Once Craved (a Riley Paige Mystery--Book #3)

by Blake Pierce

Riley heard more than a trace of impatience in his voice. She’d noticed this about him before. If Morley had a fault, she figured, it was that he expected progress to made at some impossible rate. Still, she admired his drive to get results.

  Morley gestured across the table toward Riley and Bill.

  “I think most of you have already met Agents Paige and Jeffreys. They’re here from Quantico to lend us their expertise. Let’s hear what they’ve got to say about where things stand.”

  He sat down. Riley and Bill exchanged glances. She nodded slightly and Bill smiled almost imperceptibly. They were silently exchanging a familiar signal. Riley wanted him to talk first, so she could simply take in the faces and reactions of the people present.

  Riley was pleased that they could still communicate wordlessly like this. It was how they’d worked together when they’d been at their best, each supporting the other. It felt good to Riley to be getting back into that rhythm.

  Bill stood up. “Here’s what we’ve got so far,” he began. “Agent Morley is right. We’re dealing with a serial killer, and he’s picking up his pace …”

  He launched into a summary of what had happened during the last few days, beginning with the discovery of Nancy Holbrook’s body. Riley knew that he’d continue to report all that she and Bill had been doing since their arrival on Saturday. But she didn’t need all this review. Instead, she focused her attention on the people sitting around her. From experience, she could spot any weak links in the team—agents who weren’t up to the job, or whose judgment was likely to be off. She would also notice any who appeared to be holding back, perhaps not sharing information that they all needed to know.

  She was pleasantly surprised to find herself in a small sea of enthusiasm, alertness, and apparent competence.

  No obvious weak links here, she thought.

  But something did catch her eye. Garrett Holbrook had gotten up from his chair and was heading toward the door. He looked rather agitated and shaken. She told herself that he was simply upset about having to review details of his own sister’s death. Maybe he didn’t think he could deal with it all over again.

  That sort of made sense to Riley—but perhaps not really. Holbrook was an FBI agent, after all—a trained professional. He was used to dealing with horrifying crimes. Besides, it had been his idea to make this an FBI case in the first place.

  Holbrook slipped out the door and was gone. What bothered Riley most was that she didn’t yet know what to make of him. She hadn’t been able to nail down what was bothering her about the brother of a murder victim.

  Another presence hovered in Riley’s mind—the killer himself. Where was he right at this moment? Was he laughing at their efforts to track him down?

  No, she thought. We don’t matter to him that much.

  But he mattered to Riley intensely. In order to bring him down, she knew that she would have to find a way to delve into the dark recesses of his mind. She was already beginning to sense a man in full control of what he was doing, a secure man …

  Her musings stopped when Bill said, “And now my partner, Agent Paige, will give us what we’ve got in the way of a profile.”

  Riley rose to her feet and spoke to the group.

  “We can make a few assumptions. The killer was a male between twenty-one and forty-three years old when he committed his first murder, and he’s probably still within that age range. He’s got at least a high school education, and I’m pretty sure that he’s spent some time in college. In fact, this one might be very well educated. He’s got a job, probably one that pays well. There’s a good chance that he’s got a wife and kids, or at least that he’s been married with children in the past. He’s highly intelligent, and very sure of himself.”

  A hand shot up. One of the agents who had pulled Riley off of Rabbe had a question.

  “How much of what you’re saying is fact, and how much is hypothesis?” he asked.

  Riley smiled. It was a perfectly good question.

  “Facts are in short supply at this point,” she said. “But I’m not just making this stuff up.”

  A ripple of laughter went through the room.

  “These are more than educated guesses,” she said. “The BAU has gathered important data on serial killers of prostitutes. I’m basing some of my assumptions on that data. For example, in each of these cases we’ve seen here, the killer transported the body away from the murder scene and disposed of it in water. These types of serial killers want to place time and distance between themselves and their victims. Unlike serials who are out for publicity, they don’t want anyone to know that a murder has taken place. They don’t get their pleasure from panicking the general public.”

  The agent who had asked the question looked thoughtful. He added, “Then this type gets all his kicks from the killing itself?”

  “Right,” Riley answered, “and if I may say so, some of what I’m saying comes from my own many years of field experience. And I think this killer is atypical in some ways. For example, I don’t think he has a police record. That won’t make him any easier to track down. His everyday behavior is probably quite normal. This is a sociopath who takes prostitutes because they easily available. He considers them disposable.

  “He’s intelligent, but not a practiced criminal. He would have gotten away clean with the first murder if he hadn’t fumbled on the second one. The third was a case of bad luck, but also a sign that he didn’t anticipate all of the possibilities. He may change his MO the next time … and there will be a next time.”

  Another hand went up. Riley didn’t recognize the young woman.

  “Your name, please?” she asked.

  “Robin Mastin,” she said. “I’m with the local police.”

  Riley knew the name at once. This was the student diver who had found Marsha “Ginger” Kramer’s skeleton. Riley also knew that the young rookie had insisted on searching even after team leader Quentin Rosner had been ready to give up.

  Riley said, “That was some pretty good work you did at Nimbo Lake.”

  Robin Mastin smiled and blushed. “Thank you, Agent Paige,” she said.

  Riley got the strong feeling that the young woman especially appreciated praise from a seasoned agent.

  “Your question?” Riley said.

  “The body I found was still wearing an expensive-looking bracelet. Is that significant?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” Riley said. “Nancy Holbrook’s body was still wearing a diamond ring. Gretchen Lovick was wearing a necklace, also with a diamond. Not extremely high-end pieces, but well beyond what we might have expected to find on them.”

  Riley thought this was a good moment to give the eager rookie a chance to pitch in.

  “What does that suggest to you, Officer Mastin?” she asked.

  The young woman thought it over for a moment.

  “Well, it seems likely that the killer gave those trinkets to the women as gifts. That must mean that he was on good terms with them when he killed them. They thought they could trust him.”

  “Very good,” Riley said. Robin Mastin blushed some more and smiled proudly.

  Riley continued, “This is important to keep in mind. Our killer doesn’t snatch his victims off the street, or abduct them by force. He uses some kind of ruse. We can be pretty sure that he poses as a john—and a kindly, generous john at that. He’s a deadly con man.”

  Riley paused for a moment, then said, “Here’s an important detail. His first victim was HIV positive. The killer is very likely to be as well. If so, he probably knows it.”

  Pathologist Dr. Rachel Fowler looked up from her note-taking.

  “That’s interesting,” Fowler said. “The last two victims didn’t have HIV. But then, he didn’t have sex with them, or at least not when he killed them. Marsha Kramer’s remains were too decomposed to tell.”

  “According to her associates, Kramer had the virus,” Riley said. “And I’ve got a hunch that our killer was sexually active three years ago
and got it from her. Considering his probable social status, he’s most likely taking drugs for it, either illicitly or by prescription.”

  Riley caught the eye of the pagan digital tech chief.

  “Igraine, is there any way you can use that information to track him down?” Without irony, she added, “With the magic at your disposal?”

  Igraine tugged on one of her safety pins thoughtfully.

  “I wouldn’t get optimistic, Agent Paige,” she said. “We could try getting a report from pharmacies. But more than ten thousand people in the area are known to be HIV positive or have AIDS. Even if we leave out women, the elderly, or the very young, that still leaves too many people to sort through fast enough to be of any immediate help.”

  Riley was impressed by Igraine’s display of ready knowledge.

  “I understand, Igraine,” she said. “We’ll think of another approach for you and your team.”

  Now Riley noticed that Morley had gotten up and was heading for the door. He seemed to be responding to a phone message.

  It must be something important, Riley thought as he stepped quietly outside.

  Riley and Bill took a few more questions, then called the meeting to a close. Everybody left the room except for the two of them.

  “Where’s Holbrook?” Bill asked. “I thought he’d stay around afterwards.”

  “I saw him leave early on,” Riley said.

  “That’s kind of odd,” Bill said.

  “He’s kind of odd,” Riley agreed.

  Morley came back into the room, looking more hopeful than usual.

  “We just got a tip,” he told Riley and Bill. “It’s from a woman named Ruthie Lapham, who runs the bar at the Desert King. It’s another truck stop where prostitutes hang out. Ruthie’s something of a mother hen to the hookers there, watches out for them as much as she can. She’s worried about a girl named Clover, who has been AWOL for a few days.”

  Bill shook his head doubtfully.

  “A missing prostitute isn’t exactly a lead,” he said.

  Riley had to agree. “It’s sad, but it happens every day.”

  Morley said, “Yeah, and with the media coverage of the murders, our tip lines have been flooded with useless calls. But this might be different. Ruthie says a suspicious guy has been cruising the girls there from time to time. He really stands out. The usual clientele are truck drivers, and this guy just doesn’t fit in. He’s always made the girls nervous and of course now they’re jumpier than usual. But Ruthie says she thinks they could be right about this one.”

  Riley’s interest was piqued. “So why did Ruthie call just now?” she asked.

  “Because the guy just showed up there again,” Morley said. “She thinks maybe we should check him out.”

  “He could be gone by the time we get there,” Bill said. “Still, we’d better go. If nothing else, we can talk to the women, find out what they might know about him.”

  But Riley remembered how hard it had been to talk to most of the women at Hank’s Derby.

  “It won’t do to just go charging in as FBI,” she said. “We’d never nail the suspect that way. And believe me, the girls won’t talk to us.”

  “You’ll just have to get them to talk,” Morley said.

  A long silence followed, and in that silence, slowly, Riley came to a decision.

  “There’s only one way to do that,” Riley said.

  They looked at her.

  “I’m going undercover.”

  “Exactly how do you intend to do that?” Morley asked.

  “I’ll join the hookers,” Riley explained.

  Bill looked stunned, while Morley stared at her, frowning.

  Bill sputtered, “At the truck stop?”

  Riley nodded.

  “That’s too dangerous,” Bill protested. “You’ll make yourself bait for a killer.”

  Riley was thinking the same thing. But she was also thinking of these other girls’ lives, of the urgency of time. She could not sit idly by while another girl died.

  “It’s out of the question,” Morley said. “I won’t authorize it.”

  She stood.

  “I’m not asking for authorization,” she said. “I’m doing it.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Bill pulled into the Desert King truck stop and parked the big car he’d checked out from the FBI. He chose a space far enough from the main building not to draw too much attention from anyone inside, but close enough to watch all the comings and goings. He had insisted that if Riley was going undercover as a prostitute, he was going to be at the truck stop too.

  He had to admit that going undercover was actually a pretty good idea, even if it might be dangerous. If their killer really was stalking victims around here, she might be able to draw him out, maybe even stop him cold.

  Riley hadn’t shown up yet, though. She’d told Bill she had to stop and find some more appropriate clothes. He didn’t know how long that might take, but she was planning to head straight into the bar when she got here. Bill would keep an eye on things outside and give her backup if she needed it. He noted that the convenience store and the Iguana Lounge were housed in a single building, so he should be able see whoever went in and out of either place.

  He also hoped to talk to some of the women, find out whatever he could about the man who had alarmed them. They must deal with some weird characters on a regular basis, and he had to wonder what could be so different about this one.

  Of course, he didn’t expect any of them to talk openly to an FBI agent. He had decided to pose as a john.

  “Here goes nothing,” he murmured to himself aloud.

  He got out of the car and stood leaning against it, hoping to look like a potential customer. He saw four scantily clad women standing just outside the convenience store. He waved in their direction and they all looked at him.

  He smiled and nodded toward his car. They stared at him for a moment, then huddled a bit closer together, making no move in his direction.

  I must be doing something wrong, he thought.

  He saw another pair of women wending their way among the cars toward the building. This time he whistled to get their attention. They looked at him, and he waved. They kept walking toward the building a little faster than before.

  Then he heard a woman’s voice nearby.

  “Fish not biting tonight, huh?”

  Bill turned and saw a woman who was obviously a prostitute approaching him. She was well along in years, and her garishly heavy makeup didn’t make her look any younger. Her hair was an impossible shade of red, and her physique was sagging.

  She leaned against the car right next to Bill.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I smoke,” she said. “I know, it’s a nasty habit. I’ve got a lot of those.”

  She took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long puff.

  “I’m Opal, by the way.”

  “I’m Jerry,” Bill said.

  The woman let out a sandpapery little laugh.

  OK, she doesn’t believe that. Bill thought. He realized that a lot of people might use fake names in a place like this, but he suddenly felt nervous and unsure what to do next. He hadn’t done any serious undercover work for years, and he’d never tried posing as a john before.

  “I was wondering if we could maybe just talk,” Bill said.

  She laughed again. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

  “You could say that,” Bill said.

  She nudged him with her elbow.

  “Well, if you’re looking for a good time, you picked an odd spot,” she said.

  “Really? I hear this is where the girls are.”

  She laughed again. “If you’re a trucker, sure. But you’re no trucker. You’re not even pretending to be a trucker. As a general rule, the girls here don’t go with nobody who doesn’t roll into here in a big rig. It’s a safety thing.”

  She snuggled up against him seductively.

  “Me, I’m different,” she said. “I
don’t get to be that picky. I’m what you might call a casualty of the law of supply and demand. My ‘supply’ has got kind of stale over the years, so I can’t be too particular about ‘demand.’”

  Then, whispering in his ear, she added, “Besides, I’ve got nothing against cops.”

  Bill felt a jolt of surprise. He was sure that she could feel it too.

  Opal said, “Nope, I’ve got no problem with cops at all. I’ve been in jail too many times for it to bother me. I can even do business there when I need to.”

  Bill was embarrassed, but he saw no point in trying to lie.

  He took out his badge.

  “Actually, I’m FBI.”

  Opal purred with amusement. “Are you now? Well, you should’ve gotten in touch with Truckers Against Trafficking. They might of put you on a rig and got you in here looking like a real trucker.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Bill said. “Good guys. But I’m really just here to back up my partner. And we’re not out to bust hookers.”

  “Well fine, we can still do business. I can talk just as good as I can do the other stuff.”

  She held out her hand. It was obvious what she wanted. Bill reached for his wallet and handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

  “My, my,” Opal said appreciatively, depositing the bill in her cleavage. “This will get you a lot of talking! Well, I don’t like to do anything professional out in the open. Let’s get in your car, shall we? Make ourselves comfy.”

  Feeling thoroughly ill at ease, Bill walked around to the passenger door and let the woman in. Then he got in on the driver’s side. Opal continued to puff away at her cigarette.

  Bill said, “I hear that a girl disappeared here recently.”

  “You’ll have to get more specific,” Opal said. “Girls disappearing ’round here is kind of a regular thing.”

  “She called herself Clover.”

  Opal sighed sadly.

  “Oh, yeah. Clover. She got all freaked on account of this guy who calls himself T.R. He offered her some kind of jewelry last week—diamond earrings, I think it was. Now, regular johns don’t give gifts like that, especially not to the likes of us ’round the Desert King. She got scared, thought maybe he was gettin’ obsessed with her, might do something awful to her.”