Cold Fear (33 page)

Tyson pulled a piece of paper off the fax machine. “Just. How’s Izzy?” The guileless way Tyson asked made Frazer roll his eyes.

He turned to Randall. “You told him? What are you, in high school?”

“We were Army buddies.” Randall grimaced. “Anyway, I had to tell him why you weren’t here yet, when we’d just pulled in a suspected serial killer.”

Frazer shook his head. Shit. This wasn’t his usual MO. There were rarely things in his personal life that allowed teasing.

“How do you want to do this?” Tyson got down to business.

“Randall, you go with police officers to the Cromwell home to execute the warrant. Make sure everything is seized and handled appropriately. We want no mistakes. If he’s our guy I want an airtight case against him. I also want you to interview the wife and figure out what she knows. And if you can access the kids—do it.”

“Does Cromwell fit the profile?” asked Randall.

“Some of it. White, male, strong, mobile. Drives a truck, has access to work vans. Above average intelligence. Wears a uniform, but doesn’t carry a weapon—could be a wannabe cop who didn’t have what it takes. Frankly I haven’t had time to work up much more than that.”

Tyson looked less than impressed. Frazer didn’t blame him. He was less than impressed himself, but it wasn’t profiles that caught killers, it was basic investigative police work. They had a number of leads they were following now. It was a matter of time. Was Cromwell their guy? Were people now safe from this killer? He didn’t know. Felicia Barton was working on geographical profiling along with Bradley Tate of the Highway Serial Killings Initiative. Because of limited access to the islands some of the normal principles of geographical profiling didn’t apply. However, limited access meant they might be able to spot his means of transport more easily.

“We need to graph out Cromwell’s movements every day, starting with New Year’s Eve. I have someone working on his past to see if or when he and Denker crossed paths.”

“You really think he killed his own kid?” Tyson asked uneasily.

“It’s possible. I want to talk to him.”

Tyson nodded. “We’ll do it together.”

“Someone gave the press the Denker connection,” Frazer said bitterly.

They all grimaced because conducting an investigation under a media spotlight was like trying to get dressed wearing a blindfold and hoping no one saw you. But there was nowhere to hide in a community this small. Any mistakes would be amplified. Any errors jumped upon gleefully.

“Let’s move. If Cromwell is our guy I want him nailed to the wall,” Tyson grabbed his jacket.

“And if he isn’t, I want the community to know not to drop their guard,” said Frazer.

“You have doubts?” Tyson frowned.

Frazer smiled grimly. “I always have doubts. Cromwell exhibited a lot of antagonism toward Dr. Campbell when I interviewed him.” He met Tyson’s eyes. “It could be a personal attack stemming from grief at the loss of his daughter.”

Tyson and Randall both looked doubtful. “It shared a lot of similarities with the other attacks.”

“So let’s go talk to the guy. See what he’s ready to spill.”

*     *     *

F
RAZER WALKED INTO
the room, followed by Tyson. That Cromwell had attacked Isadora made him feel physically ill, but he was professional enough to be able to dissociate his feelings for the woman from those for the suspect in front of him. He brought Cromwell a cup of herbal tea, which smelled disgusting but, according to the officer who was a friend of the Cromwell family, was all he ever really drank.

“How are you feeling, Duncan?” he asked. The guy looked like shit. The skin around his eyes was swollen and angry red. Both eyes would be blackened by tonight. Blood rimmed the inside of his nose that had also possibly been broken. Seth Grundy had done quite the number on the man. Frazer stilled the rage that wanted to rise inside him. Someone had beaten him to it—literally.

“I feel like horseshit. How do you think I’d feel? My daughter is dead, and you’re doing nothing to catch her killer.”

Frazer ignored the complaints. “Can you tell us what happened this morning?”

Cromwell pressed his lips together and glared.

“I know you’re going through a tough time, Duncan. I know you’re hurting.” Assuming he wasn’t a full-blown psychopath. “Helena’s death must have hit hard.”

Tears streamed down the man’s face. It was possible he’d killed Helena in a rage and the remorse he exhibited was genuine. Frazer put the tea down and pushed it in Cromwell’s direction. “I need to ask you about your movements last night.”

Something sparked in Cromwell’s eyes. “Really.”

“Can you walk me through your day?”

Cromwell shrugged. “I went into the office yesterday morning. I needed to get away from Lannie and the kids for a few hours. To try and forget.”

Just a couple of days after his daughter was murdered. “Sure. I understand.” Oddly enough, Frazer did, but he wasn’t a married man with a wife and kids who’d also suffered unbearable loss.

“You married, ASAC Frazer?” There was something snide in Cromwell’s tone. Something unkind.

“Divorced.”

Cromwell nodded, but he looked disappointed for some reason.

“How long did you stay at the office?”

Cromwell shrugged. “An hour. Maybe two.”

“Where did you go after that?”

“I drove around for a while.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to think,” he snapped.

“Did you go by the hospital and take your baseball bat to Dr. Campbell’s car windows?”

Cromwell stared at him sullenly. Nothing.

“Do you remember anywhere you went?”

“I drove up to Currituck. Checked out some of the Wildlife Refuge. We’ve had problems with illegal hog hunting up there.”

Frazer felt his pulse speed up. He wanted to pursue the question of Jessica Tuttle but had to ease his way into it. “How long did you spend there?”

“About an hour or so. I wasn’t timing myself.” Cromwell frowned and looked up and left. The guy was right-handed so he was either a superlative liar, or telling the truth.

“Anyone see you?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t talk to anyone I knew, if that’s what you’re asking. There were a couple of people out walking, but I wasn’t exactly looking for company.”

News of Jessica’s death had been kept quiet overnight. It had hit the news channels in time for the breakfast news. If Duncan was going to pretend he wasn’t the person who’d murdered Jessica, he was setting up an alibi that might explain why anyone had spotted him there.

“Did you go home for dinner?”

Empty eyes drifted to stare at the wall. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“Where’d you go next?”

Cromwell shrugged and clammed up.

Tyson interjected. “I know you bought a bottle of rye at the liquor store. You go get drunk?”

Cromwell’s gaze hit the floor. “Yes. I got drunk.” He sounded ashamed. “Then I got behind the wheel of the truck and I drove to Isadora Campbell’s home. I was going to make her pay for not looking after my daughter the way she’d promised. Do you know what I saw?” Duncan’s eyes contained hellfire as they met Frazer’s, talking loudly now. “You, fucking her. My daughter’s murderer is out there, slaughtering girls, and you’re busy nailing that fucking bitch. You should be ashamed.”

“Hardly.” The hatred was palpable, and the fact that Frazer had stoked those flames sat badly, but he wasn’t going along on that guilt trip. He had enough real sins on his conscience that actually having a sex life barely registered. He hadn’t officially been on duty, although he’d find it difficult to define exactly when he was off duty. “Did you get off watching a private moment between lovers? Did it turn you on?”

Cromwell looked horrified by the idea. “No.”

He watched the man carefully and didn’t see any signs of deception. Most sexual sadists would have probably jerked off to the show. Hell, a lot of normal guys would have, too. Next time he was definitely closing the drapes—assuming there was a next time. Isadora hadn’t exactly been enthusiastic when he’d suggested the idea earlier. But then she had just been attacked by this guy. Christ. His timing needed work.

“How long did you watch for?”

“Not long,” Cromwell turned away from him now.

“Do you and your wife still have sex, Duncan?”

Cromwell’s mouth dropped open as he faced him again. “That’s none of your damn business.”

“Why not? You now know the sum total of my sex life for the past twelve months. I think I’m entitled to a bit of turnaround, don’t you?”

“No. What happens between my wife and me is private. I’m not talking about it here, with you.”

“She satisfy all your needs, Duncan? She’s a beautiful woman, but it doesn’t always translate into being good in the sack.”

Tyson sat stoically beside him, letting him ask the shitty questions.

“Sometimes a guy needs more, you know? Or maybe something a little extra. I certainly wouldn’t blame a guy for helping himself to a little extra if he wasn’t getting what he needed at home.”

Cromwell crossed and uncrossed his legs. “I love my wife. I don’t cheat on her, ever.”

“Then why were you trying to rip Isadora Campbell’s shirt off in the marsh this morning? You saw the goods and figured you wanted some of that? I know I did. She’s hot.”

Cromwell’s mouth moved uncertainly. “I-I didn’t want to have sex with Dr. Campbell.”

Interesting he said
sex
, not
rape
, as if it would have been consensual.

“You wanted to beat her and leave her out there, like Helena?”

“Yes.” Cromwell nodded and then backtracked. “I wasn’t going to touch her that way.”

“Were you going to take off her clothes?” asked Frazer.

Cromwell closed his sore-looking eyes.

“You can’t tell me that you didn’t get a boner watching me fuck Izzy last night.” The language was coarse, but it was the sort of conversation a sexual sadist could relate to. Not love or cherish, but fuck and nail.

Finally the guy nodded.

“Did you get a boner again when you started taking her clothes off?” Ripping her shirt open after she’d been beaten almost unconscious. That was in the report he’d read. “She’s a beautiful woman.” Not that it mattered. For most rapists it was about fear and domination, not attraction or beauty. “Did the attack arouse you?”

Cromwell swallowed and nodded slowly.

“But you weren’t going to have sex with her?” Frazer wanted to smack the guy, but kept his voice neutral, which the man seemed to respond to.

“I was going to strip her bare and leave her unconscious alone in the darkness.”

“Like Helena,” said Frazer.

Cromwell nodded.

“Helena died. Did you want Dr. Campbell dead too? Naked and dead in the dunes like your daughter?”

“Alone in the darkness,” Cromwell repeated in a detached voice.

“Helena wasn’t alone.” Tyson said quietly. “My son was with her.”

Cromwell’s eyes opened and narrowed. “Some good he did her.”

“So you attacked Isadora Campbell as a punishment?” said Frazer.

Cromwell nodded.

“The same way you punished Helena?” Frazer pushed gently.

“What?” Cromwell looked genuinely shocked. Both his feet hit the floor. “You think I…” Horror stole over his features, and he spoke very slowly. “You think I raped and killed my own daughter?”

But Frazer wasn’t hearing any real denials. So he changed the subject. “You ever heard of St. Joseph’s School for Boys?”

*     *     *

I
ZZY WAS SPRUNG
at lunchtime. She’d sucked down some Tylenol 3, so the pain was manageable. The only real injury was her broken wrist, which pissed her off more than hurt, as it meant she wasn’t supposed to drive for the next couple of weeks. She had an appointment back at the fracture clinic in two weeks. It could have been so much worse.

She needed to thank Seth for everything. The man had saved her life today.

Kit had spent some time with Jesse before he’d been discharged. The kid was messed up. He’d been told about his ex-girlfriend, Jessica, and even though he hadn’t really liked the girl anymore, he was suffering from shocked disbelief and a strong dose of survivor’s guilt. Charlene had popped in and told her she was taking Jesse and his little brother off the island for a few weeks. She didn’t mention where they were going, and Izzy didn’t ask. The bodyguards whisked them away without the press sniffing them out, which seemed like a smart plan.

According to the charge nurse there were fifteen-to-twenty news vans in the parking lot. The last thing Izzy wanted was to end up on TV.

So Kit had driven away from the hospital alone and then one of the ambulance crews had secreted Izzy into the back before meeting up with Kit along Cape Hatteras National Seashore. Izzy wore a woolen hat that completely covered her hair, and some dark glasses one of the nurses had lent her. Black fingerless gloves hid the small cast and she refused to wear the sling, yet. Instead she’d stuffed it in her bag. She’d wear it later if her wrist started to hurt more.

She wanted her gun back. She’d texted both Chief Tyson and Lincoln Frazer to see if one of them could swing that for her, but neither had replied yet. The orthopedic surgeon had lent her a pale beige trench coat that was a hell of a lot more sophisticated than her usual Gortex or down jackets. The effect was rather stunning, and rather than looking like she was in hiding, she looked like a stylish confident woman.

Getting out of the rig, she thanked the ambulance crew, suddenly aware how limiting a broken wrist was when she tried to shut the back door with her right hand. Ouch.

Kit leaned over and opened the passenger door of her Beetle. Izzy eased carefully inside. Her ribs were only bruised, but any sudden movement gave her a nasty reminder of her morning’s workout. She’d much rather remember the mad crazy lovemaking session with the buttoned up Fed than getting the shit kicked out of her.

Kit checked her phone. “Ted texted me from the diner. He wants us to drop in on our way past.” Izzy opened her mouth to argue, but Kit cut her off. “The press isn’t there right now. He figures you have time for a coffee. He has Barney.”