One Scream Away (18 page)

So, they were waiting for him. He grinned a little, remembering the conversation of the two police officers he’d overheard as they walked through last night. They’d speculated about a setup, maybe a decoy to lure Bankes to Beth.

Chevy didn’t know how likely that was, but Beth hadn’t come back to her house. Maybe they
were
planning to set him up.

He liked the idea; it made him feel important. But he had to be ready. A little alteration in his plan.

He smoothed the bedcovers back, making sure everything looked as it had when he arrived.
Someone’s been sleeping in my bed
, he thought and found himself smiling. He stayed low and went downstairs, helped himself to a bagel in the kitchen—
someone’s been eating my porridge—
then began looking for Beth’s paperwork. The logical drawers were filled with opened mail and bills. He dug around, came up with a phone bill: AT&T. Dug some more to see who provided her Internet service: Comcast.

Okay.

Down to the basement. Chevy had spent the night here, just to be safe. Beth’s computer was surrounded by books and magazines and Internet printouts that all appeared to be about dolls. The dolls themselves Chevy had found packed in the two boxes they’d arrived in, but Beth had tied a little tag around each one’s wrist like a coroner might on a toe.

He enjoyed that bit of irony.

He settled down in front of Beth’s computer and logged on. Even if the police were tapping her phone lines—and Chevy doubted they’d gotten that far yet—they wouldn’t detect Internet use, not with two different carriers of service. The only thing he had to worry about was an unexpected visit from someone.

Her server came up, and he spent a few minutes reading headlines. The women out west were picking up some press, but Chevy wasn’t the star yet. By noon, if Beth had talked, he’d be the headline.

He got into Beth’s Web history, skimming through several of the sites she had visited. A strange sort of thrill tightened his skin at the thought of tracing her cyberspace footsteps—a new twist on Goldilocks:
Someone’s been using my Internet
. Of course, he couldn’t read her e-mails without a password, but then again, he didn’t want to. He was just interested in what she’d learned about him.

Three-quarters of the way through her history list, a hit:
Chevy Bankes.

A wave of pleasure washed over him. Chevy smiled as a string of sites came up, all referring to him. Seattle criminal cases and prison release dates. Court documents. Sheriff’s office reports. Newspaper articles. Three dozen stories about the overturned court cases out of the Seattle DA’s office.

He chuckled, thought about reading some of them, but forced himself to move on. If the cops
were
planning to set up some sort of sting at Beth’s house, he shouldn’t be found sitting at her computer. He got up, peered through a slat in the blinds. The cop car hadn’t budged.

He went back to the computer, more conscious now of the time. He typed in “Kerry Waterford.” The Web site came up, linking to information about his store, his private collection, and Internet sales. In the left-hand margin, Chevy clicked on Toys and Dolls, then went to pictures of dolls similar to the ones on Beth’s desk. He spent fifteen minutes sifting through them, until he was certain he’d found the one he wanted:
1873 Benoit fashion doll, signed and dated
, the description said, but Chevy knew better. That doll wasn’t a Benoit. It was a reproduction. Waterford had tried to sell it to Margaret Chadburne almost a year ago, but Beth stopped him.

And here it was. Fucking Kerry Waterford. Still the con artist.

Chevy checked the price: six thousand dollars. Shipping, to have it delivered on Monday afternoon, added forty-two dollars and twenty-five cents.

Chevy leaned back, thinking it through. He had plenty of money these days, but not the kind you could just send over the Internet in exchange for a doll. He’d need a credit card, ID.

He’d need Margaret Chadburne.

Chevy smiled. No problem there: He and Margaret were
tight
. Margaret would do anyth—

He stopped: a sound. He darted to the far window. The cop on duty was out of his car, walking toward the house. Chevy’s heart stammered, then the cop veered over to a car that had just pulled up. A black Charger. The driver got out and closed the distance between them—a tall man in a suit, with heavy shoulders and long, purposeful strides. A string of recognition plucked in Chevy’s mind, but he didn’t know why and couldn’t get a clear look. They spoke for two minutes then the cop went to his car and came back with a box—Chevy recognized that for sure. He held his breath as the man put it in the trunk of the Charger. But instead of driving away, they walked toward Beth’s driveway, the big guy tossing a key fob in his hand.

Chevy freaked. Jesus-Jesus-Jesus. He started to hide then remembered the computer, went over and clicked on Shut Down, four, maybe five times. Stop it, he said to himself. The last thing you need is to freeze the stupid screen. Wait, wait. He sneaked a peak from the window. They were in the driveway.

Click.
The screen went black.

Fight or flight: His lizard brain kicked in.

He chose flight.

N
eil hit the button for Beth’s garage door opener.

“Whoa,” said the surveillance cop. New guy. He’d come on duty an hour ago. “Whoa,” he said again.

“She works for an antiques firm,” Neil explained. Chadburne’s third doll had already been delivered, as Beth had anticipated. Neil decided to go in and get the first two, as well. Beth would sleep most of today, Standlin had assured him, but later, she’d need something to do.

The cop was touching things, a little bit awed. “I always wondered what made people pay a fortune for stuff that’s just… old. I mean, look at this bowl. It’s a
bowl
. An old, beat-up bowl. What’s that about?”

“Got me,” Neil admitted, looking around for the dolls. His nose wrinkled: The shop had the faint odor of sawdust.

“And this.” The cop wandered to a mat where a two-piece dresser sat out. One piece was still partially covered, and Neil recognized the wrappings, the size. Waterford’s highboy, the one Beth had been bringing home when they first met. The one she’d told Evan had a “ made-up” back, whatever that meant.

He ran his fingers over the carvings on the highboy, bent down and sniffed. Maybe that was it. The smell of wood.

“Wonder what that thing’s worth,” the cop mused.

“Six, maybe eight thousand dollars, tops,” Neil said. “The back is made up.”

The guy gaped at him. Let him wonder.

Neil found the first two dolls near Beth’s computer, lying in their boxes. “This is what I need. I’m good now; let’s go. I gotta get to a task force meeting.” It felt good to say it.

“Okay,” the other guy said, trailing Neil out. “But I wouldn’t pay six hundred for that thing, let alone six thousand.”

Neil plunged into the bowels of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico wearing a fresh suit with a visitor’s badge. The irony of being a visitor to the FBI didn’t escape him. In some ways, having a formal escort through the windowless underground structure made him feel like an interloper. In others, it was like coming home.

The “command center” for the task force was a medium-size conference room with a large table, several laptops, video screens mounted on walls where windows should have been, and a half dozen FBI agents and police detectives buzzing around getting caught up on the case—which was quickly going public. The Special Agent in Charge, whom Neil knew only by reputation, was Armand Copeland. He was a hefty black man in his fifties whose occasional appearances on the news had always left Neil thinking of James Earl Jones. He was conservative and irrefutable—a man who probably spent his free time loafing through conduct manuals.

Which made Neil wonder why Copeland had invited him: to involve him in the case or to get whatever information he had, then run his civilian ass off? Neil bit back a pang of worry. It had been easy being at the hub of the investigation when Rick was in charge; he just about had carte blanche. An FBI task force led by a man like Armand Copeland wasn’t likely to be so accommodating.

Just try to keep me out of it
, he thought belligerently.

In addition to Standlin and Brohaugh, two other men introduced themselves: an off-site agent named Juan Suarez, studiously unwrapping a stick of Juicy Fruit, and a six-five black man built like a refrigerator. Neil was just realizing he’d missed the big man’s name, Harry or maybe Jerry, when Lexi Carter came in and waved at him. Neil had boxed with her husband a few times. She was fine-boned and dark-haired—like Beth—which, Neil decided, was probably why she was here. A sting in the works.

SAC Copeland was running down the plan: “… and Brohaugh will coordinate the field offices and resident agencies, pull it all together here in the command center.”

“Is there any word on the two missing women?” Harry-Jerry asked.

“We’re still waiting,” Copeland answered as a bleached blonde joined the group. O’Ryan, Neil thought, recognizing her. Sidney O’Ryan. They’d flirted once in an elevator, and she’d flashed her shield when he got cocky. He’d flashed his back.

“O’Ryan is the press liaison,” Copeland explained, and she grimaced.

“Why me?” she asked.

“It’s the nose,
querida
,” Suarez said in his slight Latino accent. “You’re the only one with a nose perky enough to feed them bullshit and get away with it.”

Copeland: “So what’s the plan?”

O’Ryan said, “Standlin helped me craft a statement. She thinks we should stroke the bastard a little, let him know how smart he is and how many agents are working on him.”

Copeland frowned. “He’ll buy it?”

“I don’t know,” Standlin said. “I haven’t figured him out yet; I can’t see a pattern: Beth Denison and Anne Chaney were stalked; the others weren’t. Two women were cut up, one was shot in her van, and two are missing, so we don’t know what he did to them.”

“Don’t forget Gloria Michaels,” Rick said.

“Right. She’s a little different, but still looks like Bankes. And they both went to college at West Chester University. She was at a frat party the night she was killed.”

Suarez turned to Neil, snapping his gum. “How come you didn’t talk to him back then?”

“I talked to every fucking person who was at that party. Bankes wasn’t there.”

Suarez scoffed. “Good work.”

“Hey, asshole—”

“All right,” Copeland said, holding up a hand. “Put ’em away, boys. Suarez, back off.”

He jerked his thumb at Neil. “The guy’s not even an agent no more. He don’t belong here.”

Copeland’s jaw went tight. “That’s my decision, not yours.”

Suarez stepped down with a show of poor sportsmanship, and Standlin went on. “We have to figure out his pattern. Serialists are smart, organized, with some powerful reason for every move they make. And they usually keep something from their kills, something so they can relive the excitement later.”

“Trophies,” Copeland said.

“Right. So, has he taken something from these women?”

“Their phones?” Rick asked. “He’s using their phones.”

“
Using
them. A trophy is more personal—a piece of jewelry, an article of clothing, a lock of hair, even a finger.”

“Could he be leaving something with them instead of taking it?” Harry-Jerry asked.

Standlin gave him a what-are-you-talking-about look.

He slid a report across the table to Standlin. Neil squinted to catch the agent’s signature at the bottom: Harrison. “The husband of the soccer mom ID’d her body but said he didn’t recognize her blouse. Said she wouldn’t wear pink lace. So: Could he be dressing them up?”

“Check it,” Copeland said to Standlin, then pointed a finger at Brohaugh. “What was Bankes doing before he started on the road here?”

“Before prison, he worked in hotels. Started as a bus boy in college, became assistant manager of a halfway-ritzy place in Philadelphia by the time he graduated. He moved to Seattle in two thousand one and took a management position at an upscale hotel called the Orion. Fellow employees were all shocked when it came out that he’d murdered Chaney.

“Then, after he got out of prison, Bankes got an apartment and was rehired at the Orion. He worked there until a month ago, when the State awarded him six hundred thousand dollars in lost salary and damages for his prison term. Then he just quit coming to work.”

“Hobbies? Activities?” Copeland asked.

“Neighbors in Seattle are being interviewed, but it sounds like he was low-key, easy enough to live with. Took in a stray dog once, gave it away to a guy at work. And traveled some—a weekend away here and there.”

“Where did he go?”

Brohaugh shrugged.

“What about his apartment?” Neil asked. “Anyone been there?”

“They’re in it now. Looks pretty normal. He maybe liked to play his music loud. Got himself a surround-sound stereo system and the walls are all insulated.”

Copeland turned to Standlin: “What about all that childhood bull you like so much?”

She looked exasperated. “Give me a little time, for God’s sake. Right now I’m still trying to figure out his thing with Anne Chaney.”

“Can’t Denison help you there?” Copeland asked.

“She gave us a rundown, but she’s holding back. There’s something she hasn’t told us.”

“So dig it out of her. That’s what you’re good at.”

“I’ll do my best.”

And God help Beth, Neil thought. Geneviève Standlin was good at ripping open old wounds, then lancing them until they bled out.

“Okay,” said Copeland, breathing it all in. “So we keep the daughter under wraps in Covington, watch Denison, and give her lots of time with Agent Standlin until we know the whole Chaney story. Meanwhile, get people scouring motels around the District, new apartment leases, homeless shelters—Hell, he has money, so check the upscale hotels, car rentals, everything. Put out an APB on his last known appearance and his vehicle. Harrison, you pull together everything on unsolved cases that could’ve been his, look for connections. Agent Carter, get in Denison’s house, mimic her routines, et cetera.” He stood; meeting over. “Everyone keep stuffing the files. Sacowicz,” he said to Rick, “glad to have you in. Anything you want from the FBI in order to protect the citizens of Arlington, just ask.”