Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) (28 page)

She followed the sound of thunking cabinets and found him in the kitchen with his cell phone pressed to his ear. He looked her up and down as he continued his conversation, which seemed to be with one of his men and seemed to concern a shipment of ammunition.

His hair was damp from the shower, and he was in commando gear again. His laptop sat open on the counter and an Army-green duffel was parked beside the door. Tara glanced out the window and saw his truck pulled up to the house beside her SUV, meaning he’d moved it since last night. How long had he been up? And why hadn’t she noticed?

She dropped her boots onto the floor and bent down to put them on.

“Okay, later,” he said, ending the call. He shut down his computer, and then his gaze settled on her. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She eyed his fresh black T-shirt with envy. He was all cleaned up, and she looked like a pile of laundry.

“I’m out of coffee.”

“It’s fine.”

“Cereal’s about it,” he said, carrying a bowl to the sink.

“I’m good.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to get going, actually.”

He leaned back against the counter and looked at her.

She held his gaze, hoping she projected more confidence than she felt.

He nodded at her mud-caked boots. “Where’d you go yesterday?”

“To interview Joe Giroux.” She hooked her thumbs into her pockets. “He’s quite a character.”

“You shouldn’t go into the woods alone.”

“I was with Ingram.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You trust him?”

She started to respond, then caught herself. “I don’t know. He seems . . . manipulative.”

“He is.”

He turned and dropped his cereal bowl into the sink as Tara’s phone vibrated with an incoming text. She pulled it from her pocket and read a message from M.J. She was already at the diner waiting, which was not good news because Tara desperately needed a shower.

“You ready?”

She glanced up. “Yeah.”

He stepped past her and grabbed the duffel off the floor. From the way his muscles bunched she could tell it was heavy, and she wondered where he was off to today. He opened the door, and they stepped into the cold morning air.

“You in town all day?” he asked, walking her to her SUV.

“Yes. Probably.” She pulled open her door and turned around, feeling flustered. “Actually, I don’t know. It depends.”

He slid an arm around her waist and kissed her. It was brief but warm, and she had to resist the urge to wrap her arms around him.

He nodded at the holster on her hip. “When’s the last time you practiced?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Three weeks?”

“That’s too long.” He opened the door of his truck and retrieved something from the console. “Here,” he said, handing her a black device the size of a key fob.

“What’s this?”

“Gate pass. You can come in and out, use the range whenever you want.”

“It’s fine. I use the range near the office.” She handed it back.

He looked down at her a moment, then tossed the device back into his truck. “Don’t go in the woods alone.” He unlocked the toolbox behind the cab as she watched him with a prickle of annoyance. “You need someone to go with you, call me. Or Jeremy. Or Lopez should be here, too, if we’re gone.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

He hefted the duffel into the toolbox. “Not a babysitter, a guide.”

“I don’t need a guide, either. I don’t need—”

“You don’t need anything from me! I know.”

She blinked up at him, startled.

“I know you don’t
need
me, Tara.” He huffed out a breath and glared down at her. “I want you to want me anyway.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

He slammed the toolbox shut and got behind the wheel. He gave her a hard look as he fired up the engine.

She stepped back from the door.

“Be careful today,” he told her.

“I will.”

M.J. WAS AT
the diner’s crowded counter, where she’d managed to save Tara a seat. A hot cup of coffee was already waiting there, and Tara picked it up as she claimed the stool.

“Check it out,” M.J. said cheerfully, sliding a stack of papers in front of her.

“What’s this?”

“A little court order to go with your morning java.”

Nerves flitted in Tara’s stomach as she skimmed the document, which had Liam’s name on top and had been signed by a judge. Tara hated writing up warrants. M.J. had offered, and considering her legal background, Tara had been more than happy to let her take a crack at it.

“You decided to go for everything,” Tara said.

“I figured why not?” M.J. flagged the waitress. The restaurant was packed with out-of-towners, and Jeannie looked overwhelmed. “We may not get another shot at this. And I wanted access to everything we could get in case what we need isn’t in an obvious place. Plus, there’s always the possibility someone’s gone in and tried to erase records. Our guys can recover anything as long as we have the hardware.”

Tara read the document, sipping the coffee that would do nothing to settle her stomach. Seizing Liam’s computers, not to mention scouring them for deleted files, sounded so adversarial. Tara had really hoped to go over there and sit down at his desk and let him simply pull up the personnel records for her to examine.

“Excuse me?” M.J. waved down the waitress. “I ordered a bagel a while ago and—”

“It’s coming, hon.” She stopped to top off the coffees. “We got a waitress running late and an oven on the fritz. And today of all days—we’re stuffed to the gills.” She looked at Tara. “What about you? You want a muffin? A biscuit?”

“Just coffee for me, thanks.”

“So, what’s wrong?” M.J. asked Tara. “You don’t agree with my strategy?”

“No, this is good.” For the case, at least.

“I thought better safe than sorry, right?”

“You’re right,” Tara said. “I’m just surprised a judge went for this. You used the criminal profile as part of the probable cause. Not exactly standard procedure.”

“I know.” M.J. smiled, and Tara could tell she was proud of herself. “I’m glad it worked, too. The word
profile
sends a lot of judges running for the hills. Thing is, this guy’s local and he wants to see this case solved, like everyone else. If you believe the media hype, we don’t even have any suspects yet.”

It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t far from it, either. Their suspect list was alarmingly short, but Liam’s personnel records could yield a treasure trove of new leads.

Or so Tara hoped.

“Then what’s the problem?” M.J. asked. “You’re holding something back.”

Tara looked at her. “It’s just—what if he’s right?”

“Who, Liam?”

“Yeah. He insists he really knows all these men. You think he hasn’t been through the possibilities on his own?”

“Yeah, but that’s the whole point,” M.J. said. “He
knows
them. Probably knows them personally in a lot of cases, especially if they served in the military together. That gives him a blind spot. No one wants to think they made a mistake, had bad instincts about people. I mean, the man commands big bucks to provide security. You think he wants to believe he could have hired some psychopath? Just the press coverage alone would crush his business.” M.J. paused, searching Tara’s face. “Look, if you’re afraid to serve him, I’ll do it.”

“No, I’ll do it.” Tara slid the paperwork back.

“You sure? I’ve served papers before. I really don’t mind.” She gave Tara a pointed look. “I don’t have quite the same
personal
connection, so—”

“I’ll do it,” Tara said tersely. “It was my idea anyway.”

M.J.’s food arrived, and Tara sipped her coffee, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in her stomach. M.J. was right. She was letting personal feelings get in the way of her professional responsibilities.

Was that what Liam had intended all along? Was everything between them just some grand manipulation?

She didn’t want to think that way, but she couldn’t help it—it was how her mind worked. Distrust was deeply ingrained. Liam had said himself that sex was the mother of all distractions, so maybe last night had been about distracting her from her objective.

Her phone chimed, and she dug it out of her pocket. Not Liam, but almost.

“I have some updates,” Mark said. “You have a minute?”

“Yeah.” Tara slid off her stool. She motioned to M.J. that she needed to take the call and then squeezed her way through the breakfast crowd and stepped into the chilly air.

“What’s up?” she asked, her gaze automatically scanning the parking lot for a black Silverado.

“I’ve been fleshing out the profile.”

“Okay.”

“Are you familiar with the concept of high-risk versus low-risk victims?”

“I think so. Refresh me.”

“The higher-risk a victim’s lifestyle, the lower-risk she is to the offender who targets her. In other words, he can more easily carry out the crime and get away with it. So in the first two instances the victim’s lifestyle made her a relatively easy target for a predator. Drug use, criminal activity, prostitution. All of those are risk factors that tell us something about the UNSUB,” he said. “These victims are easy targets, and I believe he considers them disposable women.”

“Disposable.” The word put a burn in her throat.

“That’s the way he thinks,” Mark said.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see who’s disposable. He’s doing this in a death penalty state.”

“The point I’m making is his MO is shifting. Most recently he picked Catalina, a victim who didn’t have those risk factors at all. It shows an important shift. We’re not sure why the change, but my theory is he wasn’t getting the attention he needed from the first victims.”

“He had to up the ante.”

“Right,” Mark said. “We also need to focus on the timeline. That could provide a significant clue to the investigation.”

“How?”

“Well, we have to start with the assumption that we’ve recovered all the bodies,” he said. “Which may not turn out to be the case. But we’re limited to what we know, which is that a forensic anthropologist looking at all the known remains puts the first murder back last February. That could be important.”

“Because it’s when he started?”

“Exactly. These types of offenders, the impulse to kill, to hurt, is something that’s been inside them for years. Often it starts in childhood. It builds over time and by the time one of these offenders graduates to murder you can bet he’s already got a history of violence, either reported or unreported. But what prompts that leap? The leap from, say, assaulting his wife or some guy in a bar to actually picking up a woman with the intent to kill and mutilate?”

“You’re talking about a triggering incident,” she said.

“In this case, I can guarantee you it’s some sort of rejection. It could be a layoff, a divorce, a breakup. The point is, something happened that set him off, and you need to keep that in mind as you work through your suspect list. There’s always a stressor.”

Tara stood on the busy sidewalk, her hair whipping around her shoulders, as she digested everything he’d said.

“Jacobs told me he put you in charge of the task force,” Mark said. “Congratulations.”

She scoffed. It didn’t seem like something to celebrate.

“Have you convened your team yet today?” he asked.

“We plan to meet at ten.”

“If you can make it eleven I’d like to be there. I’d like to talk to your team. I believe this UNSUB is going to try to insert himself into the investigation somehow, if he hasn’t already. He needs the attention. It’s part of what drives him. Your people have to be prepared.”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t know how her team would feel about some profiler sitting in on their meeting. She didn’t even know how
she
felt about it.

“It’s important they understand who this is if they want a shot at finding him, Tara. This UNSUB is evasive and exceptionally brutal. And we don’t have time to waste here. None at all.”

“You’re saying—”

“He’s escalating. The gap between victims is closing, and he’s becoming fearless. His first few kills went virtually unnoticed, but with Catalina Reyes he accomplished something important—he attracted media attention. Now all the press he’s getting is just feeding his ego. He thrives on it.”

“I know.” Tara understood it instinctively, without having to be told. It was why she’d been determinedly avoiding the media and instructing everyone on the task force to do the same.

“What that means for you,” Mark continued, “is you need to double down your efforts, be aggressive, don’t get bogged down with red tape.”

She bristled. “I’m doing my best.”

“This requires a new best.”

“I don’t need—”

“You’re wrong,” he said firmly. “You need all the help you can get, from anywhere you can get it, so lose the pride, all right? I was in your shoes once, Tara. I understand what you’re up against.”

Her throat felt tight. Her shoulders, her stomach. She could feel the tension coursing through her body.

“Every now and then a case comes along and it requires you to work faster and smarter than ever before,” he said. “It’s a push.”

“I realize that.”

“Good. You all need to realize it. Because now that he’s done this, it defines him. He’s got a taste for it now, and he’s not going to stop.”

LIAM’S GATES SLID
open when Tara arrived. She didn’t see his truck around, but Jeremy met her on the front porch with what passed for a friendly nod.

All trace of friendliness evaporated when she produced the search warrant.

Without waiting for a reaction, Tara strode past him and went to work in Liam’s office. The paper files were surprisingly minimal, mostly invoices related to improvements around the ranch. But she found three thumb drives, which she collected in evidence envelopes as Jeremy watched her from the doorway with cold, flat eyes.

Next, the CPUs. He had two systems, and she loaded both into her backseat, leaving the monitors behind. She returned to the desk and checked the drawers again to make sure she hadn’t missed something.