Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) (8 page)

She shook her head, waiting for the phone to ring. "Come on, Rick."

"We could be dead by now," Billy snapped.

She shook her head. This is what the agency left her with—no use of her hands, one good leg, a meager allowance to cover her rented house and expenditures, and a phone number which was supposed to be twenty-four seven. "Damn it. Ring."

As though responding, the phone rang.

Billy jumped backward and lay his fluttering hand to his chest. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

"None of them are going to be much help," Casey grabbed the phone. "Hello."

"Swain here."

"Who is it?"

"Registered to Jordan Gray of Oakland, California. Not reported stolen."

"Who is he?"

"Inspector, San Francisco Police Department."

"Shit." These days, there was nothing about law enforcement Casey liked.

"You have a good one, too, Agent McKinley," Swain said with exaggerated politeness.

Casey hung up the phone. Every patrol car, every street cop, even the meter maids made her uncomfortable now. What a long way down she'd fallen. As a kid, she'd worshiped the police. Her father had been a police officer in Philadelphia.

He patrolled the same beat for twenty-seven years, practically a record there. After Casey's younger sister died in a car accident caused by a drunk driver, her father had worked overtime to man the roads for drunks.

At the time Casey thought nothing mattered to him like the job. Then her mother had started to suffer from Alzheimer's, and he'd buried himself in the job even more. Four years later, right after her mother had died, Casey had been attacked. She remembered the one time her father had come to visit her, she'd been heavily drugged and half asleep.

But, ingrained in her mind, clear as crystal was the image of her father turning to the attending nurse. "What's the world coming to?" he had asked her. Then, turning back to Casey, he said, "I've lost all three of my girls to different monsters." It was as if he were speaking to Casey's corpse. He had died four weeks later.

"Casey," Billy called.

She blinked hard and looked at him.

He stared from the door to her and back again. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Is it safe to open the door?"

She shrugged. "It's some inspector."

"This is not normal, Casey. You need a good alarm system, not a long-distance guard dog."

She glared. "Answer the door and tell him to go away. I'm going to my room."

"Don't you move," Billy commanded, his voice harsh. His mean voice, she called this one; it was a good octave below his usual. Billy opened the door and started.

Casey struggled to suppress a smile, and Billy shot her a glare.

"I'm Inspector Gray with the San Francisco Police Department." The man at the door was black and trim, easily six-foot-four, two-ten. His deep eyes fixed on her, an air of law-enforcement authority exuding from his every pore. Still, she had learned a hard lesson. With her hands the way they were, she didn't have a chance in hell of taking him. And God knew Billy wouldn't help much. He'd practically been blown over by the wind in the doorway.

Casey scolded herself, knowing Billy's size had more to do with the disease that was killing him than his inborn fragility. She looked at the cop at the door and hoped Swain was right.

Casey glanced down, relieved to see his feet were way too big. She'd known he probably wouldn't be the killer she had tracked, but somehow seeing his shoes made her feel better. Leonardo had a man's size ten shoe. This guy's were easily twelves or thirteens.

For months after the attack, whenever she spoke to anyone, from doctors to psychiatrists to attorneys and law officials, she'd been unable to keep her eyes from drifting to their feet. Perhaps it was another reason she liked Billy so much. His were men's size seven, hardly larger than her own size-eight women's. She thought about what Billy had said earlier. Maybe he was right. She needed to learn to trust people—at least some people. She didn't trust law enforcement—that came with knowing the inspector wanted something. But Billy's friend the tax accountant—she could trust a tax accountant.

At least the detective guy was using the right name. "I thought they only had inspectors in England," Casey mumbled, holding her ground.

"You behave," Billy commanded.

Casey glanced over in time to see the cop's jaw drop and his deep brown eyes widen.

"I want to see ID," Casey demanded.

Billy gasped.

"That's quite all right," the inspector said, opening his coat and showing them his pocket before slowly removing his badge and handing it to her.

Casey rubbed her knuckles across the badge, studying it carefully before giving it back. As he returned the badge to his pocket, Casey watched him.

Billy turned back to the man and waved him in. "Come on in, Inspector."

"Thank you. Please call me Jordan." After wiping his feet on the mat, Jordan ducked his head and entered.

Standing in her foyer next to pale, thin Billy, the inspector looked like an African god in height and stature.

Her hands fidgeting, Casey made her way to a drawer and pulled out a cigarette. Gripping the butt in her hand, she lit it and took a long drag.

"Put that out." Billy came rushing at her, his arms in the air. "Good, God. Are you trying to kill us all?"

She lifted the cigarette out of his reach and put her other hand out. "Touch this cigarette, and I'll start with you."

"I certainly didn't mean to interrupt," Jordan interjected, looking awkward standing in the low doorway.

Casey took another drag on her cigarette. "Of course you did. The question is why." She met his gaze and held it. "You here to see the freak show?"

Billy winced.

The inspector looked around. "You got a man in a cage or something?"

She eyed him carefully, but so far he hadn't so much as glanced at her hands.

"Please, come sit." Billy motioned to the couch. "I'll open this window for a little fresh air."

Jordan nodded. "Thanks." He sat on the couch across from Casey.

Casey finished her cigarette and dropped it into a glass on the table.

"Thank God," Billy said, carrying the glass to the kitchen at arm's length as though the smell were something he might catch.

"I'm sure you didn't come here to see me smoke," Casey said to the inspector.

He shook his head. "No." He straightened his jacket and sat forward. His knees reached halfway up his chest as he struggled to get comfortable on her couch. "I heard you speak at Berkeley about a year ago. You discussed the merits of profiling. I was quite impressed with your speech. I've come here for your help, Ms. McKinley." He met her gaze. "With a case," he added.

With some effort, Casey pushed herself to her feet. "Then, I won't waste your time or mine, Inspector. I don't work for the Bureau anymore."

He didn't move. "I think you'll want to hear what I have to say."

"Why would I?"

"Listen to the man," Billy snapped.

Casey glanced up, surprised she hadn't noticed Billy's return to the room.

She shook her head. "I have enough problems, Inspector. I don't need yours."

Jordan stood, looking relieved to be able to stretch his legs again.

Casey backed away from him, his sheer size making her even more skittish.

"I've heard about your work," he said.

She stared at him without responding.

Billy moved to her side, putting his arm through hers and holding on. The gesture made Casey wonder who was supporting whom.

"I've heard you were the best."

"That about sums it up, Inspector. I
was
the best."

"Please. Let me finish."

She restrained herself from speaking, wondering why it was taking him so long to spit it out. What the hell did he really want? Why was he here? But somehow, she was afraid to ask—afraid he would give her answers she didn't want to hear.

"I need your help," he continued.

"For a profile?" Billy asked.

Her eyes closed, Casey wished he had kept quiet.

Jordan nodded. "Sort of."

The air was thick around the inspector's words. He was holding something back. The thought of what he had left out filled Casey with dread. She thought about Leonardo. It couldn't be him. He wasn't back. It was impossible.

Billy patted her arm as though that would relieve the terror that streamed through her veins like glacier ice. Why was she reacting this way? What did she expect him to say? What was she was afraid of? No. She knew what she was afraid of.

The inspector looked at Billy as though Casey weren't even in the room. "We have a perp who has killed three children. Cut them up—different parts on each one."

His words hit her like a bullet. She struggled for breath, then straightened her back. Her teeth tight, Casey fought her fear.

"I read about that case in the paper," Billy said. "Remember, Casey? I was telling you about it." He turned back to the inspector. "Casey was profiling it for me."

"Enough," she spit, pulling away from Billy and looking at the detective. "You need to leave."

Jordan didn't move.

"Now," she said.

Billy made no move to contradict her.

"May I call you Casey?"

She gave a wicked chortle at his attempt to befriend her. "You mean as you leave? I don't see any harm."

Jordan smiled and shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't leave just yet. I need to ask you some questions."

"I don't think you heard me. I've got nothing to say."

"Casey, this is a matter of police business," he pressed. But his eyes wavered, and she knew he was caught.

She shook her head and raised a lame hand. "Don't play that fucking game with me."

Billy stepped in front of her as though he could shield her from the words the inspector was about to speak.

She ignored him and continued, "I'm not some naive witness you can intimidate. You and I both know that you have no right to demand my assistance. And I'm certainly not offering it. I was absolved of that duty almost a year ago, Inspector." She spoke the title as though it were a curse.

"And as for any other police business, I've got an alibi. And I'm all paid up on my parking tickets." She raised her hands to him. "Come to think of it, I don't even drive anymore."

He didn't so much as flinch at the sight of her crippled hands. The same hands she used to shoot with, box with, tie her shoes with, and write her name.

His imperturbability only made her angrier. "But. If you want to press it, I do have a very good lawyer." She turned her back and moved toward her bedroom, her heart pounding as it had constantly in her thoughts, her dreams, and her memories of that night. She fought the wave of nausea that followed.

"I understand you're going through a rough time, Casey."

She turned back and put her hand up to stop him, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "I had a psychiatrist, thanks. He was a fucking useless asshole, but he was a hell of a lot better than you."

The inspector's expression remained unruffled. "I'm not here to counsel you. I'm here because I'm an inspector. And I've got what I believe is a serial killer."

"Great. Congratulations. You want a fucking medal? You're in the wrong place."

"I want your help."

She just laughed. "Good-bye."

"Normally I'd let it go, Casey. But I don't want to lose another kid on my patrol."

"Then, call the fucking Bureau and have them send out a rent-a-brain, okay?"

She could hear Billy's quick intake of breath, even from the edge of her bedroom. Shaking her head, she forced herself to make the words form on her lips.

"Call Quantico," she whispered, then cleared her throat. "Someone there took over my cases. Like I said, Inspector, I don't work there anymore."

Jordan sighed and took a step closer and pressed on. "I can't. I don't have the authority to go to the Bureau. That's why I'm here." He lowered his voice. "You're better than the rent-a-brains, anyway."

She shook her head. Fumbling for her stance on shaky legs, she pushed herself into her bedroom. Slamming the door, she looked around the room as though it was the first time she'd seen it. For the first time, it felt confined and dark. She felt Leonardo's presence. Like in her nightmares, he was suddenly everywhere.

The flimsy glass window caught her attention, and she moved toward it. Dark bars shielded someone from merely breaking the glass, but how easy it would be to simply saw through them. All alone in the middle of the night, she would be helpless.

Billy had pleaded with her to get a better alarm system, but she'd refused. It wasn't about whether she thought Leonardo would come back—or whether she thought she could take him if he did. She simply couldn't bring herself to care what happened to her. She was no use alive—why not dead? But suddenly being faced with that as an option was terrifying. Casey took a deep breath and focused her energy out the window.