Once Gone (a Riley Paige Mystery--Book #1)

by Blake Pierce

  Chapter 7

  Bill found himself in a sea of blue eyes, none of them real. He didn’t usually have nightmares about his cases, and he wasn’t having one now—but it sure felt like one. Here in the middle of the doll store, little blue eyes were simply everywhere, all of them wide open and sparkling and alert.

  The dolls’ little ruby-red lips, most of them smiling, were troubling also. So was all the painstakingly combed artificial hair, so stiff and immobile. Taking in all these details, Bill wondered now how he could have possibly missed the killer’s intention—to make his victims look as doll-like as possible. It had taken Riley to make that connection.

  Thank God she’s back, he thought.

  Still, Bill couldn’t help but worry about her. He had been dazzled by her brilliant work back at Mosby Park. But afterward, when he drove her home, she’d seemed exhausted and demoralized. She’d barely said a word to him during the whole drive. Maybe it had been too much for her.

  Even so, Bill wished that Riley was here right now. She’d decided it would be best for them to split up, to cover more ground more quickly. He couldn’t disagree with that. She’d asked him to cover the doll stores in the area, while she would revisit the scene of the crime they’d covered six months ago.

  Bill looked around and, feeling in way over his head, wondered what Riley would make of this doll store. It was the most elegant of the ones he’d visited today. Here on the edge of the Capital Beltway, the store probably got a lot of classy shoppers from wealthy Northern Virginia counties.

  He walked around and browsed. A little girl doll caught his eye. With its upturned smile and pale skin, it especially reminded him of the latest victim. Although it was fully clothed in a pink dress with lots of lace on the collar, cuffs, and hem, it was also sitting in a disturbingly similar position.

  Suddenly, Bill heard a voice to his right.

  “I think you’re looking in the wrong section.”

  Bill turned and found himself facing a stout little woman with a warm smile. Something about her immediately told him that she was in charge here.

  “Why do you say that?” Bill asked.

  The woman chuckled.

  “Because you don’t have daughters. I can tell a man who doesn’t have a daughter from a mile off. Don’t ask me how, it’s just some kind of instinct, I guess.”

  Bill was stunned by her insight, and deeply impressed.

  She offered Bill her hand.

  “Ruth Behnke,” she said.

  Bill shook her hand.

  “Bill Jeffreys. I take it you own this store.”

  She chuckled again.

  “I see you’ve got some kind of instinct, too,” she said. “I’m pleased to meet you. But you do have sons, don’t you? Three of them, I’d guess.”

  Bill smiled. Her instincts were pretty sharp, all right. Bill figured that she and Riley would enjoy each other’s company.

  “Two,” he replied. “But pretty damn close.”

  She chuckled.

  “How old?” she asked.

  “Eight and ten.”

  She looked around the place.

  “I don’t know that I’ve got much for them here. Oh, actually, I’ve got a few rather quaint toy soldiers in the next aisle. But that’s not the kind of things boys like anymore, is it? It’s all video games these days. And violent ones at that.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She squinted at him appraisingly.

  “You’re not here to buy a doll, are you?” she asked.

  Bill smiled and shook his head.

  “You’re good,” he replied.

  “Are you a cop, maybe?” she asked.

  Bill laughed quietly and took out his badge.

  “Not quite, but a good guess.”

  “Oh, my!” she said, with concern. “What does the FBI want with my little place? Am I on some kind of list?”

  “In a way,” Bill said. “But it’s nothing to worry about. Your shop came up on our search of stores in this area that sell antique and collectible dolls.”

  In fact, Bill didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. Riley had suggested that he check out a handful of these places, assuming the killer might have frequented them—or at least had visited them on some occasion. What she was expecting, he didn’t know. Was she expecting the killer himself to be there? Or that one of the employees had met the killer?

  Doubtful that they had. Even if they had, it was doubtful that they would have recognized him as a killer. Probably all the men that came in here, if any, were creepy.

  More likely Riley was trying to get him to gain more insights into the killer’s mind, his way of looking at the world. If so, Bill figured she’d wind up disappointed. He simply did not have the mind that she did, or the talent to easily walk into killers’ minds.

  It seemed to him as if she were really fishing. There were dozens of doll stores within the radius they had been searching. Better, he thought, to let forensics just continue to track down the doll makers. Though, thus far, that had turned up nothing.

  “I’d ask what kind of case this is,” Ruth said, “but I probably shouldn’t.”

  “No,” Bill said, “you probably shouldn’t.”

  Not that the case was a secret anymore—not after Senator Newbrough’s people had put out a press release about it. The media was now saturated with the news. As usual, the Bureau was reeling under an assault of erroneous phone tips, and the internet was abuzz with bizarre theories. The whole thing had become a pain.

  But why tell the woman about it? She seemed so nice, and her store so wholesome and innocent, that Bill didn’t want to upset her with something so grim and shocking as a serial murderer obsessed with dolls.

  Still, there was one thing he wanted to know.

  “Tell me something,” Bill said. “How many sales do you make to adults—I mean grown-ups without kids?”

  “Oh, those are most of my sales, by far. To collectors.”

  Bill was intrigued. He’d never have guessed that.

  “Why do you think that is?” he asked.

  The woman smiled an odd, distant smile, and spoke in a gentle tone.

  “Because people die, Bill Jeffreys.”

  Now Bill was truly startled.

  “Pardon?” he said.

  “As we get older, we lose people. Our friends and loved ones die. We grieve. Dolls stop time for us. They make us forget our grief. They comfort and console us. Look around you. I’ve got dolls that are most of a century old, and some that are almost new. With some of them, at least, you probably can’t tell the difference. They’re ageless.”

  Bill looked around, feeling creeped out at all the century-old eyes staring back at him, wondering how many people these dolls had outlived. He wondered what they had witnessed—the love, the anger, the hate, the sadness, the violence. And yet still they stared back with that same blank expression. They didn’t make sense to him.

  People should age, he thought. They should get old and lined and gray, as he had, given all the darkness and horror there was in the world. Given all that he had seen, it would be a sin, he thought, if he still looked the same. The murder scenes had sunk into him like a living thing, had made him not want to stay young anymore.

  “They’re also—not alive,” Bill finally said.

  Her smile turned bittersweet, almost pitying.

  “Is that really true, Bill? Most of my customers don’t think so. I’m not sure I think so, either.”

  An odd silence fell. The woman broke it with a chuckle. She offered Bill a colorful little brochure with pictures of dolls all over it.

  “As it happens, I’m heading to an upcoming convention in D.C. You might want to go, too. Maybe it will give you some ideas for whatever it is you’re searching for.”

  Bill thanked her and left the store, grateful for the tip about the convention. He hoped that Riley would go with him. Bill remembered that she was supposed to interview Senator Newbrough and his wife this af
ternoon. It was an important appointment—not just because the senator might have good information, but for diplomatic reasons. Newbrough really was making things hot for the Bureau. Riley was just the agent to convince him that they were doing all that they could.

  But will she really show up? Bill wondered.

  It seemed truly bizarre that he couldn’t be sure. Until six months ago, Riley was the one dependable thing in his life. He had always trusted her with his life. But her obvious distress worried him.

  More than that, he missed her. Daunted as he sometimes was by her quicksilver mind, he needed her on a job like this. During the last six weeks, he’d also come to realize that he needed her friendship.

  Or, deep down, was it more than that?