Читать книгу Going Twice - Sharon Sala - Страница 8

Two

Washington, D.C.

Jo Luckett was at her desk, tying up the loose ends of her last case when her phone rang. She answered absently, still locked into what she was doing.

“This is Jo Luckett.”

“Agent Luckett, this is Julie. Hold for Director Thomas.”

Jo’s focus immediately shifted as her boss came on line.

“Good afternoon, Agent Luckett. Good job on closing that case.”

“Thank you, sir. Good teamwork, as usual.”

“Speaking of teamwork, what do you know about the Stormchaser murders?”

She tensed. Her ex-husband was on the team, but she was certain that wasn’t what he meant.

“Probably not much more than what anyone would hear on the news, why?”

“He’s killing again. We’ve activated the original team, but I’m adding you to it. Julie emailed you the file. Familiarize yourself with all the details and await further orders. At the moment the team is on the move. Once they get settled, I want you to join them.”

Even though her stomach was in knots, she answered firmly. “Yes, sir.”

There was a pause, and she thought he would hang up, but he didn’t.

“Will you have a problem working with your ex-husband on this?”

“No, sir, of course not,” she said shortly.

“Good. Agent Benton is lead investigator. You will take your orders from him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want this man stopped. Find his money trail. Find the aliases he’s been using. Do what you do best and make that happen, understand?”

She got the message. Her skill at tracking perps via the latest technology was needed once again.

“Yes, sir, of course, sir.”

She hung up and immediately checked her computer, found the new message from his office and pulled up the attachment. The file was massive, far more than she had time to go through at her desk. She forwarded it to her laptop at home, then finished the report she’d been working on and filed it.

She wouldn’t let herself think of what the days to come would be like. She hadn’t had more than a half-dozen brief encounters with Wade in the past three years, and the thought of working with him made her sick to her stomach. She’d loved him so deeply—then, in one reckless afternoon, destroyed their world and their unborn child. She couldn’t imagine how this was going to turn out, but all she had left was her job, and she wasn’t going to fuck that up, too.

Tulsa, Oklahoma

On day three, Hershel pulled a hit-and-run during the storms that hit Tulsa, taking out three more people who had initially survived. He was back at the campgrounds at Keystone Lake long before daylight, sleeping peacefully while the city waited for sunrise, fearing the scope of the disaster.

The air at the scene of the debris field left from the tornado was hot and heavy, mingling with the scents of decaying food and diesel from the big machines the cleanup crews were using farther down the next block.

The yellow crime scene tape around the area where the two agents were walking marked the spot where the first body had been found. As soon as the body was identified as a murder victim, cleanup efforts in the immediate vicinity had been shut down, although the site had been so badly compromised, there was no way to tell what was storm-related and what might have been left by the killer.

Over the next sixteen hours the medical examiner had found two more murder victims among the bodies that had been recovered, and all three shared the same cause of death. They’d been rendered helpless with a Taser, and then they’d been strangled.

Once the media caught wind of the news, they quickly linked these victims to the earlier killings in Wichita Falls, Texas, and that was when the FBI had shown up, still following in the Stormchaser’s path of destruction.

* * *

Two hours later police cruisers from the Tulsa Police Department blocked off access to both ends of the street as the FBI agents moved through the third crime scene. A couple of news crews had stationed themselves at the far end of the next block with their cameras trained in the agents’ direction. They weren’t interfering with the investigation, but the long-range lenses could make it appear as if they were filming on-site.

Wade Luckett was standing less than a yard away from the bathtub where the third body had been found. He checked the picture on his iPad against the scene before him, then turned to look for Tate, who was standing a few yards away. “Hey, Tate, here it is,” he said.

Tate moved across the debris field for a closer look. “You’re right. And check that out. There’s a wall between that tub and the street, another impromptu barrier between the body and immediate discovery.”

“Just like in Wichita Falls,” Wade said, and then added, “Have you heard from Cameron today?”

“Yes,” Tate said. “They located the guy who thought he witnessed the killer leaving the James Atwood crime scene. He’s interviewing him sometime today. He also said that Laura Doyle showed up yesterday with the Red Cross.”

“He’s still sweet on her,” Wade said.

Tate grinned. “Sure looks like it. They stayed in touch after we came back from Louisiana last year. I know this because my lovely wife keeps me apprised of the important things in life.”

Wade heard the pride in Tate’s voice and remembered how close they’d come to losing Nola Landry to the Stormchaser last year.

“Okay, so she’s a great wife and phenomenal artist, but I’m all about her cooking.”

Tate laughed. Wade Luckett was never full.

Talking about cooking made Wade hungry, which prompted him to dig some gum out of his pocket and pop it in his mouth as he got back to business. He pulled up the pictures on his iPad, eyeing the similarities between the first scenes in Wichita Falls and the ones here in Tulsa.

“What I don’t get is how the hell he gets on site so fast. How does he manage to commit these murders while rescue crews are still at work?” Wade asked. “He hid among the Red Cross volunteers before, but there’s no sign of him with them now.”

“Obviously he can’t repeat that scenario because we know what he looks like. Although I would guess he has some burn scars now, after surviving that boat explosion,” Tate said. He was the profiler in the team and they depended on his instincts and knowledge.

“We’ve furnished both the Red Cross and local authorities with a photo of Hershel Inman, but it doesn’t mean much, not when we know how skilled he is at disguises.”

Wade stepped around the broken headboard of a bed, saw what was left of a child’s stuffed teddy bear and had a moment of déjà vu, remembering finding the giraffe at his son’s grave.

He was sad for the end of his marriage and the loss of his son, but he was still damn mad at Jolene for shutting him out. He’d been just as devastated as she was by the baby’s death, and yet she’d taken all the burden of grieving as her right only, and acted as if he’d lost nothing but the time he’d invested in the marriage.

He looked away from the toy and then glanced up as a police car sped past three blocks up, running hot with lights and sirens. He wanted this killer caught and put away so bad he could taste it. Then he shook off the anger and got back to the work at hand.

“So, taking it as a given that Hershel Inman’s appearance has changed, he’s apparently changed his method of killing to go with it.”

“If you think about the kill sites, it makes sense, though,” Tate said. “The first victims were stranded in rural areas by high water, so the sounds of gunshots would not be a concern. Now that he’s moved into a city, that kind of noise would be noticed. His method now needs to be swift and silent. The Taser would render the victims both mute and immobile. Strangling them afterward would be simple if they couldn’t fight back, and leaving the bodies naked further feeds his need for domination.”

“That’s damn cold,” Wade said.

Tate thought about how close Hershel had come to killing Nola. “Yes, and so is Hershel Inman’s heart.”

* * *

Hershel would have been pleased if he’d known they were talking about him. He hadn’t seen them in months. Now here they were going through the rubble while he was sitting less than two hundred yards away, watching. They weren’t so damn smart after all.

There were only two of them this time, which made him wonder where Winger was, but then he let it go. As long as he had their attention, he didn’t care how many people they sent to cover his handiwork.

He rolled down the window, aimed his camera, and took several pictures of the agents as they poked through the debris. Every time the camera clicked, he imagined he was looking through the sight on his rifle, pulling the trigger and taking them out one by one. When Luckett stopped digging around and started to turn around, he rolled up the window and drove away.

* * *

It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon and Cameron Winger was in the police station in Wichita Falls, Texas, waiting for his witness Coyle Hardison to show. Clouds were building back in the southwest part of the state again, and some forecasters were predicting another round of storms. He knew Hardison had left the city after the storm, but when contacted by the FBI he had willingly agreed to come all the way back from his grandfather’s ranch over two hours away to give his statement again.

They had given Cameron use of an interrogation room, and he’d already set up his camera to record the witness’s statement when there was a knock on the door. He turned around just as an officer escorted a young man inside. The man was dressed in blue jeans, work boots and a T-shirt. When he saw the agent, he promptly took off a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and ran a hand through his hair to smooth it down. There was a healing cut on his forehead, a bruise under one eye, and both the backs and palms of his hands had bruises and shallow cuts, as well. It appeared he, too, had suffered some from the storm.

“Agent Winger,” the cop said, “this is Coyle Hardison. Do you have everything you need to proceed?”

“Yes, I do, and thanks,” he told the officer. He started to shake the young man’s hand and then stopped. “Uh, sorry, it looks like you need to skip handshakes for a while, but thank you for coming back. Have a seat and we’ll get started.”

“Yes, sir, happy to help,” Hardison said.

The officer shut the door as the young man sat down. He looked a little nervous, but also curious.

“Are you going to film me?” he asked.

Cameron nodded. “Yes, but it’s only protocol. Just relax and answer the questions as best you can.”

“Okay,” Coyle said, then locked his fingers across his belly and leaned back.

“State your name, age and occupation.”

“Coyle Hardison, twenty-two years old, and I work in construction.”

“How did you come to be in the neighborhood right after the tornado hit?”

“I live there. At least I used to before my house blew away.”

“How did you know James Atwood?”

“We lived in the same neighborhood. I’ve known him and his wife, who died last year, just about all my life.”

Cameron moved to stand beside the camera, making sure the man was facing it as he answered.

“You stated earlier to the police that you believed you saw the Stormchaser. Would you please explain what you saw, in detail, and what led you to this conclusion?”

Hardison nodded, and then began to relate his story again.

“It was right after the tornado had gone through my neighborhood. Me and my friend Charlie Reeves were out checking on neighbors and helping in any way we could. It was still raining, and we were making our way down the street, dodging debris and downed power lines when a guy came out of the dark from behind a big pile of rubble, walking straight toward us.”

“Did you know where you were at the time?”

“No, not at first. You couldn’t tell anything in the dark, but I remembered just after we saw him, we also saw the street sign bent over at a ninety-degree angle, and that’s when I realized we’d just passed Mr. Atwood’s house.”

“What time was this?” Cameron asked.

“It was less than thirty minutes after the tornado went past, but I can’t be more specific than that.”

“Okay. Describe the man you saw.”

“It was very dark. The power was out all over that part of town, so it was hard to see where we were going. Some people were out and about. You could hear some people calling for help and others yelling. It was weird, hearing all that without being able to see who it was, and the rain was hard enough that it buffered the sound. We had a flashlight, but we were shining it down on the ground to make sure we weren’t stepping on any hot power lines. There was a flash of lightning just as I looked up. That’s when I saw him, and then only for a moment. But I can say for sure he was middle-aged, wearing all dark clothes, and with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head. It was hard to tell, but I think there were scars on one side of his face.”

Cameron’s heart skipped a beat. That fit with what they believed Hershel Inman must look like now.

“Could you tell how tall he was, or his general build?”

Hardison closed his eyes momentarily, and Cameron guessed he was pulling up that memory. Then the young man blinked and stared straight into the camera.

“He was average height, maybe five-ten, but for sure not six feet. His clothes were plastered to his body from the rain, so you could see his build. He had what you call a barrel chest. Oh, and he was bowlegged, and he had a small black pack slung over one shoulder.”

Cameron was certain now that the guy had seen Hershel Inman, and that ended the slim possibility of a copycat killer.

“Did you happen to see him get into a vehicle or notice him leaving in any specific direction?” he asked.

“No. We just passed him and kept going. I never looked back. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. Your information has been very helpful. Is there anything else you can think of?”

Coyle Hardison frowned. “No, but I hope you catch the bastard and fry his ass. Mr. Atwood was a really nice old guy. I used to mow his yard when I was a kid, and his wife would give me cookies and lemonade after I was done. He was really sad after she died, and I’d say Mr. Atwood is probably the only one who doesn’t regret dying, because now he’s with his wife.”

Cameron got up and turned off the camera.

“Thank you for coming in. You’ve been very helpful.”

Hardison nodded and left the room.

Cameron packed up his stuff, thanked the police for their assistance and then headed for the parking lot. The heat and humidity hit him like a slap in the face, adding to the chaos in the city as he walked out of the building. He saw the line of thunderheads building back to the south and hoped they weren’t in for another round of storms. By the time he loaded his things in the back of his rental car and got inside, he was sweating. He turned on the air conditioner and then called Tate.

* * *

The local newspaper, the Tulsa World, had run a picture of Hershel Inman alongside a brief backstory of the Stormchaser’s murder spree last year in Louisiana, and then connected it to the ongoing investigation. The FBI had also given them an artist’s rendering of what Hershel Inman might look like now with burn scars on his face. They’d known it would set off a firestorm of sightings that would most likely lead nowhere, but there was always the chance that one of them would pan out.

The Tulsa Police Department had their own detectives running down the leads, and funneling the more promising ones to the FBI agents, who interviewed the witnesses further. So far nothing had clicked.

It was late in the afternoon, and Wade and Tate had stopped at a Quik Stop. Tate was pumping gas, and Wade had gone inside to get cold drinks and snacks, when Tate’s phone began to ring. When he saw it was Cameron, he walked away from the pump to answer.

“This is Tate. What did you find out?”

“The witness definitely saw Inman. He described a middle-aged man, average height, barrel chest and bow legs. And the guy was dressed in dark clothing with a hoodie pulled up over his head. He only got a brief look as lightning flashed, but he thinks the guy had some kind of scars on one side of his face.”

Tate sighed. “Well, it’s confirmation we’re dealing with Inman again, although after we got that text, we pretty much knew it. I don’t suppose we hit the jackpot and got a vehicle description or anything specific to go on?”

“No. The guy was with a friend and didn’t even put two and two together until he found out James Atwood was one of the victims. They had lived in the same neighborhood, and that’s the area where the witness ran into Inman. So what do you want me to do?” Cameron asked.

“Head to Tulsa in the morning. I’ll text you the info on where we’re staying.”

“Okay.”

“Drive safe,” Tate added, then hung up and finished refueling the car.

Wade came back carrying cold bottles of Pepsi and a couple of candy bars, handed a pop to Tate, then offered the candy bars and waited for him to choose. Tate chose the Snickers.

Wade frowned. “I was gonna eat that one,” he said.

Tate shrugged, handed it back and took the other one.

“I was gonna eat that one, too,” Wade said, and then grinned at the confused look on his partner’s face. “Just kidding. Take both of them if you want. I have three more.”

Tate grinned, took the candy bars and got back into the car. He opened the cold bottle of Pepsi and took a big drink, grateful for the cool liquid as it went down. As soon as Wade was inside, they drove away.

All of the tornado damage had been on the far northwest side of the city, and the people displaced by the storm had booked up a large number of available hotel rooms. They finally found a suite at the Hyatt Regency on 2nd Street, which provided amenities they didn’t have the time or inclination to check out.

Tate pulled into the underground parking garage beneath a security light and in plain view of multiple cameras. They headed into the hotel, each man lost in his own set of thoughts. Out of habit, Tate paused at the front desk to check for messages.

“Anything for Tate Benton or Wade Luckett?”

One of the clerks spoke up.

“Yes, sir. Something arrived for Mr. Benton about an hour ago. One moment, please.”

She went into a back room and came out carrying a manila envelope.

Tate frowned as he took it from her. There was no return address or postage mark and nothing to indicate it had come from a courier service. All it had was his name on the front. He looked inside as he was walking away, and then made an abrupt U-turn and went back to the front desk.

“Excuse me. Who received this?”

“I don’t know, sir, but I can check.”

“Thank you,” Tate said.

Wade followed him back. “What’s wrong? What’s in it?” he asked, and opened the flap as Tate handed over the envelope.

When he saw the photos of him and Tate taken earlier that day at one of the crime scenes, the hair rose on the back of his neck.

“Son of a bitch! He’s here!”

Wade pivoted toward the open lobby, eyeing everyone within sight. Behind him, he could hear the desk clerk telling Tate that a bellhop brought the envelope in from outside.

“Is he still here?” Tate asked.

The clerk pointed to the bell stand and a tall, slim man with red hair and glasses. “His name is Rob.”

“Thank you,” Tate said, and headed across the lobby.

“I’m going outside,” Wade said, and bolted toward the front entrance and then straight to the valet stand. He flashed his badge, then pulled Inman’s picture up on his phone and started showing it around to the hotel employees who were coming and going parking cars.

“Look close,” he said. “It’s important. Did any of you see this man? He won’t look exactly like this now, because we believe one or both sides of his face will have burn scars. He gave an envelope to a bellhop named Rob. Did you see him? He might have been wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up.”

“I just came on duty,” one valet said.

“I was parking cars all afternoon. All I saw were car keys coming at me,” another said.

“Who was manning this stand?” Wade asked. “Who was in charge?”

“Mario.”

“Where is he? I need to talk to him,” Wade said.

“He went home. He’s off duty now,”

A valet came running up from the parking garage, and turned in the ticket and keys of the car he’d just parked.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Wade flashed the picture and explained himself all over again.

“Did you see him? It would have been around an hour or so ago, talking to Rob.”

“Yeah, I saw someone talking to Rob. He gave him a twenty just to carry an envelope inside. That dude is lucky. He’s always getting the big tips.”

“Did you see where the man went? Did you see what he was driving?”

The kid shrugged and pointed. “He wasn’t driving. He walked that direction and then went behind the hotel.”

Wade looked up. “Do you have exterior security cameras back here?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to talk to Mr. Comfort. He’s the manager.”

Wade wasted no time returning to the front desk, where he hailed the first available clerk.

“I need to speak to your manager.”

The desk clerk looked nervous. He could already tell something big was going on that had to do with that envelope.

“I don’t think he’s in his office.”

“Can you page him?”

“Yes, sir. Just give me a few minutes.”

Wade glanced over his shoulder. Tate was on his way back.

“The kid identified Inman,” he said.

“So did one of the valets,” Wade said. “He said when Inman left, he walked around behind the hotel. I’m waiting on the manager to show up so we can check the security cameras. We might get lucky and see what he’s driving.”

“Good call,” Tate said.

“Either he’s getting careless or he’s getting cockier,” Wade muttered.

“He’s challenging us. These pictures are an in-your-face statement. I’d say his failure to kill Nola and then getting injured made him feel helpless. He’s angry. That’s why he’s gotten so personal with his victims. Before, he killed from a distance. Now it’s up close and personal, and leaving them naked is a reflection of his own humiliation. He doesn’t want to be the only one who was shamed,” Tate said.

“That makes sense,” Wade agreed. “But it also makes him more dangerous.”

The desk clerk returned.

“The manager will meet you in his office. If you’ll follow me?”

They followed the clerk through a maze of hallways, then into an office.

“Mr. Comfort, these are the FBI agents staying in our hotel.”

“Thank you, Walter. Gentlemen, how can I help you?”

“This is Agent Luckett, and I’m Agent Benton. We need to see footage from the security cameras around the perimeter of your hotel,” Tate said.

The expression on the manager’s face became one of instant concern.

“What’s wrong? Has something happened that’s going to endanger our guests?”

“At this point we don’t think so,” Tate said.

“How far back do you need to look? We don’t keep them beyond—”

“Just the last couple of hours,” Wade said.

The manager picked up a phone and made a call, then escorted them to yet another location.

“This is Rick Chavez. He’s in charge of hotel security. He’ll help you from here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Comfort. We appreciate your cooperation,” Tate said.

Chavez looked to be in his mid-forties and was built like a linebacker: broad shoulders, stocky body, with the biceps of a bodybuilder.

He eyed both men curiously, and then waved at some chairs against the wall.

“Mr. Comfort gave me the timeline you wanted to see. Pull up a chair. I don’t have popcorn, but the movie is ready to roll.”

“I’ll stand, if it’s all the same to you,” Tate said.

Wade nodded in agreement.

Chavez shrugged, checked the discs and started the playback.

Moments later four different screens were playing footage of the hotel exterior. They leaned in, watching eagerly for signs of Hershel Inman’s arrival.