by Meg Gardiner
Maybe he should wait. The cops had ginned up a show.
No. Screw ’em. He had once tried to suppress his need, but no more.
He thought of the young barista he’d scouted, Madison Mays. Her ass was tight. Her face was unblemished by awareness. If her mother hadn’t opened the door, Barista might now be singing with the choir. He’d been pissed off. Still was. Even though he had Dallas instead. Instead was never good. Both was better.
The world was full of women, but Barista was the one he wanted right now. Maybe he could still have her. He simply needed to be careful. Blend in. Like always. Nobody would see him, even in plain sight.
He smiled. Saturday night was only two days away.
28
Caitlin was parked directly across the street from Castle Bay Realty, downing an Americano, when Kyle Detrick pulled into the parking lot in his twinkling-clean Buick Envision.
He parked in his usual spot, got out, and headed for the office doors. He was strutting, looking as alive as if he were a vampire who had just drunk arterial blood. His color was high. His black jeans were tight, his cashmere sweater adhering to well-toned abs. His houndstooth blazer matched his cowboy boots. He swiped a look at his reflection in the tailgate of another SUV as he passed. He was whistling.
He grabbed the building door’s handle, and saw her.
She had on shades and was draping one hand over the top of the steering wheel. She took another swallow of the coffee.
Traffic passed in front of her. Detrick held on for a second, as if double-checking that she was really there, and went inside. The door shut hard behind him.
From her spot in the shade along the curb, Caitlin had a clear view of the building’s front and side doors, and an unobstructed line of sight to the lobby. At the desk, Brandi greeted Detrick effusively, swiveling back and forth on her chair and laughing at a remark of his. He paused a second to enjoy the attention. He headed deeper into the building without looking back at Caitlin.
Cool customer.
So far.
She set the Americano in the cup holder. She knew better than to fill up on liquids while on surveillance. The coffee was a prop, meant to give Detrick the sense that she was primed, and supplied, and comfortable, and settling in to binge watch.
She normally disliked stakeouts. Hours of tedium, with the potential to miss a critical piece of action if you looked away for ten seconds. She dealt poorly with anticipation. Hated uncertainty. She always preferred to act—not to sit in a car hoping for action. But this was different. Sitting here was action, an attempt to spur a reaction.
Keeping an eye on the building, she phoned the Westside Crisis Hotline. It was time to be up front with the director, Darian Cobb. He wasn’t in. She left a message asking him to call.
At ten forty-five A.M., in the Castle Bay lobby, Brandi answered the phone, looked up stealthily, and covered the receiver to talk. She glared out the plate-glass windows at Caitlin. A minute later Detrick sauntered into the lobby, shot Brandi a thumbs-up, and came outside. Ignoring Caitlin, he climbed into the Envision and drove off. Caitlin pulled into traffic a hundred meters behind him.
She followed him for twenty minutes as he headed north from downtown, to an apartment complex where he met a couple in their early thirties. She parked on the street and took photos with a Canon camera, which had a big, obvious lens. Detrick ushered the couple into his SUV and spent the next two hours driving them around neighborhoods on the fringes of the city, showing them homes. Caitlin took photos of every stop, and wrote down every address, and made a note to check how many homes listed for sale in the Austin metro area were empty. A Realtor who had a key to a lockbox and knew of unoccupied buildings could make good use of them late on Saturday nights, if he wanted to stash a kidnapping victim somewhere. He wouldn’t leave victims in a vacant house for long, however, because a thousand other Realtors also had lockbox keys and could enter at any time.
She followed Detrick when he took his clients to Tacodeli for lunch. The restaurant was bustling, the line to order thirty-five deep. Caitlin parked, strolled in, and used the restroom. She was filling her empty coffee cup with water when Detrick spotted her. She held his gaze, went back outside, and climbed into the Suburban. In its side mirrors, she could see Detrick staring at her.
About four thirty, he returned to the office. In the lobby, he spoke to Brandi. When he went into the interior of the building, Brandi got up from the front desk, bustled around at a side table, and came outside holding a napkin piled with chocolate chip cookies. She marched across the street to Caitlin’s Suburban.
Caitlin let her stand outside the driver’s door for a minute before putting down the window. She felt stiff from driving around all day sitting on her ass, but gave Brandi her most tranquil look.
“May I help you?”
Brandi’s back was straight. She was wearing a ruffled white blouse that looked like clouds clinging to a mountain valley. Today’s necklace was a gold-dipped charm shaped like Texas. The southern tip of the state had lodged in the shadows between her breasts.
“Mr. Detrick thought you might need refreshments,” Brandi said. “You’re looking kind of wilted.”
Caitlin took the cookies and set them aside. “Kind of you.”
Brandi crossed her arms. “You have no cause to do this.”
“How long has Mr. Detrick driven that Buick Envision?” Caitlin said.
“None of your business.”
“Did you know he erased its GPS history?”
Brandi’s chin rose. It looked like righteous dudgeon, or an urge to gut Caitlin like the deer she hunted.
“He told me. The government has no legitimate reason to know where he drives. He takes clients to view prospective homes. He deals in people’s most personal life decisions—where to start a family, where to put down roots. The FBI has no business prying into where people decide to live out their dreams. If it weren’t for your scare tactics, he wouldn’t have had to take this stand. But he did.” She looked Caitlin up and down. “And fixation is unattractive. Leave him alone.”
“Did he tell you we can’t confirm his alibis for the nights women went missing?” Caitlin said.
Brandi’s lips slowly parted. Color rose on her neck.
Caitlin started the engine and jammed it in gear. “Appreciate the cookies.”
She pulled out and swung a U-turn, leaving Brandi standing in the middle of the street. While the two of them were talking, Detrick had come out the side door of the office building and climbed into the Envision.
Nice try, sleazehead.
He sped away, but she followed. He drove south through downtown and crossed a bridge over Lady Bird Lake, shifting lanes through sluggish traffic. He was apparently trying to lose her. Five miles down Lamar Boulevard, in a gentrifying neighborhood where sleek new apartment buildings and luxury movie theaters competed with ramshackle honky-tonk bars, he turned into a strip mall. Caitlin pulled in behind him.
By the time she got out, he’d headed into a liquor store. She walked in, pulled off her shades, and strolled along an aisle perusing New World reds.
He bought a six-pack of Lone Star and turned from the register to find her waiting inside the doors. He sauntered toward her.
“Where are you headed?” she said.
“I have to say, I’m flattered. I’ve never felt like such a wanted man.” A smile graced his lips. “It’s sort of . . . hot.”
His sunglasses were propped on top of his head. His cologne had faded into a heated, physical scent. His gray eyes were a cool counterpoint.
“I hear your GPS got wiped,” she said. “I’m here to make sure you don’t get lost.”
“Leave a trail of bread crumbs, so you can find your way home.”
His tone was light. She caught not a hint of resentment or even annoyance.
“I’m not the one
who loses things in the forest,” she said.
Once again, for a microsecond, his eyes tightened, like he’d recognized a glitch. Then his smile turned up to full wattage.
“What a life you lead, Agent Hendrix. Have fun.”
He brushed against her as he walked past and out the door. She fought off a shiver.
He drove away. She stuck to him. After wandering and burning time, he finally headed home at eight forty-five P.M. He seemed to think he could outlast her.
Jackass had no idea.
His house was off the main roads in a south Austin neighborhood near I-35. It was—according to the Castle Bay Realty website—what Realtors called a “dark skies” neighborhood. That meant it was marketed to stargazers.
To a cop, it meant that there were no streetlights. No sidewalks, few signposts. Under the winter night, the street was coal dark. Beyond her headlights, Caitlin glimpsed lantana and manzanita and cedars lining the street. She idled while Detrick parked on the driveway, flicked his remote to lock the Envision, and went into the house. He flipped on a light in the living room and looked out the window. She knew he couldn’t see her inside the darkened Suburban. But somehow, his eyes seemed to pierce her. He shut the curtains.
She pulled slowly away.
• • •
Friday morning, she was back, six thirty A.M., outside his place with her laptop open, answering e-mails and making calls. She wore a black peacoat over her black V-neck sweater, black jeans, and Doc Martens. She’d pulled her hair back into a braid. She was parked so that when he came out and saw her in the car, the rising sun would reflect off her sunglasses.
Detrick emerged at seven thirty, looking fresh and dapper. He walked jauntily to his Envision, shooting her a salute as he climbed in.
He spent the morning again taking clients house hunting. He maintained his cool, acting as though she wasn’t right behind him. Around noon, he dropped a client at home and drove to a gas station. When he got out to fill the Envision’s tank, Caitlin pulled up at a pump on the other side of the fuel island.
Detrick looked over and actually laughed.
Caitlin got out and unscrewed the Suburban’s gas cap. Detrick set his pump to fill automatically and leaned back against the side of the Envision, ankles crossed, looking supremely relaxed.
“I’ve always wanted a fan,” he said.
“I’m amused that’s how you see this.” She stuck the nozzle in the Suburban’s tank.
He shrugged. His smile, she had to admit, was dazzling.
“You could be a recruiting poster for the FBI,” he said. “You’re dogged. Spunky. Much more appealing than the agents you see in the movies. I mean, Die Hard?”
She had to laugh. “Agent Johnson and Special Agent Johnson, going up in a ball of ignominious flame. ‘We’re gonna need some more FBI guys, I guess.’”
“Or Fargo.”
“Two feds having lunch in their car, Billy Bob Thornton strolls past, pulls a machine gun from under his winter coat, then crosses the street and carries out a mob massacre under their noses. It’s perfect.” She tilted her head. “What’s the weirdest call you’ve ever taken on the crisis hotline?”
He looked her up and down. She felt a static charge.
“Seriously?” he said.
She nodded.
“Chronic masturbator.”
She raised an eyebrow, as if blandly curious, encouraging him to divulge more. Inwardly, thinking: You gotta be kidding.
“Told this incredibly personal story about her tormented life. Started talking faster, then panting. Then moaning.”
“Her.”
“As afterglow, she asked me intrusive questions about my life.”
His eyes were alight. He was delighting in trying to knock her off-balance.
“That’s a hell of a hobby,” she said.
He finished filling the tank. “I’m done with work at five. After that we can go for a drink. Sixth Street, music, dancing. I can tell you the dirty details about that call. You look like you came dressed for a cocktail in a packed bar.”
“No, thank you.”
“You shouldn’t miss Austin after dark.”
“I’m not missing a single thing.”
He replaced the hose and got in his SUV. He gave her a sultry look as he started the engine.
As he drove away, he mouthed, “Your loss.”
29
In Phoenix, a warm Friday afternoon was turning cool as the golden sun sank over the desert. Lia Fox parked outside her apartment complex. Sprinklers misted the lawn. The air was still, but it felt like sand was blowing past her, grating on her skin.
Inside, she bolted the door, dropped her keys on the kitchen island, petted the cat when it pranced in, and poured a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. She drank half of it in one go.
There was no news about Aaron Gage. No updates on the cases in Texas. No arrests, no wanted posters, no drawings of the suspect. The FBI hadn’t called her back.
She kicked off her heels. “What did you expect, idiot?”
She’d called in a tip. That was all. The agent, that redheaded woman who looked like she played volleyball, had expressed concern and scanned her with eyes that seemed to fire X-rays. Maybe the woman had followed up. Or maybe the woman thought she was a wacko. “I have to ask—at that point, why didn’t you call the cops?” Lia guessed it sounded bad. But times had been bad. The FBI didn’t have to know about her private life. Just about her shattered love life.
Aaron. She thought of his hard body, his handsome face, his hands on her, his out-of-focus smile when he was drunk. She thought of a group picnic and her longing for him to pay attention, to really look at her. She thought of the moment when she was actually seen. It wasn’t by Aaron Gage. The sensation overcame her again, after all these years—a bone-deep shiver of fear and pleasure and shame and a topsy-turvy longing to let go.
She poured another glass of wine.
She thought of the insults, the shouting, the way Aaron ignored her and passed out and that night, that night, that night.
Her breath jammed halfway to her lungs. She swallowed and drove away all the images from afterward. The notes and the dolls and freaky fucking Slinky, limp and dead-eyed in the backyard.
The evening sun bounced off the frames of photos on her living room wall.
She picked up her phone and dialed. “Mom. Hi.”
Her mother was surprised to hear from her. It wasn’t Sunday, or a birthday. Lia’s gaze lingered on a photo on the side table. Happy times, mother-daughter intimacy. Smiles and big hugs. Mother’s Day.
“No, I’m fine—I just wanted to catch up. You heard from . . .”
Her mom went on, about her beloved dog Tizzy, about her brother John and his perfect family, about her little sister Emily and Emily’s perfect semester in college.
Mom had never forgiven Lia for quitting that tight-ass Christian college in Houston. Emily didn’t go to a Christian college, but did li’l sis get grief about that? Noooo.
Mom never asked about Lia’s life. Mom had learned years back that Lia’s answers gave her nothing but anguish.
“No special reason. I just wanted to hear your voice,” Lia said.
Mom didn’t know about Slinky, or the dolls, or how Lia had threatened to kill herself the night of the fire, and how screaming the threat at Aaron hadn’t stopped him from drinking himself into a conflagration.
And more. More more more.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll talk to you next weekend.”
She hung up. The grating sensation, sand under her skin, grew worse. She finished the second glass of wine and checked the locks on the doors. She wished the FBI would call.
She stared at the walls, and wondered where he was.
• • •
In his darkened kitchen, Kyle Detrick stood
at the sink and stared out the window. Across the street, barely visible in the winter darkness, the FBI Suburban sat black and sinister at the curb.
He could sense her depthless eyes, staring, pinning him, like a viper. He could practically hear her breathing.
He could hardly believe she’d asked about the call to the crisis hotline.
Weirdest call? No. Most memorable. Most affecting. Most . . . transformative.
He hadn’t even lied.
August, last summer. Late on a Wednesday night. The girl’s voice on the line, hard and ragged.
Met a guy and I loved him so bad. My parents tried to stop me from seeing him. Said he was wrong, I was too young. I ran away. We robbed 7-Elevens and a Waffle House. He died.
She was panting by that time. I lived on the street. Fucked men for money.
By that point, he wasn’t about to hang up. After she climaxed, she sighed and said, Wow. She asked him how he liked it. For once, he found himself speechless.
She laughed. Bang-bang, huh?
His blood had risen and hammered in his temples.
Your turn, she said, lighthearted and vicious. What’s your story?
He couldn’t figure her. He’d asked: What are you doing?
There must be somebody who makes you so crazy you want to kill, she said. Kill them, kill for them, kill yourself. I want to know. If you don’t tell me, I’ll shoot myself.
She had called to see what she could get out of him. It was . . . eye-opening.
Isn’t there somebody you hate that much? You want that much? she said. Tell me.
His past, the lockbox where he kept his heart, his pain, the need and awful sense of the world being dead and empty . . . she had laughed over the phone, and said, What are you waiting for?
On the phone, he’d felt the lock slip. He wanted to tell her.
But she hung up. Left him cold under the burning lights in the crisis center phone room. He had tried to shut back down, but she had turned a key.
A week later, he saw her outside the center. At first, he didn’t know it was her. Sitting on a bus stop bench across the street. Summer twilight shading her features. Blond, smoking. Watching. He went to the window.
