Web of Secrets (Agents Under Fire) (5 page)

“Not necessarily,” Becca said. “She may not have been reported as missing. Foster kids run away all the time. Some are reported. Some aren’t.”

Marcie’s eyes widened. “How can that happen?”

“Most foster parents are on the up and up, but some are only in it for the money. If they don’t report when a kid takes off, the checks keep coming, and it’s one less mouth to feed.”

Marcie grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”

“Unfortunately, it’s reality. Still, it gives us a place to start.” Connor frowned. “Do you have a cause of death?”

“I can’t be sure until I do the autopsy, but I’d venture to say from the ligature mark around her neck that she was strangled.”

Strangled.
Van Gogh’s MO.

Becca moved toward the body for a better look. As she stared down at the girl, Molly’s face kept replacing Jane Doe’s, and Becca had to back away.

“So is this a copycat or Van Gogh?” Connor asked, through clenched teeth.

That’s what Becca was hoping to check. One detail had never been leaked to the press or to anyone outside the investigation, but Becca couldn’t bring herself to raise the girl’s knee-length gown to find out. And she couldn’t tell the others without explaining how she knew about it. She could make up a story, she supposed, but she wouldn’t. She was many things, but she wasn’t a liar. Still, she couldn’t keep this to herself. They needed to know if Van Gogh truly was back.
She
needed to know.

She opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat.

Connor stepped up to her and searched her face, kindness lingering in his eyes. “I knew you’d react this way once you saw the body.” There was no accusation in his voice, no “I told you so,” just sadness at their situation. “Just tell me what you know about the killer and take off. Okay?”

“I . . . it’s . . .” She wanted to tell him everything about that night. Tell him her real name was Lauren. Even more, she wanted to confess her guilt. To admit aloud to saving her own neck and leaving Molly to be butchered by this madman. Her ears in his collection, preserved in mason jars.

Becca imagined Connor’s reaction if he found out. Would he still ask for her help if he knew she’d nearly been victim number five? That she bore physical scars from her run-in with Van Gogh? And what if he learned she’d left Molly behind? What would he think of her then?

Bile rose up Becca’s throat, and she swallowed hard.

“Becca?” Connor asked. “Is there anything you can tell us to help?”

She jerked her gaze to Marcie. “Check her stomach, Marcie. To the right of her navel.”

“What am I looking for?” Marcie asked.

Becca wasn’t going to tell them about the number. About Van Gogh’s great joy as he carved a number into each girl’s skin, branding them, claiming them as his. Not unless she absolutely had to. “Just look and describe what you see.”

Marcie adjusted the victim’s clothing. Becca’s hand went to her own stomach. She’d had the number five removed, but the feel of it was burned into her soul. Seeing him etch the number four on Molly’s stomach, a close second.

Marcie looked up. “That sick, depraved creep. He carved a number into her skin.”

“This is no copycat.” Becca managed to force the words up her parched throat.

“How do you know?” Connor asked.

“Van Gogh engraved a number on his victims’ abdomens.”

“A copycat could do the same thing.”

She shook her head. “This information was never released to the public. No one else could know.”

“Then how do you know about it?”

“I can’t reveal my source at this time.” She waited for him to push for the truth.

“And you’re sure your source is reliable?”

She pressed her hand against her waist again. “Positive.”

“So this is the work of Van Gogh, then.” Connor sounded resigned to the horrific confirmation. “What’s the number, Marcie?”

Marcie looked up, her face contorted with disgust. “Nine. This psychopath has killed nine defenseless girls.”

Becca knew that wasn’t true. Her body had been number five, so the max count could only be eight. And Becca still hoped that Molly was alive and the count was really seven. Still, even one girl losing her life this way was a horrific thought to ponder.

Chapter Six

TAYLOR SHOULDN’T be doing this. She’d only been an agent here in Portland for like a minute before she’d realized she had her work cut out for her. If she wanted to make it, she was not only going to have to measure up, but she’d have to find a way to stand out against the talent and expertise on the Cyber Action Team. Three strong women. Strong agents. Yet real and personable. And hard to shine around. So today, Taylor was taking charge, even if it ended badly.

She tucked the folder under her arm and entered the Multnomah County Detention Center. Taylor had honestly been shocked that the county jail was located in the middle of downtown Portland. How many people who strolled down Third Street realized a maximum security facility sat behind the building’s pristine architecture?

It took her only a few minutes to register and be escorted to a small square box of a room painted in a dingy gray, holding one table and two bench seats bolted to the floor. Her sweaty palms reflected her lack of personal experience in jailhouse interview rooms. She chose the seat facing the door and opened the folder to review Danny’s statement, along with the photos Becca had received from Connor.

When Danny was escorted into the room, he dropped onto the bench with a sigh and eyed her. “So, what? They think they can send a pretty agent in here, and I’m going to talk? You may be cute, but I’m not saying a word.”

It sure wasn’t what Taylor had expected the kid to say. Of course, she’d never done an actual interview, either. Although she’d spent hours role-playing with her fellow classmates at Quantico, she had no real-world experience, so she shouldn’t have any preconceived idea of what he might say. Still, he surprised her. She
did
know she couldn’t let him think she was just another pretty face, or he’d walk all over her. That much she’d learned from shadowing Becca and watching Nina and Kait in action.

“It’s my training and experience that you should really be watching out for,” she replied, eyeing Danny until he squirmed.

Good.
Now that she’d set the tone to her liking, she took out a microcassette recorder. She turned it on and recorded the date, time, location, and the names of the parties in the room. She set it on the table and sat back, doing her very best to look confident.

“So, Danny . . .” She paused and drew out the silence. “Tell me how you happened to be in an apartment for which you don’t hold the lease. An apartment filled with stolen merchandise and credit cards.”

He shrugged. “I was just hanging with my buddy who lives there.”

“Okay, let’s assume there was a buddy there before we arrived. He have a name?”

“Puh-lease.” Danny snorted. “If I won’t give up my name, why would I give his up?”

“Then we’re talking about a guy. Thanks for narrowing it down.” She allowed herself a satisfied smile.

“You already got that from the lease, so don’t make it look like I’ve told you something new.”

“See here’s the thing, Danny.” She leaned closer. “People lie on leases all the time. So we don’t usually believe them until they’ve been confirmed. Which you just did.”

“Big deal.” He crossed his arms. “I didn’t give up his name, though.”

“If this friend is like you and has done nothing wrong, why not tell us his name?”

“You cops are all the same.” He fired an angry look her way. “You won’t believe a thing any of us say. I’ve seen it. Plenty of times on the streets.”

She looked at his fingernails, saw the ground-in dirt in his skin and under his nails, the ragged nail edges, the rough, worn skin. “Are you living on the streets then, Danny?”

“Maybe,” he said.

“I’m guessing you to be about sixteen, seventeen. Maybe you’re a kid who didn’t get along with your parents, so you took off. Only, living on the streets isn’t all that easy. You could have been recruited by an ID theft ring. And maybe you even want to get out of it, but don’t know how.”

She studied him in silence for a moment, then added, “Since we found the gun in the room with you, you’ll likely be charged with murder.” She threw the last bit in, even though she didn’t have a clue if the ballistics report matched.

He didn’t speak, but his defensive posture had lessened.

“I can help you, Danny. This can end now. Give me your ringleader’s name—the man who signed the lease—and I’ll make sure the DA goes easy on you. If you’re a first-time offender, there’s a chance you’ll be able to walk away from this.” His expression softened more. “Go home. Start over again.”

He tightened his arms and defiance returned to his eyes. “I’m not saying it again. No information.”

She might be new to interviewing, but she could read people. The kid wanted to talk, and he wanted to get away from here. But he didn’t want to go home. That was clear. She made a mental note to search for reported runaways, and since about a third of Portland street kids were, or had been, in the foster care system, she’d also check in with the Department of Human Services for missing kids. For now, she’d see if she could get a reaction from him on the other teens in the photos.

“Do you hang with any of these people?” She started flipping over Connor’s surveillance pictures, one by one, watching his face for a reaction. When she came to a cute girl’s picture, he visibly stiffened.

This girl meant something to him. She wasn’t old enough to be the ringleader, but maybe she was a friend, or even a girlfriend. Either way, Taylor wasn’t going to mention it and let him know she was on to the girl.

Taylor finished flashing the pictures without another reaction from Danny. She really had nothing else to ask the kid, and had basically struck out. She would get into trouble for this—that much was certain—but they’d go easier on her if she had something to show for her time. With her forensics background, her mind went to fingerprints and DNA.

They’d lifted no prints from the gun, but DNA was another matter. Odds were that a DNA test wouldn’t be authorized for a fraud case, but she could unofficially get Danny’s DNA and find a private lab to process it. She’d pay for it herself.

“I’m thirsty, how about you?” she asked casually. “Want a Coke?”

“I could drink something.”

“Hang tight.” She went to the door to talk to the deputy. She doubted they had facilities to supply the kid with a soda, but that wasn’t going to stop her. She’d work her magic on the deputy, and the kid would have a Coke before she departed. Of that she was certain.

REGINALD HAD WORK to do. He’d have rather spent time daydreaming about Lauren than cleaning the old warehouse, but he couldn’t risk getting caught. When he called the police with an anonymous tip on where to find Molly, they’d swarm the place, poking and prying into every crack and crevice with their CSI tools. He loved forensics television shows, and he’d seen how a single hair could lead the police to the killer. He wouldn’t be that careless and give them anything to further their investigation.

He opened the back door of his van, snapped on a hairnet, and tightened the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt before putting on gloves. Completely covered, he grabbed his shop vac and carried it to the basement that was starting to smell.

“Hello, Molly,” he said, and paused to check the effectiveness of his rat screen. “Yes, good. I see they have left you alone.” He spun and went back up the rickety stairs to retrieve bleach and rags.

Back in the basement, he used the shop vac to suck up Molly’s waste, retching at the smell. He’d hoped to leave it as a special present for the police, but he’d questioned Molly in this very spot, and he had to make sure he removed every trace of his hair or skin cells. He moved the vacuum around the basement, concentrating on the cracks and crevices where evidence could hide.

Satisfied at his work, he got onto his knees and flooded the entire linoleum floor with bleach. Let the police spend their time trying to decide if any traces of blood they found was his. It would keep them from looking for any real evidence. He moved on to the sink, dousing it with bleach and scouring every bit of the drain and the corners with a toothbrush. His nose dripped from the caustic liquid. He wiped it with his sleeve to keep from leaving evidence, and then continued until every inch of the room had seen bleach.

Not satisfied, he went back to the floor and rinsed it with buckets of water, swishing it toward the floor drain with a rubber squeegee. He repeated the action with bleach again, then scoured the drain and turned on a large fan.

“Perfect.” He was finished.

Now, he needed to go home and do the same thing, just in case the police learned his name and came calling. He took the empty crate and carefully packed his mason jars, then carried it and the supplies to his car before heading home.

On the drive, his thoughts went to his home basement—or his workshop, as he liked to think of it. He’d brought the first five girls there. Mother hadn’t minded. She’d liked knowing he was getting on with his work, but when Molly and Lauren had gotten away . . . oh my . . . Mother had totally shut him down.

As a memento, he’d used each girl’s blood to scrawl their name, along with the date of their cleansing, on the wall. Mother had ended that, too, when she’d made him paint over it.

Ah, the girls. Each special in their own right. They’d once made him feel powerful. Useful. But now, now he felt nothing but emptiness except on cleansing day. So what if Mother hadn’t approved of him resuming his work before he’d found Molly and Lauren? Mother was dead and gone in physical form. He hadn’t waited even a day before starting his cleansing again. Sure, she continued to speak to him but she could do nothing to interfere except scold him. No more ear-pulling or pinching. No more closet.

Now he was his own boss. The master of his destiny. And tomorrow, oh, tomorrow. . . . That would be his big day. The day of expectation.

He’d pull out the burner phone and voice scrambler he’d ordered on the Internet and dial 911. He’d tell them, quickly, but succinctly—no point in lingering—where to find Molly.

Oh, yes, he could see it already. See the police scramble out of their building, running for their cars. They’d race out to the river, break down the building door. Then they’d come out with admiration on their faces, impressed with Molly’s sacrifice for purity’s sake.

And then . . . then and only then . . . would his real search for Lauren begin.