Love Inspired Suspense July 2015 #2 (5 page)

She turned down a residential side street and pulled the car into the single driveway of a quaint-looking home painted a sunny yellow. A well-kept patch of lawn and shrubs provided pleasing curb appeal. Red flowers offered a pop of color in baskets hanging from the porch beams. Sami unlocked the door and walked in.

An eerie sensation of being watched tapped into Drew's consciousness. He glanced behind him, studying the neighborhood for a moment. Cars were parked along both sides of the narrow tree-lined street of the genteel neighborhood. But no one was about in the middle of this Tuesday afternoon.

Shaking off the sensation, he stepped inside the house and immediately noted the built-in gas fireplace and bookshelves that had been painted white and dominated a half wall to his left and a grouping of comfortable-looking furniture in the middle of the living room that provided a cozy conversation area. Recessed windows allowed natural light to fill the house.

“Home, sweet home,” Sami said, shutting the door behind him. “I have a spare room upstairs you can use.” She led the way toward a staircase.

He followed but halted when he glanced into the dining room. Though a table and chairs stood in the center, his gaze was riveted on the walls, which were covered with photocopies of police reports, newspaper clippings and copies of crime scene photographs, along with DMV-issued photographs of several women.

A large map of North America had been tacked onto a huge piece of corkboard. A colorful array of small pushpins dotted the map.

Unnerved by the pins, he set his suitcase on the floor and moved closer.

“You can see his pattern moving across the US,” Sami said, joining him at the board after leaving her suitcase on the bottom stair. She picked up a box of pushpins and added one to Phoenix. She held up another pushpin. “Now he's crossed over the boundary between our countries.” She tacked the pin into the little red circle indicating Vancouver.

A shiver of dread chased down his spine. How many more pins on the Canadian side of the map would they have to add to the board?

“I know you said you've been tracking Birdman, but this—” he made a sweeping gesture with his hand to encompass the room “—this has become an obsession for you.”

She folded her arms across her chest. Her gaze didn't waver. “Yes. For six months this has been how I occupy my nights and weekends when I'm not working another case.”

“Why isn't this an official investigation yet?” She'd told him her boss had wanted to start a case file.

“The FBI only gets involved in local crimes if asked. Each of these murders happened in different jurisdictions. No official request has been made but I've had very good cooperation from the various police agencies. Most police departments are understaffed and overwhelmed.”

Impressed and sad at the same time, Drew studied the woman in front of him, noting the lines of stress bracketing her mouth, her eyes. She really was pretty and formidable with the proud tilt to her chin and the squared shoulders. She was ready to take on the world. Ready to take on a killer. Her life had become about hunting death.

A lock of her blond hair had escaped her clip. He reached out to tuck the strands behind her ear. She froze, her breath catching. Instantly the air felt charged with the electricity that sparked between them.

He lowered his hand and stepped back, giving her room and himself space to gather his composure.

What would happen to her when she finally found her friend's killer? Would she have the restraint to not inflict her own brand of justice? Or would she do as her training taught her and apprehend him, letting the courts mete out the justice she fervently sought for her friend and the other victims?

The questions circled in his brain with no answers.

Only time would tell. He prayed she'd find the strength within herself to not seek out revenge but to do the job she'd committed her life to.

FIVE

“W
alk me through these crime scenes,” Drew said, needing to know what they were up against. She handed him a tall glass of lemonade and set out a plate of cookies on the dining room table before joining him in front of the map and the many signs of Sami's obsession. He needed to hear how she processed all the information she'd gathered.

As she talked, he listened, growing more overwhelmed and appalled with each passing minute. Separately the crimes did appear random. No two were exactly alike. The perpetrator wasn't ritualistic in his approach to killing. That Sami had somehow connected the dots between these crimes spoke to her attention to detail, the trait of a good investigator.

“He seems to be more opportunistic,” Sami stated. “Meaning he doesn't stalk these women but rather trolls the bars and restaurants for his victims. And the victims themselves appear random.”

She pointed to each photo. “Caucasian, Hispanic, Asian, African-American. He doesn't discriminate based on color or race. Blonde, brunette, black haired. Different occupations. A schoolteacher, a store clerk, a sales professional. There's nothing linking these women together.”

“Was each victim found in a hotel room?”

“Yes. These two women.” She touched two photographs. One of a pretty brunette in her midtwenties and the other of a striking African-American woman in her thirties. “They were at airport bars but didn't have hotel rooms registered in their names at the hotels they were found in.”

Sami tapped the brunette's picture. “Melissa Duncan worked as a flight attendant for an airline. She was last seen in a Boston airport bar having a club soda between flights. When she didn't show up for her shift, the airline contacted the authorities.

“The airport was searched, but she was nowhere to be seen. No one remembers seeing her leave. The airport security video showed her having a drink, then using the women's restroom. But she never came out. Or if she did, the camera missed her exit.

“Her body was found five days later in a hotel room in DC that was registered to—” Sami walked down the line of photos and stopped “—Carol Crosby. Who in turn was discovered two weeks later in a cabin on the outskirts of Tulsa.”

“The perp kidnapped Carol Crosby from her hotel and somehow transported her across the country to Oklahoma. That's risky.”

“I'm not sure where he abducted Carol from. It could have been the hotel or a nearby location. However, the cabin was a vacation rental that had been rented to Maureen Forbes.” She pointed to the photo of a sixty-year-old woman with graying hair. “She was found in a motel in Dayton, Ohio, before Carol's body was discovered.”

Drew's gaze darted back to the map. How had the perp moved so easily and so quickly between points?

“Eight deaths that I can confirm as Birdman's because of the bird symbol left at the crime scenes. Or rather nine now with the one in Phoenix. And if there is a murder victim in California who turns out to be his handiwork, then ten.”

The scope of the madness boggled his mind.

She moved to stand in front of a photo of a smiling blonde woman. She touched the photo. “Lisa's body was found in a hotel in Chicago. She was supposed to be in Boston. But the last time anyone saw her was in a restaurant at the Portland airport eating a bagel.

“She didn't board her plane. She didn't board any plane that I can find a record of. Yet somehow she got from Portland to Chicago in a shorter amount of time than it would take someone to drive her there.”

“What a strange and twisted puzzle.” And he could see how she had become obsessed with finding the killer. But he didn't think it was healthy for her to be surrounded by the constant reminders of her friend's murder. “Does your boss know what you're doing? How much time and energy you've put into this?”

“Yes.”

“And when this case ends?” Drew asked. “Then what will you do to occupy your time?”

She gave him a sharp glance. “I can't think that far ahead. I need to stay focused on the here and now.”

Hence why she had no time for romance, as she'd stated earlier. “Your family must worry about you.”

“Yes, they worry. I don't think my dad would have taught me self-defense if he'd known I'd go into law enforcement. But I think my path was inevitable.” She walked into the kitchen.

He followed. The kitchen was narrow, with the sink and cupboards along the outside wall, while the big appliances were squished into the corner. “What do you mean?”

She washed her hands at the sink. “When I was eight, my mother and I were held hostage during a bank robbery.” As she spoke, she made a salad—ripping lettuce leaves, chopping carrots, crumbling feta cheese, tossing it all with a vinaigrette dressing. Her hands were steady, her movements economical. “One of the robbers grabbed me, using me as shield when the police arrived.”

He leaned against the counter. He couldn't believe how calm she sounded. Only the slight pursing of her lips tipped him off that she wasn't as detached as she wanted him to believe. His heart ached with the thought of how young she'd been and what could have happened. “That must have been terrifying.”

“It was. The stuff of nightmares.” She retrieved two small plates. “Can you get two forks out of that drawer?” She gestured to the drawer he blocked.

He grabbed the forks. “That experience prompted you to join the FBI?”

“That and my father teaching me how to shoot.” She smiled with obvious affection for her father. “He was a proficient marksman during his army days. In college I studied criminal justice. I was thinking more along the lines of judge than agent, except the thought of law school didn't appeal. So I applied to the academy and was accepted.”

“I'm sure he's proud of you.” He dug into the salad with relish. The dressing was mild and tasty, the lettuce fresh and the cheese salty on his tongue.

After a few moments of silence, she pointed her fork at him. “Tell me about your mother.”

He nearly choked on the bite of food in his mouth. He swallowed. Centering himself, he said, “She left my dad and me when I was twelve.”

Empathy tinged her blue eyes. “That's rough.”

“Yes, well, we did okay.”

“Do you talk to her?”

“Occasionally she'll call. But for the most part, no. She walked out on us. There hasn't been much to say.”

Sami leveled him with a pointed look. “She's your mother. Give her some grace.”

He huffed out a frustrated breath. “Easier said than done.”

“You haven't forgiven her.”

His gaze dropped to the remains of his salad. “I try. I've prayed but when I think of the way she destroyed our family, all I feel is anger.”

Sami curled her fingers over his. Her touch was soft and warm and made tenderness swell within his heart.

“I feel the same about Lisa's death. I don't want to blame God but I get so angry—” She licked her lips.

The need to lean toward her and kiss her punched him in the gut like a physical blow. He swallowed back the lump in his throat. “I guess we both need to figure out how to forgive and let go.”

She nodded.

Sami's cell phone rang. She pulled her hand away to fish the device out of her pants pocket. “Agent Bennett.”

Her face paled as she listened. “Did you find anything at the scene that seemed out of place?”

“A matchbook,” she said, clearly repeating what she'd been told. “Was anything written on it?” She closed her eyes and took a breath. “I see. I'd like a copy of the police file sent to the FBI office in Portland, Oregon.” She gave the caller a fax number.

She hung up. “They did find another victim at the hotel in California. Female. Strangled with a pair of nylons. The body was defaced like the others, this time with what they believe to be an ice pick. The medical examiner estimates she's been dead for at least forty-eight hours.”

Drew's heart sank.

“The matchbook found at the scene was from a hotel in Victoria, BC. The Grand Hotel. A yellow bird was stamped on the inside cover with the number twenty-three.”

Fury burned in his gut. The killer was leading them back across the international border. “I'll call the Victoria PD.”

“I need to go there now.” Sami moved past him.

He caught her by the elbow. The feral, almost haunted look in her eyes worried him. “It will take us too long to get there. If Birdman is there, our best option is to send in the local police. They can roll within minutes.”

“I hate not doing anything,” she said. “He's out there killing and taunting me because I'm the one who noticed the murders were connected. What possible motive does he have for murdering these women? For killing Lisa, who was the sweetest, most caring person I've ever known?”

Sympathy stirred tenderness in him. “We won't know until we catch him. We have to have faith that we will.”

Her lips twisted with doubt and she shook off his hand. “Easier said than done.” She repeated his words back to him.

Allowing her space, he took out his cell phone and called the Victoria Police Department to explain the situation. He requested that officers be sent to the hotel as quickly as possible.

“They'll call back,” he assured Sami after he hung up.

She nodded. “I have to be missing something.” She walked into the dining room. “There has to be a clue here that I've overlooked.”

This was taking a toll on her, eating away at her. He doubted she'd overlooked anything but he'd give everything a second glance. “Do you have the autopsy reports for each victim?”

Glancing at him, she shook her head. “I don't have copies but I have spoken to each medical examiner.”

“I'm just wondering if any of the women had defensive wounds.”

Sami sighed. “I'd thought of that, too. Especially with Lisa. She was a fighter. But there was no bruising on her hands to indicate she'd fought back. No DNA under her fingernails.”

“Tox screens?”

“He used chloroform. The medical examiner believes our unidentified subject makes his own batch to use for drugging his victims because the ratio between chemicals has been inconsistent. Apparently, chloroform can be made with bleach and alcohol. So not only does it knock the victim out, the mixture burns the skin and membranes of the nose. Not that our killer cares. He then somehow transported them to the kill spot.”

Drew turned to the map again. “What do all the cities have in common?”

Sami joined him. “Highways. Airports. Tourist trade. Hotels.”

“Okay,” he said. “Who would most likely travel easily through these cities?”

“Business travelers,” Sami said.

“But would a business traveler have the means to transport an unconscious woman from place to place?”

“Hmm. How about truck drivers? We see a lot of illegal immigrants coming across the southern border trapped inside cargo trucks.”

“True. But the timing wouldn't work. Right? A truck is a slow way to go. He needs to move his victims from point A to point B rapidly.”

“He found several of his victims at airports,” she started to say.

He swiped a hand through his hair. “Our unidentified subject could work at an airport, say as a baggage handler. He targets a victim, renders them unconscious and somehow puts them in the cargo area of a plane. Then someone on the other end receives the victim?”

Sami shook her head. “That would mean there was a team of murdering baggage handlers working together. I don't buy that.”

“Yeah, that's a bit far-fetched.”

The landline rang. Sami went into the kitchen to answer the call. “Hello?”

“There's a surprise for you in your bedroom,” the breathy voice whispered in her ear.

A shudder of fear worked over her flesh. “Who is this?”

The line went dead. Sami dropped the phone and swallowed back the panic clawing its way up her throat.

Drew stood in the doorway. “Sami?”

She reached for her weapon. “The killer. He said there's a surprise for me upstairs.”

Unholstering his sidearm, he beckoned her to him. She nodded with grim determination. Together they made their way up the narrow stairwell leading to the second floor of her little home. The sense of violation crowding her chest unleashed rage that heated her skin. At the top of the landing, she motioned toward the right and led the way to her bedroom, grateful to not be alone.

Sun poured in through the overhead skylights. Her dresser and nightstand were undisturbed. But the rose-colored wall behind her bed had been defaced with a crudely drawn bird, the same bird that Birdman left as his signature. The red paint—blood?—dripped down the wall.

Her gaze fell to her pillow.

An ear.

She spun away. The irony of the offending gift he'd left on her bed was clear. Birdman had been listening.

Was he still in the house?

She dropped to the floor and checked under the bed while Drew opened the closet. Nothing.

There were two more rooms on this floor. The bath and the guest room.

Leading with her gun, she made her way out of her bedroom. At the bathroom she took a position on one side of the door while Drew took a position on the other. She pushed open the door and reached in to flip on the light switch. Drew entered, checked the shower and returned a second later to mouth,
Clear
.

She nodded and pointed. The door to the guest room was ajar. With two fingers she gestured for Drew to take a position on the right side of the door, while she took the left. He toed the door open all the way. They entered but the room was empty.

“He was here,” she ground out in a harsh whisper. “Could he still be?”

Drew stared down the stairwell. He didn't have to answer; she could read his expression. Her stomach churned. While they'd been in her room, had Birdman slipped downstairs? Was he waiting to pick them off as they descended? Or was he long gone and they were chasing their own fear?