Читать книгу Dear Maggie - Brenda Novak - Страница 12

“SO THE BLUE FIBERS are from some sort of blanket?” Nick propped the phone on his shoulder so he could thumb through the pictures of the murder victims again. They’d all been killed away from where they’d been found, and they’d all been transported, wrapped in a blanket for the journey. Evidently, Sarah Ritter had been no different.

“That’s what the tests say.” Tony Caruso’s Jersey accent carried across the line even though he’d lived in Virginia and worked at the FBI’s crime lab in Washington DC for almost twenty years.

“What kind of blanket?”

There was some paper shuffling on the other end. Caruso covered the mouthpiece to speak to someone else, then came back on the line. “Sorry about that. A new one, unfortunately. Otherwise, we might have had more luck finding something else, a strand of hair maybe, to help us. I’m still hoping for a DNA profile on this guy. But, as it stands, we know only that she was wrapped in a cheap, fuzzy blanket, the kind you can buy almost anywhere.”

“What about the other fibers? The tan ones?”

“They’re consistent with the kind of carpet found in the trunk of most cars, usually the cheaper models.”

“So if this guy is a doctor, he’s not a very successful one. He’s not using a BMW or a Mercedes to haul bodies around.”

“I’d guess he’s driving an economy car,” Tony agreed. “He could have purchased it for just this purpose.”

“Maybe.” Nick pushed his reading glasses up and rubbed his eyes. Economy cars were a dime a dozen. Cheap fuzzy blankets did nothing to narrow the field of his search, either. When was Dr. Dan going to slip up and make a mistake that would really tell him something? “Did you find anything in what the coroner scraped out from beneath Sarah Ritter’s nails?”

“No skin or anything like that. If she put up a fight, she didn’t manage to scratch him. There was soil in what you sent, but it was consistent with the samples you included from her yard. I’m guessing she had a garden of some sort. Am I right?”

“She’d just planted tomatoes.” He remembered seeing them in the back, along the fence, when he’d visited the house to search for evidence of forced entry, evidence he’d never found. The tomato plants had been tender and young and vulnerable, just like Sarah Ritter’s son. The memory of the shock and grief apparent in his small face made Nick clench his jaw. He had to bring down Dr. Dan. Before he killed again…

“There was also some sand,” Tony went on.

“What kind of sand?”

“Rocky and uneven. The kind that usually appears on the shore of a lake, or maybe along the banks of a river.”

…we shall soon see what the river turns up…

“There’re two rivers that aren’t far from where the body was found. I’ll send you soil samples from each. Maybe we can get a match.”

“I’ll be expecting them.”

The American River originated somewhere in the Sierras, descended through the foothills and cut through the Sacramento suburbs to meet the Sacramento River, which came from the north to downtown, near Discovery Park. The American River had something like thirty miles of bike path along one bank and was by far the more accessible. If Nick had to choose, he’d guess Dr. Dan had killed Sarah Ritter somewhere along it. Down by the water, there were plenty of places where screams might not be heard, where foliage would easily conceal two people. Especially at night. Car bridges spanned the river, but they were miles apart, and the bicyclists who used the path so religiously by day were gone once the sun went down. A murderer could conceivably move, undetected, from car to bike path to footpath and back again—with a woman or a body. The only question was why. Why didn’t Dr. Dan simply kill her and dump her body in the river instead of dragging it downtown?

The lock jiggled at the front door, and Rambo jumped to his feet, ears forward, tail wagging. A glance at the clock and Rambo’s eager response told Nick it was Justin, the thirteen-year-old neighbor boy Nick paid to feed and walk Rambo every day. Justin filled in for potty breaks when Nick had to work long hours, too. Fortunately the pair had taken to each other right away.

“Anything else?” he asked Tony, waving as the boy came in.

“That footprint you found in Lola Fillmore’s flower bed? The size 12? It was a Nike knock-off.”

Justin retrieved Rambo’s leash from the kitchen and fastened it to his collar. “We’ll be back in about an hour,” he whispered.

Nick acknowledged his words with a nod and the door closed behind the boy and the dog. “What about wear, Tony?”

“There wasn’t any. The shoes were brand-new.”

Nick slammed his fist down onto the desk. “Dammit! Can’t we get a break?”

“Sorry, I should have called the moment we identified the shoes, but I knew it wasn’t going to help you, anyway. Not without wear.”

“How expensive were they?”

“You can get ’em for around twenty-five dollars at the cheaper stores.”

There was a long silence while Nick sank into his chair and digested this disappointing information. Everything about Dr. Dan reeked of common. They’d found nothing unique or unusual enough to track.

“You think Dr. Dan is a poor man?” Tony asked, surprising Nick out of his thoughts. Tony was a technician and usually too busy to involve himself in conjecture. That was for the field agents, who sometimes had to take risks based on instinct alone.

“No, I think he’s smart,” Nick answered. “He’s taking his time and doing everything right. What I need is a witness.” He sighed. “What I’m afraid I’m going to get is another victim.”

THE FIRST TIME Nick remembered his date with Maggie, it was nearly five o’clock. He’d spent the day gathering the samples he’d promised the lab and combing through the statements in each victim’s file, comparing and contrasting them with those he’d collected on Sarah Ritter. He had a whole chalkboard full of similarities and differences. But now, sitting in the sparsely furnished apartment the agency had rented for him with only Rambo as company, eating a late lunch of Chinese takeout, he was eager to get his mind off Dr. Dan’s sick deeds. He wanted to replace the blood he saw, even when he closed his eyes, with the sweetness of Maggie’s smile.

Fleetingly, he wondered how she’d reacted when Lowell Atkinson had stonewalled her this morning, but he felt no guilt for interfering. He was only doing his job. He didn’t mind letting Maggie dig up something he didn’t already know, but he was holding his own cards close to his chest. The last thing he needed was the press divulging everything the investigation uncovered, keeping Dr. Dan one step ahead of him.

Besides, Nick thought, finishing his chow mein and setting it aside, if she ever learned his true identity, she’d have much bigger things to forgive him for than placing a call to Atkinson.

His cop radio hissed and sputtered in the background as one of the dispatchers announced a possible robbery attempt. Rambo barked at the noise, but Nick ignored it. He used the radio to keep a pulse on what was happening around him, but listening to it was second nature to him now. It took no energy or focus.

Plugging his laptop into the phone line, he signed on to the Internet to shop for interesting places to take Maggie on their date. He considered having her join him at a site where they could watch a movie together and communicate via instant messaging. But he knew it would fall far short of the real experience. There’d be no giant screen, no smell of popcorn and no Maggie sitting next to him. He needed to take her somewhere more exotic. Knowing that he had no hope of getting an arm around her to see if her skin was really as soft as it looked, no hope of even a chaste kiss good-night, he needed to find a place that was fascinating enough to distract him—and intrigue her.

Twenty minutes later, he found it.

“MOMMY, WHEN’S-S-S Mrs-s-s. Goober coming over?”

“Mrs. Gruber?” Maggie corrected. “Soon.” She was sitting at the kitchen table, preoccupied with the various newspaper articles she’d copied off the Internet a few hours earlier. According to what she’d found, six unsolved murders reported over the past year had enough common characteristics for investigators to assume they were committed by the same person. The victims were all Caucasian women ranging in age from twenty-four to thirty-nine. They’d been stabbed repeatedly with something resembling a butcher knife. And they’d had their tongues removed after death.

That last gruesome detail was as good as a signature—and was more than enough to make Maggie feel ill. What kind of sick bastard was this guy? It terrified her to think of him circulating among the people of her own city. He could be the guy smoking outside the café where she bought her coffee each morning. He could be her newspaper carrier or the house painter down the street. He could be anyone. And it appeared he could go anywhere. One victim was murdered in Massachusetts, one in Missouri, two in Colorado and two in Washington state. As if what she’d found wasn’t unnerving enough, she noted that his last victim, before Sarah Ritter, had been a reporter for the Seattle Independent.

“Gads,” she whispered. “What are we facing here?”

“Mommy! When’s Mrs-s-s. Goober comin’ over?” This time the frustration in her son’s voice finally broke Maggie’s concentration. Crayons were scattered across the table next to her, along with several scribbled pictures. She’d tried to entertain Zach while she worked, but he was bored with it all.

She glanced at her watch. Where had the time gone? Her “date” with John was in twenty minutes and she still needed to feed Zach.

“Where is everyone? All the lights you got on in this place, you’d think electricity didn’t cost money.” Mrs. Gruber shuffled into the kitchen, an overnight case heavy on her arm, but probably no heavier than the industrial-sized purse she carried in the other hand. Maggie had no idea what was in her purse, but she knew the contents of the suitcase by heart. She watched Mrs. Gruber pack it up each morning. A bag of gumdrops—her diet staple and probably the culprit in her denture disaster—a pair of reading glasses, a jar of cold cream, a toothbrush, a hair net and an entire medicine cabinet of vitamins. She’d tried to get Mrs. Gruber to leave her things in the guest bathroom, but her neighbor felt more comfortable carting it all back and forth. So Maggie had given up trying to convince her. Mrs. Gruber was a fantastic baby-sitter—more like a grandma to Zach, really—but she was accustomed to certain things. She always let herself in, said whatever came to mind and considered it her personal mission in life to see that nothing was ever wasted. She collected aluminum foil, washed and reused disposable flatware, birthday candles and plastic bags.

“Mrs-s-s. Goober! Mrs-s-s. Goober!” In his excitement to see her, Zach launched himself from the kitchen table and nearly tackled the old woman.

Mrs. Gruber told him to settle down and mind his manners, but her gruffness did nothing to stifle Zach’s enthusiasm. He knew she loved him.

She held him close, then delved into her overnight bag. “Look at this,” she told him. “I brought you something.”

It would have been a rare night had she not brought Zach a small present—a pretty rock for their collection, a quarter for his piggy bank, a new toothbrush. Maggie filed the disturbing newspaper articles away, planning to take them to the office with her, before tossing a look over her shoulder to see what Mrs. Gruber had brought him today.

“Pajamas-s-s with a cape!” Zach shrieked, immediately stripping off his clothes.

A widow who lived alone, Mrs. Gruber survived on social security and what Maggie paid her. She had no business spending her money on Zach, and Maggie often told her so. But that didn’t change a thing.

“He’s getting too tall for his football pajamas,” she explained, a defensive note creeping into her voice when Maggie cocked a brow at her. “And they were on sale.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

Mrs. Gruber scowled and helped Zach pull the top of his new pajamas over his head. “They didn’t cost enough to worry about.”

“That’s what you say about everything you buy him.” Maggie started rummaging through the cupboards, wondering what to feed Zach, but Mrs. Gruber nudged her aside.

“What are you lookin’ for?”

“Something for dinner.”

“I brought dinner. Zach loves my spaghetti and meatballs.” Before Maggie could respond, she added, “And don’t tell me not to bring food. It was leftovers. What did you want me to do, let it go to waste?”

She took out a plastic container with enough spaghetti and meatballs to feed an army, and Maggie knew darn well that it wasn’t leftovers. She’d made it for them, probably today.

“You’re spoiling us,” Maggie said, shaking her head.

Mrs. Gruber harumphed. “It’s just leftovers,” she said again.

“What are you doing here so early?” Maggie asked, changing the subject. “I don’t have to be at work until ten.”

“You were gone most of the day. I thought you might want to take a nap. You don’t get enough sleep. You don’t eat good. It’s going to catch up with you one day.”

Maggie smiled. Mrs. Gruber foretold her physical collapse on a daily basis. She was too thin. She worked too hard. She should be getting out more, making more friends, eating more vegetables. Today Maggie would’ve liked to take her up on the nap, but she wasn’t about to postpone her meeting with John. She’d been looking forward to it all afternoon. “I can’t sleep,” she said. “I have a…date.”

Mrs. Gruber’s face brightened beneath the tight, perfect rows of short, bluish curls. “Is it that nice garbageman who takes my trash out to the curb each week? I’ve told you to introduce yourself to him. He’ll probably start getting your trash now, too.”

Maggie didn’t tell her that there was no nice garbageman. She lugged the trash cans out for both of them when she got home from work on Tuesday mornings. “No, it’s someone I met online.”

“On what?”

Maggie laughed. “Online. On the Internet. We met at a chat, and now he’s e-mailing me.”

Mrs. Gruber propped one age-spotted hand on a bony hip. “He’s sending you messages? That’s it?”

“Well, no, not exactly. He’s taking me on a cyber-date tonight.”

“But you’ve never seen him? Never heard his voice?”

“Nope.”

“You’re going to stay in your house and he’s going to stay in his?”

“Yep.”

“That’s too bad,” she said. “You can’t neck with a man online.”

MAGGIE LEFT ZACH EATING spaghetti and playing Candyland with Mrs. Gruber and hurried to her bedroom so she wouldn’t be late for her date. She couldn’t believe she was actually nervous about “seeing” John again. What did she have to be nervous about? It was a cyber-date. It was nothing.

Her modem screeched through the familiar pattern of tones as Maggie hooked up to the Internet. She’d added John to her buddy list and expected to find his screen name listed there, but a quick glance told her he wasn’t online yet. She found a message from him instead.

Maggie—

When you’re ready for tonight, just click on the link below.

See you there.

John

The link John had sent consisted of a bunch of letters and numbers highlighted in blue. Maggie had expected another instant messaging session as their date, but apparently John had something else in mind. Pointing her mouse on the link, she clicked, and a moment later the picture of a beautiful island village filled her screen. Then a voice came through the speakers of her computer.

“Hi, Maggie. You said you like sand. Welcome to paradise.”

Was that John’s voice? she wondered. If so, she wished she’d been able to hear it more clearly. Her speakers weren’t the best. Whoever it was sounded tinny and unnatural.

Mntnbiker: Are you always so punctual, or dare I hope you’re excited to see me?

The words appeared in an instant message box in the upper left of Maggie’s screen, making her smile. John had arrived.

Zachman: Where are we? This looks great.

Mntnbiker: We’re vacationing in the Caribbean. Have you ever been here before?

Briefly Maggie remembered Tim and his many promises. “After I graduate, we’ll…” She’d worked her heart out to put him through school, but it was his new wife, Lucy, who was cashing in on the trips to Europe, Hawaii and Asia they’d planned to take. Or, rather, Lucy was cashing in if Tim actually took the time off. Knowing him, he never would. In his mind, the good life was always just beyond the next professional hurdle.

Zachman: I’ve never been anywhere, except Boston, to visit Tim’s family when we were married, and Iowa to visit mine.

Mntnbiker: Then you’re going to like this. Click the start button.

Maggie did as he said and heard a new voice through her speakers, a woman with a heavy Caribbean accent. Reggae music played in the background.

“Welcome to the beautiful island of Barbados in the East Caribbean, a land of warm seas and fertile earth, a tropical paradise unlike any other….”

A video tour showed shimmering aquamarine seas, white sandy beaches, dark-skinned locals, some wearing dreadlocks, and lush wet countryside. Through instant messaging, John pointed out sights along the way and summarized the history of the island, which was something the guide didn’t cover. Maggie was thoroughly impressed.

Zachman: This is really cool! I love it. How do you know so much about the sugar plantations of Barbados?

Mntnbiker: I worked there for a while.

As a security guard?

Zachman: Then you moved back to Utah?

Mntnbiker: Yeah.

Maggie felt a twinge of excitement at the thought that they could meet if they wanted to. Twelve hours by car wasn’t exactly close, but it wasn’t across the country, either.

Zachman: I live in California.

Mntnbiker: Is that where you were born?

Zachman: No, I was born in Iowa.

Mntnbiker: Did you grow up there?

Zachman: Until I graduated from high school. Then I left for UCLA.

Mntnbiker: Is that where you met Tim?

Zachman: Yeah. We were married right before I got my Bachelor’s in journalism.

Mntnbiker: Tell me about your family.

Maggie told him about Ronnie and her mother, the only family she had left. When prompted by a few more questions, she shared what it was like growing up with a brother who was ten years older, what it was like having parents who were already forty-five when she was born and hadn’t been planning on any more children. She told him she’d been the apple of her father’s eye—until he died of a heart attack a year before she married Tim. She even admitted the terrible guilt she felt for going to UCLA and leaving him behind, how painful it was that she didn’t get to see him before he died. She’d received the bad news by telephone, returned for the funeral, and that was it. In her first great bid to make something of herself, she’d lost the one person who’d given her a firm foundation on which to build.

Mntnbiker: I’m sure he knew you loved him, Maggie, and that’s all that matters. I bet he was very proud of his little girl.

Maggie couldn’t help the tears that slipped from the corners of her eyes at that statement. Her father had never seen her as the ugly duckling she was—the acne, the skinniness, the knobby knees. He’d looked at her and seen a swan from the moment she was born.

Zachman: At least he wasn’t around to see my marriage fail.

Mntnbiker: That wouldn’t have lowered his opinion of you.

Zachman: I hope not. I just wish he’d lived long enough to know Zach.

Mntnbiker: I’m sure that would’ve been the highlight of his life. Where is Zach today? What do you do with him while you work?

Ah, a happier subject. Maggie told John about Mrs. Gruber and her spaghetti, the balls of aluminum foil, the sweater she wore over her dresses even in the heat of the summer, and the old Cadillac she drove without much concern for inconsequential things like “right of way.” By the time she was done, John indicated he was laughing by the LOL—laughing out loud—symbol, and she felt surprisingly close to him.

Zachman: You seem like a good man. I’m glad we met.

There was a longer pause than usual.

Mntnbiker: I’m not always sure I’m a good man, but I’m glad we met, too.

Zachman: Do you have a scanner?

Mntnbiker: No.

Zachman: Then would you go to Kinko’s or some place and scan me a picture of yourself?

Mntnbiker: Why? I thought looks didn’t matter.

Zachman: They don’t, really. I just want something to imagine when I close my eyes and think of you. I know you’re tall and definitely not overweight. And you have dark hair and eyes. But that’s it. Aren’t you curious what I look like?

There was another pause, this one even longer than the first.

Zachman: John? Are you still there?

Mntnbiker: Sorry. Listen, I have to run, but I’ll write you later. Okay?

Maggie frowned at her screen. They’d been together online for ninety minutes, but there was still a good hour before she had to leave for work. She wasn’t ready to let him go and couldn’t figure out why he’d suddenly turned cold.

Jeez, I’m lonelier than I realized, she thought. Now I’m clinging to a man I’ve never actually met. She groaned and smacked her forehead. Snap out of it, Mag!

Zachman: Sure. I have to get to work, anyway.

WHEN MAGGIE ARRIVED at the office, she found Nick Sorenson slouched in her chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, his eyes on her pictures of Zach.

Surprised, she drew to a halt and gaped at him over the partition that divided her small space from everyone else’s. “What are you doing at my desk?”

He smiled and stood. “Waiting for you.”

“For me?”

He handed her a slip of paper. Maggie glanced at it and immediately recognized the scrawl—Jorge, the cop reporter who had the shift before hers—but she didn’t take time to read his note. Nick was talking, explaining.

“Jorge’s son is having his fourteenth birthday tonight. Whole family’s going to be there. He wanted to take the call but couldn’t miss the party. So it’s your story now.”

“If I want it.” She forced her gaze away from Nick’s rugged face and looked more closely at Jorge’s note.

Police on their way to the burger stand at Broadway and 14th Avenue. Drive-by shooting. Don’t know details. Call just came in.

She raised her brows in speculation. Broadway and 14th. Oak Park. It was the roughest area in Sacramento.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You want it.”

She eyed him narrowly. “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re the only photographer available for this.”

His grin showed white teeth contrasted against a day’s beard. “Yep. Don’t you trust me to get the pics right?”

Maggie didn’t trust him, period. She drew a deep breath, trying to put a finger on what was bothering her tonight. Nick had invaded her personal space, which was presumptuous, even rude, especially since he was still so new. But it was more than that. He acted as though he was in complete control, even in a place where he should’ve been out of his element. He was obviously someone who enjoyed the upper hand, she decided, someone who was used to having it, like Rock Tillman. But after Tim, Maggie had promised herself that she’d never let a man take control of her life again. And she meant that. Any man who stepped on her toes was going to hear about it.

“Just one thing,” she said.

“What’s that?” He watched her from beneath thick dark lashes, the perfect frame for the unusual color of his eyes. Not quite brown, not quite gold, they were somewhere in between, like tortoiseshell.

“The next time you feel the need to wait for me, do it at your own desk.”

Maggie had expected him to bristle at the firmness in her voice and was prepared to stand her ground. But he only chuckled softly. “Anything you say, Maggie.”

Her name sounded strangely intimate on his lips. She almost demanded he call her Mrs. Russell but immediately realized how silly that would be. Everyone in the office called her Maggie. Her gray-haired ex-mother-in-law was Mrs. Russell.

He brushed past her and headed down the aisle, and for a moment, Maggie swam in his scent. Whether it was his aftershave, soap, cologne or shampoo, she didn’t know, but whatever the combination, it was more evocative than she would have expected and caused a butterfly-like sensation in her stomach.

“Oh, God. Not Nick Sorenson,” she muttered to herself, trailing him at a distance. “Think John. Nice, tender, sensitive John, who tells you your father would be proud of you, who takes you on creative and thoughtful cyber-dates.” Just because he wouldn’t send her a picture didn’t mean he looked like a monster. He was just more enlightened than most. He understood how little looks truly mattered in the overall scheme of things. She understood that, too.

So why, then, was she having such a difficult time keeping her eyes averted from the physical perfection of Nick Sorenson’s butt?