Spider's Web (30 page)

It didn’t help that Zoe was wrong—they didn’t make a great team at all.

Detective partners developed a routine of questioning. Everyone knew the “good cop, bad cop” routine, but it was just one of many. Mitchell and Jacob were “cold cop, warm cop,” with Jacob questioning about the hard facts, and then Mitchell taking control of the conversation, with his sorrowful eyes understanding and kind. Hannah and Bernard had a routine that could best be described as “human cop, Incredible Hulk cop,” as Hannah performed the entire interrogation calmly until, at a moment of impasse, Bernard would explode with rage, extracting a confession from the terrified suspect.

Mitchell and Zoe had not yet developed a routine, and their natural chemistry was pretty much crap. At first, Mitchell thought they were simply like oil and water, two professionals who did not mix well. Later, he began to suspect a better analogy would be a dieting book and a chocolate cake, or running shoes and an elegant suit. Two things that actively negated each other and disrupted each other’s efforts.

In one interview, a tearful woman told them how Gwen had confided in her that someone had been following her. Mitchell was holding her hand, leaning forward, his face full of compassion as she told them what a burden the memory had been all these years.

And then Zoe asked, her voice dry, why the woman hadn’t mentioned it before. The spell was broken. The woman fumbled for an explanation, and finally said she wasn’t sure she was remembering right. Then she recalled that she had to take her boy to a piano lesson. When Mitchell confronted Zoe, she said the woman was just inventing tales to feel important. Mitchell suspected this was true, but he asked Zoe to shut the hell up next time.

A few hours later, they were interviewing a man who thought he remembered Jovan. He was talking endlessly, just to fill in the silence. Whenever he stopped, Zoe repeated the last sentence he’d said, and he would start anew. But Mitchell grew impatient with the man’s long, winding stories about cafeteria food and their strange-smelling history teacher, and he asked point blank what the man remembered of Jovan. After a second, the man said he didn’t remember much, really. The rest of the interview was halting and pointless. Zoe said nothing when they left, but Mitchell could feel her judgmental vibes as they got into the car.

Some of the people they questioned had their yearbooks available. They were all happy to talk about Gwen’s disappearance, contributing their own theories, which ranged from her eloping with a sailor to her being kidnapped by a secret cell of Russian spies. When pointed to Jovan’s picture, some would blink and shrug, while others would frown and say hesitantly that they thought they remembered seeing him around. No one connected Jovan to Gwen.

“Let’s try to zoom out a bit,” Mitchell said. They were sitting in Raul’s Cafe, taking a short break. Mitchell was sipping an Americano, while Zoe ignored her cafe latte and messed around with a cinnamon roll, which she was slowly taking apart with her fingers. Mitchell tried to concentrate on his thoughts, but the cinnamon roll massacre in front of him was distracting.

“Yeah, sure, okay,” Zoe said. “Zoom out. What do you mean?”

“Let’s stick to the facts. What do we think happened?” Mitchell asked, prying his stare from Zoe’s sticky fingers.

“We think that Jovan killed Gwen, and kept a lock of her hair as a souvenir in his home,” Zoe said.

“Are we sure that’s what happened?” Mitchell asked. “Could he have killed a different redhead?”

“That’s your department,” Zoe said. “I just make up amusing psychological theories.”

“Well…” Mitchell raised a finger. “We don’t really know how old that hair is, nor do we have DNA proof that it was Gwen’s. But it seems like the most plausible explanation. We have a missing redheaded girl. We have a serial killer who went to school with her. We have a lock of red hair in the killer’s apartment which really seems to match her hair color. I’m sold on the Jovan killed Gwen theory.”

“Me too,” Zoe said, finally putting a piece of the roll in her mouth. “Okay, wess affume that Jova—”

“I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” Mitchell interrupted. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk about serial killers with your mouth full?”

Zoe chewed a bit, lifting her finger as if to claim the next sentence in the conversation for herself. Mitchell drank the rest of his Americano in one gulp. He was drinking a lot more coffee these days. He was hardly sleeping.

Finally, Zoe swallowed her bite, sipped noisily from her mug, and said, “Let’s assume that Jovan killed Gwen.”

“Right.” Mitchell nodded. “But is that really interesting?”

“Yes,” Zoe said. “It’s the murder that molded him into—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. But apart from that. We have no witnesses, any evidence is gone, and even if we found out what happened, it probably won’t help us find him now.”

“Stop trying to cheer me up,” Zoe muttered.

“Let’s talk about the second murder for a bit, okay?”

“The second… you mean Isabella Garcia?”

“No. I mean his wife. He probably killed his wife, right?”

“Probably,” Zoe said.

“Do you think he killed anyone between Gwen and his wife?” Mitchell asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. But suppose he didn’t.” Zoe thought for a moment. “We know that his wife disappeared, and then all those girls start dying. One after the other. And he’s accelerating. Yes, I think he was dormant for all those years. I think he killed his wife, and she was his second victim.”

“You can’t do that,” Mitchell said impatiently. “You can’t conjecture a whole story without a shred of evidence, and then say that’s what happened.”

“Why not?”

“It’s unprofessional.”

“I think you’re just unimaginative,” Zoe said, her eyes twinkling at him infuriatingly. “Fine. Let’s assume for a minute that his wife was his second victim, okay?”

“Great, let’s.” Mitchell said. “So why don’t we investigate that murder?”

“Well…” Zoe seemed unhappy. “We agreed we’d investigate Gwen’s murder, remember? Because it’s what molded him into—”

“Zoe, I’m going to say something, and I need you to not get up and throw a fit, okay?”

Zoe nodded silently.

“I don’t give a damn about what molded him, okay? I just want to catch the guy. I’m not shitting on your job. You’re amazing, and you have great instincts, and you’re probably right about everything, but we need to stop him. And investigating a thirty-year old murder won’t do that.”

“Okay,” Zoe said. “So what do you want to do?”

“We’re investigating in the wrong place,” Mitchell said. “We should be looking in Boston, talking to people who knew his wife and him.”

“Bernard and Hannah already did that.”

“They never finished,” Mitchell pointed out. “They got called back.”

Zoe thought for a moment, licking crumbs off her finger. Mitchell stared at her mouth, transfixed. Finally, she leaned back and wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Okay,” she said. “But if we’re going to Boston, it’s not because of all of what you just said. It’s because when he killed his wife, that’s when something truly woke up in him. That first murder was just a fluke. The second murder created his compulsion.”

“Sure,” Mitchell grinned. “Whatever rocks your boat.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mitchell called Meredith Johnson, who had reported her sister Wanda missing when she disappeared two years earlier. Meredith said she could actually meet them that very evening. Zoe said they would take her car. They’d been using Mitchell’s car in Glenmore Park, but Boston was Zoe’s city and Mitchell didn’t want to argue. He had a feeling that if he argued, Zoe would say he just didn’t want to let a woman drive. And she’d probably back it up with psychology. No, it was probably better to take Zoe’s car.

She switched on the radio, turning it to WJMN. Mitchell was about to say something condescending, but caught himself just in time.

Traffic was relatively sparse, and Mitchell realized he was slowly relaxing. Zoe was lost in thought, half smiling as she drove, her face distant. Mitchell watched her for a few seconds, surprised at how sweet she seemed when she wasn’t staring at him with her eagle eyes. Her lips were pink and soft, and he caught himself wondering what it would feel like to kiss them.

“Oh, I love this song!” she suddenly said, and turned the volume up.

“What…
It’s Gonna Be Forever
?” Mitchell asked, bemused.

“It’s actually called
Blank Space
,” Zoe said.

“Are you—”

“Shhhhh.”

“Seriously? I mean—”

She turned the volume up a bit more. “Shut up!” she said, grinning, her head bobbing with the beat. She began to sing along, her features softening as she lost herself in the music.

As she got to the middle of the chorus, Mitchell burst out laughing.

“What?” she said playfully. “Do you have a problem with my voice?”

“Did you just sing ‘Got a list of Starbucks lovers’?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Awesome.”

“What? Those are the words.”

“Oh, definitely,” Mitchell nodded, his face suddenly serious. “Starbucks lovers.”

“Yeah! They’re like… y’know. Cheap lovers. Like the coffee you get in Starbucks. A guilty pleasure.”

“U-huh.”

“You didn’t even know the name of the song!” Zoe said.

“No, no, you’re definitely right. You know what I think? I think you should go to a karaoke bar and sing this song. In front of a large crowd. You sing it really well.”

“Are you messing with me?”

“Absolutely not! Just make sure you sing the line with the Starbucks lovers.”

“Those are the words!”

Mitchell burst out laughing again.

They fell silent, listening to the music for a bit.

“So… How’d you end up a cop?” she asked.

“Well… my father was a defense attorney,” Mitchell said. “So I guess I was exposed to a lot of really depressing stories when I was young. Criminals who never got a second chance, cops who abused their role, and a crappy system that didn’t really work. When Richard and I—”

“Who’s Richard?”

“My twin brother,” Mitchell answered. “When Richard and I grew up, we both kind of wanted to fix things. So I became a cop, and he became a defense attorney, like Dad was.”

“Are you guys close?”

“Richard and I? Yeah. He also lives in Glenmore Park. He’s kind of pissed off at me right now.”

“Why?”

“Because Tanessa got hurt.”

“How is that your fault?”

“It is.”

“Your brother sounds just as dumb as you are.”

“I’m usually considered to be the dumbest of the siblings,” Mitchell said cheerfully. “What about you? How did you become a Fed?”

“I’m not really a Fed; I’m just a consultant for the bureau.”

“Whatever. You’re still a suit. How did you become an FBI consultant?”

“Too much TV, I guess,” Zoe said. “I always thought it would be really awesome, working for the FBI.”

“And isn’t it?”

“Sometimes. I don’t know. I definitely like this case.”

They became silent. Mitchell preferred not to talk about the case, enjoying the intimacy of their conversation. He didn’t want Jovan Stokes to ruin it.

“Why did you and Pauline break up?” Zoe asked, and quickly added, “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. Just tell me to shut up.”

“No, it’s okay,” Mitchell said. “I have no idea. Apparently she thought we’ve been drifting apart for a while.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I was about to propose to her. I bought the ring and everything.”

“Aw, crap. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Zoe put her right hand on his knee and smiled at him. “She sounds stupid.”

“Yeah?” Mitchell said, his leg tingling at the touch. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

She took her hand off his knee and put it back on the steering wheel. The rest of the drive was quiet, and Mitchell found himself glancing at her every few minutes, just to look at her again.

When they reached Meredith Johnson’s home, it was almost nine in the evening. Mitchell felt a pang of regret when the car stopped. He had enjoyed the calm ride, the complete release, his endless spinning thoughts slowing down to a casual pace. Now, as they looked at the red brick row house in which Meredith lived, he felt his mind accelerate again, a jumble of racing feelings and images screaming in his mind. Jovan Stokes attacking Tanessa, the police failing to protect her, guilt over his own failure—they all started whirring again. Looming above all this was a constant cloud of longing for Pauline.

“Shall we?” Zoe asked. She was frowning, looking at him, and he wondered if his feelings were so obviously written on his face.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, and they got out of the car.

Meredith opened the door for them and led them to a small, cozy living room. It reminded Mitchell of his grandmother’s home, which he’d visited almost every Christmas as a kid. Meredith herself was about fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair. Her face was plain and covered with pale makeup; her mascara and lipstick fought one another for dominance. Her eyes were large and blue, and it wasn’t clear why she covered her face with so many colors that would attract attention away from them. They sat down, Meredith on a rocking chair, Mitchell and Zoe on the scarlet couch. For a moment they both tried to sit on the left edge of the couch, closer to Meredith. Then Mitchell shot Zoe a look, and she relented, letting him sit closer.

“Meredith, we wanted to ask you a few questions about your sister, and about Jovan Stokes,” Mitchell said.

“Sure,” she said. “The police suddenly took interest lately, after ignoring me for two years. They already asked me everything.”

“Who did?” Mitchell asked.

“Two detectives came here a few days ago. A black guy and a skinny woman. They asked a lot of questions about Jovan,” Meredith said.