Waking the Dead

by Kylie Brant

  “Your earlier profile didn’t mention that possibility.” Andrews tapped the edge of the folder on the table in a rhythm that immediately set Cait’s teeth on edge.

  “I said it would be a developing document. It changes as more information comes to light. And if money turns out to be the motivation for the homicides, rather than the act of killing for itself, the picture of our offender changes.”

  Barnes cocked his head. “How so?”

  “Marissa Recinos disappeared from Seattle. Paul Livingston from LA.” She raised her brows, but when neither of them commented, Cait went on. “That’s a lot of area to cover. Someone has to do the actual kidnapping. The money transfer. The kills. The disposal. Whoever set up the offshore accounts is good enough to have stumped law enforcement in two different states. That suggests a highly evolved individual with advanced training and knowledge in that area. A very different personality type from the offender who disposed of the bodies. The second person is also organized, given the degree of planning that goes into the disposals. But his planning shows signs of being rooted in emotion, drawn probably from a traumatic experience in his past.” She paused a moment, because she hadn’t completely had time to thoroughly think through the description. “Offender two may also be the one to do the actual killing.”

  “How can you know that?” Barnes’s tone was more curious than questioning.

  “When it comes to profiling, very little is known.” Cait wished she’d brought in the bottle of water she’d bought on her way here this morning. Her throat felt like she’d been gargling with sand. “I’m just drawing conclusions based on the evidence as it presents itself. But supposing there are multiple UNSUBs, there has to be something that draws offender two more deeply into the crime. Offenders that act as a team are often careful to be sure one is just as guilty as the other. An equal division of labor, if you will. It helps build trust that one won’t turn in the other. He can’t, or he risks incriminating himself, as well. Disposing of the bones hardly carries the same danger as stealing funds or homicide.”

  “But that inequity is exactly what I would expect to find if, say, it were a man and woman working together,” Andrews argued. “It wouldn’t be unusual at all for the female in the team to be at lower risk, although she helps somehow in the commission of the crime.”

  Nodding, Cait replied, “True. But if one of the offenders is female, it’s my guess she’s the brains. The one behind the money transfers, simply because it’s difficult to imagine a woman hauling those bodies up to Castle Rock in the middle of the night.”

  Stubbornly, Andrews said, “Painting those images seems more feminine to me. But you may be right about there being multiple offenders.” She shot a look at Barnes. “I’ll want a list of all Sharper’s known acquaintances since he’s been back in the area.”

  “He grew up around there,” the deputy reminded her. “He likely knows most everybody.”

  Ignoring his words, Andrews went on, “And see what you can find out about his finances. He happened into a great deal of money in the last few years, I’m told.”

  There was a quick vicious twist in Cait’s gut. “The property he’s building his house on is worth approximately a million dollars.” She wasn’t sure if the shock in their expression was due to the number or the fact that she knew about it at all. “I looked it up in the courthouse records. He said he was the sole beneficiary of his grandfather’s will. I’m sure you can acquire details of the probate.”

  “I’ll do that.” There was a light in the other woman’s eyes that she didn’t trust. “I want a go at him before he has a chance to prepare. So I’d appreciate it if you don’t let your relationship with the man blind you to his possible guilt. I don’t want him tipped off that I’ll be talking to him.”

  Every organ inside her ground to a halt. Brain. Heart. Lungs. Then they restarted with a lurch that had the blood pulsing like a sprinter through her veins. “My relationship with him?”

  Barnes studied a nonexistent spot on the wall while the sheriff spoke. “It’s come to my attention that you and he may have become . . . closer recently. I have to be sure that isn’t going to affect your ability to remain objective.”

  She welcomed the temper that fired at Andrews’s words. It was infinitely preferable to the self-doubt, the all-encompassing fear that had all but paralyzed her earlier. “If you’re asking if I’ve slept with him, the answer is yes. But my brain happens to function independently of my sex organs.” The deputy flinched a little in the face of her frank language. But it was the sheriff she was addressing. Barnes may have been the conveyor of that little message, but it was Andrews who was twisting it to suit herself. “I’ve never given you any reason to question my professionalism. But if you’ve got doubts now, say so.” Even she could hear the dare in her words. She stared at the sheriff, their gazes doing battle. And it was small comfort when, at the end, it was Andrews who looked away.

  “Don’t be so damn touchy. I was just saying . . .”

  “I know exactly what you were saying, Sheriff.” Cait stood, more than ready to leave. “You made it clear enough. Rather than focusing on Sharper, you’d do better to run the records on locals in the area. Anyone with a history of violence. I know for a fact that Rick Moses, at least, recently got out of prison.”

  “We’re on that. Moses served time for vehicular manslaughter.” Without a breath, the woman shifted back to her original topic. “I thought you could come with me when I talk to Sharper today.”

  She’d rather chew glass. “There are still a couple detectives I haven’t heard from yet. I’m going to contact them again and then interview the owners of the businesses that showed up on the victims’ credit card statements.” Cait pushed back her chair and rose, seeing the skim of Andrews’s eyebrows and not giving a damn. Regardless of the sheriff’s inferences, she’d provide any information she had in her possession about the case, whoever it might point to. But she wasn’t up to interrogating the man. Not when she could vividly recall the hours she’d spent wrapped around him last night. This morning.

  Professionalism was one thing. She gathered up her files and headed for the door. But she’d be lying if she claimed anything in her training had prepared her for getting involved with a man who was a possible suspect in the case.

  It was midafternoon before Cait nosed her vehicle toward McKenzie Bridge. She’d checked out the businesses that had shown up on Livingston’s statement first, a couple gift stores in Sisters. As she’d suspected, it was nearly impossible to jog people’s memories about a tourist that had been a customer over three years ago. Employees at the businesses had come and gone. And none of those she’d talked to had recognized his picture.

  It was difficult to believe she’d have any better luck in McKenzie Bridge, but she was determined to conduct those interviews as well before the day ended. She’d wanted to meet more of the locals there anyway, she reminded herself, slowing behind a county dump truck filled with gravel. There was a more urgent need for that now after finding out that Recinos had stayed in the area.

  She’d managed to make contact with a Detective Mark Holder in Nevada that morning, and she could now officially discount his missing person case. New evidence had recently come to light, and Gary Smith’s wife was now suspected of killing her husband and cremating him in the family’s mortuary business. Which was a macabre ending any way you looked at it.

  There was still no response from Sergeant Hal Cross of Idaho, but she’d left yet another message. And considered, again, that she was going to have to relook at the list of missing persons she’d formulated. She’d deliberately concentrated first on subjects from neighboring states, but it was time to branch out farther. It was still hard to believe the UNSUB—or, if her newest theory was correct—one of the UNSUBs had traveled hundreds of miles to kidnap the victims. But the offender was proving much more daring than she’d originally believed.

  Her cell beeped, indicating an incoming text message. Keeping her
eyes on the road, Cait felt around in her purse until she retrieved the cell. It was another minute before traffic thinned enough for her to risk a glance at it.

  PICNIC AT MY PLACE TONIGHT. REAL FOOD.

  She dropped the phone on her lap as if it burned. Obviously Andrews hadn’t caught up with Zach yet. It was doubtful he’d be in the mood to issue invitations after spending a few hours in the sheriff’s company. As a matter of fact, Cait had an all too clear mental picture of exactly how he’d react to the questions the woman would be leveling at him.

  It was still plenty fresh in her mind what it had felt like to be on the receiving end of the sheriff’s interrogation this morning.

  Not for the first time that day, she considered Andrews’s implication about Cait’s objectivity. Without knowing it, the woman had unerringly put her finger on the button guaranteed to elicit all the old self-doubts about her judgment in men. Doubts she’d never considered in the course of her job. In that area, at least, her instincts didn’t fail her.

  She’d discounted Sharper when she developed the profile. Before she became involved with him. But it was easy to question those conclusions now, with the sheriff’s questions still fresh in her mind.

  Rather than bothering with a map, she relied on familiar landmarks to find her way back to McKenzie Bridge. When she saw the General Store up ahead, Cait knew exactly where she was. She took the next left toward the small town.

  Andrews was wrong about Sharper. And it was professional opinion rather than emotion that told Cait that. Even the evolving theory that they were looking for at least two UNSUBs instead of one ruled him out in her mind. The man was a loner. While it was plain he had friends and was well liked by people in the area, he wasn’t the type to join forces with another in something as twisted as the crimes they were investigating.

  If Zach Sharper were going to kill eight people, she’d be willing to bet he’d do it alone. And he damn well wouldn’t invite the sheriff to his disposal site to show off his handiwork.

  Certainty accompanied the thought. Almost enough to completely alleviate the sneaky little sliver of doubt Andrews had unleashed this morning.

  Doubt that reminded her that it wouldn’t be the first time she’d been wrong about a man. Her track record in that area was dismal. But just because she’d chosen men for years who were interested only in arm candy, didn’t mean that this time she’d hooked up with a serial killer.

  Cait pulled up to the curb on Main Street and put the vehicle in park. She’d made mistakes in her life. And maybe—a chill broke out over her skin as the echo of that long-ago gunshot sounded in her mind—maybe she’d started the mistakes at an early age. Undoubtedly the trauma when she was eight had factored into a years-long habit of choosing the wrong men for the wrong reasons. But she’d broken that pattern long ago.

  And Sheriff Marin Andrews wasn’t going to convince her any differently.

  The glare from the afternoon sun was still strong, so she kept her sunglasses on as she got out of the vehicle, locked it, and rounded the hood toward the sidewalk. There were people out and about. Little clusters chatting in front of the ice cream shop and the post office. Others loitering outside the shop windows, peering in. Whatever impact the murders had had on the area, business seemed brisk this afternoon, with most storefronts boasting a steady trickle of customers through their doors.

  Because it was closest, Cait ducked into the ice cream shop first, her gaze going to the wait staff at the counter. She knew immediately they’d be no help. Both were teenagers, a boy and a girl, and neither would have been working age three years ago when Livingston had been in the area, much less Recinos.

  Nevertheless she approached them and waited patiently to be waited on. As it happened she got the girl, who raked her over with her gaze, taking in every inch of her appearance.

  “What can I get you?”

  She spoke with a slight speech impediment, but Cait decided that was due to the piercing on her tongue. The girl couldn’t be more than fifteen, with brown hair in need of a wash, and an unfortunate complexion.

  “I’d like to speak to the owner. Is he or she around?”

  As an answer the teenager turned away toward a door that led to a back room. “Mom! Someone here to see you.”

  Obviously feeling like she’d done her duty, the girl walked by Cait to wait on the next customer. Several moments passed before a woman appeared in the doorway, a frown on her face as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel and scanned the interior of the shop.

  “You’re the owner?” Cait was already reaching for the file folder she carried with the victims’ pictures.

  “Casey Teames. And you’re not a salesperson.” Something in the woman’s stance eased and she came closer to the counter, leaned both hands against it. “Sorry, but that’s about the only people who come in asking for me.”

  A slight smile curving her lips, Cait pressed her temporary Sheriff’s Department ID against the clear plastic back-splash separating them. “No, I’m not here to sell you anything. I just have a few questions. How long have you owned this shop?”

  The woman gave the ID a cursory glance before returning her gaze to Cait. “Nine years, I guess. No wait, eight and a half. Steph was in second grade when we bought it, and she’s a sophomore now.” She slid a quick glance to the girl who was now giggling with the boy working beside her. “Hard to believe.”

  Passing the pictures of the two victims to Casey, Cait said, “Both of these people have been tourists in the area in the past few years. Recognize either of them?”

  To her credit, the other woman took her time studying each, before slowly shaking her head and passing the photos back. “I don’t. Sorry. We usually get a lot of people in and out of here in the summer and fall. Is there any reason I should recognize them?”

  Ready to move on, she said, “Not really. I’ll be hitting as many shops in the area as I can to ask the same question. I appreciate your time.”

  There was a slightly puzzled expression on the woman’s face, but it was clear the majority of her focus was on her daughter and the girl’s attention to the boy working with her. “No problem.”

  Cait vacated the shop and wended her way through the half-filled tables on the walk outside it to move on to the next store, a small crowded space featuring leather goods. The owner, a lean taciturn man by the name of Jacob Beales, spent much less time looking at the photos than Casey Teames had, and much more time pressing his wares on her.

  “Finest leather goods in the area, and everyone around here will tell you the same.” He picked up a brown suede purse and tried to thrust it into her hands. “Just feel that. Doe skin. You may pay less at a country fair, but then you’d never be able to find the vendor again if something goes wrong. I guarantee everything I sell. Thirty days, same as cash.”

  The bell on the door tinkled, and Cait took advantage of the diversion to make her escape back outside.

  She remembered the gift shop next door. She’d spent a bit of time looking in its windows the last time she’d strolled Main Street. Pushing the door open, she entered to find it crowded with several browsers.

  With a quick glance toward the front, she saw one woman with gray braids pinned up on her head manning a cash register and another, a couple decades younger, helping a couple trying to decide between two paintings on whitewashed canvas.

  Cait decided to use her intervening time perusing the rows of artwork lining ledges along one wall. But after only a few moments, she decided that nothing on display came close to the images painted on back of the scapulas. Not, she admitted silently, that she would necessarily recognize the style on a bigger canvas. But it reminded her to show the picture she’d brought of close-ups taken of a few of the images, just in case.

  “Ms. Fleming. Decide to buy a painting after all?”

  The familiar voice had her turning. And smiling when she saw Jeffrey Russo behind her. “Just poking around. What about you? Looking for another place to display your wo
rk?”

  “Can’t paint fast enough to keep my gallery happy as it is.” Today he was dressed in creased walking shorts, Birken stocks, and a buttoned-down shirt. With a flip of his hand, he indicated his fiancée on the far side of the store. “You remember Candi Montrose? She’s trying to decide whether to make an offer on this place. It wouldn’t be my first choice, but she’s the one with the head for numbers. And according to her figures, it’s very successful, given its limited inventory.”

  Cait’s gaze lingered on the woman for a moment. There was a certain charm to the shop, but somehow she couldn’t imagine Candi spending her days inside it, waiting on demanding customers. She reminded Cait of her mother. Although the women didn’t look alike, they shared a similar regal bearing and a vague sense of entitlement. Something that said they were born for better and that their expectations in life had never quite been met.

  “And how is your case going? I’ll admit to being intrigued enough by the details to listen to every bit of news there is about it. The news of the bones being found in Mimosa Creek was absolutely chilling.”

  Her attention firmly back on the man at her side, she said, “Have you ever been there? To the springs?”

  The elderly man shook his head. “Candi’s not much of an outdoorswoman. Are you close to making an arrest?”

  The retired professor, she decided, was something of a gossip. “The case is progressing. We have several leads we’re following.”

  “Cop speak,” he complained, but his eyes were twinkling. “I’ve watched enough TV to recognize it.”

  “Maybe so. But that doesn’t make it untrue.”

  Russo lowered his voice. “I heard some young lovers found the bones when they snuck into the springs au naturel.”

  “You heard wrong.” The man looked so crestfallen that she almost felt sorry for her response. “As usual truth isn’t as an exciting as rumors.”

  “Well, that’s to be expected, I suppose.” His tone was rueful. “Never believe everything you hear, right? Small-town grapevines are like university campuses. Facts change to become more titillating.” He scanned the displayed artwork critically. “See anything that meets your fancy?”