Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) (13 page)

Opening the front door, Casey saw the workman's van was still parked in front. Was Leonardo actually working for PG&E? It didn't seem likely. He could be traced that way. Then how had he gotten a company van? She sensed she was about to find out.

"Don't go out there. Are you crazy?" Billy screamed in the background.

Halting, Casey didn't look back. Agents were taught never to yell at one another. One false look and an agent could easily be blind-sided by a bullet coming from another direction. All her concentration had to stay on her surroundings.

The gun positioned in front of her, Casey moved across the yard, feeling the gravel through her thin slippers. Slowly and out of practice, she surveyed her surroundings before approaching the van. Her heart trampled inside her chest, the rush she had once thrived on now terrifying her.

With a deep breath, she moved on. When she reached the van, she lay her hand on the handle. Was he inside, waiting to shoot her? Her gut said no. He had been in her bathroom as she showered. He'd had plenty of opportunity to kill her then. And he hadn't. She shoved the dread from her mind and concentrated on the van.

Stepping out of the path of whatever might spring from inside, she tightened her fingers and tried to pull the door open. Her fingers cramped, and she couldn't get a grip on the handle. Frustration caught in her throat.

On the back side of the van, she found the door partially unlatched. She pulled the latch up, and the door fell open. Casey groaned as a man's weight toppled her, throwing both of them backward.

The gun fell out of her hand, her grip too clumsy and weak to hold on. She landed hard on her back, knocking her head on the pavement. She flailed to escape. Fighting with the dead-weight, she rolled out from under the body, and pushed herself away.

Standing, her legs collapsed and she fell again, crawling away on her lumpy fists. She wiped her hand against her face and felt the warm stickiness of blood. Startled, she realized it was his blood, not hers. She looked back at the victim. A single bullet shot to the head. A low caliber, judging from the small exit wound. Leonardo had stripped the electrician of his uniform before the kill. Blood soaked his undershirt and shorts.

Casey backed around, peering at the surrounding houses and cars. Where was Leonardo? He had found her. He had been in her house. She was certain he was watching her now.

Chapter 11

Michael McKinley straightened his tie and took a last glance in the mirror. Today, looking sharp was as important as being sharp. Closing arguments in the biggest case of his career. The jury was primed to vote that his client's technology had been stolen. Already the dealings suggested the settlement would be the largest in the history of his firm—in the order of two hundred and twelve million.

And they would take fifteen percent—thirty-nine million dollars, twenty percent of it his. He wished he were more excited about the money. It was enough to retire on. Still, he found himself longing for something more. Even if he won, there wouldn't be time to get away for more than a few days with Amy. He had to be in Silicon Valley for another case in less than two weeks.

He pulled on the dark suit coat and picked the brief off the bedside table, frowning as he headed downstairs. Silicon Valley was damn close to Casey. Anger welled against his desire. He wanted to see her. She'd become a distant wife and mother, then nearly gotten herself killed, pushed them away, and he still wanted to see her. He needed therapy as badly as she did. He wondered if she'd gotten any. Probably not, knowing Casey. If he still knew her, that is.

Mary handed him a cup of coffee as he entered the kitchen. Her gray hair in one long braid down her back suddenly reminded him of the way Casey had braided Amy's hair when she was little. He glanced at Amy, with her shoulder-length hair styled straight on her shoulders.

Amy sat at the table, drowning a stack of dollar pancakes in syrup.

"You going to have any pancakes with that syrup?" he asked, sitting beside Amy.

Amy laughed and rolled her eyes. "Dad. Syrup's good for you."

"Really?"

She looked at him earnestly. "Gives you energy."

"Who told you that?"

"Mom."

"Mom knows best," he said, then quieted at the reference to Casey. His eyes met Mary's, but she looked away then said, "Would you like some pancakes? I've made enough for both of you."

"Just toast would be great."

Mary nodded and set to the task. "I'm going to go to the store and pick up your shirts today."

He nodded and pulled money from his wallet.

"I'll bring the change."

He knew she would. Mary had come to him after running the household of an older partner in his firm until the children were grown enough not to need her. Now, at least someone in his life was dependable.

Mary set jam and butter on the table and then brought his toast. "Mr. McKinley, there's something I'd like to ask."

Michael looked up at her.

"You're not leaving, are you, Mary?" Amy voiced his own fears.

Mary smiled and shook her head. "Goodness, no. Not until you're fully grown, child."

Michael exhaled. "What is it, Mary?"

"My sister called last night. My mom's a little sick, and I'd like to go to Durham for a few days to visit her."

"Of course. When are you going?"

"I was hoping to leave in a week and stay for perhaps five or six days."

"A week?" Michael frowned. "But I'll be in California. Who will take care of—"

"California?" Amy squealed. "Are you going to see Mom?"

Michael snapped his mouth closed, realizing what a mistake he'd made.

Mary turned quickly to avoid the scene.

Amy dropped her fork and turned to him, her purple-stockinged legs dangling off the chair. "Dad? Are you going to see Mom? I want to come."

He started buttering his toast. "You can't come this time, honey. I'm going for work. What would you do while I was working?"

"Stay with Mom."

He pursed his lips. "You can't stay with Mom." He took a bite of his toast, but he'd lost his appetite.

"Dad, I want to go. I want to see Mom. Take me with you. Please."

He didn't meet her gaze, though he could feel those soft green eyes begging. "You can't miss school."

"Yes, I can. I'm way ahead, Dad. Mrs. Turner won't mind. And I'll make up all my work."

Frustrated, Michael dropped his toast and stood up. "Amy, no. That's enough."

Amy jumped up, knocking her chair to the floor. "I hate you. You don't want me to see Mom because you're jealous. I'm going to run away and go to California. You can't keep me here."

"Amy, please." Michael reached for her, but she'd already run from the table. "Damn it." He sank back into his chair and raked his hands through his hair.

"It might do her some good to see her mother, Mr. McKinley. I think it's rough on a little girl."

Michael didn't respond. Pulling himself from his chair, he climbed the stairs toward his daughter's room.

Chapter 12

Jordan revved the engine as he raced up the hill to McKinley's house, taking the corners with screeching tires. Her house would mark the first scene where Jordan knew his killer had spent any amount of time—if this was his killer, as Casey claimed. Another Caucasian female, age eleven, had been found in Golden Gate Park last night, wearing a green party hat. The white girl's body had been dumped just like the black girl in the alley. Just like the other ones—not a single witness, not one piece of concrete evidence.

Jordan would know; he'd been at the last scene until nearly three a.m. The rain, which had so kindly held off for the last crime scene, had soaked them, washing away most of the potential evidence and making it impossible to find and collect anything that might have been left, including any hair.

To make matters worse, the girl's body had been left staged under a tree, her thin body naked in the deep grass. Finding evidence was like searching for a pin in a wet haystack. He still had men working in Marin County on the scene of the victim whose body had been burned in what was supposed to look like an accidental fire. But Jordan wasn't expecting any miracles. He was beginning to think this killer might be invisible.

Fatigue dragged Jordan down like ankle weights. He wasn't going to get anywhere on this case if he didn't get some sleep. He accelerated around the last corner and slowed in front of McKinley's house.

An ambulance and two cop cars met him at the scene. He took a quick survey of the people in the area, but no one looked out of place. Still, he knew his man wasn't far.

Casey was standing in the doorway in a bathrobe, waving her hands as she talked to her caregiver. Besides looking tired and scared, the man seemed as frustrated with Casey as Jordan had been yesterday.

Agent McKinley wasn't going to be easy to handle, he knew. But even as he parked, he could see the shift in her expression. Yesterday, he'd seen only anger and frustration. Now he saw something new. He wasn't certain he would call it fear, but it wasn't the same bitterness. Something in her expression had softened.

He jumped out of his car and crossed the street, shifting through the familiar throng of people. Greeting the crime scene investigative team, Jordan stopped at the back of the PG&E van and took a glove from a box on the ground.

Al Ting worked without looking up. Another investigator was air drying the rain from the surface of the van with a cordless hair dryer so they could dust for prints. Jordan figured they had to get lucky some time.

Lifting the black plastic tarp covering the body, he glanced at the electrical worker.

Officer Nancy Skaggs flipped open a notepad and turned dark eyes up to her boss. "PG&E sent the guy out at seven-forty in response to the call."

"Are those normal service hours?"

She shook her head. "They don't normally service until eight-thirty."

He frowned as she continued, "This was listed as an emergency, possible fire danger."

Given the recent history of the Oakland Hills, PG&E wouldn't risk a fire starting because they hadn't opened up shop. "Who called it a fire danger?"

"According to the guy inside the house"—she glanced back at her notepad—"Billy Glass, it wasn't him. PG&E has a record of two calls. One at seven twenty-two a.m. that came in as an emergency call because their offices weren't open. The service agent told Mr. Glass that they would send someone out during normal business hours.

"PG&E then received a second phone call twelve minutes later at seven thirty-four, again from a male, who stated he was concerned the outage might be a fire danger. Their man then left the center at seven-forty. When he arrived, it looks like someone was waiting for him."

His killer. "PG&E tape the call?"

"No such luck."

Jordan exhaled. Damn. "You check for bugs in the house?"

"There's one on the main phone line into the house; it's out back." Nancy pointed to the side of the house.

"Since when?"

Her expression tightened. "We put a call into Arnie with tech to confirm, but according to Winslow's best guess, it's been there a while."