“Are you ready now?”
Imogen nodded.
“The screams in the background of the tape are human. And, as well as I can ascertain by matching their pitch and tenor with the voice-mail messages you got me, they were made by Rosalind Carnow.”
Imogen exhaled slowly. She said, as much to herself as to Peter, “At least now we have an idea of where she is being held.”
“Yes. You might just be closing in on Loverboy’s hideout.”
That was when Imogen realized the name of the song, the song that had been running through her head for the past twenty-four hours. It was “Ring around the Rosie.”
Six days left. Six days when anything—
SOMEONE MUST PAY.
—could happen.
“Yes. We might just be closing in on Loverboy.”
Please let that be true.
And that was when it hit her. What she had seen that was royal blue, like the thread that had been caught in the glove compartment latch.
It was J.D.’s baseball jacket.
She dialed his number and got kicked into voice mail again.
CHAPTER 57
Loverboy could NOT stop laughing. Being with Rosalind today was making him feel so SILLY. “I still can’t believe you thought I was serious,” he said, wiping his eyes on the back of his cuff. “Oh God, Ros, you totally should have seen your face. Man, it was priceless. You looked so scared. But you didn’t believe I was actually going to pull your nails out, did you? I mean, sheesh. What do you think I am? Crazy?”
“No,” she said, voice tight. “Of course not.”
“Right.” He was still chuckling. “Only someone not normal would do what you were thinking. Not me. I’m normal. I’m not a freak.”
“Right. You are not a freak,” Rosalind repeated. She sounded like she believed it too.
Boy, was it hard to keep his hands steady while holding hers. The nail file was like a little knife, and there were those tiny scissors. Everything so dainty. “I’m afraid I’ll have to lock all of these up in my desk drawer when I leave,” he told her as he sliced away her cuticles. “I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself while I am gone.”
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice quavered a little bit. He wondered if he was hurting her. There was blood around her nails, but that was probably normal.
“You are going to look so pretty when I am done with you, Ros.”
“Yes,” she agreed. Added, “Too bad my hair is such a mess.”
His hand stopped moving. He squinted at her. “What?”
He saw her swallow. She said, “I just thought that maybe, if you pinned my hair back, I would look better.” She smiled.
His eyes flickered from the smile to her gaze. “For who?”
“For you,” she said. And she meant it. He could tell. His mommy wanted to look pretty for him. He reached out and twisted one of the gold studs in the ear holes he’d made. She winced.
“Did that hurt, Ros?”
“Yes. It did.”
He studied her. “You want me to give you hairpins? To look pretty? For me?”
“Yes.”
She said it in the same truth-telling voice she used when she said he’d hurt her by turning her earring.
That was when he really started feeling silly. Feeling so silly. The pressure was building, building inside him. He had to stop the manicure and sit back for a moment. The other knife was in the bag just behind him. He knew that this was the time to be careful, but when he got to feeling THAT silly—
It was only Wednesday. There was still so long to wait. Soon it would all happen. But not soon enough. He would have to stop spending so much time with Rosalind. He would have to start rationing himself. But he needed an outlet. NOW. He needed to be inside a woman.
The thought made him blush, and he brought his hands up to his eyes, peering between his fingers at Rosalind. Did Mommy know what he had been thinking? He hoped not. Boy, did he. But she was making him so silly. It was her own fault. Asking for hairpins. Oh HOW she liked him.
He needed to blow off some steam, bad. He remembered the girl he’d seen at the Penis Mall, the one with the titties and the long red hair. And he knew just what he needed to do. He reached for his phone, scrolled through his phone book, and pushed SEND.
“Where are you going?” Rosalind asked him as he got ready to leave.
“I’ve got a date, Mommy. Now, open wide.”
“Why?”
“It’s time for your medicine.”
“I don’t want—”
His hand squeezed her nostrils closed until her mouth opened, and he wrenched her head back by her hair, laying the tranquilizers onto her tongue. “If you don’t swallow those will taste NASTY,” he admonished her, and watched until the pills went down her throat. He waited five minutes to make sure they were working, then hauled her to the bed, waggled his fingers at her, picked up the bag with the knife in it, and shut the door behind him.
Rosalind fought against the unconsciousness for as long as she could, but almost instantly it overtook her. Remember two she told herself. Remember—
She fell into oblivious sleep.
CHAPTER 58
A drink, a Fred Astaire–Ginger Rogers movie, and a huge plate of chili fries, Imogen thought. Then decided she could even skip the movie, make the drink a double. That was what she wanted more than anything in the world at that moment.
That and one of those automatic door-lock disablers so she could break into J.D.’s car, if she could find it, and check to see if there were any snags on his baseball jacket without him knowing.
What she had were Tom, Harold, and Dannie staring at her, practically crawling down each other’s throats, everyone tense and moderately to very miserable. She looked around the table at her team and wondered if she should suggest they all take a few minutes to make faces at her fish, relax a little.
And she hadn’t even told them about the message she found in the taxi. They were on edge enough without some kind of death threat hanging over them. Tom and Harold had almost come to blows because one of them had used blue pen to circle the location of racetracks near Loverboy’s killings and the other had used green.
“We agreed on blue.”
“You just picked up a pen and said, ‘This one,’ and I said, ‘Yes.’ It looked green to me.”
“Are you color-blind all of a sudden? This looks green?”
It was a waste anyway, because they’d been able to pinpoint the places where Loverboy had found his victims and none of them were racetracks.
Dannie seemed distracted and kept looking at her watch. Imogen had to ask her twice if any progress had been made identifying the fingerprint they had found on the taxi receipt, only to receive a flustered, “I’m not sure, I’ll look into it,” in reply. She had gotten the same answer when she asked if there had been any news about other women killed like Marielle and Corrina.
There was always a soft spot in any case, Imogen knew, a moment when the regular plodding progress that good investigation required became frustrating for the people working on it. An investigation like this one was bound to be even worse—it seemed to go on forever but it had a definitive deadline. Usually when the FBI got involved, they were there after the crime had been committed, after the victim was dead. This time they knew that saving Rosalind’s life rested on their shoulders. And that they had only a week left to do it.
She wished she could stop hearing Rosalind’s screams in her head.
She was just giving her team assignments—Dannie to stay on the dead women, Tom and Harold to try to pinpoint the Dumpster she heard being emptied based on the time between the two flights—when the phone rang. Bugsy took it in her bedroom and when he came out she could tell by his face he had something.
Imogen looked at Dannie, Harold, and Tom and said, “I know it’s not much to go on, but the only way we’re going to get this guy is through attention to detail. I really believe that. Pay attention to everything.”
&
nbsp; The door closed behind them and she said to Bugsy, “Spill.”
“I guess my poker face isn’t working today.” He pulled out his wallet and tossed it to her. “This is yours.”
“Why?”
“Remember the other night, right before you went to Boston, when you called and told me to find out who knew about the pseudonym you used to register at the hotel? And when I told you pretty much everyone as far as I could tell, you demanded that I have someone scan all the database searches originating in Las Vegas to see if anyone had looked for information about Lucretia Borgia or Pietro Bembo? And I said that if we could even do it, which was questionable and probably illegal, the chances of it yielding anything were minuscule, and if it did, I’d give you a million dollars?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have a million dollars. You can have whatever is in there.”
Imogen sat forward. “Who?”
“At first the closest we could get was that a search had been done from the Metro homicide offices. But thanks to the Patriot Act, they managed to narrow it.”
“J. D. Eastly,” Imogen said.
“No. He doesn’t have a computer, one of those guys who says he doesn’t believe in them.”
Imogen didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. “Oh.”
“But his assistant, Rachel, has a computer. And it was used for the search. At a time when she was off duty.” He looked at her. “What do we do now?”
“Nothing overt. We can’t let him know.” She reached for the phone and started dialing. When Lex answered she said, “I need a surveillance team. The best. And I need it now.”
CHAPTER 59
Loverboy stood at the window of his room at the Fun Motel and stared at the housekeeping maid slowly pushing her laundry cart around the balcony that lined the second floor. There were two of them, Marysol and Connie, one for each level. It was like watching a race, only neither of them could see the other one, see who was winning. The inhabitants of the Fun Motel slept late, so they worked from four in the afternoon on. This evening Marysol, on his floor, was faster. He was glad; he liked Marysol better, liked the way when she finished early she undid the top two buttons on her uniform and sat at the end of the walkway fanning herself. It didn’t matter what they did as long as they finished all the rooms before Eddie came in the Western Linen Service van and picked up the cart full of dirty sheets. Dirty from all the fun people had there.
Loverboy liked the slow, regular activity at the Fun Motel. He felt like he belonged there, was part of the family. He went there whenever he could, to get away, think a little. Every day Marysol and Connie would smile at him. Every day they cleaned his room. Every day they walked right by him, sometimes Marysol giving him this flirty look like she’d like to get him in bed. Every day. But they never would have guessed who he was. Not them, not the other guests at the motel, not the people on the buses that zoomed by. Every one of them knew his name from the newspaper. Every one of them would like to GET THEIR HANDS on him. But none of them knew him for real! It made him feel so SILLY. So powerful.
He knew everything. He knew where Imogen had spent most of her day. He wondered what she found. Had she seen his note in the taxi? The others wouldn’t get it, but she would, for sure. Imogen was smart. He really liked her.
As he thought about Imogen, he looked at the tower of the Stratosphere looming over the roof of the motel, tall like a huge penis, with a roller coaster at its tip. Family fun right at the top! Take a ride on me! Just knowing there was a roller coaster up there made him calmer. He could swear he could almost hear the screams from it. And even if he couldn’t, no one would be able to hear anyone screaming from his room.
God, he was powerful.
Like how he had made Rosalind do whatever he wanted. She had been so NICE to him that afternoon. She even wanted to make her hair pretty for him. She was such a good mommy. She really liked him. She really—
Disgusting little shit.
SHE DID! She said it. He’d tested her and—
You’re a bad boy.
NO! Rosalind liked him. She had always liked him. And now she extra did.
You believed her? You believed her even though—
SHUT UP! He was breathing hard and he had begun to sweat under his arms. That was bad. He would be dirty when his date got there. He had to calm himself down. Stay calm.
He counted the doors of the rooms, calculated how long it would take Marysol to finish tonight. Counting and calculating always helped him feel better. When his breathing had slowed, he reached into the Carlton’s Cutlery bag and let his fingers rest on his new knife. His Lizzie Borden. One swipe with that would be enough, he thought. Just one swipe, with my new knife, he repeated to himself. It was almost a rhyme. Pretty funny, he thought.
This last week was always the hardest. This part, when they were nice to him. When they liked him. It was when he started to feel the sillies almost all the time. It was also his favorite part, but it required him to use all his control.
He saw his date drive into the parking lot.
All his CUNT-rol, he corrected, and giggled to himself. He put the knife away next to the bed and made sure he was ready. He loved staying at the Fun Motel. Loved the way that the F of the sign blinked on and off, so half the time it said un Motel. No one would think to look for him there. The only problem was that it had no bathtub, only a shower. But he would make do. He was flexible. He could adapt. He was—
A freak!
—easygoing.
He watched her get out of her car and look around. As she tilted back her head to check the numbers, the afternoon sunlight flashed off her hair. It was really pretty. He’d been wanting a redhead since he saw that other girl that morning at the Shoppes.
She had pretended to be shy and unsure, pretended she had work to do, when he first called, but he had known all along that she would come. She liked him. He knew that from the other night at the party. She would come. And he would CUM.
Boy, was he feeling FRESH!
He calculated that it would take her a minute and fifty-eight seconds to get to the room. Two minutes later he heard her footsteps in the hallway outside the door. Slow but okay. He would not let himself stand right next to the door until she knocked. He had to stay calm, stay in control. Always in control on the first date.
He loved the first date. Getting to know someone. Getting them to trust you. To like you.
This time it was the girl’s turn to talk into the hole. His heart was beating hard and fast as her footsteps slowed, stopped. This was it!
Knock, knock.
He sprinted to the door but kept it closed. “Who’s there?” he asked, his lips nearly touching the peephole.
“It’s me.”
He felt his cheeks get hot. She was not doing it right. That was not how it went. She was supposed to say her name, not, “It’s me.” Didn’t she know the joke? SHE WAS MESSING EVERYTHING UP!
“Me who?” he asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. She was going to screw it all up. She was—
“Danielle,” she said.
He exhaled. His blood slowed. That was better. In his mind he heard the punch line to the joke: Dan yelled and yelled and yelled but no one came to help her before she died.
But out loud he said, “I’m so glad you could get away, Dannie.” He opened the door and smiled at her.
She blushed a little. “I’m so glad you could al—”
He put up a hand to silence her and looked deep into her eyes. “Let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about us.”
“About us?”
“About how well I am going to treat you this afternoon,” he said, pulling her into his arms.
She came willingly. Just like they always did. He was the master. He was in CUNTROL!
CHAPTER 60
Imogen leaned her elbows on the balustrade that lined the lake in front of the Bellagio and stared across it toward the Eiffel Tower. Against the blue-black night sky, French f
lags waved from the sides of a building that was half the Paris Opera house and half the Louvre, smashed together down the middle. Las Vegas had no respect for history, for monuments. It mashed them together and had its way with them, laughing the whole time. And she liked the city for it. For its irreverence and freedom. It was not afraid of reinventing itself. Of taking chances.
It was a city for chances. For risks.
If you were allowed to take them. That afternoon she had felt like she was onto something, explaining to Lex what she needed. An outside team to watch J.D., someone he wouldn’t spot, because she could not risk alerting him if he was Loverboy. Got it? and Lex had said, “Have you lost your mind, Imogen?”
Not the best start.
“Tell me again what you have on Detective Eastly,” he’d said in his bored voice. The one that meant he was probably filing his nails as they talked.
“It’s a hunch more than anything. But the thread we found in the taxi might match a jacket I know he has. And—”
“Are you listening to yourself? A hunch? Might match? And that computer search thing you described is not only illegal, it’s almost impossible. Do you have any evidence of a prior relationship between them? Something that soured?”
“No. But he dated her best friend.”
“Has he been in the other places where the killings happened?”
“I don’t know, and you know damn well I can’t find out without a warrant. But he travels all the time. Doing public-service events.”
“He does public service.”
“Don’t tell me that means he’s not a serial killer. John Wayne Gacy dressed up as a clown and—”
“I know about Gacy. But you need to give me more than that he travels.”
“I don’t have more. Just a gut feeling. And the fact that he doesn’t answer his phone for long stretches, disappears.”
“He’s not the only one who doesn’t always answer his phone.” Lex’s version of a funny joke. He said, “I am not sending you to investigate the head of the Violent Crimes Task Force on a hunch. Besides, my sources tell me he has no sense of humor and isn’t charming, so he doesn’t even fit the profile your own team worked up.”
Bad Girl and Loverboy Page 65
