by Meg Gardiner
Up Congress Avenue, the state capitol dominated the end of the street. They rolled past restaurants, food trucks, and parks. In the distance, Caitlin spotted the tower on the University of Texas campus. At night, after a Longhorns victory, it would be lit orange. The sunlight pulled her eye to the railing around the observation deck.
Rainey followed her gaze. “Sixteen dead after Whitman opened fire back in 1966. Thirty-one injured.”
“I remember hearing unarmed students rescued a wounded teenager under sniper fire. Two outgunned cops and a citizen made it to the observation deck to take him on. Braver than hell.”
They pulled into a parking lot behind a brick office building. The air was crisp, the sunlight silvery in Caitlin’s eyes, when they got out and walked to the offices of Castle Bay Realty.
In the lobby, beyond potted palms, the blond at the desk wore hairspray and Miss America–caliber cosmetics. A sapphire-colored cross hung from a chain around her neck. It dipped deep into her cleavage, like a meat thermometer.
Her desk plate said BRANDI CHILDERS. She sized up Rainey and Caitlin as an ill-matched couple here to ruin their lives by jointly purchasing a starter home. “How may I help y’all?”
“Kyle Detrick, please,” Rainey said.
They held out their credentials.
“One moment.”
Brandi picked up the phone. Her smile didn’t waver. She could have aced the pageant question about world peace.
She made a call and replaced the receiver. “He’ll be right out.”
A minute later, the door to the back of the office opened.
For the briefest of moments, Kyle Detrick paused in the doorway, taking them in with a gaze that seemed both voracious and analytical. Just as quickly, the look was replaced by a welcoming, gregarious bonhomie.
He strode up to Rainey, hand extended. “Kyle Detrick. How can I help the FBI?”
He was smooth, but Caitlin got the sense that seeing female agents had surprised him.
“We’re investigating the murders in Solace,” she said.
Detrick turned to her. “Wow. Horrible business.”
He was taller than she was, which was saying something, because she was five-ten and wearing two-inch heels. His wardrobe was Brooks Brothers on the range—tailored wool blazer, button-down shirt, pressed jeans, mahogany cowboy boots. His baritone voice was rich. His cologne was obvious. His eyes were pale gray and startlingly clear.
He gestured toward the door. “My office.”
Brandi looked dismayed. Maybe that she wasn’t going to get to hear the juicy stuff.
Down the hall, beyond the chatter of phone conversations and a printer spewing title documents, Detrick closed his office door and stood with his arms akimbo.
“I know the FBI doesn’t pay courtesy visits. What do you think I can contribute to your investigation?”
Deciding when to approach a suspect was a strategic decision, and a tricky one. Caitlin and Rainey had conferred with Emmerich while driving to Austin. The killings were headline news. No matter how oblique their questions, meeting Detrick would alert him that he was on their radar as a suspect. If he was the UNSUB, that could induce him to get rid of any souvenirs he’d kept—such as photos and the clothing worn by Shana Kerber and Phoebe Canova.
But the joint FBI-sheriff’s press conference hadn’t stopped the UNSUB from abducting Teri Drinkall in Dallas. They had to take bolder steps.
Emmerich had said, Rattle him.
Rainey strolled to a corner where she could survey the office and observe Detrick’s demeanor. Caitlin stood in front of the window, making sure that from Detrick’s perspective, she was backlit. It would make him squint uncomfortably and find it hard to read her expression.
“Do you do business in Solace?” she said.
He shook his head. “Austin and Lakeway. I’m so busy, I turn away potential listings every day. Don’t have to bigfoot the Realtors in Gideon County.” His gaze was probing. “Why?”
Rainey pointed outside, at an SUV in the parking lot. “That brown Buick Envision. Is it yours?”
Detrick stepped toward the window. “My company car, yes.”
He had a leonine build, strong through the shoulders, with a lazy stride, a slow way of turning—like a big cat that would enjoy rolling over in an equatorial sun. Beneath his crisp dress shirt, he was built. Caitlin got the impression that should he decide to, he could launch with ferocious speed and strength.
He looked back and forth between them. His gray eyes had a pewter glint. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What’s this about?”
“We’re looking for a similar vehicle,” Caitlin said. “And its driver.”
“A brown SUV? Because mine is Bronze Metallic.”
Rainey peered at the Envision. “That shade actually skews toward ‘burro’ on the Pantone color scale.”
Detrick frowned at her, nonplussed.
Caitlin said, “When was the last time you were in Solace?”
“You think the driver saw something?” Detrick said. “It couldn’t be me. I haven’t been to Gideon County in . . .” He looked at the ceiling. “I don’t know how long.”
“Shana Kerber was abducted the night of the second. Will you check?” Caitlin said.
He strode around to his desk and leaned over his computer. He shook his head. “I went to a UT basketball game that night.”
She opened a pocket notebook. “How about these dates?”
She read off the dates the other women had vanished. More slowly, he perused the calendar. He had alibis for every night.
“Real estate seminar.”
“Concert.”
“Driving range.”
He straightened, looking concerned. “Who told you I drove the Envision?”
Nobody had told them. They didn’t know until just now. The UNSUB will drive a large vehicle that won’t stand out. Probably an American make, muted in color. Caitlin merely looked him up and down.
“Right,” he said. “How many Envision drivers are you talking to?”
Caitlin took in the office. Everywhere, she saw Kyle Detrick, All-American Poster Boy. One wall was dominated by photos that featured him. On a bookshelf was a framed Salesman of the Month certificate. Plus a football, signed Earl Campbell. And a plaque with a Bible verse: He who sows bountifully will also reap bountifully. Each one must do just as he has purposed in his heart. 2 Cor. 9:6–7.
“Are you talking to all of them?” Detrick said. “I mean, is this a reverse Cinderella story—the girl drives around questioning guys, and if the car fits, he loses?”
Caitlin turned, slowly, and gave him a stare as cold as sleet.
He raised his hands and looked at the floor. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound flip. This case is tragic, and I know you’re working hard to solve it.” He sighed. “But if you’re searching for a witness, I can’t help you there. I wish I could.”
On his desk was a photo of him with a dainty brunette. The woman was looking at him adoringly. At her side was a little girl, perhaps seven years old, likewise beaming at Detrick.
“Wife and daughter?” Caitlin said.
“Good friend.” He smiled.
Another picture showed him at a church potluck, surrounded by laughing men. The same woman and little girl were off to the side.
“Church friend?” Caitlin said.
“We met at Chapel of the Hills.” His smile remained. His gaze was charismatic. “It’s a welcoming place. Great people.” His face turned thoughtful, and he crossed his arms. “A few of us men have been talking about organizing neighborhood watches. These murders—it’s terrible. Maybe you could come to the church, give a safety talk.”
“Some Saturday night? Would you be there?”
He paused, for just an instant, like he’d spotted a glitch in the Matrix. Then he glided on.
“It would reassure people. And you’d pack the place. Woman agent, with your sass and that gun? You’d rock it. Girls would listen.”
“Talk to your pastor.”
“Soon as I get a free minute.”
His charm was effortless. But beneath it, she heard a hiss. It was minimal, almost inaudible, and it set her on high alert.
He was too smooth. He hadn’t asked the question that anxious citizens often blurted out. You don’t think I had something to do with it, do you? Aaron Gage had practically spat the question. But Detrick hadn’t acted like an anxious citizen at all.
A paperweight sat on his desk: Westside Crisis Hotline. She picked it up.
He took it from her, gently. “I volunteer there.”
Rainey sauntered closer. “How did that come about?”
“Because people need help.” Detrick sounded surprised by the question. “The hotline saves lives. Desperate people phone in—suicidal people.” Emotion colored his voice. “My church urges members to give back to the community. This is my way. I studied psychology in college. I have the knowledge and skills that can make a difference.”
“Answering crisis calls can be a tough volunteering experience,” Rainey said.
“But incredibly worthwhile.”
Detrick stared at Rainey, pained and seemingly sincere. His phone rang. He took the call, then said, “I have a closing. The documents need to be filed within the hour. You’ll have to excuse me.”
They left their cards on his desk. Detrick gave his card to Caitlin, placing it carefully in her fingers. He wrapped his hand around hers, enfolding the card in her palm.
“Call me if I can help. Day or night,” he said.
“You’ll hear from me.”
He squeezed her hand. His smile was dazzling. When he let go, the imprint of his fingers remained on the back of her hand.
In the lobby, as she and Rainey headed for the door, Brandi stood up.
“Excuse me.”
They stopped. Brandi cast a furtive look toward the interior of the office.
She spoke sotto voce. “What’s going on? Why were you talking to Mr. Detrick?”
“Is there something you want to tell us?” Caitlin said.
Brandi pressed her lips tight. The crucifix rose and fell between her breasts as she breathed. Behind her desk, on a credenza, a framed photo showed her dressed in camo, kneeling beside a five-point buck she’d brought down with a crossbow.
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s amazing. I don’t know who sent you here to pester him about this awful thing in Solace, but leave him alone.”
Outside, they climbed into the Suburban and Rainey fired up the engine.
She cruised past Detrick’s Envision SUV. “Get photos of the rear end.”
Caitlin raised her phone. Rainey looked like a fox tracking a rabbit in the brush. Caitlin glanced back at the building. At his office window, Detrick stood watching them.
“We’re not going to leave him alone,” Caitlin said.
Rainey pulled out. “Not for one second.”
21
No.” Detective Art Berg pulled documents off the printer and walked away from Rainey. “He doesn’t sound like he fits the profile. At all.”
Berg seemed to fill the cramped hallway at the Gideon County Sheriff’s Office. He bowled into the detectives’ room. Caitlin looked up from the conference table where she was working.
“We have seventy-five plausible suspects to check out,” Berg said. “Thanks in part to the press conference your boss urged us to hold.”
He slapped the printout onto his desk, atop a pile already an inch tall. He stabbed it with his finger. “Men seen in the vicinity the nights of more than one attack. Men who knew more than one victim. Men who—despite your profile—have criminal records for sexual assault. These are the people we need to investigate before looking at your Salesman of the Month.”
Rainey’s silver earrings flashed in the sun. “Kyle Detrick fits—”
“The profile, I know.”
“He owns a two-year-old Dodge Charger. But for work, he has access to a company vehicle—the bronze Buick Envision that Agent Hendrix and I saw parked at his office. That vehicle is leased by Castle Bay Realty. I just got off the phone with the insurer that issued Castle Bay’s fleet policy. They have GPS histories for all insured vehicles.”
She handed Berg a sheaf of paper and glanced at Caitlin. Caitlin stood and walked over.
“The insurer gave me the last six months of GPS records for Castle Bay’s fleet vehicles, downloaded this afternoon,” Rainey said. “Nineteen out of twenty vehicles have intact records. One has been erased.”
Berg flipped through the papers. “Bronze Envision.”
“The vehicle assigned to Kyle Detrick. To which he has access seven days a week, because he holds open houses on weekends.”
Berg frowned. “The GPS information wasn’t automatically forwarded to the insurer?”
“No. It’s held in the vehicle’s onboard system unless the insured party needs to transmit it—generally in case of accident or theft.”
“Huh.”
“The GPS system is integrated into the vehicle’s control center. The driver can’t simply press reset and delete the data. It requires a hard reset, using an exterior monitor plugged into the car’s system via a USB bus.”
“And Detrick’s GPS has been erased.”
“Reset to factory settings.”
Caitlin tucked her hair behind her ear. “Going to such lengths, right after we paid him a visit?”
Rainey’s look was arch. “Bingo. And Castle Bay wouldn’t want employees to delete their travel records. They need mileage for tax purposes.”
Berg said, “What if the GPS simply fried itself? You know that’s what this guy will say.”
“There’s more. Hendrix, can you get Keyes on video?”
Caitlin grabbed her laptop and connected to their analyst at Quantico. Keyes came on-screen, looking like he’d been chewing espresso beans. Caitlin spun the computer so Berg could view the monitor.
Keyes gave a chin-up hello. “I’ve rendered the CCTV from the Dallas garage with forensic video software. Sharpened the images, reduced motion blur, and adjusted the exposure.”
He brought up the edited version. They saw Teri Drinkall walk into frame. In the original, she had looked like she was walking through Vaseline. Augmented, her black-and-white image was crisper. Again they watched her jump in surprise, and turn, and speak to somebody off-camera.
Berg tapped his fingers against the desk, a parody of impatience. “What am I supposed to see this time?”
The video ran for two more seconds, and Keyes hit PAUSE. “That.”
In the left half of the screen, a black Dodge Ram pickup was parked beneath a fluorescent light strip, backed into an angled space. Teri Drinkall had walked directly past the truck before disappearing from view.
“The windshield of the truck,” Keyes said.
Under the fluorescent lights, it gleamed. In the original version, the reflection had been overwhelmed by glare.
“When you’re trying to read a license plate, or identify a face, certain details have to be isolated.”
“Don’t tell me you can actually enhance videos like they do on TV,” Berg said. “Instant prom photos.”
“Nowhere close,” Keyes said. “Our software defines object edges, maximizes variances in shadows, and predictively enriches imagery.” He smiled. “Though I do want the bad guys wondering whether the Bureau can yell, ‘Enhance!’ and see what’s in their jockey shorts. I may have secretly encouraged that Internet meme.” He nodded at the screen. “In this video, the problem isn’t just the quality of the camera. It’s the windshield of that truck—a convex surface, angled fifty-five degrees from the vertical. But . . .”
He hit PLAY. In th
e windshield, fuzzy and indistinct, was a reflected image of what was happening around the corner from the camera.
It looked like a foggy Salvador Dalí painting, but they could see Teri Drinkall continuing to walk away from her own car. Once again, her back was to the camera. She was side by side with a figure who had dark hair.
“That’s the man she went with,” Keyes said.
Caitlin exhaled.
“Extrapolating from Teri’s known height, the man is 1.85 meters tall. Six foot one,” he said. “Same as Kyle Detrick.”
Berg looked thoughtful but was subtly shaking his head.
“That’s not all,” Keyes said. “They’re only in view in the reflection for two-tenths of a second. But when they pass beyond view again, there’s this.”
A dim geometric shape was warped in the windshield view.
“That’s a vehicle,” Keyes said. “That’s the vehicle the UNSUB led Teri to.”
Caitlin leaned toward the screen. “It’s the back end of an SUV.”
She pulled out her phone and opened the photos she’d snapped in the parking lot at Castle Bay Realty.
She turned the screen to Berg. “Looks like a Buick Envision.”
Berg’s frown deepened. “No year, no plate number, no verification that it’s actually bronze, and not beige or gray or blue, much less a Buick.” He took Caitlin’s phone and compared her photos to the rendering on the screen. “I’ll concede that this is circumstantial evidence. But it’s hardly enough. And the parking garage video provides no evidence that the SUV in Dallas belonged to the UNSUB. Much less that he put Ms. Drinkall into it.”
Rainey said, “Is it enough to move Detrick up your list of suspects?”
Berg shook his head. “This guy Detrick is a member of the men’s group at his church. Maybe he joined the congregation to meet women, or whip up his potential sales base. Maybe someday we’ll find out he’s skimming commissions from the brokerage for selling high-end condos to tech ‘influencers’ moving into Austin.” Berg’s face was turning the maroon of his shirt. “He’s not our most viable suspect. He goes to the back of the line.”
