All the Pretty Faces (31 page)

“That’s partially true, but not for the reason you think. I wasn’t afraid of prison. It’s just that I couldn’t have helped Silas if I was locked away, and he needed me.” She rubbed at the knots on her left hand. “Besides, that vile man who spawned him didn’t deserve to live.”

“I have no doubt about that,” Dane said. “By protecting Silas, you let him get away with murder. Once he’d killed one woman, his appetite was whetted.”

“You’re wrong. He changed after Betsy died.” Her voice grew sad. “He was overcome with grief and self-hatred. And he felt so guilty that he tried to make amends. He went to medical school to help others, and with his intelligence, he sailed through. He even volunteered with Doctors Without Borders.”

Dane didn’t want to hear another word about Grimley’s childhood. “Miss Ellie, I understand if you’re loyal to Grimley, but we have evidence that points to him as the Butcher. We found scalpels in his possession, as well as photographs of all the victims.”

She pushed to her feet and reached for his arms, her fingers digging into his skin as if she was determined to convince him she spoke the truth. “He didn’t kill them, I tell you,” Ellie said earnestly. “I saw those murders, and his hand wasn’t holding the scalpel.”

“You saw the murders? How is that possible?”

She breathed out deeply. “I told you, I have visions.”

“For God’s sake.” Dane pried her hands from his arms.

“You don’t have to believe me, but if I’m right,” she said, “the Butcher is still out there. Do you want that on your conscience?”

Dane took a step back, struggling with the idea that he might actually be wrong. That this crazy lady might know something. Grimley had confessed to Betsy’s murder. “My conscience is just fine.”

“But it won’t be if I’m right,” Ellie said. “I know because I was in denial about Silas for years, and I’ve had to pay for my denial. Don’t make that mistake, Agent Hamrick.”

That statement got to Dane, triggered his doubts.

The woman continued. “You already blame yourself for your sister’s death. You think that your mother blames you, but she doesn’t. She loves you.”

Dane’s chest hurt with the effort to breathe. He did think his mother blamed him.

He
blamed himself.

“She wants you to know that she forgave you, that she’s still inside that shell and that she’s coming back to you.” She patted his shoulder in a motherly gesture. “It’s time you forgive yourself. Your mother and sister want that.”

Dane backed toward the door. What kind of charlatan was this woman?

“You can think what you want of me, but you have to keep looking.” Ellie’s voice rang with sincerity and confidence. “Silas is not the Butcher. The hand I saw was smaller, more delicate, almost feminine.”

Dane had had enough. “You’re suggesting the Butcher is a woman?”

“Yes.”

That was impossible. The profile fit Grimley. The evidence pointed to him. The killer would have needed physical strength to carry the victim to the dump site.

Josie’s comments about Grimley echoed in his head. Josie hadn’t had premonitions. She had doubts based on her study of criminology.

If he was wrong, the killer was still out there.

He couldn’t live with himself if the Butcher took another victim.

Josie’s thoughts vacillated back and forth. One minute she believed Silas Grimley, the next she faltered. Damn Billy Linder for making her doubt her own judgment.

Damn Dane for doing the same thing.

If Grimley wasn’t the Butcher, then more women might die.

Compelled to find the truth, she parked, but before she went in, she reread Grimley’s blogs, analyzing the tone, the language, the syntax, even the slant of the story lines.

The first few entries consisted of stories about a little child and the raptors he worked with. They were disturbing in that they portrayed Silas’s life as a young boy.

He had been an odd child, had been interested in science, had liked dissecting animals, and had collected bones from dead animals, especially birds.

In the last two entries, the boy had grown into an adult who’d become an artist through his plastic surgery. He crafted women’s faces to resemble photographs of anyone the patient wanted to emulate, as well as the Mitzi doll that little girls idolized.

He also had a sick sadistic side, liked to fantasize about carving the women up and showing the ugliness beneath the skin.

The writing style was different than the original entries, revealing a demented man whose delusions had turned to murder. In the last story, he described a cage where he planned to hold his victims.

A cage filled with raptors. He wanted the women to feel the pain he’d felt.

She sighed. If Grimley had written that story, he should be locked away from society.

If someone else had penned the stories and framed Grimley, another woman’s life hung in the balance.

Dane phoned Peyton to tie up loose details and see if police had discovered anything at Grimley’s or Easton’s LA residences.

“Easton’s residence was pretty clean,” Peyton said. “According to the detective who searched it, he had tons of photos of women, all ones he’d taken. Some were in bizarre settings, and a couple mimicked rape scenes, but there were no scalpels or Mitzi dolls. They spoke with Easton’s neighbor, who said he was a womanizer, but she’d never considered him violent.” She paused. “The neighbor confirmed that Dr. Grimley visited Easton, and she said the two men were friends, but that was all she knew about them.”

Dane rubbed at his forehead, antsy for more. He wanted to tie Easton to the crimes.

Peyton’s nails drummed against her desk in the background as they always did when she was onto something. “Go on.”

“Dr. Grimley’s house was a different story. The LA detective reported finding an assortment of scalpels along with a personal wall of photos of all the women he’d treated with cosmetic surgery.”

That was no surprise. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Apparently Grimley collected bird bones. He made a collage out of them for his home.”

That tied in with the unsub’s MO. “Maybe he was going to do the same with the bones he removed from his victims’ cheeks.” They needed to find those bones to cement the case.

“Quite possible. I also spoke with Dr. Grimley’s receptionist about that phone he claimed was stolen,” Peyton continued. “She confirmed his story. Apparently he was leaving the country that day and didn’t want to go without the phone, but he couldn’t find it.”

If Grimley hadn’t lied about the phone, had he been telling the truth about being framed? “So someone could have stolen it and used it to send that text to Michaels?”

“It’s possible.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, an image of those talon carvings mocking him.

“What about that lawsuit? Did you learn anything more about the woman who filed it?”

“Yes, and that’s disturbing.” A tinge of excitement laced Peyton’s voice as if she thought she was onto something. “Dr. Grimley is in the early stages of Parkinson’s and has developed a tremor. The investigator who worked on the lawsuit said Grimley didn’t want anyone to know, but that tremor could have affected his dexterity.”

“He was still operating,” Dane said, putting together a mental picture of what had happened during the surgery and afterward. Grimley thought he was a god. The fear of losing his practice could have tipped him over the edge.

“Yes, although his lawyer kept that fact hushed. He settled the lawsuit out of court. Even so, the patient was extremely bitter and went on a campaign to destroy Dr. Grimley’s career. She posted accusations online and showed up at his office several times shouting at the other patients that Dr. Grimley was a butcher.”

Dane’s blood ran cold. “A butcher. Were those her exact words?”

“Yes.” She paused. “It gets more interesting, too. Medical records are confidential, but I hacked into this patient’s computer and found something.”

“What?”

“The surgery involved facial reconstruction, but also encompassed a transgender operation.”

Dammit to hell. Ellie’s comment about seeing a woman’s hand holding the scalpel taunted Dane.

They’d assumed the killer was a male because he’d have to be strong enough to carry his victim. If this transgender client was born a male, he might have had the strength to do it. And he could have dressed like a man to throw suspicion from himself. “What is this person’s name?”

“She calls herself Naomi Leakes. Although her original name was Nate. I’m sending you her photograph now.”

A sick feeling welled in Dane’s chest as the picture came through.

Good God. He recognized her. Him. He’d seen her at the community center.

Josie’s face flashed in his mind. She’d been determined to keep investigating. She was probably at the community center asking questions.

He had to warn her before it was too late.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Josie’s phone dinged with a text as she parked at the community center. She threw the car into park and retrieved the message.

Meet me to discuss the final casting. Olive.

Josie texted back that she would, although she’d thought the film crew had put things on hold. Then again, Dane had held a press conference announcing Grimley’s arrest, so they were probably back on schedule.

She jammed her phone in her purse and hurried inside. A handsome man with neatly clipped black hair wearing a gray suit smiled at her as she entered the lobby.

“Josie, hey, I wanted to talk to you.”

She frowned but came to a halt. She didn’t recognize the man. Was he part of the film crew? “Excuse me?”

His gray-blue eyes skated over her. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

His voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place his face.

“No,” she said, annoyed. She didn’t have time to play games. “Have we met?”

A chuckle rumbled from him. “Yes, but I was in character. I’m Porter McCray.” He gestured toward the board listing the cast chosen for the film. “I got the part of Billy Linder.”

Pinpricks of unease tiptoed up her spine at the sound of Linder’s name.

“You look totally different,” she said, shocked at the transformation.

He laughed again. “I told you I totally immersed myself into my part. It worked.”

Josie studied his face. Gone was the beady look in his eyes, the spooky air that he wasn’t quite normal, the tic at the corner of his mouth.

“I guess congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you. Maybe I could buy you a drink,” he suggested.

“Sorry. I’m meeting someone now. I need to go.” Worried the killer was still at large, she crossed the main lobby. Voices echoed from down the hall, and then three girls came around the corner. One girl was crying, the other two consoling her.

“There’ll be other parts,” one of them said.

“Yeah, who wants to play a dead girl?” the brunette murmured.

Josie was tempted to warn them that the Butcher might not be finished, but Dane wouldn’t want her spreading rumors. She had to have something concrete to prove she was right.

Her phone dinged that she had a call. Dane. He probably wanted to talk her out of asking more questions, so she ignored it.

Olive exited Eddie Easton’s studio. She looked frazzled as she darted into her office. Sympathy for her new friend surfaced. She’d been dealing with disappointed and irritated actors who hadn’t been cast all day.

Josie paused at the door of the woman’s office. She didn’t want to disturb Olive if she was upset about something.

Although Olive
had
asked to meet her. If she was finished casting, perhaps she wanted to have coffee or a drink.

She glanced through the crack in the door. Olive pivoted to face the mirror on the closet door, her back to Josie.

A second later, Olive slammed her fist into the mirror and shattered the glass.

Josie covered a gasp. Blood dotted Olive’s hand as she lifted it.

Then Olive lifted a Mitzi doll from a bag in the closet and traced one bloody finger across the doll’s cheek, painting a talon mark across the doll’s porcelain face.

Cold fear washed over Josie. Olive had the doll. Olive had drawn talon marks with blood on the doll’s cheeks.

Olive had pretended to be her friend.

Only she didn’t look like Olive right now—her eyes had turned menacing.

A deep tremble started inside Josie as doubts assailed her. Could Olive be the killer?

Legs weakening at the thought, she backed away. She had to phone Dane.

Then Olive looked up and saw her, and any semblance of friendliness disappeared.

Rage distorted her face.

“Ah, Josie,” Olive said shrilly. “I wish you hadn’t seen that.”

Josie shook her head in denial. “I don’t understand,” Josie whispered.

With her bloody hand, Olive pulled a gun from her pocket and took aim at Josie’s chest.

Olive Turnstyle, the casting director, was Naomi Leakes, aka Nate.

Dear God. She’d befriended Josie.

Had Josie figured it out?

Dane’s heart hammered as he cranked his car and barreled from the parking lot. He had to get to Josie.

Questions assailed him as he veered onto the street. How had Olive/Naomi/Nate known so much about Grimley’s past? Had she known he’d murdered Betsy? She could have hacked into his computer to add to Grimley’s blog, but how had she planted evidence in Grimley’s car?

He slammed his horn at a truck that pulled out in front of him and sped around it. He tried Josie’s number again as he raced toward the community center.

Please answer the phone, Josie.

His last conversation with her rolled through his head. He’d been harsh.

Even if she was okay, she might not speak to him. Not after the way he’d talked to her earlier. Regret burned in his gut.

They’d made love last night, all night, and that had freaked the hell out of him—he’d wanted to stay in bed with her all day.

Then she’d suggested that he might be wrong about Grimley.

He hadn’t wanted to be wrong. He had Betsy’s killer and that was what mattered.

Except Charity and Patty and Neesie deserved the same justice.

He cursed himself. Josie was right. He’d allowed his rage against Grimley to cloud his judgment.

If she was hurt or in danger because of him, he’d never forgive himself.

He swung into the parking lot, threw the door open, and hit the ground running. Thunder boomed above, and lightning zigzagged across the gloomy sky.

There were very few cars left in the lot, a reminder that the film crew was leaving town until they returned in a couple of weeks to start filming.

He spotted Josie’s car in the third row.

It was empty.

She must be inside the building.

A camera crew was loading cameras into a van, and the limo that had brought the bigwigs of the production company to town was pulling in.

The van Easton used to transport his equipment was still parked in front. Dammit, he didn’t know what kind of vehicle Olive drove.

She might have Josie now.

He jogged up the steps and inside. The entryway, which had been crowded before, was empty. Instead of the chaos of dozens of actors waiting in lines and gathering to discuss the script and their roles, an eerie silence echoed through the building.

Dane’s instincts jumped to full alert.

When he reached Olive’s office, no one was there.

Josie’s purse was lying on the floor, the contents spilled out, her cell phone beneath the edge of a chair.

Panic seized him.

He yelled her name, then Olive’s name, terrified. His voice boomeranged off the empty walls.

Frantic, he searched the closet, his stomach churning at the sight of the broken mirror and the Mitzi doll.

A doll with a talon drawn on its face out of blood.

His pulse quickened. Was that Josie’s blood?

Please, God, no.

He couldn’t lose Josie, not when he’d just found her.

Josie’s heart banged in her chest as Olive jammed the gun in her side. “Walk, Josie. And don’t you dare make a noise or try anything. I’ll blow your head off and anyone else’s that gets in my way.”

Josie couldn’t believe her ears. She’d been so foolish, hadn’t once considered Olive.

Olive pushed her through the back door of the community center toward Eddie Easton’s van. Olive kept Josie close as she waved to the crew leaving. “My God, Olive, it was you? You killed those women. You butchered their faces and left them like they were trash.”

“They were only pretty faces,” Olive hissed.

Josie choked back a sob. “No, they were young women with futures ahead of them. With dreams.”

“What about my dreams?” Olive growled. “What about who I wanted to be?”

Josie had to stall. Maybe someone would see them and figure out something was wrong. Maybe Dane would. “Who did you want to be?” Josie asked.

“A woman like them, but if they knew the truth, they would never have been friends with me.”

“You left me those dolls,” Josie said, the pieces clicking together in her mind. “You smeared blood on my bed, and you took my underwear.”

A twisted smile lit the woman’s eyes. “I wanted to know what it was like to be you. To have people admire me and like me for what I am.”

“But they might have if you’d given them a chance.”

“No. I didn’t fit anywhere.” She pushed Josie into the van, but Josie dug her heels in.

“Olive, please, you don’t have to do this.”

Olive’s eyes turned to ice chips. “I’m sorry, really, Josie. I like you. You’re not like all the others.”

“Then let me help you. We’ll get you a therapist—”

“It’s too late for that,” she said, her voice shrill. “You saw me, the mirror. You know.”

“Know what?” Josie asked, desperate to connect with her. “That Dr. Grimley hurt you, that he scarred you? Or did someone else hurt you first?”

A low wail came from Olive as if anguish overpowered her.

“What is it about the mirrors?” Josie pressed.

“My mother . . . I used to play in her makeup and look at myself in the mirror, to dress in her clothes. She called me a freak. I told her then that I was a little girl inside this boy’s body, that I was meant to be a girl.” A sob escaped Olive, and her hand shook as she waved the gun. “She found me in her underwear one day and slammed my face into the mirror. The glass shattered.”

“It scarred you,” Josie said, sickened by the image. “That was a horrible thing for a mother to do.”

A terrifying wildness streaked Olive’s face. “Dr. Grimley promised he could fix anyone, make you be the person you wanted to be. He lied. He made all those other women pretty, but look what he did to me!” She wiped a thick blob of makeup from her cheek, revealing rigid, puckered skin. “That’s not all he did either. He was supposed to make me a woman, but he botched it up.” Her voice rose, sounding crazed. “You should see what I look like down there. I’m ruined.”

“I’m so sorry.” Josie had to calm the woman. “But killing me won’t change that.”

“Shut up and get in the van. I promise to make it painless for you.” Olive aimed the gun at Josie’s head, then shoved her into the back of the vehicle. Josie considered fighting, but one bullet would end her life, and she wasn’t ready to die.

“Please, Olive,” Josie said sympathetically. “You need help.”

A maniacal laugh escaped her. “What I need is for everyone to think that Silas Grimley is the Butcher because he butchered me.” She slid her hand inside her pocket and removed a hypodermic.

Fear crawled through Josie. Olive had subdued her other victims with a paralyzing drug.

You are not going to be a victim
. Lord help her, she’d survived the Bride Killer. She would survive this.

“Please, Olive,” Josie pleaded. “Give me a chance to write your story. I’ll make people understand. You can be a role model for others in your situation.”

A sad look flickered on Olive’s face, but resignation followed. “It’s too late.” Olive raised the needle, and Josie’s instincts kicked in. She pushed at Olive’s hand, but the woman jammed the gun in her face.

Josie froze.

A second later, the needle pierced her skin, then everything went dark.