Kiss Me, Kill Me (10 page)

“The same type of drugs?”

“No, not that I recall. Two on speed, one had high-end cocaine—there were still crystals in her nasal cavities.

One had not only been smoking pot, but there was a nice little stash in her purse.”

“This last victim didn’t have a purse on her.”

“Neither did the second,” Panetta pointed out. “She had an ankle band with fifty dollars in it.”

“I’m familiar—I used to go to a lot of rock concerts. You don’t want to carry around a purse.”

Something connected these victims, other than their age. Two blondes, a redhead, a brunette. Heights ranged from five foot three to five foot six. Three college students, one not. Three Caucasian, one Hispanic. No defensive wounds, which made sense because they were drunk and drugged. But Suzanne suspected that there was a date rape drug in there, even if the killer hadn’t raped the victims. Mixed with alcohol, those drugs often caused the victims to become lethargic or unconscious. It would make it that much easier to put a plastic bag over their head and suffocate them without any fuss.

“I had been thinking that the killer had to be strong to hold the girls up while they died,” Suzanne said, “but he wouldn’t have to be particularly strong if they were under the influence.”

“Hmm, maybe.”

“You disagree?”

“I’ve seen guys drunker than a skunk fight back hard. Maybe our vics were unable to get out of the guy’s grip—they hadn’t seen the bag or whatever he used—because they were too stoned to know what was happening at first. But they’d know pretty quick.” Panetta finished his beer. “I asked the coroner to send lung samples to your lab at Quantico. He can’t pinpoint what type of plastic was used to suffocate the victims, and with the workload—”

“No explanation necessary. I’ll light a fire under their asses and hopefully we’ll get something that helps.” She wasn’t holding her breath. If she were going to suffocate someone, she’d use a common plastic garbage bag, something not easily traceable. But she was a trained cop. A common killer—even an uncommon psychopath—might not be so smart. She could hope. “The fact that none of our victims fought back lends credence to the theory that they were dosed with GHB or something.”

“Hate to tell you, but at these parties I’ve heard that both the boys and girls take the drugs voluntarily. Maybe the girls weren’t slipped the drugs, but it was part of the overall party experience.”

Suzanne didn’t understand that. She enjoyed sex—quite a lot—and she’d never needed drugs or alcohol to loosen her up. She liked her beer after work, and that was it.

She nodded toward his beer. “Another?”

Panetta shook his head. “Thanks, but I need to get home.”

He took out his wallet.

“I got this one.” She gestured to the bartender for a second Sam Adams.

“Thanks, kid.”

“I’m going to talk to Haynes again, and I’m thinking if we talk to Barnett when he doesn’t expect it, we can rattle him. I’d like to find something specific to rattle him with.”

“If you go for Barnett, ring me. I don’t trust that brat as far as I can throw him.”

“You think he’s the killer.”

“I think he’s a spoiled rich kid who doesn’t know boundaries. He could kill, if provoked. But I don’t know if he’s who we’re looking for.”

Suzanne watched Panetta walk away with a wave to the other off-duty cops in the bar.

The bartender put her second bottle in front of her and took her empty away.

Barnett was capable of murder, perhaps, but Suzanne didn’t think he was smart enough to kill four women and not leave any evidence or witnesses. If he killed, it would be out of rage or passion. Like at a girlfriend who dumped him. When women end up dead, cops look at the men in their lives. Stranger murders are much rarer.

She wasn’t going to second-guess Panetta—and after the third murder, when she was brought on board, she’d already bought into the theory that they were dealing with a serial killer. But that didn’t mean that the killer hadn’t been involved with at least one of the victims. Statistically, most serial killers knew one or more of their victims personally—whether they were friendly with the person or it was someone they saw regularly.

Like a college student.

Or the barista at a coffeehouse.

Alanna Andrews was the first victim. Erica Ripley, the second, was the only victim who didn’t attend college. Suzanne would start with them.

Satisfied that she had a place to begin first thing in the morning, she focused on the big-screen TV.

Seven p.m. The Knicks were playing at Madison Square Garden. She didn’t care either way about basketball, and she could go home and review her notes and plan her interviews with the people in Andrews’s and Ripley’s lives. But she’d been reviewing the files every night since she landed on the task force, and nothing had changed except her focus. Suzanne needed a break, just to unwind, so she could come in fresh in the morning.

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed her closest friend in the city. “Mac, it’s Suz. Have plans tonight?”

“Just getting off duty.”

“I’m sitting at Uglies with my Sam Adams watching the Knicks game.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Suzanne hung up and sipped her beer. She had friends with benefits, too, some of which were quite impressive.

TEN

Sean sat at his desk in his second-floor office. Lucy was sitting across from him, typing away on her laptop. The rain that had started when they left Woodbridge was a deluge by the time they’d pulled into his driveway. The steady downpour continued to drum against the windows.

The narrow, three-story, hundred-year-old house was both Sean’s business and residence. He and Patrick had done most of the renovation work themselves in December when they established RCK East. The living room downstairs had been converted into the main office, the library into Patrick’s office, and the formal parlor would someday be their assistant’s workspace—that is, when they had enough business to justify hiring an administrator. In the back, cut off from their work area by double doors, was the kitchen and living area. An enclosed sunporch led to a postage-stamp backyard dominated by two towering old trees.

Sean hoped the trees survived the storm. The winds were fierce.

Originally, combining their business and residences had seemed a smart move to save money while they built the business. Sean and Patrick had no problems living together because each had his own space. However, that was before Sean started sleeping with Patrick’s sister. Now, Sean wished he had his own apartment. Lucy had been uncomfortable sleeping with Sean under her older brother’s roof, and Sean certainly wasn’t going to ask her to stay with him now that Patrick was back in town. At least not until Patrick got over his problems with their relationship. Sean didn’t want to do anything to put his new relationship with Lucy in jeopardy.

He wanted to spend his time with her lying around in bed, talking, making love, watching her sleep. He missed the wonderful week they’d had before Patrick returned from his last job, when Lucy had spent every night in his bed.

“Do I have a zit on my nose or something?” Lucy asked.

He shook his head. “Sorry, I was thinking.”

“You were staring at me.”

“I was staring into space and you’re in the way.” He grinned and leaned forward. “You’re much prettier than empty space.”

“I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere,” Lucy said.

His computer beeped. He pulled up a message from Jayne Morgan, the computer magician at RCK. She could pull information out of thin air, or so it seemed.

He read the note and smiled. “Jayne came through. We got the name on that 917 number Kirsten has been calling. Jessica Bell.”

“Any idea who she is?”

“No, just the name and her address.”

“That’s a plus. New York City?”

“Yes.” He typed it into his computer. Up popped a map. “Three blocks from Columbia University.”

“Is she a student?” Lucy asked. “Maybe Kirsten was talking to her about going to school there.”

“She was only applying to California colleges,” Sean said.

“How do you know?”

“Her mother had a copy of all her applications. And I saw the brochures in her room.”

“Have you been able to retrieve her deleted emails?”

“Not yet. The program is still running, but the older they are the less likely I’ll be able to get them. I’m going to run a search on Jessica Bell at this address and see if I can learn anything more. Maybe Kirsten went to New York to visit this Jessica Bell, and got sick.”

“And didn’t have Jessica call her mother?” Lucy shook her head.

“Their relationship was rocky. Kirsten emailed Trey, not her mother, to let them know she was okay.”

“She was anything but okay.”

Sean caught Lucy’s eye. “She could have been high when she wrote that.”

“At eight in the morning?”

“Maybe left over from the night before.”

“I’ve been analyzing the message she sent,” Lucy said. “Sick can mean any number of things—being hungover, food poisoning, the flu—but she also says that she can’t walk.”

“You think she broke her leg?”

“If that’s the case, wouldn’t your search of the hospitals have come up with something?”

“Not if she refused to give her name, or used a false identity.”

“If she didn’t give her name, wouldn’t they have recognized her from the photo on the missing persons flyer?”

“I got this case yesterday morning. Less than forty-eight hours ago. I don’t think the hospitals have someone sitting on the emails and fax machines twenty-four/seven getting ready to distribute photos to all staff. Besides, we only sent out beyond a hundred miles when I found out about New York.”

Lucy glanced down.

“I didn’t mean to sound like that,” Sean said. “It’s just that in my experience missing teenagers are a lower priority. They probably posted her photo on a board and if someone recognizes her, they’ll contact the Woodbridge Police Department, or RCK. But she’s been missing since Friday, and the last time she used her phone was late Saturday night. Let’s assume she got hurt, broke her leg or something. Went to the hospital. If she tried to use her insurance, her name would be in the system, and as a minor they would have contacted her mother, or protective services.”

“You’re right.”

Lucy didn’t say anything more, and Sean mentally hit himself. She had been so defeated this morning, thinking she wasn’t good enough for the FBI, and here he’d shot down one of her theories.

He let it sit for a minute, then said, “What if she didn’t go to the hospital?”

Lucy either didn’t hear him or was ignoring him.

“Lucy, what is it?”

“It’s not important. You’re right, she was probably high.”

“Stop.”

She glared at him. “What?”

“You’re doing it again. I want to know what you’re thinking.”

“Why? It’s really just a way-out-there idea. You should probably talk to Kate. I bet she’ll have a reasonable theory.”

“If I wanted to bring Kate into the investigation, I would have done it already, but right now this isn’t a federal case, and she can’t help me.”

Lucy was torn, he could see it. He’d jabbed her where it hurt, because she didn’t want to feel like a failure. He needed her on her game, focused on finding Kirsten, and the only way to get there was to push her hard enough for her to realize that without her, they’d be two steps behind.

“I think she’s in hiding,” Lucy finally said. “I think she’s sick—either from drugs or the flu—but she’s hiding from someone. See?” She slid over a handwritten sheet where she’d copied down phrases from Kirsten’s email, rewording a couple but keeping them in context, removing all the extra words and unintelligible thoughts, and reorganizing the main ideas into groups under two headings.

Personal Facts

I’ve been sick

I can’t walk right now

No way of getting home

Lost my phone

Plenty of money

In New York
(
view of bridge?
)

Want to play softball, now can’t

Friend

Her message was wrong

Who would hurt her?

They might know me

Scared
(
to stay or go
)

I already miss her

The paper doesn’t explain

Sean read the list twice, and saw exactly what Lucy did. “Her friend is dead.”

She nodded. “Could it be Jessica Bell?”

Sean narrowed his search to media sites. “If it was her, her death hasn’t been reported, at least not with her name.”

“Or maybe her body hasn’t been found. What if Kirsten saw something? Or she went to meet her friend and she was already dead? We don’t even know why she was going to New York. Unless—”

Lucy turned to her laptop and started typing rapidly.

“What are you looking for?”

“Just checking something.”

Sean resisted the urge to get up and look over her shoulder. He continued to narrow his search parameters on Jessica Bell by including Columbia University in the mix. He quickly confirmed that she was a student.

“That’s it,” Lucy said. “Look.” She turned her laptop to face him.

Lucy had brought up Kirsten’s page on Facebook, and showed all her “friends.”

Jessica Bell was among them.

“See her?” Lucy said.

Sean nodded and reached over to click on Jessica’s profile, to get a clearer image of the blonde, but Lucy slapped his hand. “Wait a minute, there’s more.” She switched tabs, and there was Kirsten’s
Party Girl
page. “Do you see her network of friends at the bottom?”

“Yes.”

“Now click on the girl named ‘Jenna.’ ”

Sean did as Lucy said, and a larger picture came up. “It’s Jessica.”

“Exactly. That’s why Kirsten went to New York—to visit Jessica—and I suspect it had something to do with activities related to the
Party Girl
site. It’s no coincidence.”

Sean looked at Lucy’s list of Kirsten’s key phrases. “She’s scared because something happened to Jessica, and she’s hiding. Or maybe she’s hiding out with Jessica. If the two of them are in trouble, they might think it’s better to lay low for a while.”

“Especially if they were injured or attacked. But, from the message, it seems that Jessica is the one who’s missing. And if that’s the case, who’s Kirsten staying with?”

“Maybe at Jessica’s apartment.”

“Could be. She’s scared, but sounds like she doesn’t want to leave. She says it’s pretty and there’s a view of a bridge. Is there a bridge near Jessica’s apartment?”

“There are lots of bridges in New York,” he said. “That’s what Google Earth is for.” He zeroed in on Jessica’s address. “She wouldn’t be able to see any bridge from that location. So if Kirsten’s not at Jessica’s, who’s helping her?”

“Maybe someone else on her friend list.” Lucy pulled out a sheet where she’d noted all the friends on Kirsten’s Facebook and
Party Girl
profiles.

“That’s a lot of people to go through, but we can get started tonight. Before we go to New York.”

“You’re going to New York?”

“We are going to New York,” Sean said. “You and me. That’s where Kirsten is, and Trey is likely there by now if he didn’t drown in this storm.”

“You really want me to go?”

“I won’t go without you,” he said.

“Let’s get back to work.” Lucy stretched her back, then turned the laptop back to face herself. Sean rose and walked behind her chair. He put his hands on her shoulders and used his thumbs on her muscles. “You’re really tense. You’ve been working too long without a break.” He switched to his palms and wondered how much of her tightness was from the FBI letter and how much was from their work today.

“Umm,” she moaned and closed her eyes, her head tilting back as she relaxed, revealing her long, elegant, smooth neck. “Don’t stop.”

Lucy had no idea how sexy she looked in this position. Her lips parted a fraction, and he swallowed. He wanted to make love to her right here, right now, on his desk. Or the floor. Or he’d carry her to his bed—he didn’t really care where they were.

He leaned over and kissed her, upside down. Then he continued rubbing her upper back and arms.

“What was that for?”

“I was compelled to kiss you. You must have cast a spell over me. I’m completely enchanted, Princess.”

“That’s right,” she teased with a sly smile, “so keep working on those muscles, Prince Charming, and I might share another kiss.”

“All right, if you insist.” Her hair hung down the back of the chair in black waves. Her cheeks were high and well formed, her nose long and narrow, her skin with just a hint of brown, a light blend of her Irish-Cuban heritage. He stared at the daisy that rested in the dip of her neck and was taken aback at the powerful emotions hitting him. He’d known Lucy was special from the beginning, but at this moment, he felt something else: a complex need to love and protect her, to support her now and later, to give her everything he could—not material objects, but his real self.

He was far from perfect. Smart? Oh, yeah, he was a damn genius, if anyone looked at his IQ. Sometimes too smart, and he had a past that someone who liked him might charitably call “colorful.” But Sean was still the same person he’d always been, the one with the overwhelming need to right wrongs, even if that meant breaking the law. He was no vigilante, not by a long shot, but he could not tolerate bullies. They made him see red, and that had gotten him into hot water many times.

Lucy needed to know everything about him, but it wasn’t as if he could just sit her down and give her a chronological history of his life, the good, the bad, and the illegal. His big brother Duke had gotten him out of trouble more times than he could count, but Duke didn’t know everything. And even now, Sean didn’t regret his past. If he hadn’t turned the tables on that pedophile professor at Stanford, how many other little girls would the man have molested before he was caught?

Sometimes, you had to do the right thing even when it got you in trouble.

Lucy looked peaceful, an expression he hadn’t seen on her much lately. He loved that he was able to give her that momentary peace, that she could relax with him, that he made her laugh and smile.

He kissed her again; he couldn’t resist.

“Your hands are amazing,” she said, obviously enjoying the shoulder massage.

“I know.”

“The Rogan ego speaks.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned her chair to face him.

She opened her eyes and raised an eyebrow. “Done so soon?”

“I haven’t gotten started yet.” Putting his hands on the armrests on either side of her, he leaned over and kissed her, drawing her bottom lip into his mouth. Her hands went up to the back of his neck, her long fingers in his hair.

I’ve missed you
.

“What?” she murmured faintly.

Had he spoken out loud? Maybe he had. He pulled his lips reluctantly from hers. “I’ve missed being with you. I was spoiled when you stayed here. Ten days. I liked sliding between the sheets and smelling you even after you went back home, but even Rogans have to wash their sheets.”