Say Goodbye

by Lisa Gardner

  He’d been listening to the radio. Some conservative talk-show host ranting about how the ACLU was ruining the world. As Kimberly settled in, however, Sal snapped it off.

  “Been waiting long?” she asked, digging into the first pudding. She knew Sal only in passing. Had bumped into him at a barbecue, some police function somewhere. Both the GBI and the FBI were large organizations, meaning more of the agents were names she’d heard rather than faces she knew, and Sal was no exception.

  Small, dark, and wiry, he possessed the sinewy build of someone who grew up hard, probably not far from the streets he now patrolled. He wore a light gray suit this morning, but still managed to look more like an up-and-coming hoodlum than a state investigator.

  “Been here twenty minutes,” he commented, held up a greasy fast-food bag. “Had my breakfast.”

  “More comfortable inside the station,” Kimberly said.

  “Not sure what I think of ’em yet,” Sal stated, jerking his head toward the Sandy Springs PD, which was an icebreaker of sorts coming from a GBI special agent.

  Kimberly finished the first pudding, opened a second. Something about this felt all wrong. A GBI agent’s insistent middle-of-the-night phone call that she needed to talk to some pinched prostitute. Then the same special agent waiting for her afterward. Kimberly tried working the angles in her mind, but came up empty.

  “Sal,” she said at last, “much as I appreciate the pudding, I’m not giving away the keys to the kingdom for snack packs. So if you want something, start talking. I have another appointment in thirty minutes.”

  Sal laughed. It brought a spark to his eyes, eased the tightness around his jaw. He should laugh more. Then again, so should she.

  “Okay, here’s the deal: You know I’m on VICMO?”

  Kimberly nodded.

  “One of the whole points of VICMO being to bring law enforcement agents together from all across the state to look for larger patterns of crime.”

  “I’m an FBI agent, Sal. I know my acronyms. We’re tested every Friday.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  He laughed again, dark eyes flashing bright. “Okay, well, I have a theory on a larger pattern of crime: I believe someone’s picking off prostitutes.”

  Kimberly frowned, dug into her pudding. “What do you mean you have a theory? The girls are declared missing or they’re not. Missing stats go up, or they don’t.”

  “Not these girls. Runaways, hookers, addicts. Who cares enough to file a claim? They disappear and no one’s the wiser.”

  “They’re also transient,” Kimberly countered. “If they go missing, maybe it’s because they hopped on a bus.”

  “Absolutely. You’re not talking about one of the population groups most likely to fill out the U.S. Census Bureau questionnaire. On the other hand, get a lot of officers in a room, and they each have a story of some girl or addict or whomever, who was pinched lately, and first question she asked them is have you seen so-and-so? She’s looking for a lost friend, roommate, partner in crime. ’Course, no one knows what she’s talking about, so end of story. You’re right, these girls don’t file missing persons reports. But one by one, they’re raising the exact same question: Where have all the hookers gone?”

  “Very poetic of you, Sal.”

  “I play an open mic night, every Thursday at the Wildcat…”

  Kimberly stared at him.

  “Oh, you weren’t serious.”

  “I’m going to eat another pudding,” Kimberly said, and opened a third, not because she was hungry, but because she needed something to do.

  “I don’t get it,” she said at last. “So girls are whispering about missing girls. Okay, but where have the missing hookers gone? If someone is ‘picking them off ’ as you say, where’s the evidence? Shouldn’t missing Girl A, last seen here, correlate with unidentified Body B, now found there?”

  “Tried that. No unidentified female bodies have been found lately.”

  She gave him a look. “Seems to shoot down your theory right there. If a predator was preying on prostitutes, he’d be disposing of the bodies somewhere. In Dumpsters, back alleys, along the interstate. Something would’ve turned up.”

  Sal shrugged. “How many of Ted Bundy’s victims are still undiscovered? He favored rolling them down ravines. Let’s face it, this state has a lot of ravines. And chicken farms, and marshlands, and miles and miles of nothing at all. You wanna hide a body, Georgia is the place to do it. Or,” he conceded, “maybe the guy crosses state lines. It’s always a possibility, but you’d know better than me.”

  Kimberly could already hear the skepticism in his voice. After all, if a subject was picking up prostitutes in Georgia and killing them in Louisiana, then it definitely would be a federal case and Sal didn’t think this was a feebie case. He thought it was his case, so for that reason alone, the subject could only be operating inside Georgia lines.

  Kimberly studied him. She was doing some math in her head and it wasn’t working out in his favor. “Trevor said they picked up Delilah shortly after one. But I didn’t get called until after three. Anything you want to add to that timeline, Special Agent?”

  Sal didn’t bother to appear repentant. He simply shot her a grin. “Heard you were smart.”

  “Violent, too. Don’t let the belly fool you.”

  His grin broadened. “Okay, sure, so maybe I took a shot at her.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm.”

  “If it’s any consolation, little Miss Muffet wouldn’t bite. Was adamant from the moment the police picked her up that she would speak with you and only you.”

  “Liked her tattoos, did you?”

  “How do you know her?” he asked curiously. “Drug activity? Meth? Seems kind of low level to be narc’ing for a fed.”

  “You never know where the good information might come from.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why this level of intensity, Sal? Poaching an informant, rousing a fed in the middle of the night. From the sound of it, you don’t even have a case, yet you’re jumping through a lot of hoops to talk to one inked-up hooker.”

  Sal didn’t answer her. His gaze had gone out the window. He wasn’t smiling anymore, and the dark look on his face had probably scared an informant or two.

  “I got a package,” he said curtly. “Fourteen months ago. No name on it, no note in it. Just three Georgia-issued driver’s licenses stuffed in a plain white envelope and placed beneath the windshield wiper of my car. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Driver’s licenses? You talking forgeries or the real deal?”

  “Real deal. I have valid photo IDs for Bonita Breen, Mary Back, and Etta Mae Reynolds. White females, roughly twenty years of age, addresses from the greater Atlanta area. I did some digging and guess what?”

  “They’re all missing hookers.”

  “They’re all working girls,” he fine-tuned, “who haven’t been spotted in months. Now, according to the grapevine, Mary headed for Texas, while Etta Mae ran off with some bartender. I’ve issued BOLOs for both, without any hits. So in my world, that makes them missing, though it’s possible my supe has other ideas on the subject.”

  Kimberly had to smile. She might know something about disagreeing with a superior. These things happened.

  “Then,” Sal continued, “three months ago, same thing. I come out to my car and discover a new envelope, with three new licenses: Beth Hunnicutt, Nicole Evans, and Cyndie Rodriguez. Except this time I get lucky. Beth Hunnicutt has been declared missing, by her roommate, Nicole Evans.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. The same Nicole Evans whose driver’s license is in the envelope?”

  “The very same. According to the missing persons file, Hunnicutt was last seen heading out for a ‘big job,’ by her roommate Evans. Furthermore, Evans asserted that Hunnicutt never would have taken off without grabbing her stereo equipment and collection of CDs from their apartment. Of course, when I tried to follow up with Evans, I discovered that she
also hadn’t been seen in months, and in fact, the third roommate, Cyndie Rodriguez, had disappeared, as well. Three more IDs, three more missing girls.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “So says you, so says me. Brass, on the other hand…”

  “Six missing girls and you can’t make a case?” she asked in shock.

  “No evidence of foul play. And technically speaking, of my six names, only one has been declared missing. The others are simply ‘unaccounted for.’ According to the bureaucrats we got bigger fish to fry—you know, the growing meth problem, gangland shootings, new requirements for Homeland Security, yada, yada, yada.”

  Kimberly sighed. She’d like to say she’d never heard of such garbage, but she would be lying. Bureaucrats ran the world, even in law enforcement.

  “Back to the envelope,” she mused. “Someone is making the effort to outreach not once, but twice, to the police. That’s something.”

  “Envelope was unsealed and yielded no physical evidence. So for kicks, I ran it by a shrink friend who sometimes consults for the department on cold cases. His first thought was sure—a lot of killers like the spotlight just as much as celebrities, and are driven to reach out to local cops or press. The fact the package contained driver’s licenses interested him, as the BTK guy out of Kansas liked to mail in driver’s licenses of his victims to the press. So maybe a classic copycat element—hey, look how famous that schmuck is, I can do that!

  “Problem is, the predators who make the effort generally crave recognition. It’s about bragging, gamesmanship, and arrogance. Meaning there should be a note, poem, follow-up phone call, something. This…In Jimmy’s own words, it’s like mailing out a party invite without any directions on where or how to play. His best guess: The stash came from a third party.”

  “Third party?” Kimberly asked incredulously. “Like who, the guy’s cleaning lady?”

  “Think of it this way: A wife cleans out her husband’s sock drawer. Comes across a stack of photo IDs. Now, there can’t be any good reason for her husband to have the driver’s licenses of three young women. Then again, she’s afraid to confront him with it. So she sticks the plastic in an envelope, and discreetly passes it to the first cop she sees. Eases her conscience while keeping her distance.”

  “Until she comes across three more driver’s licenses,” Kimberly said drily.

  “Hey, maybe the guy needed his underwear drawer organized as well.”

  Kimberly arched a brow, turning the matter over in her head. The whole scenario bothered her on so many levels she didn’t know where to begin. Six missing girls, only one of whom could be considered missing. No bodies or other evidence of foul play, but two care packages that could be considered to contain “trophies” from a serial predator. Except maybe the envelopes didn’t come from the unidentified subject, but a companion of the UNSUB who was too scared to contact police directly but savvy enough to deliver the licenses in a manner that left behind absolutely, positively no physical evidence.

  Which, she supposed, brought them to Delilah Rose, a young prostitute pinched just this evening, claiming to have evidence about another missing hooker and adamant about speaking only with Kimberly.

  Delilah troubled her. Kimberly didn’t like the impression that the girl had homed in on her, all because of something she’d once seen on TV. The Eco-Killer had been a long time ago. And while the press had made out Kimberly to be a hero, she hadn’t gotten to all the girls in time.

  Sal turned to her now. “Did Delilah give you something good? Mention any of these names? Because depending on what she said, maybe we could make it a multijurisdictional task force. My supervisor might finally green-light me if the case came from the feds.”

  “Sorry, neither of us is that lucky. Story I got from Delilah Rose reads more like a Mad Lib than a three-oh-two. She was vague on all relevant details, including her own name.”

  “Gosh darn, she’s not really Delilah? Didn’t Sandy Springs at least run her prints?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll call me with the results. Maybe in five to six weeks.”

  “So what’d she say? You were there an hour. I gotta assume you discussed more than just the weather.”

  Kimberly considered the GBI special agent again, hand in her pocket now, feeling the weight of Ginny Jones’s ring. Information was a game. With informants. With fellow law enforcement officers. Even with husbands and wives. For all his talk of cooperation, Sal clearly felt he owned this case. And if Delilah had opened up to him earlier this evening, like hell Kimberly would’ve been called.

  “Delilah didn’t mention any of the names from your photo IDs,” Kimberly told him honestly. “She didn’t mention a pattern of multiple girls disappearing, or anything like that. She does, however, fall into your first category of one working girl looking for a friend. Virginia ‘Ginny’ Jones. Went missing about three months ago. Name ring any bells?”

  Sal shook his head, taking out a piece of paper, jotting the name down. “No, hasn’t come up yet. But I’ve found three more names of missing girls that don’t match the known driver’s licenses. Can’t decide what that means yet. Maybe these girls simply left town, or maybe the wife hasn’t cleaned out the T-shirt drawer, you know.”

  “How long have you been working this, Sal?”

  “Year,” he said absently. “More since getting the second envelope.”

  “Your supe must love that.”

  “Hey, guy’s gotta have a hobby.”

  “Tracking missing hookers?”

  “Tracking missing girls,” he said sharply. “Sisters, daughters, mothers. You know what it’s like for their families to go to bed every night not knowing if their loved one is alive or dead. Everyone, anyone, deserves better than that.”

  Kimberly didn’t have anything to add to that, which was just as well, since she’d noticed the time. She swung open the door, hand still clutching the ring. “Gotta go!”

  “Hey, where was this Virginia last seen?”

  “Club scene, Sandy Springs.”

  “Name of the club? Description of Ginny?”

  “Told you Delilah was vague.”

  “You gonna call Delilah?”

  “In theory, she’ll call me. Thanks for the pudding, Sal. Bye.”

  EIGHT

  “Spiders are exclusively carnivorous.”

  FROM How to Know the Spiders,

  THIRD EDITION, BY B. J. KASTON, 1978

  HENRIETTA WAS NOT DOING WELL. SHE HAD BEEN ON her back for nearly three days, but wasn’t showing any sign of progress. He was careful not to touch her, understanding that even the most delicate examination could lead to disaster at a time like this.

  She was old, nearly fifteen, which of course exacerbated the situation. At the first signs of pre-molt, he’d taken preemptive action, moving her to the ICU, where she could rest in dark, humid conditions. Using a small artist’s brush, he’d even dabbed her legs with glycerin, paying special attention to the femur-patellar and the patella-tibial joints. In theory, the glycerin would help soften the rings of the exoskeleton, making it easier for Henrietta to pull free.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t do the trick. Now he stood in front of her, contemplating more drastic action. Perhaps it was time to sacrifice a leg.

  Molting was an extremely dangerous time for a tarantula. Once a year, in order for the tarantula to grow, the old exoskeleton had to be shed, the tarantula climbing free from its outgrown exuvium with a fresh, larger suit of armor ready to go. For most of the year, in fact, the tarantula was in a state of inter-molt, slowly growing a new exoskeleton beneath the old. At around the twelve-month mark, in preparation for the transition, the spider entered pre-molt, excreting exuvium fluid between the old and new exoskeletons. This digestive juice began dissolving one layer of the old exoskeleton, the endocuticle, while bristles grown on the new exoskeleton started pushing the old covering away.

  The bald patch on the tarantula changed from tan to black, signaling the pre-mol
t state. Shortly thereafter, the tarantula would roll over on her back to begin the molting process. And anywhere from twenty minutes to two or three days later, the molting process would be complete.

  Unless the spider died.

  Already he could see signs of distress. In Henrietta’s age-weakened condition, she hadn’t the strength to pull her legs free. As hours passed, her new exoskeleton started hardening inside her old exuvium, making it impossible for her to pull free from her shedding skin.

  He either did something soon, or she would die trapped inside a prison of her own making.

  He could amputate a leg or two. Quick tug and twist of the femur, and that would be that. It didn’t sound pleasant, but a spider could lose a leg with relatively little harm.

  Or, he could operate.

  He’d never done it before, just read about it in various collectors’ chat rooms. Little was understood about medical care for tarantulas. After all, dead spiders were rarely autopsied or studied for cause of death. A true enthusiast buried or mounted his or her pet. The vast majority of collectors, however, tossed the carcass away.

  Some basics had been established over the years. For the ICU, he used a plastic yogurt container he’d thoroughly cleaned with a bleach solution, then lined with a paper towel he had sterilized in the oven, then soaked in cooled boiled water. He let both container and wet paper towel achieve room temperature before placing Henrietta on the paper towel and sealing the ICU with the original yogurt lid, now punched with three airholes.

  He hated the plastic containers, preferring to watch his pets, but tarantulas—like most spiders—were shy by nature. They preferred the dark, particularly when in distress.

  Even now, he worked upstairs in the gloomy master bath, room-darkening shades pulled, the air musty with the scent of fresh earth and faint decay. A nightlight offered a subdued glow, just enough for him to see Henrietta, without further traumatizing her system.

  She wasn’t moving anymore. Not even trying to pull her legs free. Dead?

  He didn’t think so. Not yet. But it was coming and the thought of losing her was nearly unbearable. She was his very first pet and while he had collected many more specimens in the years since—rarer spiders, more exotic colors—she would always be special. After all, once, a long time ago, she had set him free.