by Mary Burton
“Let me look.” He punched into the computer. “Yeah. Bonnie Jenkins. Computer doesn’t save the credit card number. I remember the guy put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar for his orders. Left a nice tip. Does that help?”
Novak recorded the name in his notebook. “It’s a start.”
Julia and Novak thanked the bar manager and after leaving their cards stepped outside. Julia drew in a breath. “Andrews can find Bonnie Jenkins quickly.”
“Call him.”
Julia dialed Andrews’s number. When he picked up, she told him what she needed. He asked her to stand by. One minute later he had the address of a motel where Bonnie was staying.
“He’s a handy guy to know,” Novak said.
“So I’m discovering,” she said.
Bonnie’s hotel was located on Route 1 about fifteen miles north of the city. The area was known for its run-down motels, drugs, and prostitution. When Julia had been in uniform, she’d assisted local police a couple of times in the area.
Novak drove them to the motel, which was a two-story brick building located behind a gas station and a fast-food restaurant. It was one mile from the interstate, which meant plenty of traffic from truckers and the endless stream of drug dealers and human traffickers who traveled the I-95 corridor.
They made their way to the small office located closest to the parking lot entrance. Novak pushed the front door, allowing Julia to pass before him. The office smelled of stale cigarettes and booze. There was a condom machine to the right and a vinyl sofa patched in several spots with duct tape. Behind the counter stood a reed-thin man with reddish hair and a pockmarked face. They showed their badges to him, but he barely glanced at them.
“I’m looking for Bonnie Jenkins,” Novak said. “Is she registered here?”
“Yeah, Bonnie’s here.” He sniffed, reaching for a cigarette and a lighter. Smoke swirled around his head.
“What room?”
“I can’t be giving out customers’ room numbers,” the manager said.
“I can get a warrant,” Novak said.
“And in the meantime, I can have a dozen state police cruisers parked in your lot, lights flashing. That will do a lot for business,” Julia said.
“We have reason to think she might be in danger,” Novak said. “At the very least, she’s a material witness in an active murder investigation.” When the manager hesitated, Novak added, “I might slow walk that warrant, so her state police buddies can hang around and meet the neighbors. And when it does arrive, I won’t be in a happy mood because of the delay. I hate to think what I’ll find in your office if I get the warrant to cover that.”
Cigarette dangling from his lips, the manager rose. “No need to get shitty. I’ll let you look inside the room.” The manager coded a key card for the room and led the way to the elevators.
They walked up the stairs to the second floor, and the manager knocked hard on the paint-chipped door. “Ma’am, it’s the management.” When there was no answer, he swiped his key and switched on the light.
“Ma’am, it’s the management,” he said again.
Novak reached past him and pushed open the bathroom door. Makeup was arranged neatly on the counter along with a collection of hairbrushes as well as a straightener and curling iron.
“When is she supposed to check out?”
“Today,” the manager said.
Novak edged open the closet and found a half-dozen dresses and several sets of heels. “Has housekeeping been in the room today?”
The manager raised a two-way radio to his mouth. “Housekeeping. Has room 206 been turned over?”
After a pause. “No. Waiting for front desk to confirm checkout.”
“Which was fifteen minutes ago,” Julia said. “Did she call for a late checkout?”
“No.”
“So where is she?” Julia asked.
“You really are going to have to get a warrant before I let you go any further,” the manager said. “I could lose my job over this.”
Novak flexed his fingers. “I’ll be back this afternoon with one.” He handed the manager his card. “If she returns, call me. And don’t let housekeeping in here.”
“Sure,” the manager said. “I can do that.”
When they were in his SUV, Julia said, “She’s met this guy who’s likely calling himself Jim Vargas. She might be able to tell us who he is or at least what he looks like.” She reached for her phone and called the local sheriff’s office. She explained who she was looking for and asked for a deputy to watch the motel for the next couple of hours. “Great. Thanks. Call me if you see her.”
Novak checked his watch. “We’ll need to hustle to get to Shield by one.”
The drive to the Shield office took just under two hours with the light Sunday-morning traffic. During the drive, Novak put out a BOLO—be on the lookout—for Bonnie Jenkins. When they arrived, Andrews met them in the lobby and escorted them upstairs.
“I have the DNA results from the original cases,” he said.
“Great.”
“Any luck on Bonnie Jenkins?” Andrews asked.
“As of a couple of minutes ago she has not returned to her motel room. She doesn’t have a cell phone registered to her, so we aren’t able to ping her location. But we have local cops watching out for her.”
“I’ve kept a flag on her credit card. If she uses it or takes a cash advance, I’ll be notified.”
“Good.”
Andrews pressed several buttons, and a large screen behind him illuminated. Pictured were the three Hangman victims of ’92. “DNA was found on the clothes, which were left in piles at the crime scenes. We pulled hair fibers from two of the three victims. One was from Tanner’s and one from Wayne’s clothes. The original team did an excellent job, and it’s unfortunate those samples were ruined. However, I could confirm that the hair fibers I found were from the same individual.”
“That’s not a big surprise,” Novak said.
“Yes, we expected those results.” Andrews clicked a button, and the images on the wall switched to Rita Gallagher’s picture. “But what was a nice surprise was a match to the fibers found on Rita Gallagher’s body.”
“What about the DNA found on Lana Ortega’s clothes?” Julia said.
Andrews’s eyes sparked with what could be called excitement for him. “It matched what I found on the Tanner, Wayne, and Gallagher bodies.”
“The same man killed all five women?” Julia asked. “Which means, Jim wasn’t the Hangman?”
“Correct,” Andrews said.
Julia stood very still, drawing in a breath and releasing it slowly. She tipped her head back, rubbing the side of her neck. “Shit.”
Novak could see Julia wrestling with her emotions as she kept her head tipped back and balled her fingers into a fist. Julia’s father had been vindicated.
If they’d been alone, he’d have pulled her into his arms and congratulated her on her good work. But they weren’t alone, and he knew she needed to stay in control.
“So why the change in tactics for Rita Gallagher if it’s the same murderer?” Novak asked, deliberately speaking to give Julia a moment to recover. “She was hit on the head and tucked away in a root cellar where no one could easily find her.”
“I can’t tell you that,” Andrews said. “But this is a very meticulous killer. Each time he killed, he planned and executed like a professional.”
“No plan with Rita,” Novak said. “He wasn’t planning on killing her. Something happened. She figured out who he was or discovered something she shouldn’t have.”
Julia cleared her throat as she stared at the picture of the redhead projected on the screen. “What are we missing here? Maybe she was working with the Hangman.”
“Explain,” Novak said.
“She’d dated Popov, and then she starts working in Billy’s and gets access to people in Jim Vargas’s life. He was the cop who brought down Popov. Rita told her brother she had a big job coming up. She seduce
s Jim. She steals a picture of Jim and me. We know she made friends with the victims. Maybe it was her job to lure those women to the Hangman.”
“What better way to get rid of three women who consorted with an undercover cop,” Novak said. “They become the target of a serial killer.”
“The presence of sandwich particles at the original crime scene suggests the killer broke for a snack,” she said. “He was on the job and took a lunch break.”
“The Lana Ortega killing was as public as the first three,” Novak said. “Monroe knows who the Hangman is. Somehow she found out about him from her days at Ricker, Davis & Michaels. She decided to use the Hangman to kill Lana. Then she found another use for the killer.”
Julia finished his thought. “To come after me.”
Elizabeth Monroe’s Sunday was going to hell fast, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d have a lot more bad days ahead of her. As she stood on the steps of this elegant house, she knew it was time for her to cut her ties with the past and forget she’d ever read about the Hangman in her late boss’s files.
She glanced back at her SUV, wishing she had brought her driver. But no one could ever know what she was doing today. She slid her hand into her coat pocket and wrapped her fingers around the grip of the unregistered .38 snub-nose revolver pulled from a crime scene decades ago.
She knocked on the door. Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door, and she straightened, tightening her hand on the strap of her purse. The door opened to a towering man with white hair. He was handsome and well dressed with the build of a onetime collegiate athlete trying to fight time’s effects on his joints. He’d asked her to meet him here.
“We need to talk,” she said. “The cops are getting close.”
“Getting close to you?”
“If they get me, they will get you.”
“The cops don’t scare me.”
“What about the Popov family? I’ve had some interesting conversations with them lately.”
His expression grew harder. “What did you say to them?”
She considered shooting him in the doorway but thought of security cameras or prying eyes from some distant neighbor walking his dog. If not for the files she had on him, she’d be afraid of what he’d do to her. But he knew if anything happened to her, the cops would find out about him. And once the Hangman secret was out, the Popov family would be forced to handle him like they did anyone who failed them.
Monroe stepped inside. He stood silent, staring at her. He could be vicious, but she’d made a career controlling men like him. His usefulness had passed, and she was anxious to get rid of him and close this chapter.
As her hand slid into her coat pocket, a smile flickered across his face. It was a stupid smile. Her fingers tightened around the gun’s grip.
His smile vanished, and his eyes grew hard. She sensed the shift, and as she yanked the gun from her coat, he pulled a knife from his pocket. With the lightning reflexes of a snake, he jabbed the sharp tip through her side and into her lung. She stumbled back and steadied the gun. Pain rocketed up her side as she took aim. He moved easily out of her line of sight as she fired. He knocked the gun out of her hand, and she staggered to the side and against the wall. Breathing was nearly impossible now. She stared at the spot of blood moistening her silk blouse.
“Why?” she stammered.
“I knew from the beginning you were going to try something like this. Takes a snake to recognize a snake.” He picked up the gun and tucked it in his waistband. “I haven’t survived this long without overthinking every scenario.”
“If I don’t make it back, you’ll be exposed,” she said as she pressed a trembling, blood-soaked hand to her midsection.
“I don’t give a shit about that anymore.” He hauled her forward. Her knees buckled, but he held her steady. “I have one more job to do, and then I’m free of all my debts.” He grinned. “Even if you hadn’t tried to kill me today, I’d have killed you anyway.”
“You’ll go to prison.”
He pressed the barrel of the gun to her temple. “I won’t.”
Her gaze met his. Pain and fear stripped her confidence, leaving only desperation. “I have money.”
“I’ve been paid enough already. I only need you.”
She could feel her life draining away. “Why?”
“You’re an important piece of the puzzle now. Not only will my debts be paid, but anyone who knew me as the Hangman will be dead.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I need bait for the trap, and you’re it.” Blood dripped on the floor and on her leopard-print shoes.
Novak’s gaze settled on Julia. As she reached for the car door handle, he grabbed her hand and gently pulled her toward him. “We’ll figure this out.”
She studied him close.
“I need to talk to Ken,” Julia said. “He’s the last real link to my father and the case.”
“And you’ve called his house twice and left two messages. We’ll catch up with him within the next few hours and get to the bottom of the note.” He kissed her. “I’ll call you soon.”
Novak watched her climb the back staircase and vanish into her apartment before he pulled out of the alley. En route to his office he received a call from Riggs.
“We found Bonnie Jenkins,” he said.
“Where?”
“In a bar on Southside. She’s at the station now. We’re giving her coffee and food to sober her up.”
“Great. Don’t let her leave until I get there.”
Blue lights flashing all the way, he made it to police headquarters in fifteen minutes. He found Riggs standing outside an interview room, his hands in his pockets.
“How’s she doing?” Novak asked.
“She’s still drunk but making more sense.”
“Have you asked her about Lana?”
“Nope. Thought I’d save that conversation for you.”
“Let’s do it.” Inside the small interview room, he found Bonnie Jenkins in a chair hunched over a metal table. Her hands cradled a cup of coffee, and beside her was a partly eaten doughnut. When he closed the door, she looked up.
Her skin was pale, her eyes heavily made up. Her tousled hair was brown, and one false eyelash was coming loose. She wore a red dress with spaghetti straps and a tight bodice.
“Bonnie,” Novak said.
“Why am I here? I’ve been drunk in public before, and I’ve never been brought to a room like this.”
He pulled up a chair beside her. He didn’t want the table separating them or her thinking he was the enemy. “I’m hoping you can help me.”
She sniffed and straightened. “With what?”
“You know Lana Ortega?”
“Sure, Lana. We partied together a few times. Where is that bitch, anyway?”
“She’s dead,” Novak said, matter-of-fact.
Bonnie blinked and sat back in her chair. “What?”
“She was murdered a few nights ago. You may be in danger, so we want your help.”
“Shit. How?”
“Hanged, suffocated, and carved on. Very gruesome and not done quickly.”
“That’s messed up. Was it a john?”
“We don’t know yet, but I don’t want him finding you.”
“I haven’t seen her since Monday.”
“You and Lana met another cop in the Edge bar. Do you remember him?”
“Yeah. Jim. He bought us a few rounds of drinks.”
“What did Jim look like?”
“Like a cop. Okay-looking. Suit. Typical cop.”
“If I had a sketch artist sit down with you, could you describe Jim?”
“Did a cop kill Lana?”
“We don’t think he was a cop, but I have to be sure. Will you work with me?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“What did Jim talk to you and Lana about?”
“He was more into her than me. Said she was his type. She loved the attention to flirt, but it never
got serious with anyone.”
“Did he talk to you?”
“A little. But he was always more interested in Lana.” Her brow wrinkled with a frown. “When Lana left the bar that night, he left with her.”
“They say where they were going?”
“Another bar.”
“Was it Billy’s?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Did either one of them return to the bar?”
“I don’t know. I hung around a little longer and then found someone else to party with.”
“Okay. Drink up that coffee, and I’ll get the artist.”
“Could I get a chocolate doughnut? Not crazy about the sprinkles.”
“Sure. Anything you want.”
“I don’t like the name Hangman,” he said as he coiled the rope around Ms. Monroe’s neck and secured it tight. “No imagination. I put time and effort into the knots, and no one appreciates the effort.”
Monroe stared at him, her eyes wide and full of fear, her voice silenced by the rag in her mouth secured with a strip of duct tape. She struggled to breathe with only one good lung now.
He ran the strand of rope around her wrist and secured it to a pole that crossed over her shoulder blades. Both her arms were now stretched out into a T. The pole was suspended by another rope that stretched up and over a rafter in the ceiling of the garage behind the main house.
“I like this setting. Perfect place for our party.” He removed the duct tape and pulled the rag from her mouth.
“Please,” she said.
“It takes planning to make these scenes work. It’s not just tying knots. And honestly, it was never about the money.”
She looked at him, her brown eyes bright with tears. A moan rumbled in her throat.
He moved back to his bag and pulled out another length of rope. Winding each end around his fists, he tugged. He knew it was strong, but also knew she was watching. Little things like this could ratchet up the terror. “You understand this is not personal,” he said as he approached her. “It’s that you fit the criteria, which is important to the endgame. Without the right trail of bread crumbs, I won’t catch the right bird.”
“What are you talking about?” she whispered.
