Deep Dark (26 page)

“I've got some information—”

“You're supposed to be talking about his timeline. What's this about Michigan?”

“There are two unsolved homicides up there, and the evidence shows multiple similarities, right down to the type of hammer used.”

“Two cases in
Michigan
? Where did you get this?” His face flushed even redder. “You went to the feds behind my back, didn't you? I've had it with your shit, Novak.”

Reed gritted his teeth.

“You probably went to the media, too.” Hall jabbed a finger at him. “You're the source behind that leak last night.”

“Wrong.”

“That's it, you're done. I'm yanking this case away, and if you get near it again, I'm yanking your badge, too.” Hall turned to Jordan. “You're up, Lowe. Get your ass in there, and get this guy talking.”

CHAPTER 28

“I don't recognize him, do you?”

Reed took his eyes off the road and glanced at the composite sketch Jay held up.

“No.”

“And I've got a memory for faces,” Jay added.

The Ann Arbor PD had sent the file, and Reed had grabbed it off the printer on his way out the door. He and Jay were on the way to interview Edward Gantz, who might be able to either refute or corroborate the Ian Phelps theory.

“Even if all these murders are connected, this sketch could be unrelated,” Jay said. “This could just be some guy who happened to be seen loitering around this girl's place the day before she got killed. You know, wrong place and wrong time, and now everyone's searching for someone who looks nothing like the killer.”

“It happens.”

Which was why Reed always took eyewitness accounts with a grain of salt. People didn't always remember things accurately, and even if they did, what they remembered might have nothing to do with the crime.

Reed swung into a gas station and pulled his truck up to a pump. Jay got out, sliding the composite sketch inside the file folder and tossing it onto the seat.

“I need something to eat,” Jay said. “Want anything?”

“Black coffee.”

“You got it.”

Reed shoved the nozzle into the gas tank. He watched the numbers on the pump scroll and tried to swallow down his bitterness. He'd wanted to have it out with Hall, and he would have if he didn't have so much goddamn work to do. But Reed couldn't do anything if he got canned, and he could tell Hall was right on the brink.

Reed clenched his teeth and counted to ten. It was a technique he used to get his temper under control, and typically it worked, but not today. Everything about this day had sucked from the moment Laney had slipped out of bed.

Reed went over his strategy with Gantz. If the kid had, in fact, been the one to help Laney break into the FBI's database, then he was going to be touchy about it, especially when talking to a cop. So Reed needed to be careful. But he also needed the guy's statement, because Reed was convinced the timing of the shooting was no coincidence. Gantz had reached out to Laney to tell her he'd discovered something important, and just hours later he'd been gunned down, probably by someone who wanted to prevent him from sharing whatever he'd found.

So the big question was, had Gantz seen the shooter?

Reed finished fueling up and got back behind the wheel as a call came in from the Delphi Center.

“It's Mia Voss. Sorry to interrupt your weekend, but I finished the rest of your evidence.”

“The duct tape?” Reed's pulse picked up.

“That's right. We have a hit.”

Reed sat back and let that sink in.

“I always like working on duct tape, and this is why,” she said. “Even the most meticulous assailants will inadvertently deposit skin cells or hair. Some people use their teeth to tear it, which leaves behind saliva.”

“He tore it with his teeth?” Reed couldn't hide his disbelief. This UNSUB had been so careful, which was why Reed was having trouble believing he'd left bloody evidence sitting in his car on a public street.

“Actually, I don't think so. I didn't recover any DNA except the victim's on the tape's torn edges,” she said. “But the
sides
of the tape are a different story. Picture a new roll of duct tape. It tends to be sticky on the sides, especially if it's kept stored in a warm environment, such as a garage, and people tend to deposit skin cells when they're handling it casually. Therefore, even if they wear gloves while actually committing the crime, there may be skin cells present from other instances in which they picked up the tape roll.”

“So he's in the database,” Reed said, clutching the phone.

“Not exactly. His DNA—and I can confirm it's a man—is in the database. The forensic index, to be precise. That means it was recovered from another crime scene, not collected from an arrestee. So we don't yet have an ID on it, we simply know that this comparison sample comes from a homicide scene.”

“Let me guess. Michigan?” Reed glanced at the convenience store. Where the hell was Jay? They needed to get on this.

“How did you know?” Mia asked.

“We turned up a connection.”

“Well, you're right. This happened in Ann Arbor. The victim was nineteen years old. Holly Petrusky.”

“That's her.”

“They found his DNA under her fingernails, so possibly she scratched him during the struggle.”

“And this evidence is definitive?”

“As definitive as it gets. I had a colleague verify the results independently, which is why it took so long.”

“This is a big help. If you wouldn't mind—”

“I'm sending this as we speak,” she said. “Take a look at your email.”

Reed got off the phone and reached for the file, casting an impatient look at the store. They needed to move on this. They could get a DNA sample from Phelps. If he wouldn't give one voluntarily, Reed could use the Coke can he'd set aside earlier. Depending on what the tests showed, they could either eliminate Phelps as a suspect or move forward full speed.

Jay opened the door and hopped into the truck as Reed flipped through the file again.

“What's up?” Jay asked, tearing open a pack of beef jerky.

“We've got the perp's DNA from the duct tape used with April Abrams. It matches un-ID'd DNA recovered from the Holly Petrusky case up in Michigan.”

“You're serious?”

“I'm serious.”

Reed found the sketch and pulled it out again. “That sketch looks nothing like Ian Phelps,” Jay pointed out.

“I know.”

Reed flipped to the interview with the witness who'd later sat down with a police sketch artist. He read through the Q and A, searching for any further details
about this supposed suspect. Had the witness noticed anything else unusual that day, besides this man loitering around the victim's house? Had he noticed a vehicle, maybe a forest-green Volkswagen? Reed skimmed through the notes, but there was no mention of a car. He glanced at the top of the report, where it listed the witness's info.

The name hit him like a sledgehammer.

He read the words. He read them again.

“What's wrong?” Jay asked him.

“Holy shit.”

•   •   •

Reed's words echoed through Laney's head. She couldn't stop thinking about them as she made her way through town with her windows rolled down and the wind blowing through her hair.

I want to know you.

Not the most poetic phrase anyone ever uttered. But definitely the most romantic thing a guy had ever said to
her
. And he'd seemed sincere, too.

He wanted to know her.

Part of her wanted to let him. Another part of her wanted to shrug him off and remain aloof.

Reed wasn't like other men she knew. He wasn't running away.

The men in Laney's life always seemed to be looking for an exit. But Reed didn't seem daunted by her weirdness or her demanding job or her antisocial tendencies. Even the idea of a relationship didn't seem to faze him. In fact, he seemed open to one.

I want to know you.

What else could that mean? Unless she was reading too much into it, which was possible, given her somewhat limited experience with men, most of whom spent all their time either working on or playing on computers.

And just like that, she realized it. She realized what the men in her life lacked, despite all their impressive brain power.

Maturity.

Reed wasn't afraid or insecure or hesitant. He identified what he wanted, and he went after it.

Laney's heart thudded as she thought about him, about the easy confidence that had pulled her in from the moment they met.

I want to know you.
No one else had ever made her feel so desired, so feminine. Emotion surged through her, and the giddiness was back. She wanted to know him, too. She wanted to be close to him.

The wind whipped around her hair as she pulled up to an intersection and glanced around, then consulted her phone again for directions. She made a left at the next corner and followed a two-lane highway past a series of warehouses. She checked her phone one more time and then hooked a right onto a road leading east out of town. To her left was a neighborhood under construction, with houses in various states of completion. By contrast, the land to her right was undeveloped. The fields were dotted with oak trees, and the late-afternoon sun cast long gray shadows across the yellowed grass.

She drove for a few more minutes and spied a sign marking the next turnoff. She slowed to read it. This was it, but she got that same niggle of doubt
she'd felt when she'd pulled up to Scream's newly purchased property the other night. It didn't look like she'd expected. But if there was anything she'd learned from her investigations, it was that looks could be deceiving.

Laney turned down the narrow road, rolling up her windows and switching off the radio so she could give the surroundings her full attention. She was on the east edge of town. The houses were far apart on lots that looked like subdivided farmland, someone's back forty that had been sold and sold and sold again. Barbed-wire fences separated lots peppered with little houses and septic tanks and double-wide trailers.

Definitely not what she'd pictured. She'd thought he'd live in more of an urban setting, maybe in some kind of bachelor pad. But why had she thought that? She'd been making assumptions about him. For all she knew, he might not be single at all. He could be married with 2.5 kids, a three-bedroom house, and Labradoodle.

A mailbox came into view, and Laney read the number. This was it. She pulled into the gravel driveway and bumped along for a few minutes before rolling to a stop behind an old black pickup. The house was bigger than the others out here, with a pair of dormer windows on top and a wraparound front porch. Definitely room for a family, but Laney saw no sign of anyone as she climbed from her car.

She tucked her phone into the pocket of her hoodie and glanced around. No rope swing dangling from the giant oak in back. No trikes in the yard. No dogs, either, only a pair of pink plastic flamingos flanking the wooden stairs. The warped boards creaked as
she mounted the steps and looked for a doorbell. She didn't find one, so she pulled the screen door open and knocked.

No answer.

She glanced around and waited. She stepped over to a window and cupped her hand to peer through the grimy windowpane, but the curtains were drawn, and she couldn't see anything inside.

Curtains. Another detail she wouldn't have expected. She looked again at the pink flamingos. Was it possible he lived with his mother? She knocked once more, louder this time, then let the screen door slam shut. She descended the steps and checked her watch.

“Hello? Anyone home?” she called.

A low droning noise had her turning around. It was a power tool, maybe a drill, and it was coming from the outbuilding. Laney tromped across the driveway, glancing at the pickup. It had mud-caked tires and a trailer hitch in back. Laney followed a dirt path to the building, which was made of weathered wooden slats and listed slightly to the right. It had probably been here for decades, yet it looked like it might blow over in the next big storm.

The door was ajar, and she stepped inside. The air smelled of dust and motor oil. She stood in the doorway for a moment to let her eyes adjust.

It was a large space, bigger than a garage but smaller than a barn. To her left was an old red Mustang up on blocks, no tires. To her right was a tarp-covered car and a wooden workbench littered with tools.

The back of Laney's neck prickled. She surveyed the array of wrenches and screwdrivers, the scattering of nuts and bolts. Her stomach started to sink. A faint
humming noise filled her ears, blocking out all other sensory information, all other sound.

Laney's chest constricted. She couldn't breathe. She stepped back, bumping against the doorframe. She reached for her phone as something hard pressed between her shoulder blades.

“Hello, Delaney.”