Dead River (23 page)

The original idea for the twenty-minute segment was to concentrate on Tami Breckenridge’s abduction. However, after the Dead River discovery made it clear that this was the same perpetrator who abducted and murdered Sara Ann, the theme was altered to the pursuit of a serial killer.

“Gabriel has sent waves of fear through the small sun-and-fun resort town of Cocoa Beach, Florida, and now his terror has spread to the attractions capital of America, Orlando,” Tom Stuart said. “Help us get this killer off our streets and into jail where he belongs. If you have information about any of the fugitives featured on tonight’s show, you can call our toll-free number twenty-four hours a day.”

“Be safe, America,” Tom Stuart said to close the broadcast.

 50

GOLDMAN PUNCHED the power button on the remote, and the TV screen faded to black then crackled with static electricity. He sat back on the couch in his hotel suite and closed his eyes, resting his head on the back cushion. He wasn’t convinced that Most Wanted in America would or could be helpful in this case. Although, since the show had debuted in 1997, 379 fugitives from justice featured had later been captured by law enforcement. But Gabriel wasn’t your typical perpetrator of crimes against society. He was slippery and crafty, a calculating risk-taker who was obsessed with being Gabriel the preceptor. The chosen one, the only man ordained to rid the world of the sinful and wicked women who can bear children who will in turn further spread the plague permeating society. Gabriel will slip up, Goldman thought. It’s bound to happen soon. I can feel it.

His mind wandered, thinking about tomorrow, a big day for the Bureau. Bob Mueller, nominated by President Bush, would become the sixth director of the FBI. When he heard Mueller was going to be their new chief, he’d had mixed feelings. Goldman actually had a close relationship with the previous director, and now someone who he had only met once was taking over. It was a cause for concern. New guys at the top always like to mix it up a little when they first take command, to show who the boss is.

Goldman opened his eyes and checked his watch. It was ten-thirty, time to call Averly for an update on the phone calls being made to those two hundred numbers. He leaned over and picked up the phone.

“This is Goldman. Where are you with the phone numbers?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Averly said. “Good God, do you ever relax, take a break, have a drink or something?”

“Cut it,” Goldman snapped back. “What’s the status?”

“All right, let’s see, as of ten minutes ago, we’ve made a hundred and fifty calls with no luck. Forty-two of those we didn’t get an answer.”

“Then keep going, continue calling. And go back to the ones where no one picked up. You’ll eventually hit the number we’re after.”

“Shit, eventually is right. I’m getting a fricking blister on my index finger.”

“Keep calling.”

For Adam, one of the most wonderful things about Florida was the summer evenings. Especially on a clear night when the stars twinkle like diamonds, and the sweet smell of night-blooming jasmine fills the humid air. Tonight was one of those nights.

But after an agonizing hour of Most Wanted in America and his first day back to work, he had to take a walk. He had to relieve the vexation, the rage, the hurting that was churning inside of him. As he walked down Boca Tigre Drive, with long, deliberate strides, he could hear the roar of the surf, the powerful force of swelling waves pounding on the sandy beach. Under the street lights, his skin glistened with beads of sweat from the thick humid air. He picked up the pace. An elderly man crept along on a late evening stroll in the opposite direction. Adam moved aside on the sidewalk as they passed each other, both men offering greetings with a nod.

As the man inched by him, Adam thought of Sara Ann’s image flashing on the TV screen. The vivid picture of her appeared and disappeared as he walked, his stomach knotted from both grief and anger. But it was anger that now seemed to dominate his thoughts, that and thoughts of the man, this Gabriel, who had shattered his world.

Adam was about a mile from his house, still on the long stretch of Boca Tigre Drive, when he spotted a black sedan creeping along in the opposite direction. He watched as the sedan slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. His nerves bristled with electricity, and his heart banged against his ribs. The driver’s door of the sedan opened slowly, and a foot appeared. Adam stopped and stepped backward off the sidewalk into a shadowy pocket of overgrown wax myrtles.

The car door opened wider. Adam watched from the shrubs as an over-weight man with a dark, long-sleeved shirt emerged. Adam’s heart raced like a rabbit as he moved further back into the thick bushes. The man walked around the car to the passenger side and opened the other door. What is he doing? Adam thought.

Suddenly a woman appeared. The man helped her out of the car, and they kissed. Then they walked hand-in-hand down the sidewalk in the direction Adam had been heading. He stepped out of the bushes and continued to walk, watching the pair. He glanced down the street and saw cars lined up on the opposite side of the road.

It was a party, a soirée.

Two happy-go-lucky lovebirds out partying.

A damn party.

 51

IT WAS NOON on Tuesday when Goldman got word. Averly called him at his hotel room. Goldman had just finished an early lunch in the lobby restaurant and was at his desk poring over some other case files.

“Goldman.”

“This is Averly. I have good news.”

“You hit the number.”

“Sure did, one that didn’t answer the first time we called.”

“Whose number is it?”

“Jack McCarthy, lives in Atlanta.”

“You get the address?”

“Yup, I’ve already contacted the Fulton County Sheriff’s Department. They’re on their way to McCarthy’s apartment. I told them to contact you immediately after they talk to him.”

Goldman hung up the phone and leaned back in his desk chair. I’ve got a good feeling about this.

Two strapping deputies from the Fulton County Sheriff’s Department questioned Jack McCarthy at length. McCarthy told the officers his permanent residence was Atlanta. They questioned him in his new one-bedroom apartment off Peachtree Street near the sprawling campus of Georgia Tech in the heart of Atlanta. He’d moved there only a month ago. His prior residence was a studio apartment in a shabby part of town west of campus.

It was five-thirty when Goldman’s phone rang again.

“Goldman speaking.”

“Mr. Goldman, this is Deputy Alonso De La Rosa, Fulton County Sheriff’s Department,” a voice said with a slight Hispanic accent.

“Did you find Jack McCarthy?”

“Yes, sir. He lives in an apartment by himself. Two of us talked to him for quite a while.”

“And?” Goldman asked impatiently.

“I think we have a possible connection for you.”

“You think it’s McCarthy?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what the hell’s the connection?”

“Well, he’s a graduate student at Georgia Tech, been living here for the past two years. He moved into a new apartment about a month ago from the other side of the campus and had to change his phone number.”

“So he’s been giving out his new number.”

“That’s right. To a couple of students and his parents.”

“Where do his parents live?”

“Port St. John, Florida.”

“No shit, I think that’s close to where the Riley girl’s body was found.”

“The first victim.”

“Right. The parents would have written down the new number and his name, but only the first name. Makes sense.” Goldman tapped his fingers on the desk. “So you’re certain Jack McCarthy’s not our man? Maybe he came down here to Florida, stayed at his parent’s place. Wrote down his new number for them on the pad of paper—”

“I don’t think so. We checked on campus. He works in a lab with a couple of other students doing research. They all see each other every day, even on the weekends. One of the students said McCarthy hasn’t been down there to see his parents for a couple of months.”

“I can check that out when I pay the McCarthys a visit. But I want to see something first.”

“What?”

“McCarthy’s phone records. Can you check them for the past four weeks? I’d like to see the calls in and out of his place.”

“No problem.”

“Maybe he gave it to someone else in Florida besides his parents.”

“Maybe. I should have the report later this evening.”

“Sooner the better. What are his parents’ names?”

“Joe and Sally McCarthy.”

 52

DAVID SCOOTCHED CLOSER to Carla Jean in the front seat of his 1970 Chevelle parked on Widow’s Bluff. She sat motionless, staring straight ahead, not budging even a little. She just gazed out of the lightly fogged windshield. The moon was full and hung dead center between two clusters of large trees. Its bright beams bounced off the shapely leaves of the grand oaks.

Between the two clumps of trees was the bluff, Widow’s Bluff, as it was called by the local teenagers. According to urban legend, a grieving woman, widowed only two days before, performed a perfect swan dive off of the cliff, down two hundred feet to the rocks below. A week after her death, two teenagers necking in a car on the bluff late one night claimed they saw the widow appear out of thin air, walk to the edge of the cliff, and perform another dive. After that night there were countless sightings, each time another dive.

“Will you go with me to the centennial fair next weekend?” David asked. He leaned in even closer, his face only inches from Carla Jean’s left cheek.

She finally turned slightly toward him and stuck out an arm to halt the advance. “Get away from me. You’re an asshole. Did you really think I was going to come up here with you and make out?”

David retreated to his side of the car. “But you said—”

“I said I would ride out here to Widow’s Bluff with you, and that’s all.”

“But you said that you liked me and—”

Carla Jean rolled her eyes back like a slot machine and jerked her body in the passenger seat. A scowl formed on her face and she glared at David. His hands gripped the steering wheel, and his upper body began to rock forward then backward.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “I told you I wanted a ride in your car. That’s all.”

“No, you didn’t, you told me you—”

“Listen, David Sikes.” Now Carla Jean turned her entire body toward David. Her right index finger moved like a metronome, keeping beat with each word she spoke. “You wanna know why I asked you to drive me up here?”

David released his grip on the steering wheel and slowly turned to face her. “Sure.”

“Do you see that red Ford over there?”

Carla Jean’s beating finger now wagged over David’s left shoulder as he turned. He saw the red Ford Galaxie parked no more than thirty feet from his car.

And then it hit him. That’s Darren Winston’s car! Carla Jean and Darren, the quarterback of their high school football team, broke up two weeks ago. And that had to be Regina Foley with Darren. David had been had by a jealous ex-girlfriend.