9 Kill for Me

  Charles stopped fussing with his tie selection. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, it seems the GBI Investigative Unit is a little shorthanded at this time, since so many of their agents are either dead or hospitalized.”

  “Yes, I imagine their ranks are rather depleted at the moment. So?”

  “So, they’ve asked APD to help guard those they think are still at risk from Bobby. I volunteered for duty.”

  Charles sat down, his pulse increasing. “You’re guarding Susannah?”

  “Not quite. Papadopoulos kept that job. But close. I’m guarding the venerable and brave Daniel Vartanian.”

  Charles’s smile broadened. “Excellent. Where will you be?”

  “I’m stationed outside his house while he convalesces. I’m supposed to keep the press away as well as any potential bad guys.”

  “We’ll see that he has a lot of peace and quiet,” Charles said. His smile vanished. “I assume his personal nurse will be with him, that Alex Fallon.”

  “I assume so.”

  “They killed Toby Granville.”

  “Mack O’Brien killed Granville, Charles, not Daniel Vartanian or Alex Fallon.”

  “I don’t care. The events were set in motion because of Vartanian and that nurse of his. He and Fallon killed one of mine. They’ll pay for that. I have to go now. There’s another funeral today and I have to dress.”

  “Who’s getting buried this time?”

  “Congressman Bowie’s daughter, Janet. We’re expecting the press to descend like locusts. The traffic will be unbearable. The funeral, burial, and the lunch in the church afterward will make this an all-day affair. Text me if you need me. I won’t be able to use my cell phone in the church.”

  “Will do.”

  Charles eyed the surgical kit he’d used to patch Bobby up the night before. It had been a Christmas gift from Toby Granville. Charles had gotten a lot of use from it this week already between Judge Borenson and Bobby Davis. He thought Toby would have been happy to know that. “And Paul, don’t kill Vartanian yourself. Bring him to me.”

  “Put him in the usual place?”

  “Yeah. You’ll need to dispose of Judge Borenson, though.”

  Paul grunted in disgust. “How long has he been dead, Charles?”

  “He might still be alive. I haven’t checked on him in a few days.”

  “Have you gotten everything you needed to know from him?”

  “Yes. If he’s not dead yet, do what you wish to him. And make Daniel watch.”

  “What about the sister?”

  “I’ll take care of her in my own way.”

  “Do it fast. When GBI discovers that the sketch artist is dead, they’ll just have Susannah work with another artist. She could bury me. You promised she wouldn’t.”

  “And she won’t.”

  “You should have killed her years ago, Charles.”

  “She’ll die today,” Charles snapped. “I have to go. Keep in touch.”

  Atlanta, Monday, February 5, 10:45 a.m.

  Luke and Susannah found Chase in his office with a uniformed officer, a young man with a sketch pad under one arm. “We’re back,” Luke said.

  “Come in,” Chase said, tersely. “Susannah, too.”

  Luke and Susannah shared an uneasy glance. “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “The sketch artist didn’t show up for duty this morning. Pete found traces of blood in her apartment. Ed’s there now.”

  Luke blew out a breath. “Hell.”

  Susannah pursed her lips. “Her sketches were gone?”

  Chase nodded. “From the apartment and from our server. They were wiped before the server did its nightly backup. This is Officer Greenburg. He’s one of APD’s sketch artists. Susannah, we need another description. You can use the conference room.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. She stood, straightening her shoulders. “Let’s go.”

  “Did Garth give you anything?” Chase asked when she was gone.

  Luke hesitated. “Nothing on Barbara Jean we didn’t already know except she had a swastika ring that probably branded all the girls in the morgue. Susannah’s is twice as big, though, so there’s still another branding tool out there.”

  “What else?” Chase asked shrewdly. “There’s more.”

  Luke sighed. “Garth wasn’t involved in Susannah’s assault. He said the same thing you did—that Jared O’Brien would have bragged about it. Apparently Granville had claimed . . . possession of Susannah. He said she was his and for the others to stay away.” He looked away. “Garth also said there was more between Simon and Carol Vartanian than there should have been.”

  “Oh God,” Chase said in disgust. “How’d Susannah and Daniel turn out okay?”

  “Must’ve been raised by wolves,” Luke muttered. “They’d have done a better job. But that was mostly it. Garth gave us names of people Bobby lunched with in Atlanta, but they were just her johns. So we’re nowhere closer to finding Bobby. I’m going to go over to Nate’s office to search Mansfield’s hard drives. Maybe Mansfield did get a shot of the man Monica Cassidy heard. Besides, Nate’ll need a break. He had a hard night.”

  “I heard he’d found those kids on a podcast. I’m sorry, Luke.”

  “Yeah,” Luke said bitterly. “Me, too. But one thing at a time. If you need me, use the land line in The Room. My cell phone doesn’t always pick up in there. And Chase . . .” Luke shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “Yeah, I know. I also know Talia won’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  “I know.” He closed his eyes. “I just keep seeing Susannah getting shot out of her chair yesterday. Bobby Davis is still out there.”

  Chase’s words were hard, but his voice gentle. “So go do your job and find her.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Atlanta, Monday, February 5, 11:05 a.m.

  I hate this job,” Luke muttered. He’d been staring at the door to The Room, feeling claustrophobic before he even opened the door. The door opened and he jumped back.

  A startled Nate stood in the doorway, an empty coffee carafe in one hand. “Don’t do that,” Nate said tightly. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  Luke looked at the pot. “How much coffee have you had, man?”

  “Too much and not enough. What are you doing here?”

  “Mansfield’s hard drives. The Sweetpea files. We’re hoping Mansfield got a picture of the man Monica Cassidy heard with Granville.”

  “The mysterious thích. I’ll make a fresh pot.”

  Luke hesitated, the pressure on his chest suddenly so heavy it was hard to breathe.

  “You won’t find him standing there,” Nate said quietly. “It’ll be easier to breathe once you step inside.”

  Luke looked up, met Nate’s weary eyes. “You, too?”

  “Every goddamn day.”

  And a little more of you dies each day. “Make the coffee strong,” Luke said. He stepped inside and pulled up the Sweetpea files. It was harder than the first time, knowing what he’d find. But he steeled himself against the images of brutality and looked instead for details, backgrounds, shadows, anything that might belong to the occupants of the room there at that damn bunker. Anything except the victims and their suffering.

  But he could never see one without the other. That was his problem. It was also, he knew, what made him good at this godforsaken job.

  The door opened, closed behind him, and Nate put a mug of steaming coffee on the desk. “What are you looking for, exactly?”

  “A man, probably in his sixties. Monica said Granville asked him about how the VC broke its prisoners. Monica said the man slapped Granville for asking.”

  “Emotional response. You’re thinking he was a soldier, captured maybe?”

  “Maybe. Susannah heard Granville mention him when she was a little girl, so he had to be living around Dutton then. I had stills made from the video of Sheila Cunningham’s funeral. Susannah said the whole town was there.
” He spread the pictures out.

  “Hell, half the town is over sixty, Luke.”

  “Yeah. Looks like anybody with brains got out of Dodge right after high school.”

  “Can you blame them?” Luke separated out the photos with older men and pinned them to the board above the monitor. “We could be looking for one of these men. Granville had access to this guy when he was a young teenager. This guy was a religious figure to Granville.”

  “The whole Buddhist thing.”

  “Yeah.” Luke frowned. “But there isn’t a Buddhist congregation in Dutton. I checked.”

  “He didn’t have to be a real cleric,” Nate said.

  “He just had to be able to have access to a teenager without it being obvious.”

  “Meaning he could be a teacher, a preacher, a doctor . . . All the usual suspects.”

  “All of which have lived there since Susannah was a little girl. I have a list of the town’s residents from when I was looking for men named Bobby on Saturday.” Luke looked over the list he’d studied the night before as Susannah lay sleeping and he could not. “I ran military checks on all the men over fifty.”

  Nate looked surprised. “When did you do that?”

  “Last night. It was what I was doing when you called to tell me about seeing Becky Snyder’s little sisters on the Net.”

  Nate’s eyes shadowed. “Any of those men serve in ’Nam?”

  “Not one. If I’d found one, I would have hauled my ass over here last night.” Instead, he’d taken a few hours of comfort in Susannah’s arms, in her willing body. Respite. He’d needed it more than he’d realized.

  “Well, your ass is here now, whether it wants to be or not.” Nate pulled up a chair. “Let’s get started. Four eyes are better than two.”

  Luke shot him a grateful look. “Thanks.”

  Charlotte, North Carolina, Monday, February 5, 11:45 a.m.

  Harry Grimes sat next to CSU tech Mandy Penn, staring at the grainy stills taken by the ATM across from Mel’s Diner where Genie Cassidy had been abducted.

  “What are you looking for, exactly?” Mandy asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Harry leaned forward. “That’s the kidnapper’s Volvo pulling past the camera, into the parking lot. There’s another car. It’s stopping, watching.”

  “It’s a Ford Crown Vic,” Mandy said. In the distance, two figures grappled. The smaller figure was dragged to the back of the Volvo. Through each still, the Crown Vic maintained position, and Mandy whistled softly. “You’re right, Harry. He’s watching.”

  “Can you zoom on the license plate?”

  “I can try.” Mandy zoomed, focused, then sat back, satisfied. “There you go.”

  “Excellent.” He squinted at the photo. “Is the guy in the Crown Vic talking on a cell?”

  “Looks like. Maybe calling 911?”

  “Nobody called 911 from that location. I checked. Can you run an ID on that plate?”

  Mandy did, then went still, eyes wide. “He wasn’t calling the cops. He is a cop.”

  Harry looked at her screen, stunned. “Paul Houston, Atlanta PD. He just sat there, watching while Genie was snatched.”

  “Maybe the car was stolen.”

  “I sure hope so. Thanks, Mandy.” Harry started back for his desk. “I owe you one.”

  Springdale, Monday, February 5, noon

  Talia parked in front of the house belonging to Carl Linton, Marcy Linton’s father. “You ready for this, Susannah?”

  Susannah stared at the house. “Darcy told me she’d come from Queens, that her father beat her and her mother. That she’d run away from home.”

  “The Lintons reported her missing when she was nineteen.”

  “She’d gone to New York by then. I didn’t meet her for another two years. Why did she leave her family? Why did she target me?”

  “We won’t find out sitting here,” Talia said. “Let’s go.”

  Talia’s knock was met by an older man with graying hair. “Mr. Linton?” Talia asked.

  “Yes.” He studied Susannah with a frown. “What do you want?”

  “I’m Special Agent Talia Scott of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. This is Assistant District Attorney Vartanian, from New York. We need to talk with you.”

  His frown deepened and he opened the door. “Come in.”

  A woman came from the kitchen and froze. “You’re the Vartanian woman. We saw you on the news. You shot that woman. The one who’d kidnapped all those girls.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why are you here?” Carl Linton asked, more harshly.

  Talia’s head tilted, just a hair. “We need to talk to you about your daughter, Marcy.”

  Both Lintons drew shocked breaths. “Sit down,” Carl said.

  Talia took the lead. “After you reported Marcy missing, did you hear from her again?”

  “No,” Carl said. “Why? For God’s sake tell us what this is about.”

  “Your daughter is dead, sir,” Susannah said quickly. “I’m sorry.”

  Both parents sagged. “How?” Mrs. Linton whispered.

  Talia nodded and Susannah drew a breath. “I grew up in Dutton.”

  “We know,” Carl said coldly.

  “When I was in graduate school in New York, I met a woman who said her name was Darcy Williams. She and I became friends. She told me she was from Queens, that she’d run away from an abusive family. Today I saw a photo of Marcy in her high school yearbook. She was the woman I knew as Darcy. Darcy was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Mrs. Linton had grown paler. “How? Where? When?”

  “A man beat her to death.” Susannah’s stomach turned over at the pain on the Lintons’ faces. “We’d gone to a hotel in the city. When I found her . . . it was too late. It was six years ago, January nineteenth. Her killer confessed and is serving his sentence. I’m so sorry. If I’d known about her real family I would have told you years ago.”

  Carl shook his head, denial clear in his eyes. “Why would she tell you those lies?”

  “We think she may have been hired to,” Talia said quietly. “Or perhaps forced to.”

  Mrs. Linton’s lips trembled. “Where is she now?”

  “In a cemetery about an hour north of New York City. It’s a pretty place. Peaceful.” Susannah felt the sting of tears and pushed them back. “I thought she had no family.”

  “ADA Vartanian paid for her burial,” Talia said gently.

  “We want her back,” Carl said, so hostilely that Susannah blinked.

  “Of course. I’ll arrange for it immediately.”

  Talia put her hand over Susannah’s. “Just a minute,” she said, keeping her voice mild. “ADA Vartanian was also assaulted the night of your daughter’s murder. Later, she paid to bury your daughter from her own pocket, believing she had no family.”

  Carl’s jaw went hard as stone. “We want her back,” he said, enunciating every word.

  “I sympathize with your grief, sir,” Talia said. “I need to understand your hostility.”

  Carl straightened abruptly. “Our daughter was taken from us, forced to do God knows what, then murdered, and you have the nerve to criticize me?”

  “I’m not criticizing you,” Talia said.

  “The hell you’re not.” Carl lurched to his feet, pointing a trembling finger at Susannah. “My daughter had a future, but your father took that from her. She meets you and now she’s dead. You want gratitude for a goddamn burial plot? You can go to hell.”

  Susannah sat, stunned. “What did my father have to do with your daughter?”

  Carl’s fists were on his hips and his face was florid. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Don’t pretend you cared about her. I’ve had enough from Vartanians to last me the rest of my goddamn life.” He slammed the front door so hard the whole place shook.

  Susannah stared after him, unable to think of a thing to say.

  Mrs. Linton remained, whether by choice or simply because she was trembling too h
ard to move Susannah was unsure.

  “Mrs. Linton,” Talia said smoothly. “What connects your daughter to Judge Vartanian? I checked her file. There were no arrests, no appearances in court.”

  “She was a minor,” Mrs. Linton murmured. “Her record was sealed.”

  “What was the offense?” Talia asked.

  Mrs. Linton’s eyes flashed. “Soliciting. She didn’t do it. She was an honor student. She tutored kids after school. Her teachers said she’d earn scholarships. But her life was ruined because she was arrested and we couldn’t afford to keep her out of jail.”

  Talia frowned. “Soliciting. You mean prostitution?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Linton said bitterly. “That’s exactly what I mean. She served six months in a juvenile facility. We couldn’t afford any less.”

  A chill ran down Susannah’s spine. “You couldn’t afford less? Less what?”

  “Less time,” Mrs. Linton spat. “Your father sentenced her to two years. She was only sixteen. Your father wanted money to keep her out of jail. We mortgaged our house, but he said it wasn’t enough. He said she’d still serve a whole year.”

  Susannah looked at Talia, stricken. She’d known it was true, known it was happening, but she’d been too young to act. Now she was seeing the effects of her father’s handiwork. No, I’ve been seeing the effects for the last six years. Every time I close my eyes and see Darcy, dead in a pool of her own blood.

  Talia patted her hand, turning all her attention to Marcy’s mother. “Mrs. Linton, this is important. You said she’d been sentenced to two years, but you paid the judge enough to get it down to a year. But Marcy served six months. What happened?”

  Mrs. Linton was studying Susannah uncertainly. “Someone in the juvenile system helped her. She got a new trial, a different judge. He let her go, time served.”

  “Who was the judge, Mrs. Linton?” Susannah asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Judge Borenson. He’s retired now.”