Dream Man (29 page)

“In that case, I understand completely,” she said wryly.

“Smart-ass. Do you want to go or not?”

“Sure.” She had to admit to being curious about his house. She knew that it would be a mess while the renova-tion work was in progress, but houses were very personal things. Since she couldn’t read Dane psychically, she had to pick up clues about him any way she could.

The drive to Dane’s house took her mind off the uneasy feeling that had been her constant companion. Dismissing their quarrel for now, because there was nothing they could do about it, she prepared to enjoy prowling through his house.

Though it was late, almost seven, and long past the time when the workers would have gone home, there was another car in the driveway, and lights were on in the house. “Uh-oh,” Dane said. “Caught in the act. Trammell’s here.”

“You don’t have to stop,” Marlie pointed out.

He smiled. “And miss the fun?” Deftly he pulled in behind Trammell’s car. They had barely gotten out of the car when Trammell appeared in the doorway. “I told you to stay away,” he called.

“So arrest me. I’ve been good for four days. How long did you think it would last?”

“Three,” Trammell said, stepping aside to let them in.

A tall, slim woman came forward to greet them. “Grace,” Dane said, pleasure evident in his voice as he hugged her. “Marlie, this is Grace Roeg, a patrol officer with the city. Grace, Marlie Keen.”

“Hello,” Grace said in a slow, grave voice. Marlie swiftly evaluated her, and liked what she saw. There was something stately about Grace Roeg, and her deep brown eyes reflected the inner stillness of an unshakable serenity.

“Well, go ahead, look around,” Trammell said irritably.

Dane looked around at the empty room, all the while keeping his arm around Grace. “Where’s my stuff?”

“In storage,” Trammell growled, forcefully removing his arm from Grace’s shoulders. He glanced sharply at Marlie, as if instructing her to take Dane into custody and control him. She put an innocent look on her face, amused by watching the elegant Trammell descend to the primitive levels of jealousy. Grace said, “Don’t mind him. We’re getting married, and he’s still in shock.” She extended her left hand to show them an exquisite marquise diamond, about three carats worth.

“I am not.” Trammell turned a violent look on Dane. “Don’t start.”

Dane was grinning. “Start what? I’m glad for you. Con-gratulations, buddy. Grace is way too good for you. When are you going to do the deed?”

“About six months,” Grace answered comfortably. “I thought a nice, long engagement would give him time to get used to the idea. Things have happened pretty fast, so we don’t want to rush into anything and maybe make a mistake.”

“I don’t need time,” her intended said, looking haunted. “It was my idea, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was, darling,” she soothed, tucking her arm through his. “But it will take that long to plan the wedding. Now, why don’t you show Dane what you’re doing to his house?”

“Is it going to be a big wedding?” Marlie asked.

“Big enough,” Trammell said, and turned an evil smile on Dane. “You’ll have to wear a tuxedo.”

“I’m tough,” Dane replied, concealing his instant dread. “It might damage me, but it won’t kill me. For you, old buddy, anything.”

Trammell scowled, as if he had been hoping for more of a reaction, but turned and led the way through the empty rooms. Dane was frankly amazed at what had been accom-plished in just four days. His grandmother had loved wallpaper, and every room in the house had sported a different pattern. The wallpaper was gone now, and in its place was fresh stucco, painted a soothing, mellow white. All of the interior doorways had been reframed into arches.

“It would look better if the exterior doors and the windows were arches,” Trammell said, “but changing them would cost a lot more money than you want to spend. The floor refinishers start tomorrow.”

Dane skidded to a halt, gaping at the hull of what had been his bathroom. “You’ve gutted it,” he blurted.

“Yeah. I hadn’t planned to do it, but the plumbing was fifty years old. It’ll cost you probably another thousand.”

“Damn it, the next time you feel the urge to spend another thousand or so of my money, ask me first!”

“If I’d asked, you’d have said no,” Trammell replied calmly. “Wait until I’m finished, and you’ll agree that it was worth the money.”

“It had better be,” Dane muttered. He sensed Trammell’s amusement, and knew his partner was getting back at him for being so gleeful about the impending marriage. He didn’t mind, much. He was glad Trammell had found someone as wonderful as Grace, though he understood exactly his partner’s sense of panic, as if his life had suddenly rocketed out of control.

He had felt that way himself since meeting Marlie. Things had happened too fast. Trammell and Grace had decided to get married, then set the date far enough in the future to give themselves time to settle down and be certain of their feelings. Dane hadn’t mentioned marriage or even love to Marlie, preferring to give himself the time
before
the com-mitment. Maybe what he felt for her wouldn’t last. It sure felt permanent, but maybe it wasn’t; time would tell. In the meantime, they were together, and in the end that was really all that mattered. He woke up with her every morning and went to bed with her every night. As long as he had that, he could wait for the rest.

He wasn’t certain how Marlie felt, either. There was passion, liking, companionship… maybe love. Who could tell? She had been under considerable stress from the first. When everything was settled down, then they would be able to tell more about their relationship. For the first time he considered marriage a possibility, and that in itself was a huge step for him.

It would all have to wait, though. There was a killer to catch, a plan to put into action, and he had to protect Marlie while he did it. And if he had learned anything about Marlie in the time he had been with her, it was that she wasn’t going to like his plan worth a damn.

Lowery called first thing Monday morning, asking them to come over immediately. He had just returned from Quantico with the character profile.

The day was hot and clear and sticky, with the tempera-ture already in the mid-eighties, predicted to reach the high nineties, and the humidity there already. Dane hadn’t slept well the entire weekend, probably because Marlie hadn’t. She had been restless, able to doze for only short periods before jerking awake. The strain of the weekend, waiting for a vision of murder to appear, had left her pale and with-drawn, with dark circles of fatigue under her eyes. He had spent long hours cuddling her, letting her know that she wasn’t alone even if he couldn’t prevent the vision, if it came. It hadn’t. How much more of this could she take? She was under so much stress, both physically and emotionally, that he was afraid for her. A lot of people would have broken under the strain, years ago. She hadn’t, which was a testimony to her strength; Marlie wasn’t a delicate flower, wilting at any hardship. Despite the finely drawn lines of her too thin body, she was remarkably sturdy. But even an oak tree could be felled, and he was worried.

Trammell was showing strain, too, probably from terror of his impending nuptials. He and Dane barely spoke on the way over to the Bureau, each of them absorbed in his own worries. Freddie and Worley were already there, as was Bonness. DiLeonardo was present, with that besotted look on his face again as he maneuvered around the conference table for a seat next to Freddie. Lowery was freshly shaved but was more rumpled than usual, making Dane think that he had truly just arrived from Virginia, on the early-bird flight.

“The ISU really worked on this,” he said quietly. “You’re to be congratulated on noticing the pattern so quickly, but catching this guy isn’t going to be easy. He’s the worst kind of killer, the Bundy type. He’s as cold as ice; he’s intelligent, resourceful, and totally without a shred of guilt.

“I have a list of similar murders: slashings, no suspects, no evidence. It’s possible some of them were done by the same guy. Some of them are impossible, because they took place at roughly the same time on opposite sides of the country as some of the other murders, but there’s no way of telling which one to eliminate.

“The murders started approximately ten years ago. ISU puts his age in the early to mid-thirties. Most serial killers start killing in their early twenties. But ten years of success-ful killings means he’s going to be very hard to apprehend; he’s experienced, he has learned from his mistakes and perfected his crime. He knows what he’s doing. He has studied forensics and police procedure, and he’s very care-ful to leave no identifiable evidence behind.”

“Could he have been a cop?” Bonness asked. “Maybe in the military?”

“Not likely,” Lowery replied. “He wouldn’t deal well with authority of any type, so it isn’t feasible that he would have been able to complete any type of military or police training. He wouldn’t even have been accepted as a candidate.

“He’s white; all of the victims have been white, and serial killers seldom cross racial boundaries. He’s athletic, very strong. He’s an organized killer, very confident, and that’s the worst kind. An unorganized killer is messy, makes mistakes, has no clear plan. This guy has everything planned, down to the last detail. He doesn’t knock the victims out or tie them; he’s confident that he can control the situation, and so far, he has. The weapon he uses is a knife from the victim’s kitchen, which he leaves at the scene. Since there are no fingerprints, the weapon can’t be connected to him. He takes no trophies. ISU thinks he stalks the victims, possibly for weeks beforehand; he enters the house when no one is home, becomes familiar with it. He’s very patient.

“He rapes, but doesn’t use restraints, and that’s a slight aberration. Some women will fight even with a knife at their throat. For some reason, his victims haven’t.”

Because he soothes them, at first,
Dane thought violently. He made them think that they wouldn’t be hurt if they just didn’t fight. He was gentle, and he used a rubber. They were paralyzed by the unexpectedness of being attacked in their own homes, and in that first terror, they believed him. But those were details Marlie had given him, so he kept quiet.

“He doesn’t blindfold the victims,” Lowery continued, “doesn’t keep the corpses. Again, those are traits of the organized killer. It was surprising that he cut off Mrs. Vinick’s fingers, because mutilation isn’t one of the traits—”

“We think she scratched him,” Dane interrupted.

Lowery sighed. “If so, that’s even more evidence of his intelligence. He couldn’t risk his skin samples being found under her fingernails. A brutal but effective solution. He doesn’t panic. He thinks on his feet, and isn’t a slave to a rigid plan.

“He likely holds down a full-time job, is outwardly normal. The other murders were all done at roughly the same time for each area. In one area, the murders were committed in the daytime, meaning he was either unem-ployed or working nights somewhere. I suspect he was working, because there’s nothing about this man that would attract attention. He’s methodical, predatory, and has this down to a science. His car will be several years old, nothing flashy, the kind of car you would see hundreds of in any neighborhood. Middle-class all the way. He could walk into police headquarters and no one would think anything about it, except to ask how they could help him.

“There is the danger that he’s escalating. Until now, he has kept himself under control, spacing out the murders. Killing on two successive weekends could mean that he is beginning to need the thrill of the hunt more often. I know there haven’t been any slashing murders reported this weekend, but it’s possible the victim simply hasn’t been found.”

A quick look passed between Dane, Trammell, and Bonness. They knew there hadn’t been another murder, because Marlie hadn’t had a vision.

“Identification at this point is impossible,” Lowery said. “Unless he makes a mistake and leaves some evidence behind to link him to the crime, he’ll have to be caught in the act.”

It was a grim group that returned to headquarters, though Lowery hadn’t told them much that they hadn’t already known. The killer was a smart son of a bitch, and ordinarily they wouldn’t have had a prayer of catching him. Dane was silent, thinking of Marlie. She was their secret weapon; she would be the one who caught him.

It broke on the news that afternoon. Dane was surprised that the leak had taken that long; for something to remain a secret at city hall for a week was almost unheard-of, particularly something that dramatic. It was the headline story for all the local television and radio news; he caught it on the radio while he was driving home.

“A source in city hall has confirmed that police believe a serial killer is stalking women in the Orlando area,” the announcer intoned solemnly. The plummy voice continued, “Two recent murders appear to have been committed by the same man. Two weeks ago, Nadine Vinick was murdered in her home, and a week later Jacqueline Sheets was found murdered in
her
home. Chief of Police Rodger Champlin refuses to comment on the cases or say if they have any suspects. He does urge women in the city to take precautions for their safety—”

He snapped off the radio, infuriated by the knowledge that the killer was getting a real rush from this. He had expected the news to break, was prepared for it, but knowing that the bastard was laughing and soaking up all the attention was still hard to take.

Marlie was sitting curled on the couch when he got home. The television was on, though the news program had advanced to the weather portion. He tossed his jacket across a chair and sat down beside her, then lifted her onto his lap. They sat silently, watching the meteorologist point to this high-pressure system and that low one, make sweeping movements of his hand to indicate their projected move-ment, and finally make his prediction: hot and muggy, the way it had been all day, with the ever-present possibility of thunderstorms.

“Anything interesting happen today?” she asked.

“The local FBI gave us the character profile they had worked up; this guy has probably been moving around the country for the last ten years, leaving a string of victims behind, and nobody has a clue what he looks like, or a shred of evidence that connects to him.” He hugged her to him. “But we’re working on getting a list of new accounts from the utility companies. It’s a long shot, but it’s something.”