Profile of Retribution: FBI Profiler Romantic Suspense (Profile Series #3) (9 page)

Pulling his truck off the road, he parked in the shade of a thicket of trees as his mind burned with the memory of her when she was alive—before Evan and Devan Lucas tortured and murdered her. If he really focused, he could see her clearly in his mind. She was only sixteen-years-old when he’d first met her, with dyed raven hair with streaks of jade green. Green was her favorite color. She said green was the color of luck, and if anyone needed a little luck, it was her.

Just a slip of a girl, only five-foot-something, and not even a hundred pounds, and so pale-skinned, he’d called her Snowflake. In fact, it was that nickname that enabled him to find her when she took off that time, and started stripping in the local biker bar. She’d used Snowflake as her stage name. Seventeen-years-old and taking her clothes off to entice bikers to press dollars down her panties. The thought sickened him. She was better than that. The night he found her, she was doing a lap dance for some punk near the stage. He’d beat the crap out of the guy before they kicked him out. He took her back home where she belonged.

The day the cops came to his door to tell him, the shock had him swaying on his feet before he bent down and puked on their shoes. Christ, what a thing to have to hear. He’d asked if they were sure it was her. Did they need someone to identify her body? The big cop, with adult acne and braces on his teeth, just shook his head. No need for that. Her body was so decomposed when they found it that they had to use dental records to find out who it was. He’d provided those records the day she went missing. The bastards had thrown her away like she was garbage. Maybe that is what he should do to Tisha Lucas. Kill her and hide her deep in a wooded area, where she wouldn’t be found until she decomposed. Wonder what Mr. Big Shot Lucas would think about that? Would the news bring him to his knees?

Remembering the day the cops came to his door started a fire within him that only retribution would snuff out. Getting payback was what kept him going. And according to his doc, he didn’t have that much time left to get what was owed to him. Fucking cancer wasn’t going to stop him before the Lucas couple paid their dues. Not a chance.

Chapter Eighteen

Margaret

Margaret Bennett was an attractive woman in her mid-forties with compassionate brown eyes that probably worked well for her as a mental health counselor. With shoulder-length brown hair, she wore dangling amethyst earrings that matched her long purple sweater, along with faded skinny jeans and boots. She appeared to be going for a hippie look that was better off left in the sixties. At the moment, she was glaring at Cameron with a don’t-screw-with-me expression. Apparently, Kaitlyn had given Margaret the 4-1-1 that he’d be paying her a visit, and why.

“Kaitlyn told me you might stop by.”

Gail may have been right when she said he had psychic powers. Or maybe Margaret’s expression was a dead giveaway.

“Nice office,” he remarked. Actually it wasn’t, but it was worth a try to redirect her attention on something positive. Margaret’s desk was ancient and had more gouges and scars in the wood than some of the criminals he’d arrested. Two gray filing cabinets stood against one wall, undoubtedly filled with her client records, and a series of motivational posters lined the other.
You can do it. Sure you can.
Cameron wondered if any of her patients were actually motivated by the posters. He wasn’t. Did Dr. Phil have motivational posters in his office? Was Margaret Bennett a Dr. Phil wannabe?

Margaret cleared her throat and pointedly stared at him. “I have a full schedule this morning. You said you needed to talk to me?”

He got right to the meat of the matter. “Did Kaitlyn tell you about the vandalism that occurred at Bradley and Tisha Lucas’ house the other night?”

“No details. Just that it occurred,” Margaret said in a soothingly smooth voice that had the potential to calm even the most anxious client. It was working just the opposite on him. He found it gratingly annoying.

“Someone threw a bloody rock through their front window while they were inside eating dinner. The act was pre-planned. We know that because he brought his own container of blood to coat the rock. We also know that he stood outside their window and watched them for some time before he hurled the rock.”

Margaret appeared to be considering this new information before she spoke. She leaned toward him and he was reminded of the “teaching moments” he used to get from Mrs. Anders, his fifth grade teacher. And like Mrs. Anders, Margaret was in great need of a breath mint. “According to experts, a vandal is usually a teenager, an average student, and a cigarette smoker, who doesn’t enjoy extracurricular activities. I’ve had clients who were under the influence of drugs when they vandalized. I’ve known others who were part of a group when committing vandalism. They give all kinds of reasons for vandalizing, including recreation, vindictiveness, viciousness, profit, graffiti, and racism. Some of the motives I’ve heard from clients include a desire to hear breaking glass, anger, to show off to friends, boredom, and to meet a dare by peers.”

By the end of her mini-lecture, Cameron had the urge to hand her a tissue so she could wipe the know-it-all smirk from her face. “I’m a sergeant in charge of detectives for Shawnee County. Believe it or not, I’ve received a lot of training on vandals and vandalism.”

“I’m sure you have, Sergeant Chase. I just wanted to share with you some of my experiences.”

“I appreciate that, but I’m not here to talk to you about the broad topic of vandalism. I have reason to believe the person who vandalized the Lucas place may be a member of your FOM group.”

Pursing her lips, Margaret looked offended. “That seems a far-fetched conclusion. Someone throws a bloody rock and law enforcement automatically looks for victims of the crime.”

She was getting on his nerves in a big way, so he plucked out of his jacket pocket the copy of the note Bryan had faxed to him that morning. He slapped it on her desk, pushed it right in front of her, and waited for her to read it. When she finished reading, her eyes met his. Then he read it aloud to her—his own brand of a teaching moment.

You brought them into the world and you will pay for their sins. Retribution? Justice? They are the same.

—David109

“So, Margaret, it appears that we’re looking for someone who wants retribution
specifically
from the parents of the teenagers who murdered the women being mourned by the members of
your
support group.”

Still she objected. “Not necessarily. Your vandal could be any member of the public outraged by the atrocities committed by the sons of the Lucas couple. It could be anyone.”

“I don’t believe that, and I suspect you don’t, either. Our doer is a parent, brother, sister, spouse, or someone else close to one of the seven murder victims. It is someone whose anger simmered until it became a rage that boiled over. In this guy’s mind, someone has to pay. I’m just afraid he won’t stop until Bradley and Tisha Lucas pay with their lives.”

“Detective Chase…”

“Actually, that’s Sergeant Chase.”

“
Sergeant
Chase, I’d like to help you, but I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t? There’s a difference.”

“Can’t.”

“Are you waving the confidentiality flag?”

“If you are talking about the confidentiality agreement we ask our patients and support group members to sign, then yes. They are made aware that I audiotape the sessions and take notes. I also make sure they understand my promise
not
to discuss matters that are shared by the client with a third party.”

“What if your client shares with you his or her intent to harm others?” He was keeping her on her toes with this question. Just making sure she knew the law, or he was purposely offending her. One of the two.

“That’s a different story. Ethically, it’s my responsibility to report threats of this kind to law enforcement. My patients are aware of this. They are informed of all limits to confidentiality during the first meeting.”

Good answer. “Which member of the FOM group expressed a desire to harm the Lucas couple?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential information.” Leaning back in her chair, Margaret’s face was set, her mouth clamped close, and her eyes fixed on Cameron.

“You are aware that I can get a subpoena for your session notes and audiotapes?”

Eyes narrowed and fists clenched, Margaret sprung to her feet. Dr. Phil had a temper. “Knock yourself out. There isn’t a judge in this county who would sign a warrant based on what evidence you have—which is a bloody rock and a note that could have been written by anyone.”

Cameron leaned back in his chair and feigned indifference. “One more question. Any chance I could go undercover and join your group?”

This question had Margaret’s nostrils flaring like a bull at the rodeo. Gritting her teeth, she pointed to the door. “Get out.”

Chapter Nineteen

Bryan and Mollie

Bryan headed to Mollie’s Cafe after work, hoping he’d see her since he didn’t make it there for breakfast. Early autopsy. What should have been a simple car accident wasn’t. He was certain the victim had been killed by a blow with a blunt object at the back of his head, prior to the car rolling off a ravine and ending up wrapped around a tree. Thanks to his air bag, there were relatively few injuries to the front of his body. But when Bryan turned his body over, an alternate story began, one that would go from an automobile accident to homicide. The fact the grieving widow had called his office three times asking for the autopsy results and a death certificate for the insurance company, just solidified his opinion.

Entering Mollie’s Cafe, he sought out his favorite booth, which luckily was available. Hailey appeared and took his drink order. Taking a quick survey of the restaurant, he didn’t see Mollie, so he assumed she was in the kitchen.

Hailey placed his iced tea in front of him and asked for his order.

“Good to see you, Hailey.”

“Nice to see you, too, Dr. Pittman.”

“You know you don’t have to be so formal with me. You can call me Bryan.”

Hailey blushed, and he regretted saying anything. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel uncomfortable around him. “Thanks, but Mom wants me to be formal with our diners.”

“Speaking of your Mom, how’s she doing today?”

“She took the day off.” Hailey aimed a pointed look at his menu.

That was unusual. Bryan couldn’t remember the last time Mollie took a day off work.

“So what can I get you?”

Glancing at the menu, he realized he wasn’t all that hungry. He wanted to see Mollie.

“I’ll stick with the iced tea for now. Thanks, Hailey.” As soon as the girl was out of sight, Bryan pulled a five dollar bill out of his wallet, tucked it under his drink, and headed for his car.

Mollie lived on Maple Street, which was a few blocks from her cafe on Main Street, so in no time he reached her small Craftsman-style home, robin egg blue with white trim. To his surprise, she was sitting on her porch swing. His plan of just driving by to see if she was home and calling her was blown. Certain she’d seen him, he pulled over and parked his car. It was the first time he’d visited her home, and not in a million years would he have ever just popped in out of the blue. But it would have looked much worse if he’d just driven by. Being thought of as a stalker was ugly; being thought of a stalker by Mollie was devastating. So Bryan shot her his most flirtatious grin, and walked right up her sidewalk and onto her porch.

“I was hoping I’d find you here.”

Mollie looked surprised and perplexed at the same time. “You were looking for me?”

Leaning against the front door, he tried to appear a lot more self-confident than he felt at the moment.

“Sure. It’s the end to a beautiful spring day, a light breeze with temps in the seventies.” God, what was he? A budding meteorologist? “I thought I’d stop by to see if you wanted to go for a drive. But if you don’t mind me joining you on the swing, that would work, too.”

Without answering, Mollie scooted over to one side of the swing, and patted the open space next to her. Letting out a sigh of relief, Bryan sat next to her and for a few minutes, they just swung back and forth in silence. He was right about it being the end of a beautiful spring day, and the breeze ruffled through his hair. He could feel himself relax. It was a small thing, sitting with Mollie on her porch, but it felt so right that the moment seemed important, and anything but small. She’d let him into her world and he intended to enjoy every second.

Finally, Mollie looked at him curiously. “Are you okay, Bryan?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“Because just dropping by to see me is not you. Sure, we see each other at the cafe, but this is the first time you’ve come to my home.”

“I don’t recall being invited.”

Mollie colored and shifted a little. “We’ve talked about how it isn’t a good idea for the two of us to get involved.”

“Actually
you
talked about that, and I didn’t agree. Anyway, why can’t we be two people talking on your porch, enjoying the evening?”

Mollie shrugged. “What do you want to talk about?”

Good question, he thought, as he searched his brain for a topic. At that moment, all he could think about was the way her nearness was disturbing and exciting at the same time. And it had the potential to turn his brain to mush, so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.