Love on the Edge: Nine Shades of Romantic Suspense, page 142
“I’ll need your camera, Mr. Hurley.”
“Certainly.” Somewhat shaky, Bill Hurley stood. “I’ll get it.”
Kozinsky handed his card to Mrs. Hurley. “Anything at all. Call me. Day or night.”
“You don’t think this is a kidnapping for ransom, do you?” Her eyes were shiny with more tears.
“No, Ma’am, but we’re getting a warrant to tap your line just the same. There’ll be a uniformed officer to stay here—just in case.”
Hurley returned with the camera. He cleared his throat. “That’s the last we have…”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get them back.” And if the angels are on his side, hopefully your son, too.
*
Tess returned to the living room just as Kozinsky stood and nodded at the family. He held a small digital camera in his big beefy hands.
“Don’t worry,” he told the family. “You’ll get it back.”
She gave the Hurleys what she hoped was an encouraging smile, then turned to her partner. “You through? I’ve a basic description of the driver and van the neighbor saw this afternoon. We need to get it out to the force and the media ASAP.”
Kozinsky nodded his agreement. “Plenty media types out there. Hand it over to the department spokesperson. He’s bound to be on scene by now.”
He jerked his head toward the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Hurley, we’ll let you know of any developments.” He handed his card to the boy’s father. “Don’t hesitate to call if you remember anything or have questions.”
She waited until they were outside and away from the parents’ earshot. “What did you learn from the boy’s parents?”
“They didn’t know shit.” He shook his head and related the results of his interviews.
“What was he wearing?” Tess interjected.
“Oh—” He paused to check his case notes. “Wore cut-offs and a purple and white Father Ryan T-shirt. Expensive new running shoes, gray with white trim.”
“What about the camera?”
“Photos in it from his last ballgame. Thought we ought to check ’em out. See if anyone looks out of place.”
“Good idea. He might’ve stalked Danny before snatching him.” She slipped under the crime scene tape and found the department spokesperson quickly enough. After giving him a brief description of Danny’s attire, the handyman and van last seen in the area, she added the typical person of interest, possible witness BS.
With Kozinsky dogging her heels, she headed for the SUV. What a nightmare for the Hurley’s and there was no telling what Danny’d endured.
She didn’t care about psychological babble. She’d been on the job long enough, seen too much and knew some folks were just born evil. This bastard was one of the worst. Putting him, and people like him, behind bars was one of the reasons she’d become a cop.
“What did you hold back?” he asked close her ear.
“Let’s get away from the cameras.” She headed over to her vehicle. Her partner squeezed in on the passenger side.
“The neighbor thinks she remembers an area code from the side door signs. Three-zero-three. It’s not a Tennessee area code. But it could give us a lead where this fellow’s been for the last fourteen years.”
“And where he was up to his same sick tricks.” She nodded, then called Dispatch. “Find out where this area code is, please?”
“Sure thing, Detective. Hold on a sec.”
She waited, growing more and more impatient. “Denver,” came the melodious voice.
“As in Colorado?”
“You got it, Detective.”
“That sure was easy,” Kozinsky said with a wink. “I must not have your sexy voice.”
“Pays to be nice.” She smiled. “Now we check with VICAP and look for similar M.O.s and victimology from Colorado and points between.”
“Now you’re talking, kid.” Kozinsky pulled out his brand new cell phone with the TV hook up. “You gotta get one of these babies. Let’s see what our spokesperson is saying about the case.”
She peered at the small screen. Damn, that was none other than suspect number three, Tyler Jamison of News Channel Nine, with his mic on camera asking the big question of the department’s official spokesperson.
“Do you believe this case is related to the kidnapping and murder of the governor’s grandson?”
“No, at this time, we do not believe this case is related to the kidnapping and murder of the governor’s grandson. The method and time of day are all different. We have the alleged murderer of the governor’s grandson already in custody. We’re looking for someone entirely different. The only similarity is the young man who has disappeared is the same general age as the previous victim. This appears to be a crime of opportunity. Danny Hurley was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“In his own home? Seems like the perpetrator was the one in the wrong place.”
A perfectly coifed Jamison faced the camera. “Tyler Jamison, News Channel Nine reporting to you from the scene in Bellevue where today seventeen-year-old star athlete Danny Hurley was kidnapped from his home. Stay tuned to News Channel Nine for the latest details.”
Tess banged the steering wheel with her fist. “Damn! I can’t believe the official story is this is a different suspect. We have a serial killer on our hands, but it’s business as usual with the department.”
“That’s the way it goes.” Kozinsky shrugged his wide shoulders. “The Metro spokesperson made some valid points about the M.O.”
“Come on. What’s your gut say? Mine says they’re related.”
He flashed a wolfish smile. “And my gut’s shaking hands with yours.” He opened the door and hauled his large butt out of the car. “I’m heading back. See you there.”
She shot him a two-fingered salute. “Beat ya.”
Turning the key in the ignition, she checked for traffic, then pulled into the street and made a quick U-turn.
Time was running out for Danny Hurley. Maybe already had.
And what were the chances of Tyler Jamison’s doing the interview? He was the morning anchor. Did he have a special interest in this particular story? Wouldn’t hurt to check his whereabouts over the last fourteen years.
*
Dammit. The next door neighbor bitch who pulled into her driveway and stopped him before he had his choice completely secured. Hands and mouth—yes. Feet and ankles—no. The teen was bigger and stronger than he expected and it took more effort than usual to get him knocked out and loaded into the van. At last thought, he’d jerked the cell phone off his choice’s waist and tossed it into the yard.
Still, drugged with chloroform, his choice should stay unconscious long enough to reach the cabin. He hightailed it from the oppressive over-development of McMansions, stopping only long enough in a back road of Edwin Warner Park where he ripped off the handyman sign and tossed it in the back of the van. The choice hadn’t moved. So far, so good.
Back in the van, he drove carefully though the streets of West Nashville until he hit the Interstate. His gaze flickered from the highway ahead to the review mirror, watching for any pursuing vehicles. With great concentration, he maintained the van at the speed limit.
The longer he drove, the more the itch increased. His entire body was consumed by prickles as if ants crawled over his arms, legs, back, face and groin…especially his groin. He was so ready. Time to stop and play games with his choice. Good thing his exit was coming up. He hit the turn signal and exited off I-65 South.
*
Danny woke up—his head fuzzy like he had a hangover or something. Even though it was dark, he knew he must be in the back of his kidnapper’s van. He struggled against the duct tape until his wrists were raw.
Damn stuff. He’d never manage to break it. His butterfly knife was in his front pocket. Yes, the knives were illegal, but all his friends in karate class had ordered them so he had, too. It wouldn’t do him much good though since the creep had bound his hands behind him.
He’d read the newspaper articles about the governor’s grandson and what the killer had done to him before he died. Gross. He shivered. Man. That would have to hurt like hell…but the killing part—there wouldn’t be any getting over that.
For some reason, the creep had stopped short of taping his feet. As soon as the back door opened, Danny was gonna book. He was an all around athlete, dammit. Baseball, soccer, and track. A real hot shot—that’s what the coaches called him. He excelled in the sprints as well as the longer distances. Give him just one chance, he’d be bolt like a jackrabbit and lope along until he got the fuck away from this one scary son of a bitch.
If only the bastard hadn’t ripped off his cell phone. According to those TV cop shows, the police could’ve used it to track the pings from the cell towers.
No rescue coming from the cops. He had to rescue himself.
Underneath him, he felt the van bumping over uneven ground and slowing, rolling to a sudden stop. This would be his only chance.
Play dead. Wait…for the door…to open.
Chapter Fifteen
Scott hit the TV remote and sat riveted to the news reports all evening. Unbelievably, the police department spokesperson said the cases weren’t connected.
“Stupid bastards!” He raised his arm to throw his empty beer can at the flat screen TV but stopped just in time. Hell, destroying the plasma wouldn’t accomplish anything, except maybe drive Justin to commit justifiable homicide.
His brother ambled into the den, plopped down on the leather sofa and propped his size twelves on the coffee table. “You were in a damned good mood and had a shit-eating grin when you came home. What happened?” his brother asked with a not-so-innocent smirk.
“Huh?” Scott glared and wished his brother weren’t so damned observant.
“Got the old hard drive optimized, did ya?” Reality dawned. So he’d had a sappy smile.
Dead giveaway. “Is it that obvious?”
“Oh, yeah. But only to someone who hasn’t…” Justin shrugged.
“Enough!” Scott covered his ears. “Too much information.”
“Let me guess.” His brother kept smirking. “Wouldn’t be a certain Metro Homicide Detective, would it?”
He narrowed his gaze and stared back at his brother. Maybe that would shut him up.
“Now hold on a minute. We’re brothers. Brothers share everything, not that I expect you to share…” Justin’s fair skin heated up to a slight pink. “You know what I mean.”
“Quit while you’re ahead, dude.”
Justin linked his fingers behind his head. “So are ya gonna tell me what had you ready to chuck a beer can at our precious high-def TV?”
“The MNPD has it all wrong. This kid who just disappeared today—he fits the same victim profile as the others. But Metro, in their greater wisdom, says it’s unrelated to the Brennerman case.”
“Maybe it is. Wasn’t this new victim taken from home instead of a camp?”
“I’m sure all the camps are on their guard and have warned their campers not to wander off in the middle of the night with anyone. Besides, there’s a fourteen year gap since the last one. Maybe this guy’s been out of state and he’s versatile, not tied to any one M.O.”
In Scott’s mind, it ruled out Drew Wilson and Tyler Jamison, but who could be so brazen to snatch a nearly grown teenager from his home in broad daylight? Guy had balls. Big ones.
Justin abandoned his relaxed position and sat forward, eyes wide, his interest piqued. “Okay, so it’s the victimology we need to research, not just the M.O.” He wriggled his fingers as if he were already in front of his computer. “I can help with that.”
“Metro just doesn’t want to admit they made a mistake when they rushed to arrest Ned Forbes.” Another news break and there was Tyler Jamison again. Same old party line. Scott hit the remote and turned off the TV. “I’ve heard the same BS too many times.”
“At least they can’t blame the newest one on our client.”
“That’s the only good thing about it. If, and when, the Hurley kid is found, the manner of death will either point to the same killer or not. If it does, Forbes’ attorney can push for a dismissal of the charges.”
“You think the Hurley kid’s already a goner, don’t ya?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Then the sooner I hack into VICAP, the better?” Justin shot Scott a puckish grin, the one he always gave when he was on the verge of doing something illegal.
“I did not hear you say you’re going to hack VICAP.” The quicker they located the killer, the better. Worry about the fallout later.
“No, you didn’t.” Justin stood, raised his brows innocently and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “Ya must’ve misunderstood me.” He bolted for the door. “Guess it’s time to have another go at Dragons and Faeries.”
As soon as he reached the door, he skidded to a stop and turned. “One more thing. I’ve raked every database I can hack and Doug Silvey didn’t exist until two years ago. No doubt about it. I found the birth and death records for a Richard Douglas Silvey. Born 1972 in Lancaster, PA. Record of death a mere two weeks later. Could be our eyewitness obtained the birth certificate and created a new identity.” He shrugged. “Just a thought.”
“Good point.” Scott nodded. “I’ll let Tess know. You focus on the victims.”
An innocent man was rotting in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. The sooner they found documentation of similar victims, the closer they’d come to finding the real killer, and the incidental clearing of Drew and Tyler wouldn’t hurt either. As for Dakota Taylor, he wasn’t even in the state.
What would the agency do without Justin? Damn, but his brother was worth his weight in Twinkies.
*
Back in the CJC, Tess gulped down a cup of coffee as she entered the victimology parameters, then the manner of death, and the most telling item, the one missing shoe which the local unsub was apparently taking as a souvenir. Then she sat back and waited. “Well, VICAP is working or so the computer tells me. How long’s it gonna take?”
“Fifty states in the U.S. Might take all night.” Kozinsky opened his mouth and gave a yawn so wide she could count his fillings. “Estelle’s pissed because I blew off dinner again.”
“She ought to be used to it by now.”
“There must be something in the secret wives’ decoder book which says after fifty missed dinners, stop cutting the guy any slack.”
“Wouldn’t know myself.” She laced her tone with a good-natured bite of snark.
Kozinsky shook his grizzled head and said with a world-weary air, “Believe me, it exists. I’ve fallen short enough times to know.”
She drummed her nails on the desktop, then stood and gave him an encouraging smile, more to hide what she was about to do than from any demonstration of goodwill. “Be right back. Gotta make a call…personal.”
He let out a whoop more appropriate for cranes’ mating season and shoved his fist into the air. “I knew it. You’re up to something. With someone. A certain PI perhaps?”
She shook her head and kept the smile plastered on her face. “Need to know only.” Walking out to the hallway, she pulled the cell phone from her belt, leaned against the wall, and waited until no one was close enough to hear her before she punched in Scott’s number.
He answered, his tone softer and sexier than any man ought to sound this time of day. “Hey there, Detective O’Malley. I was about to call you.”
“I have something you might want to look into.” She kept her tone low. “The neighbor gave me a three-zero-three area code on the truck signage. That’s Denver. Thought you might want to concentrate your efforts up there. So why were you going to call?”
“Whoa. You’re all business, aren’t you? My call was going to be a touch more personal. I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”
His tone was low and sexy and images of their quick encounter flashed through her mind, sending merry tingles to her naughty bits. The muscles in her thighs tightened.
“I enjoyed it, too.” Back to business. No time for all this. “But we’ve got to find this kid—if it’s not already too late.”
“Understood, but there’s one more thing on my mind.”
“Yeah?”
“Your eyewitness didn’t exist until two years ago, but there was a Richard Douglas Silvey born in Lancaster, PA, who only lived a couple of weeks, so—”
Someone tapped Tess’ shoulder. Her breath caught in her throat. She whipped around. Kozinsky. Dammit. Had he heard her leaking info to Scott?
“Sorry. Gotta go.” She disconnected, pretty sure she knew the rest of what he tried to tell her. The mystery witness was a fake. And who would most likely create a false identity and give false evidence—the killer.
“What’s the big rush, Kozinsky?”
“You need to get back in here and see what your printer is spitting out.”
She slipped the phone back on her belt and sped back to her desk. Disbelief settled heavily on her shoulders like a three-hundred pound druggie high on PCP.
“Holy Mother.” She flipped through the stack of pages and sank into her chair. “Basically, every metropolitan area in the U.S. has a smattering of victims who met the criteria I entered dating back to 1994 in Savannah, Georgia, where there were two victims. Both bodies recovered in shallow graves. One shoe missing.”
“Sounds like our guy.”
“Had to eliminate all who are the right age demographic but listed as missing, so they don’t fall into the missing shoe category.” She continued and the numbers kept mounting. “In 1996, he moved on to Newark, two more recovered and the shoe was missing. Chicago, 1997 was the next target of our unsub’s presence with one body located with a missing shoe. You wouldn’t believe how many kids in this demo are missing.”
Kozinsky frowned and rubbed his chin, a sure sign he was considering all her info. “Maybe he’s getting better at hiding the bodies.”
“Maybe. One in Denver from 1999 was found dead with a single shoe missing. Six more missing in Denver in one year. Must’ve gotten pretty hot for him there. Apparently, he headed to Los Angeles where he hit an alltime career high with four bodies in two years.”
