eavesdropping on everything we say?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “Wow,” he said. “That is so cool.”

  His words surprised her. “You mean it?”

  “Sure. I mean, think about it. On a good day, I can maybe start my lawn mower. While you’re sitting over there growing life, an honest-to-goodness little person who’s gonna say Mama, Dada, and maybe grow up to one day, I don’t know, design a better lawn mower. Do you think, when it moves again, that I could touch it? Just once.”

  She had to think about it. “Well, you did buy me pudding.”

  “Amazing,” Sal said again, and seemed to mean it.

  “You should get a dog, Sal.”

  “Nah, I’m allergic.”

  “What about a bonsai? There’s an agent in our office—”

  But before she could continue, the landscape finally changed. Sal saw it, too.

  “Target, three o’clock,” he announced.

  “Showtime.” Then they were out of the car, homing in on Delilah Rose.

  Moment Delilah caught sight of them, she tried to bolt. Sal caught her by the arm, spinning her back around. Kimberly blocked the girl’s path to the street. Realizing she was trapped, Delilah went on the defensive.

  “I can’t be seen with you. For God’s sake, go away!”

  “You seem a little edgy, Delilah. Come on, surely since the formation of the new Sandy Springs PD, it’s not unusual for a prostitute to be questioned by law enforcement.”

  “Fuck the police. Fuck other girls’ opinions. It’s Dinchara I worry about. He thinks I’m squealing, I’ll be dead by morning.”

  “All right then.” Sal gestured expansively to his unmarked sedan. “Step into my office. We’ll cruise around the block; no one will be the wiser.”

  “Please. That thing screams narc.”

  “Then we’ll take a walk.” Kimberly already had her arm looped snugly through Delilah’s. She pulled forward, forcing the stumbling girl to follow. “Gotta be a family-friendly establishment somewhere,” Kimberly said. “I doubt Mr. Dinchara spends a lot of time in those kinds of joints. It’ll be like hiding in plain sight, plus we can all enjoy a healthy dinner peppered with your witty repartee.”

  “I hate you,” Delilah muttered darkly, but fell into step. “You’re ruining my life.”

  “See, the free exchange of ideas has already begun. Can you really walk in those boots? Damn, you’re tall.”

  Sal and Kimberly kept Delilah wedged between them, rapidly moving her down one block and over three. In the urban mix that marked this section of town, a brightly colored Italian restaurant was only a hop, skip, and a jump away. They dragged her inside, plopped her in a booth surrounded by families of four and passed out menus. Sal announced he was starved and picked out lasagna. Kimberly went with the bottomless soup and salad. Delilah cursed and grumbled, and then, when she finally realized someone else was paying, ordered fettuccini alfredo and the grilled chicken.

  Sal and Kimberly let dinner come first. They heaped hot pasta and steaming soup on their starved informant, counting on comfort food to do their work for them. Any advantage helped.

  “Do I get reimbursed for lost wages?” Delilah wanted to know, glancing at her watch halfway through the meal.

  “No, but you can take home the doggie bag,” Kimberly assured her.

  The hooker rolled her eyes. “What am I gonna do? Shove leftover chicken into my push-up bra while I work the rest of the night?”

  “I bet some guys would pay extra for that,” Sal said seriously.

  Delilah scowled at him. “You’re the creep who tried to talk to me the first time. I don’t like you.” She looked at Kimberly. “Make him go away.”

  “Tried,” Kimberly said. “He’s got the personality of Velcro. Might as well get used to him.”

  “Hey, I don’t have to get used to annoy—”

  Kimberly interrupted the girl’s latest tirade by reaching over, grabbing the girl’s wrist, and slamming it down into her plate of fettuccini. “Shut up and listen. You wanted to deal information. Well, here we are. So stop wasting our fucking time and talk.”

  Delilah regarded her more warily. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

 
“My mother’s dead, thanks for asking.”

  The girl’s gaze finally fell. Kimberly withdrew her hand. She watched steadily as Delilah picked up a napkin, dabbed at the splashed white sauce. Sal was doing his part by disappearing into the eggplant-colored booth. They might make it as a team yet.

  “Why are you calling me, Delilah?”

  The girl looked confused. “Call you? I haven’t called you. I haven’t even seen Spideyman since we last talked, and I don’t have anything new to report.”

  “Who’d you tell about our meeting?”

  “Tell? Are you fucking nuts? World I live in, snitches have a short life span. Not something to be bragging about.”

  Kimberly appraised her, trying to decide if the girl was telling the truth. Delilah was wearing her dirty-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. It emphasized the dark blue tattoo of a spider creeping above her shoulders, legs clutching her neck, fangs reaching for the curve of her left ear.

  “Did he suggest the tattoo, Delilah? Maybe pay you to do it? Couple of hundred dollars, a thousand? What does it cost to scar a girl’s neck?”

  Delilah’s gaze skittered away, letting Kimberly know she was onto something.

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Couple of months,” Delilah mumbled, still not making eye contact.

  “According to you, Ginny Jones disappeared three months ago, and you both knew Mr. Dinchara prior to that. Makes it longer than a couple of months in my book.”

  “Okay, maybe more like six months. Or eight. I don’t know. Who’s counting?”

  “So you knew him prior to becoming pregnant.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. She went deathly still, gaze fixed on her leftover pasta, arms straight at her sides.

  “Delilah?”

  “Dinchara is not the father of my baby,” the girl expelled in a rush. “I had a boyfriend. Someone I loved, all right? Someone who I thought loved me. So just fuck off. Don’t make this about my baby.”

  “Then what’s this about? You’ve known Dinchara for nearly a year. Why rat on him now?”

  “I told you why. He did something to Ginny—”

  “What about Bonita Breen? Or Mary Back or Etta Mae Reynolds? Any of those names ring a bell?” Sal spoke up now, drawing Delilah’s attention. He had moved over, wedging her into the corner, letting her feel how hemmed in she was, how few options she had left.

  “What? Who?”

  “Or Nicole Evans, Beth Hunnicutt, Cyndie Rodriguez? Roommates, associates, partners in crime?”

  Delilah frowned at him, looking distracted, frazzled. “Cyndie’s gone. Has been for months. What’s this got to do with Cyndie?”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “I don’t know. Where does anyone go? Away from here.”

  “You knew her well?”

  “Only well enough to trip over her every other week. That girl liked to party, know what I mean?”

  “Drugs?”

  “Please, she’d snort anything from superglue to cocaine. Guess you could call her an equal opportunity loser.” Delilah’s righteousness had squared her shoulders again, brought the defiance back to her eyes.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Hell if I know. Cyndie was one of those girls who was just … around. You’d see her here or there. Not like we were pen pals or anything.”

  “You know her roommates?”

  Delilah frowned. “Wait a minute. Two girls, right? One a brunette, the other a really badly dyed blonde? Yeah, now that you mention it, I saw her with a couple of girls from time to time. Once, they were lifting her sorry ass off the floor, dragging her toward the door. Guess they might have been her roomies.”

  “Seen them around lately?”

  “Nah, not really.”

  “That happen a lot? Girls appearing and disappearing?”

  “Happens all the time. Girls think they’ll try on the life, make a quick buck or two. But then it sucks ’em in and burns ’em out. Then they’re gone.”

  “Where do they go?” Kimberly asked.

  “Work the loop,” Delilah said with a shrug. “If you’re not making it here, you head east to Miami, or west to Texas. Everyone’s got a story of a friend who lives here or there, making a thousand bucks a night. So off the girls go, to do the same old thing in a different city, as if they’ll suddenly strike it rich. Kind of funny, if you think about it. All us working girls are actually optimists at heart.”

  “Do any of them ever come back?” Sal wanted to know.

  “Sometimes. I don’t know. Maybe a year or two later. Unless they get into drugs,” she said matter-of-factly. “Then they’re just plain fried.”

  “Cyndie, Beth, Nicole. What about them?”

  Another negligent shrug. “Haven’t seen ’em. Why do you care?”

  “Why do you care about Ginny Jones?” Kimberly asked. “Why do you think she didn’t set off to find greener pastures like everyone else?”

  “Because she wouldn’t go like that,” Delilah said immediately. “She wouldn’t leave without telling me.”

  “You were that close?”

  “Ginny was nice. No one appreciated that about her. They thought she was freaky. But she had plans, dreams, hopes. She was just … lost, you know.”

  “Ever talk about her mom?”

  Another shrug, but less certain this time. She’d gone back to staring at her pasta, and Kimberly could practically feel the girl picking through her brain, trying to find the least obvious lie.

  “I think her mom died,” Delilah said softly.

  “She tell you that?” Sal asked.

  “She … implied it. Said she had no one. That she was all alone.”

  “And you, Delilah,” Kimberly asked quietly, “what brought you here?”

  The girl recoiled as if struck. Then her head was up, her eyes flashing hot. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Cops! Never around when you need ’em.”

  “If you’d like to report a crime—”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Delilah—”

  “No, I’m done. All right? You guys are no better than anyone else. Just a different pair of johns, ready to use and abuse to get what you want. Then you’ll kick me to the curb without even tossing me a ten-spot. Fuck it, all right. Just plain fuck it!”

  Delilah darted her gaze between Kimberly and Sal, then, having made her choice, planted two hands on Sal’s chest and shoved him aside. Short of physically restraining her, there was nothing he could do to stop her.

  She stormed over him, several diners pausing over their meals long enough to gawk at the flash of bare legs.

  The restaurant manager hurried over, giving them nervous glances.

  “Check, please,” Kimberly said.

  Manager scurried away. Sal collected himself.

  “She’s a little hot-tempered,” Sal said.

  Kimberly was already slapping money on the table, then heaving out of the booth.

  “Come on, Sal. Little Miss Muffet is scared. Let’s see where she runs.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “A spider eats about 2,000 insects a year. Without spiders the world would be overrun with bugs.”

  FROM Freaky Facts About Spiders,

  BY CHRISTINE MORLEY, 2007

  Delilah Rose moved fast for a pregnant girl in four-inch heels. Despite her claims of returning to work, she bypassed five clubs, weaving her way in and out of the long blocks with the practice of a woman who knew her way around.

  Huffing and puffing behind her, Kimberly and Sal were forced to hold back, blending into the crowds of young people swelling the doorway of each establishment, then fighting their way free only to latch onto the fringes of the next party strolling up the block. Inevitably, the group would veer off from Delilah’s route, leaving the investigators exposed and vulnerable until the next foursome came along.

  Delilah had her head down, hands clutching her ragged blue coat closed. She alternated between a near sprint and sudden dead hal
ts, where she glanced every which way with the heightened paranoia of a woman living on the edge.

  She went up one side of the block, made a hard right, only to come back down the other side. To flush out quarry? Throw the diligent off her tracks? Kimberly was beginning to get dizzy with the effort of keeping up while simultaneously keeping out of sight, when suddenly, Delilah homed in on a banged-up Mazda wedged between two four-wheel-drive trucks.

  The girl fished underneath the Mazda, finally pulling out a magnetic case bearing keys, and Kimberly felt her heart sink.

  “Damn, she has a car.”

  “I thought the police picked her up the first time at the MARTA station.”

  “Well, apparently that taught her a lesson, because now she’s driving.”

  Delilah had the door open, was sliding behind the wheel.

  “Now what?” Kimberly muttered, holding her left side, which had begun to cramp from the exertion.

  “Look,” Sal said rapidly, glancing at her rounded belly. “You go back for my car. I’ll stick with her. These city blocks with a light on every corner … Hell, you can pretty much walk ’em as fast as you can drive ’em. With any luck, I can keep her in sight until you can rendezvous with the vehicle.”

  He tossed her the keys just as Delilah pulled out. Sal scrambled to follow, dashing for the intersection. Kimberly headed back as quickly as she could, gasping in spite of herself and hoping she didn’t throw up.

  Mac was right, dammit. In another month, it would be all she could do to waddle down the hall.

  Now she pressed her hand against her side and promised Baby McCormack a pony if she’d just hang in there five more minutes. Baby McCormack kicked her, so apparently the child already had Mac’s sense of humor.

  She made it to Sal’s car. Did not throw up. Slid into the driver’s seat, then floundered with the ignition, the seat belt, the unfamiliar setup. She was still shaky and panting, not at all like her normal cool, calm self. Pulling out, she cut off another vehicle and earned a blare from a horn and a loud screw you!