Without Remorse, page 15
It made sense he'd escalated. They'd been expecting the FBI. They'd seen the connections themselves.
“Because they know they're guilty...” Dakota said, speaking the thought out loud. But it felt more as if she were simply trying it on for size. The words didn't quite fit. They felt close—she knew that much. But... but something was off.
Why had the bodies been kept so clean? Why had the crime scenes been pristine? Meticulous, cautious, careful.
None of that matched the suspects currently jawing with their assigned lawyer.
Dakota shook her head, returning her attention to the computer screen. She tapped her fingers against the desk and reached a conclusion. Just a little prying. That was all.
She dialed the first number, drumming her fingers against the edge of her laptop as she waited to connect.
***
The craftsman sat on the park bench, breadcrumbs between his fingers. He just couldn't stop smiling. He watched as a jogger passed and tipped his head, nodding after her. She was keeping in shape, forcing herself to do the difficult thing. Game recognized game after all.
He looked appreciatively after the jogger's form, tracing the lines, the shapes, the colors. The sorts of things only creatives ever really recognized. He sniffed and turned away, still tearing at breadcrumbs and occasionally tossing them onto the ground. A couple of pigeons had wandered close but were keeping a wary distance.
He wasn't sure if they'd seen what he'd done to the last one or could just smell the crushed bird behind the trashcan.
Sometimes, he just couldn't help himself.
There was something quite beautiful about the red of the crushed neck streaking those gray-purple feathers.
He tossed another breadcrumb onto the ground, cooing. At the same time, though, he kept an eye on the apartment door across the street.
He wasn't slowing down.
No—the FBI, the cops, his audience, were expecting him to slow.
But he'd pulled off the last piece without a hitch. Another perfect creation. And him? The perfect craftsman.
He rolled his shoulders, watching the door then glancing at his watch. She'd be out soon. She never missed a meeting, did she?
He admired that about her... But what he didn't admire?
The constant whining. The bellyaching and moaning. Oh poor me! I have no friends! Poor me! I'm so lonely.
He snorted in disgust. Some people just weren't meant to recover. Weren't meant to survive. He didn't have the patience to let her persist. For weeks now she'd been complaining about her life. About her job. About her friends.
She needed help.
His help.
And so he waited and watched, eyes on that simple green door at the base of the townhouse. He glanced at his watch again. A few more minutes. He'd timed her for nearly a month. Always sitting across the street, in the park. Feeding the pigeons. Snapping their necks when no one was watching.
And waiting patiently.
Tonight, though—as with all the others—he was ready.
It was Wednesday night, after all. She'd be leaving soon. Only two more minutes.
He smiled again, feeling a faint shiver of pleasure as he remembered the look on the Astelay sisters' faces. They'd thought they were such big shots. Such hot shit. But he knew their weaknesses. He knew they'd needed him. Just like they'd practically begged him to carry their load for them into the warehouse.
He was their guardian angel. They just didn't appreciate him yet. But soon, when they ascended, when he purged them and cleansed them and fixed them...
Then they'd understand.
A soft click across the street. He looked sharply up. The green door was slowly opening. A figure emerged on the steps.
His smile faded. His heart pounded. He wet his lips, excitement surging through him.
Lights. Camera...
He began to stalk across the park, towards the sidewalk, his eyes on the damsel in distress. The woman who desperately needed his help. She just didn't know it yet.
***
Dakota clicked through the links in her email, feeling her skin prickle as she downloaded the files. The Leksian outpatient group hadn't been willing to provide a roster. She had a request pending but it wasn't crucial to her next step. If any of the groups were least likely to provide access to someone like Ms. Stanton, it would have been a clinic with a high upfront payment.
No... no, the two rosters she'd managed to get, from the church and the meet-up, would have to do.
She waited as the files downloaded, and then quickly copied the two rosters into a single document. Her eyes darted across the information across the top tabs. She hid all the lists except the ones under Wednesday. And then, slowly, she began to scan the information, careful not to skip a single name.
Almost fifty names were on the combined rosters from the two support group facilitators. Dakota read and re-read each name, carefully. They weren't listed alphabetically, so she took her time, scanning. As she glanced down the list, she could feel her frustration mounting.
No names she recognized. Maybe Wednesday night wasn't the connection she thought it was...
She reached the halfway point, skipping over Riley, Latisha.
She sighed, pausing for a minute to rub at her sleep-deprived eyes. She yawned despite herself, covering her mouth and waiting a moment for this new wave of exhaustion to pass. She'd forgotten just how hard it could sometimes be to work for the FBI.
In the back of her mind, she could still hear Agent Carter's disapproving tone. Could still feel her sense of frustration when she'd been told that the old case files for the killer from three months ago were locked without express permission from her current supervisor.
But not only was she fighting for her reputation. For this favor to access the old files. But also for the victims—for those who needed someone to defend them... Just how others had so often defended her. Others like Marcus. Not just her partner... but a friend.
Hell... Maybe even her only friend.
Coach Little counted too. They'd both gone to bat for her.
And what about her curly-haired, handsome techie? She glanced towards her phone, resisting the urge to check for a text message from Mark. That would have to wait.
She refocused, glancing at the list again, reading slowly.
She paused. Nearly at the bottom of the list... no, at the very bottom of the list. The next name was for the instructor... The name had been added last because there was no phone number or address attached to it.
But a name she recognized. Stanton, M.
Dakota stared, feeling a prickle warm her cheeks. She let out a shaking sigh. Two names above Stanton, M., she spotted something else.
Initials. L.A. She'd glossed over these at first, tired as she was. But now that she re-read them, she glanced towards the phone number listed. With shaking fingers, Dakota lifted her own phone and called the listed number.
It rang a few times. Then, a voice spoke on the other end. You have reached the voicemail box of Lauren Astelay...
LA. The most recent victim.
Lauren Astelay had also attended the same group as Michelle Stanton. Had Sophie Astelay also been at the group?
Dakota felt her pulse racing now, her heart trying to reach her throat. Her excitement mounted as she re-read the names, just making sure her eyes weren't playing tricks.
But no. The second victim had been attending the same sobriety group as the fourth and fifth victims.
Also, on a Wednesday night. Caitlyn and Terin had attended a separate group at the convention center, but also Wednesday. All of the victims had been attending sobriety groups for various ills.
Dakota swallowed, feeling her throat parched all of a sudden.
This bastard was targeting people in recovery. She felt a jolt of fury at this, considering her own path. Undoubtedly, this monster might have targeted her too if given a chance. Dakota pressed her teeth together. But her anger was short-lived, supplanted once more by sheer excitement.
Now, she was growing less and less sure that the junkyard couple fit the bill. The attention to detail just wasn't there. Even their strange maquettes back at their scrap yard weren't similar enough to the ones at the crime scenes.
No... But that left a problem.
What had the artisans meant when they'd suggested some of the components in the crime scene sculptures would have required two people to lift them.
How would the killer possibly manage it?
Two people, just not the Hendricks?
Or maybe...
Dakota tapped her fingers on the edge of her laptop again. The artisans had seemed so sure there were two culprits. But what if they were wrong? Duo killers were rare. Very rare. Especially among narcissists who didn't tend to trust the same way duo-killers did. So if not two... What if there weren't two but one very strong person?
It fit, in a way. A bodybuilder or someone who worked out enough to be that powerful would be disciplined. Probably take care of themselves...
She tapped a finger to her lips, considering this angle.
On one hand, if she was wrong, and there really were two attackers, then she was already running behind.
She glanced back at the list of fifty, frowning. There was no way she could track down every potential victim—not in the short timeframe in which the killer was constantly acting. But on the other hand, a bodybuilder or a strongman attending a sobriety group would be easier to find.
They'd stick out like a sore thumb.
It wasn't perfect, but it was something. She bit her lip, considering her next move, but then nodded to herself, reaching a conclusion.
She pushed away from the table, turned hastily and moved quickly back out of the break room, down the hall, hurrying in search of Agent Clement to tell him what she'd found.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Dakota kept tugging at the big man until she'd pulled him through the door into the dark stairwell. As the door swung shut, it mercifully cut off the sound of chatter, of hurry and rush from down the hall and throughout the precinct. Above, she heard footsteps on the stairs, but they were heading up.
For the moment, she'd managed to secure a brief window of privacy.
“Marcus,” she said, “I think I found something.”
He glanced at where her hand gripped his wrist, then back up at her. He slowly reached up without speaking, took off his glasses, cleaned them on his sleeve and replaced them again. “I see.”
She frowned. “I—wait, was that a pun?”
He blinked as if confused. She shook her head and continued. “Never mind. Look, Clement, I don't think we've got the right suspects.”
He inhaled slowly, held the breath, and then exhaled. Again, he didn't say anything.
Dakota took this as permission to continue. “I've been running over the rosters from—”
“What rosters?”
“The ones from the sobriety groups. Remember?”
“Ah, yes...” Marcus looked ready to add more, but then held his tongue. He just waited quietly, letting her continue.
“Well,” she said, “Guess what I found?”
Marcus frowned. “Second victim?”
“And the Astelay sisters, too!” Dakota declared. “They were both attending the same AA group at a local church.”
Marcus crossed his arms, standing in the darkness of the stairwell. “Is it possible Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks were trawling those groups?”
Dakota hesitated, wincing. “Possible. Of course. We should ask them.”
“They're not exactly being forthright.”
“No,” Dakota said with a sigh. “And that's where my concern is. They're not the most subtle people.”
Marcus rubbed at his chin. “No, I suppose not.”
“They're not cautious. Not careful. Do they look like the sorts that could've planned these murders? Executing them without a hitch?”
Marcus gave a long sigh but, in the end, just shrugged. “They fit.”
“I know that. I know all of that. But... look, it's not going to cost us much.”
“So what's the next step?”
Dakota held up her phone. “Calling the group coordinators and seeing if they have a physically strong person attending their groups.”
Marcus blinked. “Come again?”
“Oh—right. Didn't mention that part. But I was thinking, maybe there aren't two killers, just—”
“One really strong one,” Marcus murmured.
She nodded, patting him on the arm. “You're a big guy. There was nothing at those crime scenes I don't think you could've hefted around. At least for a bit.”
Marcus shrugged modestly. “If you're right, then he would stand out in these groups.”
“Exactly.” She trailed off, feeling a jolt of nerves. “So... you in? I can call the church if you wanna call the meetup.”
Marcus pressed his lips together, but then let out a long, huffing sigh. She could see him weighing their options. She could see his reluctance to concede. Clearly, he wasn't convinced. She felt a pang of guilt, remembering the last time she'd made a call Marcus had disagreed with. A girl had died. A killer had escaped.
A sudden flash of pain jolted through her belly. In that moment, part of her wanted to take it all back. To just play it safe.
But she wouldn't have been able to do that. Not really, not without turning herself inside-out. All she could do was make the best call. If she got into her head over it, there'd be no end to second-guessing herself.
Still, the slow disquiet of unease whittled at her soul.
At last, though, Marcus relented with a sigh. “Fine,” he said. “I'll call the meetup. We're looking for a bodybuilder?”
“Or anything similar,” Dakota said excitedly. She scrolled to the open webpage on her phone, raising it so Marcus could see the phone number as he fished his own device out.
He entered the number and, simultaneously, the two of them placed their calls. Both turned away from each other, briefly, shoulder to shoulder in the dark recesses of the stairwell. Dakota listened as her dial tone rang, attempting to connect.
After a few moments, a voice said, "Hello, this is St. Mark's."
Dakota hesitated, swallowing. Churches brought to mind her childhood along with images of Sunday clothing and combed hair. Attempting to look like all the things she had never felt. She experienced a sudden unease, thinking back to her estranged relationship with her father.
All of it faded a second later as she forced herself to keep a professional tone. "This is Agent Dakota Steele with the FBI. I have some questions about the sobriety group you're running."
"Oh my. I'm sorry... Umm, just as far as—"
"I can give you my badge number if you'd like. You can look it up."
"Er, well... You know what—no, that's fine. I'm not sure what I can tell you, though."
Dakota said, "I called earlier about getting rosters. I think I spoke to a receptionist."
"Yes. I was told."
"You're the coordinator for the group that's listed?"
"Father Duncan. I help lead the groups. It's this Wednesday night. Were you planning on attending?"
Dakota wrinkled her nose, feeling oddly offended at the question. "No, thank you," she said stiffly. "I was wondering if there was someone in your Wednesday group that fits a specific description."
In the background, she could hear Marcus speaking on the phone as well. She tried to focus on her own conversation.
"What do you mean?"
"We're looking for a man. A very large, strong man. He would be a bodybuilder, or a particularly sizable person."
"And he attends tonight's group?"
Dakota said, "Yes. Or at least he would've in the past. How long have you been coordinating?"
"For a few years now. And actually, it's a funny thing, I wouldn't have thought I'd recognize a description over the phone, but there is Benjamin."
Dakota perked up. "Benjamin?"
"I'm afraid I don't have a last name. He's been coming for about a year now. He hasn't attended for a couple of weeks. But, that description, of course brings to mind Benjamin. He's a very large and very muscled man. Did he do something?"
Dakota could feel her fingers tapping against the back of her phone.
"He hasn't attended in two weeks?"
"Well, no. But funnily, we actually get RSVPs for the group. Just so I can know how many people to expect. Refreshments and that sort of thing. It helps keep costs down, so we don't order too much."
"Of course," Dakota said, hiding her impatience.
"Anyway. I bring that up just to say, tonight, Benjamin responded. He said he was going to be here."
"He did?" Dakota skin prickled.
"Yes. If you'd like to meet him, he should be here tonight."
"What time is the meeting?" Dakota said firmly.
She was only half listening, though, as her skin turned from a prickle to a buzz. There was a man who fit the description in a Wednesday night group where three of the victims had been attending. A large, muscled man who could lift the metal contraptions.
And he was going to be there tonight.
Dakota was already moving towards the door, listening intensely to the information as she hastened to the parking lot.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Their vehicle squealed and hopped the curb, leaving rubber on the asphalt as the doors sprang open. Dakota and Marcus pushed hastily out of the car, facing the small corner church. St. Mark's resembled the side of town it occupied. Somewhat run-down, with more than one boarded-up window. It looked more like an office building than anything. And judging by the few cars in the parking lot, most of the attendees walked or took the bus.
Dakota glanced hastily at her watch, hissing sharply through her teeth. Her feet hit the pavement, and the scent of lingering cigarette smoke wafted on the air from a back door behind the church. A janitor's yellow mop bucket sat propping the door open.
Dakota marched up the concrete steps to the main door. Despite the setting of concrete and asphalt, the church door itself was a wooden thing with cheap but pleasant stained glass. Dakota pushed through with Marcus close behind.
“Because they know they're guilty...” Dakota said, speaking the thought out loud. But it felt more as if she were simply trying it on for size. The words didn't quite fit. They felt close—she knew that much. But... but something was off.
Why had the bodies been kept so clean? Why had the crime scenes been pristine? Meticulous, cautious, careful.
None of that matched the suspects currently jawing with their assigned lawyer.
Dakota shook her head, returning her attention to the computer screen. She tapped her fingers against the desk and reached a conclusion. Just a little prying. That was all.
She dialed the first number, drumming her fingers against the edge of her laptop as she waited to connect.
***
The craftsman sat on the park bench, breadcrumbs between his fingers. He just couldn't stop smiling. He watched as a jogger passed and tipped his head, nodding after her. She was keeping in shape, forcing herself to do the difficult thing. Game recognized game after all.
He looked appreciatively after the jogger's form, tracing the lines, the shapes, the colors. The sorts of things only creatives ever really recognized. He sniffed and turned away, still tearing at breadcrumbs and occasionally tossing them onto the ground. A couple of pigeons had wandered close but were keeping a wary distance.
He wasn't sure if they'd seen what he'd done to the last one or could just smell the crushed bird behind the trashcan.
Sometimes, he just couldn't help himself.
There was something quite beautiful about the red of the crushed neck streaking those gray-purple feathers.
He tossed another breadcrumb onto the ground, cooing. At the same time, though, he kept an eye on the apartment door across the street.
He wasn't slowing down.
No—the FBI, the cops, his audience, were expecting him to slow.
But he'd pulled off the last piece without a hitch. Another perfect creation. And him? The perfect craftsman.
He rolled his shoulders, watching the door then glancing at his watch. She'd be out soon. She never missed a meeting, did she?
He admired that about her... But what he didn't admire?
The constant whining. The bellyaching and moaning. Oh poor me! I have no friends! Poor me! I'm so lonely.
He snorted in disgust. Some people just weren't meant to recover. Weren't meant to survive. He didn't have the patience to let her persist. For weeks now she'd been complaining about her life. About her job. About her friends.
She needed help.
His help.
And so he waited and watched, eyes on that simple green door at the base of the townhouse. He glanced at his watch again. A few more minutes. He'd timed her for nearly a month. Always sitting across the street, in the park. Feeding the pigeons. Snapping their necks when no one was watching.
And waiting patiently.
Tonight, though—as with all the others—he was ready.
It was Wednesday night, after all. She'd be leaving soon. Only two more minutes.
He smiled again, feeling a faint shiver of pleasure as he remembered the look on the Astelay sisters' faces. They'd thought they were such big shots. Such hot shit. But he knew their weaknesses. He knew they'd needed him. Just like they'd practically begged him to carry their load for them into the warehouse.
He was their guardian angel. They just didn't appreciate him yet. But soon, when they ascended, when he purged them and cleansed them and fixed them...
Then they'd understand.
A soft click across the street. He looked sharply up. The green door was slowly opening. A figure emerged on the steps.
His smile faded. His heart pounded. He wet his lips, excitement surging through him.
Lights. Camera...
He began to stalk across the park, towards the sidewalk, his eyes on the damsel in distress. The woman who desperately needed his help. She just didn't know it yet.
***
Dakota clicked through the links in her email, feeling her skin prickle as she downloaded the files. The Leksian outpatient group hadn't been willing to provide a roster. She had a request pending but it wasn't crucial to her next step. If any of the groups were least likely to provide access to someone like Ms. Stanton, it would have been a clinic with a high upfront payment.
No... no, the two rosters she'd managed to get, from the church and the meet-up, would have to do.
She waited as the files downloaded, and then quickly copied the two rosters into a single document. Her eyes darted across the information across the top tabs. She hid all the lists except the ones under Wednesday. And then, slowly, she began to scan the information, careful not to skip a single name.
Almost fifty names were on the combined rosters from the two support group facilitators. Dakota read and re-read each name, carefully. They weren't listed alphabetically, so she took her time, scanning. As she glanced down the list, she could feel her frustration mounting.
No names she recognized. Maybe Wednesday night wasn't the connection she thought it was...
She reached the halfway point, skipping over Riley, Latisha.
She sighed, pausing for a minute to rub at her sleep-deprived eyes. She yawned despite herself, covering her mouth and waiting a moment for this new wave of exhaustion to pass. She'd forgotten just how hard it could sometimes be to work for the FBI.
In the back of her mind, she could still hear Agent Carter's disapproving tone. Could still feel her sense of frustration when she'd been told that the old case files for the killer from three months ago were locked without express permission from her current supervisor.
But not only was she fighting for her reputation. For this favor to access the old files. But also for the victims—for those who needed someone to defend them... Just how others had so often defended her. Others like Marcus. Not just her partner... but a friend.
Hell... Maybe even her only friend.
Coach Little counted too. They'd both gone to bat for her.
And what about her curly-haired, handsome techie? She glanced towards her phone, resisting the urge to check for a text message from Mark. That would have to wait.
She refocused, glancing at the list again, reading slowly.
She paused. Nearly at the bottom of the list... no, at the very bottom of the list. The next name was for the instructor... The name had been added last because there was no phone number or address attached to it.
But a name she recognized. Stanton, M.
Dakota stared, feeling a prickle warm her cheeks. She let out a shaking sigh. Two names above Stanton, M., she spotted something else.
Initials. L.A. She'd glossed over these at first, tired as she was. But now that she re-read them, she glanced towards the phone number listed. With shaking fingers, Dakota lifted her own phone and called the listed number.
It rang a few times. Then, a voice spoke on the other end. You have reached the voicemail box of Lauren Astelay...
LA. The most recent victim.
Lauren Astelay had also attended the same group as Michelle Stanton. Had Sophie Astelay also been at the group?
Dakota felt her pulse racing now, her heart trying to reach her throat. Her excitement mounted as she re-read the names, just making sure her eyes weren't playing tricks.
But no. The second victim had been attending the same sobriety group as the fourth and fifth victims.
Also, on a Wednesday night. Caitlyn and Terin had attended a separate group at the convention center, but also Wednesday. All of the victims had been attending sobriety groups for various ills.
Dakota swallowed, feeling her throat parched all of a sudden.
This bastard was targeting people in recovery. She felt a jolt of fury at this, considering her own path. Undoubtedly, this monster might have targeted her too if given a chance. Dakota pressed her teeth together. But her anger was short-lived, supplanted once more by sheer excitement.
Now, she was growing less and less sure that the junkyard couple fit the bill. The attention to detail just wasn't there. Even their strange maquettes back at their scrap yard weren't similar enough to the ones at the crime scenes.
No... But that left a problem.
What had the artisans meant when they'd suggested some of the components in the crime scene sculptures would have required two people to lift them.
How would the killer possibly manage it?
Two people, just not the Hendricks?
Or maybe...
Dakota tapped her fingers on the edge of her laptop again. The artisans had seemed so sure there were two culprits. But what if they were wrong? Duo killers were rare. Very rare. Especially among narcissists who didn't tend to trust the same way duo-killers did. So if not two... What if there weren't two but one very strong person?
It fit, in a way. A bodybuilder or someone who worked out enough to be that powerful would be disciplined. Probably take care of themselves...
She tapped a finger to her lips, considering this angle.
On one hand, if she was wrong, and there really were two attackers, then she was already running behind.
She glanced back at the list of fifty, frowning. There was no way she could track down every potential victim—not in the short timeframe in which the killer was constantly acting. But on the other hand, a bodybuilder or a strongman attending a sobriety group would be easier to find.
They'd stick out like a sore thumb.
It wasn't perfect, but it was something. She bit her lip, considering her next move, but then nodded to herself, reaching a conclusion.
She pushed away from the table, turned hastily and moved quickly back out of the break room, down the hall, hurrying in search of Agent Clement to tell him what she'd found.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Dakota kept tugging at the big man until she'd pulled him through the door into the dark stairwell. As the door swung shut, it mercifully cut off the sound of chatter, of hurry and rush from down the hall and throughout the precinct. Above, she heard footsteps on the stairs, but they were heading up.
For the moment, she'd managed to secure a brief window of privacy.
“Marcus,” she said, “I think I found something.”
He glanced at where her hand gripped his wrist, then back up at her. He slowly reached up without speaking, took off his glasses, cleaned them on his sleeve and replaced them again. “I see.”
She frowned. “I—wait, was that a pun?”
He blinked as if confused. She shook her head and continued. “Never mind. Look, Clement, I don't think we've got the right suspects.”
He inhaled slowly, held the breath, and then exhaled. Again, he didn't say anything.
Dakota took this as permission to continue. “I've been running over the rosters from—”
“What rosters?”
“The ones from the sobriety groups. Remember?”
“Ah, yes...” Marcus looked ready to add more, but then held his tongue. He just waited quietly, letting her continue.
“Well,” she said, “Guess what I found?”
Marcus frowned. “Second victim?”
“And the Astelay sisters, too!” Dakota declared. “They were both attending the same AA group at a local church.”
Marcus crossed his arms, standing in the darkness of the stairwell. “Is it possible Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks were trawling those groups?”
Dakota hesitated, wincing. “Possible. Of course. We should ask them.”
“They're not exactly being forthright.”
“No,” Dakota said with a sigh. “And that's where my concern is. They're not the most subtle people.”
Marcus rubbed at his chin. “No, I suppose not.”
“They're not cautious. Not careful. Do they look like the sorts that could've planned these murders? Executing them without a hitch?”
Marcus gave a long sigh but, in the end, just shrugged. “They fit.”
“I know that. I know all of that. But... look, it's not going to cost us much.”
“So what's the next step?”
Dakota held up her phone. “Calling the group coordinators and seeing if they have a physically strong person attending their groups.”
Marcus blinked. “Come again?”
“Oh—right. Didn't mention that part. But I was thinking, maybe there aren't two killers, just—”
“One really strong one,” Marcus murmured.
She nodded, patting him on the arm. “You're a big guy. There was nothing at those crime scenes I don't think you could've hefted around. At least for a bit.”
Marcus shrugged modestly. “If you're right, then he would stand out in these groups.”
“Exactly.” She trailed off, feeling a jolt of nerves. “So... you in? I can call the church if you wanna call the meetup.”
Marcus pressed his lips together, but then let out a long, huffing sigh. She could see him weighing their options. She could see his reluctance to concede. Clearly, he wasn't convinced. She felt a pang of guilt, remembering the last time she'd made a call Marcus had disagreed with. A girl had died. A killer had escaped.
A sudden flash of pain jolted through her belly. In that moment, part of her wanted to take it all back. To just play it safe.
But she wouldn't have been able to do that. Not really, not without turning herself inside-out. All she could do was make the best call. If she got into her head over it, there'd be no end to second-guessing herself.
Still, the slow disquiet of unease whittled at her soul.
At last, though, Marcus relented with a sigh. “Fine,” he said. “I'll call the meetup. We're looking for a bodybuilder?”
“Or anything similar,” Dakota said excitedly. She scrolled to the open webpage on her phone, raising it so Marcus could see the phone number as he fished his own device out.
He entered the number and, simultaneously, the two of them placed their calls. Both turned away from each other, briefly, shoulder to shoulder in the dark recesses of the stairwell. Dakota listened as her dial tone rang, attempting to connect.
After a few moments, a voice said, "Hello, this is St. Mark's."
Dakota hesitated, swallowing. Churches brought to mind her childhood along with images of Sunday clothing and combed hair. Attempting to look like all the things she had never felt. She experienced a sudden unease, thinking back to her estranged relationship with her father.
All of it faded a second later as she forced herself to keep a professional tone. "This is Agent Dakota Steele with the FBI. I have some questions about the sobriety group you're running."
"Oh my. I'm sorry... Umm, just as far as—"
"I can give you my badge number if you'd like. You can look it up."
"Er, well... You know what—no, that's fine. I'm not sure what I can tell you, though."
Dakota said, "I called earlier about getting rosters. I think I spoke to a receptionist."
"Yes. I was told."
"You're the coordinator for the group that's listed?"
"Father Duncan. I help lead the groups. It's this Wednesday night. Were you planning on attending?"
Dakota wrinkled her nose, feeling oddly offended at the question. "No, thank you," she said stiffly. "I was wondering if there was someone in your Wednesday group that fits a specific description."
In the background, she could hear Marcus speaking on the phone as well. She tried to focus on her own conversation.
"What do you mean?"
"We're looking for a man. A very large, strong man. He would be a bodybuilder, or a particularly sizable person."
"And he attends tonight's group?"
Dakota said, "Yes. Or at least he would've in the past. How long have you been coordinating?"
"For a few years now. And actually, it's a funny thing, I wouldn't have thought I'd recognize a description over the phone, but there is Benjamin."
Dakota perked up. "Benjamin?"
"I'm afraid I don't have a last name. He's been coming for about a year now. He hasn't attended for a couple of weeks. But, that description, of course brings to mind Benjamin. He's a very large and very muscled man. Did he do something?"
Dakota could feel her fingers tapping against the back of her phone.
"He hasn't attended in two weeks?"
"Well, no. But funnily, we actually get RSVPs for the group. Just so I can know how many people to expect. Refreshments and that sort of thing. It helps keep costs down, so we don't order too much."
"Of course," Dakota said, hiding her impatience.
"Anyway. I bring that up just to say, tonight, Benjamin responded. He said he was going to be here."
"He did?" Dakota skin prickled.
"Yes. If you'd like to meet him, he should be here tonight."
"What time is the meeting?" Dakota said firmly.
She was only half listening, though, as her skin turned from a prickle to a buzz. There was a man who fit the description in a Wednesday night group where three of the victims had been attending. A large, muscled man who could lift the metal contraptions.
And he was going to be there tonight.
Dakota was already moving towards the door, listening intensely to the information as she hastened to the parking lot.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Their vehicle squealed and hopped the curb, leaving rubber on the asphalt as the doors sprang open. Dakota and Marcus pushed hastily out of the car, facing the small corner church. St. Mark's resembled the side of town it occupied. Somewhat run-down, with more than one boarded-up window. It looked more like an office building than anything. And judging by the few cars in the parking lot, most of the attendees walked or took the bus.
Dakota glanced hastily at her watch, hissing sharply through her teeth. Her feet hit the pavement, and the scent of lingering cigarette smoke wafted on the air from a back door behind the church. A janitor's yellow mop bucket sat propping the door open.
Dakota marched up the concrete steps to the main door. Despite the setting of concrete and asphalt, the church door itself was a wooden thing with cheap but pleasant stained glass. Dakota pushed through with Marcus close behind.
