Blood of Dawn (12 page)

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Authors: Tami Dane

BOOK: Blood of Dawn
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JT returned his butt to his chair. “You’ve got five.” He guzzled about half of his water. “Um, what happened last night?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.” He glanced at the bandage on his forearm. “Did someone poke me with something?”
“Do you remember the party?”
JT scrunched up his face and lifted his eyes. “Um . . . no. Not really.”
“So you don’t remember sucking a gallon of beer down a plastic tube?” I filled the coffeemaker with grounds and powered it up.
JT’s eyes bugged. “I . . . ? Oh. I do kind of remember doing something like that.” His face turned the shade of his car—officially called “Ruby Red.” He muttered, “Shit.”
“Hey, you were upset. People do things when they’re upset.”
“I don’t drink.”
Anticipating the first glorious drips would be exiting the coffeemaker any minute now, I grabbed a clean travel mug from the cupboard and put it where the carafe normally sat. “You did last night.” I motioned to his head. “At least you’re not hungover. You can thank Elmer for that.”
“What’s he have to do with anything?”
“He arranged for the IV.” The mug full, I put the glass pot back where it belonged and then dug in the cupboard for something portable to eat.
JT’s gaze dropped to his arm again. “Ah, I see.”
“So, no harm, no foul. You went on a little binge, but nothing bad came out of it. Oh, except . . .” I crinkled my nose. “We’re going to have to borrow my mom’s car today. Yours is going to need to be cleaned out. The drive home was a little rough.”
JT dropped his head into his hands. “Are you saying I . . . ?”
“You vomited all over your floor. We managed to keep it off the leather seats . . . for the most part.”
“I guess I owe you my gratitude, then.”
“Accepted.” I pocketed two boxed brownies—I’d save them for later, an hour or so after we’d left the crime scene—and motioned toward the door. “Now I’m ready. I hope this time we find something useful.”
“You and me both. Forrester’s had a guy on Barnett since Stephanie’s murder. I don’t think he’s our guy.”
Out we went, into a sauna. It was very early, and the birds were just waking up. Already the air was so thick and hot, I could practically see it. The interior of Mom’s car was like an oven. I cranked open the windows and set the air-conditioning on high.
JT slumped into the passenger seat. “You have the air on. Shouldn’t you close the windows?”
“I have my ways of cooling a car.” I motored down the driveway and stopped at the street, waiting for a break in traffic. “What do you know about this latest victim? Anything?”
“I know she’s a female. And she attends Fitzgerald. That’s all I have right now. The chief is tied up in meetings until noon. Fischer’s handling the press, and, of course, you know about Hough. McBride has been called in, but he hasn’t answered. That leaves the two of us to handle this. And Wagner. He’s on his way up too. We’re closer, so we’ll probably beat him there.”
Something clicked in my head, just then, as JT talked about Gabe. What had Elmer said last night? Then it came to me:
“Have you noticed anyone sort of popping into your life in the last twenty-four hours? Someone you haven’t seen in years?”
“Damn it!” I grumbled. “How could I forget?”
“Forget what?” JT asked.
“It’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.” I felt my jaw clenching. My teeth were aching. “What exactly did he take?”
“Who?”
“Nobody.”
“Skye, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I maneuvered onto I-95 and hit the gas. As soon as the sun set tonight, I was going to track down that memory-stealing creep and make him give back what he’d taken. I couldn’t work with Gabe like this. Not when I didn’t remember what had been happening with him for so long. What if we’d been . . . intimate? What if he expected to be intimate again? From his rather friendly behavior, this was a very real possibility.
Sunset couldn’t come soon enough for me.
 
 
“It’s the girl from last night,” I whispered, staring at the photograph hanging on the wall. Yet again, we were standing in a nice, middle-class, suburban home in Hunting Ridge. “At least I think it is. . . .”
“You saw this girl?” JT asked.
But this time, we were standing next to a grieving woman and a man. They’d learned only a short time ago that their daughter, Hailey Roberts, was dead. My heart ached for them. Damn it, this guy needed to be stopped. Today. Now. Right now.
“What time did your daughter return home last night?” I asked them.
“She never left home,” the mother stated.
“Are you sure it’s her?” JT whispered.
I scrutinized the photo. “Almost certain. It was somewhat dark, but that hair is difficult to forget.” I pointed at the picture. The girl had silver-platinum hair. It wasn’t every day I saw a kid with hair that color.
“Our daughter was home last night,” Mr. Roberts stated, pretty much telling me with his voice that I was full of baloney.
“Okay.” JT was listening and writing in his little notebook. “Did you have any visitors to your home last night?”
The father shook his head. “No.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual?” JT continued.
The parents glanced at each other.
Mr. Roberts said, “No.”
“Do you know anyone who would have a reason to harm your daughter?”
“No,” the father said.
“Actually . . .” Mrs. Roberts took a step away from her husband. I found that to be a telling gesture. “Recently there’d been a little blowup on the Internet between Hailey and another girl.”
“What kind of blowup?” the father snapped. “How could there be a blowup recently? We took Hailey’s computer away.”
“Well”—the mother took a second step away from her husband—“I let her use it a few times.”
“What? After—”
“She told me she needed it for homework.”
Mr. Roberts’s eyes narrowed to slits. And his neck started glowing red. “If she was doing homework with it, how could there be a blowup?”
Mrs. Roberts pressed her fingers to her mouth. They were trembling. So were her lips. “She . . . Okay, I felt bad about cutting her completely off. So I told her she could use it for just a half hour a night.”
The veins running down Mr. Roberts’s neck started protruding. I was beginning to worry about Mrs. Roberts’s safety. “You did what?”
Mrs. Roberts clenched her jaw. Her eyes widened. “You were being unreasonable. Completely blew that first situation out of proportion. Isolating our daughter wasn’t going to help her learn to handle these things. It was going to make things worse.”
“You think? Take a look, Teresa!” He motioned at the crime scene technicians carrying cameras and evidence bags. “Do you still think giving her computer back helped our daughter learn to solve her problems?”
The mother’s mouth gaped open. The color drained from her face. “Oh, my God. What have I done?” She crumpled to the floor like a deflated weather balloon.
A family is a place where minds come in contact with one another. If these minds love one another, the home will be as beautiful as a flower garden. But if these minds get out of harmony with one another, it is like a storm that plays havoc with the garden.
—Buddha
12
After Mrs. Roberts’s collapse, JT and I called for some medical help for her; then we went to check out their daughter’s bedroom, the crime scene. A quick look around suggested we were facing the same lack of physical evidence we’d had at the other scenes, but that didn’t stop us from trying to find something. It was a statistical improbability of enormous proportions that our unsub had come into this space, committed a crime, and left without leaving something behind—even if he took the effort to cover his tracks. One of the first things I learned in Forensic Science 101 was Locard’s theory.
Every contact leaves a trace.
We were missing whatever it was he hadn’t cleaned/covered/removed.
The BPD crime techs were doing their best, combing the carpet, searching the bed, using lights, tweezers, any tool in their arsenal, to find that
one thing.
It was frustrating work. Tedious too. I gave them a lot of credit.
A half hour later, I asked one of the techs if he’d found anything.
“Nothing.”
Another one called him over. “Hey, take a look at this.”
He raised an index finger. “Hang on.” He followed his coworker, and I followed him.
“Check out this stereo. It’s fried.”
“Yeah. And?”
“Do you remember the Barnett house? The clock was blown. It’s like they both were hit by a huge electrical surge.”
“Do you have any idea of how much electricity it would take to do this kind of damage?” I asked the one who’d noticed it.
“Not a clue. You’d have to ask an electronics engineer,” he replied. “Crime Tech Two” shot some pictures of the stereo.
“I’ll do that. Thanks,” I said, motioning to the stereo. “Will you be taking that in as evidence?”
“Crime Tech One” shrugged. “Not sure. It’s an interesting coincidence, especially when we’re dealing with an electrocution, but I doubt it’ll lead us to the unsub.”
“Can I take it, then?”
“Sure. Just in case, don’t dispose of it.”
“Okay.”
While JT wandered off to talk to the other techs, I disconnected the bookshelf stereo from the speakers and wall socket. As I was reaching behind the dresser to unplug it, I noticed something. It was a small piece of paper, folded into a tiny, dense rectangle. On the paper, I found two words:
Your dead.
Was that a threat? If so, it was grammatically incorrect. Should have been “You’re.”
Glad I was wearing gloves, I found the closest tech and handed it to him. “I found this behind the dresser. I doubt it’s a coincidence. Can I snap a picture of it with my phone before you take it?”
“Sure.” He slid it into a clear bag, then handed it back to me so I could snap a photo too.
After returning the bagged note, I went in search of JT, stereo in hand. I found him downstairs, talking to Gabe Wagner.
“I found a note,” I told them.
“What did it say?” JT asked, eyeballing the stereo.
“‘You’re dead,’ but spelled
y-o-u-r.
That’s it. No name. But the handwriting was unique. I’d recognize it if I saw it again. I took a picture of it with my phone.”
“Good. Now what’s with the radio?”
“It’s a bookshelf stereo.”
Wagner glanced from me to JT. “Well, I guess I’ll get back to the unit, since you two have this scene covered.”
“See you in a bit.” JT stuffed his little notebook back in his pocket.
“Are we leaving too?” I asked him.
“I’m done here. What about you?”
“I’d like to ask the parents if Hailey had a yearbook. It was dark last night, but maybe I’d recognize the boy she was with if I saw a picture of him.”
“It’s worth a try.” JT motioned to the mother, who was now sitting on the couch. She wasn’t looking very good, but at least she was conscious. “Do you want me to ask?”
“No, I can do it.” Handing the stereo off to him, I headed over to her. “Mrs. Roberts, did your daughter have a recent yearbook?”
“Sure. We buy her one every year.”
“Is it possible for me to borrow the most recent one?”
“I . . . suppose.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it, and I understand it’s probably not something you want to part with right now. I promise I’ll return it as soon as possible.”
Mrs. Roberts stood. I moved closer, in case she collapsed again. “Why do you need it?”
“Because I believe I saw your daughter last night,” I explained in a low voice. “She left a party with a boy.”
“What party? Where?”
“It was only a couple of blocks away.”
“At whose house? I’d like to know. Whoever held that party is responsible for my daughter’s death.”
“No, Mrs. Roberts. Please don’t lay that blame at their feet. It’s not their fault. It’s not your fault either. It’s the killer’s fault. Only his. And we’re working hard to catch him so he can’t do this again.”
She stared down at her hands, wringing a wadded-up tissue. “But I didn’t protect her. I failed.”
“You did the best you could. No parent is perfect.”
“True, but not every parent’s failing leads to her child’s death.”
“Don’t blame yourself—”
“Don’t do that!” the anguished mother screeched. “Don’t tell me what I can or can’t feel.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
She clapped her hands over her face and started sobbing. I stood there, mute, feeling like crap for making her cry again. I wanted to leave the poor woman in peace, but I needed to get my hands on that yearbook.
JT nudged me. “Maybe we can get a copy from the school. Let’s go.”
I nodded. “I think I’ve done enough damage here.”
We headed out to Mom’s car. JT dumped the stereo onto the backseat while I cranked the engine, powered down the windows, and tried not to sweat. Of course, I failed. And within minutes, as we wove through the narrow streets of the subdivision, my face was shiny and little rivulets of sweat were dribbling down my cleavage.
JT was quiet, staring out the passenger window. He said nothing until we were almost back in Quantico. “Thanks for stepping up back there, Sloan. I’m the agent. You’re the intern. But you’re doing most of the work on this one.”
“It’s okay.”
He rubbed his temples. “I want to get my head together. I’m trying. It’s just so fucking hard.”
“It takes time. Everyone handles grief differently, but there are four stages and it generally takes—”
“Sloan, please. I don’t need to hear a psychological analysis right now.”
“Sorry.”
“Do me a favor. Take me back to my place.”
We drove the rest of the way to JT’s apartment in silence. Strained silence. Luckily, traffic was light. Saturday morning. No rush hour.
We rolled up and I let him out. I popped the trunk so he could get his go bag.
He stepped up to my window. “Are you heading into the office for a while?”
“Yes, I think I’m going to make some calls, see if I can get anyone to take a look at that thing.” I hooked my thumb over my shoulder at the backseat.
“I think I’m going to call it a day. Ring me if anything comes up.”
“Will do.”
He disappeared into his building as I backed out of the parking spot.
 
 
When I strolled into the PBAU a little while later, a bag of food in one fist, the portable stereo cradled in my arms, I was greeted by Gabe, who appeared to be packed up and ready to head home for the day.
“What’cha have there?” he asked, flicking his gaze to my hands.
“A stereo.” I lifted it up.
“Yeah, I see that. Is there a reason why you took it from the last victim’s house? Wanting to crank the jams while you’re doing your Sloan-super-profiling thing?”
He was so silly. “No. It’s fried. The crime scene techs didn’t want it so I thought I’d get someone to look at it.”
Wagner’s brows furrowed as he shouldered my cubby wall. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, if the unsub caused the damage, we can find out something about him from it. I wanted to get someone to look at it.”
“I have a friend who plays around with stuff like that. Want me to ask him to take a look at it?”
“Sure. That would be great. Thanks.” I handed off the stereo to Gabe. Our fingers brushed as he slid his arms around it, and my face started warming. I backed up.
Gabe’s eyes locked on mine.
I swear, the earth stopped spinning for a split second. Then it started again, and I felt this lurch. Or maybe that was just my imagination. I silently muttered a curse, vowing to find a way to get my memories of Gabe back before things got weird.
“What are you doing here on a Saturday, Sloan?”
That was a silly question. Not to mention, I could easily turn it right back on him. Stating the obvious, I said, “Working. What about you?”
“No plans?” He set the stereo on his desk; then he came back to my cubby to harass me some more.
“No.” I didn’t want to talk about my personal life with Gabe Wagner, though I sensed he knew plenty about it. I was really hating Elmer right now.
“How about we head out for some lunch?” He stepped closer, leaning his butt against the edge of my desk. His arms were crossed, and he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. His biceps looked huge, a lot bigger than I remembered. His skin looked a little darker too. His teeth were whiter.
I plunged my hand into the paper bag I’d hauled in and pulled out a wrapped six-inch sub. “I’m all set. Thanks.”
“Hmm.” He dug into the bag, produced a bag of Sun-Chips, and tore them open. “Mind if I have a couple?”
This was getting to be a regular thing with us.
“Not at all.” I took a big bite of my turkey and Swiss and chewed as I fished my laptop out of its bag.
Gabe stood there, watching me, crunching. “Need some help?”
“No thanks.”
“What are you working on?”
“Just poking around the Internet. Doing some research.”
“On . . . ?”
“Electricity, electrocution, that kind of thing.” I took another bite of sandwich while Windows loaded. “I wish my father’s research hadn’t burned up in the fire. I’d love to see if there are Mythics tied to electricity. The one book I do have only contained a small portion of his body of work.”
“I haven’t read any of your dad’s research, but I know there’s at least one.”
“You know this?”
“Sure. I’ve read ghosts can create electrical disturbances. And then there’s the Mongolian Death Worm, which may or may not be a Mythic—there’s no evidence to support it’s real, which means it’s technically a cryptid. It is said to be able to produce bursts of electrical energy.”
“‘Mongolian Death Worm’?” I repeated.
“Yeah. I’ve been doing some online research. It lives in the Gobi Desert, and only surfaces after a rain.”
“Interesting.” It took me no time at all to see a connection I’d missed before. All three victims had died after a storm. “Do you have more information on this worm? Could one have made its way here from Mongolia somehow?”
“Who knows? We import somewhere around twelve million dollars of goods a year from there. Mostly food products, sugar, salt. Maybe it found its way into a shipping container, burrowed underground once it landed here. In Mongolia, it lives in sand dunes and only surfaces during the hottest months of the year.”
“We’ve had some muggy, hot weather lately.”
“We have.”
“And it has rained before every attack.”
“It has.”
“Could we be onto something? Why didn’t you mention this possibility to the chief?” I asked while I typed
Mongolian Death Worm
into a Web search.
“Because I see one major issue with the Mongolian Death Worm theory. Its skin is supposedly toxic to the touch, and victims die instantly. Since we’ve found every one of our victims on the second floor of their homes, that would suggest the worm is entering their houses and traveling up the stairs by its own means. The victims couldn’t carry the worm without dying.”
That just blew a small hole in the Mongolian Death Worm theory. “I see what you mean. But would it be impossible? How do they move? Can they fly?”
“Nope. They use a rolling form of locomotion. I can’t see a two- to five-foot snake rolling up a staircase.”

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