Too Far Gone
Page 37
“We’re on it, Jerry.”
He waited until they left, then turned back to Lucy. “I understand you’re a rookie.”
She bristled. “Yes, I’ll be here two years come January.”
“I’ve been a Bexar County deputy for twenty-three years, and a detective for more than half that time. I’ll tell you this, every time the feds have gotten involved in one of my cases, they’ve screwed it up. I said as much to your boss. To be fair, I’ve only had to work directly with your people twice over the years, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. Because we have three victims who all match a specific M.O., I’m stuck with your assistance. It’s not my decision, but I will live with it. However, just to be clear, our respective bosses agreed that I’m the lead. I don’t want any misunderstanding about that, so if you have a problem taking direction, tell me now. Save us both time and headache.”
Lucy bit back her first sharp remark and said, “I have no problem taking direction, Detective Walker, as long as you have no problem taking my assistance. I have a Master’s degree in Criminal Psychology, and have worked multiple serial-killer cases.”
“Psychology,” he said with a hearty laugh. “Might as well consult a psychic to find out who killed these men.”
“With all due respect, the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit has established clear guidelines based on evidence, victimology, and psychology to help narrow the suspect field.”
He looked humored. “And what does your crystal ball tell you?”
Don’t react. Stay professional. “I’ve read the autopsy reports, viewed the crime scene photos and reports, and read the case notes. I’m up to speed, except on one thing: witness statements.”
“No witnesses. Each of the victims was killed at night in a remote area like this.” He waved his hand around them. They were in the middle of a county park.
“I’m talking about the wives of the first two victims, the friends, neighbors, colleagues. Your notes were minimal.” She shouldn’t have said that, but she didn’t backtrack. His notes had been basic. Just facts that the women knew about the day leading up to the murders of their husbands. When they left the house, what they were doing, when they planned to return. No known enemies. Ditto from their employers and colleagues. Nothing substantive, and she had more questions. “After reflection, the spouses may remember something else. These men got on the killer’s radar somehow, and when we figure out how we’ll know more. Plus, I want to go deeper into possible connections between the victims.”
“They aren’t connected, Agent Kincaid. It may surprise you, but I’m good at my job.” He looked her up and down. “You have less than two years as an agent. And you’re too young to have come from local law enforcement or the military.”
“I don’t think age has anything to do with competence.”
“But it has everything to do with experience.”
“Is your problem with me that I’m young or that I’m a federal agent?”
“Both, ma’am. Like I said, the feds I’ve worked with mucked up my cases and I have a long memory. But I’m willing to give you a shot.”
“Sounds like I already have two strikes against me.”
“I’m a man of my word, Agent Kincaid.”
She sincerely hoped he was, because she really tired of games and jumping through hoops with people who were supposed to be on her side—the side of justice.
“Then let me into this investigation. Don’t push me aside as if I don’t have anything to contribute.”
“Well, you can repeat all the groundwork if you want, but I have dug around into the backgrounds of the first two victims and there is no connection. Sometimes, a crime is exactly what it seems to be: random.”
“The killer has a reason.”
“Could be he’s getting his rocks off.”
“He picked these victims specifically. Knew they would be alone. Had the tools with him—stun gun, duct tape, hammer. Pre-meditated.”
He nodded. “Yes, I’ll give you that.”
“He didn’t stumble upon them and decide to kill them. He picked them out. Maybe at random, but he stalked them—got them alone. Knew when they would be alone. Knew their routines, and how to best approach them.”
For the first time, Walker looked at her as if she had a brain. That angered her and relieved her.
More flies with honey.
She almost smiled when she heard her brother Dillon’s wise words pop into her head. She’d use the honey as long as it worked, but she wasn’t going to be demoralized or dismissed.
“I pretty much came to the same conclusion, especially since the only thing Billy Joe Brandish and Steven James had in common was that they were married, white, and under forty. And now Julio Garcia throws race out the window. He’s Hispanic. They weren’t even all born in Texas. Brandish is from San Antonio, Garcia is from Houston—I did a quick run on him when we ID’d him—and James is from California, relocating here with his wife six years ago to take a position with a large accountancy corporation. Brandish is blue collar—in construction and travels a lot to find work. James is wealthy white collar work. Garcia was a chef, worked himself up from prep work to running a kitchen at a busy hotel.”
“What about where they live? Go to church? School? Where their wives work? Truly random victims are rare. Men as victims of a serial killer are rare. Something connects them, maybe even a location where the killer picked up their scent.”
“I base my conclusions on evidence, little lady. Facts.”
She didn’t comment; she wasn’t going to take the bait.
He continued. “They all live in different areas. James, upper middle class in Los Olmos, Brandish barely holding on to his small house in an old neighborhood in the city. Garcia here lives on some acres in Bulverde, about five, six miles up the road. Cheaper to live up here and find some land for elbow room.”
“So he was on his way home.”
Walker nodded. “He left his restaurant at eleven-thirty last night. His wife was asleep—woke up at three-thirty and realized he wasn’t home. His body was found just after seven this morning by a park patrol officer.”
She did a mental calculation. “It would take what, thirty, thirty-five minutes at night to get from downtown to Bulverde?”
“Thereabouts.”
“This just seems personal to me.”
“Personal?”
“Why the focus on the hands? Why beat the victim with a blunt object, then shoot them? Why not simply shoot him in his car? Did the killer want information? But if the victims were interrogated, the killer wouldn’t use duct tape on their mouths. Or did he beat the victims out of a rage? Yet—there wasn’t rage here. Not uncontrolled rage, at any rate. It was … methodical. Planned.”
“Beating a guy to a pulp tells me there is plenty of rage in this killer.”
“But they weren’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“Beaten to a pulp. The damage to their hands was extensive, but very specific. Very focused.”
Then it came to her. “The hands were restrained.”
“No evidence of that.”
“They had to be. What would you do if someone hit your hand with a hammer?”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
Lucy was on to something, though she didn’t know exactly where she was going with it. “Victims are stunned. But that doesn’t make them completely immobile. Temporary, but they may have some fight in them. They were dragged from the car, but not far. Thirty, forty feet. By that point the victim knows he’s in danger. Might think he’s being carjacked or robbed, or maybe he knows the killer and suspects he’s going to be killed. He’s going to try to crawl away.”
“So the killer hits him in the groin. I can tell you that would incapacitate any man.”
“And the first thing you would do is bring your hands down to protect yourself—unless they were restrained.”
“If the killer hit the victims in the groin first.
And there was no duct tape residue on the hands or wrists.”
“We need to talk to Ash—he can look closer at the clothing. Maybe the wrists were bound through their shirts. Something to keep the hands on the ground—there was evidence of dirt and rocks embedded in the hands. The restraint wouldn’t even need to be that secure—the killer didn’t keep them alive long. Less than five minutes between first blow and the gunshot to the face.”
“Well, now, your theory makes sense, but that still doesn’t tell us anything about these victims or the killer.”
“It tells us everything about the killer.”
“Well, unless you know his name, it doesn’t. Guess your crystal ball didn’t tell you that.”
“Detective Walker,” she said as calmly as she could, “I am doing my best here to work with you, but this animosity has got to stop. I’m a good cop, and I read your service record—I know you’re a good cop, too. You said you were a man of your word and would give me a real chance—so start now.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well. What now?”
“Talk to Garcia’s widow, go back to the other widows and re-interview now that we have more information. Ask the lab to reinspect the clothes. But something else is bugging me, and it slipped away.” Likely because she was spending all her time battling this detective.
“Well, if the thing that’s bugging you is bugging me, then we’re on the same page.”
“Excuse me?”
“The victims all rolled down their windows before they were stunned. They were all stunned in their cars.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. “You’re thinking a cop.”
His face hardened. “Yes, I am, Agent Kincaid. But for now, I’d like to keep this between you and me.”
A cop. It made sense. Drivers would pull over, off the road, or into a parking lot if they were being pulled over.
She hoped and prayed that they were wrong.
“Maybe,” she said slowly, “it’s someone impersonating a cop.”
“May just be that,” Walker said. “But we have to look at the evidence wherever it takes us, and right now, I don’t like where it’s leading.”
They watched as the coroner finished loading Julio Garcia’s body into the back of the van.
“I need to notify Garcia’s widow,” Walker said quietly. He wasn’t a soft man, but she heard the compassion in his voice and she pushed aside her earlier frustrations.
“I’ll join you, Detective.”
“You don’t need to do that. Death notifications are never fun.”
“Another thing we agree on. But I’ll do it with you. It’s never easy, but it’s easier with a partner, Detective.”
Walker looked at her. “You can call me Jerry.”
“I’m Lucy.”
“Short for Lucille?”
“Lucia. But I only respond when my mother calls me Lucia, so call me Lucy.”
He grinned. “If you want to leave your vehicle here, we can go to the Garcia spread together and I can fill you in on the details.”
“Thank you.”
Dillon was right. More flies with honey—honey and a whole lot of spine.
Also by Allison Brennan
Abandoned
Breaking Point
Shattered
Make Them Pay
The Lost Girls
Poisonous
No Good Deed
Best Laid Plans
Compulsion
Dead Heat
Notorious
Cold Snap
Stolen
Stalked
Silenced
If I Should Die
Kiss Me, Kill Me
Love Me to Death
Carnal Sin
Original Sin
Cutting Edge
Fatal Secrets
Sudden Death
Playing Dead
Tempting Evil
Killing Fear
Fear No Evil
See No Evil
Speak No Evil
The Kill
The Hunt
The Prey
Praise for these other novels by New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan
“If you haven’t been reading Brennan’s truly exceptional Lucy Kincaid/Sean Rogan series, then you have been missing out.… In this mind-blowing installment, Brennan also gives readers a fascinating look into the mindset of her epic villains. A chilling thrill-fest from beginning to end.”
—RT Book Reviews (4½ stars, Top Pick!) on No Good Deed
“A fast-paced, suspenseful read with interesting characters and sinister twists that keep you turning the pages for more.”
—Karin Slaughter
“Amazing … The interconnectivity of Brennan’s books allows her ensemble of characters to evolve, adding a rich flavor to the intense suspense.”
—RT Book Reviews (4½ stars, Top Pick!) on Best Laid Plans
“Brennan throws a lot of story lines into the air and juggles them like a master. The mystery proves to be both compelling and complex.… [A] chilling and twisty romantic suspense gem.”
—Associated Press on Silenced
“All the excitement and suspense I have come to expect from Allison Brennan.”
—Fresh Fiction on Stolen
“The evolution of Lucy Kincaid from former victim to instinctive and talented agent continues in Brennan’s new heart-stopping thriller.… From first to last, this story grabs hold and never lets go.”
—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick) on Silenced
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALLISON BRENNAN is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels. Most recently, she was nominated for Best Paperback Original Thriller by International Thriller Writers and the Daphne du Maurier Award by Kiss of Death. A former consultant in the California State Legislature, Allison lives in Northern California with her husband, five kids, and assorted pets.
Visit her website at: www.allisonbrennan.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Excerpt: Nothing to Hide
Also by Allison Brennan
Praise
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters
, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
TOO FAR GONE
Copyright © 2018 by Allison Brennan.
Excerpt from Nothing to Hide copyright © 2018 by Allison Brennan.
All rights reserved.
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St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / November 2018
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