Читать книгу The Alvarez & Pescoli Series - Lisa Jackson - Страница 17

The FBI agents weren’t anything like they were portrayed in the movies, Alvarez thought, crossing one ankle over the other. She, along with other members of the task force working the serial murder case, sat at the big table in the task force room. Cups of cooling coffee, pens, notepads, gum wrappers and a crushed empty pack of cigarettes littered the long, fake-woodgrain surface of the table, while pictures of the crime scenes and notes about the victims hung on one of the walls, an enlarged map of the area on an adjacent wall.

At least, Craig Halden wasn’t typical. Shipped out from the field office in Salt Lake City, Halden seemed like a personable enough guy. His brown hair was trimmed neatly, yes, but was far from a military cut. He had an easy, country boy charm about him, probably from growing up in rural Georgia. He called himself a “cracker” and he was jovial enough, though beneath the affable, easygoing-guy exterior Alvarez sensed that he was a sharp, dedicated federal agent.

His partner, however, was a piece of work, at least in Alvarez’s mind. Stephanie “Steff” Chandler was a tall, slim, humorless bitch. With long blond hair pulled back into a tight knot, skin that still looked tanned, as if she spent a lot of time outdoors, and little makeup, she stood in front of the poster boards and stared at the information written near the pictures of the victims, memorizing every word. At previous meetings she’d been dressed in a dark suit, but today, with a nod to the menacing weather, she wore a navy blue jogging suit and long-sleeved, turtleneck sweater. She hadn’t said a whole lot so far, but her lips were folded thoughtfully and there was an unspoken air of disapproval in her stiff-backed stance and narrowed eyes. It seemed, though it hadn’t been said, that she thought she was the only one capable of solving the crime.

Everyone else in the small room, including Pescoli and Sheriff Grayson, were seated, but Chandler, one of those nervous types, began pacing in front of the boards, chewing on a corner of her lip. Alvarez was grateful that she was partners with irreverent, bend-the-rules Pescoli rather than this uptight woman.

At least Regan Pescoli had a sense of humor, dark as it could be at times.

Moving her eyes to the final panel, where Jillian Rivers’s driver’s license picture and mangled car were posted, Chandler shook her head.

“This woman was never reported missing.”

“Her family had no idea that she had even left Seattle. The only one who knew she’d taken off was the neighbor who took care of her cat,” Alvarez said. “Emily Hardy, nineteen. Lives in the same complex of townhouses as Rivers and goes to school at the university. U-Dub.” Chandler frowned as if she didn’t get it. “University of Washington. Instead of U W, it’s called U-Dub. Rivers has her own kind of printing company and does most of the work herself, so co-workers haven’t missed her and we’ve just started talking to her friends and ex-husband.”

“The one that’s still alive,” Pescoli said. “I’ve got a call in to him.”

Alvarez added, “Seattle PD found nothing out of place at her apartment. No desktop computer. Her laptop and purse are missing, likely with her.”

“But not found at the scene?” Halden finished his coffee and tossed the empty paper cup into a nearby trash can.

“Just like the others.” Pescoli frowned as she stared at the panels of the victims. “Same with the tire being shot.”

“Same caliber rifle?”

“Couldn’t find the bullet or the casing, but we’re still looking.”

“Anything different about this one?”

“The insurance information and registration were left behind,” Alvarez admitted. “It’s the one anomaly. But those docs weren’t kept in the usual spots, not in the glove box or above the visor. They were hidden under the driver’s seat and crushed when the car was wrecked. We didn’t find them until the car was back here and the techs went over it.”

“An oversight by the killer?” Chandler asked.

“Probably just couldn’t find them. Maybe she was hurt and he had to get her out of the cold, or maybe he heard something that scared him off.”

“Why would the car’s information be under the driver’s seat?” Chandler rested a hip against the table and her ice-blue eyes zeroed in on Alvarez.

“The papers could have slipped down there after a traffic stop, or maybe she just keeps them there.”

“Or he dropped them as he was pulling her out of the car and didn’t realize it?” Chandler was theorizing, her face tense, the wheels turning in her mind.

“No blood on them.” Alvarez, too, was bothered by the one thing that was different at the scene. “We’re checking for prints.”

Chandler nodded.

Maybe she wasn’t such a bitch after all, Alvarez thought, though she couldn’t quite believe it. She unzipped her vest, as the room was warming up. The furnace was working overtime, wheezing as it blew hot air into the room packed with too many bodies. Through the bank of windows lay a view of the white-packed parking lot, a long plowed road and, less than a quarter of a mile away, the county jail, a two-storied cinder block building with a flat roof. Snow gathered near the foot of the jail’s high fence and clung to the swirled razor wire, almost picturesque.

“Okay,” Chandler said, walking back to the panels on the wall. “So no one has any idea what these notes mean?” Chandler pointed to the blowups of the papers left at each of the scenes.

“Not yet,” Grayson drawled. The sheriff had been taking in the meeting, not saying much from his seat at a corner of the table. His attitude was almost why-don’t you-tell-us, Miss Know-It-All, but if he thought it, he kept it to himself.

“It seems odd that the position of the star is different in each case. He’s so precise with these notes; the letters are all the same size, blocked out perfectly. So, the fact that the star isn’t in exactly the same spot each time is for a reason. He’s trying to tell us something.”

“More likely taunting us,” Pescoli said.

“Yeah, that, too. He seems intelligent and careful. These aren’t rash, random killings. He’s planned this, down to the smallest detail. He’s organized. Thinks he’s smarter than we are and it’s unlikely that he would miss a detail like the car documents.” Chandler walked to the panels and pointed to the enlarged notes. “Look at the placement of the stars. They’re where they are for a reason, yet they vary from one note to the other. I think that’s significant.”

Alvarez nodded. She’d always thought so. “Then he’s trying to leave us a message with the letters. The women aren’t random.”

“I think they’re targeted,” Chandler said.

Pescoli said, “But not raped.”

Chandler’s gaze swung to the taller detective. “Another anomaly. A lot of organized serial killers get off on holding their victims, getting close to them, torturing them and sexually molesting them.” She rubbed her chin. “We’ve discounted the possibility of a female killer, right? Big shoe prints, strength necessary to get into the wrecked cars and haul the victims away.”

“If it’s a woman, she’s big. Strong.” Pescoli added her two cents. “Our female victims are all on the petite side, anywhere from a hundred and five to a hundred and twenty-five pounds. But most serials are men.”

“A female killer feels wrong to me,” Chandler admitted. “Off.”

“To me, too,” Pescoli agreed and no one argued. Outside the closed door Alvarez heard a phone ringing and footsteps as someone walked past the room.

Chandler went on, “We think he either kidnaps or leaves the women to die around the twentieth of the month. We’ve got three known victims and one potential, so let’s check star alignment on those dates, September through December, and then if we find anything noteworthy, let’s project to January.”

“We haven’t found the December victim yet,” Pescoli pointed out, “and you’re already thinking about January?”

“That’s right.” Craig Halden’s usually affable expression was missing. His face was grim. “Our guy, he’s not stopping.” Halden shoved his chair back and walked around the table to the oversized topographical map that covered a large section of one wall. It was marked with the scenes where the wrecked vehicles and victims had been found. “Have we talked to everyone who lives or has a summer cabin in this area?” he asked, one of his hands arcing over the mountainous terrain on the map.

“Started,” Grayson said. “We’ve got a list from the assessor’s office. Lots of summer cabins. The area covers miles of rugged country.”

Chandler said, “Vastly unpopulated.”

Grayson nodded slowly. “We’ll keep on it.”

Between the pushpins, lines had been drawn in the hopes that some intersecting point would reveal the area where the killer lived, but the areas where the lines crossed were usually uninhabited.

But that was the way with organized serial killers, Alvarez knew from her research. These psychos went to great lengths to hide themselves and elude detection. They thought about their crimes long and hard, picked out their quarry, planned each move, got off on toying with their victims before they killed them. And all the while they enjoyed outwitting the police.

Sick bastards.

Halden walked back to his chair as his partner asked, “Have we had any ideas about the notes?”

That was a sore point with Alvarez, who had spent countless hours at night trying to figure out what the killer was trying to tell them. “We don’t have much,” she admitted.

“Let’s put a cryptographer on it.”

“Already have,” Sheriff Grayson said. “One of the best in the country. So far nothing. Said he’d never seen anything quite like it.”

Craig Halden settled into his chair. “We’re getting the same info. Nothing in the database matches up to this guy. He seems to be our own special loony.”

“Ain’t we lucky?” Pescoli muttered and slid Alvarez a glance.

Chandler finally took her seat and flipped through several pages of her notes. “Okay, about the people who discovered the crime scenes. According to your records, the car registered to Jillian Rivers was discovered by a woman who communes with the dead.”

“Well,” Grayson said, “we’re not sure she actually makes contact. All we know is, she thinks she talks to spirits, but the jury’s definitely out on her ability to…what do they call it, ‘cross over’?”

“Something like that,” Pescoli said.

“And Wendy Ito was found by a man who claims to be a victim of an alien abduction,” Chandler said, looking pointedly at Grayson. “Isn’t that odd?”

“Not around here,” Pescoli said, and Grayson sent her a sharp look.

“They aren’t exactly the most stable witnesses.”

“Does it matter?” Pescoli asked. “It’s not as if they were giving statements about the killer. All they did was lead us to one victim and one car. Yeah, they’re both missing a screw or two, but they did help us out.”

Grayson added, “Both Ivor and Grace were out in below-freezing weather, walking around. At least it was clear when Ivor made his discovery. Now, Grace, she was out with her dog in the middle of a damned blizzard. I don’t think it’s strange that they aren’t rowing with all their oars in the water. Who else would be out in this weather?”

Touché, Sheriff, Alvarez thought, twirling her pen between her fingers. It bothered her that Chandler came in with “attitude,” as if they were all country bumpkins and she was the big-city specialist. Alvarez altered her first impression. There was a good chance that Field Agent Stephanie Chandler was a little like the agents portrayed in movies after all.

Grayson was staring straight at both agents. “Theresa Charleton was found by hikers, Nina Salvadore by cross-country skiers. Charleton’s car was seen by a trucker who happened to park his rig on a bridge and saw a glint of something up the creek bed, Salvadore’s by teenagers out partying. None of them connect to each other; none of them knew the victims. None of them with priors—well, except for one of the kids who found the Ford Focus. He was driving on a suspended license.”

“Good to know that all of the reports weren’t from people guaranteed certifiable.” Chandler offered Grayson a smile that wasn’t the least bit warm. Yep, she was a bitch. “I’d like to look through your files on these cases.”

“Be my guest,” Grayson offered, the slightest of tics near the corner of his left eye belying a little of his irritation. “You can have copies of the files and see the vehicles, talk to anyone here. All the trace evidence collected is with the crime lab in Missoula.”

“Thanks.” Halden nodded, even though he had to have already known where the evidence was. He had turned his attention back to the map. “We’re still missing the vehicle for victim three and the body for victim four.”

“We’re hoping to find Jillian Rivers alive,” Alvarez said, and Stephanie Chandler caught her gaze.

There wasn’t the slightest bit of hope in those ice-blue eyes. “Let’s just hope there aren’t others out there. We’re all assuming our killer started with Theresa Charleton, but that’s just because she was the first body found. He could have started earlier and we just haven’t located either the victims or their vehicles. This is pretty rugged country.”

“Wouldn’t the notes have had other initials if there were other victims? Hell, is it hot enough in here?” Pescoli pushed back her chair and walked to the thermostat. “Seventy-five? That’s like an effin’ sauna! Aren’t we in some kind of energy crisis?” She played with the electronic temperature control before returning to her seat. “Sorry,” she said, but didn’t appear the least bit contrite.

Chandler didn’t miss a beat. “Signature serial killers rarely alter their signature, though their MOs can evolve as they experiment and learn. But this guy’s different. We already mentioned that he’s not raping them, there’s no hint of sexual activity of any kind and he crosses race lines. Charleton and Rivers are Caucasian, Salvadore is Latino and Ito, Asian. This guy is organized, but he’s all over the map.” Chandler looked at the large topographical map on the far wall. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Sheriff Grayson’s cell phone rang sharply and he shoved his chair back from the table. “All right, then. Anything we can do for ya, let us know. We’ll take all the help we can get to nail this son of a bitch.”

Jillian’s head pounded.

Her ankle was on fire.

Her chest ached every time she moved.

She opened a bleary eye and looked around a darkened room lit by kerosene lanterns and a fire burning in a woodstove. She was warm, but sensed that was new. She’d been cold. So very, very cold.

And she’d heard someone moaning…

Or had she cried out herself?

She blinked, trying to figure out where she was. Bits of memory assailed her. The drive in the snow, spinning out, her tire blowing, glass shattering.

Someone had come to her rescue.

A man in dark ski wear who had yelled at her.

She remembered that and not much else.

So why wasn’t she in a hospital?

What was this dark cabin all about? She was lying on a cot of some kind, tucked in a sleeping bag. She tried to push herself into a sitting position and the pain pounding in her ankle made her cry out.

Oh God, what had she gotten herself into?

She remembered the fear. First of being trapped in the car and never found this winter. Then she’d sensed a presence, something evil in those woods, and seen a dark shadow.

Obviously it was the man who rescued you.

Some rescue. She now seemed trapped in this stone-and-rough-timber room with a single small window that offered little light. Or was it dark? Dear God, how long had she slept?

She thought she remembered someone coming into the room and tending to her, but she wasn’t certain…Oh God. She lifted one arm and saw that it was encased in a sleeve she didn’t recognize. Some kind of thermal undershirt that was too big, the cuff of the sleeve pushed up. Her other arm was the same.

And she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Someone had taken off the clothes she’d been wearing and redressed her in this oversized insulated shirt.

She tried to push herself up to a sitting position, but the pain in her leg made movement impossible, and when she lifted her head, she became dizzy. Her mouth tasted horrible, as if she hadn’t brushed her teeth in a week, and she wondered how long she’d been lying here, unconscious. She shifted and realized she had some kind of splint on her leg. Touching her face, she felt bandages.

Whoever had brought her here had tended to her. On a small bedside table, little more than a stool, was a tube of some kind of antibiotic ointment and a plastic glass with a straw.

From the cot, she eyed the stone wall running up to the ceiling and the woodstove in front of it. Behind small glass doors were glowing coals, embers from what had probably been a larger fire.

She figured he had to come into the room fairly often to feed the fire and check on her and she remembered, vaguely, sensing another person close to her.

Damn right he was close…he undressed you, tended your wounds and put you to bed…he wasn’t just close, he was damn near… intimate.

The rafters creaked loudly and then she heard the rush of wind and felt the walls shake.

Was she alone in the cabin?

Though no one was in the small room with her, there was a single door and beneath it a strip of light, indicating there was illumination in the next room. She thought about calling out, then decided against it. Something about this was off, really off, and she had to be careful. The man in the ski mask who had rescued her, the man whose face she couldn’t identify, had brought her here rather than to civilization.

Why?

Because he didn’t have a vehicle?

Because of the storm?

But he could somehow get her to this cabin? How did that work?

Was it near the spot where her car slid off the road? Was it near town? Or remote? There was no way to tell unless she dragged herself to the window and peered out. Currently, with her damned leg, that was impossible.

She lay quietly and listened but heard nothing over the rush of the wind, the creak of old timbers and the soft hiss of the fire.

The only way out of the room was through the single doorway, or the small window, mounted high and seemingly crusted with ice. Was it day? Night? She couldn’t really tell. Maybe dusk? Or dawn? She had no idea. Out of habit, she looked at her left wrist, but her watch, which she rarely removed, was missing.

Great.

She eyed the window, situated six feet off the floor and so small she couldn’t possibly push herself through.

Not that she could leave anyway. Not yet. She couldn’t move her leg, and even if she did somehow hobble over to the wall, pulling the cot and hoisting herself to the glass pane, what then? The chance that she could slip through was slim, and then there was the problem, if she didn’t get stuck, of being outside in a storm that continued to rage and pound this cabin in furious gusts.

For now, escape was out of the question.

But he must have a vehicle. A four-wheel-drive truck, or SUV or damned dog sled…If you could find a way…

Or she could ask him.

Just come out with the questions she had. The worst he could do was lie.

Right?

Or was she kidding herself? She thought she remembered something about some missing women in Montana, women whose cars had been wrecked or something. She couldn’t remember the details, but the overriding memory of a menace gripped her. A man who had been hurting these women…single women traveling through Montana.

A fear like no other drove straight into her heart.

What were the chances that she’d had a wreck and the lunatic killer had found her and—

Stop! Don’t even go there. Just play it cool.

But her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain it was echoing off the exposed beams of the high ceiling overhead. Her pulse raced as if she’d just finished a biathlon.

She swallowed back her fear, her mind racing.

From the next room, she heard the scrape of wood—a chair leg against the stone floor?

Her heart nearly stopped.

She saw a shadow in the space beneath the doorway, a quick movement as someone passed between a light source and the threshold.

Oh God, was he coming into the room?

You have no reason to distrust him. He saved you from certain death, didn’t he?

Yeah, but he didn’t get me to a hospital, or call the police or fire rescue. He brought me, unconscious, here. Alone. And I’m damned helpless.

For the time being all she could do was feign sleep and try to figure out if she should trust him.

Or if she shouldn’t.

She didn’t move a muscle as the door creaked open. Though her eyes were closed, she felt him walk into the room, come close to the bed and stare down at her.

Take even, slow breaths.

Relax your muscles.

Don’t clench your fist.

You can move…people move in their sleep…just don’t overdo it.

He seemed to stand over her for hours, when, in reality, it was probably less than two minutes. She kept her eyes shut, not risking a peek beneath her lashes.

Eventually he moved on, his footsteps fading, and then she heard the door of her room’s woodstove rattle and open. She imagined that he was picking up short chunks of wood and stuffing them into the fire.

She couldn’t resist, inching her eyelids up just a fraction.

It was shadowy in the room, and as he kneeled in front of the fire, his body was in silhouette. She couldn’t see much, just got impressions, but yes, he was definitely male. Wide shoulders in some kind of dark sweater, hair that was either dark as coffee or black, enough to curl slightly over the turtleneck and dark pants.

The fire crackled loudly, hungrily devouring the new fuel, flaring behind him as he turned to one side, his face in quick profile as he reached for another length of wood. She caught a razor-sharp image of a strong jaw, long nose, deep-set eyes and thick eyebrows before she let her lids close completely.

She heard him stuff the chunk of mossy oak into the firebox and she hazarded another look, seeing that his sweater had ridden up above the waistline of his pants. No thermal undershirt was visible, just a crescent-shaped slice of firm flesh, taut skin over hard back muscles, as if he worked out all the time.

“Like what you see?” he asked, not turning around, his voice nearly echoing in the room.

She almost started. Oh damn! She let her eyes close and didn’t move.

“I could say something like, ‘Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer.’ But that seems a little sophomoric, don’t you think?”

She didn’t respond, but heard him brush his hands together, as if ridding them of wood dust or slivers. He was probably getting to his feet again.

He walked closer to the bed.

God help me.

“I know you’re awake.” He was standing over her again and she felt his gaze rake over her, studying her. “Jillian?” he said a little more softly and she died a thousand deaths. He knew who she was. Of course he did. He had all of her belongings—her purse, her laptop, her cell phone, probably the registration of the car.

With all the restraint she could muster, she attempted to remain impassive, no twitch of nervous muscles showing, no signs of tension in her relaxed body.

“Jillian? Hey.” He touched her then, warm fingers resting on her shoulder.

She wanted to scream.

“We need to talk. You and I, we’re stuck here for a while, at least until the storm passes, and I need to know that you’re all right. You need to eat and drink…. Jillian? Can you hear me?”

She kept slowly breathing.

“I know you can hear me, and to prove it, I could tickle the bottoms of your feet.”

Dear God, no! He wouldn’t! She was so sensitive to tickling. Maybe he was one of those fetish freaks. Weren’t a lot of serial killers into all kinds of weird, macabre collections or rituals?

She tried to be rational. After all, he’d done nothing but be kind to her.

So far.

“Jillian, please. We don’t have time for games. If I’m going to get you out of here, I’m going to need your help.”

If?

Jillian’s heart went into overdrive at the many connotations of that one little word. Oh Lord, her pulse was beating so wildly he could probably see it. What did he mean by if? Not if, but when. When he was going to get her out of here. Surely that’s what he meant.

“So you might want to quit playin’ possum.” He took his hand away, and she wanted to let out a long, relieved sigh, but didn’t.

She knew he was just looking for a reaction, some indication that she could hear him.

“You know, Jillian—”

Jillian. As if he knew her. As if they were friends, for God’s sake.

Well, come on, do you expect him to refer to you as Ms. Rivers? Being that you’re trapped alone with him in a snowstorm, you’re going to get up on formality? Come on, Jillian. Get real!

She felt violated, as if her own life had been torn apart and studied.

“—you and I, we’ve got a lot to do. If the storm breaks in a few days like the weather service predicts, then we’ve got to figure out how to get you out of here before the next one hits.”

He waited a few seconds, the weight of his gaze heavy on her, before saying, “Okay, do whatever it is you have to do, but I imagine that ankle of yours isn’t feeling all that great. I don’t think it’s broken, but from the looks of it, it’s sprained big-time. There are some pills here, in the bottle. Ibuprofen. You might want to take a few.”

Then he walked out of the room and softly closed the door separating this room from the rest of the cabin. At least he was allowing her some privacy.

Or himself. Maybe he doesn’t want you to see what he’s doing, rather than the other way around.

She slowly counted to a hundred. Then two hundred.

Afterwards, her heart still beating crazily, she opened an eye. Just a crack. To make sure he hadn’t faked her out. But she was alone. Thank God.

The fire was blazing and she wondered at his kindness. Was he truly a Good Samaritan, or just faking her out, trying to gain her trust?

Why?

To what end?

If he was going to hurt you, he would have done it by now. Right? You’re not restrained, are you?

Well, not unless being hobbled by an injured ankle and trapped by a blizzard counted.

Could she trust him? Hell no! At least not yet. There was a killer on the loose in the wilds of Montana, she did know that much.

Don’t panic. Stay calm.

But her throat was dry with dread.

What were the chances that she’d met up with him?

One in a million?

No way could she be that unlucky. No way!

Or was she kidding herself?