Have You Seen Her?

  There, amid photos of farmers, white-collar professionals, babies and senior citizens, students, parents and teachers, was the one picture he was looking for. The only face that mattered.

  William Parker. Smiling. It was the smile Neil had last seen from the window of a black Mercedes sedan on a cold drizzling day in Seattle. It was the smile he’d seen every day from across the courtroom where Parker sat at the defendant’s table, tie knotted impeccably, hair neatly combed, eyes defiant. It was the smug, self-satisfied smile that had made Neil want to rip his face in two.

  That still made Neil want to rip his face in two. Gathering his wits, Neil walked back to the computer and brought up a search engine, typed in a few words and got the result he was looking for the first time out. It was amazing how simple a search was when you knew who you were looking for.

  Then he cleaned up his area, thanked Miss Wells for her help, and left the Pineville Public Library, his gut churning in the absolute certainty that he had found William Parker and in the absolute belief beyond a shadow of a doubt that Parker was actively murdering once again.

  The problem was, he had not a single shred of proof. So go get some.

  Monday, October 3, 5:15 P.M.

  Steven pulled his Volvo into the very last parking place. Well, technically it wasn’t a parking place, he thought, taking a fleeting backward glance as he jogged toward the soccer fields. It was a grassy area next to the Porta-John next to a sign that said NO PARKING. Technically he was in violation of the law. He was fifteen minutes late for his son’s soccer game. The first one in which Matt started. First string.

  Technically he’d royally screwed up.

  “Don’t miss it, Dad, okay?” Matt had asked quietly this morning over breakfast.

  “Not for the world,” he’d answered. Matt looked unconvinced, making Steven promise himself he wouldn’t be late.

  Well, damn. He was late. But he was here. He stopped at the sidelines where a group of parents stood cheering. “What’s the score?” he asked one of the parents.

  “Thatcher!” The man gave him a broad grin and a slap on the back. “Haven’t seen you around in ages. Our boys are up one to nothing.”

  Oh, God, please don’t let it have been Matt who scored. Please don’t let me have missed that. Steven forced a smile. “Who scored the goal?”

  The man drew up like a peacock. “Mine did.” Steven breathed a sigh of relief. “But yours assisted,” he added and Steven felt his heart sink.

  He’d missed Matt’s first assist. One game was all Matt had asked and he’d already missed the most important play.

  Steven could see compassion flicker across the other dad’s face. “I got it on video,” he said kindly. “I can rewind it to show you at halftime.”

  “Thanks,” Steven said, feeling his stomach pitch, knowing Matt must have looked for him, knowing his middle son must have been disappointed that his father hadn’t been there to cheer.

  He’d been late tonight for a very good reason. Kent had called with the results of the ketamine analysis of Lorraine Rush’s body. Positive. So now they knew what they’d suspected. The same person was responsible for the abduction of both girls.

  They had a serial killer on their hands.

  And he’d missed his middle son’s big play. Life sucked. Have courage, Steven.

  Steven easily found Matt among the running boys, his bright red head standing out like a torch. He waited until Matt looked his way and gave a tentative wave, afraid of the look of scorn Matt would probably give back. But his son surprised him. Matt’s face broke into a huge grin and he waved back and pointed to the goal.

  “I assisted,” he shouted.

  Steven felt his face break into a relieved grin. “I know,” he shouted back. And then the ref blew the whistle resuming play and Matt turned back into the fray. Without taking his eyes from the dancing torch in knee pads, Steven reached in his pocket and turned off his phone. It was the first time the phone had been turned off since he’d bought the damn thing. It’s about time, he thought.

  He’d watched a full ten minutes of play before he heard the voice behind him. “Excuse me.”

  Steven looked over his shoulder to find a tall dark man in a denim jacket standing behind him. The man needed a shave and a new pair of shoelaces on his beat-up Nikes.

  “I’m kind of occupied here,” Steven said kindly. “Trying to watch the game, you know.”

  “It won’t take long,” the stranger said. “I want to talk to you about Lorraine Rush and Samantha Eggleston.”

  Steven huffed out a frustrated sigh. “No comment.”

  “But—”

  Steven turned, keeping one eye on the field. “Look, you can call SBI headquarters and get a statement from the PR guys, but it won’t be any different than what I’ve been telling you press guys all along. No comment. We have highly trained resources on this case. We’ll let you know when we have something. Until then, no comment.” A huge cheer went up and he turned his attention back to the field just in time to see Matt kick the ball into the goal.

  “Yes!” Steven screamed at the top of his lungs, jumping a foot in the air and easily drowning out video-dad. And when Matt looked over this time, Steven gave his grinning son the thumbs-up. “Look, buddy,” he said to the stranger behind him, “I have to get back to the game.”

  But when he glanced back over his shoulder, the stranger was gone. His eyes narrowing, Steven spied a teal Dodge Neon exiting the fields, now a hundred yards away. His hackles raised, Steven gave his attention back to the team who was high-fiving his son.

  He pushed the feeling of trepidation to the side and moved closer to the field boundary line.

  “Great goal, Matt!” he shouted.

  Matt looked over, his face flushed with exertion and excitement. And his smile said it all.

  Monday, October 3, 5:30 P.M.

  “It’s not like you’ve got a serial killer running around or anything,” Neil muttered under his breath as he drove away, unimpressed with his first impression of Special Agent Steven Thatcher.

  The leader of the investigation. The guy who didn’t have anything better to do than watch a group of kids play soccer. Wonderful. These girls didn’t have a fucking chance.

  It would have to be up to him.

  Grinding his teeth, Neil drove to the address he’d etched in his brain. He pulled his rental car two houses down and . . . spied. It was a nice house, he thought. Almost as nice as the house they’d owned in Seattle. He wondered if they still had the grand piano and the vases worth a year’s salary. He wondered if they still had all the paintings and antiques.

  He wondered if they were able to sleep at night. Knowing what they’d done.

  He hoped not, because he sure as hell couldn’t. He wondered if he’d see William Parker coming and going. He wondered what he’d say, what he’d do when he saw the man whose smug smile had haunted him for three years.

  He knew what he wouldn’t do. He wouldn’t do anything stupid. And he sure as hell wouldn’t do anything to allow some fucking defense attorney to have any evidence he gathered thrown out of court on a technicality.

  This time he’d do it by the book. This time he’d do it right.

  THIRTEEN

  Tuesday, October 4, 8:03 A.M.

  “GOOD MORNING,” STEVEN SAID, QUELLING THE muttered conversation around the table. Everyone was edgy this morning. Harry and Sandra were squabbling, Kent looked like he could use a fresh suit, Meg stood looking out the window, and Nancy was fussing over everyone, something she did a lot more when she was stressed. Nancy was like Helen without the matchmaking, he thought and looked up with gratitude as she refilled his coffee cup. “Thanks.”

  Nancy gave him her motherly smile and moved on to fill the next empty cup.

  “So where are we?” Steven asked his team. “Sandra?” Sandra shook her head. “None of my contacts on the street have a clue. I did, however, get three very interesting proposals, but none of them looked like relati
onship material so I said no.”

  Steven’s lips twitched as he took the report Harry pushed across the table. “What, you want stability and morality? Get your head out of the clouds, Sandra.”

  “Hell, who wants stability? I’d just settle for a guy who wasn’t on parole for something too sick for the prime-time news.”

  “You need to get out of the gutter, Sandra,” Nancy clucked. “Find yourself a nice accountant.”

  Steven rolled his eyes. So much for Nancy not match-making. You don’t need a matchmaker anymore, he thought. You’re having dinner with Jenna tonight.

  Drawing on every ounce of discipline he possessed, he put Jenna and her big violet, passion-dazed eyes out of his mind and looked down at Harry’s report. “The ketamine supply,” he said.

  Harry nodded. “Got back answers from all but two of the vet supply houses I queried on ketamine orders and deliveries. Only a few new customers in a hundred-mile radius and none with any irregular ordering patterns. No one has any unaccounted-for ket.”

  Steven scanned the list. “When do you expect answers from the other two supply houses?”

  “I’ll call ’em again today, Steven.”

  Steven gave him back the list. “Keep it up, Harry. I want to know how our boy got the stuff.”

  “I’d still like to know what he’s using it for,” Meg said softly from her spot by the window. “There are a lot of ways to immobilize a victim. Why ketamine?”

  “I guess we’ll find out when we find him,” Steven said grimly. “Nancy?”

  She shook her head from where she stood by the coffeepot. “I didn’t get any hits on the like perps when I cross-referenced against the ketamine,” she said. “Lots of crack, pot, and heroin, but no ket.”

  Steven sighed. “I didn’t think you would. And other than the fact the two girls were members of the same parish and were both cheerleaders, I can’t find any other areas of commonality. The Rushes didn’t even go to church that frequently. Samantha was there last week, but Lorraine hadn’t been to church in months.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, annoyed the headache was already there. “I’ve retraced their known steps, talked to all their friends, but nothing matches.”

  “What about the cheerleading angle?” Sandra asked. “They would have competed against each other, gone to cheerleading camps together.”

  Harry looked at her, delighted. “Don’t tell me you were a high school cheerleader?”

  Sandra’s expression went sour. “Don’t go there, Harry. It was part of my misspent youth. I’m sure if I dug hard enough I’d find a few things you’d prefer were left alone.”

  Harry was undaunted. “Did you wear a little skirt and smile and everything?”

  Sandra narrowed her eyes at him, then looked back at Steven. “You want me to check the cheerleading circles?”

  Steven threw a warning glance at Harry who was still chuckling. “Beat the bushes, Sandra, see what you find. Kent? What about you?”

  “Only that we found ketamine in Rush’s tissue samples. But you knew that yesterday.”

  Steven’s mind blinked back to yesterday and he remembered the man at the soccer match. The press. He suppressed a shudder at the thought. “Let’s keep going, folks, we’ll turn up something. And please, don’t anyone talk to the press. Unfortunately that little jewel belongs to me.”

  Tuesday, October 4, 9:00 A.M.

  “Well, you’re early,” Miss Wells said as she unlocked the library door.

  Neil had been up since four A.M. pacing the floor of his tiny hotel room until he’d thought he would go insane. “I need to use your computer again.”

  “Well, help yourself,” Miss Wells said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will,” he promised. He sat down at one of the computers, brought up a search engine, and typed “Steven Thatcher and SBI.” Then sat back to learn about the man who held the safety of Raleigh’s young girls in his hands.

  Tuesday, October 4, 5:00 P.M.

  Jenna carefully closed the door of Adam’s car, then walked around the car and stared at the gas cap, rage making her body clench and tremble. The twenty-minute drive from school had taken sixty as Adam’s car bucked and kicked and sputtered and threatened to leave her stranded. And with every buck, every kick, every sputter, every minute that went by she got madder and madder.

  She could take vandalism in her classroom two days in a row. She could even take slashed tires, because they hadn’t touched what was important. Adam’s car itself.

  But this time they had. Hopefully it was only water in the gas tank, something she could fix with a bottle of STP. And if it wasn’t . . . she didn’t know what she’d do, but it would be very bad.

  Adam’s car. His pride and joy he’d lovingly restored with his own hands. She could see him in her mind’s eye, running his hands over the car’s curves, and suddenly realized the memories of Adam’s hands on his car and his hands on her were intermeshed. But instead of making her feel soft and tender inside, the realization made her even angrier.

  Stupid juvenile delinquents whose parents hadn’t bothered to teach them right from wrong. Idiotic kids who had no respect for other people’s property. Who would do anything that was a means to their end. Who she couldn’t touch because she couldn’t prove they had anything to do with anything. She’d call Officer Pullman. He’d dust for prints and probably wouldn’t find any that didn’t belong to her or Casey. There was nothing, nothing she could do.

  Her nails dug into her hands and she wanted to hit something. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so close to the edge of violence. Yes, she could. It had been the day she’d realized Adam was really going to die and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop it. That was the day she’d run for miles and still felt the murderous rage burning inside her, so she’d called a friend, Mark. Adam’s best friend to be exact. Mark was also her sensei, her karate master. They’d sparred and kicked and thrown each other to the mat until all the rage was gone. He’d understood her pain and her rage and let her work it out.

  She’d call Mark now. It’d been almost a week since her last workout and she was due.

  Tuesday, October 4, 6:30 P.M.

  Rudy slumped down in the leather chair across from his desk. “You wanted to see me?”

  Victor Lutz frowned. “I called Blackman today to make sure you’d be playing this week.”

  Rudy looked worried. “I will, won’t I?”

  Victor wanted to slap Rudy’s perfect teeth to the other side of his head. “Probably not.”

  Rudy shot up in the chair. “Why? I thought you said Blackman was fixing it.”

  “Apparently that was before your friends destroyed about five thousand dollars of school property. You’re lucky Blackman’s afraid of me or you’d all be in jail, dammit,” he hissed. “What the hell were you doing?”

  Rudy looked affronted. “I didn’t do anything. The guys did. Just like you said to do.”

  Victor slapped the desk. “I said, target the teacher’s belongings, not school property, you idiot!”

  Rudy’s face blanked and Victor once again cursed Nora’s stupid genes. The boy had the IQ of a damn turnip. Victor leaned across his desk, hoping his face showed every ounce of frustration he was feeling. “Her belongings means things that belong to her. Like her tires. Like the little clay figures she keeps on the balcony of her apartment.” His lips thinned. “Like her dog.”

  Rudy’s eyes widened. “You’ve been to her place?”

  “I’ve driven by. That’s all. Now tell your stupid, brainless friends to stop vandalizing school property or you’ll all be off the team.”

  Rudy raised a brow. “Kenny dumped water in her gas tank this afternoon.”

  Victor nodded. “That’s closer. Too easily reparable, but closer. Now leave me alone and go make sure your friends understand what they need to do.”

  Dismissing his son, Victor resumed work on his ledgers when a pained cry split the air. Josh stood in the
hall doubled over, his arms crossed over his gut. Rudy stood over him, flexing his fingers.

  “He was listening. Again,” Rudy muttered.

  “Leave her alone,” Josh moaned. “Dr. Marshall never hurt you.”

  Victor looked away. “Don’t hit your brother, Rudy. You might damage your throwing hand.”

  Tuesday, October 4, 6:45 P.M.

  “She’s not still mad at you, is she?”

  Steven jumped, startled that Mrs. Kasselbaum had gotten the drop on him. He’d been deep in thought, standing in front of Jenna’s door. Wondering how she’d look, how he’d get them past the awkwardness of their last meeting when he’d come so close to jerking her to her feet and—

  “Well, is she?” Mrs. Kasselbaum demanded.

  Steven turned to find the neighbor’s door open the expected six inches. “No, ma’am.” He showed her the plastic bag he held in his hand. “I just came to put a new deadbolt on her door. It bothered me that she didn’t know exactly who had keys to her apartment.”

  Mrs. Kasselbaum opened the door a few more inches and nodded once in approval. “That’s very wise. I’ll make sure I get a key when you’re finished. But she’s not home right now.”

  Steven stared. “What do you mean she’s not home? Her car’s out in the parking lot.”

  “Car trouble,” Mrs. Kasselbaum confided in a lowered voice. “I heard her telling the man she left with that she barely made it home from school. Something about water in the gas line.”

  Rudy and his friends struck once again, Steven thought grimly. He’d heard about the vandalism in her classroom from Matt, who’d heard it from a soccer buddy, who’d heard it from his older brother who apparently shared the general opinion that Dr. Marshall was “hot.”

  Wait a minute. “What man she left with?” he asked sharply. “Was it Seth?”

  Mrs. Kasselbaum shook her head, an unmistakable gleam in her old eyes. “Oh, no. This was one of her karate friends. Young, very nice-looking. A Marine with a tattoo on his right arm. He’s a black belt, too. I always feel safe when Jenna leaves with him.”