Color Blind (14 page)

But Claudia
was
a psychopath, all the more dangerous because she shirked the parameters.

Jenna turned and kept moving.

Outside, as Hank hopped in the driver’s seat, Jenna clicked off a text to Irv:
Need reports on everyone who’s worked in the Sumpter Building over the past thirteen years. Keep on the d.l.

Some things, logic couldn’t explain.

•   •   •

L
yra squirted the syringe of blood into a purple top tube. “All done. What a champ!”

The seven-year-old smiled, revealing his top two teeth missing as she smoothed a Spiderman Band-Aid on his arm. He’d screamed like a steamboat when she told him she was going to use a syringe to draw blood rather than stick his finger, but it ended up being less painful for him than he’d thought.

“Thank you,” the mother said, and she gave the kid a quick hug.

“No problem. The doctor will be back with these results in a jiffy.”

She left the room and took the tube to the lab. “Heading to lunch, May.”

In the break room, Lyra took her ham and Swiss out of the mini fridge and settled in at the card table facing the twelve-inch black-and-white TV that stayed on all day, every day. It was tuned in to one of the few channels the TV got, the one that usually showed soap operas by twelve thirty when she had her break. Today, however, she’d taken lunch early, so the midday news was just beginning. The leading story revolved around the theme park shootings and the breaking news that the two murderers were actually the serial Gemini killers.

They had it all wrong, of course. Isaac had nothing to do with the Gemini killings.
She
knew why he’d turned himself in. The question was, how long would he go on with the charade?

He’d be furious if she tried to intervene. She couldn’t. And yet the more time he was in jail, the more worried she got. They were railroading him. He needed some kind of defense, didn’t he?

“The Gemini killers gunned down their first two victims at a gas station outside of New Haven, Connecticut, three months ago. The team of killers next hit two people at a company picnic in Delaware before the next massacre last month in Charleston, South Carolina. The most recent strike took down a couple in Georgia dining at a local Red Lobster,” the newscaster said.

Ridiculous. Isaac had never even been to Connecticut.

And yet . . .

Three months ago when those shootings happened, Isaac was at a work convention in Los Angeles. He couldn’t have been anywhere else.

But then again . . .

“Why didn’t you get a picture of the Hollywood sign while you were there? You know it’s the one thing I wanted to see,” Lyra said when she picked him up from the airport.

“Lye, you know I don’t have time to sightsee on business trips.”

“Oh, come on. Surely you’ve had time to snap a few photos on some of these trips. You never take pictures anymore. Why not?”

That was when Isaac’s voice shifted from relaxed and drowsy to cold and firm.

“Drop it, okay? I didn’t take any fucking pictures! I didn’t need to! My memory is fine!”

Lyra set her ham sandwich back on her plate. Queasiness washed over her.

She shook her head hard and whispered to herself. “Trust issues. He has trust issues, and he doesn’t like people to know where he is because of that. That’s why he doesn’t take pictures.”

“Who doesn’t take pictures?” May asked from behind her. The other nurse grabbed her brown paper sack lunch from the mini fridge beside the TV table. She sat down next to Lyra.

“Oh,” Lyra said, releasing a fake laugh. “My brother. I always ask him to use the camera I bought him for Christmas, but he never remembers.”

Three months ago in Los Angeles. What were those dates again?

T
he Florida Families of Victims of Violent Crimes office didn’t seem to Jenna like the sort of place you’d find lives touched by evil. The door bore a wreath of bright flowers, and inside, bulletin boards covered the walls like in an elementary school hallway. The tables, chock-full of brochures of different sorts, were the only signs that the organization assisted victims. Pamphlets on depression, dealing with holidays, insomnia, ways to reach out to others—all so personal, a stark contrast to the side of crime Jenna dealt with and its bare, cement walls.

“Help you?” the receptionist asked from behind a sturdy glass window. Apparently, the group was friendly, but also smart enough to keep up a barrier until they vetted newcomers.

“I’m Special Agent Hank Ellis with the FBI. This is Doctor Ramey, our consulting forensic psychiatrist. We have a few questions.” Hank flashed his badge, then laid it on the counter so the receptionist could examine it. These people would have read enough—been
through
enough—to expect a bit more proof of identity than a badge flipped at them for a fraction of a second. Anything could be faked.

The woman opened the window a crack and slid Hank’s identification through. “What’s this about?”

“One of your regulars. Thadius Grogan. An acquaintance of his may or may not be connected to a crime we’re investigating. Would someone in the office know Thadius Grogan or talk to him frequently?”

A smile crossed the woman’s lips. “Oh, everyone knows Mr. Grogan! He’s one of our biggest donors. He’s had a hard time of it—”

“Who here does Thadius work with the most?” Hank cut in, but not before the marigold tone of friendship flooded Jenna’s vision.

The receptionist nodded, eager to please. “You’ll be wanting to talk to Bronx. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

The lady retreated from her desk into a hallway behind her, and Hank turned to Jenna. “Grogan’s well liked. Must not be that much of a hermit if everyone knows him. She practically beamed at the mention of his name.”

“Yep. I don’t think he’s a major depressive. Not outwardly anyway. He probably inspires a lot of people with his activity actually.”

The door on their right opened.

“Come on back,” the receptionist said.

They followed her through the carpeted hall to a conference room.

“Agent Ellis and Dr. Ramey, Bronx,” she said.

“Bronx” turned out to be an aging Japanese guy who looked a head shorter than Jenna and about thirty pounds lighter. However, as soon as he opened his mouth, the nickname made sense.

“Nice to meet you guys,” he said, the word “guys” in two syllables that included a “w.” “I’m the executive director of Double-F Double-V C. How can I help?”

Jenna perched on the end of one of the overstuffed chairs at the table, spread the police lineup in front of Bronx, and let her mind settle on the vermillion hue it brought forward for him. He was clearly a good leader. Just the right mix of friendly and assertive. The colors lined up with her initial reaction to him the same way they did with everyone else. “We understand you’ve had some contact with Thadius Grogan?”

Bronx’s gaze lingered on the paper, probably searching it for Thadius’s face. “Um, yeah. He’s been in here a lot over the years. I assume you know about his daughter . . .”

“Yes, sir. We do. To be frank, Thadius Grogan is a suspect in an ongoing investigation, and we need some more information about him.”

Bronx’s forehead creased. “What sorta investigation?”

Jenna felt Hank glance at her. “A murder.”

“Oy.” Bronx frowned. “Can I ask what happened?”

The news conference would’ve run again on the midday news, but unless the staff here caught that broadcast, they wouldn’t have seen anything about Grogan unless it had reached CNN. So far, they’d managed to keep Grogan’s name separate from the Gemini killings. No telling how long that’d last.

“Thadius Grogan’s truck was discovered in the parking lot where a shooting occurred,” Hank answered simply.

“Right,” Bronx answered. Poor guy was dumbfounded. Couldn’t blame him.

“Does anyone in this lineup resemble someone you might’ve seen with Thadius at any point, anyone you might recognize from Double-F Double-V C?”

Bronx cocked his head at her use of his lingo, then returned his focus to the page. He scanned the photos but wagged his head side to side. “Not anyone I recognize.”

“Could you look one more time? Just to be sure,” Hank prompted.

Jenna watched Bronx’s eyes rove the page. They stuck to no photograph, and he didn’t display any nervous ticks at all. He was telling the truth.

“No one,” he said again.

“Is there anyone in the age range of the men on that lineup he
did
hang around within the group? A sponsor or buddy of any sort?” Jenna asked.

Bronx scooted the lineup back toward her. Now he shifted in his seat. “I’m sure you understand I don’t want to jeopardize anyone’s privacy. The only reason most people come to us to get help is because they know we won’t put it on a billboard. If we don’t have trust, we don’t have much to offer.”

“Believe me, I know better than a lot of people about wanting privacy for this sort of thing,” Jenna answered slowly.

Bronx’s head jerked back as though Jenna had appeared in front of him for the first time out of thin air. “Ramey. Dr. Ramey, the forensic psychiatrist. You’re Claudia Ramey’s—”

“Daughter. Yes.”

“Christ. I’m sorry,” he said.

You and me both.

“I don’t really know who Thadius talked to outside this office. He’d come in any time I wanted a word with him, needed a donor to sponsor a fund-raising event. That sort of thing. I can’t promise they’ll be receptive, but the best people I can think to talk to would be Amy and Shawn Snow. Their daughter was killed when she was in high school, and I think the two families stayed in touch. I can give you some contact info, but again, I stress that they’ve been through a lot. Might not be as willing to talk to you as others.”

“Right,” Jenna replied, noting the coal color that came to mind. She should know; it was the same guarded shade that flashed in anytime someone mentioned Claudia.

Jenna and Hank trailed behind Bronx back to the front. He flipped through a box of index cards to Amy and Shawn Snow. Even though Jenna could obtain the same information from Irv in less than sixty seconds, she and Hank waited while Bronx copied the phone number and address for them on a sticky note. Bad policy to remind people the FBI could dig into their lives any old time they wanted.

As Bronx wrote, Hank cleared his throat. “You don’t happen to recognize the name ‘Howie Dumas’ at all, do you?”

Bronx glanced up from the Post-it. “Howie Dumas? Doesn’t ring any bells.”

“What about a name of any private investigator popular with the people who come to your support group?” Jenna asked. “Do you ever have members who aren’t satisfied with police investigations who try to look into things themselves?”

Bronx frowned, then turned his gaze back to the address to finish writing. “Comes up every now and then, but we don’t provide resources for anything like that. Usually that sort of thing isn’t healthy for victims or their families. We encourage ’em to move on, not stay put.”

“So Mr. Grogan never mentioned anything of the sort?” Hank pressed.

Bronx pulled the note from the top of the stack, stretched it toward Hank. “Not to me.”

“Thanks,” Hank said as he accepted the piece of paper.

He made for the door, but Jenna lagged. It was risky, but at this point, better to ask than not know. The connection would get out as soon as they revealed Keaton’s name, but protecting that name wasn’t nearly as important as what they’d gain if Bronx recognized it. Keaton had to have been here, met Grogan in association with this place. It was the most logical explanation.

Isaac Keaton didn’t exist. The name had no trail. But . . .

He was narcissistic. Organized, but not without his shortcomings. One of those shortcomings was that he liked that name. He’d given it to them so easily. Readily, even. He’d have used it other places before, and those places would be anywhere it wasn’t used in fixed, traceable form.

“One more thing,” Jenna said, her heart pumping faster. “Have you ever heard the name Isaac around here? Or Keaton?”

Bronx’s eyes turned upward as he racked his brain, but again, he shook his head.

“No, and I tend to remember names. No Isaac or Keaton.”