Drop Dead Perfect (An Ellen Harper Psycho-Thriller) (17 page)

Perhaps the same creep who’d abducted the recent three had actually abducted a total of
thirteen, and the victims would soon all show up, sporting party dresses and snapped necks.

Reaching for his third cup of coffee, he
gulped. The spike in reported missing was most likely a result of the media and Chicago PD communications. It was consistent with heightened awareness—and that was a good thing—yet he knew deep in his bones there was another victim, maybe more, on this list. He’d know more when the black-and-whites started reporting in. He’d sent one to each home address and work location to find these women. He’d be updated the second the report was filed electronically. He needed that to be soon.

He spun a half turn in his chair and reached for the copies of the forensic reports he’d already gone over once. The science stats and graphs made some sense to him, but having Ellie looking at them, doing what she did, was his best bet.

Ellen. He focused only on her face, for the moment. It was impossible not to travel back in time to see the stages of her life dance into view and then pirouette away again, only to give in to the next image. The only consistency in any of those stages was her violet eyes and determination. Diapers, first day of school, middle school, and the awkwardness of puberty, then her high-school prom, college, the academy, her rise to the best CSI the department had ever known, then supervisor . . . and her ill-fated marriage to the asshole supreme, Joel Harper. Through it all, he’d been proud but hadn’t said so enough. Harv wrung his hands together. That wasn’t all. He hadn’t held her enough, hadn’t taken her to lunch, or let her skip school and gone to the zoo or the two of them to a Cubs game. He’d not been a part of those happenings kids remember doing with their dads. She’d understood the way her mother had. It went with the job. The problem now, for him, was trying to remember what had been so damn important. He knew the answer. He knew it well.

Sighing
, he glanced at the screen then flipped open another file, moving past his daydreams. He knew he couldn’t go back; besides, Ellie had turned out to be a strong woman. And he’d done his best when her divorce had started. Yet . . .

He shook his head. “Regrets? I’ve had a few,” he whispered.

There were only six hours left until the task force came back to share what they’d found, and he had much to do. The FBI would have a profile prepared based on what they’d discovered and what the evidence files had revealed. They were good at that. A little stiff, a little distant, but the Feds knew their shit. He hoped they knew it really well today.

Reaching for the bottom file, he pulled Oscar Malloy’s preliminary report and leafed through it again. He hadn’t made any connection with Oscar’s death and the deaths of the young ladies, yet. Something told him there was, however. It didn’t take a genius to see that someone didn’t want the evidence from the second murder to be compared to the first . . . or that his
department had made a mistake and missed something that might break this case wide open. He wasn’t buying the random-act theory, no matter what it looked like. Still, there was no way to be sure. That’s where Ellie and her team came in—and Bella Sanchez. Sanchez was a royal pain and not the brightest of stars, but she had a gift. She just might see something in the street video that no one else had. Maybe.
Damn.
He hated this hoping-against-hope junk.

The new, shiny phone on his desk rang.

“Patterson here.”

“We’ve updated the list sir
. We’re down to four that aren’t accounted for . . . wait, make that three,” said Sergeant Foster. “I’m also sending you the door-to-door reports to go along with the . . .
awww
,
shit
.”

Big Harv’s heart skipped a beat. “What is it, Foster?”

The sigh on the other end of the line served as a precursor for bad news.

“We’re down to one missing. She’s not at work
, she’s not at home, and her car’s been impounded for not paying the parking ramp. We’ve already checked the hospitals, and she’s not on any of their rosters. Her name is Rachel Dupree, and she fits the profile, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?” asked Big Harv, not sure whether it was his voice or someone else’s.

“She’s a severe type-one diabetic, and she can’t go long without her insulin,” said Foster quietly.

“Damn it. Get on this one, Foster. We won’t have much time.
Get out that damned APB.”

“Yes sir.”

The phone went dead. Harv’s heart skipped a beat again—but this time, he felt the proverbial elephant sitting on his chest. He reached into his pocket to grab his nitroglycerin pills, but the light was fading, and he couldn’t remember which pocket he’d put them it. He began sliding to the floor, feeling his knees buckle.

Somehow, through the pulsing spots dancing in front of his eyes, he found the pill bottle, but couldn’t remove the top. His hands weren’t working, his fingers numb.

Harvey Patterson slumped all of the way to the carpet, lying flat, blackness swirling around his head. The lack of blood flow commanded his arms to turn to pure lead.

Drawing from strength that he wasn’t sure was his
, he flicked the top off the bottle and slid two pills under his tongue just before the darkness ripped away at his next thought.

He wondered what Ellie would say when she found out he was hiding a bad ticker.

Big Harv didn’t have time to wonder again.

CHAPTER-30

“Where are you going and what the hell are you talking about?” asked Brice, chasing at Ellen’s heels.

She glanced back and kept jogging. “I’ll explain when we get back to my office. Just keep up.”

A minute later, Ellen sat in her leather office chair, brushed the hair from her face, and logged into her personal document file.

Glancing up as the file began to unfold, she heard Brice step into her office, alone.
Steve wasn’t with him. She frowned at that, but realized some of the tests she’d asked him to run had probably matured, and he was going to bring her the results. When the lab, and she, pushed things like this, it was a common occurrence; still, it would have been nice to get a little heads up that he had something else cooking.

The screen flashed pale yellow as seventy-two separate file
-folder icons exploded into six rows of twelve, danced around the edge of the monitor, forming the word “Queen.” After five seconds, the icons rearranged themselves again and lined up at the top of the screen in alphabetic order by case name. She stared, fighting the tears as her smile grew.

Oscar had programmed that little jig just for her and had surprised her one morning after they’d spent far too many hours tearing apart evidence bags and breaking down the chemical compositions of the material they had gathered to help solve a downtown murder. She’d run across a
substance that hadn’t belonged, and it led to the arrest of a gangbanger who’d hadn’t even been a true suspect. From that point, Oscar had called her the Queen of Forensic Techs and it had sort of stuck.

She wiped at her eyes. She missed him and would give anything to hear him tell her she was Queen one more time.

“You okay, Ellie?”

It was difficult not to notice the concern in
Brice’s voice. She went from melancholy to appreciative in seconds. It’d been a long time since she’d heard concern for her from a man whose name wasn’t Harvey Patterson, and it felt damn good.

Okay
, Ellen, get your crap together. Kiss the emotions goodbye for now.

“Yeah. Just a little reminder of Oscar popped up on the screen,” she answered
, then exhaled. “I’m good. By the way, did you see where Steve went?”

“All right. Good. He said something about a solution analysis and headed for the main lab. Do you need him?”

She waved her hand.

“No, not really. I need what he’s working on. It has more to do with Oscar’s scene than this one, but one thing could lead to another.”

“I know how that works. Now what is it that we need to see?”

“I had this case a couple of years ago, where a pissed
-off woman drugged her old man after she found out he cheated on her. She took him to one of the old warehouses in the Bridgeport District on the South Side.”

He nodded. “I know that area. Go on.”

“She tied him up, hooked him to an old pulley, and hung him there for two days. He could have gotten loose, but the way she ran the rope, he would have had to do serious damage to his manhood. So he stayed where he was until a squatter in another part of the building finally reported his delicate condition.”

“A woman scorned,” said Brice.

“True enough. Anyway, I processed that scene. She used the same type of nylon rope to tie up her husband, or close anyway, as this killer has used to bind Clara and Holly. The man’s wife had left the unused roll of rope in the warehouse, and it changed color because of the dust covering it . . . I thought. When I got back to the lab, I realized that the rope had actually changed color, not because of the dust, but because of the chemicals
in
the dust. The dust had a tiny concentration of bleach molecules that, once exposed to the dye and her husband’s sweat, had caused the rope to fade.”

It was
Brice’s turn to scowl. “So?”

“The rope faded, but so did his skin from being exposed to the dust. When he perspired, the dust collected on his arms and the rope at the same time. He had bruises right next to each other that were different shades of color. Just like the two women. My theory is that the degree and concentration of the actual perspiration caused the different degrees of discoloration.”

“Couldn’t that be just a different pressure level on the skin?”

“It could, and I didn’t go further in the analysis because we knew who the perp was. Still, ligature marks like these are surprisingly similar, given identical conditions. I couldn’t swear without proper time to process the information, but I think these women might have been in that same warehouse, or one like it.”

“So Ellie, is this an educated guess that a good detective would make?” His eyes were alive . . . and he was right.

“Yes. I can’t prove it, but I believe it.”

Standing straight up, Brice motioned to her.

“I need the address of that warehouse.”

“I’m printing it for you now. But there must be fifteen or twenty buildings in that area that could have this kind of chemical in the dust. You’ll need to be care—” She caught herself. The man knew a few things about what came next.

“Sorry. This ain’t your first rodeo.”

“No problem, and
that
is awesome work,” said Brice, pointing to her computer, but his eyes were glued to her face.

He
stepped to her, hesitated, bent over, and kissed her. His lips were warm. God knew how long it had been since someone had kissed her and meant it like that. And the tingle . . . no, the sizzle. Was she on fire? Okay. It was on the cheek, but thirsty people get a drink whenever they can.

“Ahh . . . what was that for?” she asked, still a bit dazed.

“You’re incredible. This might save lives. And . . . well, it’s way better than kissing Steve,” he said, grinning.

“I’m . . . well, thanks, I think.”

He turned, snatched the sheet of paper from her printer, and rushed toward the door, cell phone in hand. Then he stopped, gazing back at her. Was there a trace of red in his cheeks? She must have looked like a fire hydrant herself: a happy one.

“You coming? We could use you out there.”

The thought of going into the field with him—and who knew? Maybe another well-aimed kiss—was an intoxicating thought. And of course, the possibility of cracking this case added to the lure. She shook off the temptation.

“I’m flattered, but I’m the lab rat, and you’re the field cop, remember?”

“True, but you could be a hell of a detective.”

A warm, fuzzy feeling ran through her insides
and down to her toes. The man had no idea what these compliments did to her. But then again, maybe the kiss said he did.

“You need to get your ass out there and do what you do. I’ll stay here and do the same. I’ve still got tons of tests to finish on what evidence we do have. Not to mention . . . well, Oscar’s family will want an update as soon as I can give them one.”

“All right.”

“And Brice. For God’s sake, be careful.”

She meant it. She wanted to spend more time with him.
Wanting to
was a start.

He smiled and nodded again. Then he was gone.

She leaned back against the chair, releasing a long breath. Kiss or no kiss, they had to find Joannie Carman and Rachel Dupree, and maybe more women that simply weren’t reported missing as of yet. The smile left her face as she focused on the palms of her hands. She hoped she had made the right call. She hoped that the Chicago Police Department had gotten a break and that she hadn’t sent her teammates on a wild goose chase. Except, deep down inside, she knew she was right. Clara Rice and Holly Seabrook had been in one of those warehouses. Maybe the cops would get lucky for a change—because luck was still a factor. In everything.

“Speaking of luck,” she whispered as she reached into her desk and pulled out the cell phones from the first two victims. She still hadn’t had time to go over each phone with the fine-tooth comb that was her forte.

Pulling the universal charger with multiple outlets from her desk, she plugged it into the USB port on her computer, snapped on synthetic gloves, and then carefully removed both phones from the evidence bags. A moment later, she had accessed the memory chip holding several files. She clicked on the one marked “photos” and watched panels of pictures fill her screen.

Painstakingly, she went over each shot, noting the date and time as well as the details of each background and all of the subtleties a photo can reveal, if one knows what to look for. The first group of images held no
apparent value to the investigation. They were pictures of friends, family, a dog, even a few of Chicago’s skyline, but not much more.

Ellen kept going. Each new photo gave her a hope of finding something that could be used. A new set of photos graced her monitor just as her own cell phone vibrated, telling her she had a text. It buzzed again, and she reluctantly pulled it from the front pocket of her jeans. The message was from Bella Sanchez.

“Hey, wench. We got something on the video. Get your white-girl ass down here.”

For the second time in twenty minutes, she jumped out of her chair and rushed through the door, taking a quick glance at the screen as she did. She took two more steps toward the door and stopped, frowning. One of the photos
on her monitor snagged her attention. She moved back to her desk and leaned over to get a better look at the lower-left image.

There was a partial of what looked like a man’s hand pressing against the lens, mostly two fingers, including one showing a vague outline of a wedding band. Her heart raced as she printed the photo on the LaserJet color printer before continuing her mad dash out the door toward the room where
Sanchez was stationed.

But she had one stop to make first.

She prayed her idea would work.

CHAPTER-31

Kyle Black could only stare.

He’d been on his way to the other room, the more secluded area, the one that hid what he wanted no one else to see, not even his feeble-minded brother, when he’d taken one last look back.

Rachel Dupree awaited him in that private of privates, and he was never one to keep a woman waiting, particularly a woman as beautiful as she. This woman was even more special than the others. Clara had been gorgeous and Holly had been beautiful, each in her own way. Yet, in the end, they hadn’t worked out for him or Damon. Neither had brought into their lives what could have been. His brother had seen to that and had forced Kyle’s hand in so many ways. He hadn’t really wanted to kill them, but it had to be done. He knew about what was necessary, what needed tending. He excelled at that.

After each incident, Kyle had warned about how his brother’s behavior might affect the next woman, the next potential wife. He’d thought that he was getting through to him, making him understand—
honesty was not the best policy
. He knew that Damon still wasn’t completely buying into the program. Damon wanted the woman to be honest, to be upfront.

Idiot.

Joannie Carmen was the best candidate so far. She was stunning and bright, and physically, the others had been no match for her curves. All that he and his brother had to do was wait for that critical moment, the one that would tell them she was, or was not, the one. He’d had high hopes, but all of those expectations cascaded into oblivion because of the impatience and impulsive act he’d just witnessed from Damon—again.

Stepping back into the room, he moved quickly to Joannie Carmen’s side and clamped his hand over her mouth.

Joannie had stopped screaming, yet her eyes were still fixed on his brother’s face.

She jumped virtually out of her skin when Kyle touched her. She glanced his way, eyes wide with fear and confusion, turned her head, then again began the uncontrollable staring aimed at his brother’s face. She seemed to be mesmerized at the sight. That or paralyzed by a real sense of horror. Still, he would have thought an ER nurse more able to
check her emotions.

His brother stood motionless, his head turned at a slight angle as if he were modeling for some magazine shoot.
Except Kyle couldn’t think of a magazine on the planet that would feature Damon, unless it had to do with the rare, the unusual, and the freakish that today's society seemed to be infatuated with these days.

Grabbing the gag from the back of the chair, he quickly placed it back around Joannie’s mouth and moved toward his brother.

“I told you to wait until the time was right. You said you would, that you trusted my judgment. What were you thinking, brother?” asked Kyle, trying to keep his infamous anger in check. But even he had his limits.

“I . . . I just thought she’d get it. That she’d understand . . .” he whispered.

“I told you not to think. To only listen to me. I know what I’m doing. Now you’ve put us into a familiar situation and I’ve got to clean up your damned mess again.”

“I’m sorry, Kyle. I didn’t mean to displease you. I only wanted her to be the one. More than the others.”

“I know you did, and maybe it would’ve worked that way, but we’ll never know, will we?”

It was becoming impossible to
get a grip on his true thoughts. He was angry at his foolish brother, yes, but there was something else wasn’t there? That desire, that indescribable need to wield the most powerful weapon known to humankind: the power over life and death. To hold someone’s greatest gift in his hand, touch it, tease it, and then take it away at his discretion.

At first, he’d used his brother’s moronic actions as excuses to kill the others, but that line was now blurred, and in the end, what did it matter? He could do whatever he wanted. Who could stop him?

Kyle reached up and ran his hand along his brother’s deformed, ravaged face. The fire had been thorough. Fourth-degree burns had destroyed Damon’s nose, ears, and even parts of his mouth. Surgery had helped some, but his brother’s face looked more like something from a terrible horror movie than something in real life. He’d grown used to it over the last twenty years. Everyone else had shared Joannie’s reaction when encountering the real Damon.

“Sorry, brother. We’ll try again,” he apologized, not meaning a word. He only wanted to get to the next step and set Joannie Carmen free, his way. “I’ve already selected your next candidate. The best so far.”

His brother hesitated, then slowly nodded, gazing at the woman in the chair. “If you say so, Kyle.”

“I do, little brother. I do.”

Kyle turned to face Joannie. “I’m going to take off the gag, if you’ll promise to keep it together. Okay?”

She nodded.

He thought he saw a flicker of fear, then it was gone. She’d regained her composure. Good. That only made it better when the time came.

Removing the cloth, he held it in his hand, watching her.