“What the hell are you grinning at you buffoon?” she snapped.
“Just happy to have your sweet company along for the ride, Jakes.”
“You’re such a jerk.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Raines retraced the route Holly had taken to reach the fire less than twenty-four hours earlier. Instead of staying on East Ridge Road all the way to the Milbourne property, though, he made a right onto Pinehill Lane, which led to conservation land and Echo Lake. Olivia May’s house was the only one on the road. Holly realized the woods on their left belonged to Raines. His sprawling property shared a border with the Milbournes on East Ridge Road and Olivia’s on Pinehill Lane.
Raines hadn’t said a word since leaving the station. Although he was prone to long silences and never felt the pressure to make polite conversation, she knew he was annoyed with her for wasting his time. She didn’t care. His silence suited her mood, but she was curious about the land.
“How many acres does Olivia May own?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe forty.”
“Is that more than you own?”
“No.”
“So your land borders both hers and the Milbournes’ property, right?”
“Yes.”
A mile down the road, she spotted two square granite pillars with wrought iron gates. Olivia May’s house did not have a street number. Instead, “Pine Ledges” was chiseled into the stone column. The house was not visible from the street. It sat back from the road atop a hill surrounded by forest.
Raines made a left and drove up the long, curving driveway. An immense, gray-stoned mansion loomed before them. Ground lights illuminated the entrance.
Holly whistled. “Check out those gargoyles. Are they pigs?”
Raines craned his neck to peer up through the windshield. “They’re actually boars,” he told her. “When we were kids, Nate and I used to ride our bikes over here to explore. The place was vacant for years.”
Holly unbuckled her seatbelt. “The Chief says Olivia works with troubled teens. You could scare a kid straight with the mere threat of having to spend a night here.”
Raines nodded, “I’ve always thought that there was something Brontë-esque about the grim architecture.”
Holly marveled at his ability to always come up with something unexpected, but she had to admit that he was spot on in his description. The gabled and finial-topped Gothic structure did appear to have sprung from the imagination of Emily Brontë. The gloomy mansion was out of place among the colorful sugar maples and rich green conifers of Mount Washington Valley’s ski country. It was far better suited for a remote moor in England.
She glanced at him.
He obliged her questioning look by saying, “Years of traveling on a tour bus with nothing to do but read.”
“That’s funny. I never took you for the Wuthering Heights type.”
“What type do you take me for, then?”
She heard the trace of amusement in his deep voice. One-upmanship banter had been their preferred form of communication since they were kids. Today would be no different, Holly thought, as she scrambled for a response. “Conan the Barbarian seems more your speed.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “At least you didn’t say Pride and Prejudice.”
“So you’re familiar with Jane Austen? Now that’s very interesting. It doesn’t fit with the bad-boy rocker image, though, does it?”
He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Women love it when I talk Austen with them. Makes them think I’m really sensitive.”
She grinned and said, “Until the next morning, when it’s Jack Kerouac, and you’re on the road again.”
He laughed. It was rich, velvety and much like his singing voice. Holly mentally chalked up her victory as she got out of the car. Raines followed her across the driveway toward the house, their footsteps crunching on the pea-sized gravel.
Six broad granite steps led up to a massive mahogany front door, which was framed by a pointed stone arch and looked more like an entrance to a church than it did a home. Holly stood before the huge door. There wasn’t a bell to ring, but there was a bronze head of a foxhound for a doorknocker and a bronze fox with a bushy tail for the door handle. Holly gave Raines a wry grin, lifted the dog’s head and let it drop. The metal slapped against itself, and the noise echoed in a hollow space behind the door.
From the Chief’s description of Olivia May, Holly imagined the woman would be an older, more matronly version of Mary Poppins. Someone who dressed in drab brown and had deep, furrowed frown lines from taking care of a bunch of wild teenagers. So far, the mansion had done nothing to dispel that image.
When Olivia May opened the door, though, Holly had to struggle to hide her surprise. The woman before them appeared to be around their age, and she was striking—more New York socialite than substitute mother for at-risk youths. Gracefully dressed in clothes that accentuated her petite frame, Olivia wore a silky, black turtleneck over form-fitting black leggings and suede flats. Classic Hepburn. Glossy, chestnut-brown hair fell over her shoulders almost to her waist and shimmered like a supermodel’s in a shampoo ad. Her brown eyes and olive complexion hinted at Mediterranean ancestry.
Standing next to her, Holly felt like a frumpy giant. At five-eight, she towered above the tiny Olivia, who appeared to be five-foot nothing. The cheap, black suit pants Holly purchased at least two years earlier were now shiny from too much ironing and felt snug around her thighs.
Holly made the introductions. When Olivia turned to acknowledge him, Holly waited for the usual response that came when women met Mr. Rock and Roll for the first time. Few were immune to his looks and fame. Usually, they gave themselves away with a slight parting of their lips and dilation of their pupils. Olivia, though, appeared completely unaffected. In fact, she gave the impression that she had no idea who he was.
Olivia invited them in, albeit reluctantly. She had a slight accent that Holly couldn’t place.
They entered a grand oak-paneled foyer. Facing them, a double staircase swept up either side of the room and met at a balcony on the second floor. A massive antler chandelier hung above their heads. The entrance had a deer-hunter-wins-the-lottery flair to it, Holly noted, and almost nudged Raines, but Olivia was watching her. The feeling persisted as they followed her down a long corridor to a vast library. Sets of leather-bound books in reds, blues and greens filled the shelves. Two love sofas sat either side of an imposing stone fireplace and shared an overstuffed ottoman. Floor-to-ceiling, lead-paned windows overlooked the grounds at the back of the house.
Clearly, the architect’s intention had been to impress visitors with traditional grandeur rather than strike them with light and originality. It didn’t require too much imagination to conjure up men in velvet smoking jackets standing before a blazing fire, puffing on cigars while reminiscing about a successful hunt. The room felt like a mausoleum and didn’t seem to fit the sleek, urbane Olivia.
Holly wondered where the money came from for the house. The maintenance alone had to be more than Holly made in a year.
Olivia sat down in front of the windows at a green leather-topped desk. “Fred said you had a few questions.” She was all business—no smiles, no niceties, just straight to the point. Her posture was perfect, her manner calm and composed.
Not exactly, Holly thought, sensing that the Chief had just dropped them in it. “He said you’d help us develop a profile.”
“You must be mistaken. Fred led me to believe that you had one or two questions about the crime scene.”
Her accent became more prominent with her annoyance. French, Holly decided.
Olivia continued, “Unfortunately, you’ve wasted your time. I don’t develop suspect profiles.”
Tension hardened Holly’s shoulders. She’d never been a fan of wasting time, especially not after what had happened to Mimi. For a split second, she contemplated the Chief’s warning that she play nice with his friend, but t
hey had a case to solve, and she sure as hell didn’t have time to smooth down Ms. Olivia May’s very expensive, ruffled feathers. “I don’t know who said what, and I don’t give a damn. The Chief is under the impression that you are an experienced profiler.”
Olivia rocketed to her feet. “I haven’t worked a homicide in a long time. Allow me to provide you with the name of someone I know at the FBI.”
Holly gripped the arms of the chair. Raines must have sensed that she was about to let Olivia have it because he interceded. “Obviously, there’s been a miscommunication. The Chief requested—”
“He ordered,” Holly cut in, adding plenty of force to her words. “Let’s get that right out in the open.”
“He requested,” Raines continued as if Holly hadn’t interrupted him, “that we come here for your input and, as you can imagine, it wasn’t our top priority. We’d settle for a cursory glance at the case and your initial impressions. Then we’re out of here.”
Holly wanted to poke Raines with her ballpoint pen. It was unlike him to be so cordial. She suspected that although Olivia May seemed oblivious to him, the feeling was not mutual. She squinted at him, before turning to face Olivia. “After what happened to Mimi Milbourne, I’m sure as hell not about to sit around here making nice while the killer is out there. If this isn’t a domestic, and we’re dealing with a serial killer, we don’t have any time to waste soothing egos. You’re either in, or you’re not.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Olivia May said nothing for a moment. She just stared at Holly before sitting back down and saying, “Do you have the autopsy report?”
“Not yet,” Raines said. “But we do have a preliminary, as well as crime scene photos and some notes.”
“I can’t give you an accurate assessment without the final autopsy report or actually visiting the crime scene.”
“Perhaps you could just give us your impressions on whether you think this could be a staged domestic,” Raines suggested.
Holly simmered at his conciliatory tone given the hoops Olivia was making them jump through.
Olivia hesitated but took the file he offered. She read it slowly. Her face remained expressionless until she picked up the photos. That’s when Holly noticed her flinch. After flipping through the images once, she removed a magnifying glass from a desk drawer and examined each one more thoroughly. When she looked up at them, the pity in her eyes was unmistakable.
She began, “Many intimate-partner murders are staged to appear as sex-related to mislead investigators. Some of them are convincing because there is so much information available about what serial predators do to their victims. I’ve seen staged homicides with extreme mutilation and foreign-object penetration. To further confuse law enforcement, souvenirs were taken. These included personal belongings and even parts of the victim’s body.” Olivia placed her hand on the file. “The removal of Mimi Milbourne’s clothing and the multiple stabbings are key indicators that this is a sex-related crime. However, if the autopsy confirms that she was not raped, it could indicate that the scene was staged.”
Raines noted, “A lack of sexual assault could also indicate that the killer postponed sexual gratification until later so that he didn’t leave evidence at the scene.”
Holly scooted forward in her seat. “What do you think? Was it staged?”
Olivia was silent for a moment, considering. “When you examine the crime in its entirety, I don’t believe it was.”
“Why not?” Raines asked.
“It’s the ritualistic behavior. Those actions unnecessary to kill the victim, but which possibly fulfilled a fantasy. The offender did not need to transport Mimi to another site to kill her. She was alone at an isolated cabin. It would have been far less risky to kill her there. Instead, he started a fire, which alerted attention, and then he abducted her. They traveled in her car for almost an hour, risking detection. He forced her to walk through a campsite and hike a mile up a mountain in the middle of the night when sound carries a long way. He had to control her for an extended period of time. He’s definitely getting something out of the risk. Would Charles Milbourne do that?”
Olivia paused, sat very still for a moment, as if listening to the distant rumble of thunder, before continuing. “The folded pajamas are of particular interest. Were they wet?”
“No, and I don’t think they had time to dry, either, but forensics will test them,” Holly said.
Olivia nodded. “Even though I haven’t had a case with a victim’s clothing presented in this manner, other investigators working serial murders have. They’ve theorized that the act of folding and placing the clothing within a few feet of the body signifies a desire for complete control and power over the victim. Out of all the things Charles Milbourne could have done to stage the crime, why do that?”
“Maybe it wasn’t the killer who did it. Mimi could have been playing for time,” Holly suggested.
Olivia nodded. “Yes, that’s possible, or he wanted to humiliate her by making her undress. To dominate her. To scare her. It could be a bizarre fantasy we’ll never figure out. If this is fantasy driven, motive with these offenders is difficult to establish. What we do know is that this offender gets off on risk and fear.” Olivia smoothed a hand down her long, glossy hair, gathered it into a loose ponytail and draped it over her left shoulder. “He probably spent a long time preparing for this attack, building the fantasy. This offender is organized. He’s probably socially adept and will fit into the community. He can hold down a job and could be in a relationship.”
“Don’t arsonists tend to be loners?” Holly asked.
“You’re not dealing with a typical arsonist.” Olivia leaned back in her chair, her tone matter of fact.
Holly asked, “Why set the fire? It couldn’t have been to destroy evidence because he didn’t torch the car or her body or even the pajamas.”
“The fire is an integral part of this killer’s fantasy because he came prepared to start it. If his goal was just to kill her, he could have let Mimi die in the fire, but he wanted to prolong her suffering. Prolong his control and domination over her. Imagine how terrifying it would have been to wake up and discover that your house is on fire and then when you manage to escape that horror, something worse is waiting for you. That’s sadistic.”
Raines added, “Perhaps the fire was a ruse to gain control of the victim. What better way to get a smart, security-conscious woman to leave the safety of her home in the middle of the night?”
Olivia leaned forward, arms on her desk, eyes widening. “That’s good. A fire would be a perfect way to get her out of the house fast and into the hands of an abductor before she realized the danger she was in.”
Raines said, “It also distracted the police and prevented them from making routine vehicle stops where he could have been caught abducting her.”
Olivia nodded. “Which would support a theory that he’s intelligent.”
“Do you think he stalked her?” Holly asked.
“The probability is high. Focus on victimology. That’s critical. You need to learn everything you can about Mimi. It appears she was not involved in any high-risk behaviors. She was financially independent and ran her own company, so she was intelligent, probably confident. In addition, she appeared to be physically strong and could have put up a fight. These characteristics would make her difficult to control and dominate. Typically, serial offenders target victims who are vulnerable. At this point, you shouldn’t eliminate anyone from the investigation. Mimi was selected for a reason. Focus on her. Was her lifestyle really low risk? We know she’s from out of town. Where would he have seen her?”
These were routine questions Holly had been mulling over most of the day. Before Olivia wrapped up and sent them on their way, she asked, “I’m aware that age can be difficult to predict, but could teenagers have done it? We’ve had several break-ins over the last six months, all at empty vacation cabins. I’m pretty sure it’s teenagers partying because all that’s missing
is junk food, alcohol, DVD players and video games. Could this be an escalation?”
Olivia thought about it for a moment. “Based on the careful planning, control of the victim, the complete lack of evidence left at the scene and, unless the ME changes her opinion in the autopsy, the use of only one weapon, I believe you’re dealing with a single, older, organized offender. Younger offenders lack experience and are less likely to be able to control the victim for an extended period of time.”
Holly said, “I know transporting her all the way to Lonesome Lake would prolong her suffering, but why there?”
Olivia shrugged. “I’m not sure. All we know is that before this crime, the lake was a place of beauty. He’s destroyed that by creating an atmosphere of fear. Is he sending a message? Or did he think she wouldn’t be found there?”
Raines said, “I doubt it. Lonesome Lake isn’t so lonesome. It’s an easy hike and always busy.”
Olivia ran a hand through her glossy hair. “Without a doubt, he’s going to follow the case, so establish a single media contact to control the flow of information. Remember, although we know him to be a monster by his actions, these killers can pass right under investigators’ noses. The longer this killer remains free, the more superior he feels, and this will embolden him.”
Holly asked, “Is there a possibility he’ll inject himself into the investigation?”
Olivia nodded. “A good possibility.”
As Holly sat there contemplating the enormity of what they were dealing with, she heard the whine of a motorcycle and looked out of the window. A single headlight cut through the dark. “Who’s that?” she asked.
Lonesome Lake Page 12
