Touching Evil (8 page)

Maggie only just stopped herself from flinching. "Andy talks too much."

"Maybe so, but did he lie?"

She laced her fingers together around her cup and stared down at it for a long moment before finally meeting his gaze again. "Okay so I get involved. What does that have to do with you and your friend? I won't share confidential details of the investigation."

"I don't expect you to. Look, I can get most of the information on the formal investigation myself as least as much as Andy can give me. What I'm asking you to do is to work separately—independently of the official investigation—with Quentin and me."

Maggie frowned at him. "You're planning to run an independent investigation?"

"Why not? I have resources the police can't begin to match. I can go places they can't go, ask questions they'd be damned for asking."

Steadily, she said, "As the brother of a victim?"

His jaw tightened, but John nodded and replied calmly, "As the brother of a victim. Nobody will be much surprised that I'm trying to find answers on my own, and most people will be sympathetic. We can use that if we have to."

"Ruthless," she noted.

"Practical," he disagreed. "There's nothing coldblooded about this, remember. That bastard destroyed Christina. He murdered her as surely as if he killed her with his own hands. I intend to see to it that he pays."

"I don't think much of vigilante justice."

"That isn't what I have in mind. If we get even a whiff of a viable suspect, we'll hand the information over to the police immediately. I don't want to do
their job, Maggie, I promise you that. But I do believe the investigation needs a fresh start, a new slant. It's been six months since the first victim was attacked; do you believe the police know much more today than they did then?"

Reluctantly, she said, "No, not much more."

"Neither do I."

"Okay, but what makes you think you—we—can accomplish any more working independently?"

"Call it a hunch."

She shook her head. "For a man who denies belief in the paranormal, you're putting a lot of faith in a hunch."

He smiled. "No, I'm putting a lot of faith in Quentin. And in you. And ... I can't keep just waiting around twiddling my thumbs, Maggie. I have to at least
try
to find some way of putting this bastard behind bars before he attacks again."

She understood that drive all too well, but his plans still made her uneasy. Stalling for time, she said, "Don't you have a business empire to run?"

"What I need to do I can do by phone, fax, or modem. I've spent the past six weeks arranging things so I could take time off for this."

"And you expect me to take time as well?"

"I expect you to go on doing exactly what you would have done anyway—but with sometime companions." John leaned forward a bit. "Useful companions; I wasn't kidding about having resources. But even more than that, we can help you with the legwork, case notes, research—whatever is needed. Quentin and I can share the load."

. . .
stop trying to carry all of the load yourself.

Maggie didn't have to wonder if it was a coincidence
that Beau had used the same phrasing; there were few coincidences anywhere in his orbit. She drew a breath. "And when Andy and the other cops find out I'm involved in a private parallel investigation? Just how long do you expect it to take for them to slam the door in
all
our faces?"

"They won't do that—if we've made progress. And I expect us to make progress."

She swore under her breath and stared down at her coffee again.

"You're going to investigate on your own anyway, aren't you?"

Not yet ready to admit that she'd already started, Maggie shrugged.

It was John's turn to swear, just as softly as she had. "If I thought money motivated you, I'd ask your price. But it doesn't. So what does motivate you, Maggie? What can I say to convince you to help me?"

She finished her coffee and set the cup down, meeting his gaze with a sense of inevitability. "You just said it." And before he could question her apparently sudden capitulation, she added, "You're right, I'd investigate on my own anyway. Might as well make it a team effort."

He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. "Thank you. You won't regret it, I promise you."

The physical contact caught her off guard, and for just that unprotected instant before she could shut it out, she felt his determination as well as his conviction that she could help him. And she felt something else, something warm and very male and disturbingly familiar.

She sat back, gently drawing her hand away under
the pretext of pushing her coffee cup to one side. "What's the game plan? I assume you have one."

John frowned briefly, as if something he couldn't quite define puzzled him. "The beginnings of one, anyway. Andy said you hadn't yet walked over the area where Hollis Templeton was found."

"No, not yet."

"That's as good a place as any to start. I've asked Quentin to meet us there."

As much as she hated to admit it even to herself, Maggie had put off that chore because she dreaded what she knew awaited her there. What she wasn't sure of was whether having companions on the visit would make it better—or worse.

Still . . . maybe it was time to show John Garrett a glimpse of her "magic." Time for him to at least begin to understand.

"We don't have much daylight left," she said, keeping her tone brisk. "I'm ready if you are."

"Well," Jennifer said, "we definitely have something. But I'll be damned if I know what it is."

"It's gotta be coincidence," Scott said. "It's gotta be coincidence, right, Andy?"

Andy didn't blame either of them for being bewildered. What they'd found, by mid-afternoon on Saturday, were three more files concerning murder investigations in 1934. All three victims were young women, all three had been brutally attacked, raped, and left for dead, and all three murders had gone unsolved.

In two of the three folders they had found something more than scanty case notes. They had found
sketches of the victims, sketches the police had used in identifying the women, again because their faces had been so badly battered—obvious in the grainy crime-scene photos. One of the sketches was rather inexpertly done and had not, in fact, helped the police to identify the dead woman; she had gone nameless to a pauper's grave.

But the second sketch was a good one and had been backed up later once she was identified by a photograph. The victim had been the daughter of a local businessman, and not only had her reputation been spotless but she had apparently been attacked not twenty yards from her own back door—in the best part of town. Her name was Marianne Trask.

And according to the sketch, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Hollis Templeton. The same medium-brown hair and strong, attractive features, same oval face, same slender neck.

"Not identical," Jennifer noted. "But damned close. And if you read the descriptions of the other victims, even without sketches to go by, they sound a lot like Christina Walsh and Ellen Randall. Coincidence? I guess it could be."

"It's arguable," Andy said. "Four women attacked, and each case matches up with one of ours—at least as far as the description of the victim is concerned. But there are differences."

"Yeah. All the 1934 victims died within hours." Jennifer sighed and reached into her pocket for a cinnamon-flavored toothpick; she'd recently quit smoking and claimed chewing the toothpicks soothed her oral fixation. It was a mark of the respect in which she was held by the men that not one of them had ventured a lewd response. At least not out loud.

"That's not all," Andy said. "There's no mention in the case files of any of them being blinded."

Scott offered, "That could be our guy's own personal twist. I mean, maybe he's trying to find look-alike victims but making damned sure they can't look at him."

"In 1934," Jennifer pointed out, "leaving them for dead did the trick, so that killer didn't have to worry about his victims even trying to identify him."

"Why doesn't our guy kill his victims?" Scott asked, directing the question to Jennifer. "He goes to such pains to blind them; wouldn't killing them outright be a hell of a lot easier?"

"Why ask me?" She shifted the toothpick to the other side of her mouth and added, "If I had to guess, I'd say he just hasn't been quite ready—so far—to cross the line into outright murder. But I'm no expert, and if you want my opinion that's what we need on this case. Our shrink's good, but she's no profiler."

Andy grunted. "Drummond won't call in the FBI, and you know how the chief feels about the officer in charge of an investigation making that decision."

"If we can't solve this, he'll have to," Jennifer objected.

"You don't know our Luke," Andy said sourly.

Jennifer rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, I do. I just keep hoping I'm wrong, that's all."

Scott made a rude noise not quite under his breath.

"I wouldn't mind being wrong about that," she told him mildly.

"Let's stick to business," Andy said. "Four victims. That's it for the year?"

"Well, we aren't sure about that." Jennifer traded
looks with Scott and shrugged. "Files are missing, Andy."

"What the hell do you mean, missing?"

"I mean that from June—just after the fourth victim was killed—through the end of that year, there are no files. And the box is so packed it's hard to say if files have been removed or were never there."

"They had to be there, Jenn, at least in 1934. Crime doesn't just stop in June to take a vacation."

She shrugged again. "Well, they aren't there now. Jeez, how many times since then do you figure the file boxes have been moved around? This isn't the original site of the investigating station, and even this building has been rebuilt or remodeled at least three times. As the city grew, the districts multiplied; police records for Seattle are probably scattered over a dozen different buildings or more."

Scott sank down in Andy's visitor's chair and groaned. "I never thought. . . But you're right. Every station probably has file boxes in its basement or storage rooms."

"And none of it on computer," Jennifer reminded them. "It's taking all the manpower we can muster to get the modern records on computer for comparison; if the old stuff is ever part of the computerized record it won't be anytime soon."

Andy sat back in his chair and stared at the two sketches propped up against his lamp. "Two pretty conclusive matches," he said slowly, "and descriptions of two more that sound close enough to be strong maybes. Four victims closely matching our four victims. You know, guys ... I'd really like to see the files for the rest of that year, maybe the year after."

Jennifer got it first. "In case there are more rape-murders. You think if there were more victims then—we'll have more now. And maybe a shot at identifying would-be victims?"

"Hell, I don't know." Andy scowled. "Even with sketches and photos we don't have much hope of finding look-alikes in a city this big. But more files may give us more information, and God knows we could use it, so I say we look for them."

"I just had a creepy thought," Jennifer said. "What if this bastard is just yanking our chains, copying old crimes or picking look-alike victims only as long as we don't catch on?"

"How could he know we'd caught on?" Scott objected.

"If we manage to identify a potential victim, say."

"One nightmare at a time," Andy told them. "You guys want to get on the phone and try to track down those missing files?"

The building where Hollis Templeton's bleeding body had been dumped wasn't precisely in the bad part of town, it was just somewhat isolated from the buildings nearest it and in very bad shape. Intended for demolition so that a modern new apartment complex could rise in its stead, it had stood empty for at least six or eight months.

Maggie got out of her car and stood on the curb, absently hugging her sketch pad to her breast as she waited for John to park his car and join her. It was chilly, a restless wind whining around like something lost and alone, and the overcast sky was allowing darkness to approach even earlier than usual.

Maggie hated this.
 
She hated this lonely place,
hated being here with darkness creeping ever closer. She hated the cold fear writhing in the pit of her stomach and the dread that made her skin feel prickly as though the nerves lay rawly exposed on the surface.

"Maggie?"

She started despite herself and tore her gaze from the broken rubble walkway leading to the building to find John standing beside her.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded quickly. "Yes, of course. Just. . . woolgathering. Where's your friend?"

"Well, since there's a rental car parked across the street, I'd say he's already here." He studied her face, not quite frowning but clearly bothered by what he saw. "Are you sure you want to go in there?"