Aim to Kill (13 page)

Where was she? He was a little worried. Not that she couldn’t take care of herself. He glanced at his watch. He’d give her five minutes, then try to find her. She could simply be in the ladies’ room.

Movement from the front of the building caught Zack’s attention, and he looked at the double glass doors that led outside. Olivia St. Martin opened one side and stepped through. She blinked, adjusting to the artificial light. Her skin was pale. Too pale. Her hand brushed against her ear, tucking her hair behind it, though immediately a few strands fell forward. As she saw him across the lobby, she straightened and steeled her jaw, her face losing the softness she’d entered with.

“I apologize for my unprofessional behavior,” Olivia said as she approached. “I shouldn’t have left.”

The feelings simmering beneath Olivia’s cool mask were almost tangible, but she fought to prevent him from seeing anything. Why did she feel the need to keep such tight control over her emotions? If he didn’t release his frustration at the gym every morning, he’d be a bear all day. The job was demanding; you took release where you could get it.

“I told you I understood. You don’t have to put on a tough-girl act for me.” He paused, awkward. “I’ve known strong men to break down at the sight of a child on that table.”

She sighed and attempted a smile, but avoided his comment completely when she asked, “Did the exam yield anything useful?”

“Pubic hair. Doc Sparks is preparing it to be transported. Do you think your ex-husband would rush another sample?” He tried to make light of it, but Olivia was in no mood for humor.

She turned her back to him and started toward the exit. “I’ll call Greg and tell him to expect it. Have Doug send it to the same place. We have time to overnight it, because even if we put it on a plane again it wouldn’t get there until late tonight.” She paused, glanced at him. “It’s the same guy, though.” It wasn’t a question.

“No doubt.” Zack frowned and followed her out the door. He technically wasn’t on duty until four, but he’d already put in dozens of overtime hours, half of which he hadn’t logged.

He caught up with her in three strides. “What happened on the case you worked? Where the wrong guy was put in prison?”

She jerked, almost imperceptibly, but Zack was watching her very closely. Definite sore spot with her.

“The police found blood evidence in his truck that tied him to the girl’s murder,” she said momentarily. “He lied about his alibi—said he was at a bar, but when that didn’t hold water he changed his story to being home alone sleeping off a day of drinking. He was convicted largely on circumstantial evidence, but the evidence coupled with his lies to police—it was an easy call for the jury.” She rounded the corner toward where he’d parked after picking her up from her hotel.

“And then?”

“He got an attorney who learned there was a DNA sample from the killer and had his compared, which proved he hadn’t . . .” She stopped talking but refused to look at him as she strode down the sidewalk. She cleared her throat. “He didn’t rape the victim.”

“And they let him out? Just like that?”

“The D.A. realized that their case was compromised by the new evidence. He may have been involved, but the remaining evidence was circumstantial. There was nothing that
proved
he killed her.”

“Why hadn’t the DNA been compared earlier? That’s standard procedure.”

“It’s an old case.”

Old case? How old? For at least the last ten years, longer in many places, DNA testing had been commonplace. Zack glanced at her profile as they crossed the street to where he’d parked his police-issue sedan. On the surface she looked young. He’d thought thirty or so when he first saw her. Soft, delicate skin, shiny hair, slender curvy frame. But now he noticed fine wrinkles around her eyes, a slight weariness to her expression. The way she held herself showed a maturity that most women never learned to possess. She must be older than he thought. Thirty-five? Older? Maybe the case was the first she’d worked on. She’d blown it, took it personally, was on a vendetta—

“You’re not going to play vigilante, are you? Trying to right some wrong you think you did with the evidence in that old case? Because I’m not going to sit back and let the Feds screw up this investigation. I want this guy. Bad. But I want him by the book. I don’t want the bastard to walk because of a tainted investigation.”

She abruptly stopped walking and turned to him, her hands fisted at her sides. Her entire body reverberated in restrained anger. “This murderer has eluded justice for more than thirty years; I will do nothing to jeopardize a conviction. No one wants this killer more than me, Detective Travis. I’m sorry you have a problem with the FBI, but don’t take it out on me!”

She stormed off, stopping only when she reached his car.

Oh, yeah. Something was definitely going on. And Zack would damn well find out what it was.

Olivia didn’t know what had gotten into her. She never lashed out in anger. But her entire body felt like a tightly wound coil, ready to spring, shooting her emotions in all directions.

It had to be seeing Jillian Reynolds on the table. Just for a moment, but it had unnerved her. She had thought—for a split second—it was Missy lying there. About to be cut open by the coroner.

Then talking to Miranda—lying to her best friend—and knowing she and Quinn were in town. Why’d the killer have to strike in Seattle? The one place she actually had friends? She wouldn’t be surprised if Miranda hadn’t believed her when she said she was fine. After all, she was the world’s worst liar. Even over the phone.

She hated the deception. She wanted to tell Zack the truth. But if she did, there was no way he’d let her be a part of the investigation. He might even call Rick Stockton and have her fired. It would be within his rights. She’d misrepresented herself, misrepresented her assignment, and if this precarious house of cards fell before they found the killer—-

No. She couldn’t think that way. They would find him. They had to.

Feelings of responsibility and remorse squeezed her soul until she could barely breathe. If it hadn’t been for her testimony thirty-four years ago, the police wouldn’t have closed the case. And maybe, just maybe, the real killer would have been caught.

CHAPTER

11

Zack didn’t question Olivia about her outburst outside the coroner’s office, which seemed a little too impassioned to be a lecture on justice. It was personal. He wondered exactly how personal this case was to her.

By the time they got back to the station, Zack had other things on his mind. He went to track down Boyd and find out what was going on with the trucks while Olivia excused herself to the conference room.

Boyd was still comparing the list of Expedition owners with the list of Dodge owners, but he was making progress.

“When or if you get a match, take Jan O’Neal with you to do the interviews,” Zack told him.

“You want
me
to check them out?” Boyd asked.

Why did he look so shocked? This was why Zack didn’t think he made a good FTO. Maybe he didn’t give Boyd enough positive reinforcement. The kid had done a good job so far, and Zack saw promise in him—if he stopped second-guessing himself and lost his over-eager puppy demeanor.

“Yes,” he said. “But not alone. You know what to look for, and O’Neal is a good cop.” One of the most meticulous on the force. Boyd could learn from her.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. “
Agent St.
Martin and I are going to talk to the two witnesses in Benedict’s abduction, see if they remember anything else about the guy they saw, but I’m not holding my breath.”

“Because kids start making things up,” Boyd said.

“Right. But the first time we talked to them, there was a lot of emotion. Maybe time will help in this case.”

“Is everything going okay with the agent?” Boyd asked.

“Better than I had hoped. We’re going to review each case she brought with her and see if we can spot any additional patterns. Stop by the conference room—I’ll have some follow-up work to do contacting other jurisdictions that I’ll need your help with.”

Zack’s next stop was Doug Cohn’s lab. The lab director was bent over a microscope. Zack waited, impatient but not wanting to rush him. Finally, he walked over.

Without looking up, Cohn said, “I don’t have anything new, but I did get the pubic hair off to Agent St. Martin’s contact at the FBI lab. Normally I wouldn’t think they’d get it done any faster than us, but she seemed adamant they’d jump on it.”

“Thanks. Look, I know you’re swamped, but I have a favor.”

“If it’s about this case, anything you want.” Cohn looked up from the microscope.

Zack handed him the list of cities Olivia had given him earlier. “Can you contact each of these departments and see if you can get any information about the marks on the forearm?”

“Those been bugging you, too? Was Gil able to get anything off the Reynolds body?”

Zack shook his head. “There wasn’t enough soft tissue left.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Anything else you want me to find out?”

“Sure, the killer’s name and address.”

“Ha. Look, I’ll feel out the labs and see what they have.”

“Good, I’ll be in the conference room. I’m going to call Nashville and find out why they haven’t sent the information about the tattoo, then start down the list and talk to the detectives in charge and get copies of all the files.

“Maybe,” Zack said over his shoulder as he left the lab, “we’ll get a lucky break.”

He swung open the door of the conference room and he said, “
Liv
, I have Cohn working—”

Olivia was standing on a chair in her stocking feet, on her tiptoes, as she wrote across the top of the white board. She startled at the sound of his voice and the chair went out from under her. She landed unceremoniously on her butt.

Zack took two strides and helped her up. At first, Olivia looked indignant, then she smiled sheepishly. “I guess standing on chairs isn’t the smartest thing to do, but short people do what they must to even the scales.”

She moved away from him and Zack looked at what she’d written across the top. “Dates?” he said.

Listed under the current year in neat block letters were the three Seattle victims: Jillian, Jennifer, and Michelle. Next to each girl’s name was her age, date of abduction, likely time of death, and when her body was found. Olivia had apparently done the same thing for all the victims in nine other states, but there was missing information—specifically, time of death. She’d put her guess in a different color marker.

She had moved the map and the victim’s photographs from the corkboard and taped everything on the white board, so all information about the case could be viewed at once.

Zack shrugged out of his blazer and tossed it across a chair in the corner. Some detectives wore ties; he wasn’t one of them. Dockers and a black T-shirt was his preferred uniform. The blazer was primarily to conceal his shoulder holster.

“It appears you were right,” Zack said. “His last three victims are clustered together, while the first victim is at least a month before.”

She frowned.

“What?” he prompted.

“Well, I’ve a feeling there’s something about these first victims that’s different than the others. But I don’t see what.”

Zack looked at the dates on the wall. “Let’s talk this out. The guy moves from state to state. Why? To avoid detection. How? Is he independently wealthy? In a job that moves around a lot? Sales maybe?”

Olivia shook her head. “I agree with the why, but the how? I’m thinking he doesn’t need a lot of money to live on. He’s single. Disciplined. Probably doesn’t indulge in a lot of luxuries.”

“But he’s not living on the street.”

“No. He’s clean. Probably meticulous in his appearance. Has an honest face. That’s why Jenny Benedict walked off with him. He doesn’t look like he’d harm a fly.”

“Maybe some sort of retail job? In a mall? Lots of kids hang out at the mall, shop there with parents. Perfect hunting ground.”

Olivia wrote notes on the board.
Occupation: Retail? Possibly mall.
“He’d be good with people, particularly women. Conversational. Probably sounds educated, can talk about a variety of subjects. Manipulative, but not obviously so.”

Zack said, “If he moves every couple of years, he’s probably not in a career where he’d need an established client base, like a lawyer or doctor. What about something with kids? Like a teacher?”

“Teacher. Maybe.” She wrote it next to
Occupation
on the board. “Except . . .” She stopped. She didn’t have any facts to back up her feelings. Maybe she was saying too much. Leading Zack down the wrong path. What if she made a mistake? What if they focused on a part of the investigation that gave them no results? What if they wasted precious time because of her feelings?

“Olivia?” Zack prompted.

“Teacher’s a good idea.
Kansas
was the last place we know for sure he was. We can contact all the schools in Seattle, see if anyone transferred from
Kansas
.”

“Not a bad idea, except you don’t think he’s a teacher.”

“But maybe he is. We can’t ignore your instincts.”

“I’ll get Boyd on it, but I want to know what you’re thinking.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I’m not a profiler, I don’t know for sure—”

“
Dammit
, Olivia, I’m not a damn profiler either.” He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the ceiling. She’d obviously said the wrong thing, but what?

“Look, stop second-guessing yourself.” Zack said. “Just spill it. If it’s a stupid thought, I’ll forget you said it, okay? I thought we had this conversation already.”

Olivia mentally slapped herself. She had to start acting like the seasoned FBI agent she’d led Zack into believing she was.

“No, I don’t think he’s a teacher,” she said with conviction.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think he would be able to stop himself from touching the girls if he was surrounded by them every day.”

Zack nodded. “Good point.”

“But I think we should look into it.”

“I will.”

Olivia stared at the board. It was obvious now that the first victim was killed long before the remaining victims in the same city, but why?

“You might be on to something,” Zack said a moment later.

“What?”

“Why he doesn’t work with kids. You said it’s because he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off the girls. He’d be discovered very quickly. So part of his discipline is to stay away from temptation.”

“Makes sense.”

“The first victim in each town is separated by time . . . what if his first kill is spontaneous? He’s afraid he’s made a mistake, and goes into hiding. Waits, makes sure the police don’t know enough to find him. Also, look here . . .” Zack got up and grabbed the dry-erase marker from Olivia’s hand. He did some math under each grouping of victims. By the time he reached
Texas
, Olivia saw what he saw.

“The bodies of the first victims took longer to find.” All the other victims were discovered within days. The first victims were discovered in weeks.

“He didn’t hide them exactly, but he must have dumped the bodies in low-traffic areas,” Zack said.

“Is there any way to get information from the other cities? Some of these cases are so old . . .”

“I’ll get it.” He glanced at his watch. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I need to call Nashville about the tattoo—they were supposed to fax over the report.” He picked up the phone.

“Can you get the entire file sent over?”

“I’ll ask, but it might take a couple of days. It’s been ten years.”

While Zack talked to the cops in Nashville, Olivia studied the map. Jillian Reynolds’s body was discovered within three miles of where she was last seen. According to Sheriff Rodgers, her mother and the police believed the girl had drowned and focused their attention on the beach areas, with only a secondary effort made to search the rest of the island. Olivia had read the report last night. The ferry videos had been monitored, with the thought that she might have run away, or just wanted to ride the ferry and maybe got lost, or that if there had been foul play, they would see her with a stranger.