“It was written on one of her business cards,” Rick said, his voice cracking. “I told the cops but I don’t know what they’re going to do. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I—”
“What did it say?” Pete asked, his curiosity trumping his fear.
“‘You lose.’”
Pete held the silver can of beer up to the kitchen light and turned it in his hand.
He leaned back against the counter in Kathy’s kitchen and placed the can on it, still within reach. It was late. Close to three in the morning. Kathy had offered up her couch, a marked improvement over the small cot in the back of the Book Bin.
He’d been in the apartment before. It was a cozy two-bedroom on the fringes of Coral Gables—“Little Gables” as the Realtors called it, hoping to lure unsuspecting tenants into paying Coral Gables prices—that had seen better days. The paint was peeling and it looked like a hurricane “after” photo—file folders, printouts, Blu-rays, a few empty wine bottles, and notepads scattered around the living room in various piles. It was very much Kathy’s place.
Pete could see Nigel, Kathy’s tiny cat, jump from the couch in the living room to a nearby table. He’d rescued the small gray feline when he first set out to find Kathy. It felt like ages ago. It sent him thinking back to his own cat, Costello—now just ashes mixed with the rest of his life.
He sat down on the couch, next to the sheets and pillows Kathy had hastily set out for him. His father would have known what to do. He’d been a cop’s cop—a stellar homicide detective who was also a stellar person, good father, and loyal friend.
Pete grabbed a small notepad from the coffee table next to the couch and pulled out a pen from his pocket. He began to jot down names.
Alice Cline. Erica Morales. Nina Henriquez. Emily Sprague-Blanco
.
Then the list began to evolve and include clues that were relevant, or should be, in Pete’s mind. White van. Internet. Mirrors. Knives. Sex. Apartment. E-mail.
He underlined Cline, Morales, and Henriquez. Those were the stable victims, the ones the killer had wanted, Pete reasoned. Emily was an offshoot—a byproduct of his annoyance with Pete. She didn’t fit the mold of the killer’s victim profile. Yet he’d gone after her anyway. Why?
Both Cline and Morales had been e-mailing with someone purporting to be a Realtor, promising a good deal and the chance to move quickly. From what little he’d learned about Nina Henriquez, he could at least assume she came from an unhappy home. Mothers leaving children was not a recipe for success.
He started another column on the same page. Memorial. House. Laundromat. Assault. Fire. Note. The methods of attack didn’t add up, Pete thought. They didn’t seem right. A killer kills, sure, but does he use so many different means? So many weapons? He wasn’t sure. And if there were two men, one was an expert at bomb-making, hand-to-hand fighting, and knife-play.
Pete’s hand guided the pen over an open part of the page. He was drawing. The outline seemed random at first, but as he let his mind wander, he realized he was drawing his own house. Just the basics. Pete wasn’t an artist. The living room. The guest room. Pete’s bedroom. The utility room.
Where he got in.
Pete thought back to that night. The confrontation in Emily’s room, the guest room. Kathy tied up in the living room. No one was that fast. He saw Kathy’s face. The look of fear she had when Pete told her not to worry. Not to worry because he’d left the killer behind, on the other side of the house. One of the killers, at least.
He stood up, letting the pen and pad drop to the floor.
***
“It was definitely two people—but where does that leave us? This serial killer has a sidekick? We don’t even know who he is. Now we have to figure out who he rolls with?”
Kathy’s question hung in the air. It was close to six in the morning. Pete hadn’t slept. Kathy had slept little.
Pete frowned. “It’s right and it’s not right,” he said. “The attack on the house. The differing methods. One killer took the first few; then it seems like another person left the note for Nina Henriquez’s mom. That was a message. To stay away. Then that person took Emily. It’s almost like the ‘B’ killer is protecting the main one.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wants…” Pete paused. “He wants the main killer to continue. He’s defending him. We’re an obstacle. Emily might be alive.”
Kathy waved her hands as if to get Pete’s attention. “Hold up,” she said. “We don’t know any fucking thing about this killer. Now we’re speculating that he has a guardian angel who may not be a killer, or as much of a killer?”
Pete let himself lean back into the couch. He was exhausted. He ran his hand through his hair. He needed sleep. But he needed to find Emily—and he had nothing but a theory.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice quiet.
“Look, sometimes killers change the type of victim—slightly, but they do,” Kathy said. “Ages go up or down, usually because they have to hunt elsewhere. It comes down to availability.”
“Go on,” Pete said.
“So, maybe this guy just ran out of high schools to troll,” Kathy said. “Or Craigslist postings to scour. I mean, there can only be so many teenage girls looking for an apartment.”
Pete felt a sharp pain through his body. He closed his eyes and his mind drifted back—back to his walk through the strip mall. Catching sight of Emily. The initial confrontation. His following her.
“Pete?” Kathy said. “Are you OK? What is it?”
Pete stood up and checked his pockets for his keys and phone. “We have to go,” he said. “Now.”
“What?”
“Emily,” he said. His words were coming out slow, dragging. “She was at a Realtor’s. She was looking for an apartment. Like the other girls.”
This was becoming an unpleasant habit, Pete thought, as he pressed the gas and pushed his wheezing rental car down Bird Road. He glanced at the passenger side and saw Kathy wrap her hand around the armrest. She was anxious. So was he. They could be heading straight into the belly of the beast with no idea what to expect.
“Check the glove compartment,” Pete said, not taking his eyes off the road.
“What?”
“Open the glove compartment and make sure my gun is there,” he said.
She did as she was told. The gun was there, where Pete remembered leaving it. They might be going into this blind, Pete thought, but they wouldn’t be defenseless.
The early morning drive would have been pleasant under any other circumstances. The sun had not yet fully peeked out, and the usually packed thruway was littered with only a few cars.
He pushed the car a bit faster. He looked at Kathy for a second. She was leaning on the passenger-side window, looking at the stores and houses speed by, still holding on to the door—probably a combination of tension and fear. She looked worn down. He wondered if this was what she’d envisioned for herself as a kid. Probably not. She was talented but perpetually unhappy, living in a cloud of chaos that she seemed to thrive on. How long could you sustain that, though? There has to be something else, he thought, as the car skidded to a stop at a red light. 107th Avenue. They were almost there.
“What are we going to do when we get there?” Kathy said, breaking the silence, which Pete realized had taken up most of the drive.
“I’m not sure.”
“Excellent,” she said, more tired than sarcastic.
The light changed before Pete could respond. The morning haze had morphed into bright, seething sunlight. Pete turned onto 137th Avenue and felt the weight in his chest get heavier.
***
Pete slid his gun behind his back and hooked it through his waistband as he got out of the car. He scanned the empty parking lot and saw nothing out of the ordinary. They walked toward the Futuro Supermarket at the front of the tiny strip mall.
This place is usually empty, Pete thought, trying to reassure himself as they headed down the smaller walkway that would lead them to the tiny Realtor’s office. He reached out and grabbed Kathy’s hand, giving it a strong squeeze and letting it drop. They exchanged a knowing glance and continued.
Pete could see where the walkway split; shoppers were given the option of continuing down the abandoned strip mall or turning into it, to discover more empty spaces or barely-open hair salons and discount clothing stores.
“Are you fucking serious?”
Pete turned around, fighting the urge to go for his gun immediately. He heard Kathy let out a frustrated groan.
Aguilera was a few paces behind them, holding a paper cup of steaming coffee and looking haggard. It had not been a relaxing night for the FBI agent. He also looked pretty pissed, Pete thought.
“Where’s Harras?” Kathy said.
“What are you two idiots doing here?” Aguilera asked, ignoring Kathy.
“We need to talk to Harras,” Pete said. “We have a lead on who this guy is.”
For a moment, Aguilera’s expression changed, from complete annoyance to concern. Pete would have missed it had he not been looking straight at him.
“Come with me,” Aguilera said, turning around and motioning for them to follow.
They walked down the main stretch of the strip mall until they reached a turning point, the same place where Pete had run into Emily, within sight of the Realtor’s office. Aguilera moved past it, to a smaller parking lot at the far end of the stretch of tiny stores. Pete fought the urge to correct the FBI agent; he didn’t know what Pete suspected. Pete wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
Aguilera walked into the parking area. As Pete reached the end of the mall, he saw why Aguilera was leading them there. At the far end of the lot was a medium-sized garbage bin. It was surrounded by crime scene tape and police. Pete could see Harras standing the closest to the metal container, a worried frown on his face. Pete could make out a human hand, stained with blood, hanging out of the metal garbage bin.
“This what you guys were here for?” he said. “Another peek at the action? Well, you got it.”
“What are you talking about?” Kathy said.
“Whoever this guy is, he’s lost it,” Aguilera said. “He isn’t putting in his usual thought into his victims. This girl—who worked in this mall, at the market near where you guys parked—was killed less than a day after Nina Henriquez’s mom got the note about Emily. We’re thinking it’s less than that—maybe a few hours. In this same mall.”
“Something’s not right,” Pete said. His mind was whirring. Why would the killer come back to the same place? Why would he kill so close to the Laundromat, where he’d just poked the FBI? It was foolish, and this guy was anything but dumb.
“What’s not right?” Aguilera said. “The guy’s lost it. He’s no longer cherry-picking victims. He barely had time to set up a few mirrors. That’s the only reason we know it’s him. He couldn’t help himself.”
“No,” Pete said. “That’s only part of it. Don’t you get it? He didn’t plan on this girl. She took him by surprise. Why else wait so long between kills if he was actually on a spree?”
Aguilera’s nose scrunched up in judgment. He didn’t appreciate Pete’s dose of advice. Pete began to open his mouth to continue when he saw Harras approach.
“This is becoming a habit, Fernandez,” Harras said, not a sign of humor in his voice. He turned to Aguilera. “Where’d you find them?”
“Right around the corner,” he said.
“Care to explain?” Harras asked.
Pete and Kathy exchanged a look, her eyes shoving Pete forward into the spotlight.
“Well, we didn’t expect to find another dead body,” Pete said. “But we were up talking last night and comparing notes—”
“Notes?” Aguilera said.
“Yeah, notes,” Pete said. “You know, those little things you write down to help you remember? Or make you think? Those?”
Aguilera stepped forward. Harras put his open palm on the other agent’s chest to hold him back.
“Go on,” Harras said.
“Did you notice that office we walked by?” Pete said.
“Which one?” Harras said.
“The Realtor.”
“What of it?” Aguilera said.
“That’s where I saw Emily go,” Pete said, his voice cracking as he finished the sentence. “We argued. She’d told me she was back with her husband, but then I find her here of all places. Later that day, she’s kidnapped.”
Harras rubbed his chin and looked at Pete. “So you’re telling me this psycho’s been running an ad hoc realty operation from his job, and cherry-picking his victims that way?”
“Well, he could do the online trolling at home,” Kathy said. “And most of the legwork. But if he was looking to expand his base, why not pick some apples from another tree?”
“Let’s not forget he knows you’re on his ass,” Harras said. “If it’s all the same guy, he already tried to beat you away. Failing that, he blew up your house and car.”
“What are you saying?” Pete asked.
“That Emily was an opportunity,” Kathy said.
“An opportunity for what?”
“To teach you a lesson,” Harras said, his voice low and vacant.
***