by Julia Shupe
“It’s good,” Gil reasoned. “Very good. But it’s ballsy as hell. It’s risky. Our perp nabs a grown woman in broad daylight? At an apartment complex with over two hundred units?”
I returned to the living room chair. “Ballsy doesn’t begin to describe this guy. He doesn’t seem to give two shits. He’s experienced, calm. His confidence is off the charts.” I massaged my temples, where a headache was beginning to bloom. This guy was the worst kind of perp, in my opinion. He was narcissistic and self-absorbed, vain to the point of egomaniacal. And that, of course, was the strange thing to me. This man didn’t fit Dr. Waite’s profile. None of what we were seeing matched the things she’d said about Carlton Tubbs. I frowned. This guy sounded more like Smith. “So now what,” I asked out loud.
Gil grabbed his cell phone and dialed Harry’s number, who answered on the very first ring. “Salmon,” he barked, “where we at with the employees at Pain-Free?”
“We’re nowhere, Gil. We’ve got dick. And didn’t your mother bother to teach you proper grammar? ‘Where we at?’ Who says that anymore?”
“Come on,” I snapped. “You’ve still got nothing? How is that possible? You’re saying every person at that office has an alibi?”
“Everyone except the receptionist,” he said. “But the receptionist is a woman; it can’t be her.”
“Why can’t it be her?” Gil challenged.
“Because she’s sixty-two years old, and she doesn’t have a penis.”
“Touché. Okay. Then tell me about Tubbs.”
There was a shuffling sound before he gave his report. “There’s a family living in his mother’s old house. They’re the third owners since Laurie Tubbs sold the place. After she sold it, she moved into to an apartment, and we only know that because she forwarded her mail. Fourteen months later, she defaulted on the rent. Landlord evicted her. Trail ends there.”
“She was an addict,” I reasoned. “An addict and a prostitute. We learned that from speaking to Dr. Waite. Financial mismanagement goes along with the territory.”
“Unfortunately,” Harry said, “for our mom-of-the-year, that’s where the well runs dry. After being evicted, Laurie never returned to claim her possessions. She literally vanished into thin air.”
“Again,” Gil said. “Not far-fetched. She’s a woman who lives on the fringes of society. She doesn’t pay taxes, doesn’t have a legitimate job. No checking account, no credit history. Her entire life is a series of cash transactions. She probably moved to another city, another town, or even another state. For all we know, she could have hitched a ride to Cuba in a canoe.”
“How was she a homeowner at all?” I asked. “How does an addict obtain a mortgage in the first place?”
“She didn’t obtain a mortgage,” Harry reminded us. “She inherited the property from her father when he died. Sold it the same year she got it—probably for drug money.”
“Probably,” I murmured. We were getting nowhere. I was irritated again. This was tedious as hell. “So what have we got?” I turned to Gil. “Jack shit. No. Actually, worse: bupkis. We’ve got nothing to go on at all. No lead on the mother, no lead on the son.”
Gil looked suddenly dejected. We had eighteen bodies and a strong suspect, and somewhere, hidden in the great state of Florida were eighteen pairs of severed feet. “Let’s visit Jennifer Hall’s house,” he suggested. “We’re done here for now. We’ve done all we can.” Lifting his phone to his mouth, he said. “And Skolnick, for God’s sake, get a location on Tubbs. He’s the only lead we’ve got. And keep working the connections with the women,” he added. “Cross-reference the list of Pain-Free employees with the list of the clinic’s patients and wholesalers. Cross-reference that list with the list of teachers and classmates at Jennifer’s Hall’s school. I’m telling you, there has to be a connection.”
“Wait,” I said, catching Gil before he disconnected the line. “Skolnick, anything on Smith?”
“On Smith?” Mouth agape, Gil turned to me in horror, his head swiveling like Regan MacNeil’s in the Exorcist. “I’m sorry, but did you just say Smith? Please tell me you aren’t wasting valuable resources on that. Have you launched an investigation to find Casper the ghost?”
Glaring at him, I spoke evenly, while trying to inject a bit of confidence into my tone. In truth, I didn’t know what I was doing. Turning over rocks, I suppose. “We don’t know he’s a ghost, Gil. We can’t be absolutely sure. How does it hurt just to look? Like I said before, we’ve got bup—“
“Stop,” he said, showing me his palm. “Don’t say that word to me again. I know, Ness. We’ve got bupkis. You said that. And I know you’re just trying to help. But you heard Dr. Waite; Smith is a phantom. He’s the imaginary best friend of a crazy lunatic. He’s Tubbs’ childhood fairy godmother. How in good conscience can you waste time on this? And what, may I ask, is your strategy? Search the greater Sarasota area for people with the last name Smith? Come on, Vanessa. Are you nuts? Wait. Don’t answer that. I know you’re nuts. You’ve been nuts for years. What I didn’t know is that you’re suicidal, too. Does the Captain know you’re playing ghost-hunter games with his under-funded, short-staffed department?”
“For your information,” I answered smoothly. “We’re not searching the greater Sarasota area for Smiths. Dr. Waite gave us more than that. You just didn’t listen. She gave us an age, and a location as well. That’s hardly a needle in a haystack, and you know it.”
He dropped his gaze to his phone. “Okay. Ghost Hunter, what did you find on Smith? Any Smiths living in Sarasota between 1970 and 1985?”
A sigh came crackling through the phone. “Of course. Per the 1982 census, there were 2,734 Smiths living in Sarasota that year, 120 within a twenty-mile radius of the orphanage, and 74 with children between the ages of eight and thirteen years old.”
Gil whistled. “Well. Then we better get to work. That’s quite a bit of door knocking to do. But first—and please, humor me, if you will—before we focus on the whereabouts of Bigfoot, can we put brain cycles on the helping the victims? Humor me—just this once. Please. Before we focus on leprechauns and unicorns, can we create a time line for our eighteen victims?”
He was right. I knew it was a long shot. I felt stupid. But it was just something I needed to do. I’d had a strange feeling, ever since Sacramento. Something about the profile wasn’t right. There were subtle differences in the crimes and the profiles. With a sigh, I heaved myself out of my chair. Gil was right. The Captain wouldn’t like what I was doing.
“Forget it,” I conceded. “You’re right about Smith. Let’s focus on the vics and their families. Let’s work the facts, try to make connections, and maybe in three years, we’ll actually have something more substantial than bupk—“
“Stop.” Despite his apparent irritation with me, a smile played on Gil’s lips. “Salmon,” he said, “keep rockin that alpha-male T-shirt. And while you’re doing it, stay on Tubbs. Stone,” he said, winking at me. “You and I are at Jennifer Hall’s house. Let’s find what connects these girls. Let’s deliver. The best thing we can hope for right now is an ID on another of our vics. Let’s check with Lisa every hour if we have to, because the next time we talk to the Captain, we better have more than bupkis.”
Chapter 30
The Shadow Man
“Hello, Angela.”
When she heard his voice, she lifted her head. “Oh, hey, Mr. Archer. Welcome back.” She cocked her head. “How do you know my name? You ran out of here so fast last time, I didn’t have a chance to tell you.”
Stupid bitch, he thought before answering. How did he know her name? Was she serious? He wasn’t in the mood for this crap. Not today. He hadn’t had time to compose himself. Dealing with people took mental preparation, and today he wasn’t wearing the proper mask. He hadn’t plastered the perfect smile across his face, or donned his rose-colored glasses. He didn’t feel like putting on a show right now. For once, he just wanted good coffee. That was it. Something to contro
l this nasty headache.
Mustering what little patience he had, he clenched his fists and calmed his voice. “It’s right there, silly, on your nametag. But a nametag doesn’t give your last name, does it?”
He raised a brow while she shuffled on her feet. Like most women, she squirmed at the question. Rightfully so, he thought wryly. Maybe she wasn’t such a vapid fool after all. Maybe her parents had done something right. Or maybe she just had good instincts. What did it matter? They were all the same in the end. If he wanted her, he could have her, simple as that. He could take her from her stupid little world and bring her into his own. But he hadn’t come for that. Not today. Today he wanted coffee, not inane conversation. Today he just wanted her to do her fucking job.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, waving a hand, while imagining using it to break her delicate nose. A genuine smile spread across his face. “Don’t give out your last name. It crosses an invisible line. And trust me—that’s a line I happen to know a lot about. I warn my daughter about it every single day, twice on Sundays, it seems. Don’t give anyone your last name, sweetheart. Don’t engage. Don’t talk to people who give you a bad vibe. And above all else, don’t give out your home address.” He spread his hands welcomingly. “Those are the basics. I just hope she listens half as well as you do.”
Angela visibly relaxed. The father card. It worked every time.
“What’ll it be today, Mr. Archer? Chai tea? Again? Or will you try something new?”
“Coffee this time. Today I need an extra kick.”
“Yeah,” she replied, her eyes traveling across his face. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to be honest: you don’t look so good. Last time you were here, you looked sick, and when you coughed, it sounded like a lung was coming up.” She wagged a finger in front of his face, and it was all he could do not to reach out and break it. “They say if a cough lasts more than two weeks, you should consult a doctor, or a specialist, or something. You should really go get it checked out, Mr. Archer.”
Who did she think she was? Doctor-fucking-Oz? Didn’t she think he’d already considered that? Didn’t she think he was aware of his issues? With an uneasy feeling beginning to creep up his arms, he noticed the tightness in his chest. As stupid as she was, she was right. And though annoying, she’d actually touched a nerve. Looking away, he did his best to control his breathing. He needed to straighten himself out, and quickly. He needed to put himself first, for a change. Lately, he hadn’t been taking care of himself, and as a result, his health had gotten worse. And it wasn’t an aversion to doctors, per se. He’d already seen one—several in fact. Over the past two years, he’d seen every incompetent boob in existence, from emergency clinics to urgent care centers, and he’d taken every bit of their advice. He’d followed their prescriptions to the letter. In twenty-four months, he’d taken six rounds of heavy antibiotics, and every over-the-counter cough suppressant he could get his hands on. But despite doing that, his symptoms had worsened. The only thing he hadn’t done was visit a PCP, which was simply out of the question. He didn’t have one, couldn’t risk the exposure. There couldn’t exist a permanent record out there. It was important to maintain anonymity, to fly beneath the radar, so to speak. Clinics, he had learned, accepted cash transactions, and cash transactions were safe. They weren’t submitted to insurance companies. Sometimes they weren’t even logged.
So he stuck to the clinics and the urgent care centers, where all you needed was cash and a smile. Turning his attention to Angela, he shrugged. “No offense taken. You’re right. I’m getting over a nasty bitch of a cold, but don’t worry about it; I’m not contagious anymore.” He set his elbows on the counter and caught her gaze. “Enough about me. I’m boring as hell. Tell me something else about you. What do you do when you’re not serving coffee?”
Again, that flicker of concern crossed her face. This one, he thought, was mousy and skittish. There probably wasn’t an ounce of fight in her. He frowned. Would she be worth the trouble it would probably be to take her? And if he took her, would she be any fun? The feistier ones were more entertaining. Cowering and begging got old real quick.
Her eyes fell to a spot of liquid on the counter, which she smeared in circles with a finger. “Mostly, I just like hanging out with my friends, going to the mall, or to the movies, or something.”
Vomit, he thought. Just Dreadful. Hanging out? What was worse than ‘hanging out’? What the hell did that mean anyway? How did one define hanging out? He’d always found that phrase utterly stupid. He wanted to punch her right now, in the face, and watch her blood spatter across that silly green apron she was wearing. Pushing down his revulsion, he answered, “Yeah. I get it. My daughter’s the same way. She likes hanging out, and working out, too. She’s always at the gym these days.” He faked an eye roll. “She calls herself fat, but she’s not. She thinks if she misses a day, she’ll blow up like a freaking balloon.”
The idiot girl finally cracked a weak smile. “I know how she feels. I’m like that too.” She held up a venti-sized cup for inspection. “Did you know that just one of these drinks is almost 1,000 calories? And depending on what ingredients you add, it could be more. And it’s not just the calories you have to worry about. It’s the sugar, the fat, and the high-fructose corn syrup.”
Jackpot, he thought; like shooting fish in a barrel.
She pointed to a tall iced mocha in the pick-up window. “See that? That’s a diabetic coma in a cup.”
She seemed to be holding for a laugh, so he forced one. What he really wanted to do was put his hands around her neck and squeeze. She was so damn proud of herself, he thought. She wore her dull wit like an expensive perfume. How many times had she used that line? With how many customers? Today?
“Well,” he said, peering over the counter. “You must not indulge very often. Are you one of those annoying people blessed with great genetics, or do you spend half your life at the gym, like my daughter?”
She flipped her hair. How he longed to cut it off. “Yeah,” she said. “I work out pretty hard. Sundown fitness over on Austin Street.” She blabbered on while processing his order, oblivious to the fact that she’d just killed herself. “Do you know it?” she asked, while rummaging through the cash register. “Sundown Fitness? You should tell your daughter about it. It’s nice. It’s got everything: a quarter mile track for running, two weight rooms, and this killer body-pump class. It’ll make your glutes sore for a week. I’m telling you. She won’t be able to sit down.”
“Killer class, huh? Sounds like something I’d be interested in.” He smiled. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll tell her.” He picked up his change. “Have a good one, Angela. Take care of yourself. I’ll see you next time.”
Smiling at the five-dollar bill in her hand, she lifted her gaze. “See you soon, Mr. Arch—.” Stopping abruptly, her voice went soft. “Mr. Archer!” She fumbled for a napkin. “Take this. Your nose is bleeding.”
My nose is bleeding? His hand instinctively flew to his face. Fucking fantastic. I’m falling apart.
“Shit,” he muttered, accepting for the napkin. “Sorry, Angela. Excuse the language.”
“I mean it, Mr. Archer. You should go see a doctor. You shouldn’t play around with your health.”
“I’ll do that, Angela.” He gave her a tight nod. “I might even do it today. Thanks. You have a good workout tonight, okay? Don’t kill yourself in that class.” He grinned. “And why don’t we knock off the ‘Mr. Archer’ stuff? We’re friends now, right? Call me Carl.”
Chapter 31
“She came in last week. Something you said must have actually gotten through, Vanessa.” Dr. Hagen sat back, looking proud of herself, but she was also a bit pale. She looked tired. She seemed stressed.
I shook my head, in awe. “I never thought I’d actually see the day. Pigs must be flying outside or something, because my sister finally took my advice.”
“She did.” Adrianna’s smile reached her eyes. “And it’s a wonderful
step, but it’s only a first step. So if I were you, I wouldn’t say anything. Let her tell you, not the other way around. She’ll tell you about it when she’s ready. And remember,” she added, lifting a perfectly-plucked brow, “I can’t tell you anything about our sessions. Like it is with you, it’s confidential. Don’t ask me questions I can’t give the answers to.”
Despite the heavy feeling I’d been carrying around all day, I felt my body beginning to relax. I let myself smile. This was fabulous news, the best I’d heard in a while. Linda was finally opening up to someone, finally getting the help she needed. She’d been doing great on her own, of course. I was proud of her accomplishments thus far, but in these situations, people needed professional help.
“I won’t say anything. I won’t interfere. And I’d never put you in an awkward position.”
“I appreciate that.” Adrianna smiled at me. “Enough about Linda. Let’s talk about you. You’re paying for this session; you should get something out of it. Tell me what the hell’s being going on in your life. The past week’s come and gone in a flash. It’s been quite the jet-setting time for you.”
