The inside of the house was lit up like a Christmas tree, every light in the house glared. Ignoring the setting, Taylor went directly to a small brunette wrapped in a white sheet. Good, she thought. Standard protocol for a rape victim, wrap her up and make sure she didn’t contaminate the evidence, or lose any by changing before they got her to the hospital and took all the samples for the PERK, the physical evidence recovery kit.
The woman looked up at Taylor, eyes glazed. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Lieutenant Taylor Jackson. I wanted to check on you before we take you downtown to Baptist. Are you okay?”
“I’m Nancy. Nancy Oldman. I’m…well, I’m not okay, but I will be. The officer over there said that you might have caught him? The man who…who raped me?” The woman’s small pointed chin lifted a fraction, her strength not completely sapped.
“We did have an altercation with a man outside your property line. Can you tell me anything about the man who attacked you?”
Nancy sniffed hard, tears welling up in her eyes. Just as quickly, they were gone. “I didn’t see his face. He had a black ski mask on. But he stank. Smelled like gasoline, or something. He was quick, just grabbed me, threw me down and it was over so fast, I just don’t know what to tell you. It seemed like an eternity but I know it couldn’t have been that long. I mean…” She was babbling but stopped and drew in a deep breath. “You’re hurt. Are you okay?”
Taylor stooped to get to eye level. “I’m fine. Nancy, we’re going to need you for this. Are you willing to testify against the man who did this once we have him officially in custody?”
The chin came up another fraction of an inch. “Yes. I’ll testify.”
“Good girl. I’m going to let you get to the hospital here with Detective Post. You’ve done great, Nancy. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?” Taylor patted her awkwardly on the knee, the sheet rustling under her hand.
She smiled at Post then left the house. She needed a hot bath and some Advil, take some of the sting away from her bruised face. But first, she had to run the gauntlet.
As she got to the end of the driveway, the din started. Reporters fought in a rugby scrum to get to her. She stopped, held up her hands. The lights flared in her eyes and she was blinded for a second. She heard a gasp from one of the women; she couldn’t see which one it came from but surmised that she must look like hell. She ran her hand through her hair, trying to get it in some semblance of order. A leaf fell out and she almost laughed out loud. The wild woman of Borneo speaks to the press.
“I have a brief statement,” she said and the crowd hushed.
“We have taken into custody a male Caucasian who was apprehended running away from the scene of this home invasion. It is possible that he was the perpetrator of this crime. I’m sure the department spokesman will have plenty more information for you later this morning. Thank you.” She turned and started toward her truck. The cries followed her.
“Lieutenant, was this the work of the Rainman?”
“Have you finally caught the serial rapist?”
“Has he been taken to night court?”
“Did he hit you, Lieutenant?”
That one she decided to answer. She turned back to the reporters and tried to wink, but her eye wasn’t working properly. “At the very least, he will be charged with assaulting an officer.” She gave them a smile, then got into the truck and headed for home. All in a night’s work.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“Dear God, Elle, you have to stop. I need to get on the road and get home. My wife’s going to kill me if I don’t make it back soon.” In response, the brunette just smiled and slid lower down his body. He felt the warmth of her mouth, and the dark head started bobbing up and down, harder and more rhythmically, in his lap. He lost himself for the moment. Why not get off one more time before he headed back into the frigid world he called a family? He couldn’t remember the last time his wife had been in the position Elle was in. The brief thought of Quinn on her knees was enough to push him over the edge. Elle jerked back in response, giving him a dirty look.
“Sorry, Elle, I lost track. I apologize,” he said to her back as she went to the bathroom to wash out her mouth. Women, he thought, can’t do anything right with them.
He zipped his pants and stood, stretching to nearly six foot four. He glanced in the mirror and saw that his sandy-blond hair was mussed. He ran his fingers through it to smooth it down and caught the sadness in his eyes. He couldn’t identify the exact moment that being in a hotel room with a virtual stranger was a better alternative to being at home with his wife and their two kids, but somewhere, somehow, that had become the norm. He’d finish a trip but not want to go home. He would find himself lingering over the end of a presentation with a sales rep here, or accepting a dinner invitation from a marketing department head there, and his serial promiscuity had begun.
It was fun for a while. It was nice to have a woman fawn all over him, even if he was the boss and deep down he knew what they were looking for. But after Quinn had discovered the proverbial lipstick on his collar, except it was on a pair of boxer shorts, any hope of reconciling with his wife left him. They stayed in the same house, raised their children, but didn’t speak a word to each other than what was necessary for civility or pretense.
He wished he could undo things, make it right with his wife. If he could just go back to that moment that things went south. Quinn had shared a secret that had floored him. He had not reacted well, and she had simply shut him down. He tried to get her to see reason, that he was only surprised, not repelled, but she was having nothing of it. So his enforced exile had begun, and before he could stop it, it was too late. His marriage was done.
His companion came out of the bathroom and struggled back into her skintight clothes. She slid a zipper up her left side, fluffed out her hair and stood looking at him expectantly. He started to say something to her, anything, but he couldn’t get the words out. He was just too damn tired. He’d been on the road for weeks, traveling all over the Southeast, and dammit, he wanted to go home to his wife.
Elle stood there a moment longer and realized her ephemeral lover was not going to profess true love and offer to sweep her off her feet and into his BMW-clad wheels. She stomped haughtily from the room and he breathed a sigh of relief. Oh well. She wasn’t the right type anyway. There would be others. In the meantime, he had time to catch a shower, load up the car, have a beer or two in the hotel bar, then make his way back to Nashville.
*
The BMW stood in the shadows, out of the soda vapor lights that dominated the parking lot of the hotel. Without the keys it was harder, but it was not a huge problem. Checking to make sure no one was watching, he slipped open the driver’s-side door and pulled the latch for the trunk. He walked quickly to the back of the car and lifted the trunk lid open silently. The cavernous space yawned at him and he smiled. Plenty of room.
He pulled up the carpeting and exposed a small hole meant for a spare tire. The spare was gone, he had taken it out months before to make room for all of the accumulating crap that accompanied him on his road trips. It made the perfect hiding spot. He placed the bag in the hole lovingly, then placed the carpet back over the spot. With a last look around, he walked to the edge of the parking lot where he’d left the girl. He reached down for her, amazed, as always, at how much they weighed when they were dead. It seemed they were as light as a feather when they were in his arms, but after they stopped breathing they became as heavy as lead. He swung the girl up and over his shoulder and staggered the last few feet to the trunk of the car. With a heave, he flopped her into the trunk, watching with a smile as her hair fanned itself perfectly around her pale face. He couldn’t have done that if he tried. It was faultless.
There. Now it was time to go home.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Baldwin ran his fingers through his hair and made the ends stick up like quills on a hedgehog. He’d been up all night, unable to get any restful sleep. Grimes, a fa
celess killer, dead bodies had swarmed through his troubled dreams. He’d finally roused himself at 3:00 a.m., after Taylor had left in a rush, and powered up his laptop. He went through his notes again and again, trying to make all the details fit into a pretty little package.
The transportation of the dead girls was bothering him. There were a few tight time frames in Buckley’s schedule. Mapping it out, it was clear that he must have skipped some flights, driven instead. Of course, itineraries change, flights are missed, rental cars lost. He’d put in a request for all of the rental cars Buckley had used to be worked over by forensic teams, but that could be a mute gesture. The feds would be working that today.
He got into the shower, stood under the stream of water and made a mental note that he needed to change the filter on the showerhead. The thought stopped him. In the middle of all of this death and mayhem, he was worrying about water pressure.
He let the water run a few moments longer, then snapped off the faucets and stepped out from behind the plastic curtain. He wanted a new house with a shower and tub that were separate, but he wasn’t sure how to approach Taylor about it. He knew how much she loved their house, the cabin sanctuary that she had created for herself, and then him, to live in. But it was a small place for two people, and what happened if they got married and had kids? They would need a bigger house for that anyway, unless they wanted a child living in a hammock in the loft, strung above Taylor’s precious pool table. He laughed to himself at the image. All he knew was that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, and give her anything she wanted. Kids, house, dogs or cats, it was hers. He just prayed that she would feel the same and want to let him give her the world. Taylor was a strong woman, but he could not believe that she would not want to be with him exclusively forever. Well, he would have to tackle first things first, and a marriage proposal was top on the list. He had already bought the ring, it was this damn case that had interrupted the events that he had planned. He’d almost managed it in the kitchen last night. She’d circled him warily for the rest of the evening, as if he was a bomb about to explode. He laughed and vowed to himself that the minute they caught this bastard, he was asking her to marry him. The thought gave him new resolve, and he dressed quickly and walked back to the study.
Jake Buckley was looking more and more like a plausible suspect in this case. A BOLO had been issued for the man’s BMW, the airports had been faxed pictures of him in case he tried to hop a plane; train and bus stations were circulating pictures among the ticket agents, yet he was nowhere to be found. Nor had any trace of Ivy Clark been discovered. He checked his watch, it was almost noon. Seven girls dead and one missing. He shook his head. It was just too much sometimes. He understood that. But Grimes had not, and Baldwin was sorry about that. There wasn’t much Baldwin could do when a fellow agent was on that track, despite Garrett’s admonishments. He still thought he should have seen it coming. Regardless, he couldn’t get himself into a funk over it now. There was too much to be done.
Baldwin went back to tracking Buckley’s exact timeline and whereabouts to see if Buckley was in the specific area when the girls were kidnapped. As vice president of Marketing and New Development for Health Partners, Jake Buckley traveled a great deal, checking on new properties, making sure the established hospitals were running properly, making adjustments in staff and provisions for the hospitals that were under way but not totally established yet. A lot of responsibility lay on the man’s shoulders.
The first thing Baldwin had done was simply match his schedule to the timeline of deaths and kidnappings. Jake Buckley had been in every one of the cities that the girls were missing from as they went missing, and was at each town where the bodies had been dumped on the day they’d been found. The timeline matched. He’d driven his own vehicle to many of the meetings, but in some cases he’d flown. That’s why Baldwin had put in the call about the rental cars. It was a long shot, but everything needed to be checked out.
He had started to pull the files together when the phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw it was Taylor. He answered the phone with a smile in his tired voice.
“Hi, honey.”
“Hey there. You making any progress?”
“Not really. I was just finishing the timeline to see if Buckley’s actual travel matched with the kidnappings and murders. They do, to a tee. Everything okay with you?”
“We’ve finally had a break in the Rainman case. The call I got last night? He broke into a woman’s house and raped her. But we caught him.” He heard the pride in her voice.
“What happened with that victim you were interviewing?”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot to tell you about that last night. I can safely say she was just a woman scorned. She’d basically made the entire story up to get back at a former boyfriend. There was enough information in the paper for her to make some pretty educated guesses as to how to make herself look like a victim of the Rainman, but the DNA came back and didn’t match the other cases. We arrested her for making a false report. In the meantime, this asshole went off for another night of jollies. We took him down leaving the scene. It was great.”
“Tough girl. Only you would describe a takedown as great,” he teased.
“Anyway, that’s not why I called. Fox News is getting ready to do a one-on-one interview with Tanner Clark and one of Ivy’s friends. I thought you might want to see it.”
“I do.” Baldwin got up and started rummaging for the television remote. “Where did you hide the remote for the TV in the office?”
Taylor laughed. “Yeah, I hid the remote. I never watch TV in the office. Sorry about that.”
“Okay, okay. Had to ask. When will you be home?”
“Hopefully soon, barring any bizarre happenings. Brian Post has the rapist and is questioning him now. You’ll be there?”
“I’m planning on it unless something breaks. I’ll make you something nice to eat.”
“That’s so sweet of you. Here you are, in the middle of this big bad ugly case, offering to make little ole me dinner. Whatever happened to that big tough cop I fell in love with?”
“Hush up. We’ll talk when you get home.”
“Yes, sir. By the way, you might want to put an ice pack in the freezer for me. The son of a bitch tagged me when we were chasing him, I look like half a raccoon.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, sweetie. I haven’t felt this good in weeks.”
“All right then. I love you.” Baldwin waited for the love-you-bye response that Taylor always gave then hung up the phone. He’d have to scramble to come up with something great to make for her. The woman loved food, though her metabolism was filled with jet fuel. She could eat anything and never gain a pound.
Baldwin found the remote hidden behind a fern on the bookcase and laughed. He swore Taylor moved it around and hid it just to make him crazy. He pushed the power button, and when the picture came up put in the satellite number for Fox News.
He was just in time. The pre-interview information was being given and the anchor, a sandy-haired man with round glasses, was giving some last-minute details.
“It’s believed that Ivy Tanner Clark could be the eighth victim of the vicious serial killer known as the Southern Strangler. Ivy has been missing for twenty-four hours now and we have her father and best friend linked by satellite from Louisville, Kentucky, to give us some more information. Mr. Clark, can you hear me okay?”
The screen split, and the image of an attractive, silver-haired man with Ray-Ban Orb sunglasses came onto the screen. The lenses of the sunglasses were polarized, and they looked dark yellow under the studio lights. He looked more like a Hollywood actor than a grieving father. The man had his faded jean-clad legs crossed, an ankle across the opposite thigh, and Tony Lama brown suede cowboy boots peeked out from the overlong jeans. His shirt was snowy-white linen and his tanned body rippled beneath it. The man oozed sex and money, he was a perfect example of Ralph Lauren’s vision
for the horsey set. Watching the silent show, Baldwin understood how Tanner Clark came to be known as the don of the horseracing world.
“I can hear you fine.” The man’s voice was booming, commanding, and the anchor smiled. It would be a strong interview.
“Mr. Clark,” the anchor continued, “we understand that you believe your daughter has been taken by the Southern Strangler. Can you tell us what information you have been given that has led you to draw this conclusion?”
“My little girl is missing, and I want to plead with whoever took her to please let me have her back. I’ll be posting a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to her safe return. She’s such a sweet girl, she never hurt anyone. Please, please, just let her go.” His head dropped into his hand and his shoulders started to shake. A small arm appeared from his left and the camera pulled back to show a young girl comforting Clark. The alleged best friend, of course.
The girl looked young, younger than Ivy Clark’s age of twenty-one, but the cameras could be deceiving when it came to youth. She could have been twelve or thirty as far as Baldwin knew. The way she touched Tanner Clark made him wonder if there wasn’t something more between Ivy’s best friend and Ivy’s megamillionaire father. A montage of pictures filled the screen while the man broke down. Ivy on a horse, Ivy in a ball gown, Ivy in jeans and boots and a tiny pink tank top with a young man who looked suspiciously like Prince William.
The anchor wasn’t about to lose the shot of the grieving father, but he had gotten to dead air and needed to keep the interview rolling. “Miss Simone, is that right?”
“Yes, I’m Serene Simone.” She had a slight accent that Baldwin wanted to say was French but he could not be absolutely sure. “I am Ivy’s best friend. She is dear to me and I want to echo Mr. Clark’s sentiment. We just want Ivy back home safe and sound.”
“Can you tell us a little more about Ivy, please, Miss Simone?”
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1 Page 54
