Faces of Evil [2] Impulse (8 page)

Yes. This was where Spears had hidden. He’d listened to Howard’s high heels clicking as she walked around on the glossy wood floor. She had worn high heels to dinner last night, seemed logical that she’d dress similarly for pitching a high-end house like this one.

Spears was loving tossing the unexpected at Jess in this game.

Persuading the realtor who’d courted her to meet him here had come as easily as breathing. He no doubt introduced himself on the phone as Jess’s representative. Even without the promise of a commission, Howard wouldn’t have been able to resist the charismatic killer.

Jess returned to the evidence that a violent act had occurred in the room, assumed the position on her hands and knees and leaned down to study the near invisible smudge on the floor a third time. Using her gloved finger she touched the smear, lifted her finger to her nose and sniffed. Slight perfumed smell. Not convinced, using her other hand, she swiped at her own cheek with her forefinger and took a whiff of that one. Oh yeah.

“Make-up.”

She surveyed four or five feet around the area of the smear, if the floor hadn’t been polished to a mirror finish she would never have noticed it. The whole house showed like a model home designed to sell the neighborhood. The only thing missing was the sparse but elegant furnishings usually staged strategically for such a showcase property.

Pushing back to her feet, she visualized the scenario. Howard had either been laying on her side or face down. Unconscious most likely. Since the blood was near the smudge, he may have slashed her arm or hand and held it right where he wanted it for the pooling of blood. When he had what he wanted, he probably wrapped the wound and went about his business.

The Player planned every step and he never made mistakes. . . until now.

Or so it seemed. But, with all she knew about him and what she saw here, maybe these weren’t mistakes.

Still pondering the concept, she wandered, scanning the span of floor in front of her before she crossed it, toward the kitchen. The scented candle Howard had lit for her anticipated appointment had lost the battle with the metallic odor of clotting blood. Jess blew it out, thankful for the slight reprieve provided by the acrid smoky smell that filled her lungs with the extinguished blaze.

She studied the large stainless steel sink. Too clean and polished for him to have washed up there. Of course if he wore gloves there would have been no need to wash his hands. Just peel his gloves off into a bag.

The laundry room beyond the kitchen was spotless, the sink immaculate. As she turned to go back to the kitchen, she hesitated and opened the door of the frontloading washer. She leaned down, peered inside. Nothing. She checked the other appliances and the cabinets, just in case.

Back in the great room, she considered the message he’d left for her. She crossed to the far end of the room and stared at the bloody taunt.
It’s a killer deal, Jess.

Burnett had been visibly rattled by the message. Jess had been frustrated. The words weren’t meant to give her a lead on what he wanted. Just another phrase meant to goad her and to make her afraid of what he would do next.

“Bang up job, you son of a bitch.”

Reaching up, she held two fingers together and measured the width of the strokes. Only slightly wider than two of her fingers. Another frown marred her brow. Jess scrubbed at it with her forearm to smooth it away. Frowns were bad. . . wrinkles were worse. Reminded her that she was getting older by the minute and her career was a mess, along with her dysfunctional personal life.

And a sociopath was playing games with her, using other people’s lives.

Jess scrutinized the floor close to the wall displaying the message. If there was a single drop of blood it was far too miniscule for her to spot. The techs would find any traces with their handy gadgets.

Had he used a cloth to wipe his fingers, gloved or not, after each swipe so as not to drip on the floor? She couldn’t imagine him using his shirt or trousers. Not his style. Though she had done so the time she painted her living room. She’d ruined two blouses and her favorite jeans.

Jess turned back to the small puddle. Had he walked back and forth to dip his fingers over and over?

Too messy; too time consuming. He’d been on a tight schedule.

More plausible, he had the blood in a container. She studied the message again before turning back to the puddle. Then poured the rest on the floor for the shock value. Howard might have been inside his vehicle by then. With her out of the way, he could far more easily come back inside and arrange the scene to suit his purposes.

As usual he came prepared. There was no indication he’d so much as washed his hands here. He’d carried what he needed, then took the items with him when he left with his victim. Knife, blade of some sort, small container for his art work, cloths or disposable wipes for cleaning up. . . and the sedative he used to disable Howard.

No one laid still and quiet while they bled – not even from a paper cut – or while some maniac used their blood for ink.

Even if he’d restrained her there would have been some movement, some amount of squirming, making the smudge on the shiny floor from her makeup more smeared around.

It was all so precise. Classic work for the Player. Yet, rife with evidence. Evidence that was related to the victim if not to him. The Player never left evidence.

Vibration on the floor made her jump.

She turned and stared at the cell phone shimmying on the hardwood, its screen lit. Maybe Howard’s husband or boss or a friend. . . wondering how her afternoon appointment had gone.

Jess crossed to where it lay and crouched down to read the screen.

Home
calling.

A pang of regret caught beneath her breast. He would ultimately kill this poor woman as a move in this gruesome game of his.

Just to get to Jess.

Belinda Howard didn’t fit the profile of his preferred victim but she had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jess’s sister had invited her to dinner in hopes of persuading Jess to buy a home in Birmingham. And now Belinda Howard would die because of her work. . . because of Jess.

She had to stop him. . . one way or another.

“Jess.”

Time to get out of the way. There was nothing more the scene could tell her. She didn’t need fingerprints or trace evidence to confirm who had done this.

His name was Eric Spears. He
was
the Player. Whether anyone else in the world had accepted that reality, it was true.

After grabbing her bag, she almost slipped as she stamped across the gleaming floor. Damned shoes. Damned shiny floor.

This house was. . . way, way out of Jess’s budget. Poor Belinda Howard. She’d probably been psyched at the idea of just how much her commission would be on a sale like this. Rushed over, lit the candle, hoping to finally sell a beautiful home that had languished on the market for no telling how long. Another victim of the failing economy.

Burnett waited for Jess to go ahead of him. Always the gentleman.

She offered a smile to the forensic techs she passed on her way out the front door. All flashed her one of those it’s-about-time glances.

Harper paced the sidewalk, his cell resting against his ear. He was the detective in charge of this scene when he had no more business here than Jess. But they both needed to be here, lack of objectivity or not, to see that Spears was stopped and Detective Wells and Belinda Howard came home safely.

That little voice Jess didn’t like listening to warned that she was wasting her time even hoping that either one would survive.

On the porch, she stripped off her gloves and hopped on first one foot, then the next to remove the shoe covers. Damned high heels.

Belinda Howard’s BMW sat in the driveway, which, in addition to the for sale sign, marked the house as being the location of her appointment since Lily couldn’t remember the exact address. En route Jess had made a call to the receptionist at the realty office but she hadn’t known all Howard’s appointments for the afternoon. Belinda, she’d explained, worked spontaneous showings all the time.

This was one appointment Jess wished the lady had missed.

Two uniformed officers were canvassing the neighbors. Unless they got lucky and someone saw the vehicle Spears drove, the effort was another waste of time. Spears might be taunting them with these changes in his MO but he was far from stupid. He had a strategy with an ultimate goal and getting caught wasn’t it. He would never allow anyone to see him, as he had with Detective Wells’ family, unless it was part of his plan. He wanted Jess to know it was him.

“I need to take a walk,” she told Burnett before he could inquire about her conclusions. She needed to breathe in enough of the humid summer air to force the last of the lingering stench of blood fully from her lungs.

Any neighbors who happened to be home were likely now peeking between special-order blinds and designer drapes, curious about the number of official vehicles fronting the property. Jess doubted this kind of circus toured the neighborhood very often.

Deputy Chief Black was taking care of notifying the Howard family. Jess didn’t envy him the task. She stalled at the end of the drive and took another long look around the quiet cul-de-sac. What did you say to the family in a situation like this?

That Belinda, wife and mother, had been taken by a sadistic sociopath who would torture her until he was done. But not to worry because then he’d dump her body in the open for easy discovery.

It’s a killer deal, Jess
.

If it was her he wanted, why not just come after her?

The answer was one stamped on far too many memory cells. Because it wasn’t the kill, the final step, that drove him. It was the hunt. . . the torture and all the steps in between. His pleasure came from the victim’s terror.

As his ultimate victim in this game, he wanted Jess to be afraid.

Burnett strolled up beside her. She blinked back the emotions, kept her face aimed away from him. Going all overprotective was his MO without any additional evidence from her. He already hovered on that annoying edge. Allowing him to see even a glimmer of uncertainty would make bad matters worse.

She had noted the way all those other division chiefs had eyed her this afternoon. The news hadn’t been announced but the gossip was already taking on a life of its own. It was a common human reaction. Fallen federal agent blows into town and takes the spot that would have been a promotion to one of their people – the ones already on staff with BPD.

Oh, and she couldn’t leave out the old lover label. She and Burnett had been a couple all through high school and college. Since Jess would be the only female deputy chief, she had unquestionably gotten the job by sleeping with the boss. Didn’t matter that the last time they had succumbed to that particular weakness was ten years ago.

That she had helped find those girls had earned her Sheriff Griggs’ respect if no one else’s. Then again, he and the others would in all probability see her as responsible for
this
.

She
was
responsible.

Guilt and fear coiled more tightly, separating her from everyone around her with those invisible yet fierce emotions.

The Player never took a second victim until he was finished with the first.

Twenty-four hours
. That cold, harsh reality echoed in her brain. That was the approximate amount of time Lori Wells had left to live.

“Twenty-four hours?”

Jess started at Burnett’s question. Didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud. Just another reminder of how easily she drifted into one distraction or the other these days. “Nothing.”

Maybe he would change that aspect of his MO, too
.

If they couldn’t find him fast – and they wouldn’t unless he wanted to be found – Detective Wells’ only hope was a shift in his well-documented MO.

“This isn’t one of his typical crime scenes, is it?”

Jess braced, focused on ensuring her voice was steady when she spoke. One more excuse was all he would need to yank her off this case for her own protection.

“Not at all.”
Get that quiver out of your voice, Jess
. “There’s generally no indication anything untoward happened. Certainly no evidence of any kind.” With effort she pushed aside the memory of the blood on the floor and the wall and concentrated on what she knew, what she could do for Lori – Lori, dammit.

Not Detective Wells.
Lori Wells
. A friend she wanted to know better, to share experiences with. Jess hadn’t bothered with friends in a long time.

Damn Spears
.

Burnett waited for her to go on. He watched for the weakness that would prove his theory about her not being able to handle the undeniably personal aspects of this investigation.

Keep it together, Jess
.

“He sedates his victims to ensure complete cooperation. We discovered it in his last victims – Ketamine. With the injectable form, if the dose is right it works fast and doesn’t last too long. Gives him the time he needs.”

“Is she – Belinda Howard – is she alive?” The hope in his voice never made it to his eyes. “There’s not that much blood in there.”

“He doesn’t usually make the kill at the scene of the abduction.” Jess almost laughed. “The way his MO is changing, I’m not sure I can say either way with any real accuracy. At this point I’d have to conclude that it depends upon if he has a use for her. He,” she dragged in a steadying breath, “disabled her with the Ketamine, probably, made an incision of some sort to get the blood flowing and left his message.”

Just to get Jess’s attention. The vic wasn’t even his type. None of this was logical, unless she set aside the profile she’d built over five years of intense study, and acknowledged that every step he’d taken this time had been about her. Getting to her, making her squirm. Generating desperation.

“Where does this put Wells on the food chain?”

Jess swept a wisp of sweat-dampened hair from her face. “Without exception,” the words she needed to say got trapped on a lump in her throat, “he disposes of one victim within twenty-four hours of taking the next.”