The Watcher (26 page)

“Wow,” he said, squeezing her against him. “Just wow.”

“You sound like a teenager.” She sidled closer to him and wrapped her arms around him, wondering how he’d gained her trust so easily.

As she relaxed against him, an image of the stranger who’d knocked on her apartment door niggled at the back of her mind. He was like a predatory winged creature, with those angular limbs and towering body, a buzzard hovering over road kill. Why had he seemed so familiar to her? Regardless of what she’d told Slater, she was certain she hadn’t seen him around town or the neighborhood. She hadn’t been here long enough, but he seemed familiar somehow and the memory of him set off alarms in her head.

“Wow,” Slater said again, pushing dark thoughts of strange men and killers who hunted young women out of her mind, filling her with a sweet kind of gratitude.

“You’re welcome,” she answered, smiling into his chest.

They dozed on and off for a while. Then Slater rolled onto his side, his elbow propping up his head, and watched her a long moment.

“What?” she asked.

“I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“About how a gorgeous woman, smart, clever – ”

“And athletic, don’t forget athletic.”

“And athletic,” he complied. “How did such a woman get to be the ripe old age of what, twenty-nine, thirty?”

“Thirty-three,” she said, playfully slugging his arm.

“Yeah, how come you’re thirty-three—and don’t look a day over twenty-one, by the way—and haven’t been swept up by some hot-shot Neanderthal type?”

“I was never much into the brawny type.”

“Was it because of Kassie?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I wasn’t inclined to trust men very much after my father left, and then I became obsessed with finding Kassie’s killer.”

“We’re going to get him, Kate,” he promised, his voice strained with intensity. “DNA results should be back in a few more days. If they can match the trace evidence at any one of the crime scenes to the sample from the Mathews girl, we’ll know it’s the same guy. Then, it’s just a matter of time before we link him to Preston, Idaho. We’ll call in the FBI resources—they’ll have to pay attention now—and the manhunt will be so wide, there won’t be a place on earth he can hide.”

Kate smiled at his uncharacteristic optimism. “I’m starting to believe you.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The trek from Placer Hills to New Haven took Smith nearly an hour. A light snow was falling by the time he reached the foothills, snow that melted as soon as it touched the windshield. Angling his newly-acquired van into the graveled area at the side porch, he saw a white SUV where he normally parked.

What the hell?

Smith turned off the ignition and looked around, but he didn’t see anyone. As he stepped from the vehicle and made his way toward the house’s wraparound porch, he spied his intruder coming around from the back of the house.

Uncle Mark. Uh oh, this was a problem.

“Uncle M – Mark,” Smith stammered. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t visit my own damn nephew?”

“Uh, sure, but I, uh, didn’t expect company. Uh, it’s kinda late, isn’t it?” Damned old man, Smith thought. He hadn’t given a shit about the family all these years. Why the sudden interest now?

“I been waitin’ a while. Where you been?” His uncle didn’t wait for an answer, but continued, “My friend over at Paxton-Bell called me. Al Covington said you haven’t been to work. I went to a lotta trouble to get you that job, boy. You can’t not be showin’ up like that.”

It was true Mark had gotten him the mailroom job. Not that Smith wanted or needed it. He’d been conned into applying when he’d run into his uncle one afternoon at the library. He’d been doing a little reconnaissance on the first girl, using the resources to get information about her.

During an apparent lapse into altruism, Mark had given him a contact name for the job. Smith hadn’t dared avoid the interview and was surprised when he’d gotten the job. He took it only because he hadn’t wanted to draw Mark’s attention, to have him show up here unannounced.

Which is exactly what the bastard had done.

“I called in sick.” Smith hated the whiny tone he heard in his voice. It reminded him of how he’d spoken to his grandfather, fear and defensiveness mixed in equal parts.

“You gotta be responsible,” his uncle lectured. “I put my reputation on the line for you so don’t be makin’ me look bad.”

Uncle Mark eyed Smith suspiciously as he took in his rumpled clothing and unshaved face. “If you’re sick, why the hell aren’t you in bed instead of gallivantin’ all over?”

“Crap, Mark, I went to get some medicine. I’ve got a real bad cold or the flu.”

“Watch your tongue,” his uncle warned.

Apparently it was okay for his uncle to cuss to high heaven, but if his nephew used one little profanity, the guy went righteous on him.

For the moment, however, Mark appeared to let the language go. “Where’s the bag?” he challenged.

“Bag?” Smith repeated stupidly.

“Yeah, the pharmacy bag. I don’t see one.”

“Uh, I got sick halfway there, had to pull off the road and puke, so I just turned around and came back.”

They faced one another without speaking for a few moments until Uncle Mark broke the silence. “Why don’t you invite me in for a beer or somethin’? I haven’t seen your place since you moved in.”

“It’s late and I’m feeling real bad, Mark. Some other time, okay?”

“Not very friendly after I moved you up here.”

Pompous old fart.
His uncle hadn’t helped him move at all, not a single scrap of furniture or shred of clothing. Not that there was anything much to move, but Mark had just pointed the way and dumped Smith off. Now he acted like a big deal, throwing his weight around, but Smith would be damned if he’d let his uncle anywhere near his private refuge.

“Come on, boy, I’ll even take a glass of water. I can’t make that trip back down the mountain without wettin’ my whistle.”

Smith began to sweat, trickles of perspiration gathering at his temples and running down the side of his face. Suddenly he remembered his grandfather talking about how nosy the other side of the family was.

Grandfather believed a man’s business didn’t belong to anyone else. He often said that whatever’s heard inside these four walls stays inside. On that count, Smith agreed. He didn’t want Uncle Mark poking around in the house.

Especially now that he’d stored his journals and his … personal items in the basement.

Mark turned his back to Smith and started up the four steps that led to the front door. “Lemme go inside, boy. I’ve gotta have something before I head back, maybe take a quick piss.”

“Why don’t you sit out here on the porch swing and I’ll bring you something?”

“Are you nuts? It’s damned wintry out here.” Uncle Mark stared at him longer this time. “How come your face is so wet? It’s cold enough to freeze a man’s balls off.”

Smith wiped a hand over his sweaty forehead. “Guess my fever just broke.”

He had no choice but to unbolt the double locks on the door and usher Uncle Mark into the house. Smith couldn’t figure out why his uncle was suddenly interested in him when they hardly knew each other. Mark hadn’t been concerned about coming inside the house when he’d showed Smith the way up the mountain and dropped him off months ago. Why was he so eager to see the house now? He couldn’t possibly know anything, could he?

Meddling old fool. Well, it was his funeral.

#

Marconi still hadn’t shown up at the precinct by eight thirty-five Tuesday morning, even though the incident meeting had been rescheduled for eight a.m., and Slater had left several messages on the Sheriff’s answering machine and cell phone.

As a widower, Marconi was known for taking spur-of-the-moment hunting and fishing trips, having no family to account for his whereabouts. Still, Slater found it hard to believe the Sheriff would take off during a major murder investigation, however lazy he was.

Finally Slater gathered his task force in the conference room and officially started the conference. He figured that Marconi would show late, and there wasn’t much any of them could do about it. With or without the Sheriff present, Slater knew he’d have to get the team going in a more productive direction.

Slater explained the theory that he, Bauer, and Kate were working on, that they believed the two Bigler killings were related to an old case, but the FBI wasn’t on board yet. He looked around the room at the skeptical faces. He kept the details sketchy so didn’t blame them for scoffing at a connection between their two homicides and a decades-old drowning.

Their version might be a hard sell, but he couldn’t worry about that right now. He trusted Kate’s research and intuition and intended to run a skeleton crew on the Mary Stuckey case until the lab results came back. He made quick assignments and his officers returned to the daily business of running the department, which had to go on, regardless of backed up lab reports or an AWOL Sheriff.

However, by shift change he felt a twinge of concern over the Sheriff’s continued absence and made several discreet calls, including one to the woman who owned the Hallmark gift shop on Foothills and at whose house Marconi was known to spend an evening or two.

No one had seen or heard from the Sheriff.

Slater passed Kate’s office on his way to courtroom number three on the second floor and stuck his head in. He could see the stress of the case weighing on her. Hell, on all of them. Worry etched the lines between her brows and purple circles lay beneath her eyes, made darker by the deep color of her irises.

“Has something happened since last night?” she asked quickly.

Slater knew she was anxious that another killing might occur and shook his head. “I wondered if you’d seen Sheriff Marconi since Friday.”

“Is something wrong?”

He shrugged. “Probably not. He takes off sometimes.”

“Damn, I thought maybe something had broken in the case.”

“We’ll get him, Kate.”

She stood, reaching for her purse, sighed heavily. “I keep telling myself that, but I’m sick to death of the case and mad as hell that no one’s caught him. That
I
haven’t caught him.”

“You aren’t in this alone anymore. You’ve got me and the team. We’re not going to let you down.”

She stared at him with those spectacular eyes, shiny with fierce emotion. “I was going to wrap up here and grab dinner.”

“I’ll go with you,” he offered, looking over his shoulder into the bullpen. No one appeared to be paying attention to them. “I want to be with you again,” he said in a low voice, fighting the urge to touch her.

He watched her wrestle with the suggestion, knowing they were at that awkward stage in a relationship when they’d shared the greatest intimacy possible, but still knew very little about each other. He thought of all the small details of her life that were a mystery to him, and with sudden clarity, he knew he wanted to take a chance with her, to make something work. After Julie, he’d never thought of trusting another woman that way again, but now he felt the desperate flutter of hope.

“Okay?” He wasn’t going to give her a chance to refuse. “We’ll even work the case afterward.”

That got a smile out of her.

Slater and Kate didn’t work on the case at all. They drove to El Dorado Heights for a quiet dinner at the Golden Goose, which served the best fillet mignon he’d ever tasted. The restaurant was crowded, but the hostess seated them in an intimate alcove away from the rest of the diners.

The farther they got from the office, the more relaxed Kate became. He could almost see the tension fall away from her as they ordered drinks and glanced at the menu. She caught him looking at her and smiled. “What?”

“Nothing. I just like looking at you.”

“I’m a mess.”

She looked self-conscious and Slater thought she was referring to more than her appearance. “If you are, it’s my kind of mess.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” she muttered.

He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “Kate, I want – ”

“Don’t,” she interrupted.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t spoil the moment.” When he simply raised his eyebrows, she continued. “Let’s just enjoy what we have.”

“Friends with benefits?” he asked, hearing the bite in his voice.

“I’d like to think I
am
your friend, Slater,” she murmured sadly. “I don’t have many of them.”

By the time they returned from dinner, the deputies had finished contacting the new county residents and laid the paperwork on Slater’s desk. Most of the newcomers had agreed to DNA and digital fingerprinting, so Matt Bauer set up an alpha schedule for the necessary FBI clearance forms, and Slater added an urgent request for ASAP results.

The feds were notoriously arrogant about priorities, so he didn’t expect early notification. Local requests were always at the bottom of the FBI’s list, and Slater began thinking of the few friends he had to call in a favor.