Cold Fear (9 page)

The newscaster moved onto a spate of burglaries of houses that were empty for the holidays.

He sat up. What the fuck?

That was
it
?

Nothing else?

He shoved the beer on the table and stared at the screen, waiting for more. But the newscast finished without another word about the murder of Helena Cromwell or Beverley Sandal. He sat there stunned.

That was all the airtime he’d earned? And they said he was callous. Excitement died as anger grew. What about the bracelet? They needed to report on the bracelet, dammit, but maybe they hadn’t figured out the connection yet. Surely they couldn’t be that dense?

Denker was sitting on death row pissing his pants as his final day neared. Turned out the pussy was scared of dying. Funny when he thought about it. All those bitches begging for mercy years ago and getting none? He wasn’t a big believer in karma, but he found the thought pretty damn amusing. But Denker was his friend. Probably his only true friend because he understood him and his needs and wasn’t a pansy about it.

They’d gone to school together. Committed their first murder together. Some girl who’d been hitchhiking alone along a dark road at night like a gift. She’d practically fallen into their laps. They’d stopped, given her a ride, and without even discussing it, the two of them had dragged her into secluded woods, and she’d screamed her fucking head off until he’d hit her so hard he’d cracked her skull.

She’d never been found.

Sometimes they’d killed together. Other times they’d acted alone. Both had different needs and hungers, but there were plenty of women to be found if you knew where to look. Prostitutes and runaways were almost invisible. Drug addicts almost expected to turn up dead. He and Denker had made them disappear.

Ferris had been a good friend. They’d learned a lot from one another. Experimented. Swapped notes on the best way to avoid getting caught by the cops. When life had taken them in separate directions they’d lost touch. When Denker had been pulled over with a dead taillight and a body in the trunk, he’d mourned the loss of his friend’s freedom but also laughed his ass off. Ferris had always assumed he was the clever one. Oh, the irony.

Ferris’s confession had gotten the cops off his back, but it burned when he’d claimed so many victims as his own. A short time ago, Ferris had smuggled out a letter and asked for help. They’d figured out a couple of twists to throw the cops and delay the inevitable.

He wasn’t scared of dying—he was looking forward to it, but the idea of being found out…he didn’t like that none.

The plan was easy enough, and he didn’t mind giving the guy a little hope, especially as he got to take back what was his. Screwing with the authorities was fun, too, but he didn’t want to get caught.

He walked into his spare bedroom and opened the closet. Stared at the rows of shoes he had stored there. Red high heels mixed with sandals and ballet flats. He picked up one of the tiny sneakers he’d taken last night—brushed a little sand from the toes and felt his dick go rock hard.

He’d been high on adrenaline by the time he’d left the beach. Satisfied with his night’s work, and the intense pleasure of something he’d been denying himself for too long. He always took his hunger to the mainland, controlled himself on the islands. The community was too insular here, especially in winter and he didn’t want anyone asking too many questions or putting anything together.

He cupped the small shoe in his big hands, rubbed his thumb over the hard rubber heel. It felt so good.

For the first time in months he’d felt really alive. Challenged. Victorious. Sated.

He’d had a good idea where Beverley had been buried, but it had still taken over an hour with a metal detector to dig out the bracelet. His original plan had been to go over to the mainland today and find a suitable offering to leave for the cops to find in exactly the right place, but the teenagers had turned up at the dunes and it had seemed like too good an opportunity to resist.

The shovel…
shit
.

His skin went clammy as he realized his mistake. He’d left it behind…He’d worn gloves when doing the digging. But he’d removed the gloves to do the girl. To touch her skin. To absorb the softness of her flesh. She’d been so perfect. So stunningly acquiescent. A shame he’d had to kill her so quickly. He’d always liked her.

Afterward he’d rushed away, worried more teens might show up looking for the first two. Rash, he realized. He should have taken a few more minutes to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. He didn’t think they’d tie the shovel to him directly. He’d planned to put it back afterward, and he hadn’t worn gloves when he’d taken it. But would it be recognized?

Fuck.

His mood soured.

Of course Izzy would recognize it. And the cops would investigate and dust for prints, and he’d be sitting in a cell like Denker. It had been dumb to take it, he just couldn’t resist the symbolism.

He looked outside into the blustery dusk. Dammit, he hadn’t wanted to go out again tonight. He’d wanted to stay home and have a few beers. He deserved them after all his hard work and sleepless night.

Memories came crashing in and his hands shook. The rush of blood. The crazy high that made him feel invincible. He lay on the bed and pulled out his phone, looking at the pictures he’d taken. He held the sneaker against his chest. He remembered the fear, the pain. The girl had been a virgin and he wished he could do it again. She’d died too easy, hadn’t told him a damn thing he wanted to know. The intense pleasure the memories aroused had him catching his breath and closing his eyes as he touched himself.

He felt sorry for Ferris—denied real pleasure all these years. Had he seen the news? Was he jealous? He groaned as he remembered every detail. Every gasp. Every flinch. Her pretty brown eyes. Long silky hair.

How did a man live without that?
He
wouldn’t be able to. And that’s why he had to fix his one small mistake before anyone figured it out. He put it out of his mind for now. He’d do it later when it was full dark. And maybe he wouldn’t wait so long next time. Or maybe he’d keep them alive for longer and give himself time to enjoy the thrill. But that was risky. He just needed somewhere quiet to play for a few hours. Somewhere where no one would interrupt the things he needed to do.

*     *     *

“
F
IVE FOOT TWO
inches tall. Weight, ninety-nine pounds, three ounces.” Medical Examiner Simon Pearl looked up from his notes. “There’s nothing to her. She’s tiny.”

Frazer nodded. Seventeen-year-old Helena Cromwell lay naked, contained in a plastic sheet atop a large stainless steel table. She was slightly built. Fragile bones. Elegant fingers. Small breasts. Narrow feet. Her skin was white, except where blood had pooled. She’d been little more than a girl, but her age hadn’t mattered to the man who’d wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed.

It wasn’t lost on him that she’d have never wanted a stranger to see her like this. An autopsy was an invasion of privacy on a grand scale.

Shame welled up inside Frazer. When Rooney had first called him about a single victim homicide he’d considered it beneath his notice. The fact he’d thought the assassination of a powerful old man was more important than the destruction of such innocence made him sick inside. Helena’s sweetness, her potential for good, versus the evil of a twisted politician who’d wielded power as a weapon, uncaring of those who got in his way, was infinitely more worthy of his time. His effort.

This was his forte. This was where he belonged. Not talking to presidents, but picking apart crimes. Finding the bad guys before they hurt more innocents. But his job was full of politics, and if he didn’t play the game someone would play it for him.

As much as he tried to keep his emotional distance, viewing dead bodies slammed home his responsibilities. Crime scene photos didn’t do that. But dead naked seventeen-year-old girls like the one in front of him, did—she belonged to him now, and he’d do everything in his power to find the person who’d snatched her life away. Then he’d return the favor.

“Clothes and evidence have been bagged, yes?” asked Simon Pearl.

“She was found naked. Evidence was bagged and sent to Quantico.” But he had the horrible feeling he’d missed something important and needed to review the list of evidence as soon as he got the chance.

The ME pursed his lips, his eyes dark and angry. “What exactly do you want me to look for? Why not send her straight to Raleigh for a full post?” The ME was a fifty-year-old veteran, and they’d worked together before. More specifically, the guy had worked on Denker’s victims. Frazer wanted his unbiased eyes on this case. He crossed his arms over his chest. Said nothing.

The ME let out a deep breath. “You know I’m married, right? I actually have a wife at home waiting for me? One who gets pissed when I’m not on vacation when I promised her I would be? Maybe if
you
took a break occasionally—”

“It’s important,” Frazer said simply.

Simon grunted and continued to stare at him for another long moment. Frazer had spent years collecting favors. He’d been calling them all in steadily over the last few months and had the feeling he wasn’t done yet.

Simon finally shook off his annoyance and clipped the microphone back on, speaking into a digital recorder. He noted age, height, weight, sex, hair, and eye color. Helena’s state of nutrition. Scars—she had a small one on her clavicle that looked like a procedure from a broken collarbone. No tattoos. The ME looked at her teeth—she’d had a textbook perfect smile. The fact she’d never smile again made Frazer want to hit someone but he shoved it down and forced the thoughts away. He didn’t get angry. He got justice.

Simon took photographs as he went. Contusion on the right side of her scalp where she’d been hit with something unyielding. Frazer’s bet was the shovel. DNA would help verify that.

Red marks and dark bruises mottled her throat. The ME stretched her eyelids apart. “Petechial hemorrhaging suggesting she died of asphyxia. Looks like manual strangulation. I won’t know for sure until I open her up.” He noted a few other marks and abrasions. “There are no obvious defense wounds. Once the attacker got hold of her, I think she was completely overwhelmed by the man’s strength and probably her own fear.”

“No indications she was drugged or bound or Tasered?” The man who’d killed Mallory Rooney’s sister had used a stun gun on his victims before dragging them away to his lair. Frazer was glad the serial killer was dead, but he still wasn’t happy that he’d been the one to put a bullet in the bastard’s brain.

The ME shook his head. “I collected tissue samples for analysis, and don’t see any obvious Taser marks.” He moved on and Frazer forced himself not to react as the man moved the young woman’s legs apart and photographed the blood on her thighs. “There are indications of sexual activity. I can smell a rubber.” He moved away to grab a swab kit. When he came back, “What the…?” The man’s voice stumbled and trailed off.

Frazer tensed.

The ME leaned closer to the victim, picked up a pair of forceps, and grabbed hold of something that was inside the girl’s body. Slowly he removed the item. It was a clam shell.

For a moment, the thudding of blood through his ears was the only thing Frazer could hear in the cold basement. He met the ME’s wide-eyed stare.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The man’s voice vibrated with anger. “Does Ferris Denker have a copycat?”

“Or a partner we never caught.” Frazer unfolded his arms and moved closer to the ME. The fact Denker had always placed something in his victim’s vagina was not information that had been released, either to the press or during trial proceedings. This meant the killer was closely associated with Denker—close enough to know intimate details about the killer’s MO. Denker had also liked to spend a little more playtime with his victims, time to maximize their fear, and maximize his own pleasure at feeding off the victim’s pain. Frazer didn’t know if this unsub shared Denker’s proclivities for torture or not. Helena hadn’t been mutilated but her murder felt rushed. As if she were a victim of opportunity rather than planned. The means to deliver a message while slaking a vicious hunger. But Frazer wasn’t sure if he was seeing this new unsub distinct from Denker.

What was his signature? What made him tick?

Frazer spoke quietly. He didn’t want anyone overhearing them. “We found a medical alert bracelet for a woman named Beverley Sandal on this girl’s wrist.” He nodded to Helena. “Beverley Sandal was one of the women Denker admitted to killing when he was convicted, but her body was never found.” They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Both pissed, but Simon’s eyes held a measure of forgiveness and understanding. Now he knew why Frazer had requested him personally. He knew why he’d dragged him out of his nice warm home and away from his family.

Frazer wished he’d been wrong. Wished for some crazy coincidence, although the bracelet had been a distinct calling card. A gauntlet thrown down to the authorities.

“You can take her back to Raleigh now and finish the post.” He held out an evidence bag for the shell, and Pearl slipped it inside. Frazer had what he needed although he was far from happy about the development. “I’m sending this to Quantico for analysis. We might get lucky. He might have left prints or hair or something.”

They both turned to look at the victim lying on the table. Death never got any easier, but it was always worse when the victim was young. “This information can’t get out.”

“Press would have a field day,” Simon agreed. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I want that bastard to reap what he sowed and scream all the way to hell.”

Frazer’s cell buzzed in his pocket, and he checked the screen and pressed his lips together. “Looks like we have good news and bad news. Jesse Tyson woke up and is talking. Bad news is, he’s asking for Helena.”

*     *     *

I
T WAS AFTER
ten PM. The ER was quiet, and Izzy only had a few more minutes before she could go home and sleep for a week. The last time she’d felt this drained had been in a field hospital in Afghanistan after an invitation to a tribal meeting had turned out to be a trap. They’d lost two soldiers that day, and another young man had lost both legs below the knees. The fact those men and women went to war to help protect her freedom was humbling, especially if the authorities knew what she’d done seventeen years ago they’d take hers away. But using her skills to help people was a way of giving back and had to be better than twiddling her thumbs in prison—that’s what she told herself.