The Survivor (25 page)

8:45 A.M. SATURDAY

T
igo reviewed Carolyn Hopkins’s recorded interview for the second time while he waited for her arrival. He wanted to reevaluate her nonverbal communication. Deceit crept through her body language. She knew something about the Yeat car bombing, and her efforts to conceal that knowledge rode a tailwind of fear. During the initial interview, her feet had angled toward the door as though she might make a run for it. She’d paused in her conversation, leading him to believe her thoughts ran with the truth while her mouth uttered denial. She also played with her hair, and her nail biting could either be a habit that stemmed from drug use or another sign of lying.

Ryan stepped into the interview room. “Hopkins is being brought to us now. Did you see anything else?”

“Enough to confirm that my initial instincts were right. She knows something, but she’s more afraid of her so-called business associates than she is of the FBI.”

“I noticed the typical signs too. Hard to tell since she was high. Must have taken a hit right before she was picked up.”

“After sitting in jail, she’ll need a fix. I want to question her about a few other things too. She talked about packing a handgun because she needed protection. Let’s probe that further.” Tigo considered the woman’s lengthy record. “Why don’t you question her this time?”

“All right.” Ryan handed Tigo his iPad. “Hope you can take notes as well as I can.”

“Watch me. Lightning fingers here.”

The door opened, and Carolyn Hopkins was ushered inside. Her features were more drawn than during the previous interview, and she’d definitely lost weight.

She glared at Tigo. “Why do you want to talk to me again?”

“It’s your delightful company.”

“Liar. I have things to do.”

“You mean chattin’ with all your friends in jail? Braggin’ about all the money you almost made?” Tigo pointed to the chair. “I’m letting Agent Steadman talk to you today. He missed out last time.”

Tigo sat beside Ryan on the opposite side of the table.

Ryan leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “We believe you know more about the Yeat car bombing than what you told us.”

“What makes you think that?” She shifted in her chair.

“One of your friends indicated otherwise.”

“No one knows anything about it.”

“You’re the only one who has information?”

She coughed. “Can I have some water?”

Tigo bit back a remark. The cough was fake.

“We’ll get you something in a few minutes. What do you know about the Semtex bomber?” Ryan said.

“Nothing.”

“Now, Carolyn, let’s get past the lying and help each other.”

“What’s in it for me?” Her time in jail hadn’t changed her priorities since their last meeting.

“What do you want?”

“To visit my daughter, I think.” She nodded as though attempting to convince herself. “If I don’t make an effort to see her, she’ll be put up for adoption.”

“Is that what you want?” Ryan said.

“I’m not sure.” She stared at her hands.

“I have a daughter,” Ryan said. “A son too. Carolyn, you have to choose what’s best for her.”

She pressed her lips together. “Probably not being associated with her mother. I don’t want her using drugs, sleeping around … in jail and afraid.”

Ryan leaned forward. “Then you know the right answer.”

She nodded. “If I help, will you talk to the judge? I hate being back in prison.”

“Yes. We’ll see if the sentence for breaking your parole can be shortened. What’s important here is stopping the Semtex bomber before anyone else is killed. Remember, one of the victims was an eleven-year-old girl. We also think he assaulted a nine-year-old girl twenty-three years ago.”

A muscle twitched in Carolyn’s right cheek. “He raped a child?”

“And slit her throat. Left her in a field to bleed out, but she survived. It was her car in the second bombing.”

Carolyn stiffened. “My daughter’s six. She’s in a good foster home. They put her in a private school, and she’s even taking dancing lessons.”

“I understand the family wants to adopt her.”

Carolyn nodded. “They don’t have any kids. Think of my little girl as their own. I know they’d never let anyone hurt her.”

“Neither would the parents of the other two little girls. Carolyn, we need to stop this guy before any other innocent children are killed.”

Indecision rolled over her face. Ryan glanced at Tigo, but he wanted Ryan to finish the interview. His gentle mannerisms had accomplished more than Tigo had expected.

“Okay. All I know is Pablo Martinez sold Semtex. I don’t know who bought it or why he wanted Jonathan Yeat dead.”

“So Jonathan was the target? Not his wife and daughter?”

She glanced away. “Yes,” she whispered. “Pablo’s dead too. Made me wonder if the bomber killed him. He could come after me too.”

Tigo remembered his stake-out the previous Wednesday—the way Pablo Martinez, Pablo’s girlfriend, and another gang
member had all had their throats slit. Their autopsies had also shown heavy doses of cocaine and alcohol.

“Is that why you left the state?”

She rubbed her hands together. “I made a few other people upset too. Friends of Pablo.”

“What did you do?”

“Not do. Just kept a little of what I’d been selling. They took it personal.”

“No one will find out where we learned this. But we need a name.”

“Can’t help you there. If I knew, I’d tell you so he wouldn’t hurt any other little girls.”

Tigo believed her. Ryan had used a good angle, playing on Carolyn’s concern for her daughter and linking that to the young crime victims. Although they’d learned Jonathan had been the target, Tigo sensed the letdown to his toes. With Pablo dead, all they had was the source of the Semtex and that it had come from Mexico.

“You heading home?” Tigo said to Ryan after Carolyn was returned to custody. “Isn’t tonight Cindy’s birthday celebration?”

“Right. I’ve arranged for a sitter to stay until Sunday evening. Maybe our getaway will work out this time. We still haven’t had a chance to talk through the situation with her mother.” Ryan smiled. “But it might have already worked out for the best.”

“How’s that?”

“The kids told us last night that they want to share a room so their grandma can live with us. The two figured out how to divide one of the bedrooms in half.”

“Sounds like the perfect solution.”

“I think so. They offered the sacrifice we didn’t want to ask of them. Cindy’s mom has less than a year, so it will work out.”

Tigo grinned. “Now you can give Cindy those presents and get your hero status back.”

“Hope so. Say, I’m glad you and Kariss are talking. I hope it works out.”

“I should have told her about Erin right from the start, but I kept putting it off. Had no idea where the relationship was going.” How much about himself did Tigo dare reveal? “Didn’t want to get hurt.”

“I understand. But it hurt you in the end anyway.”

“Tripped over my own ego. With Kariss, I felt myself getting … too attached. So I couldn’t tell her. Didn’t want to disappoint her.” He shook his head. “Not one of my better decisions. But it’s all laid out there now.”

“Great. So—”

“Yes, the faith issue needs to be resolved. But I’m on it.”

“I was about to ask about your meeting with Curt Yeat.”

Tigo felt foolish. “Okay, Agent Harris, get your mind on your job,” he said. “Curt’s a good kid. Showed me his truck. Had some great rims that Joanna bought for him, but not the kind we’re looking for. He seemed to appreciate my taking an interest in him. His game’s off, and the coach told him to stop using his mother’s and sister’s deaths as an excuse to play like a—Never mind. Even on my worst days, I don’t use that kind of language.”

“Where was Jonathan?”

“Babysitting. He has one son who matters to him, and it’s not Curt.”

10:00 A.M. SATURDAY

C
at-and-mouse games intrigued him. Nothing boosted his adrenaline more than when he followed a victim to learn his or her routine. The voices helped him look for opportunities to make personal contact, adding a unique touch to the soon-to-be murder. Gave a whole new meaning to hands-on learning.

He’d spent some time with Jonathan Yeat, but then his wife and daughter made the mistake of getting into Jonathan’s car. He’d triggered the bomb before he realized who was inside. But other opportunities would come. Patience was his one virtue. He’d already paid a visit to Jonathan this morning as a little surprise.

Years ago he’d seen Amy playing with her brother. He’d talked to her for a few minutes, knowing then what had to happen. For some victims, he looked forward to seeing the flicker of recognition before he made the kill. Amy and Kariss Walker fell into that category.

Power—and the prospect of blood—kept him excited about each kill … and planning the next one. Yesterday still had him smiling. Distracting the FBI agents with his old-man ruse gave him an edge. And he’d have had the women if a maid hadn’t interrupted his carefully laid-out plans.

Now he needed to head over to that Walker woman’s so-called gated community. What a front for the rich and famous. The security was nothing more than a uniformed guard operating
a gate, requesting IDs, and using a cell phone as a deterrent. Probably had 911 on speed dial.

He chuckled. He knew right where she lived. Had even been in her driveway.

She should have figured out he played for keeps. The bullets with the women’s names etched inside them should have been a clue. Although with the rain Wednesday afternoon and the women’s sudden movements, he’d unfortunately missed. If it hadn’t been for the cops and the FBI agent, he’d have had them at the hospital. Dressing in scrubs nearly got him into the Walker woman’s room. But she’d been surrounded.

He hated failing, which meant the Walker woman and Amy would have to die in a special way.

It’s okay. You have an even better plan. Have we ever failed you?

Oh, the comfort of his voices.

Too bad about Amy. He’d begun to admire her spunk before she decided to challenge him with a novel. She’d obviously studied his habits and knew his appreciation for fine works of fiction. The Walker woman had a suspense novel coming out in the fall. He might read it and post a review on Amazon. But she’d be dead long before then.

He backed Michelle’s four-year-old Camry from his garage. How he’d love to have a new car, a sporty model to zip around town in, but anyone who knew his pay grade would be suspicious. Soon he’d have what he deserved, and as long as he continued to listen to the voices, he’d have everything he ever dreamed of.

Looking at his house, he noticed it needed a paint job again. The humidity in Houston guaranteed peeling. He wished he lived in a better neighborhood instead of this cracker box, which was stuck in the middle of a crumbling subdivision. The only thing he could do to improve his property was use landscaping to set it apart. Hard to keep his money tucked away when he could be enjoying the good life.

Making bombs had become quite lucrative. A few more, and he could move to London. The city intrigued him because of the unsolved murder cases, especially the famed legends of Jack the Ripper and Sweeney Todd. He could live there in luxury and further his career with prospects from European countries and the Middle East. An occasional bomb to a gang or a terrorist group based in the U.S. didn’t satisfy all his needs. He wanted more—more money, more bodies.

His phone rang, and he saw the caller was his wife. He smiled. She was one good woman. “Hi, honey.”

“Just wanted to tell you good morning and thanks for letting me sleep in.”

“My pleasure. I’m out running errands. Anything I can do for you?”

“Not a thing. How about steaks for dinner? I’m feeling stronger today.”

“For sure. I’ll grill them.”

“I love weekends with you. We have a couple of movies we haven’t seen yet. Do you want to watch them after dinner?”

“Excellent. Someday I’m going to make your life easier. Love you.” He disconnected the call as he pulled in front of that Walker woman’s gated community. Loving his wife kept him sane. They’d met in college, and she was the only woman who’d ever made him feel loved … respected. She’d even waited for him when he was a POW in Vietnam.

A few minutes later, the Walker woman pulled out of the subdivision. He followed several yards behind her, traveling north on State Highway 249. There were more pine trees here, and the cattle grazing beside the highway was uniquely Houston. He liked the area where he’d abducted Amy—more rural and rolling.

When the Walker woman turned into the parking lot of a shooting range, he laughed out loud. His 9mm was in his glove box, which he could hold on to while making the acquaintance of one of his next victims.

After waiting a full ten minutes, he exited his car and entered the building. People crowded the area, but the woman was alone in an empty lane. Seeing her bandaged head gave him a moment of irritation, but he released his pride over a missed opportunity to accomplish what must be done. He stood back and watched her shoot several rounds. She was using a 9mm too. A conversation starter.

A few minutes later, she glanced behind her, no doubt sensing his presence. Removing her ear protectors, she nodded at him. “Do you need something?”

“No, ma’am. Just admiring your shooting. You must practice a lot.”

“Every chance I get.”

A looker, but those large brown eyes wouldn’t save her. “I should tell my wife. She usually comes with me, but today she had errands. She says a woman needs to know how to protect herself.”

“Smart lady.”

“Say.” He hesitated. “Are you Kariss Walker, the writer?”

She smiled. “The same.”

“I thought so. My wife reads your books. We both do. She’ll be so sorry she missed you.” He tilted his head. “You used to report the evening news for Channel 5, right?”

“Right.”

“Read how you helped the FBI solve a cold case last summer.”

“That’s not exactly accurate. I got in over my head in research, and the FBI saved my life. The book will be out in October.”

“Great. We’ll have to preorder it. I’ll leave you to your target practice. Nice talking to you. Wait till I tell my wife.” He patted his shirt pocket. “Doggone it. I left my phone in the car, and I wanted to surprise her.”

Kariss reached into her purse. “You can use mine.” She handed it to him and then replaced her ear protectors.

While she resumed target practice, he stepped into the hallway and quickly downloaded a custom app onto her iPhone that would enable the microphone and automatically send an audio feed, as well as her GPS coordinates, directly to his computer.

He could now follow her online until the time was right. No more leaving work early or lying to his wife.