You just never knew.
And now they had new evidence to work with: the Christmas card sent to Alvarez. There was a chance the killer had gotten sloppy with a fingerprint or left saliva as he’d licked the flap of the envelope, or the block letters in the address would remind someone of a person’s handwriting, or that the card was bought locally and the store where it was purchased would be able to come up with a credit card or debit card account number. They’d already figured out that the card had been posted downtown, possibly at one of the drop boxes outside the post office, and security tapes were already being viewed. Maybe, just maybe, they’d get lucky.
Chapter 28
As he drove through the falling snow, O’Keefe decided he was going to stick like glue to Alvarez and he didn’t care what she had to say about it. Truth to tell, he was scared for her, worried sick, because the Ice Mummy Killer or whatever you wanted to call him had some kind of fascination with Selena.
As he turned onto Alvarez’s street, he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror, saw the bruises on his face, compliments of Junior Green. There was also a glint of determination in his eyes. Now that Aggie had fired him from his job of locating Gabe, he had no excuse to hang around, but he was going to. Whether Selena Alvarez knew it or not, she needed protection from the psycho, and O’Keefe would do what it took, including pissing her off, if he had to.
He parked his Explorer on the street across from her apartment and, armed with his tool kit, duffel bag, laptop and bag from the hardware store, walked through the falling snow to her apartment. Ringing the bell, he felt suddenly awkward, like a kid waiting for the door to be opened by his prom date.
He heard her moving around inside, then saw her eye darken the peephole.
A second later, she unlocked the door and swung it open. In oversized flannel PJs, her hair twisted into an unruly knot on the top of her head, she appeared smaller and more fragile than she was.
“You’re moving in?” Alvarez asked suspiciously as she eyed his duffel.
“How could you tell?” He wanted to keep things light.
“All those years of detective work, I guess.”
“Aaah. Well, you’re right. I thought I’d camp out here for a few days.”
“Really?” She wasn’t budging from the doorway. “Without even asking me?” Leaning one slim shoulder on the door frame, she added, “That’s kinda funny, because I don’t remember inviting you.”
“You didn’t.” He’d expected this reaction and ignored it as he swept past her into the foyer. “Lock the door behind me.”
“Hey, wait a sec, you can’t just bring all your gear and—”
“Of course I can.” Dropping his duffel on the floor of the living room and his laptop on the table, he said, “The killer’s making a statement. To you personally.”
“You found out about the Christmas card.”
“That’s just part of it, but, yeah. There’s a reason your things were left at the scene, your dog was stolen, your—”
“You think he has Roscoe?”
“I don’t know, but probably. Since he hasn’t turned up.”
“That son of a bitch. I mean, I thought it was a possibility, but I’d hoped ... Damn it all to hell.” She slammed the dead bolt shut and walked into the living room, where she dropped onto the couch. She was barefoot, her hair pinned onto her head haphazardly, as if she were getting ready for bed. Closing her eyes, she leaned back on the cushions, and the cat, hiding on a window ledge, hopped across a bookcase to navigate the back of the couch and nose Alvarez’s hair. “Grayson kicked me off the case.” Absently she plucked Jane from the couch and dropped her into her lap.
“He had to.”
“Yeah, I know, but I don’t like it.”
“And it won’t stop you from investigating.”
“No comment.” Sighing, she gave the cat one last pet, then straightened, her dark eyes opening. “I keep trying to figure out who the hell he is ... It has to be someone I’ve met ... but ...” She shrugged. “So far, I’m out of ideas.”
“We’ll work on it together.”
“Because you’re moving in.” It wasn’t a question.
“Temporarily. Until we get this nut job behind bars.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his tone, didn’t want to freak her out any more than she already was, but they both knew that she was in danger. The killer was becoming frustrated, not getting the attention he craved, so he’d sent the card. Who knew what his next move might be?
“Do I get a say in this?” she asked.
“Not really.”
“Just like everything else. So you ... what? You think you’re going to be my self-appointed bodyguard or something?”
“Or something.” He opened the plastic bag he’d picked up at the hardware store and pulled out a new doorknob and dead bolt. “I supposed you heard that Gabe was going to be transferred tomorrow.”
“No.” She lifted a shoulder, but he could see in her eyes that she was bothered. “Just one more loop I’m clearly out of.” He realized that it made her a little crazy to think that homicide cases were being solved without her and that her own son’s situation was being withheld from her.
“Don’t suppose I can see him first?”
“Aggie doesn’t want you to have contact with him. Or me, for that matter, I’m off the case.”
“So we both got fired.”
“Essentially.”
“You know, I think Aggie can go ... jump in a lake!” Her cheeks turned a little red and her eyes snapped as anger obviously surged through her. O’Keefe figured it was the first time in a long while she’d been thwarted or felt so impotent.
“Anyone ask Gabe what he wanted?”
“I doubt it.”
“Damn.” She walked into the kitchen and found a bottle of sparkling water, opened it and took a long swallow.
“Hit the spot?” he asked.
“No, but it’ll have to do. For now.”
“I’ll take you to dinner,” he offered, turning to look at her in the kitchen.
“Now?”
“No, not now, as soon as I’m finished.”
“Finished with what?”
“Changing all the locks. I thought we’d start fresh. Just in case someone has a key.”
“Nervy,” she said but didn’t offer up any objection. Though she was trying to disguise it, she was anxious, forcing herself to appear calmer than she really felt.
“The slider has a lock, right?”
She was nodding. “It’s a dead bolt screwed into the track and floor and can’t be accessed from outside.”
“Good.” Nonetheless, he checked and tested the screw knob that fastened the slider into place. Satisfied that it was secure, he straightened. “So I’ll put the new lock into place on the front door and then double-check the windows and make certain they all latch. You”—he motioned at her with a screwdriver—“might want to change into something a little less casual. Dinner. Remember?”
“Oh, right.” She was already heading for the stairs but stopped on the second step. “I don’t think the killer will come back here.”
He opened his toolbox and said, “Maybe not. But let’s just make sure if he does show up, he won’t get in. Damn. I need a different screwdriver. You have a Phillips?”
“In the garage, in the workbench.”
“Great. I’ll be right back and finish up.” He started for the garage but sent a smile in her direction. “That bastard’s never getting in here again.”
Who, who, who?
Pescoli couldn’t get the case out of her head, even as she waited for Jeremy to come home and she heard Bianca in the bathroom, taking what had to be the world’s longest shower. Whereas Pescoli could be in and out of the bathroom, teeth brushed, showered, her hair shampooed, and in her pajamas in less than ten minutes, her daughter took a minimum of an hour, sometimes an hour and a half, which could be a problem since the house had only one bathroom and, unlike her son, Pes
coli didn’t find off the deck a secondary toilet. No matter how often she admonished him, Jeremy didn’t feel the least bit abashed at “taking a leak” into the surrounding woods.
So now, while Cisco was curled into a ball in his dog bed near the Christmas tree and Bianca went through her major beauty routine on the other side of the locked bathroom door, Pescoli fired up her laptop and went over everything she knew about the ice-mummy case. There were photographs of the crime scenes and lists of people who knew the victims, more photographs of people who had stopped and looked at the scenes. The department had gathered security tapes from surrounding businesses, interviewed neighbors, checked traffic cams for large vehicles driving near the crime scenes late at night, talked to relatives and friends, listed enemies and come up with people who would benefit from the victims’ disappearances.
Nothing came together.
A question that had been bandied about was the operation itself. Where did the killer take his victims to kill them, and freeze their bodies in blocks of ice? It would take days for the water to solidify and then be carved into the intricate patterns, all of which had been studied. Did he have a large, commercial freezer? Was a warehouse complete with refrigeration and freezers involved? Could he be doing his work at home, but where? Did he live alone, or did he have an accomplice?
There had been no physical evidence aside from what appeared to be the tiniest drop of blood in the ice surrounding Lara Sue Gilfry’s body, so little it was almost overlooked, maybe missed by the perpetrator.
The lab had been working on it; the blood was rare, didn’t match the victim and had come from a male, as had the single short hair found on the floor mat near the door of Brenda Sutherland’s car.
The FBI was running comparisons with known criminals, but so far they’d ended up with a big fat goose egg. There had been no latent prints on the card, envelope or photo, the last of which was computer generated, nor had the envelope tested positive for saliva. The creep had obviously been watching too much CSI.
But he would trip up; they always did.
Eventually.
How in the world did Alvarez connect with the killer and the known victims? There had to be a thread. The killer hadn’t robbed her house and left his mark, in the way of her jewelry, on the victims for no reason.
Uh-uh.
Like a dog marking his territory, or Jeremy peeing off the deck, this maniac had taken Alvarez’s jewelry for a reason, to make himself known to her.
She had a smaller version of the map in the task force room on her computer and she studied it again. There had to be a connection between where these women worked, where they were abducted, and where they lived ... right? This guy was nothing if not organized. No one plots to break in to a homicide detective’s home, steal her jewelry and display it without a plan.
He had to be someone Alvarez knew.
Possibly someone she knew, too.
So who the hell was he?
A child? Selena Alvarez had borne a child? And now his identity could be discovered?
As he, alone in the house, watched the television in his office, he wondered why he hadn’t put two and two together before. His mind raced and he mentally went over all the information he had on the woman.
Of course there were holes in what he knew about her, but not many. He’d been meticulous but had never understood why she’d moved away from her parents in her high school years, transferred schools. He’d thought it was because she was in some kind of accelerated program or that her parents had moved her out to get her away from running with the wrong crowd, but he’d never really considered that she’d been pregnant. Not these days, because even fifteen years ago, it was acceptable to have a child as a teenager; if not the norm, certainly not something to be ashamed of.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t considered the possibility.
He’d suspected she might have had a baby, of course, by tracking down her school records and addresses. She’d been moved away from her family when she was still in her teens, for just a year, but he’d never come back to the idea that she’d had a secret baby.
A mistake on his part.
An omission and one he didn’t like.
But now, he knew.
His blood sang with that special little sizzle of adrenaline he always felt when he sensed everything coming seamlessly together. He’d thought he would lure her with her stupid dog ... but this, a child, was so much more certain to force her to do what he wanted, what he needed.
The thrill he felt brought his cock to attention and caused his mind to start planning how to coerce her to do his bidding.
As he sat in his office, his eyes trained on the television screen, he imagined her in front of him. On her knees. Naked. Maybe a dog collar around her neck, but that was just sexual need and insignificant.
No, rather than watch her submission, he would lay her in her bath and pour the frigid water over her, preserving her perfection while destroying her spirit.
Oh, yes ...
The door was closed, and his wife, all atwitter about next weekend’s church Christmas bazaar, was out. He was alone, thankfully, the melody of “Angels We Have Heard on High,” running through his brain. Transfixed, watching the news as he tried to put the pieces that he’d been missing together. According to the news, the person who had broken into Selena Alvarez’s home was a teenager now in custody. That boy had “personal ties to the victim,” though, of course, the newscaster didn’t state the exact nature of the connection, only that an “anonymous source” had given the reporter her information, meaning there was a leak in the sheriff’s department.
Nia Del Ray might be playing coy.
But he knew.
He’d done his research.
With a click, he opened his private files and found the one dedicated to Alvarez. He’d realized there was a hole in her upbringing, the year she’d been gone, but he hadn’t realized until this moment that the detective had borne a son who was now ... what? Fifteen, no, sixteen, still young enough to be underage to protect his identity.
Well, that had been blown. All he had to do was reach for his keyboard, and while music played softly and the television continued to run the story, search through the recent reports of crimes on the Internet, check news stories and local blogs and ... Bingo! The name Gabriel Reeve came to light. A few more searches of “protected” high school databases and unprotected social network sites, and several pictures appeared on his screen.
“How about that?” he whispered under his breath. One of the suspects who was allegedly involved in an attempted robbery at the home of Judge Victor Ramsey was Detective Alvarez’s son? How had he not known this?
He turned his attention back to the television, rewound the newscast and listened again. What had that idiot Nia said, something about “transferring the suspect.”
He listened to that airhead Nia Del Ray, who was all puffed up as if she’d personally broken the story.
He watched, transfixed, then backed up the newscast and watched it again. Then again.
Quickly, on his computer, he began searching for more stories, more information and it seemed that the reporter for KMJC in Helena had her facts straight and this kid, who’d been adopted out at birth, had come snooping around Alvarez—good old Mommie Dearest—when he landed himself in some legal hot water.
This was good news.
Very good news.
Another way to get at that bitch of a detective who thought she was better than he. The song in the speakers changed to “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town” and he grinned to himself as he thought about smart, sassy and oh-so-sexy Selena Alvarez.
“You better watch out, you’d better not cry, you’d better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why ...” he sang softly, then chuckled to himself. Oh, yes, Detective Alvarez, you surely better watch out, he thought, as the final, most important part of his plan, was coming together.
Compliments of Gabriel Reeve.
Johnna was freezing.
>
Stripped naked, locked in some kind of underground cell, she watched the sicko as he sluiced the dead woman with water, then, as the ice froze over her body, spent hours with an ice pick, brushes and chisels, even an electric saw.
It was creepy as hell and she was freaked out, but he’d given her something to calm her, so that she wouldn’t scream and curse at him as she had when he’d first brought her here.
She’d pled with him, begged for her life, promised to do anything he wanted, swore she’d never tell a soul, but it was all for naught. He’d gone about his twisted business and seemed only irritated by the dog, a puppy of some sort, locked in a cell like the one she was in, poor thing. He yapped and cried incessantly, giving Johnna a headache that the drugs slipped into her veins couldn’t quite relieve.
She had no idea of what time of day it was—morning, noon or night—nor did she know how long he’d held her captive, or how long he planned to keep her alive. She held no illusions that she would escape with her life; not after what she’d seen.
Now, she heard his footsteps on the stairs, the creak of his heavy tread, and she was wary. She’d looked for a weapon, something to use against him, and hadn’t found anything.
At first she’d argued and screamed, but now she became silent, waiting, hoping to lull him into believing that she was scared out of her mind to the point of being petrified and unable to defend herself. That part wasn’t true.
She thought about the baby growing inside her and wondered what the effects of this abject cold, the electric shock from the stun gun and the drugs he’d given her had on her unborn child.
Mentally kicking herself a dozen times over, she wondered how she could have trusted him, how she could have missed the obvious signs that he was a maniac ... no, wait a minute, make that a homicidal maniac.
Well, she wasn’t going down without one helluva fight.
But he ignored her, turning on the damned Christmas music and going to work on the horrendous ice sculpture he’d created, a clear, frozen block, chiseled and scraped to his satisfaction. Instead of doing any more sculpting, if that’s what you’d call it, he set huge tongs on one end, near the feet of the thing, and elevated it onto a dolly.