“I got him coming in the east entrance, taking the east stairwell up, and exiting the same way.”
Bryson winced. “The side doors aren’t locked until after ten for guest convenience.”
How about guest security? Griffin thought.
They had a height and build to go by, but none of the stairwell footage on the way up gave them a better glimpse of the intruder’s face. On the way down, however, the intruder bumped into a woman coming up the stairwell. He quickly maneuvered around her and kept his head down. Within seconds, he’d passed back out the exterior door.
“Who is that woman?” Griffin asked. “We need to question her now.” She’d seen him up close. What details might she be able to provide?
18
Jiffers was part sports bar, part carnival games. It was in the enormous Arundel Mills Mall, and Luke was surprised Hank had picked this place over the casino next door. Hank greeted him with a lift of his chin, and Luke took the invite to join him at the high table as Hank ordered drinks.
Tanya grabbed Kate and pulled her over to the table catty-corner to them for some girl talk.
After introducing Luke to the two men at the table, Hank dismissed them, and didn’t take long to get to the point of the visit. “You said you were interested in making some cash under the table?”
Luke nodded. “Not gonna lie, my current HVAC gig isn’t bringing in the money I hoped it would.”
“You mentioned you had your commercial driver’s license?”
“Yeah. I used to run delivery trucks for FedEx and some off-the-books family-owned businesses.”
Hank chuckled. “This would be a bit different than FedEx, but perhaps not so different from your other gigs.”
“Okay.” He didn’t question. Never question. Let Hank share what he wanted, especially since this was only their second meeting.
“You’d be making deliveries for me from my warehouses to the addresses I provide. Most of the time it’s simply delivering the trucks themselves with a runner to transport you back.”
Luke shrugged. “Sounds easy enough.” He purposely didn’t ask what he’d be transporting.
Hank smiled. “I knew you were my kind of employee.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re eager to work, I have a feeling you’re a hard worker, and best of all, you don’t ask questions.”
Luke signaled the waitress for another round. “On me.”
Hank laughed and draped his arm across Luke’s shoulder. “I knew I liked you.”
“When do you want me to start?” Luke asked.
“I need drivers now.”
“I’m ready.”
“Unfortunately”—Hank exhaled—“I’m short on trucks. Had to lend some out.”
“Yeah, what does Stallings’ mysterious friend want with delivery trucks anyway?” Tanya asked as she approached, spilling the small amount left in the bottom of her gigantic margarita glass.
Hank growled—actually growled—at her.
She shrugged with a drunken giggle. “What?”
“You talk too much. Go do something.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“You heard me. Go.”
“Fine.” She wobbled. “Me and Jasmine will have our own fun. We don’t need you two.”
Kate looked at Luke, clearly trying to hide her excitement over the gigantic lead Tanya had just blurted out. No doubt Stallings’ mystery man was Ebeid.
Kate followed Tanya to the token machine.
Luke watched them fill up their cups with gold coins and head for the Skee-Ball section. Nearly every guy’s head turned as Kate passed by. It wasn’t unexpected, but he didn’t have to like it. On the plus side, she never glanced back at any of them.
The waitress returned with their drinks, sidling up to Luke. “Poor baby. Your gal leave you? Someone as fine as you, I’d never leave. If you get lonely . . .” She slipped a folded piece of paper in his shirt pocket.
Kate was watching from the Skee-Ball lanes and rolled her eyes. So neither liked the attention the other received. Luke smiled as he took a swig of his drink.
Interesting . . .
“I’d say dumb blonde, but Tanya’s brunette,” Hank said. “Dumb either way. Broad doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut once she’s had a few in her.”
From what Kate had said, it didn’t take anything to get Tanya talking—just opportunity. On the way over to Jiffers, Kate had told him that although Tanya had been talkative at the tattoo shop, she hadn’t spilled anything of significance. But now her loose lips very well might.
“Like I was saying . . .” Hank picked their conversation back up.
“You need drivers.”
“Right, but I had to lend some trucks out, so I don’t have any open for you now. If he keeps them much longer, I’m going to rent some U-Hauls. I’m not going to let my business suffer because he’s using my trucks and warehouses.”
Warehouses? Was Ebeid keeping Bedan holed up in a warehouse? Or was he simply using it for storage? Either way, it took all the restraint Luke possessed not to jump on that lead. Any questions would surely alert Hank—who Luke, at present, had in his very good graces and wanted to keep that way.
Tanya hurried back over with a stuffed Taz from Looney Tunes in her hands and squealed, “Look what I won for you, baby.” She offered it to Hank as Kate stepped beside her.
“Thanks, babe.”
She nibbled her bright red lips. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
“It’s done. Go back and play some more games while we finish talking, and then you and I will have some fun.”
She kissed him, and Kate turned, following a giddy Tanya back across the crazy, psychedelic-patterned carpet to the arcade section. Kate took up residence at Ms. Pac-Man.
Luke exhaled. They were going to be there a while.
Hank pinned a very serious glare on Luke. “You didn’t hear what Tanya said—especially the name. Got it?”
“What name?”
Hank nodded. “Good. The man pays well, but when he wants something, he takes it, and not just for himself. He’s got some mystery man he’s got to keep happy. No clue who the dude is, but he must be someone big.”
“Sounds like you should branch out on your own.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. I’m just waiting for the right timing and enough collateral to make the move.” Hank appraised Luke. “You know . . . while I wait for the trucks to be returned, you could help unload shipments. If you’re interested in starting now.”
“Sure. That’d be great.”
“It’s settled, then.” He reached for the waitress passing by. “Hey, hon, you got a pen on you?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thank you, darling.” He grabbed a cocktail napkin, scribbled an address, and handed it to Luke. “Be at this address tomorrow at eight a.m.”
Luke slid the napkin into his shirt pocket. “Got it, and thanks.”
“I knew I liked you. You know not to ask questions, and you thank me for the job.”
“That’s my motto—do the job well and don’t ask questions,” Luke said, before taking another sip of his drink.
“You’re going to work out just fine. And speaking of fine . . .” Hank stood. “I’m going to go make up with Tanya.” He winked.
Khaled Ebeid sat back with his cup of coffee. His mind, as it often did during his few moments of stillness, drifted back to her. Caroline. The woman who’d changed him and everything he stood for.
His hand tightened on the handle of his mug, and he exhaled through gritted teeth.
Their love had seemed so real and pure. Perfect. He’d even stayed on after the spring semester, taking a summer session just to be with her—until August 8, 1990, changed everything.
The Persian Gulf War began, and men raided his family’s home, taking his father. He never saw him again. Only later did Khaled learn the CIA had taken his father to a secret location for interrogation. He’d
been killed during an “escape attempt.”
Prior to his capture, the family all believed his father had flown under the radar with his extremist ties. On the surface, he sold rugs. How had they known to come for him?
Unfortunately, that question had been answered quickly. The very day he got word of his father being taken, Khaled ran to Caroline, only to find her gone. Her apartment, other than his belongings, was empty. Suddenly her interest in his family, her curiosity about their life, about his father, hit him like a cold slap of Alaskan air.
She’d used him to gather intel. It was a certainty confirmed later, after he’d taken up the path his father had been forced to leave behind. Eventually, he discovered Caroline Ladew wasn’t her real name. It was her legend. Her real name was Jennifer McLean, and she was a field operative for the CIA.
They’d known about his father. Known Khaled was heading to Paris. They’d targeted him, used his desire to attend the Sorbonne exchange program and set “Caroline” in place as his host. All their talks, all their intimate time together . . . It had all been a lie.
Khaled balled his hands into tight fists. He’d been too young and naïve to realize it at the time. But the day his father was taken changed the trajectory of his life, up to the man he was now.
He’d immediately returned to Iraq, turning to the one true faith, working with his brothers-in-arms. He’d trained hard, gained knowledge, and developed skills, all while under the cover of being an antiquities expert and cultural attaché. His cover positioned him for the revenge he’d one day wreak on the country that had used him and murdered his father. But during his years of investigation, he’d learned that Caroline’s betrayal was so much worse than he’d thought. She’d—
“Sir, please forgive my interruption,” Brandt, his new right-hand man, said. He’d be using Brandt for most of his needs, but for Beck and the woman, he’d hired a consummate professional—one far above a mercenary’s level.
He set down his cup and cracked his knuckles. “What is it, Brandt?”
“I had Aman keep an eye on Beck, like you ordered, and you’re not going to be pleased by who he met with.”
Ebeid signaled Brandt to enter fully with a waggle of his fingers. “Go on.”
“Beck and his lady friend were at an establishment called Jiffers with Hank and Tanya.”
Heat flooded Ebeid’s face. Hank had better have kept his mouth shut. He inhaled sharply and released it in a whoosh.
“I’m afraid Hank revealed that he lent out trucks and a warehouse. He refrained from saying to whom, but Tanya—”
“Let me guess. She imbibed too much, as usual, and spoke to her detriment?”
Brandt nodded. “According to Aman, she blabbed. Beck knows Hank rents trucks out to a couple higher-ups, and she even mentioned Stallings’ name, probably trying to impress Beck’s lady.”
Anger burned through Ebeid, his wrath groaning to be released. Agent Grey had figured out that he and Stallings worked together at times, so it wouldn’t take long for Beck to do the same, if he wasn’t already aware. On the surface, it wasn’t a lot of information, but with Beck’s intelligence, it could end up leading Garrett Beck to his door, especially if he worked a little longer on Hank and Tanya. Better to cut that information off at the knees.
“You know what to do.”
Brandt bowed his head. “Consider it done.”
19
Griffin had found the hotel guest who’d bumped into their intruder on the stairwell. Her name was Adelaide Henry. She was in her upper thirties and had been returning from the hotel gym following a workout. Unfortunately, she said her short encounter with the man had basically been him bumping into her, not bothering to apologize, and racing around her to continue down the stairwell. She hadn’t seen his face—other than a quick flash of a portion of his profile, nose to chin—and he hadn’t spoken a word.
Thornton brought in a sketch artist all the same. An image of any part of the intruder’s face could be helpful.
The man had not parked in the lot, so they had no video footage of his vehicle, only him skirting the video camera’s viewing area as he made his way to the east door.
Switching hotels, Griffin felt reasonably sure they were safe, but he hadn’t been able to settle down enough to sleep yet. Instead, he was still sifting through Burke’s files, but seeing as it was nearly two in the morning, he needed to try to at least get some rest. They had a full day of interviewing the remaining two detectives and the victims’ families ahead.
He climbed into bed and curled around his wife, her hand pulling his arm tightly about her. He reached back, clicked off the light, and pressed a kiss to her head.
She’d asked him to leave the curtains open a smidge so she could fall asleep under the gorgeous harvest moon outside their window.
He closed his eyes, but the case still tramped through his mind. The correlation between the victims’ killings and the key words leader, agent, and barn was downright bugging him. Three key words, handcuffed, wrists, and Glock—given all the murders were conducted with a large-caliber round, which could be used with a Glock—applied to all the murders so far, but what about the rest? And what was his message? Dumping the women in the water?
Finley snuggled deeper into his hold, snoring softly. More a humming noise than an outright snore, and he found it adorable.
He exhaled, praying for sleep to come, but the more perplexing key words continued to dance through his mind.
Agent. Leader. Barn.
Perhaps the killer took his victims to a barn somewhere outside of whatever town or city they were near to torture and kill the girls before driving to a body of water and dumping them. But how had Burke discovered that?
Leader and agent most likely referred to the killer’s position or job. Both titles could apply to so many different careers, it was nearly impossible to narrow it down. And that was if he was even correct in assuming the words applied to a profession. They could apply to an area in which he volunteered or to a hobby. But professions seemed the strongest possibility, so he let some run through his mind—travel agent, customs agent, ticket agent, life insurance agent. Leader of his team at work? Or leader of a volunteer group, fitness class, or even the principal player in a musical group? The word leader could also refer to a blank section at the beginning or end of a reel of film or recorded tape.
What if the sicko was videotaping or audio recording his time with the girls?
The thought disturbed him beyond measure.
He shifted against the concrete parking barrier he was leaning over for purchase as he studied the detective and his wife asleep in their bed in their hotel room across the alleyway. So they’d gotten his message and thought switching hotels would be enough to get beyond his reach. There was no place far enough for that. Not even death. All his girls learned that. He owned them. Whether they surfaced mattered not. They were his.
He watched the shafts of moonlight streak across Finley’s soft cheek through the opening in the drapes and the urge to take her grew, but the detective started to stir, and he couldn’t risk exposure. Not now. Not yet. Not under these circumstances. No, he needed to draw them away from other people and have his time with them. The detective he’d kill quickly, but the wife—he’d take that nice and slow.
The patrol officers struggled to keep everyone at bay while setting up a perimeter around the crime scene.
“How long until the homicide detectives arrive?” one of the officers asked.
“Said they’d be here in ten,” another officer answered.
The first nodded.
Word of a body found along the shoreline had spread like wildfire that warm May morning in Chesapeake Harbor.
Griffin approached the sand’s edge with dread weighing heavy in his gut. What if it was Jenna? She’d been missing three weeks.
Parker rushed forward, tears in his eyes.
Tears?
Declan and Luke were racing down the street to be at his side in cas
e . . .
The four of them stood there, looking beyond the officers to the body washed up on shore by the morning’s tide. Her hair was dark brown. She was the right build, though her skin was puffy and missing in places.
Griffin fought the urge to hurl.
An unmarked police car with sirens wailing arrived. Detectives stepped out, conferred with one of the police officers, and then approached the body. The crime-scene investigator took photographs, his camera snapping over and over until, finally, they rolled her over. . . .
Griffin swallowed the bile rising up his throat.
Jenna.
Sobs threatened to wrack his body as hot fury engulfed him.
Griffin shot up in bed, sweat clinging to his brow.
He hadn’t had that nightmare in years. Now that they were so close to catching her killer, it had returned, plaguing his sleep with the horrible image of Jenna washed up on shore.
He stood and moved to the window, pulling the curtain farther open so he had an even better view of the moon.
His gaze shifted to the parking garage across the alleyway, a warning sensation darting up his spine.
Something was wrong.
His gaze raked over the structure, and the clear shadow of a man shifted on the level directly opposite him.
He grabbed his gun and opened the sliding door. Finding a corner pipe only a foot to his right, he climbed over the balcony rail and lunged for it before shimmying down. Reaching the ground, he raced for the garage, but a dark car roared out the opposite end, speeding for the end of the alleyway. Griffin ran barefoot along the uneven gravel, but the car—license plate covered—peeled around the corner, and by the time Griffin reached the street, the car had disappeared.
Griffin stood there, the cool of night wrapping around him, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The intruder had come closer still, as if taunting him, declaring they weren’t out of his reach.
Finley leaned over the balcony. “Griffin! Are you all right?”
“I’m okay, but I think I’ll use the front door to come back up. Shut the sliding door, lock it, and pull the drapes closed.”