The crime scene unit arrived, two techs loaded down with equipment. Mrs. Wells looked from them to Jess.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Wells. These gentlemen are here to collect any evidence that might help us find Lori.” Jess tried to prop her lips into a passable smile. Didn’t work. “They’ll make a little mess, but I assure you it’s an important step in finding this awful man who barged into your home this morning.”
She hated to call this cruel killing machine a man. He was a monster. A sick, despicable monster who tortured and murdered women for pleasure.
A new rush of terror tied her gut into knots.
When the techs had set up their gear, Jess gave the other woman’s hand an encouraging squeeze. “You’re doing fine. Your help is vitally important to us, so please go on with what happened this morning.”
Mrs. Wells nodded. “Lori gave him her phone and gun and he made her leave with him. I. . . I. . .” She dropped her face in her hands and sobbed. “There was nothing I. . . could do.”
Jess put her arm around her trembling shoulders. “Lori knows there was nothing you could do. I promise you her top priority at that moment was yours and Terri’s safety. She’s a good detective, Mrs. Wells. She knows what to do in any situation. I want you to try and remember that.”
“Who is this man?” Mrs. Wells turned to Jess. “What does he want?”
“We can’t be sure just yet.” Sharing details of Spears’ merciless MO would serve no purpose at this time other than to terrify her even more. Sadly, odds were she had heard about the Player on the news and would eventually put two and two together but she wasn’t going to hear it from Jess. At least not now. Now it was all Mrs. Wells could do to handle the questions. “Can you tell me what he was wearing? Specifically.”
Mrs. Wells frowned. “A dark suit jacket. Black or navy.” She touched her throat. “A white shirt. And maybe jeans.”
“You didn’t have a chance to look outside and maybe see what he was driving?” Jess suspected the answer was no but it never hurt to ask. Maybe she had glanced out the window on the way to the door and noted a different car on the street and thought nothing of it. Often witnesses remembered additional details if enough specific questions were asked.
“I thought it was Lori at the door. I never even looked outside.”
“Mrs. Wells,” Jess figured this was all the relevant information the lady would be able to recall at this time, “do you need medical attention?”
“No. No.” She latched onto Jess’s hand. “I just need you to find my daughter.”
“I understand. One last question, ma’am.”
The older woman gazed expectantly at Jess.
“Was the man wearing gloves? Or anything in an attempt to camouflage or distort his face? Anything at all?”
“No mask, no sunglasses. Nothing like that.” She hesitated. “But he was wearing gloves. The latex kind like the doctors and nurses wear except they seemed thicker.” Realization dawned in her eyes. “Like my beautician wears when she colors my hair.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wells.” Jess pushed to her feet. “We may have additional questions for you later.”
Jess left Harper with the woman and went into the kitchen.
Burnett had gotten the same story from the daughter, Terri.
When Terri had returned to the living room to join her mother, and he and Jess were alone, Burnett asked, “Why would he let them see his face?”
Good question. With no good answer.
Until two months ago, Spears had been nothing more than a wealthy, reclusive businessman based in Richmond as far as the world around him had known. Then Jess’s investigation had drawn a line from him to at least six heinous murders committed by the serial killer dubbed the Player. This previously unknown subject, the Player, had eluded authorities for a minimum of five years. . . and his body count had risen to at least thirty. No matter that her investigation had fallen apart, Jess knew for a certainty – at least in her mind – that Spears was the Player. But she couldn’t prove it. There wasn’t a single piece of evidence tying him to so much as a parking ticket, much less a murder.
The Bureau had had no choice but to let him go. The ensuing media frenzy regarding the botched investigation had rendered a devastating blow to Jess’s career. Her superior had sentenced her to administrative leave until the dust settled. She had jumped at the first opportunity to get the hell out of Virginia. But she’d made a mistake in coming here, to her hometown of Birmingham.
He
had followed her.
Now suddenly he abducts a police detective and leaves two witnesses who can identify him as Eric Spears?
There was something very, very wrong with that picture.
The most probable scenario was that Spears was prepared for this to be his final game, in this country at least. Jess had brought scrutiny to his life and, to some degree, he would never escape the shadow of suspicion she’d cast. That new reality cramped his style. If this was his swan song, the game and whatever he deemed his goal were all that counted. He wouldn’t care who saw him. He was out of here anyway. But then, why wear gloves? That part didn’t add up.
Harper appeared at the door. “Ma’am, Mrs. Wells needs to speak with you.”
Jess and Burnett exchanged a look before moving into the living room. The techs were making a mess of Mrs. Wells’ tidy home. She and her daughter remained on the sofa, clinging desperately to each other.
Mrs. Wells looked up at Jess. “You’re
Agent
Harris?”
No need to explain that was likely only temporary. The Bureau would never allow her to resume her duties at Quantico even if she wanted to. At the very least, she would be shipped off to some low profile assignment where she couldn’t screw up anything important. “Yes, I’m Agent Harris.”
Mrs. Wells started to speak, then put her hand over her trembling lips for a moment as she composed herself. “Terri reminded me that he – that awful man – told us to give Agent Harris a message.”
Ice filled Jess’s veins. “What was the message, Mrs. Wells?”
She blinked rapidly to staunch the tears. “He said to tell Agent Harris that she knows what he wants.”
Jess nodded, let the words penetrate fully.
Spears was right.
She knew exactly what he wanted.
Second Avenue Flowers & Gifts, 12:15 p.m.
He opened the door.
A bell jingled overhead.
The smell that hit him reminded him of death. He hated that smell. Resurrected memories of his sad mother and his pathetic father. He should never have allowed them to live in misery so very long. They had been much happier once he’d planted them in the backyard.
He sighed. Their worthless bodies had served as splendid fertilizer. There wasn’t a single bloom in this shop more magnificent than those in a certain flowerbed in his backyard in sunny southern Cali.
Life was full of unexpected little gifts.
The two ladies behind the counter looked up, stared a second, then smiled.
His lips widened and he knew without the aid of a mirror that his eyes twinkled. Women loved his smile.
“Good morning, ladies.” He sauntered up to the counter. Their eyes clocked his every step. “Your shop is,” he looked around, infused approval into his expression, then leveled his attention on the two, “quite lovely.”
The older of the two giggled. “Thank you. May we help you with something this morning?”
Her cheeks flushed with pride. He liked watching a woman’s pale skin deepen with color. Even a woman as unattractive as this one.
She was short. Not that she could help that. Bad genes. Her middle bulged beneath her floral print apron from days of snacking between meals and nights of piling up on the sofa in front of the television and shoving more fat-laden calories into her too wide mouth. That was entirely her own selfish doing.
What a disgusting little pig she was and a sheer waste of air space. Perhaps she would make nice fertilizer, too.
“You certainly may.” He pointed to a large arrangement of fresh flowers. “I’ll take one like that.”
“Oh,” the other woman said, joining the banter, “this must be a very special occasion.”
He leaned on the counter and gifted her with another handsome smile. “Absolutely. For a very special lady.”
The younger woman laughed, the sound kind of sultry. She had an intriguing voice. All full of enthusiasm and southern twang. Unlike the short little pig next to her, she was tall and thin. Scarcely any breasts at all. More bad genes.
A woman without breasts was utterly useless. Who would want to play with such a stick?
“I’ll make you one fresh,” the pig offered eagerly. “Pink roses, oriental lilies, peonies, snapdragon and heather. I’ll even throw in some green hydrangea. That’ll add a special touch.”
“Is the clear glass hurricane vase like that one,” the stick pointed to the arrangement he’d indicated “all right for your lady?”
“It’s perfect.”
Stick smiled. She did have rather lush lips. . . too nice for such a plain, thin face. A few swipes of the properly sharpened blade and her mouth would be far more suited to her uninspired body. The image of her standing there, her mouth a round hole oozing blood. . . big fat drops falling right past her flat chest and splatting on the counter. . . teased him.
His cock swelled. But there wasn’t a single other trait visually interesting about her. . . certainly nothing to maintain a decent erection. Then again, with such a rich voice, her screams could very well prove titillating.
Not that he needed a distraction at the moment. He had an appointment already. Another little piggy. All plump and eager just like the one rushing to gather flowers for the arrangement.
“Why don’t you fill out this card and the envelope,” Stick suggested, pushing a small white envelope and generic card across the counter toward him. Then she offered a pen. “We can deliver.”
He made sure his fingers brushed hers. She blushed. “Thank you.” He glanced at the nametag pinned to her tragic chest. “Ellen. I’d love you to make the delivery for me.”
When the stick joined the pig in preparing his order, he slipped the business card from his pocket and placed it inside the envelope before addressing it. No need to worry about leaving behind fingerprints. No need at all. This was a public place with thousands of full and partial prints just laying around on every surface. Connecting this face with any of them, including the ones he left, would be impossible. That dead end would only make
her
more desperate.
He stared at the name.
Jess Harris.
His cock stirred again.
He had dreamed of touching her for weeks now.
Soon, he promised himself as his erection strained against the fly of his jeans.
Very soon.
Birmingham Police Department, 2:50 p.m.
Dan Burnett braced against the counter in the men’s restroom and stared at the face in the mirror. That man was a stranger to him. The outright fear in his eyes was not the norm. That same emotion twisting in his gut was way out of character.
He was the chief of police. Protecting the citizens of Birmingham was his job.
And he’d failed. He hadn’t even protected one of his own.
Now Detective Wells would pay the price. Not one victim was known to have survived this twisted son of a bitch.
He was sick about it, worried. . . and damned scared.
There were steps he should have taken as soon as he recognized that a suspected killer was believed to be in his jurisdiction. Now God only knew how many would suffer for his lack of foresight.
Jess was the expert on the Player, but Dan knew plenty and one thing was guaranteed, he wouldn’t stop with just one victim.
In the conference room, the deputy chiefs of every division in the department, Special Agent Todd Manning from the Birmingham Federal Bureau of Investigation, Jess, Harper, and the mayor, for Christ’s sake, all waited for him to lead the task force toward resolving this situation.
Waited for him to point the way to finding Detective Wells and capturing a demonically clever repeat killer that no law enforcement agency had been able to irrefutably identify much less nail.
Twenty years of police work, four as the chief of police, and he had never felt this unsure of himself.
Hell, he hadn’t caught his breath after finding Andrea and the other girls who’d been abducted by a far less capable evil. For three weeks the whole city and the surrounding communities had lived in terror while those five young women had been missing. There hadn’t been a single lead, not a scrap of evidence.
Truth was, he hadn’t found them. Jess had. Every cop working that case had been stumped until she kicked them all in the ass, grabbed them by the noses and led the task force in the right direction.
All five, including his former step-daughter, had been found alive because of Jess’s unrelenting determination and innate skill at looking beyond the routine.
He shook his head, kicked himself again for taking the easy way out. Andrea was still his step-daughter. Their relationship hadn’t changed just because the marriage to her mother had ended. On some level he had convinced himself that the connection to a victim was part of the reason he’d needed Jess’s help on that case. Or maybe somewhere deep inside he’d recognized that Jess had always been better at everything than him.
Instead of offering her the position of deputy chief over a new unit, he should have stepped aside and urged the powers that be to offer her his position.
Dan scrubbed a hand over his face and blew out a breath wrought with frustration and mounting uncertainty.
“What the hell are you doing?” Wells needed him and he was hiding in the men’s room feeling sorry for himself. Anger, mostly at himself, howled with the need to make this right. To rescue Wells and stop the Player when no else had been able to.
Squaring his shoulders, he straightened his tie. Time to stop wallowing in guilt and to do his job.
The Bureau had backed off to some degree until, they insisted, there was evidence this was, in fact, the Player – the deviant Jess felt certain was Eric Spears. As a courtesy an agent was on duty, along with a BPD uniform, with Jess’s sister. Manning was here for the strategy briefing or, more likely, to keep tabs on Jess’s involvement. That was the extent of the Bureau’s commitment for now.