All Fall Down (17 page)

T
he McDonald's at the corner of First Street and Lake Drive in Whistlestop boasted a deluxe Playland, complete with a slide, tower and ball pit. It also happened to be the only McDonald's in town, which made it a very popular place at mealtimes. Especially for families with young children.

Connor took the last available parking spot in the lot, earning a frustrated honk from the Ford Taurus behind him. He sent the frazzled-looking driver a sympathetic glance in his rearview mirror, cut his engine and climbed out.

He crossed to the restaurant and stepped inside. There, organized pandemonium reigned. It looked to Connor as if every working parent in the tiny community had decided on McDonald's for supper that night. He could understand the logic—feed the kids and tire them out all at the same time. Neat trick. And relatively easy on the wallet—if not the nerves.

Even though every register was open, the line at the counter stretched back to the Playland doors. Connor took his place in one of the lines, using the time to scan the restaurant's patrons, looking for Melanie May.

He didn't find her and frowned. Taggerty had as
sured him she would be here. So, where was she? He wanted to talk to her. Now. Tonight. Never mind that he had let the information she'd left him languish on his kitchen counter for two and a half days; he was not a patient man. He did not believe in sitting still. When he made a decision, he took action. Simple as that.

And he had decided to speak to Melanie tonight.

Connor reached the front of the line and ordered a cup of coffee. He glanced over his shoulder at the Playland doors. He would bet she was there, watching her son play while the boy's meal grew cold on the table in front of her.

“Your coffee, sir.”

He turned back to the girl behind the counter, smiling automatically. “Thanks.”

Cup in hand, Connor crossed to the play area. The excited-sounding squeals of children greeted him as he opened the door. He stopped, memories of Jamey swamping him, bittersweet and still raw after all the time that had passed.

He heard Melanie before he spotted her, calling out to her child, cheering at something he had done. Connor turned in the direction of her voice. She was sitting at one of the tables surrounding the play gym, the remnants of a kids' meal spread out before her. While he watched, she snitched a fry.

Smiling to himself, he picked his way across to her, sidestepping discarded shoes and dodging a couple of wayward toddlers.

“May,” he said when he reached her table.

She looked up. Her immediate surprise, he saw, was quickly replaced by an expression of satisfaction.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“Taggerty.”

She nodded, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “I told him to tell you how to find me, if you came around.”

“I almost didn't.”

“Almost doesn't matter except in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

“Clever.” He sat on one of the brightly colored stools, feeling a bit like a mountain balancing on a molehill. He looked toward the gym structure. “Which one's yours?”

She turned, her gaze seeming to go directly to her child. “That one.” She pointed. “The blond mop top in the bright blue T-shirt. Casey.”

“Cute kid.”

“The cutest. Smartest. Most lovable.” She smiled self-consciously. “I'm not too biased, am I?”

“It would be pretty sad if you weren't.”

She brought her drink to her lips and sipped. “You have kids?”

He hesitated. “No.”

She arched an eyebrow and he silently swore. Although his hesitation had been no more than a split second, she had picked up on it. Melanie May didn't miss much.

“My ex-wife had a son. He was about Casey's age when we married.”

“I see,” she murmured, and he sensed that she did. That she saw right through him.

He cleared his throat. “I read your report.”

She leaned forward, openly eager. Hopeful. He remembered a time when he'd been so open and eager. It seemed long ago. “And?”

“And I think you're dead on. I believe we're dealing with a serial here.”

The breath rushed audibly past her lips. She brought a hand to her chest. “I can't… Hot damn, I was right.”

“In my opinion. I've worked up a preliminary profile on our killer. You want to hear it?”

“Of course I want to hear it. Just give me a moment to get my bearings, I'm still back at the ‘dead on' part.”

“Mommy! Look!”

They both swung in the direction of the call. Casey stood at the side of the ball pit, poised to jump in. She gave him a thumbs-up and he launched himself into the sea of balls. A moment later he popped up, eager to see his mother's reaction.

Of course, she responded enthusiastically and with much fanfare. And, of course, once was not enough. After repeating his Olympic jump three times, he became distracted by the antics of a couple of other little boys and joined their play, mother's attention momentarily forgotten.

Melanie turned back to Connor, her expression apologetic. “Sorry about that.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, his tone more brusque than he had intended. “This is your time with your son. I intruded on it, so I should be the one apologizing. If you're ready?” She nodded and
he began. “First off, we're dealing with a woman here.”

“A woman?” Melanie repeated. She drew her eyebrows together. “It makes sense, but serial killers are rarely women.”

“True. But rarely doesn't mean never. And when women kill, they typically choose a clean means. Like poison. Or suffocation. They
are
the gentler sex, after all.”

She grimaced at his twisted attempt at humor, and he continued, “I place this UNSUB at thirty-two to forty-five years old. She's white, educated and financially comfortable. She's highly organized and extremely intelligent, she plans her crimes carefully down to the last detail.”

“One of the reasons she has gone undetected until now.”

“Until you,” he corrected. “She knows her victims. That's obvious from her personalized killing methods. She is almost certainly a victim of domestic abuse herself. She is punishing each victim in lieu of punishing her father or brother or whoever abused her. These are not her first murders.”

Melanie shook her head, obviously unconvinced. “Why couldn't this killer be a man? A man who watched his mother be battered? Or his sister? Over the years his feelings of helplessness became ones of rage, the rage built until it demanded an outlet. That outlet was murder.”

Connor narrowed his eyes, his respect for Melanie May growing. She had done her research, thought it through. He admired that.

But he wasn't wrong about this; maybe some other aspect he had attributed to the killer's character, but not her sex.

He told her so.

At her frustrated expression, he leaned forward. “Look, if these killings were the actions of a man, he would take his rage out in more aggressive ways, shooting, stabbing, dismembering. He would overkill his victims. We're not seeing that. We're seeing deaths so quiet they go unnoticed. We see a killer using a man's own weaknesses against him.” He met her gaze. “Are you with me, Melanie?”

“I'm with you.”

“Good. In her day-to-day life, our UNSUB's the picture of confidence and normalcy, though the strain may be beginning to tell on her, and her mask is beginning to crack.

“She knows something about the law, is a police buff or is personally connected to the police. She stays in touch with her victims, either by visiting their graves or their surviving kin. I also believe she follows the newspaper and other media carefully for any mention of her victims. She is delighted in the amount of press Jim McMillian's death garnered. I believe that on a certain level she'll be pleased when this story breaks. She's been waiting for it to happen. After all, what fun is it playing God if nobody notices?”

Silence fell between them, broken after several moments by Casey's shout for his mom to “Look!” Melanie did, then as if suddenly realizing how late it had become, glanced at her watch. Most of the other parents were collecting their children and making an ex
odus from the play area, though not without the requisite begging, pleading and occasional tantrum from their charges. “One more time down the slide, Casey,” she called. “It's time to go home.”

She turned back to Connor, her expression sheepish. “I hate to have to cut this short, but it's a school night.”

“Actually, we're done here.” He stood and she followed him to his feet. “I've made a 10:00 a.m. appointment for you and me to meet with Steve Rice, the Special Agent in Charge of the Charlotte field office. Clear it with your superior.”

She agreed, then went about collecting her son. Connor had no good reason not to leave then, but he stayed anyway, even as he told himself to say goodnight and walk away.

“Casey,” she said, “this is Mr. Parks. He and I are working together.”

The child looked up at him assessingly. Like his mother, Connor suspected the kid missed little. “Catching bad guys?” he asked.

Connor smiled. “You bet. The baddest.”

The boy seemed to like that answer, because he grinned and plopped onto the ground to tug on his sneakers. Connor watched as Melanie squatted down and tied the laces for him without being asked.

Routine, he thought. Nice. Comfortable. He missed that.

Actually, he acknowledged as they made their way out of the play area and through the restaurant, he missed a lot about being a parent. The fun and spontaneous play, the warmth and the way life could go
from total bedlam to quiet perfection—and back—in the blink of an eye.

Jamey had taken him outside of himself, Connor acknowledged. He had made him forget—Suzi, the grim realities of the job. All kids did that, he supposed, glancing at Melanie and Casey from the corners of his eyes. And that could be a very good thing.

They reached her Jeep. Melanie got Casey buckled into his seat, then turned to Connor. “I need to ask you a question. You were going to blow me off. Why didn't you?”

“Couple of reasons. First, you promised you were going to get someone to believe you, I supposed it might as well be me. I had nothing to lose by being associated with a crackpot. Besides, I figured this thing would turn out one of two ways—either you'd prove to be smarter than everybody else or just delusional. Either way, it'd be a good time.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He inclined his head, lips tilting up. “You're welcome.”

“And the other reason?”

His smile died. “What you said, about this killer believing she was doing God's work. I've seen that before. And I know it won't end until someone stops her.”

A
t nine-fifty the next morning Melanie and Connor simultaneously arrived at the Wachovia Bank building's parking garage; they followed each other up the ramp, choosing side-by-side parking spots. A thirty-story high-rise located in uptown Charlotte, the FBI occupied the eight, ninth and tenth floors.

Connor alighted his vehicle first and crossed to hers, holding the Jeep's door open as she climbed out.

He smiled. “Ready?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Let's go then.”

They fell into step together. Though not even ten o'clock yet, Melanie found it uncomfortably warm inside the garage, the exhaust-scented air heavy.

“I take it you brought your chief up to speed?” Connor said.

“Oh, yeah, and lived to tell the tale, too. He was so pissed, I thought he was going to pop. Told me if I
ever
compromised the department by launching my own private investigation again, he'd yank my shield so fast my head would spin.”

They reached the elevators, stepped on and pressed the button for the ground floor. As the car began its descent, she looked up at Connor, a smile tugging at
the corners of her mouth. “But the whole time he was chewing me out, he had this twinkle in his eyes. Like he was secretly tickled pink that it had been one of his officers who had uncovered this thing. He was all but gloating.”

Connor chuckled, but didn't comment. They reached the first level, left that car only to make their way to one inside the building. They didn't speak again until they had reached the ninth floor.

The doors slid open, they stepped off and crossed to the double glass doors, printed with the FBI's blue and white seal.

“Nervous?” Connor asked.

“Excited.” She sucked in a deep breath. “He doesn't bite, does he?”

“Only when provoked.” Connor opened the door, allowing her to enter first. The reception area was smallish, with video cameras mounted discreetly in corners and a walk-through metal detector to screen visitors for hidden weapons. They crossed to the receptionist, seated behind Plexiglass. She greeted Connor and told them to go on back.

Steve Rice was waiting. Connor made the introductions; Melanie and the other man shook hands, acknowledging that they had met before, then they all took their seats.

“So, what've you got?” Rice asked, getting right down to business.

Connor looked at Melanie. “Why don't you fill Steve in on what led you to suspect the deaths in question were the work of a serial killer, then fill him in on the research you've done so far.”

Melanie began, outlining her journey, step by step. She handed the man a file folder containing the information she had amassed so far. Without comment, he began leafing through the material, in no apparent rush. Obviously, he was unaware that she was about to die of anticipation. Her heart was pounding so hard and fast she was surprised the agents couldn't see its beat.

She plowed on. “In terms of unearthing probable victims, the territory I was able to cover on my own was minimal. My goal was to find one more, to add weight to my theory. I stopped searching as soon as I did that, but who knows how many more there might be? As it is, we have four in less than twelve months, a rather alarming number.”

Connor stepped in. “That's when I came on board. Officer May approached me with her theory. I was skeptical at first, but after I'd studied her documentation, I saw the pattern. This one's damn clever, Steve. I worked up a profile.”

He handed a file to the other man, who began to read it. After a moment, he looked up. “You think this UNSUB's a woman? The true female serial is rare.”

“But not nonexistent. This one's the exception to the rule.”

The SAC drew his eyebrows together, his expression thoughtful. He obviously placed great trust in Connor, but also in statistics. “Could she be working with a male partner? A lover? Or brother?”

Connor shook his head. “These aren't simple killings. Our UNSUB's taken great pains to plan every
step, to make the murders look like simple accidents. In the process, she's left a distinctive signature. Those clues point to a white female, working alone.”

Connor's superior leveled him with a measured stare. “We have no room for error here. You're one hundred percent certain this killer's a woman? You're absolutely certain the boys in BSU will agree?”

Connor didn't waver. He knew the guys in the Behavioral Science Unit; he had been one of them. “To both questions, yes.”

The man shifted his gaze to Melanie's. “Are you as certain? After all, you've done all the legwork, this is your baby.”

Her baby. Her case.
A feeling akin to wonder bloomed inside her. “I'm with Parks on this. One hundred percent.”

“All right, then.” Rice closed the folder and dropped it on the desk in front of him. He looked at her. “What do you want from the FBI?”

His question surprised her. “I don't follow.”

“As a representative of the WPD, are you soliciting the Bureau's involvement?”

She could hardly breathe, let alone speak. A part of her couldn't believe this was happening. “Yes,” she managed to say.

“I need your superior officer's confirmation of these facts. I'll expect to hear from your chief within the hour.”

When she nodded he turned back to Connor. “What about you, Agent Parks? You on or off this case?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, there's the matter of your suspension. On or off, Agent Parks?”

The two men locked gazes; after a moment, Connor muttered an oath. “On. I'm where you want me to be, okay? Or as close as I'm going to get in this lifetime. And if that's not good enough, you can kiss my ass.”

As if satisfied, the SAC nodded. “Good. You'll need to contact your old buddies at Quantico. Send them what you have so far, get their opinion.”

“In the works already.”

Rice inclined his head. “The next call's yours. What's it going to be?”

Connor looked at her; she indicated he should take the ball. “The way I see it, our next move's twofold. We search for possible victims while simultaneously hunting for the link between the men. That's the key to finding her. She doesn't grab these guys out of thin air. Something brings her to them.”

Melanie agreed. “Because I became aware of the first three victims through official channels, I thought the link might be a police record or some sort of documented history of violence.”

“And?”

“It didn't pan out. Joshua Reynolds was clean. Not so much as a complaint registered.”

“Have you tried the simplest link?” Rice asked, glancing up from the folder. “Geographical proximity?”

Connor took that one. “I didn't see a pattern. Each victim lived and worked in a different area of Charlotte, no crossovers. But that doesn't mean one won't appear as we uncover more victims.”

“We should check the neighborhoods they grew up in,” Melanie said. “The high schools and colleges they graduated from.”

“Men's organizations,” Steve offered. “Gyms, athletic organizations.”

“But that doesn't work because she's a woman. We need a place where a woman can meet a—” Connor straightened. He swung to face Melanie. “Maybe she dates these guys?”

A tingle raced up Melanie's spine. “It could be,” she murmured. “She gets close, learns their secrets, their weaknesses, then she nails them. She could even be dating several simultaneously. That could explain the frequency of the murders.”

Connor nodded, expression thoughtful. “But it still doesn't answer the question of where she finds them.”

“True.” Melanie glanced at Rice, then back at Connor. “But it offers more possibilities to cross-reference. Bars. Clubs. Places men and women meet.”

“Sounds like you two are off to a good start. Contact the Charlotte/Mecklenburg force, ASAP. Also the other local PDs and the State Bureau of Investigation. You'll need their cooperation.”

The SAC stood; Melanie and Connor followed him to his feet. He met Melanie's eyes. “Fine work, Officer May. Damn fine work.”

Melanie knew she was beaming, but couldn't help herself. “Thank you, Agent Rice.”

They started for the door. There, Steve stopped. “Keep me abreast of progress.”

“I will.”

“And, Con?” Connor met the SAC's gaze. “You got a name for this one?”

“Yeah.” Connor looked at Melanie. “I thought we'd call her the Dark Angel.”