When All The Girls Have Gone (26 page)

Max leaned back in his chair and examined his notes. He and Charlotte and Anson had divided up the remaining names on the list. Then they had cranked up their laptops and gone to work, tracking down each and every man.

They had gathered in his office to do the painstaking work. It made for a crowd because it was a small space and there were only three chairs—his desk chair and the two intended for clients. The door was open to the small reception room, which was empty due to the fact that there was no receptionist.

Charlotte had made no comment when he had opened the door and ushered her into the office a couple of hours earlier, but he was very conscious that it, like his only remaining vehicle, was not very impressive.

The potted plant in the corner had been left behind by the previous tenant. It did not look like it was going to survive much longer. The furniture was rented and looked it. The walls were bare and the small bookcase was empty.

Reed Stephens was right, he thought, he needed to hire a receptionist. Okay, he needed a more upscale office to go with the receptionist. And he needed money to pay for both. He had to bring in more corporate work.

But first he had to find the needle in the haystack—one man on a list of three hundred who looked like a viable suspect for three rapes and two murders.

The work was time-consuming, but it wasn’t tricky—just old-fashioned investigative work, the kind that old-school journalists and cops did. The college yearbooks were available online and they made for excellent starting points. There was a wealth of data on each individual. Alumni bulletins and the published lists of those who had donated to the Loring College endowment fund had provided a trove of additional data.

They had filled in the gaps with social media and the powerful online search engines. In virtually every case they had current addresses and Google street views of the homes of the individuals. After all, it wasn’t like any of the three hundred men was trying to hide.

As he had told Charlotte, if you looked hard enough, you could find anyone.

“Looks like these men all have a few things in common,” he said. “They were all attending Loring College the year that Jocelyn was there. And they are all still living in western Washington.”

Charlotte looked up from her notes. “She probably considered the locations of their current residences important because the three rapes and the two murders all took place on this side of the Cascades.”

“Several of the men on that list have an address here in Seattle or nearby,” Anson said. “A lot are over on the Eastside—Bellevue, Redmond, Issaquah, Kirkland. A few never left Loring.”

“Most are married with families,” Charlotte added. She tapped her pen against her notebook. “About twenty percent are divorced and many are remarried. Careerwise the men on the list are all over the place—engineers, tech guys, sales reps, counselors, architects—you name it. One’s a fitness trainer with his own studio. Some went on to law school and three are doctors.”

Max got to his feet and went to stand at the small window. The view was the brick wall of the building on the other side of the alley. He really needed a more impressive office, he thought.

“All the reports of the three rapes and the two murders that Louise Flint and Jocelyn collected and marked on their maps had a few things in common,” he said. “Drugs were involved in every instance. And each of
the victims fit a profile that matches Jocelyn’s profile as it was a little over a decade ago. Same age. Same blond hair. Very attractive young women.”

“Not quite the same profile,” Anson said. His eyes tightened at the corners. “None of them were in college.”

Max turned around. “You’re right. They weren’t in school; but they were all employed, which means that, most days of the week, they had a regular routine.”

Charlotte looked at him. “A predictable routine.”

“What kinds of jobs?” Anson asked.

Max went back to the desk to check his notes. “Of the three rape victims, one worked the front desk at a hotel. One was a cocktail waitress. One worked at a hospital. They all worked evening shifts.”

“So they were all vulnerable at night,” Anson said. “What about the two women who supposedly OD’d?”

“I can answer that,” Charlotte said. “One was a receptionist at an urgent care medical clinic. The other was a librarian.”

“Again, both worked evenings,” Max added. “They went home around nine o’clock.”

“So, all of the victims had a few things in common, even if the men on Jocelyn’s list of suspects don’t have much in common,” Charlotte said.

“The more you know about the victim, the more you know about the perp,” Anson said.

“Okay,” Charlotte said, “based on the information we’ve got about the victims, what do we know about the killer?”

“In each case the assailant was familiar with the terrain,” Max said. “He chose his sites with care. And yet those locations are, literally, all over the map. How does one bad guy become so intimately familiar with so many different places?”

“He spends a fair amount of time in each place,” Anson suggested.

“Doing recon and selecting his targets,” Max added. “He’s not in a rush. He has plenty of time to get familiar with the terrain and yet no one notices him.”

“Like a wolf with a territory,” Charlotte said.

Max felt the familiar ping of knowing.

“Or a sales rep,” he said softly.

Anson whistled tunelessly. “Sales rep. Damn. Max is right. A sales rep has a legitimate excuse for getting to know a territory very well. He stays in the same hotels. Eats in the same restaurants. Drives the same routes. What’s more, most sales territories, especially those here on the West Coast, are big. Plenty of room to hunt.”

“There are several sales reps on Jocelyn’s list,” Charlotte said. “All kinds.”

“I think we can weed out most of them if we consider the one other factor that is common to all the murders and each of the three rapes,” Max said. “Drugs.”

“Drugs are widely available everywhere these days,” Anson grumbled.

“True, but these drugs seem to be fairly exotic—not stuff that’s common on the street. Anyone on our list with access to that kind of designer drug?”

Charlotte grabbed her notes. The name leaped out at her as if written in hellfire.

“Trey Greenslade,” she said. “He graduated from Loring College a year after Jocelyn left. And based on the lists of major donors, the Greenslade family practically owns Loring College. He went to work in the family business—Loring-Greenslade Biotech. He’s been with the company ever since. In fact, he recently inherited it. He worked as a sales rep for several years, but a year ago he was made vice president.”

“He’s had a lifetime to become familiar with a wide variety of drugs, and his connection with Loring-Greenslade would provide him with a perfect cover,” Max said. “As a pharmaceutical rep, he would have a reason to travel all over the state calling on doctors. And as a vice president, he still has an excuse to go out into the field to entertain accounts.”

“Feels like a real possibility,” Anson mused.

“Yes, it does,” Max said.

Charlotte looked up. “You do realize we have absolutely no proof that
he’s the killer. I would point out that the Greenslade family controls a pharmaceutical firm that employs a huge percentage of the town of Loring. It also controls just about everything else that goes on in that town, or at least it did a decade ago. I doubt if much has changed.”

“That means the family would definitely have had the clout and resources to shut down an investigation,” Max said.

“We need to send a message to Jocelyn and hope that she is checking her e-mail,” Charlotte said. “We’ve got to warn her.”

“I agree,” Max said. “We also need to warn the other two women in the club—Emily Kelly and Madison Benson.”

“We know Madison is still in town, but Emily and Jocelyn Pruett are in hiding,” Anson pointed out. “Are you sure they’ll be checking for messages?”

“They’re running and they’re scared,” Max said. “Benson is on edge, too. Trust me, the Internet is their lifeline. One way or another, all three of them will be clinging to it.”

“Jocelyn Pruett. After all these years, we meet again. Wake up, bitch.”

She knew that voice. It had haunted her for over a decade. It was the charming voice of a man who could sell flamethrowers in hell. It sent a jolt of fear and adrenaline through her, arousing nightmares and rage.

She used the energy of fury and fear to push through the oppressive weight of an unnatural drowsiness. She fought to open her eyes and succeeded, only to shut them immediately against the glare of a powerful flashlight.

He slapped her face, hard.

“I said, wake up.”

She opened her eyes again, cautiously this time, looking down and off to the side in a bid to avoid the dazzling light. She realized she was lying on a cold, hard surface. Concrete, she decided. Instinctively she tried to get to her feet—and discovered that her wrists were secured in front of her.

She managed to sit up against an ice-cold concrete wall.

“You certainly complicated things,” the man said. “I’ll give you credit for that. But you never stood a chance. I’ve been in control from the beginning. It was just a matter of time. You see, I’ve kept an eye on you all these years. You were my first, after all. And you were very nearly my last. I admit I was worried for a while after you went to the cops and I found out you’d made them take you to the hospital to prepare a rape kit. I’d
always heard that most girls—
smart
girls—kept quiet afterward. But you weren’t smart, were you? Luckily the evidence disappeared.”

“Wasn’t that a curious turn of events?”

He slapped her again, harder this time. “Unfortunately for you, that evidence box has reappeared, but the evidence seems to have disappeared. And you’re going to help me find it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You really don’t know what’s going on, do you? Stupid woman.”

She tried to look past the flashlight, but she could not make out his face.

“Who—?” she managed.

“You never knew, did you? All these years you’ve wondered. I’ll bet you’ve thought about me every day since then. It’s never been as good with any other man, has it?”

“You are one sick bastard.”

He slapped her again. The side of her head came up hard against the wall. She tasted blood in her mouth.

“Want to know a little secret?” He was almost crooning now. “Until recently it’s never been as good for me with anyone else, either. They say you never forget your first. But I finally found a way to recapture the magic.”

“By murdering the last two women you raped.”

“The game had become boring. It was just so damn easy. I decided to try to inject a little more excitement into it. But it was the deaths of those two whores that caught your attention, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said. “I realized you were escalating, you see. For years you were able to maintain control, weren’t you? But a few months ago you really lost it. You went over the edge. Now you’re a flat-out crazy killer. That means you’re making mistakes. I realized there was a connection between the murders and the serial rapist who attacked those other women. It’s just a matter of time before the cops figure it out, too. Because you can’t stop, can you?”

He struck her again, with a closed fist this time. She had braced herself for the blow, but the pain exploded through her, leaving her light-headed and sick to her stomach.

“I’m in control,” he hissed. “Don’t doubt it for a minute. I am always in control.”

“Good for you. I’m not. I think I’m going to throw up.”

He jumped to his feet and retreated hurriedly.

“Oh, wow. You’re afraid of a little vomit,” she said. “Good to know.”

She managed to suppress the nausea. She made a note of his alarm and promised herself that, in the end, if vomiting was her only weapon, she would use it.

“Where is the evidence?” he raged.

“Ah. So that’s what this is about. It really has come back to haunt you. Where’s it been all this time?”

“Briggs hid it. He used it to blackmail my father.”

“So it was your father who paid off Briggs to make sure the evidence disappeared.”

“I didn’t know, myself, not until recently. My old man never told me about the arrangement he had with Briggs. Probably afraid that I’d do something drastic like kill Briggs to make sure he kept quiet. Dear old Dad didn’t want me getting arrested for murder, you see. Bad for the family name. Bad for Loring-Greenslade. And really, really bad for Gordon Greenslade’s personal reputation.”

“Well, damn. You’re Trey Greenslade.”

“You never figured it out, did you?”

“Don’t worry, you’re on my list. After I’m gone that list will go to the cops, by the way.”

Okay, she was mostly bluffing now—yes, his name was on her list, along with three hundred other men—but, no, that list would probably never end up in the hands of the cops. Even if it did, they wouldn’t do anything with it. But she had nothing left to lose.

“What list?” Trey said.

She managed a cold smile and did not respond.

“You’re lying, bitch.”

“You bet,” she said.

“You’re lying. Admit it.”

“Right. I’m lying.”

He hit her again. Her ears rang.

“You shouldn’t have come looking for me,” he said hoarsely. “You should have just continued to savor the memory of the real-life fantasy we had all those years ago.”

“Hard to forget a guy who can’t get off unless he’s got a knife to a woman’s throat. How did you know I was searching for you?”

“I didn’t. Not at first. I didn’t realize that you were building a fucking file on me until I paid some hacker on the other side of the world to get into your computer and your phone and give me the keys. I’ve been watching your every move online for a couple of months now. And through you, I discovered that little investment club you and your friends set up.”

“When I went dark, you realized that I knew I’d been hacked. But why did you murder Louise?”

“Because she went to Loring, and we both know that there is only one reason she would have done that.”

Jocelyn stopped breathing. “What reason?”

“She went there to buy the evidence box from Briggs.”

“You really are crazy.”

“You say that one more time, I’ll slit your throat and be done with it. I’m telling you, Flint bought the damned evidence. But she hid it. I searched her condo, her car, her storage locker—everywhere I could think of—but I couldn’t find it. Next thing I know I get a call from Briggs offering to sell the box to me. I thought maybe I’d been wrong about Flint. Maybe Briggs had scammed her. So I met Briggs. He had that old evidence box, all right. But it was filled with
garbage
. I’m the one he cheated.”

“He tricked you.”

“Which means I was right the first time—Louise Flint did get that box the day she went to Loring. Briggs sold her the contents and then, because he was a stupid bastard and a bad con man, he tried to sell the box of trash to me. But he paid for that.”

“Maybe he cheated Louise, too. Did you ever think of that? The bottom line seems to be that you don’t have the evidence box.”

“No,” Trey said through his teeth, “the bottom line is that you’re going to help me find the contents of that damn evidence box. Because someone you know has it. It’s the only explanation. Flint gave it to someone to hide. Maybe one of the other members of the investment club. Maybe your stepsister. Doesn’t matter. You and I are going to find it.”

“Leave Charlotte out of this. She has nothing to do with any of it.”

“That might have been true back at the beginning, but she’s in it up to her ears now,” he said.

“No, I’m telling you the truth. Charlotte doesn’t know anything about the things in that box.”

“Let’s hope she does—for your sake and hers as well. See, here’s the deal—if I get what was in that box and destroy it, I can let you go. You’re no threat to me without it, just as you’ve never been a threat. My lawyers can make your claims go away. But if I can’t find the evidence, I’ll have no choice but to get rid of you and your interfering stepsister. It will be the only way I can make certain you never use the evidence against me.”

He was lying. She knew it in her bones. He intended to kill her. But for now it seemed best to let him think that she at least wanted to believe him.

“I might be able to help you figure out what Louise Flint did with the contents of the box,” she said.

It wasn’t difficult to keep her voice tremulous. She had never been so afraid in her life, with the exception of the night that he had attacked her. But this was even worse because now she had put Charlotte in danger.

“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what you’re going to do,” he said.

She heard him rustling around in his clothing. A second later there was a blinding flash of light and the unmistakable click of a cell phone camera.

“Why?” she gasped.

But she knew.

“Proof of life, I think it’s called,” he said. “I need to convince Charlotte Sawyer that I really do have you.”

“No. Wait. Don’t hurt Charlotte.”

“I’m afraid it’s her own fault. She shouldn’t have brought a private investigator into this.”

Boards creaked as Trey went up the wooden steps. At the top he opened the door. A man appeared silhouetted against the grayish daylight.

“Did she tell you where the box is?” he asked. “Well, did she?”

Whoever he was, he sounded unstable. Jittery. As if he was overly excited, maybe desperate.

“Take it easy,” Trey said. “We’ve got work to do.”

“I need a hit.”

“Then get it.”

Trey didn’t bother to conceal the disgust in his voice. He paused long enough to flip a switch at the top of the steps. A weak bulb in an overhead fixture came on. It cast a dim, shadowy light around the basement.

He closed the door. Jocelyn heard the muffled sound of a key in the lock.

She tried to breathe through the panic. She needed to think. To plan.

Her head ached from the blows. She forced herself to ignore the pain. She staggered to her feet and took a closer look at her surroundings.

Like most basements, the one in which she was trapped had clearly served as a storage room for years. She walked slowly around the shadowy space, taking inventory. There was an ancient fold-up camp cot in one corner and a chair with a broken leg. A rolled-up sleeping bag that smelled of must and mold occupied another corner. One large box was filled with yellowed newspapers.

She knew she probably wouldn’t find anything she could use as a serious weapon against Trey, who was armed with a gun. But she made herself go through the process of searching because it distracted her from the horror of knowing that there was now nothing she could do to protect Charlotte.