Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) (25 page)

"This is three Frank sixteen," a voice crackled over the radio. "We have a suspect running south from the Senior Citizen's Center on Fulton toward the buffalo enclosure. Male, five-ten to six feet, thirty to thirty-five. Suspect was wearing a blond wig. He dropped it about ten yards back."

"That's him," Jordan announced.

"This is three Frank four. We are moving east on John F. Kennedy Drive. Suspect is in sight."

Casey could hear the blare of the sirens.

The radio crackled, and Casey heard the clapping of shoes against the pavement. "Freeze," someone yelled.

The clapping sped up, and she could hear an officer swearing.

"Do you have the suspect?" Jordan asked into his radio.

"Suspect in sight fifty yards ahead," came the breathy response.

The clapping continued for another thirty seconds, Casey's pulse matching its quick stride. Finally there was a shuffle on the radio, and two voices in the background. A loud slap sounded followed by a moan. Casey closed her eyes, cringing as she waited for the sounds of gunshot. None came. The radio was quiet.

Jordan stood and ran toward the police car parked on the road behind them.

Casey stood and ran after him as much to keep close to his radio as to find out where he was going.

"Suspect is in custody," an officer announced over the radio.

The group let out a whoop as though they were sitting in someone's living room, drinking beer and watching the Super Bowl.

Casey got into the car and stared into the darkness, her mind full of questions, her stomach tight with knots.

Jordan started the car and turned it around, heading out in the opposite direction. "You think it's him?"

Casey didn't answer. Gripping the dash, she felt the pain in her hands as though at that very instant Leonardo were severing her tendons with his knife.

Anger flashed like lightning in her chest, igniting a blaze of emotion. If she met him eye to eye, she'd want to kill him. Could she pull the trigger?

Chapter 22

Jordan stared at the scrawny teenager seated across from him. "I want you to tell me everything from the second this man approached you."

"Well, I was walking through the park." The kid fumbled with a button on his faded surfer shirt and avoided looking Jordan in the eye.

"Be more specific."

The boy practically jumped at the sound of Jordan's angry voice. "I was walking along JFK, just thinking, you know. You see, my girlfriend dumped me—her old man thinks all surfers are punks." The kid shook his head.

"Keep it focused."

The kid glanced up and nodded quickly, shifting in his seat. "I was walking past the Buffalo Enclosure toward North Lake. I live on Cabrillo at Forty-fifth, so I cut through the park all the time," he added.

"And the guy?"

"He jogged up to me, wearing running clothes. Looked like a good runner, you know. Lean and athletic. My brother's like that—runs marathons. You'd think he was skinny until you see him in shorts. He has really strong legs."

"The guy's a runner," Jordan said, redirecting. The muscles cramped as he tried to loosen his clenched jaw. He couldn't believe they had the wrong guy. But the kid he was looking at now couldn't possibly be the killer. He was too young, too clueless.

Still, Jordan was running his license through the system and then calling his parents. He wasn't going to chance it. But everything in his gut said no.

"He came running up and pulled out this wig. He said he was playing a joke on his brother, wanted me to wear it."

"What sort of joke did he say he was playing?"

The kid squirmed slightly and shook his head. "He didn't say."

Jordan exhaled. "What did he say?"

"He offered me a hundred bucks to wear this wig out of the park. Told me to head to the corner of Fulton and Fortieth. His brother would see me there."

"Did he tell you why his brother would think this was funny?"

The kid stared at the button on his shirt.

"I said did he tell you—"

"I asked," the kid responded, meeting Jordan's gaze for the first time. "He said it was a family joke, that if I wanted the cash I had to go right then."

"So you took the cash?"

The kid nodded. "I didn't see the harm. Shit, man, I thought it was a joke. Then, I get up to the senior center and some cop turns right toward me with his lights on. Told me to stop. Scared the hell out of me, and I took off."

"Why'd you run?"

"I panicked."

"Why would you panic unless you knew you were in trouble?"

The kid didn't respond.

Jordan leaned forward, tired and losing his patience. "What had you done wrong?"

"Nothing. I didn't do anything. I just got scared."

"Why were you scared?"

"I don't know. For a second, I thought maybe part of the joke involved the police. But there were so many cops. I didn't want anything to do with that. I got in trouble a couple times in junior high and high school. I've seen juvie. That was enough for me. I'm straight now, I swear."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Smoking reefer mostly. My friend and I sold a little, but mostly to friends. I swear it. I haven't smoked in months."

Jordan stood from the table, pushing the chair screeching back against the linoleum floor as he moved.

"Can I go?"

"I'm not done with you yet."

"I told you everything," the kid said, his voice rising in panic. "Where are you going?"

"I'll be back."

"When?" he asked, his voice an octave higher than it had been.

Jordan slammed the door and turned to see Casey watching through the two-sided mirror.

"It's not him, Gray."

Jordan slammed his fist against the wall.

"This guy's good," Casey said. "I should've known he wouldn't make a mistake like this. He was setting us up. After that first false alarm, I got excited about this one. It's my fault. He wasn't one of the security volunteers. He probably suspected what we were doing and decided to play his own part in the game. Pretending to be one of the victims' parents was an even better way to be in the middle of the action."

"It's not your fault," Jordan said, his tone as tight as his throat.

Casey put her hand on his shoulder. "We'll get him."

Jordan raked a hand across the stubble on his chin, trying to remember when he'd last shaved, or what day it was, for that matter. Had Angie and the boys left only this morning? It felt like weeks ago. He glanced at his watch. He couldn't let this guy go. What if he was wrong? Could the stupid kid in there be masking a monster? "Where are the lab results on the last scenes?"

"Came in late last night," Officer Ellis said in a husky voice. Her petite size and frame were a contradiction to her deep voice. Ellis handed him a file and waited as he opened it. "The crime tape isn't traceable."

Duct tape was so common at crime scenes, officers had started to call it crime tape. He knew it couldn't be traced. "Can we confirm if the pieces came from the same roll?"

Ellis nodded. "We were hoping to prove that the pieces of tape used in the third murder were sequential to the pieces used in the fourth crime. But the ends don't match. He must've used the tape somewhere else."

"Or he threw a piece away or someone else had access to it. There are a thousand possibilities," Jordan said, too tired to pretend to be patient. "Can they confirm that the pieces come from the same roll?"

"The report says the lab can confirm that the pieces were produced within the same hour. For anything closer, we need additional tests from the FBI lab."

Jordan shook his head. "That's close enough. What about something that will help us find this guy: prints, hair, fibers, DNA?"

Ellis's mouth shrank into a thin line, and Jordan knew the news was not good.

"No prints, no hair. Fibers are consistent with car carpeting—"

"Color?"

Ellis frowned. "Black."

"That's half the cars in this city."

"Only thirty percent, actually. These fibers are less than a year old. That reduced the number to six percent or five thousand vehicles if we limit the search to San Francisco proper."

"Shit," Jordan said. "I suppose it would be too much to ask for body fluid."

"No semen, no body fluid, sir. No sign of sexual penetration, so we don't expect to find much there. We did find blood on the sheet with the black girl's body that isn't consistent with her blood type." Ellis turned the page on the report Jordan was holding and pointed midway down the page. "The girl's blood type is B. The blood found on the sheet is O."

"What about the other victims?"

"Both white girls were O as well."

"So it could be blood from a previous murder."

"Possibly. The lab is running tests to compare."

Jordan nodded and handed the file back to Ellis.

"I have some thoughts," Casey said, coming up behind Jordan when Ellis was out of earshot.

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"We can talk about it tomorrow," Casey suggested. "But we should print the bag and everything in it. Maybe he was careless there. Hair, too—especially on that jacket."

"It's being done," Jordan mumbled, thinking about what a wild-goose chase the vigil had been. Maybe it had been a mistake to bring McKinley into this. Maybe she was too emotionally involved in this case. He was beginning to lose sight of things, too. He hadn't slept or eaten.

"I also think we should take this kid and get an artist with him. We can use the sketch from Billy and see what things are similar. If he was dressed as a runner tonight, he didn't have room for much of a disguise. Maybe we can learn something new."

"This isn't
your
case," he finally said.

Casey stopped and stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, this is my case. I need to decide—"

Casey scowled, contempt flashing in her eyes like flames. "You came to me for help. I didn't seek you out. Now you want to tell me this is your case?"

"I'm in charge. I have to decide where—"

"Jordan," Renee called. "Angie's on line two."

Jordan wished he could tell Renee that he'd call Angie back, but it was already late. "I'll be right there."

Casey glared as he walked away. He never had figured out how to say the right thing to women. "Hi, baby," he said to his wife.

"How's your day been?"

"Not too bad," he lied. "How was the flight home?"

"Ryan had a terrible earache; he cried the whole way home. Will was a doll, though—told him jokes and tried to help him clear his ears. I think he has an ear infection. You know, it's a lot colder up there than you'd think. The change in temperature can make you sick, I'm convinced.

"So I have to take him to the doctor tomorrow morning. Mom says he'll be fine. She says I'm being overly protective. What do you think?"

Jordan rubbed his temples. What did he know? "I'm sure Ryan'll be fine."

"You don't think I should take him to the doctor?"

Jordan shook his head. "I don't know, Angie." He tried to think of something helpful to say. Instead, he found himself aggravated to be wasting time talking about an earache when he had a child killer on the loose. With a deep breath, he gathered his thoughts and said, "Is he feverish?"

"No."

"Then, he'll be fine."

"I think he should go to the doctor. Ear infections can be serious. He could lose his hearing."

"Then, take him to the doctor."

"Don't you take that tone, Jordan. You're his father. I thought you might be concerned about his health."

"Of course I'm concerned, but you're with him. If you think he should go to the doctor, then take him."

"Mom says that if the boys were living with their father, they wouldn't be sick at all."