Nameless (15 page)

What’s new
? He hadn’t expected Worth to feel any other way. Frankly, McBride didn’t give one shit how Worth felt. But he wholeheartedly agreed with the theory that if this nutcase Devoted Fan kept at it—
two down, how many to go?
—someone was going to die.

And that would be McBride’s fault.

Grace pushed the call button for the elevators. “You okay?”

Hell no, he wasn’t okay.

He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, attempted to block out the spots floating in front of his retinas. Bad sign. He knew the symptoms. Lack of sleep, alcohol, and nicotine. And a kind of fear he hadn’t felt in a long-ass-time bullying its way into the mix.

His hand shook as he lowered it back to his side.

He needed downtime.

No … What he needed was to get out of here before someone died on his watch.

The elevator doors slid open and he couldn’t move. Couldn’t walk into that cramped space.

Grace stepped into the waiting car and prepared to make the necessary floor selection. “You coming?”

“I’ll … ah … take the stairs.”

He didn’t explain, just headed for the end of the corridor with her shouting to him to watch out for the paparazzi in the lobby. The stairwell was empty so he took a moment to try and derail what he knew was coming. Deep breaths.
Let them out slow.
He wasn’t going down this road.
No way
. Couldn’t.

He shouldn’t have come here . at all. Rescuing that kid had been so simple … but this last time hadn’t been quite so easy. If Grace hadn’t been there to back him up, he might have failed. What the hell would he do next time?

And there would be a next time.

What if he couldn’t fix it? Those old instincts might fail him entirely … and because of him someone would die.

Taking the stairs quickly, he kept one hand on the railing since the world seemed determined to tilt on him. Get outside. Get some air.
Don’t slow down.

Sweat popped out on his skin. His gut clenched.

McBride ascended to the first floor in a near run and emerged into the lobby. Crews from dozens of news channels were hanging around, hoping to catch a break on whatever the hell was going on. He moved wide around where they had gathered near the elevators. The visiting hours crowd had filtered in, making forward movement a challenge. Ignoring the glares and remarks of the people he bumped into in his haste, he plowed through. Had to get outside. A half-ton weight had settled on his chest. He couldn’t breathe … couldn’t think. Damned sure couldn’t risk running into a reporter.

He hit the sidewalk. Air flooded his lungs.

Breathe.

Deep
.

That was it. More deep gulps.
Hold it. Release
. The weight on his chest lessened. Finally, the knot in his gut relaxed.

He was not going to let anyone die—not this time.

He could still do this …
he hoped.

“McBride?”

He closed his eyes, chased away the demons, and grabbed that fuck-you attitude that worked so well for him … most of the time. “What?”

Grace flinched at his growl. “You okay?”

He ignored her question, dredged up the control he’d allowed to slip. “How’d you avoid the reporters?” She had taken the elevator and the hordes of reporters had been waiting there like buzzards after roadkill. That was the thing about ambulances. Anytime one was called to a scene, the media was bound to show up.

“Worth has them distracted with a statement he decided to issue.”

McBride didn’t bother asking what Worth planned to say in his statement. He didn’t give a damn.

“Let’s get out of here.” Grace started walking toward the parking garage where she had left her Explorer. “You want Waffle House or IHOP?” she asked as he fell into step next to her.

“You’re kidding, right?” The last thing he wanted to do was eat. He paused, fished a Marlboro from the pack and lit up, the rush of nicotine instantly calming.

“You need to eat, McBride.”

This conversation sounded familiar. “Look.” He glanced at her breasts then at her lips; she tensed and outrage immediately flashed in her eyes. “You’re not my mother or my nurse. I’ll eat when I eat.” He inhaled another lungful of smoke. “Let’s see how Davis is doing on that list. We need to see if Schaffer can connect these two victims in any way.”

Glaring at him a ball-busting moment or two, Grace didn’t say a word. Eventually, she pivoted on her heel and continued toward the garage. She gave him the silent treatment from that point forward but that was fine by him.

If they talked she would only bring up his little episode back there and then ask questions he would refuse to answer. Talking about his past was something he didn’t do.

Ever.

1000 Eighteenth Street
2:30 P.M.

Davis had the list narrowed down to just under one thousand. More than half of those hailed from good old Dixie, which resulted in around six hundred names. McBride had joined him at the conference table where two laptops had been set up for their use. Schaffer was looking for any connection between Alyssa Byrne and Katherine Jones.

Across the room, the timeline had been updated. The photo of Alyssa Byrne remained along with comments regarding the resolution of her abduction. Next to that was a photo of Katherine Jones with the same information. A separate section had been created for known facts about the unsub. There were only two: he, assuming he was male, was a fan of McBride and lived somewhere within a hundred-mile radius of Birmingham.

The MO was curiously different in each incident and the victims were totally unalike. Not one damned thing usable for putting together a decent profile. Which, McBride surmised, was the point.

Grace arrived, a folder in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. She placed the cup in front of McBride, then sat down at the table.

Never one to turn down a fresh cup of coffee, even when it came from a potential enemy, he took a welcome swig. “Thanks.”

“Are you ready for an update?”

This was the first time she had spoken to him since they left the hospital. She had taken the initiative and followed up on the evidence found at the various crime scenes, which, he imagined, would net them nothing useful.

He lowered the laptop screen and turned his full attention on her. “Shoot.”

Her speculative glance told him he shouldn’t tempt her; after all, she did carry a weapon.

“The sedative used on Alyssa Byrne and Katherine Jones was a dead end. Nothing reported missing; at least, nothing in the system. It’s possible the unsub ordered something on the Internet from Canada or Mexico. For the most part, those sales are untraceable. So we can’t get a lead on him via that route.”

McBride downed another slug of coffee and waited for the rest. There would be more. The lady was thorough. She wouldn’t come to him with nothing. Grace was a good agent—as agents went. He wasn’t shaving any points for her freezing up at the cemetery. Newbies often balked at the sight of death or suspected death the first few times. Still, instinct told him that hers was a deeper reaction, to something beyond this case.

Not his problem. He had to remember that.

He wasn’t here to play amateur psychologist or to give career advice. Anyone who sought career advice from him was not operating on all cylinders.

“Forensics found nothing in the way of evidence in either mausoleum,” she went on. “The floors were swept with a broom the caretakers use on the property. No hair, no trace evidence whatsoever.”

Hearing her reiterate what he had already guessed made him feel ill. Every time an agent walked through those doors he tensed, worried that another e-mail had arrived.

A more demanding challenge.
One I might not be able to meet …
even with Grace’s help.

It was only a matter of time before another communication came; manipulating names on a list or rehashing what they already knew wasn’t going to stop this guy. The reality abruptly hit like a punch to the gut.

“Damn it!” He plopped his empty cup down on the table.

Grace blinked, her own frustration visibly restrained.

On the other side of him, Davis scooted back from the table. “Let me refill that for you.” Davis reached for the disposable cup.

McBride exhaled some of the tension and turned the cup over to the agent. “Thanks.”

“As you know,” Grace carried on, as if he hadn’t just shown how close he was to coming undone, “Katherine Jones didn’t see our unsub. She stopped at a convenience store and picked up a bottle of wine. The last thing she remembers is emptying the bottle. When she woke up she was in that Reddy Ice container with water up to her waist.”

He motioned for Grace to get to the part he didn’t know. Listening to that summation was like going for a repeat root canal. It hadn’t been fun the first time.

“We may have gotten lucky at the Jones residence.”

Now that got his attention. “How lucky?”

“There were prints but we’re still ruling out family members. Hair and other fibers appear to be connected to the victim.”

“Grace,” he said with a pointed look, “I’m waiting for the lucky part.”

She met his annoyed look with one of her own. “I’m getting there.” She paused for effect or to irritate him further before continuing. “A neighbor came forward.”

“Wait a minute.” He sat up a little straighter. “I was under the impression all the neighbors had been questioned and that no one saw anything.”

“None of them did.” She tried to suppress a smile but that wasn’t happening and he wanted to shake her. “A neighbor’s beau saw something.”

McBride frowned. “Beau?”

Grace nodded. “Mrs. Roberta Norris. She’s seventy and a widow. Horace Jackson is her boyfriend. When she called him this morning to tell him about the police questioning her, he told her what he’d witnessed. At the time he wasn’t aware it meant anything.”

“It being …” McBride prompted, seriously out of patience now.

“The night Mrs. Jones disappeared, Mr. Jackson stepped out back to smoke. Evidently Mrs. Norris doesn’t permit smoking inside.”

McBride could do without the asides, but he understood that Grace was yanking his chain. He supposed, if one took into account the tactics he used on her every chance he got, he deserved it. What could he say? He was only human. Finding a way to make life bearable without the aid of his usual tactics was a challenge all its own. He hadn’t found a solution yet.

“Mr. Jackson heard Mrs. Jones’s garage door open and since it was after midnight he was curious. He took a peek around the corner of the house and saw her car leave the driveway. A man wearing corrective glasses was behind the wheel.”

Anticipation zinged McBride. “Did he give us hair color, approximate age? Anything else?”

“Nothing that specific. He’s only sure the driver was male and he wore glasses … the old horn-rimmed style. Hair might have been dark but he wasn’t sure about that.”

“I’ll be damned,” McBride said, an epiphany dawning. “
He
used her car.” Drove to the scene and then back to retrieve his own vehicle. That took some major balls. This completely changed the way the vehicle was viewed. The Buick had been dusted for prints and checked for trace evidence on-site, but this required additional analysis.

McBride turned to Grace. “Forensics will need to—”

“Already taken care of. The vehicle is on its way to the lab as we speak.”

Twenty, thirty minutes. That was how long it took to drive from the residence of Katherine Jones to the Sloss Furnaces. The return trip would be the one. After unloading the woman from the car, getting in through the gate, and securing her in that abandoned freezer, he would be sweaty. Sweaty, maybe with an abrasion or a cut, if he had done the air-hole drilling during that same time as well. That would have made him much more likely to leave behind DNA.

Davis returned with the coffee refill.

“We have some additional criteria for you, Davis,” McBride said with the most enthusiasm he had been able to muster all day.

Davis set his own coffee cup on the table and readied his laptop. “Let’s hear it.”

“Male, over forty, and with a very high IQ.”

Grace looked surprised by that last part. “Smarter than the average repeat offender,” she said, “probably, but higher-than-average IQ, how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Think about it,” McBride said. “He knew exactly how long it would take that box to fill with water. He timed it exactly for us to rescue her, the same as we did Alyssa Byrne.”

“That’s speculation,” Grace countered.

“We found her shortly after three with about seven hours to go, or roughly thirty percent of the time we’d been given. She was sitting on her butt against the bottom of the appliance, with water reaching her shoulders. Do the math, Grace. Any way you look at it, this guy knew exactly how much time we needed.”

She considered his explanation, her expression thoughtful. “You’re right. He knew the time the tomb Alyssa was in would be resealed. Katherine Jones said Thursday night was the only night she deviated from her routine of going straight home. He planned it all that carefully. Down to the minute.” Her face grew more animated with each deduction.

“Leaves no prints or trace evidence,” Davis said, joining the summation, “and he knows the Internet. Can’t catch him by any of the usual means.”

Worth strode into the room, drawing all eyes to him. “Heads up, people. We have a new communication.”

Tension rippled through McBride, setting his already raw nerves further on edge.

Worth, Davis, Pratt, and Schaffer gathered at the workstation for McBride to open the e-mail, as if they feared some plague would be released among them if they dared do it themselves.

McBride dropped into the chair and made the necessary clicks. Sure enough, there it was.

Bravo, bravo, McBride!

Another marvelous success! I knew you would show them. I am very pleased! Ah, and your new partner suits you.