Laurant removed her own watch and slipped on the new one. She’d left her purse in the car and didn’t have any pockets, so she handed it to Nick, and he tucked it in the pocket of his shirt.
Wesson hung up the phone. He nodded to Laurant as Nick introduced her, but he didn’t waste any time on pleasantries. “I’m ready for him,” he announced briskly. “But I don’t like surprises. You don’t leave Holy Oaks without getting my permission first. Understand?”
“Yes,” she replied.
Wesson finally got around to acknowledging Nick. The commander was establishing a pecking order, letting Nick and Laurant know he was the man in charge. Even in a crisis, games were still played. What bullshit, Nick thought. He knew Wesson considered him competition, and no amount of talking would ever convince him that Nick wasn’t interested in fast tracking his way to the top.
Personally, Nick didn’t like Wesson one little bit, but he was stuck working with him, and he would make the best of the situation. Wesson had an ego the size of Iowa, but as long as he didn’t let it get in the way of the operation, Nick thought they’d get along just fine.
“Morganstern wants you to call him,” Wesson said.
“They get anything on the phone call?”
Feinberg answered. “They were able to lock in on the call the unsub made to the rectory. The phone was owned by a woman named Tiffany Tyler, and the call was made just outside of St. Louis.”
Feinberg stepped forward. “The highway patrol found her car parked on the shoulder of I-70. The left back tire was flat, and there wasn’t a spare in the trunk. We think that she willingly got into the unsub’s vehicle, but that’s just an assumption. We also think he never touched her car, but even so, our techs went over it from top to bottom, inside and out. It’s an old Chevy Caprice, and it was loaded with prints. They’re running them now.”
“We don’t believe any of the prints belong to our unsub.” Wesson directed his explanation at Laurant. “He’s careful, real careful.”
Feinberg nodded. “And methodical,” he added as he removed his glasses and began to clean them with his handkerchief. “There wasn’t a single smudge or half print on that tape or that envelope he left with the police.”
“We want you to start irritating him,” Wesson said. “Hopefully, he’ll lose control and mess up, and we’ll get a lucky break.”
“Tiffany’s the woman I heard screaming over the phone, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is,” Wesson answered. “He used her phone to call you.”
“Have you found her yet?”
“No.” The answer was clipped, his lips pinched. He acted as though she had just criticized him personally.
“Maybe she’s still alive. Do you think—”
“Of course not,” Wesson impatiently cut her off. “She’s dead, no doubt about it.”
His cold attitude rattled her. “But why would he pick her up in the first place? If he’s so careful and if he does study his clients before he takes them on like he bragged, then why would he do such a spontaneous thing?”
Feinberg answered her. “We’re pretty certain he killed her to get our attention. He wants us to know he’s the real thing.”
Nick took hold of her hand. “And Tiffany was . . . convenient. She was helpless and his for the taking.”
Feinberg put his glasses back on, adjusted the rims around his ears, and said, “I forgot to mention that Farley and I went through your mail. It’s piled up on the table by your front door.”
Laurant took the invasion of privacy in stride. Although it hadn’t occurred to her that the FBI would be opening her mail, the fact that they had didn’t bother her. They were simply being thorough, and that was something she appreciated.
Wesson took a step closer to Nick and said, “Just so you understand. You’re here solely as Laurant’s bodyguard. Your job is to protect her every minute.”
Wesson’s tone had been antagonistic. Nick’s was mild in comparison. “I know what my job is.”
“And the plan is to enrage the unsub, so both of you have got to put on a show everyone in town will believe.”
Nick nodded. Wesson wasn’t quite finished putting Nick in his place. “My team will do the real work and catch this creep.”
“The real work?” Nick repeated sarcastically. “We’re working this together, like it or not.”
“You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Morganstern,” Wesson pointed out.
“Yeah, well, I am here, and you’re going to have to deal with it.”
The mood had turned hostile. They were like bulls getting ready to butt heads. Laurant squeezed Nick’s hand. “We should get going, don’t you think?”
Nick didn’t say another word. The phone rang just as he was opening the door to leave with Laurant. He turned back when he heard Wesson exclaim, “Hot damn.”
Nick waited until he’d finished the conversation, then asked, “Hot damn what?”
Wesson smiled smugly. “We’ve got a crime scene.”
W
esson was a prick. He was also crass, obnoxious, rude, and arrogant, and his people skills sucked. Worse, he lacked compassion. The agent’s response to hearing that a farmer had stumbled upon the mutilated body of eighteen-year-old Tiffany Tara Tyler had been grossly inappropriate. Wesson had been downright jubilant. Shouting with glee, the man had all but broken out in song, and what made his unbridled enthusiasm all the more obscene was that Laurant, a civilian, was there watching him.
Nick wanted to get her out of the cabin before she saw or heard anything more, and deal with Wesson later, but when he took hold of Laurant’s arm to lead her outside, she pulled away. What she did next not only surprised him, but raised his admiration a notch.
She made Wesson squirm. She got right in his face so he couldn’t ignore her, and then she gave him hell. She reminded him that a young girl had been murdered, and if he couldn’t feel any remorse or pity for poor Tiffany, then perhaps he should consider another line of work.
When Wesson began to argue, Nick took over, but his language was much cruder than hers.
“That’s going in my report,” Wesson threatened.
“See that it does,” Nick countered.
Wesson decided to end the conversation. He resented that an outsider would offer an opinion about his behavior, and he wasn’t about to waste any of his valuable time trying to placate her. That fell under Nick’s job description.
“Just do what I tell you to do, and we’ll catch him,” he said.
She didn’t back down. “And keep my opinions to myself?”
He didn’t see any need to answer. Turning back to the computer, he ignored her.
Laurant swung around. “Nick, may I use your phone?” He handed it to her. “What’s Dr. Morganstern’s private number?”
Wesson did a one-eighty in the swivel office chair and sprang to his feet. “If you have any problems, you bring them to me.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, I don’t think so.”
Wesson looked at Nick for help in dealing with the difficult woman. Nick simply stared back at him as he rattled off Morganstern’s phone number. “Just hit thirty-two. It will speed dial the number for you.”
“Look, ma’am, I know I sounded . . .”
She paused in dialing. “Callous, Mr. Wesson. You sounded cold-hearted, cruel, and callous.”
Wesson tightened his jaw and narrowed his eyes at her. “It doesn’t do any of us any good to get personally involved. We’re trying to catch this pervert so that there won’t be any more dead bodies.”
“Her name was Tiffany,” Nick reminded.
“I’d like you to say her name,” Laurant told him.
Shaking his head resignedly, as though he’d say or do anything just to get her off his back, he said, “Tiffany. Her name was Tiffany Tara Tyler.”
She handed the phone back to Nick and marched out of the cabin. She was inside the car before Nick could open the door for her.
“What an obnoxious man,” she said.
“Yes, he is,” he agreed. “You made him sweat, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
“I don’t understand why Pete would put someone like him in charge.”
“He didn’t. Pete is consulting on this case. O’Leary’s the one in charge, and Wesson works under him.”
Nick headed the car back toward town. The sun was just beginning to disappear behind the trees, creating a luminous glow on the lake’s surface.
Laurant’s thoughts were on Tiffany. “Wesson actually cheered when he heard about that poor girl.”
Nick felt compelled to set the record straight. “No, he didn’t cheer because a woman was murdered. He was excited because we now have a crime scene, and hopefully, that’s going to change things. I’m not excusing Wesson’s behavior,” he added. “I’m just trying to explain it. He’s supposed to be a good agent. I’ve only worked with him once in the past, but that was a long time ago, and we were both new and inexperienced. Pete says he’s good. But Wesson’s going to have to prove it to me.”
“You said that now that you have a crime scene, things will change. How?”
“Every killer leaves what the profilers call his personal signature at his crime scene. It’s an expression of his sick and violent fantasies, and it will tell us a lot about him.”
“He’s careful, you said so yourself. What if there aren’t any clues at the crime scene?”
“There will be,” he assured her. “Whenever one person comes into contact with another, he leaves something behind, no matter how careful he is. A hair follicle, a scale of skin, a bit of a fingernail, tread marks from the bottom of his shoes, or maybe a thread from his pants or shirt . . . there’s always something left behind. The trick won’t be finding the evidence. It’s the analyzing what they find that’s more difficult. It will take time and care. And while the criminologists are doing their job, the photos of the scene will be sent to the profiler and he’ll tell us what fantasies the unsub’s acting out.”
He glanced over at her before continuing. “A killer’s signature,” he explained, “is his psychological calling card. He can change the methods he uses and the where and the when and the how, but he never changes his signature.”
“You mean there’s always a pattern.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Like the marks on the body or the way the body is positioned. The profiler looks at that and figures out what the killer is really after. I can already tell you that, with this man, it’s all about control.”
Nick stopped the car at the corner of Oak and Main. A young woman pushing a baby stroller crossed the street in front of them. She paused to give Nick the once-over and to wave at Laurant before continuing on.
“My house is on the next block, second from the corner. But I don’t want to go there. I wish we could just check into a motel.”
“You’ve got to go home and act like nothing’s wrong, remember?”
“I know, but I still don’t want to,” she said. “I don’t ever want to go back into that house again.”
“I can understand that.”
They drove down the street, which was lined with trees older than any of the residents. The light of dusk, filtered by low branches, dappled the yards, but heavy storm clouds were just beginning to loom up on the horizon. Laurant saw her house and remembered how charming she’d thought it was the first time she’d driven up to it. It was old and worn, and she loved it. After she had moved in, the first thing she did was purchase a porch swing at the garden shop. Every morning she’d take her cup of tea and sit on the swing while she read the paper. In the evenings, she’d chat with the neighbors tending their yards.
The tranquility she’d felt, the sense of belonging, was gone now, and she didn’t know if she would ever get it back.
“Is the camera still there, or did they take it away?” she asked.
“It’s still there.”
“Is it on?”
“Yes. We don’t want him to know we found it.”
“Then he didn’t see the agents when they went into my bedroom?”
“No, they found it in the hall closet,” he reminded her. “They kept out of the camera’s eye.”
He pulled into the driveway and turned the motor off. She was staring at the house when she asked, “Where would he get something like that? Do they sell transmitters in the stores?”
Before he could answer her, she blurted, “Every time I go into the bedroom, he could be watching.”
He put his hand on her knee. “We want him to be watching. This is a great opportunity to push him. You and I are going to be getting hot and heavy in front of the camera.”
“Yes, I know what the plan is.”
She wasn’t getting cold feet, but she could feel her resolve slipping away. Her life had turned into one of those surreal movies where nothing was as it appeared, where everything that looked benign and innocent was only a mask hiding something sinister. Her charming little house looked inviting, but
he
had been inside, and there was a camera focused on her bed.
“Are you ready to go in?”
Her nod was brisk.
Nick could see her anxiety and decided to try to take her mind off the moment. As he opened his door, he said, “Holy Oaks is a pretty town, but I’d still go crazy living here. Where’s the traffic? Where’s the noise?”
She knew what he was doing. He was helping her cope. He could tell when she was getting overloaded, she realized, and that was when he lightened the conversation.
She opened her door and got out. “You like traffic and noise?”
“It’s what I’m used to,” he replied. They were looking at each other over the top of the car. “You don’t get a lot of road rage here, do you?”
“Sure we do. When the sheriff’s son, Lonnie, goes joyriding with his friends, a lot of people would love to ram his car into a gully. He’s a menace, and his father isn’t going to do anything about it.”
“The local thug, huh?”
“Yes.”
She reached back into the car to get her purse while Nick surveyed the neighborhood. There was a big oak in the front yard, almost identical in size to the oak in the neighbor’s yard on the corner. On the other side of the white, two-story house was an empty lot. At the end of the long drive was an unattached garage, which meant that when she put her car away, she had to walk to the back door. The two houses were close together, and there were trees and overgrown shrubs all along the sides—too many places for a man to hide. He also noticed there weren’t any outside lights on the house or the garage.
“A burglar’s paradise,” he remarked. “Too many concealed areas.”
“I’ve got a porch light.”
“That’s not enough.”
“There are a lot of people here who don’t ever lock their doors, even when they go to bed at night. It’s a small town and everyone feels safe.”
“Yeah, well, you’re locking your doors.”
“Yoo-hoo, Laurant. You’re home.”
Nick turned as a white-haired old lady wearing a bright purple dress with a wide lace collar opened her screen door and stepped out onto her porch. She was clutching a white lace handkerchief in her hand. She appeared to be around eighty years old and was as thin as a lightning rod.
“We had some excitement while you were away.”
“You did?” Laurant called back. She went to her neighbor’s picket fence and waited to hear what happened.
“Don’t make me shout, dear,” Bessie Jean gently chided. “Come over here and bring that young man with you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She wants to know who you are,” she whispered.
Nick grabbed Laurant’s hand and whispered back, “Show time.”
“Lovey-dovey stuff ?”
“You got that right, babe.” And with that, he leaned down and lightly kissed her.
Bessie Jean Vanderman stood on her porch, taking it all in. Her eyes were as wide as saucers as she watched the smiling couple.
The picket fence ran the perimeter of the front yard. Nick let go of Laurant’s hand to open the gate. As he followed her down the cement walk and up the stairs to the porch, he noticed another elderly woman peeking out at him through the screen. It was dark inside the house and the woman’s face was cast in shadows.
“What was the excitement?” Laurant asked.
“A hooligan broke into your house.” Bessie Jean lowered her voice, as if sharing a confidence, and leaned toward Laurant. “I called the sheriff and demanded that he come right over and investigate. I don’t believe there were any arrests made. The sheriff left the hooligan inside and went running to his car. That was certainly a sight to see. He didn’t have the good manners to come and tell me what was happening. You’d best see if anything’s missing.” She straightened up and backed away to get a full view of Nick. “Now who is this handsome man standing so close to you? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him in Holy Oaks before.”
Laurant quickly made the introductions, but Bessie Jean Vanderman took her time sizing him up. This one doesn’t miss a thing, he thought, spotting the shrewdness in her clear green eyes.
“And what is it you do, Mr. Buchanan?”
“I’m with the FBI, ma’am.”
Bessie Jean’s hand flew to her throat. She appeared startled for about two seconds, then recovered. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I’d like to see your badge, young man.”
Nick produced his identification and handed it to her. She gave the badge only a cursory glance before handing it back.
“You took your sweet time.”
“Excuse me?”
The criticism was there in her brisk tone when she responded, “Sister and I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Nick didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about, and he could tell from Laurant’s puzzled expression that she didn’t have a clue either.
Bessie Jean pulled the screen door open. “I don’t see any reason to waste any more time. Come on inside and you can get started investigating.”
“What exactly is it that you want me to investigate?” he asked as he followed Laurant.
Bessie Jean’s sister was waiting for them. Laurant again made the introductions. Viola took off her glasses and tucked them in the pocket of her apron as she came forward to shake his hand. She was shorter, rounder, and a much softer version of her sister.