All the Pretty Faces (7 page)

Police suspected that she’d met up with someone on campus at that party and willingly left with him, but there were no witnesses.

They were wrong.

His sister never would have left with a stranger.

Frustration knotted his belly. He was supposed to be looking for comparisons to his current case. The woman in Graveyard Falls hadn’t been in a college town or at a sorority party.

Although it was possible she’d been murdered in another city like Knoxville and then dumped here.

Jesus, he needed that ID.

He looked back at Betsy’s autopsy report. No narcotics or evidence of roofies in her system.

What would the tox screen reveal on the girl they’d found at the motel?

Dane rubbed a hand over his eyes again.

Ten years since Betsy’s death. That in itself was a problem. Even if someone had witnessed something, memories grew foggy with time.

Although occasionally guilt set in, and a witness who’d initially remained quiet came forward to clear his or her conscience.

He prayed that would happen with Betsy’s case. He needed a break, dammit.

Determined to tackle it again, he reviewed the other notes. According to interviews with Betsy’s friends at school and the director of the ranch where she’d volunteered, she hadn’t been dating anyone. She had no ex-boyfriends; no one was angry with her.

Everyone loved her.

Except for the person who’d killed her.

One detective had theorized that Betsy had an affair with a married man, and that perhaps the wife found out and killed her. That suggestion was ludicrous.

Betsy would never sleep with a married man. She was the most morally conscious young girl he’d ever known.

The idea of a stalker had been tossed around, but they’d found no evidence suggesting one. No notes on her calendar, nothing in her mail, no repeated phone calls from the same number that looked suspicious.

Which put him back to where the case had ended—she’d met someone at the party who’d enticed her to leave with him. Or she’d seen someone she knew and trusted.

Someone who’d gotten away with murder.

The MO had to be significant. The unsub who’d killed Betsy took the silver ID bracelet their father had given her.

This killer had taken the woman’s clothes, but as far as he knew, no jewelry.

Although he had taken a piece of bone.

If it was the same killer, had he evolved to the point he needed an even more sinister and personal trophy for himself?

Dr. Silas Grimley carefully examined his face in the mirror, one finger running over his skin to make sure the imperfections were hidden.

His face was smooth. Skin clear. Eyebrows neatly trimmed. Eyes focused.

Scars invisible to the naked eye.

He was handsome.

His looks wouldn’t last. Soon he would be showing signs. Soon he would have to hide his flaws again.

His hand trembled.

God dammit. It wasn’t fair. He’d worked too hard to get where he was to have to give up his career. He’d been so driven that he’d vaulted to the top of his profession faster than anyone expected.

Now he was going to lose it all. His weaknesses would be evident, just like the scars he’d once carried.

His patients, the women who admired him, would run.

Cursing the fates, he slammed his fist against the mirror and watched it crack. Blood dotted his hand, but he didn’t care.

He walked to the window and looked outside. The rain that had pounded the earth earlier grew lighter, more distant, the moon battling through the clouds to weave a faint stream of light across the sharp cliffs behind the cabins.

Night was setting in Graveyard Falls.

He had places to go.

He slipped a sport coat on over his neat blue button-down shirt, then carefully combed his hair into place.

The reflection staring back at him looked grotesque in the shattered mirror.

A preview of the real Silas? Of what he had once been?

Because once he had been hideous. Unable to bear the cruelty of others, he’d hidden himself from the laughing faces and ugly remarks.

Then one day some selfless soul had saved him. For a little while he’d basked in the light of knowing what it was like to be one of
them
. The beautifuls.

Just like the models and actresses.

Just like that damn doll.

Shoulders tense, he headed outside.

The thick forests and trees shrouded in clouds cast an ominous gray that looked like a heavy fog across the land.

Yet in the midst of the miles of wilderness and sharp ridges, great beauty abounded. Natural beauty.

Not like the plastics who had flocked to town. Young women with their heavy makeup, implants, thousand-dollar skin treatments, and expensive wardrobes, all dying to be in front of the camera.

Products of his work.
He
made them pretty.

I can make you anything you want to be
, he told them.

And he did.

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Of course, he was a man and he lusted after those beautiful women. What man’s body didn’t harden at the sight of sparkly sequined dresses tightly wound around luscious hips? At deep cleavage inviting a man to touch, plump breasts overflowing skimpy tops? Short skirts and crotchless panties showcasing endlessly long legs?

What man wouldn’t want eye candy on his arm and his cock between a pair of perfect thighs?

He would have that tonight.

Yes, he’d bury himself into a woman’s sweet center and live while he could.

Then he’d go back and clean the bones he’d just collected and add them to his wall.

CHAPTER SIX

Dane’s phone was ringing as he finished dressing the next morning. He quickly connected the call. “Agent Hamrick speaking.”

“It’s Dr. Wheeland. I have an ID on your victim.”

“Her name?”

“Charity Snow. She was twenty-two years old, born and raised in West Tennessee. No family except for her younger sister, Bailey. The sisters left home for LA to be actresses.”

“Current address?”

“I don’t have one. But Peyton did some digging. The girls were both in Graveyard Falls to try out for parts in that movie.”

Dane was glad to hear Peyton was on the case. She was a top-notch analyst.

“Where were they staying?”

“The Falls Inn.”

“Did you notify the sheriff yet?” Dane asked.

“No, you’re my first call.”

Good. “I’ll fill him in, find the sister, and make the notification.” Maybe Bailey Snow knew where her sister was the night before and had some clue as to who’d killed her. “Anything else?”

“According to the preliminary background check, she has no police record.”

“How about the cleaner?”

“Definitely a strong antiseptic soap,” Dr. Wheeland answered. “Peyton is trying to trace the origin now.”

“How about drugs or alcohol in her system?”

“Traces of red wine but not enough so she was drunk. But this is the interesting part—we found evidence of pancuronium bromide in her system.” The ME muttered a sound of disgust. “It’s an injectable neuromuscular blocking drug that causes paralysis. The victim can’t move but is aware of what’s going on.”

Dane frowned. “So she felt the pain?”

“Yes.”

“Is that something they would have tested for ten years ago?”

“If it was present, a good ME would have found it,” Dr. Wheeland said. “Why?”

“I’m thinking of a past case.” Had the ME working Betsy’s murder missed something? “How would someone get access to that drug?” Dane asked.

“It wouldn’t be easy, but it’s not impossible,” Dr. Wheeland said. “It’s federally regulated and used by physicians, surgeons, hospitalics, clinicians, and researchers.”

Dane assimilated that information. “That means our killer might work in the medical field.”

“True. Or he knows someone who does, or he stole it from a hospitalic or research facility.”

Dammit, that opened up a field of suspects. He could have Peyton check medical facilities nearby to see if any had gone missing. “What else can you tell me?”

“Her last meal was barbecue.”

Dane liked the man’s attention to detail. “Probably had that at the party. Was she raped?”

“She did have sex not long before her death,” Dr. Wheeland said, “although there is no bruising or suggestion that she was forced.”

“So it could have been consensual. A boyfriend, then things went wrong?” Dane rubbed the back of his neck. “Or she parted with her lover, then she either met up with the killer or he somehow took her.”

“That’s possible.”

Dane shifted, his head throbbing as he considered all angles. “If it was a boyfriend and he was this violent, he might have acted out with a former girlfriend.”

“Peyton is already looking into that angle,” Dr. Wheeland said.

“What about DNA?”

“Afraid we didn’t find any. The man must have worn a condom.”

Dane mentally reviewed the facts. The killer had scrubbed her clean, so if there had been any DNA, he’d destroyed it.

Which meant this kill was planned, premeditated, and the killer was intelligent.

“Okay, let me know if anything else turns up. Maybe the sister can shed some light on what the victim was doing the night she died. If there is a boyfriend and he’s our perp, this case could be as simple as tracking him down.”

Although that would mean that this case wasn’t connected to his sister’s. That once more he’d gotten his hopes up for nothing.

That he’d be back to square one, waiting on another call, praying for another lead.

Trying to convince his mother to hang on when he’d reached a dead end again.

Josie dabbed powder beneath her eyes to cover the dark circles. Being back in Graveyard Falls threatened to undo all the progress therapy and time had accomplished the past two years. Staying in her grandfather’s house hadn’t made it any easier either. Her nightmares were back, robbing her of precious sleep.

But she was determined not to let Billy Linder keep her from living. That would mean he still had power over her.

Josie didn’t intend to let any man have power over her—not ever again.

She added a little lip gloss, brushed her hair but left it waving around her shoulders, then dressed in a loose skirt, sweater, and boots.

She had no idea what to expect today. The director had explained that the film would use locals for extras, and that they were also looking for Southern talent to portray the townspeople and victims.

He wanted to keep the authentic Southern scenery and character of the town, so they planned to film some scenes on location. Others would be filmed on a set later and edited in.

Josie had suffered from a nervous stomach since the attack, but she managed to nibble on a bagel, then finished her coffee. She stuffed a notepad in her shoulder bag, then hurried out to her Jetta.

Morning sun glinted off the rain-drenched grass, shimmering off the sharp ridges of the mountains. She drove to the community center, where the first round of auditions was scheduled.

Online information had been available for a month, and the casting director had prescreened for several parts, then notified the individuals selected for additional readings.

Traffic was usually light in the mornings in the small town, but today cars jammed the square, and people hoping to be extras had formed a line outside the community center.

A small group of locals were clustered to one side with signs declaring that the movie people should go home. She shuddered at one that personally targeted her. She didn’t recognize the person holding the sign, but the message was clear.

“Josie DuKane, you don’t belong here.”

Gusty winds hurled leaves and twigs across the parking lot as she parked, the tree branches swaying beneath the weight of the wind.

Nervous over the animosity in town and the death of another woman, she scanned the area as she climbed out.

Leaves rustled from the right, and she jerked her head around, the familiar tightening of her chest forcing her to breathe deeply to stem another panic attack. Two men in suits walked briskly toward the coffee shop on the corner. A car door slammed, and a group of teenagers jumped out, giggling and talking as they rushed toward the rec center. Then another movement caught her eyes.

A young man in a hoodie darting into the bushes.

Perspiration broke out on her brow. Had the guy in the hoodie been watching her?

A woman strode toward her, angry. “Don’t let them talk bad about our daughters. That Charlene girl was strange or they would have been nice to her,” Sara Levinson said.

A man, Mr. Burgess, gripped a picture of his daughter Brittany, the third Thorn Ripper victim, in his hands. “You have no idea what it’s like to lose a child,” he said in a tortured voice.

Josie pressed her hand to her chest, struggling to breathe. “I’m so sorry, I really am. I don’t mean to hurt anyone by being here.”

Her voice cracked, her emotions on her sleeve as she raced past them toward the community center.

She had the uneasy sense that the man who’d sent her that photograph was somewhere nearby.

She hurried to the safety of the trees near the front and leaned against one. Her breathing was rasping out now, uneven pants that angered her because she wanted to be done with the damn panic attacks.

She balled her hands into fists. She would not give in to that fear.

Her therapist’s words echoed in her head.

Take
deep, even breaths, focus on your surroundings. The building, the sun shining, the leaves fluttering down, the happy faces of the young girls lining up outside. You’re safe. You’re alive.

Billy Linder is locked away.

Another voice, her own, intruded.

There’s another Billy Linder out there. One who carved a bone from his victim’s cheek. One who sent you a picture.

She bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood. Yes, a killer was out there. Dane would find him.

Until then, she’d be cautious. She needed to stay strong and alert, to put the sicko away.

She straightened her clothing, dabbing away the sweat on her neck. She would do it, too.

Determined, she squared her shoulders and walked up the steps to the front door of the rec center. As soon as she stepped inside, excited whispers and voices echoed around her.

Despite some of the town’s animosity about the film, the building was packed with actor wannabes and the film crew and staff.

Two women in suits walked through the crowd, directing people where to go.

Lines were alphabetized and marked for various roles in an attempt to create order. Teenagers clustered together, giggling and whispering as they waited for directions.

A sign in the front pointed toward the director’s meeting room. She headed toward it.

Five men and two women had gathered inside and were mingling and getting coffee. The producer, Bruce Landon, tapped his spoon on his coffee cup and asked everyone to take seats around a long conference table. A second later, introductions were made.

Anthony Garry—the lead cameraman; bushy hair and brows, deep-set eyes. Gil Baines—makeup artist; metrosexual, impeccably dressed, manicured nails, hair short and styled. Ulysses Vega—setting and scenery; a rugged, scruffy guy who didn’t look as if he belonged in LA.

Olive Turnstyle—the casting director; tall, slightly big-boned, shiny blouse, long manicured nails a startling purple. Emma Leadstone—costume and clothing; red leather jacket and fedora.

Eddie Easton—photographer who worked with the actresses; sharp dresser, thirties, dark hair, a playboy type.

Landon introduced Josie, and she briefly relayed how much she appreciated the attention they were giving to this true story.

The cameraman seemed to be watching her as if he were dissecting her for his camera lens. “You did a good job of describing the town and the people in it. I hope we can find the right faces to portray each of the victims.”

“Have you thought about playing yourself in the film?” the casting director asked.

Josie barely suppressed a shudder. “No. I don’t want to be in it. Besides, I’m not very photogenic.”

“I beg to differ,” Easton said with a challenging look. “Makeup and lighting are like special effects. Playing yourself would add an authenticity to the project.”

Landon cleared his throat. “Miss DuKane can think about it. Meanwhile, we have a busy day. We can use locals for extras in the bar and restaurant scenes. We also don’t need name actresses for the victims since they actually won’t be on screen much, but we do want this to look professional.” He turned to the casting director. “Olive?”

Olive tapped her notepad. “I’ve narrowed down the number of actors vying for the parts of Johnny Pike and federal agent Cal Coulter. Also, the former Sheriff Buckley.” She directed a smile at Josie. “Maybe you could sit in on some auditions. I’m sure you’d be able to help steer us toward actors who fit the parts.”

“Of course,” Josie agreed.

Landon angled himself toward the man in charge of setting and scene locations. “Scout out locations for the falls scenes. Let’s get those nailed down.”

A commotion broke out, voices and shouting erupted from the hallway, and Landon jumped up and rushed to the door. Josie followed and peeked through the doorway to the packed main room.

“Has anyone seen my sister, Charity?” a woman shouted into the crowd. “Please tell me if you have. I’m worried sick,” she cried. “I’m afraid something bad happened to her.”

Josie dug her nails into the palms of her hands. Was the missing sister their murder victim?

Dane climbed the steps to the Falls Inn. As soon as he entered, the scent of peach pie wafted toward him.

Nausea gripped his stomach. That damn scent used to make him smile. His mother baked peach pies on Sundays.