All the Beautiful Brides (11 page)

Cal braced himself for Mrs. Toyton’s wrath as she approached him outside her daughter’s apartment. She had a right to be angry.

“That reporter left, but she’s called me twice since,” she said. “She knew about the dress. Please tell me you didn’t mention that that maniac cut Gwyneth’s hair.”

“I’m sorry, the information about the wedding gown wasn’t supposed to be leaked. But no, she doesn’t know about the hair.” He gestured for her to lead the way into her daughter’s apartment. “And I promise you whatever you tell me will remain confidential.”

She opened the door, her face paling as she glanced around the interior. A picture of Gwyneth and her mother hung on the wall in the foyer, and the woman broke down.

Cal patted her back. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I really am.”

She swiped angrily at her tears and straightened her spine. “Just find out who hurt my little girl.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will.” Cal stepped into the entryway. “I need you to see if anything of your daughter’s is missing.”

“Like what?” Mrs. Toyton asked. “You think her death was about a robbery?”

No, he didn’t think that at all. But he didn’t want to share his theory yet.

Or that this unsub might kill again.

“It’s just routine. Was she wearing something personal like a favorite scarf or a piece of jewelry?”

Mrs. Toyton’s eyes widened as if she’d just thought of something, then she hurried to her daughter’s bedroom. Cal watched as she rummaged through Gwyneth’s jewelry box. She looked frantic for a minute, then searched the top dresser drawer.

“She had this charm bracelet she always wore.” Anguish darkened her eyes. “Was it with her when you found her?”

Cal mentally ticked through the personal items recovered with the body—nothing but the bridal dress. She hadn’t been wearing any jewelry.

“No,” he said. “I’m afraid not.”

Mrs. Toyton dropped onto the bed, her chin quivering. “Her father gave her the bracelet on her birthday right before he died. She never took it off.”

“Was it valuable?”

“No.” Her voice cracked. “The charms were inexpensive, but it was special to her.”

Cal gritted his teeth.

Serial killers took souvenirs . . .

So it obviously meant something to the killer.

Cal drove straight to the state prison. It was time to talk to Johnny Pike.

He met with Warden Brisbin as soon as he cleared security, and explained the circumstances. “I want you to analyze his mail one letter at a time. See if anyone is enamored with him and his MO, if someone wants to emulate or impress him, if he’s been in contact with someone and mentored them.”

“We’re behind on the mail, but I’ll personally see that his is pulled going back the last year.”

“Send anything suspicious to my lab.” He handed the warden his card. The warden escorted him to an interrogation room, where a guard had already brought Pike.

Pike had been eighteen when he’d been locked up. The years incarcerated had hardened him from a young boy to a tough, angry man who bore the scars of prison life.

Cal crossed his arms. “My name is Agent Cal Coulter. I’m here because of the recent murder in Graveyard Falls.”

Pike muttered something beneath his breath.

“What was that?” Cal asked, his voice hard.

“I said I knew you’d show up here.”

Cal raised a brow. “Because you knew the murder was going to happen.”

“No,” Pike said, his tone controlled but lethal. “Because I was railroaded by that sheriff once. It stands to figure with my parole coming up that he’d do anything he could to keep me locked up, even point fingers at me for some random crime.”

“It’s not a random crime.” Cal dropped the folder of pictures on the table, opened it, and spread them in a row.

Crime photos of Gwyneth lying in the snow in the wedding dress, the rose stem jammed down her throat, blood dotting her mouth and tongue, her hair hacked off.

“Good God,” Pike whispered.

His shocked expression appeared to be genuine. But Sheriff Buckley had painted him as a psychopath.

“Have you had contact with anyone from that area?”

Pike shook his head, but his eyes were glued to the picture.

“How about a visitor? Someone who wanted to pick your brain about the Thorn Ripper case?”

“The only people who contacted the warden to see me are the reporters, and I refused to talk to them.”

“If you tell me what you know, it might work in your favor when the parole hearing comes up.”

“Right. If Sheriff Buckley has anything to do with it, that will never happen.”

Cal cleared his throat. “Then do it to prevent another girl from suffering. Because if this guy is copying you, he’s going to kill again.”

Pike clenched his jaw. “I can’t help you because I don’t know anything,” he said in a low voice. “Now this interview is over.”

He looked to the guard. “Take me back to my cell.”

Cal watched him disappear out the door, the man’s anger lingering like a dark force.

Hopefully Pike’s mail would offer them a lead. And if he learned the man was hiding something, he’d make sure parole never happened.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mona tried to shake off the disturbing idea of a serial killer in town as she met with her clients.

Her first patient of the morning was a repeat. A woman named Leslie Combs, whose husband had been abusing her. The fresh bruises on the woman’s face triggered Mona’s protective instincts. This time Leslie had called the deputy, who’d arrested Whit Combs.

But this was a cycle, and when he was released, which he probably would be, he would come back after her.

Mona gave Leslie the name of a friend who would help her take refuge in a women’s shelter until she could relocate.

A knock sounded, and her assistant, Aimee, cracked the door. “You have a new patient. She just called this morning, and I told her we’d fit her in.”

“Background?”

“Her name is Sylvia Wales. She needs grief counseling.”

Mona’s heart clenched with sympathy. “Send her in.” She walked around her desk to greet the woman, and was surprised to recognize her.

It was the same woman with the baby she’d seen at the housing development where Kay Marlin lived.

Sylvia was about her age, late twenties, with dark-blonde hair and expressive green eyes full of pain. “Thanks for fitting me in.”

Mona clasped her hand. “Of course. My assistant said you came for grief counseling. May I ask who you lost?”

“My husband.” A wariness flared in her expression that suggested the loss was recent. Her gaze landed on the photo of Mona and Brent on the bookshelf, and Sylvia started to back out the door as if the sight of any happy couple made her sad.

“I know this is hard,” Mona said. “But stay and talk to me.”

Sylvia hesitated, but finally gave a short nod, then chose the love seat. Mona’s heart immediately went out to the young woman as she seated herself across from her. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Mona said. “I know people say they understand and that they know what you’re going through, but I really do. I recently lost my husband as well.”

Sylvia seemed surprised at her admission. Mona was surprised herself. Normally she didn’t discuss her personal relationships with a patient. But Sylvia had noticed the photograph and she’d thought sharing might help, that they were kindred spirits.

Mona reached for Sylvia’s hand and squeezed it. “Tell me about your husband. What was his name?”

For a moment, Sylvia looked as if she was going to bolt, but she took a deep breath and began. “Ted. He was a wonderful man.” Sylvia’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. “He was tall, handsome, a hard worker. He liked to renovate houses.”

“I saw your baby. Was he Ted’s son?”

Sylvia studied her hands.

“Sylvia?”

“Yes.” When she looked at Mona, she lifted her chin. “We were so excited to have a little boy.”

The pang of her own loss hit Mona, but she swallowed back a comment about her miscarriage. “What happened to Ted?”

“He was killed in an accident,” Sylvia said. “A month after our son was born.”

Mona’s heart broke for the woman and for the child.

Sylvia stood, hands fisted by her sides as if she might punch someone. “But he’ll never know his father, and Ted wasn’t supposed to die. We were a family, he was going to build us a house with a fenced yard and a walk-in closet—”

Mona started to respond, but the door swung open, and suddenly Leslie’s husband, Whit Combs, burst in, waving his arms around. Aimee was on his tail trying to stop him. “You can’t go in there!”

“You bitch, where is my wife?” Whit shouted.

Sylvia ducked behind the chair, and Mona raised a hand to calm the man. “Please, Mr. Combs, settle down. If you want to talk—”

He lunged forward and grabbed her. Mona’s legs buckled as she reached for the panic button on the side of her desk.

Cal parked, battling the fierce winds rolling off the mountain as he hurried to the morgue.

Peyton and Dr. Wheeland met him in the lab.

“What did you find?”

“The lipstick is called Ravaging Red,” Peyton began. “It’s an inexpensive brand that I thought was probably found in most drugstores, which would make it more difficult to trace. But the interesting part is that the cosmetic company who made that brand no longer manufactures it.”

“So it’s old?”

She nodded. “The killer may have had it for a long time. It might have belonged to a sister, girlfriend, or mother.”

Cal cleared his throat. “I consulted the counselor in town, Mona Monroe, who studied criminology. She suggested he cut the victim’s hair to make her resemble someone he knows.”

“That makes sense,” Peyton said.

“Anything on the bridal gown?”

“As I mentioned before, it was homemade.” Peyton indicated a sample of thread on a slide. “That thread is so old it’s rotting.”

“So the unsub got the dress from a family member or a vintage store?”

Peyton nodded. “That’s possible. I ran a search for vintage gowns on Craigslist, eBay, and other stores and sites but haven’t come up with anything so far. I also posted a picture of the dress and asked anyone recognizing the seamstress’s work, the stitching or beadwork, to contact me.”

“Good work,” Cal told Peyton.

Dr. Wheeland raised a finger. “I have something else, too. We found DNA on the victim’s cheek that doesn’t belong to the victim.”

Cal’s pulse hammered. “You think it belongs to the killer?”

Dr. Wheeland nodded. “I believe he kissed her on the cheek before he left her at the falls.”

“Sick bastard.”

“I’ve already run the DNA through the databases, but nothing popped,” Peyton said. “If you bring us a suspect, we can run a comparison.”

Cal’s phone beeped, and he checked the ID. Deputy Kimball. “I need to take this. Anything else?”

Peyton handed him a slip of paper with a number and name on it. “This is for a tailor shop in Graveyard Falls. The owner might be able to look at the dress and stitchwork and help.”

“Good.” He’d get one of the deputies to check it out. “Peyton, I asked the warden at the state pen to send any suspicious mail Pike received to you for analysis.”

“I’ll put my assistant on it right away,” Peyton said. “If there’s a lead there, we’ll find it.”

Cal’s phone buzzed again, and he pushed Connect. “Yeah?”

“I just got a call from Mona Monroe’s assistant,” Deputy Kimball said. “There’s trouble. A man I brought in earlier for spousal abuse made bail and went to see her.”

“I’m on my way.” Cal rushed outside, the gray clouds painting a gloomy darkness across the sky as he jumped in his SUV and headed toward Mona’s office.

If that man had hurt her, he’d tear him apart with his bare hands.

Mona yelled for the security guard. Whit shoved her against the desk and her hip hit the corner hard. He raised his fist, but the security guard snatched his arm back and dragged him away from her.

Whit swung his fist back and connected with the guard’s jaw. He landed another punch, and they tangled for a few minutes, trading blows.

Mona reached inside her purse and grabbed her gun, then raised it. “Let him go, Whit. I don’t want to use this, but I will.”

Whit ignored her and again punched the guard, who dropped to the floor in pain. Aimee was at the door, her eyes panicked. She waved Sylvia past, and Sylvia rushed out the door.

“Whit, let him go!” Mona shouted as Whit raised his fist again.

“Do what she says.” Cal’s deep voice echoed from the doorway, his big body tense.

Whit jerked his head toward Cal, then raised his hands in surrender at the sight of Cal’s gun.

Damn man. He wasn’t afraid of her, but he respected Cal. Typical abuser. Picked on someone smaller and weaker than himself.

Cal’s boots pounded as he crossed the floor, then he yanked Whit’s arms behind him and handcuffed him. Cal’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her gun, and she instinctively lowered the weapon.

“You got no right to arrest me,” Whit bellowed. “That bitch kidnapped my wife and pulled a gun on me!”

“I did not kidnap her,” Mona said, grateful to see the security guard getting up. Aimee helped him sit in a chair to collect himself. “You need psychiatric help, Whit,” Mona said.

“Where did you take her?” Whit snarled.

“I didn’t take her anywhere,” Mona said. “She left to protect herself from you. If you really love her, you’ll let her go and get some counseling.”

Cal jerked the man’s arms behind him and handcuffed him. “I don’t know how you made bail, but this time you’re going to sit in a cell for a while.”

Ignoring the man’s litany of curse words, Cal hauled him toward the door.

Cal made sure the jerk was locked up, then returned to the front of the sheriff’s office. He’d driven Mona here to file a statement, and she was waiting, arms crossed.

He reminded himself to be calm, that Mona meant nothing more to him than anyone else, but that was a lie, and his tone reflected the surge of fear that had shot through him when he’d thought Combs might hurt her. “What the hell were you thinking pulling a gun?”

Mona glanced at him with a calmness that only infuriated him more. “I told you about it. I carry it for protection,” Mona said. “And before you ask, yes, I know how to shoot. Brent taught me.”

Of course he had.

“If your job is this dangerous, maybe you need to rethink your line of work.”

Mona released a bitter laugh. “You’re worried about my job? Cal, you put your life on the line every day.”

“But I can handle it. I’m trained.”

“I’m not going to debate this,” Mona said. “It’s the same argument Brent and I used to have.”

Cal gritted his teeth. One thing he and Brent had agreed on was keeping Mona safe.

In spite of her bravado, her adrenaline must have been waning, because a shudder coursed through her. He couldn’t help himself. He pulled her to him and closed his arms around her.

She laid her head against his chest, and he stroked her back. He didn’t know what the hell he would have done if the bastard had killed her.

Still terrified inside, he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. For a brief second, he thought desire flickered in the depths. His own hunger spiraled.

Her sweet scent teased his senses, and the soft whisper of her breath made his pulse pound. She felt so fragile, yet Mona had always been strong, and that strength stirred his desires even more.

Unable to resist, he leaned toward her and touched her lips with his. A soft sigh escaped her as her lips met his in invitation.

Their mouths fused, need seeping between them, unspent hunger making his body harden.

Cal wanted more. He might never have enough.

He deepened the kiss, tasting her sweetness, yet a fiery heat ignited inside him. She clutched his back, her chest rising and falling against his own, driving him crazy with the ache to have her.

But a second later, his phone buzzed, jolting him back to reality. He cursed the phone. He cursed himself for kissing her. But the haze of passion glittering in her eyes made him want to drag her back into his arms.

His phone buzzed again, though, and he gave her a look of regret, then reluctantly pulled away and connected the call. “Agent Coulter.”

“This is Sheriff Buckley. There’s another dead girl at Graveyard Falls.”