For Love or Vengeance (10 page)

Chapter Seventeen

By the time Miguel and Helene got back to Federal Plaza, Lanie Santini’s cell phone records were waiting for them. They quickly discovered she had made a series of calls to a prepaid cell phone—one of the phones they suspected had been purchased by the Butcher.

As with the other cell phone numbers, this form’s fake information had Broadway details—the purchaser S. Sondheim, the address on Bernstein Ave.

Miguel watched Helene stare at the form, and could almost hear it percolate in her mind. All at once, she sat upright and closed her eyes.

“What?” he asked. It was spooky how she did that—concentrated really hard, then suddenly came out with the most bizarre bits of information.

She looked triumphant. “The lyrics to
West Side Story
were written by Stephen Sondheim, music by Leonard Bernstein. And the book—” She got up and walked over to the bulletin board, and rapped her knuckle against the cell phone form under victim number one—“by Arthur Laurents. This purchaser name? That’s the man who wrote the book for the musical.”

“The book? As in the novel?” Miguel asked.

She shook her head. “As in the dialogue for the story. Lanie and this victim are connected by the same show—
West Side Story
.”

He rose and went over to the bulletin board. Standing beside her, he almost felt the rush of her excitement at finding a new clue.

She pointed at one of the crime scene photos. “Look.”

Behind the victim’s body, a tangle of fire escapes climbed up the buildings in the background. A fuzzy recollection came to him. “Isn’t there a scene in the movie where they sing to each other on a fire escape?”

She smiled, a bright glitter of hopefulness in her eyes. Her reticence around him had vanished. Maybe they could work things out between them, after all. Find a balance between being partners and being lovers.

“Exactly,” she said. “Tony and Maria sing to each other on the fire escape. Maybe it’s not just the forms he’s using Broadway connections for. Could he be recreating the stage sets with the locations he chooses?”

“A battleship, a river, fire escapes, castles, and—a garbage dump,” Miguel said, going down the line of crime scene photos.

She made a face. “Well, maybe not that last one. Anyway, if the Broadway shows on the forms match up with the corresponding body dump locations, we may have something.”

Though how that would help them actually find the bastard, he had no idea.

“And the poses,” he added, peering at the photos. “The poses have to mean something, too.”

She studied them for a moment before shaking her head, her curls brushing her shoulders. He could smell the fragrance in her hair, sweet and spicy.

“Maybe only to the killer,” she said.

“Maybe,” he replied, although he was convinced otherwise. He just didn’t have enough information yet to make a connection. “Okay. There are five victims, each with a unique location and show. But now victim number six’s form relates back to this one.” He pointed at the fire escape photo.

“What are the odds he intends to dump the body in the same location?” she murmured, and met his gaze.

“That’s risky behavior. But maybe he can’t resist the challenge. Maybe he doesn’t believe we’re on to him, and thinks he’s safe.”

“So we stake out this location. There’s only one problem with that plan,” she said, looking troubled.

No kidding.

For that plan to work, Lanie Santini would have to already be dead.

Miguel could almost feel the tension radiate from Helene’s body in waves. As the day fled and they ran through dozens of possible scenarios, none led them closer to discovering where the unsub might have taken Lanie.

Helene pulled her hair back from her face as she flipped through the copies they had made of Lanie’s papers. The originals had been sent to the lab to check for evidence—a fingerprint, residual DNA, anything.

As he watched her, he mentally reviewed all the information they had and tried to make sense of it. Tried to formulate a reason why the killer would select these particular young people. Then he ran through all the possible ways he might choose them.

A bogus audition seemed the most likely, but so far they had found no common element connecting any of the victims or Lanie.

Across from him, Helene picked up the copies again, and zipped through them like flash cards. He wondered how she could even read them at that speed. But then again, she’d proven to be a wealth of information during the course of the investigation. Maybe she had a photographic memory?

He wouldn’t second-guess her methods because she was very good at what she did. At every turn in this investigation, she’d had something to offer. Intriguing, the way her mind worked. It made him realize there was something even sexier than her body—her amazing mind.

She paused in shuffling the papers, put them all down, then picked one up again. As their gazes connected, she seemed to sense his thoughts because a slight flush blossomed along her cheeks. She hid it by holding up the paper. “This is a copy of a copy.”

He scrutinized it closely. “You’re right. The original was a copied page she had from one of the trade papers.”

“Why only this one?” she asked. “And why is it the only copy?” She spread out the rest of the papers on the table.

Miguel rose and went to stand beside her. “So we’re thinking he’s setting up a fake audition, right?” He shifted the papers around to eliminate everything except those that listed casting calls. The paper Helene had identified was one of only three. But why a copy and not an original?

“There are lots of casting calls listed here,” he said, perusing the paper. Many identified the specific show, but there were just as many open calls that only asked for a certain type of character.

“It’s got to be on this one,” she said earnestly, and snagged the paper from him.

“Let’s review the phone numbers in the listings. See if we find one of the Butcher’s cell phone numbers on it.”

They made a copy so they wouldn’t compromise the evidence and sat down side by side, shoulders occasionally touching as they examined the page of ads. He read down the dozens of casting calls until one caught his eye.

But before he could say a word, she was reading it out loud. “Open casting call, musical revival. Dark-haired woman. Twenty-something. Strong singing and dancing skills required. Call 917-555-1212.”

Miguel didn’t need his notes to check the prepaid cell phone number. It, along with the other eleven, was ingrained on his brain. “It’s one of his.”

Reaching for the war room telephone, he hit the speaker key and dialed the number.

The phone rang and rang before going to a generic mailbox whose automated message was clearly voiced by a computer.

“It’s still live. Maybe we can triangulate it,” he said.

They quickly contacted their specialists, provided the number, and arranged for them to track down where the phone was located. As they sat back to wait, Helene sighed tiredly.

Absently, he reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll happen. We’ll find her in time.”

She shrugged off his attempt at sympathy. “Odds are against us, Sanchez.”

So it was back to “Sanchez,” was it
?

Sure, the odds were against them and they needed to be prepared for the worst-case scenario, so she wanted some emotional distance. But he had hoped she wouldn’t also push him away. That she’d turn to him for support instead.

When the war room phone rang nearly fifteen minutes later, he hit the speaker key and answered, “Sanchez.”

“We were able to triangulate the signal on the cell phone, but it’s smack in the middle of a landfill. Your unsub must have tossed it as soon as he finished with it,” the tech told them.

“With nearly twelve-thousand tons of garbage leaving the city each day, the chances of finding it in the landfill are negligible,” Helene said mechanically.

“Totally right, Special Agent Alexander. Even if it’s at the top of the garbage heap, the battery will run out soon.”

“Thanks for your help,” Helene said, and disconnected.

“We should have them put a trace on the remaining numbers he hasn’t used,” Miguel offered.

“Definitely. He’ll keep the phone turned on if he’s expecting inquiries from the casting call. Now we know which trade paper he used, so we can get started on that, too.”

But their call to the trade paper revealed that no such ad had been placed. Helene frowned and picked up the paper. “This was the only listing Lanie had that was a copy. Maybe he doctored the original.”

“Let’s take it to the lab and see if they can confirm that it’s been altered,” Miguel suggested.

When they got there, Miguel gave one of the technicians the paper and showed her the suspect listing. “What can you tell us about this ad?” he asked.

The technician placed the paper under a microscope and with a few quick keystrokes, she brought up the image on a large color monitor. She moved the image from side to side and up and down before she said, “This ad isn’t part of the original. The dot characteristics vary drastically.”

“But the fonts look similar and there’s no shadow or any other indication of cutting and pasting,” Helene said.

The other female agent smiled. “No need for that. It’s all done digitally now. Scan the original and you can alter it with any basic photo or drawing software.”

“If it was printed using a computer, the serial number of the printer should be on the page somewhere.” Miguel walked up to the monitor and studied the image.

“Chances are it’s a standard color laser that anyone can purchase at a local office supply store. If they didn’t send in their registration card—”

“All we’ll know is where it was purchased and when. It may still help,” Helene said.

“I’m on it. It may take a few hours, but I’ll get that info for you, then run this for prints and DNA.”

“We appreciate that,” Miguel said, and they headed back to the elevator. “What do you think? Should we brief the boss?”

She made a moue. “Yep. Time for the boss man.”

Chapter Eighteen

In ADIC Hernandez’s office, Miguel and Helene outlined the information they had gathered on the case, along with the likelihood that the serial killer had already taken another victim. Miguel got more and more uncomfortable as they talked. The ADIC kept eyeing them with a slight frown, his gaze traveling between Miguel and Helene as though he were more curious about them than the case.

No doubt he was picking up on the tension between them, and the obvious icy distance she was keeping from Miguel.

“So you’ve got a BOLO out on the girl and the local LEOs are staking out the earlier crime scene?” Hernandez asked.

“Correct. Though it’s unlikely the unsub will dump her body in the same place. Too risky,” Helene said, the tone of her voice almost clinical.

“If she’s dead. Hopefully she’s still alive,” Miguel put in.

Helene shook her head. “I know you want to hold out hope, but his M.O. suggests he only keeps his victims for two days at the most. This is day two.”

“There’s still time—” he began, but she immediately cut him off.

“Hours only. And we have no idea where she went for her audition. No idea where he might be keeping her, based on the evidence we’ve gathered.”

“And no idea where the Santini girl got her casting call information,” Hernandez said, and raised the copy of the doctored trade paper he was holding. “Either Santini picked it up on her own—probably somewhere within the area you’ve delineated—or someone gave it to her. One of her friends. Start with the roommates and keep me posted,” he ordered, handing the newspaper back to Miguel.

“Yes, sir.”

They turned to leave and he stepped aside, giving Helene a broad path to the door. “Sanchez, can you give me a moment?” the ADIC asked before he could follow.

Great.
Here it comes
.

“Yes, sir.” He turned back, and Hernandez said, “Please shut it. I’d like some privacy.”

Miguel couldn’t fail to see Helene’s surprised look as he closed the door in her face.

The ADIC leaned back in his chair, braced his elbows on the arms, and steepled his fingers before him as he scrutinized Miguel.

“Is everything okay with you and Alexander?”A tic jumped in his jaw muscle. But he kept his voice firm and calm as he replied. “Everything is just fine, Sir.”

Hernandez regarded him evenly. “Helene can be difficult and about as cold and emotionless as anyone I’ve ever met.”

Miguel knew his ADIC meant well, but he wasn’t about to play his game. “Helene and I have reached an understanding of our respective roles in this partnership,” he said. Which was true, in part. They certainly had found a rhythm working together, and with their respective strengths. It was the personal part they had totally messed up. The personal part was none of the ADIC’s business.

Hernandez narrowed his gaze, clearly skeptical, but thankfully didn’t press. “If there was a problem between you and Alexander—”

“If anything was interfering with our ability to work together, I would certainly let you know.”

His ADIC dismissed him with a hesitant nod, obviously unconvinced.

Miguel left his office and headed to his desk. Helene waited for him. There was nothing frigid or distant about the anguished look on her face.

“NYPD called. 911 got a report about a body at one of the high school basketball courts.”

“Is it Lanie?”

Her lips thinned into a grim line. “I’m sorry. I wish I had been wrong.”

He dragged his fingers through his hair and blew out a disgusted sigh. “Me, too. Let’s go confirm the ID and make sure the scene’s secure.”

Helene was taking it hard. Miguel totally understood. They had both been working like fiends to find the Butcher and had been so close to making a break on the case.

So close, but not close enough to save Lanie Santini.

Helene’s body was rigid, her face a mask of determined anger as the ME zipped Lanie into a body bag and took her away. It would be several hours before the ME could confirm time and cause of death. They snapped a photo of the scene to add to their board, and returned to their office in Federal Plaza where they called Lanie’s parents with the terrible news.

Afterward, they stood silently in the war room, considering the new facts on the bulletin board. As with the other murders, the killer had kept to his method. In the background of the photo was a large billboard advertising the shark exhibition at the Coney Island Aquarium.

The Sharks. The name of the Puerto Rican gang in
West Side Story
, and the basketball courts where so much of the action had occurred in the movie.

For the second time, the killer had added a prop. In her hands, Lanie had held a white and blue bridal garter. Miguel stood before the photo, struggling with the clue until Helene came up beside him and woodenly said, “In the story, Maria worked in a bridal shop.”

He was both impressed by and worried about her detailed knowledge. “I know we need to understand his motives and why he does these things, but we can’t—”

“Get lost in his head. I understand. I’m not even close to doing that because we still don’t have his motive.”

Miguel scowled. “He’s a sociopath. He doesn’t need a motive anymore. Something set him off and he’ll keep on going until we stop him.”

Helene crossed her arms and paced back and forth between the bulletin boards, recalling the images and emotions she had read from Lanie’s body as she touched it at the crime scene. “No. I’m not feeling the sociopath thing. This isn’t random. There’s a specific reason he’s targeting young actors and actresses.”

In truth, the images she had gotten from the two dead bodies they’d seen in person had been jarring and confusing. The vibes had never been as muddled as with this last body. The other victims she’d viewed at the morgue had been deceased too long for her to get any kind of read. The last victim had yielded a few visions, and Lanie had provided even more images as Helene touched the dead young woman with her gloved hand. She would have much preferred skin to skin because that improved her perception, but that was against procedure and not possible.

Mortal conventions once again interfered with her immortal mission.

“We need to find out where Lanie got that faked casting call paper,” Miguel said.

“It’s too late to visit her roommates and give them this news,” she said. “We’ll start in the morning.”

He shot a quick look at his watch. “Almost 2:00 a.m. We should grab some shut-eye.”

Without a doubt, she needed a break to regroup and try to put together the disjointed imagery and ideas this case was generating in her brain.

“I’ll meet you back here at six?” she asked, and when he agreed, she walked out of the room with him close behind. They each stopped at their desks to retrieve their weapons, then walked to the elevator.

They were silent on the ride down, but the thrum of awareness and sexual tension was almost palpable in the small space of the elevator. Thoughts of bed had her remembering last night. Obviously, he was, too. As they exited the building, he offered her a ride to her apartment. She was tempted, but—

“Thanks, but I’m going to go get a drink.” She definitely needed one.

Surprise slipped across his features before he said, “I’m not normally the drinking type, but would you mind if I came with you?”

The thought of sharing some downtime with him, small talk and the peace that he seemed to bring with his presence, was appealing. Maybe she’d even let it lead to something more than a drink. After all, he was quite good in bed, and despite the fact that she’d abruptly ended their last hookup, tonight she needed something good to drive away the frustration she was feeling at losing Lanie Santini.

She smiled and put her arm through his. “Sure. That would be nice.”