Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) (23 page)

He left for Chicago in the morning. The case there was going to take too much out of him to be worrying about reaching Casey. At least he had the five days in California that he'd set aside to take Amy to Disneyland. But the week after that, he had work to do. He had assumed he would be able to get in touch with his wife. But what if she didn't answer the phone—ever?

What was worse than worrying about who would take care of Amy was that Michael couldn't shake his fear that something had happened to Casey. Had she isolated herself completely? And damn him for not keeping better track. He'd scoured his files, and he couldn't even find the name of her physical therapist. Billy something.

What if she had fired him? Would there be anyone out there who would worry about her if she wasn't in touch? Lord knows he had tried, but Casey had done nothing but push her family away. He ran his hand through his hair. And now, here he was, worried about her. "Damn her," he said again.

There was a knock at the door.

Michael forced himself off the bed. "Yes?"

"It's me, Mr. McKinley."

"Come in, Mary."

The housekeeper opened the door and entered his bedroom with a laundry basket. "I've done up the last of the laundry. Is there anything you'd like left out for your trip?"

"If you wouldn't mind putting it all away, Mary. I'll pack later."

Mary nodded and set the basket down, loading the clothes in perfect piles into the dresser.

Michael sat back down and watched her, remembering how particular Casey was about the way her shirts were folded. Michael always folded shirts down the center and then again in the middle.

"It leaves a crease down the middle of the shirt," Casey would complain, unfolding the shirt and redoing it by folding the sleeves over first and then folding it in half. Mary did it the same way as Casey.

When Mary was done, she lifted the empty basket and propped it under one arm. "Amy has insisted on packing by herself."

Michael nodded. She was just like her mother. "Can you pull out a few nice outfits? You can pack them with my things."

"She's done quite a good job, actually. Except that turquoise sweatshirt she likes so much. It has more stains on it than the rags."

Michael smiled. When he'd met Casey, she had one outfit she wore on her days off: a pair of worn jeans and a green FBI sweatshirt that had faded to a dull grayish color. "Let her bring it. As long as she has other things to wear."

"Oh, she does."

"Thanks, Mary."

Mary nodded and headed to the door. "I'll call you for dinner in about an hour."

Michael opened his case and pulled his briefs out. Opening the first file on the bed, he made stacks of the issues he needed to work on. The stack of papers to be reviewed was more than a little daunting. He took the one off the top and carried it to the table and chair that sat in a small alcove of the room. The table used to be Casey's spot for her latest case—all her notes and papers would be piled there. But Michael had returned her case files to the Bureau months ago.

Opening his own file, he read over the motions of the opposition and started to make notes on a yellow legal pad. He paused and slapped his pen against the pad, his thoughts wandering back to his wife. She was probably still lying around in her sweatpants and sleeping all day.

He shook his head. That wasn't fair. As much as he had tried, he couldn't even imagine what she'd gone through at the hands of that sicko. The fact that he was still out there made Michael want to punch something. His wife had been through hell and back. And where had he been?

He reached for the phone and dialed her number again. His heart skittered as he listened to the first ring and then the second. The excitement slowly melted into disappointment when no one answered on the fifth ring and then the sixth. He wished he knew where she was.

It wasn't just about Amy anymore. This was about him, too. He wanted to see Casey. He wanted to see his wife. He hoped he hadn't let too long pass.

It hit him then how much he had missed her. "I hope you're okay, Casey," he said as he set the phone down.

Chapter 20

Walter Jones leaned back against the tree and let his eyes wander through the crowd as the group of cops chatted around him. If anyone was watching them, he couldn't tell.

"Warriors are coming back," Lumley said, his voice low enough not to interrupt the ceremony going on less than twenty yards away.

"Warriors aren't ever coming back," Nancy Skaggs responded.

Two other cops commented, and a debate ensued. Walter watched them talk. They'd never had trouble shooting the shit on breaks at the station, but Walter thought this discussion felt forced. He wondered if anyone else thought so, too.

He gazed at the masses attending the vigil. Onstage, a minister spoke about one of the children he had known. Around him, the occasional sounds of sobs rose above the hushed whispers of the murdered children.

Walter shifted his weight, the forty-pound belt settling into his back. He hated just standing around. Some killer might be out there, and he'd been instructed to keep his men all in one place. Hell, they looked like they were goofing off.

That was the point, Inspector Gray had told him. Let the killer think all the cops were just hanging out. Then he would walk comfortably at the vigil, perhaps even make his presence known. Walter knew there were another fifteen cops at the vigil, all of them undercover as mourners. Still, he wished he was with them. He didn't do well on the fringe.

"How long do we have to keep this up?" Winslow asked.

Walter glanced around and then shrugged.

The men stopped their conversation and glanced around. "You really think he's out there?" Skaggs asked.

"If I was some psycho killer, I wouldn't show up," Winslow muttered.

Lumley laughed. "You ain't smart enough to be a psycho killer."

"Shit. I think I'm going to thank you on that one," Winslow said.

"Who's here undercover?" Lumley asked.

Walter shook his head. "Don't talk about it."

The men glanced at their feet and shuffled in small circles. Walter knew they all felt as useless as he did. "We gonna set up a pool for the Final Four this year?"

"Definitely."

"I'm in."

"How much?"

"At least ten bucks," Winslow said. "I want the pool to be nice and big when I take it home."

"You haven't got a shot in hell," Lumley refuted.

Walter nodded. "Ten bucks it is."

"How many people you think we'll get?"

"At least thirty from the station," Walter guessed.

"Sounds good," Skaggs agreed. "Who do you think it'll be?"

"Kentucky," Winslow said.

"I think Kentucky has a chance this year," Lumley added.

"Kentucky? They haven't got a shot," Skaggs countered.

Walter leaned back against the tree and gazed over the crowd again, thankful that he'd gotten the guys to resume talking. He wanted to look at his watch, but he didn't want to be too obvious. Lumley's watch was in view, but it was digital. Shit, he was bored.

"Excuse me." A male voice came from behind him.

Walter turned around to meet the gaze of an older man dressed in a suit. "I'm sorry, sir. Were we disturbing you?"

The man tugged his tie loose around his neck and ran a hand through his graying hair. "Disturbing me?" he hissed.

Walter straightened at the angry voice. His hand moved to his holster as though it had a mind of its own. The others straightened behind him, and he could sense their internal alarms going off.

"There might be a killer out there, and you guys are standing around, talking basketball."

Walter exhaled.

The man moved closer to Walter and stuck his finger out. "This is the sort of bullshit police work that gets people killed. I want you guys to get out there and find that guy."

The man's brown eyes seemed to sag in his cheeks, and his shoulders were slumped like someone who'd been through hell. Walter wondered if he had lost a child to this madman. "Sir, I understand you're upset—"

"Upset!" he screamed.

Walter could feel people begin to turn around and look at him.

"Sir," Winslow interjected. "Could you please lower your voice?"

The man scoffed and threw Winslow a disgusted look. "You want me to shut up? You come make me."

Winslow took a step forward, but Walter held him back. "I know what this looks like, sir. But I promise you that we are doing our jobs." It was the best he could offer.

The man laughed, but he was nowhere near amused. "This is what the police consider doing their jobs? My child is dead because of some psycho, and you're doing your job?"

The man had lowered his voice, but the hate in his voice made Walter shiver. He couldn't explain to the man what they were doing, but he hated to have him think they weren't working. Damn it.

"You sit out here, and you think you'll scare him off just because you're in uniform?"

Walter started to speak. "Sir, please—"

"Did it occur to you that this killer doesn't seem to be scared off by a few lazy cops? He walked into a public mall and stole a child from her mother, for God's sake. And you people were probably sitting in the closest donut shop."

Walter put his hand up. "Stop it. Now, listen and listen carefully," he lowered his voice, but his tone made the man stop cold. "I've got fifteen undercover cops, working this crowd, just waiting for that killer to make himself known. We're hoping if he sees us jerking off, he'll think exactly like you do."

The man's eyes widened, and he looked over at the crowd of people.

"That's right. Fifteen undercover cops. Now, I know this is upsetting. Man, it isn't easy for us, either. I've got kids. You think I don't want to run into that crowd and find that psycho. Well, I do. But, I'm doing my job right here."

The man ran his hands across his face, and Walter thought he saw a flicker of amusement. "I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me. I haven't slept. I—"

"We understand, Mr.—"

"Jordan—Jordan McKinley." Walter shook the man's hand. "We understand, Mr. McKinley."

The man shook his head and turned to walk away. "I'm so sorry."

Walter looked back at the vigil. Something in his gut felt tight. He straightened the belt around his hips and looked up at the pictures of the families. He had studied them earlier, thinking about how they each reminded him of his own family. It could have been Mike or Brad that had been killed.

"That McKinley guy isn't in any of the pictures," Winslow said.

Walter felt the tightness in his stomach solidify. "Didn't he say he had a kid that had been killed?" Lumley touched Walter's arm. "You don't think—" Walter spun around, searching the crowd for Mr. McKinley. "That was our man." He snapped the radio off his belt, holding it so tight he thought it might burst in his fist. "All units respond. Looking for a male suspect—graying hair, appears forty-five to fifty, medium build, height: six-one, weight: one ninety, dressed in a gray pinstriped suit and tie. Suspect identified self as Mr. Jordan McKinley."

Chapter 21