She shared what she'd learned with Lieutenant Patton and the other detectives, getting mixed opinions resulting in a great big maybe. She e-mailed a request for details—had any fingerprints or hairs been recovered?
Lieutenant Patton mentioned the family get-together on Sunday, too, telling people where to reach her if they needed her. Trina talked Sandy and another friend into going sledding halfway to Juanita Butte and then out to a fondue restaurant, where they got tipsy and bitched about men.
Monday she decided to push Jimmy McCartin a little harder and stopped by the Century 21 office. But when she went in, the perky receptionist said, "I'm afraid Mr. McCartin no longer works here. But someone else will be happy to show you property or discuss your listing with you."
Trina showed her badge. "Who's the boss?"
The owner of the office, a no-nonsense middle-aged woman, told her that Jimmy had tendered his resignation on Friday. "He offered to give notice, but honestly this time of year is slow enough, we're all twiddling our thumbs anyway."
"Did he say why he was leaving?"
"Only that he had some personal issues. I know he plans to leave central Oregon."
Jimmy wasn't home, which alarmed her. A For Sale sign on a folding sandwich board sat by the street. She seemed to remember that serial killers often looked for an excuse to leave the area once an investigation made it too hot for comfort.
She parked at the curb several houses down and waited for half an hour, but he didn't reappear. Where was he? She got out and walked back to the front door, ringing the doorbell again, hearing only silence. She glanced around the neighborhood and saw no one. The development had a deserted look, residents all at work, kids in day care. No stay-at-home moms here. She also didn't see any curtains twitch as a neighborhood busy-body watched her, so she strolled around the side of Jimmy's house and peered in a small window at an obscenely tidy garage, sans Dodge Durango. So he wasn't really at home, ignoring the doorbell. The fence, gate closed, discouraged her from circling around back to look in other windows.
Back in the station, she told Lieutenant Patton, "I'll check on my way home. Could we send a unit by to see if he's home this evening? We don't want him to skip on us."
"Not likely when he owns the house. But, yeah, this is suggestive." She sighed. "Nothing yet from other jurisdictions?"
Trina had just checked her e-mail. "Portland has a couple of pubic hairs combed from one victim. They're faxing the analysis. The other two victims were clean. Too clean, to quote them."
"Doesn't that sound familiar. I'm getting a bad feeling about this."
"Portland is a busy place. Lots of bad guys. If we get something similar from Albany, say…"
Their eyes met. The lieutenant nodded.
"Don't go talk to McCartin by yourself. See if he's home. If he is, wait until tomorrow."
Remembering how grateful she'd been not to be alone at Gavin Husby's, Trina didn't argue.
She was about to leave for the day when Will called, voice hurried.
"Caught you. Good. I've been in court all day. Learned anything?"
"Jimmy McCartin quit his job and is selling his house."
"Really."
"Wasn't home, so I couldn't ask why."
"Jimmy's an odd duck, but I'd have sworn he was a decent guy."
"Yeah?" she challenged. "Doesn't he make you a little uncomfortable? Isn't there something about him that just doesn't feel quite right?"
He was silent.
"That's what people say later, you know. 'He was a good neighbor,' the cops will hear. 'Always polite.' 'Shoveled old Mrs. Douglas's driveway for her.' But invariably there are always a few people who admit they avoided him because, in some way they could never pin down, he made them uneasy. When I read about this stuff, it seems like a few people always notice this guy's expressions never reach his eyes, or sometimes his responses are just plain inappropriate. He's not normal, and if only on a subconscious level they knew it."
"God."
"The thing is," she said, thinking about the Portland murders, "Jimmy may be nothing more than an odd duck. I'm just asking."
"I don't know! Damn it, if I did do you think I wouldn't tell you?"
"I'm sorry." Boy, she sure knew how to make sparkling conversation with a man. No wonder dates had become few and far between.
"I'm not mad at you. Just frustrated." He paused. "Is it too late to invite you to dinner tonight?"
She hesitated, pride timidly raising a hand to suggest she not be too willing. "You sound tired."
"I'm beat," he admitted. "I'd still enjoy your company."
Trina slapped down pride and suggested, "How about if I bring over a pizza? Forget fine cuisine. Beer and pizza with everything on it works for me."
"Me, too." He apparently covered the phone, because she heard muffled voices for a moment. Then Will came back. "Seven?"
"Pizza in hand," she promised.
Jimmy McCartin's house, way too big and ostentatious for a young single guy, was still dark when she drove by. Had he hired movers to bring his stuff and already left town himself? That was damn quick. More likely, he'd just gone out for the day. Or maybe taken a couple-day-long trip to hunt for a rental wherever he intended to go.
Still, the dark house left her feeling unsettled when she went home, called in a pizza order and changed clothes.
She stopped at a corner grocery store for a six-pack of beer and then picked up the pizza, setting it on the passenger seat beside her. To hell with pride, Trina thought. It would have condemned her to an evening alone in her apartment pretending she cared what was on TV when she could be with Will. Her mood had done a turnaround when he called. Yearning for his company, his kisses, his touch, had her feeling warm despite the cold night, already a little aroused even. Girly, instead of her usual tough self.
She parked in her regular spot at his complex, opening her door, then grabbing the plastic grocery bag with the six-pack and the large pizza, which she had to maneuver over the top of the steering wheel. Trina was thinking how good it smelled and backing awkwardly out so she could shut the door of her Subaru when a hand whipped around her and pressed a sharp blade against her throat.
"Pizza," Gavin Husby said. "I was getting a little hungry. Nice of you to bring the food."
Trapped between the open door and the Subaru, her throat burning where the blade cut, both hands on the damn pizza box, she threatened, "I'll scream."
"And I'll slit your throat."
The blade bit deeper. She felt the warmth of blood trickling and gagged.
A hand groped her underarms, her breasts, her waist, finally reaching her weapon, tucked in the waistband of her jeans. He pulled it out, tossed it on the seat of her wagon, and murmured, "We won't be needing that." Then he prodded her to turn toward the parking lot, his breath hot on her neck, his mouth close to her ear. "Come on, Will's bitch. We have lots to do tonight."
* * *
WILL RACED HOME at 6:45, yanking off his tie as he went in the door. Quick shower, change to cords and sweatshirt. He emerged from the bedroom at seven on the nose, looking forward to Trina's arrival and to pizza. He'd forgotten to have lunch today and his stomach was now belatedly grumbling.
She tended to be prompt, but at 7:10 he figured she was having to wait for the pizza. At 7:15, growing antsy, he called her place, got the answering machine. 7:16, her cell phone. Ditto.
She had it on and wasn't answering it?
Maybe she'd left it on the seat while she went in to get the pizza or the beer. The explanation was logical, but foreboding had knotted in his belly anyway. He picked up the phone again and called the closest pizza joint. No order for a Trina or Giallombardo. Okay, maybe she'd gone farther to get one from Mario's, acknowledged by locals to have the best pizza in town.
"Sure," an absurdly young voice told him, "a Trina picked up her pizza, uh, like, maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes ago?"
He swore, slammed down the phone and, without even thinking abo
ut it, put on a parka and grabbed keys, wallet and cell phone.
Foreboding had spasmed into pure dread, even though he knew he was jumping the gun. She was a cop. She could have gotten a call.
Why hadn't she called him?
He'd drive her route. Maybe she'd broken down. Maybe…
Halfway down the steps, he saw her bright blue Subaru in the visitor's parking slot. A ragged sound of relief escaped him. He hit the parking lot and saw that her door was open. She'd just been running late. He could carry the pizza up for her.
But he didn't see anyone inside. The lot was completely quiet, the sodium lighting murky. Moving slowly, tension building again, terror nudging it, he walked up to the open door and saw the empty interior of her car.
And the handgun lying carelessly on the seat.
* * *
MEG WAS JUST FINISHING a late dinner and looking forward to the Ben & Jerry's she'd picked up on the way home when the phone rang.
"Ignore it," her husband said hopefully.
She rolled her eyes. "Too late."
"I'm getting it!" one of the kids yelled, followed by a body slam and a wailed, "I was first!"
Scott half laughed, half sighed. "How is it we've failed to teach our children normal civility?"
She shook her head.
"Mom." Evan reappeared in the dining room. "It's Will. He sounds…" The boy's eyes were wide, frightened.
She snatched the phone from him. "Will?"
"Mom." His voice was hardly recognizable. "He's got Trina."
"He?" Understanding and horror flooded her. "Oh, my God. How do you know?"
He explained, voice thick, raw. She was bringing pizza to his place. Her car now sat abandoned in the complex parking lot right outside his apartment, door open. Her handgun lay abandoned on the seat. No Trina.
"Don't touch anything," she said unnecessarily. He was the son of two cops. "I'm on my way."
She made phone calls, Scott listening in silence. All he said was, "Shall I come?"
She hesitated. Will would need someone, and the kids would be okay…But she didn't like the idea of leaving them alone. Not when, once again, someone was targeting a Patton. "No. I'll suggest he come over here."
Scott walked her to the front door, said, "I love you," and gave her a hard, purposeful kiss.
Filled with a roiling mix of fear, anguish and fury, she drove to her son's apartment building.
Other units had already arrived, as she'd intended. They'd unwounded yellow crime scene tape. Sheila was just pulling in with the van that held all her paraphernalia.
Meg ignored everyone else and went straight to Will, who stood near the foot of the stairs, gaze riveted on the Subaru Forester.
When she wrapped her arms around him, he almost crumpled. She felt the moment when his knees buckled, heard the beginning of a sob.
"I did this," he said harshly. "If I'd just stayed away from her…"
"He would have picked another woman. You know he would have." Ignoring her own sickening fear as she saw in her mind's eye Trina's face, so damn young, she made her voice brisk. "Trina's better equipped to fight back."
He shuddered in her arms. With what she knew took enormous effort, he stepped back, face haggard, eyes wet. And he said the words that were a stab to her heart. "I love her."
Gillian's murder had almost destroyed him. If he'd finally allowed himself to love a woman again, and she too was brutally killed, he'd never recover. She knew that, deep in her soul. What if she had to tell her oldest son, for whom she would have done anything in the world, that Trina's naked, obscenely posed body had been found?
She gave a brief nod of acknowledgement, her lips pressed together. "He can't have her," she said, then more strongly, "People, we've got to find her. This son of a bitch isn't going to rape and kill a police officer."
Her pronouncement was met with murmurs of agreement and outrage.
"Have we started knocking on doors?"
"Just got here." Jerry signaled to others. "Come on, let's hit it."
Behind her, Will said, "Nobody will have seen anything. Heard anything. They never have."
"Every serial killer makes a mistake eventually. To snatch her right here, fifty feet from your door." She shook her head.
"But that was the point." Will's stare from sunken eyes was awful. "He wanted me to come down here, just like I did. See the open door. Feel relief. Then be gutted with fear."
She turned to him, voice fierce. "The only way we're going to find her is to figure out who this bastard is. Have you remembered anything?"
Gaze fastened to hers, as if only her presence kept him upright, he shook his head.
"Then go get your address book if you need it. You're coming with me. What you're going to do is call friends. Ones you trust. Ask them. Does anybody remember an incident with a jockstrap?"
"Yeah." He nodded, but slowly, and she recognized that he was in shock. "Okay."
"I'm going to the station. I'm going to rouse somebody in Albany and Beaverton and wherever the hell else I have to so that I get some answers. Meantime," she said, turning to other people, "I want a unit out to Jimmy McCartin's and one to Gavin Husby's. Find them."
"What if it isn't one of them?" Will asked.
Then Trina is dead, Meg thought.
"No 'what ifs.' Not yet."
Her heart ached as she watched him stagger upstairs to get his address book as if he were drunk. When he came back, he looked her age. Older. Gaunt, cheeks sunken, bones prominent.
During the short drive in the dark, he sat silent. Street lamps and headlights flickered past. Once she had to slow on the main drag to let a large, laughing group cross the street to a restaurant that spilled warm light and voices onto the sidewalk. She glanced sideways to see Will staring straight ahead as if he didn't see them.
A moment later, she was speeding into the parking lot when he said, "I never told you I was sorry."
"What?"
"The things I said. After Gilly…"
"We were all wrong about Mendoza."
"No. You weren't wrong. Your gut feelings were right on. You never quite believed he'd done it, did you?"
She hesitated. "That's not true. I did believe it. There was too much evidence. The things you said to me…They shook me, because you were right. If not for me, he'd have been in jail that night."
She pulled into a parking slot.
Will didn't move, even after she pulled out the key. "But whether you were right or wrong, you were behaving with…humanity. Isn't it better to try to do good and make mistakes than be rigid and without heart?" He made a sound, a soft, keening sound. "I became what I wanted you to be, and it's not better."
"Will Patton, you've never been without heart. Look at me."
He did, eyes blind.
"You are a good man. Trauma affects us all in different ways. You were angry. I understood that. The distance between us all these years hasn't been because of what you said. It's been because you couldn't forget what you'd said, what you felt for me when you said it." She leaned over, hugged his rigid body, and whispered, "I love you." Then, more briskly, "Let's get to work."
"Oh, God." He leaped out, beat her to the back entrance.
Her cell phone rang. "McCartin still isn't home," Randy Wheeler said. "Neighbors don't know where he is."
"You looked in windows?"
"Place is empty. I'd like to go in, but…I really think it's empty."
She heard his police radio crackle. "Husby isn't home, either," he said a moment later. "Or isn't answering the door."
"We need warrants. We need reasons for our suspicions that a judge will buy."
She shook her head when Will looked at her with desperate hope. He hunched his shoulders and hit Send on his cell phone.
She logged onto Trina's e-mail account. Maybe something had arrived late. Nothing.
Albany. She'd try Albany first. And Bellingham. Two relatively small cities, where there wouldn't be so many unsolved rapes a
nd murders as to cloud the issue.
She struck pay dirt in Albany. Her call was forwarded a couple of times, until finally a detective came on.
"This isn't Detective Giallombardo?"
"I'm her lieutenant. Meg Patton."
"Lieutenant Patton. I was going to call earlier, but I got sidetracked. A ten-year-old kid shot and killed his best friend. It's been one of those days."
She was too driven by urgency even to feel pity or to exchange sympathetic chitchat. "What do you have for us?"
"Two women, raped and murdered in a way that sounds one hell of a lot like yours. Six months apart, in the time frame your detective gave me. Left breasts damn near ripped off. Both were strangled, both posed. Guy wore a condom, gloves, was damn careful. Even so, we've got a nice sample of DNA. One of the two victims got him good with her fingernails. She had blood and skin under her nails. With the second victim, we were able to photograph a really dandy bite impression. You find us a suspect, we'll nail him."
"Gavin Husby," she said. "His name is Gavin Husby. And he just snatched another woman. This one is a police officer. Detective Trina Giallombardo."
He said something, an obscenity probably. She hung up just as Will ended a call and turned.
"Gavin," he said. "Goddamn it. Gavin."
"What?"
"I just woke up Justin Hill in…I don't know. Somewhere in Switzerland. Vince Baker told me to call him, that Justin had said something." He shook his head. "Justin remembered this time in the locker room. Gavin had asked out Amy and she'd said no. He was calling her obscene names and I told him to shut up. Hill says Gavin walked over in front of me, pulled off his jockstrap, stretched it out and said, 'I'd like to shove her sweet face right there.' He says I took a swing at him and someone grabbed me." He wiped a shaking hand over his face. "Crap. I still don't remember."
Meg looked at the clock—8:15. He'd had Trina for at least an hour. Maybe as much as an hour and a half.
Will's gaze followed hers. "She might already be dead."
Dead Wrong Page 25
