The Killing Hour

“Completed it yesterday. Kimberly, he didn’t have a tumor.”

  She halted, blinked her eyes a few times, then had to run a hand through her hair. “Well, that figures, doesn’t it,” she murmured. “Guy’s such a fuck-up, he’s gotta blame his actions on everything but himself. His mother, his brother, and a medical condition he doesn’t even have. Doesn’t that take the cake?”

  “For the record, he did have a tumor once,” Mac said. “Doctors confirmed his operation two years ago to remove the mass. According to them, a tumor could affect someone’s propensity for violence. I understand there was even a mass murderer in Texas who claimed his actions were caused by a tumor.”

  “Charles Whitman,” Kimberly murmured. “Stabbed his mother to death, then murdered his wife, then climbed a clock tower at the University of Texas and opened fire on the population below. In the end, he killed eighteen people and wounded thirty others before being shot and killed himself. He left a note, didn’t he? Said he wanted an autopsy performed because he was sure there was something physically wrong with him.”

  “Exactly. The autopsy revealed a small tumor in his hypothalamus, which some experts say could have contributed to his rampage, while others claim it could not. Who knows? Maybe Ennunzio liked that story. Maybe it made an impression upon him, especially when he found out he had a tumor himself. But there was no tumor this time, so once again, he was just giving himself an excuse.”

  “You had him nailed in the beginning,” Kimberly said. “Why does the Eco-Killer target and murder young women? Because he wants to. Sometimes, it really is as simple as that.”

  “The guy did feel some level of guilt,” Mac said with a shrug. “Hence leaving us clues to find the second girl. Hence contacting the police as an anonymous tipster and getting us all into the game. Hence his personal involvement as an FBI agent, keeping us on track. When he analyzed the letters, he described the author as someone who felt compelled to kill, but who also wanted to be stopped. Maybe that was his way of trying to explain himself to us.”

  Kimberly, however, vehemently shook her head. “Did he really want to help, Mac, or did he just want more people to hurt? This is the guy who started out hating his father, but actually killed his mother and brother. He targeted young women, but also set up hazardous conditions for the search-and-rescue volunteers. I don’t think he placed those anonymous phone calls because he wanted you to catch him. He was seeking to involve more people in his game. He obviously didn’t mind collateral damage. And if he could have, he would’ve killed us in the swamp that day.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “Honey, I’m not so sad about it myself.”

  “Any sign of the girls’ cars?” she asked.

  “Funny you should mention it; we think we’ve found one.”

  “Where at?”

  “In the Tallulah Gorge, camouflaged with netting, green paint, and a whole lotta leaves. We’re revisiting the other sites now, to see if we’ll find the victims’ vehicles nearby. We also discovered Ennunzio’s home base—he has a cabin in the woods not far from here. Very rustic, like an old hunting shack. In it, we found a cot, gallons of water, boxes of crackers, a tranquilizer gun, and tons of drugs. He really could’ve kept doing this for a very long time.”

  “Then I’m doubly glad he’s dead. And Tina?”

  “At home in Minnesota with her mom,” Mac reported immediately. “I understand from Nora Ray that Tina had just discovered she was pregnant before the kidnapping. Unfortunately, she lost the baby and is taking it rather hard. But I hear her mother’s been a pillar of strength and Tina’s gonna spend the rest of the summer recuperating at home, then see what she wants to do. She lost her three best friends; I’m not sure exactly how you recover from something like that. She and Nora Ray seem to have grown close, however. Maybe they can help each other out. Nora Ray’s talking of visiting her in a few weeks. Minnesota has cooler summers. Nora Ray likes that. Okay, your turn. How’re your father and Rainie?”

  “They’re in Oregon. They’re planning on doing absolutely nothing but stroll on beaches and play a little golf until my graduation in five weeks. I give my father two days, and he’ll be working the first local homicide case he can find. The Oregon cops will never know what hit them.”

  “Have dead body, will travel?” Mac teased her.

  “Something like that.”

  “And you?” His finger traced a slow, gentle line down her cheek. Then both his hands settled on her waist. “What are you going to do in five weeks?”

  “I’m a new agent,” Kimberly said quietly. Her hands had come up, resting on the hard curve of his arms. “We don’t have much say in things. You get assigned where you get assigned.”

  “Can you list preferences?”

  “We can. I said Atlanta might be nice. No reason, of course.”

  “No reason?” Mac’s hands stroked up her sides, his thumbs feathering across her breasts.

  “Okay, I have a little bit of a reason.”

  “When will you know?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “You mean . . .”

  She smiled, feeling a little bit ridiculous now, and ducked her head. “Yeah, I got lucky. Atlanta’s a big field office and they needed a fair amount of agents. I guess I’m going to have to learn to talk with a drawl, and drink a lot of Coke.”

  “I want you to meet my family,” Mac said immediately. He was holding her tighter now. She hadn’t been 100 percent sure of what he would think. They had both been so busy lately, and you never knew . . .

  But he was grinning. His blue eyes danced. He bobbed his head and nailed her with a second kiss. “Oh, this will be fun!”

  “I’m bringing my knife,” she warned weakly.

  “My sister will be thrilled.”

  “I’m not trying to rush you. I know we’ll both be very busy.”

  “Shut up and kiss me again.”

  “Mac . . .”

  “You’re beautiful, Kimberly, and I love you.”

  She barely knew what to say anymore. She took his hand. She whispered the words. She pressed her lips against his.

  Then they walked together through the woods, with the wind sighing in the trees and the sun shining softly overhead.

  Read on for a preview from Lisa Gardner’s upcoming novel

  LOVE YOU MORE

  Available March 2011

  PROLOGUE

  Who do you love?

  It’s a question anyone should be able to answer. A question that defines a life, creates a future, guides most minutes of one’s days. Simple, elegant, encompassing.

  Who do you love?

  He asked the question, and I felt the answer in the weight of my duty belt, the constrictive confines of my armored vest, the tight brim of my trooper’s hat, pulled low over my brow. I reached down slowly, my fingers just brushing the top of my Sig Sauer, holstered at my hip.

  “Who do you love?” he cried again, louder now, more insistent.

  My fingers bypassed my state-issued weapon, finding the black leather keeper that held my duty belt to my waist. The Velcro rasped loudly as I unfastened the first band, then the second, third, fourth. I worked the metal buckle, then my twenty pound duty belt, complete with my sidearm, Taser, and collapsible steel baton released from my waist and dangled in the space between us.

  “Don’t do this,” I whispered, one last shot at reason.

  He merely smiled. “Too little, too late.”

  “Where’s Sophie? What did you do?”

  “Belt. On the table. Now.”

  “No.”

  “GUN. On the table. NOW!”

  In response, I widened my stance, squaring off in the middle of the kitchen, duty belt still suspended from my left hand. Four years of my life, patrolling the highways of Massachusetts, swearing to defend and protect. I had training and experience on my side.

  I could go for my gun. Commit to the act, grab the Sig Sauer, and start s
hooting.

  Sig Sauer was holstered at an awkward angle that would cost me precious seconds. He was watching, waiting for any sudden movement. Failure would be firmly and terribly punished.

  Who do you love?

  He was right. That’s what it came down to in the end. Who did you love and how much would you risk for them?

  “GUN!” he boomed. “Now, dammit!”

  I thought of my six-year-old daughter, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skinny arms wrapped tight around my neck, the sound of her voice as I tucked her in bed each night. “Love you, Mommy,” she always whispered.

  Love you, more, baby. Love you, more.

  His arm moved, first tentative stretch for the suspended duty belt, my holstered weapon.

  One last chance …

  I looked my husband in the eye. A single heartbeat of time.

  Who do you love?

  I made my decision. I set down my trooper’s belt on the kitchen table.

  And he grabbed my Sig Sauer and opened fire.

  1

  Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren prided herself on her excellent investigative skills. Having served over a dozen years with the Boston PD, she believed working a homicide scene wasn’t simply a matter of walking the walk or talking the talk, but rather of total sensory immersion. She felt the smooth hole bored into Sheetrock by a hot spiraling twenty-two. She listened for the sound of neighbors gossiping on the other side of thin walls because if she could hear them, then they’d definitely heard the big bad that had just happened here. D.D. always noted how a body had fallen, whether it was forward or backward or slightly to one side. She tasted the air for the acrid flavor of gunpowder, which could linger for a good twenty to thirty minutes after the final shot. And, on more than one occasion, she had estimated time of death based on the scent of blood—which, like fresh meat, started out relatively mild but took on heavier, earthier tones with each passing hour.

  Today, however, she wasn’t going to do any of those things. Today, she was spending a lazy Sunday morning dressed in gray sweats and Alex’s oversized red flannel shirt. She was camped at his kitchen table, clutching a thick clay coffee mug while counting slowly to twenty.

  She’d hit thirteen. Alex had finally made it to the front door. Now he paused to wind a deep blue scarf around his neck.

  She counted to fifteen.

  He finished with the scarf. Moved on to a black wool hat and lined leather gloves. The temperature outside had just crept above twenty. Eight inches of snow on the ground and six more forecasted to arrive by end of week. March didn’t mean spring in New England.

  Alex taught crime-scene analysis, among other things, at the Police Academy. Today was a full slate of classes. Tomorrow, they both had the day off, which didn’t happen much and warranted some kind of fun activity yet to be determined. Maybe ice skating in the Boston Commons. Or a trip to the Isabelle Stewart Gardner Museum. Or a lazy day where they snuggled on the sofa and watched old movies with a big bowl of buttered popcorn.

  D.D.’s hands spasmed on the coffee mug. Okay, no popcorn.

  D.D. counted to eighteen, nineteen, twent—

  Alex finished with his gloves, picked up his battered black leather tote, and crossed to her.

  “Don’t miss me too much,” he said.

  He kissed her on the forehead. D.D. closed her eyes, mentally recited the number twenty, then started counting back down to zero.

  “I’ll write you love letters all day, with little hearts over the ‘i’s,” she said.

  “In your high school binder?”

  “Something like that.”

  Alex stepped back. D.D. hit fourteen. Her mug trembled, but Alex didn’t seem to notice. She took a deep breath and soldiered on. Thirteen, twelve, eleven …

  She and Alex had been dating a little over six months. At that point where she had a whole drawer to call her own in his tiny ranch, and he had a sliver of closet space in her North End condo. When he was teaching, it was easier for them to be here. When she was working, it was easier to be in Boston. They didn’t have a set schedule. That would imply planning and further solidify a relationship they were both careful to not overly define.

  They enjoyed each other’s company. Alex respected her crazy schedule as a homicide detective. She respected his culinary skills as a third-generation Italian. From what she could tell, they looked forward to the nights when they could get together, but survived the nights when they didn’t. They were two independent-minded adults. She’d just hit forty, Alex had crossed that line a few years back. Hardly blushing teens whose every waking moment was consumed with thoughts of each other. Alex had been married before. D.D. simply knew better.

  She lived to work, which other people found unhealthy, but what the hell. It had gotten her this far.

  Nine, eight, seven …

  Alex opened the front door, squaring his shoulders against the bitter morning. A blast of chilled air shot across the small foyer, hitting D.D.’s cheeks. She shivered, clutched the mug more tightly.

  “Love you,” Alex said, stepping across the threshold.

  “Love you, too.”

  Alex closed the door. D.D. made it down the hall just in time to vomit.

  Ten minutes later, she remained sprawled on the bathroom floor. The decorative tiles were from the seventies, dozens and dozens of tiny beige, brown, and harvest gold squares. Looking at them made her want to puke all over again. Counting them, however, was a pretty decent meditative exercise. She inventoried tiles while she waited for her flushed cheeks to cool and her cramped stomach to untangle.

  Her cellphone rang. She eyed it on the floor, not terribly interested, given the circumstances. But then she noted the caller and decided to take pity on him.

  “What?” she demanded, her usual greeting for former lover and currently married Massachusetts State Police Detective Bobby Dodge.

  “I don’t have much time. Listen sharp.”

  “I’m not on deck,” she said automatically. “New cases go to Jim Dunwell. Pester him.” Then she frowned. Bobby couldn’t be calling her about a case. As a city cop, she took her orders from the Boston turret, not state police detectives.

  Bobby continued as if she’d never spoken: “It’s a fuckup, but I’m pretty sure it’s our fuckup, so I need you to listen. Stars and stripes are next door, media across the street. Come in from the back street. Take your time, notice everything. I’ve already lost vantage point, and trust me, D.D., on this one, you and I can’t afford to miss a thing.”

  D.D.’s frown deepened. “What the hell, Bobby? I have no idea what you’re talking about, not to mention it’s my day off.”

  “Not anymore. BPD is gonna want a woman to front this one, while the state is gonna demand their own skin in the game, preferably a former trooper. The brass’s call, our heads on the block.”

  She heard a fresh noise now, from the bedroom. Her pager, chiming away. Crap. She was being called in, meaning whatever Bobby was babbling about had merit. She pulled herself to standing, though her legs trembled and she thought she might puke again. She took the first step through sheer force of will and the rest was easier after that. She headed for the bedroom, a detective who’d lost days off before and would again.

  “What do I need to know?” she asked, voice crisper now, phone tucked against her shoulder.

  “Snow,” Bobby muttered. “On the ground, trees, windows … hell. We got cops tramping everywhere—”

  “Get ’em out! If it’s my fucking scene, get ’em all away.”

  She found her pager on the bedside table—yep, call out from Boston operations—and began shucking her gray sweatpants.

  “They’re out of the house. Trust me, even the bosses know better than to contaminate a homicide scene. But we didn’t know the girl was missing. The uniforms sealed off the house, but left the yard fair play. And now the grounds are trampled, and I can’t get vantage point. We need vantage point.”

  D.D. had sweats off, and was working
to shed Alex’s flannel shirt.

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Forty-two-year-old white male.”

  “Who’s missing?”

  “Six-year-old white female.”

  “Got a suspect?”

  Long, long pause now.

  “Get here,” Bobby said curtly. “You and me, D.D. Our case. Our headache. We gotta work this one quick.”

  He clicked off. D.D. scowled at the phone, then tossed it on the bed to finish pulling on her white dress shirt.

  Okay. Homicide with a missing child. State police already on-site, but Boston jurisdiction. Why the hell would the state police—

  Then, fine detective that she was, D.D. finally connected the dots.

  “Ah shit!”

  D.D. wasn’t nauseous anymore. She was pissed off.

  She grabbed her pager, her creds, and her winter jacket. Then, Bobby’s instructions ringing in her head, she prepared to ambush her own crime scene.

  2

  Who do you love?

  I met Brian at a Fourth of the July cookout. Shane’s house. The kind of social invite I generally refused, but lately had started to realize I needed to reconsider. If not for my own sake, then for Sophie’s.

  The party wasn’t that large. Maybe thirty people or so, other state troopers and families from Shane’s neighborhood. The lieutenant colonel had made an appearance, a small coup for Shane. Mostly, however, the cookout attracted other uniformed officers. I saw four guys from the barracks standing by the grill, nursing beers and harassing Shane as he fussed over the latest batch of brats. In front of them were two picnic tables, already dominated by laughing wives who were mixing up batches of margaritas in between tending various children.

  Other people lingered in the house, prepping pasta salads, catching the last few minutes of the game. Chitchatting away as they took a bite of this, a drink of that. People, doing what people do on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

  I stood beneath the shade of an old oak tree. At Sophie’s request, I was wearing an orange-flowered sundress and my single dressy pair of gold sparkling flip-flips. I still stood with my feet slightly apart, elbows tight to my unarmed sides, back to the tree. You can take the girl out of the job, but not the job out of the girl.