Once Craved (a Riley Paige Mystery--Book #3) (25 page)

And she remembered
how he’d described him …

“The opposite of
me—and the opposite of you.”

Perhaps—just
perhaps—her father had put his finger on the very problem. Was it possible that
she was finally dealing with a killer whose heart wasn’t as cold and dark as
her own?

With her eyes still
closed, she imagined herself rising out of that captive darkness, away from the
flame, up into the sunlight.

Yes, she felt closer
to him now. She was on his trail. And she’d find him to be in the daylight of
everyday life, in a world populated by people who weren’t monsters at all.
Because he himself wasn’t a monster. Or at least didn’t see himself as a
monster.

Not like my
father,
she
thought.
And not like me.

Her mind was in
broad daylight now. She could feel herself seeing the day through his eyes,
feel the sun on his skin, the embracing comfort of a respectable life.

And yet she could
also feel his apprehension and fear. Those emotions were alien to him. He didn’t
know how to handle them. He was accustomed only to friendship, respect,
self-confidence, and even a feeling of righteousness. Even now, he didn’t feel
that he had done anything wrong. But he was out of his depth, and exhausted,
and scared, and he’d never felt that way before.

She smiled to
herself. She remembered those words that Hatcher had kept repeating.

“You’re getting
warm.”

It was true. She was
getting warm. Now she needed to touch base with Bill. She called him on her
cell phone.

“Did you get any
information?” Bill asked.

Riley thought for a
moment. “You should check shelters for runaway kids. Start with the shelter
where Jilly is. Ask if maybe the girl might have been in a shelter somewhere in
Phoenix. And check on Jilly for me.”

“I’ll do that.”

Bill paused. He
seemed to have something in mind.

“Riley, I’ve got an
idea,” he said.

“What is it?” Riley
asked.

Another silence
fell.

“I’m still
processing it,” he said. “I’ll tell you when you get back. Will you be back in
Phoenix in time to meet me at headquarters at eight?”

“Sure,” Riley said.

“Then meet me there,”
Bill said.

They ended the call.
Riley wondered what Bill had in mind. Well, she’d find out soon enough. And in
her gut, she knew that something was about to break. Tonight, in fact. She was
absolutely sure of it.

Bill felt vaguely
sickened as he watched the girls at the shelter for teenagers. Brenda, the
resident social worker, had led him to the rec room. The girls inside were
talking, watching TV, playing games on cell phones, like any teenagers would.
But these kids weren’t ordinary.

This damned case,
he thought.

Over the years, he’d
come to think that he was immune to horror. But this place disturbed him
deeply. It was, after all, a halfway house for kids who’d escaped from hell—and
might yet go back there someday soon.

He looked at his
watch. He still had plenty of time before Riley got back. He’d make the
necessary arrangements for their meeting later. He hoped that his hunch was
right. He wanted to close this case as quickly as possible.

Meanwhile, there was
a girl to save. A girl just like these. But for all Bill knew, she might be
dead already.

He could see that a
few of the girls were visibly bruised. Most of them had a wary look that he
recognized as a sign of emotional bruising. All of them had been brought here
because they were novice prostitutes or had been trying to become prostitutes.
They’d been found wandering at the edges of a lifestyle that he and Riley had
seen too much of lately. The girls had already been victims of one kind or
another.

He remembered that
Riley had asked him to check on one in particular.

He asked Brenda, “Which
one is Jilly?”

The social worker
pointed her out—a skinny, dark-skinned youngster sitting at a table with a
group playing a card game. She clutched her own cards close to her chest.

“Your partner seems
attached to Jilly,” the social worker said.

“She is,” Bill
replied. Then he thought that a little explanation might be called for. “But
Agent Paige has a teenager of her own who’s been through some difficulties
recently.”

The woman nodded in
understanding. Bill thought about going over and introducing himself to Jilly
as Riley’s partner. But he had no idea how she might react. How would she feel
about being approached by a male FBI agent? It seemed best to keep his
distance, at least for now. But he could report to Riley that Jilly seemed to
be OK.

Brenda said, “When
you called you said you wanted us to check on another girl.”

“You may have heard
about a serial killer we’ve been tracking down,” Bill said.

Brenda nodded. “The
one who kills prostitutes.”

“That’s right,” Bill
said. “We’re afraid he’s picked up a runaway, a teenage girl.”

Brenda gasped. “They’re
so damn vulnerable. Who is the girl?”

“That’s the problem.
The FBI has mounted a search, but we don’t even have an ID on her. Just a vague
description. It might help if we knew more about her. It would be great if we
could find a picture.”

Brenda thought for a
moment.

“Yesterday, you
said? None of ours have gone missing in the past few days. But we get alerts
from all the shelters. Let’s go check.”

Brenda led Bill
straight to her office. She sat down at her computer and started to search.

“What do you know
about her?” she asked Bill.

Bill remembered some
details. Jewel, the prostitute who had witnessed her abduction, had given them
a description.

“She’s probably
about fourteen,” Bill said. “Five foot six, maybe a bit shorter. Blonde, blue
eyes, pale skin, thin. She was wearing a backpack.”

Brenda skimmed a list
of names.

“Here’s something
from yesterday,” she said. “Her name is Sandra Wuttke—Sandy, they call her. She
disappeared from a center on Windermere Avenue early yesterday morning. If she
was in one of our shelters, this has got to be her.”

Brenda clicked the
name and brought up a photo on the screen. It was a thin, blonde girl with a
defiant expression. Bill nodded. It certainly looked like the girl Jewel had
described.

Brenda dialed up the
center and got the director on the line. She put the call on speaker.

“Claudia, I’ve got
an FBI agent here with me,” she said. “Agent Bill Jeffreys. He’s worried about
a girl who fits Sandy Wuttke’s description. She might be in danger.”

Claudia’s voice
sounded worried.

“What kind of
danger?” she asked.

“I’m sorry to say
this,” Bill said. “But she may have been taken by the serial killer you may
have read about lately.”

“The man who’s
killing prostitutes?” Claudia said, her voice trembling with alarm. “But that
doesn’t make sense. Sandy’s not really a prostitute. She’s traded sex for rides
or food a couple of times. Then someone steered her here. But she’s been
restless. I wasn’t all that shocked when she took off.”

Bill asked, “Was she
wearing a backpack?”

“She was, according
to the girls who saw her leave. But I can’t believe she’s been taken by that
killer. Maybe she just went home. We haven’t had time to check. We’re so
understaffed. There are so many girls.”

Bill sensed that the
woman was trying not to believe the worst.

“Could you get me
information on her family?” he asked.

Brenda seemed to
looking into her own records.

“There’s only her
mother,” Claudia said. “Colleen Wuttke. She doesn’t have a phone. I could send
somebody to her house to check.”

“Thank you, but it’s
better if I go,” Bill said. “Forward everything you’ve got about her to the
local FBI. Brenda, jot down her address for me.”

Bill thanked both
women, and the call ended. Then, armed with the address for Sandra’s mother, he
left the shelter.

His feelings were
mixed. He was grateful that workers like these were here to help Jilly and
other youngsters.

But why are there
so many of these girls?
he wondered.
Why is it so easy for predators to find prey?

*

When Bill arrived at
the address, he saw that it was a rundown apartment building. Kids were playing
on the sidewalk, and some young guys sat around on the front steps. The guys
glared at him, but then looked away as he passed by them and entered the
building.

The dark stairs and
hallways were lit only by tiny windows at each landing. Apartment 4D was at the
end of the hallway on the fourth floor.

When he knocked, he
heard someone stirring inside. In a few moments a woman cracked the door open a
little and looked out at him.

“Oh,” she said with
a kind of trembling growl. “I was expecting … well, not you, anyway. Who the
hell are you?”

“Are you Colleen
Wuttke?” Bill asked.

“Yeah. Who wants to
know?”

Bill displayed his
badge through the narrow opening.

“I’m FBI Agent Bill
Jeffreys. I’d like to talk to you.”

Colleen Wuttke
seemed undecided whether to open the door or slam it in his face. Bill moved
his foot into the opening.

“Is your daughter
here? Sandy?”

“Not a chance.”

“Were you expecting
her just now?” he asked.

“Nope. Hoping for
someone else. And I don’t want to talk to you. If you try to come in here, I’ll
scream. Some big guys live around here, and they don’t like cops.”

Bill certainly wasn’t
afraid of the guys, but it wouldn’t help if she started screaming.

“I’m not here to
arrest anyone,” he said. “I just need some information.”

Suddenly she let go
of the door and backed away. She grumbled, “Hell, who am I kidding? Nobody’d
pay attention if I
did
scream.”

Bill pushed the door
gently and it creaked open. The woman standing inside was dressed in a
housecoat. She looked gaunt and weak, and her face was heavily pockmarked. Bill
immediately recognized the signs of longtime meth addiction.

He studied her face.
He didn’t see much resemblance to the girl in the picture. But he figured she
would be a blonde if she ever washed her hair.

He saw a room with a
beat-up couch that obviously doubled as a bed, a rickety table, a hot plate,
and a sink. A curtain hanging in a doorway was open enough to show a ratty
bathroom beyond. A single bed in an alcove to one side was littered with
clothes.

The woman watched
him look around. “This is all there is,” she said.

She plopped down on
the couch and sat facing him.

Bill said, “Your
daughter was staying in one of the city shelters for girls.”

“Was she?”

“Yes, but she ran
away.”

“Did she?”

As the woman talked,
Bill realized that she wasn’t as old as he had first thought. Meth had ruined
her appearance, but she was probably just about thirty. She must have been very
young when she had her daughter.

“When did you last
see your daughter?”

The woman’s face
went blank. Finally she said, “I have no idea when that was.”

With one hand she
played with the edge of her robe, pulling it open to show scrawny legs. Bill
realized that she was trying to flirt with him, and he felt revolted.

“So she hasn’t
contacted you recently?”

“Why would she do
that, anyhow?”

Bill didn’t know
what to say in reply.

“Sandy won’t never
be coming home,” Colleen Wuttke said.

She picked up a pair
of cheap-looking metal earrings from a table beside the sofa.

“I had a bunch of
these once, pretty things, all gold-toned and shaped like flowers. I got them
cheap from a guy and sold them sometimes for a little extra cash. She took a
ton of them right out of my collection. I guess she’s sold them all by now.
They ain’t worth nothing much, but she shouldn’t have stole it. Is that why you’re
looking for her? Did she steal something else?”

Bill was about to
tell her the truth—that Sandy might be in the clutches of a killer. But he was
seized by a gnawing sense of futility. There was no point in it. The woman
wouldn’t even care that her own daughter’s life was in danger.

He handed her a
card.

“If she ever
contacts you, call me,” he said.

“Oh, I’ll be sure to
do that,” the woman said. Bill heard a note of sarcasm in her voice.

Bill’s spirits
continued to sink as he walked down the apartment building’s stairs. He was
used to ugliness, and he was used to murder. But he was also used to being able
to keep count of the victims involved. Right now, the world seemed to be
positively littered with victims—if not of the killer, then of countless other
tormentors and abusers.

But now was no time
to let his feelings get the best of him. Riley would be back soon. And if Bill’s
hunch was correct, they’d be wrapping up this case this very night.