Hot Pursuit

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Nope,” Sam said again. “But for a while we thought maybe we had him, because Amanda had supposedly run off with this slacker ski instructor named Steve Hathaway. Her father had some pictures of the two of them together. The FBI thought it was a major break in the case—finally a photo of the Dentist, you know? They thought that was why there was no trumpeting announcement about where the body could be found—because the killer knew those photos were out there. But then, months later, Steve-the-ski-instructor’s body turns up, also without his teeth, killed around the same time as Amanda. Which was also odd. Steve was the Dentist’s only male victim.”

  “That you know about,” Robin pointed out.

  “Good point, BW,” Sam said. “Although, I do know this—that the FBI profilers spent a lot of time trying to glean as much information as they could from those two murders in particular. They compiled a huge file on both Amanda and Steve. Amanda was pretty much just a bored rich girl, looking for excitement, but Steve … He liked to get his kink on. Guy was solidly into three-ways—particularly MMF. The profilers’ favorite theory is that Amanda unwittingly picked up the Dentist in some bar, and took him back to Steve’s crappy little love shack to get him even more drunk before springing Steve on him and … Everyone lost their teeth, instead.”

  “And the Dentist didn’t send out his usual press release about the murders,” Robin concluded, “because … he didn’t want anyone to know he’d had sex with Steve?”

  “Or almost had sex with Steve,” Sam agreed.

  “Does he usually have sex with his victims?” Robin asked.

  “About half the time. And it’s never violent—at least as far as the autopsies show.”

  “So … it’s possible some of his victims go with him willingly,” Robin concluded. “He must be handsome or charming.”

  “That’s the consensus.”

  “Was Maggie … ?” Robin asked.

  “No,” Sam told him. “The autopsy showed no sign of sexual activity or assault.”

  “But you think it could be the same guy. Even though he didn’t take her teeth.”

  “He took some,” Sam said. “He hit her in the mouth with something big and hard. Most of her front teeth were broken or missing.”

  “I’m not an expert here,” Robin said, “but if I’m collecting something the way this guy seems to be collecting teeth? I’m going to want them in mint condition, not all smashed up.”

  “Unless,” Sam said, “he wanted to take a few, but he didn’t want anyone to know he was taking them. It’s a good cover, the old baseball bat to the face.”

  “Crafty,” Robin agreed. “Of course the alternate explanation is that it’s not the same guy.”

  “Alyssa’s been tracking the Dentist since we found Amanda,” Sam told him. “Which was back in the fall of 2003—the year we got married. Jules hooked her up with the special unit that’s been hunting him, and she’s gone out to nearly all the crime scenes since then. His usual MO isn’t two bodies, by the way. It’s more like three or four. He trolls a town, usually one with a mall, and he takes his first victim from the parking lot. He keeps her alive while he uses her cell phone to pick his other victims. Theory is he sometimes makes her pick them for him. He makes her call them—one at a time. She tells them her car broke down on a deserted road, she’s scared, she needs them to come and get her right away.

  “And if they come alone—and they usually do,” Sam continued, “he overpowers them and takes them to a house that he either rents or breaks into, somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, and he kills them and he takes their teeth—usually in front of the first victim, who’s still alive. And then he makes her call someone else, and if she won’t, he sends a text message to someone in her phone book, telling them that her car broke down on a different deserted road, yada yada, and he keeps going until one of them’s smart enough to bring their father or their boyfriend. At which point, he calls it a night, and goes back to that first girl he snatched, and he kills her and takes her teeth. And then he sends an e-mail to the FBI—sometimes directly to the AIC for the case—a guy named Pete Quincy. He gives them the location and the number of bodies they’ll find when they get there.”

  “God,” Robin said.

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed. “And here’s the latest newsflash. Remember that postcard that said bottom drawer? There was another one in the assemblywoman’s mail today, saying The number will be seven.”

  “Holy crap,” Robin said. “Seven? Was there a—”

  “Nope,” Sam said. “That’s all it said. Lys thinks it might be a copycat—someone who knew about the number and about her involvement in the case, and wants to make it look like the Dentist is back, but… See, he never sent anything through the mail before this. Contact was always through e-mail. There’re other things, too, that were purposely kept from the public, in case of a copycat, and those aren’t lining up either, but…”

  “You still think it could be him,” Robin said.

  Sam nodded. “Alyssa just keeps saying, why would he change his MO?”

  “Why would he change his MO?” Robin asked.

  “Because he nearly got caught,” Sam said. “See, a lot of experts thought the best way to fight this prick was to educate the public. Alyssa and Jules agreed. So the FBI, in concert with state and local police, launched this huge awareness campaign. They also worked with malls across the country, to increase security, making it harder for him to make that initial snatch.

  “Fast forward to August, 2007,” he continued. “He made a mistake and grabbed a woman named Betsy MacGregor, in a suburb of Chicago. She was a teacher at the local high school, and she’d helped launch their safety program. And just as she’d told her kids to do, she’d programmed 9-1-1 into her phone under some name like Heather or Ashley. So she called the police and gave them the whole My car broke down story. The emergency operator knew enough to realize it wasn’t a prank, and the locals tried to set a trap to catch this guy.”

  “I’m guessing they didn’t,” Robin said.

  “Nope. They don’t know what happened for sure, but he probably checked Betsy’s phone and saw what Heather’s number really was. He not only got away, but Betsy’s body was never recovered,” Sam reported. “There was a massive search effort, but…” He shook his head. “To say that Alyssa was disappointed is a huge understatement. She wanted to see this guy burn. It was then—a year ago last August—that he went dormant. He went completely dark. No contact with anyone, no news about Betsy’s body. Not even an e-mail saying Nyah, nyah, you can’t have her back. One group of profilers believes he suicided, but…”

  “You don’t think so,” Robin said it for him.

  “Nope.” Sam was somber. “I think he’s still out there. And I don’t think he’s been dormant. I don’t think he’s gone all this time without killing. I think he’s changed his MO to not taking all of his victims’ teeth. Jules is spooked, too. He put in a request to get information about any unsolved murders of young women—the Dentist’s main target group—between August ’07 and now, in which the autopsies reveal damage to any of the victims’ teeth. I think he loves taking all the teeth, but I think he needs to take at least one.”

  “Where are they?” Robin asked. Now he was spooked, too. “Jules and Alyssa?”

  “They’re visiting the office staff at home today,” Sam said. “All of the male interns and Doug What’sHisName and even good old Mick Callahan.”

  “Wouldn’t it be smarter,” Robin said, “to just round them all up and bring them in—and then see if their basement is ankle deep in blood?”

  “There’s this little thing,” Sam told him, “called probable cause, and these other things called warrants that the FBI is trying to get back in the habit of using more often. In order to get a warrant you need probable cause. But on the other hand, if you knock, say, on Mick Callahan’s door and he invites you in … ?”

  “As long as he doesn’t invite you in while holding his dental extraction tool behi
nd his back,” Robin pointed out. “You’re really okay with Alyssa doing this?”

  Sam wasn’t, but he was pretending—hard. “Jules is with her,” he said. “And she’s going to be calling me, to check in. Every twenty minutes. Here’s a question for you. If you were a serial killer and you took your victims’ teeth … What would you do with them?”

  “Like … make placemats out of them, or glue them onto the bases of all the lamps in my house?” Robin asked, but then answered his own question. “That would make them hard to travel with. You gotta figure this guy has to be ready to pick up and leave at a moment’s notice. How many victims has he … ?”

  “Thirty-seven,” Sam said. “That we know of.”

  “Holy shit,” Robin said. That was a lot of teeth. “Would that many even fit in a shoebox? Maybe a big one—a really heavy one, too. Plus, you’d want to keep them dry, or maybe even shellac them, or coat them in some kind of plastic, because otherwise they’ll decay.”

  “But would you carry them around?” Sam asked. “In your pocket. You know, just a few …”

  “Oh, definitely,” Robin said. “So you could touch them when you’re out in the world, pretending to be sane. You could fondle them and no one would know …”

  Sam was looking at him oddly.

  “Sorry,” Robin said. “Actor. I’m just… I’ve never played a serial killer, but if I were going to play this one, I’d want some prop teeth in my pockets so I could, you know, reach in and …”

  “Fondle them,” Sam said.

  “Yeah,” Robin grinned, but then pushed away the character. “Sorry. That’s pretty awful. Thinking that someone who killed thirty-seven people is out there walking around like he’s normal … ? It’s even worse if you think he’s been working in Maria Bonavita’s office.”

  “Even more awful,” Sam said grimly, “if he’s walking around with teeth and a picture of Alyssa in his pocket.”

  “You think it’s all somehow connected,” Robin said. “That picture of Alyssa that Winston had … ?”

  “I do,” Sam said. He picked up his cell phone and dialed Alyssa. She was twenty seconds late.

  She picked up on the first ring. “I was just going to call you,” she said. “Jules is on his phone with the local police. There’s a body in the dumpster, back behind the assemblywoman’s office. We’ve got an appointment in five minutes that I don’t want to cancel, so will you go check it out? And Sam … ?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, because although she made certain they were equal partners, particularly in bed at night, right now she was in team leader mode.

  “If Mick Callahan’s there,” Alyssa warned him, “try your best not to get arrested.”

  His father had kept his car in quite good condition, thank goodness.

  He drove it now, out of the garage that made their home worth at least another quarter million—pity he wouldn’t see any of that-stopping to close and lock the door tightly behind him.

  His plan was to use one of the female interns. Wendy or Belinda. They really were completely interchangeable, as far as he was concerned.

  But he knew where they lived. He’d given them a lift home from a fundraiser, back in October.

  He had his Taser. Getting one or even both of them into his car would be no problem, especially since he’d gone to that website that showed him how to boost the electrical charge, and how to remove any restrictions as to the length of time of the Taser blast.

  Thirty seconds just wasn’t long enough to do what he needed it to do.

  But he’d already fixed that.

  He would have liked for it to have been Maria. She had such pretty teeth. He would have liked to have watched her cry while he talked to Alyssa on her phone.

  His plans had changed since he’d met Alyssa, since he’d talked to her and breathed in her sweet perfume. He wanted her to talk to him knowing who he was—the Dentist—and knowing what he was capable of doing, what he would do, if she didn’t meet his demands. Come alone … Of course, she wouldn’t. He didn’t expect that. So he’d have to kill the girl. He couldn’t wait.

  He’d been busy late into the night, moving Betsy—it was finally time for him to give her back. But he wouldn’t text message the FBI with her whereabouts. Not until after he’d grabbed an intern or two and gotten on the road.

  He’d spent most of the morning at the bank, closing out his parents’ accounts and moving funds—getting much of it in cash. Because even if he did this right, they would now know who he was, and his access to his trust fund would cease.

  He was going to take Wendy or Belinda—or both of them if he could manage it—and he was going to lock them in his trunk and drive west. He would know when he’d reached his destination. His inner bell-like toll of certainty would tell him it was the right time and place.

  And then he would call Alyssa, and she would talk to him. He would make his demands, and she would fail to deliver, and he would hang up and kill the girls. And he’d call her back and tell her about it, and it would be better than he’d ever dreamed it could be.

  He didn’t need to risk it all, he didn’t need to die. And when he finally tired of it again—if he tired of it—he would find Alyssa. Her husband wouldn’t be able to keep her under guard forever. And he would find her and take her if he could. If not, he’d just die with her. He just needed to—

  Wait, was that Jenn?

  He hit the brakes, squealing to a stop—his good fortune holding, as there wasn’t another car behind him to rear-end him. He put the car in reverse and backed up, pulling to the curb because …

  It was.

  It was Jennilyn LeMay, all by herself, lugging a heavy-looking bag down the street, obviously heading toward the office, which was over on the next block.

  He’d made some noise with his tires, and she’d spotted him, too. And he looked and he looked, but he didn’t see any of the Navy SEALs that were supposed to be following her around.

  As she came closer, he saw that her eyes were red behind her glasses, as if she’d been crying, and he knew.

  He knew. What to do, how to do it.

  She’d seen him, and he waved her closer, lowering the passenger side window and leaning over so he could talk to her.

  “Get in,” he said, before she could speak, before she could ask him what he was doing there. “Jenn, quick, we’ve been looking all over for you. There’s been an accident. One of the SEALs—Gillman—he was hit by a car.”

  “What?” she said, aghast. “When? Where?”

  “It happened in front of the hotel,” he said. “The Hilton.” And he saw that she believed him because he knew the name of the supposedly secret hotel, and he had to work not to smile, to continue to look concerned. “He was upset and didn’t see the taxi. It just happened. Maria called me. He’s in bad shape. A head and neck injury.” Oh, this was fun! “The ambulance took him to the hospital. Get in, I’ll drive you over there.”

  She got in, nearly pulling the door off its hinges in her forceful haste, fumbling through her purse for her cell phone—no doubt to call Maria, which would never do.

  So he tased her.

  And as she slumped in her seat, he knew she could still hear him, so he told her, “He’s fine. I was lying. You’re the one who’s going to die.”

  He gave her the injection. He’d dosed it for the interns who were petite as opposed to queen-size, but it would do for now.

  But then his phone rang, and he looked and it was …

  Alyssa.

  As if she somehow knew.

  He answered, trying to control the excitement in his voice.

  And she asked him if this afternoon would be a good time for her to drop by and speak with his parents. She would confirm his alibi and check to make sure that both he and they were safe, all at the same time.

  She made it sound as if he were not on her suspect list, but he knew that he still was.

  And again, he knew. What to do, how to do it.

  Of course, he sa
id. His parents would be delighted. His mother will make tea. Oh, no, he knew it wasn’t necessary, but she’d insist.

  In about an hour?

  Perfect. He’d make sure his father was up from his nap in time.

  “Change of plans,” he told Jennilyn as he hung up the phone, and he put the car in gear and headed back home.

  • • •

  It was ball-curdling, dick-shriveling freezing out.

  Izzy finally gave up and called Dan, who answered his phone not with hello, but with, “Do you have her?”

  Now was not the time to make jokes, so Izzy gave it to him, straight.

  “She hasn’t showed,” Izzy told him. “So, no. Sorry, man. I’ve been standing here—I’m out front again—for like forty minutes and—”

  “You’re sure she’s not inside already?” Dan asked, his tension evident in his voice.

  “I’m sure,” Izzy said. “I checked—three times. I called her cell, no answer. I called again. I walked over to her apartment. She’s not there, either. I found out the name of the printers, called them, confirmed that she picked up a delivery and left. I haven’t checked, um, the assemblywoman’s apartment, though. …”

  “I’m there now,” Dan told him tersely. “Jenn’s not here, hasn’t been here.”

  “Then … I’m guessing that she doesn’t want to be found.”

  “No,” Dan said. “That’s not—”

  “Dude, I know you’re—”

  “No,” Dan said again, more stridently. “She told me that she’d be at the office. She said she would.”

  “And no woman anywhere has ever changed her mind,” Izzy said, which okay, was kind of a wiseass thing to say. So he tried to soften it by asking, “What should I do? Should I stay or should I …”

  But Danny had already hung up.

  “Go,” Izzy finished. He put his phone and his hands back into his pockets and headed for the hotel.

  Dan ran into Lt. Starrett on the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

  “I was just gonna call you,” Sam said, holding up his open phone. “Tell me you found Jenn.”