He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not (17 page)

Logan shook his head. “There has to be something else to pinpoint how he chose Carolyn, or how he chose Dana and Amanda. That could be the key. I think we should look into Frank Branson.”

Riley’s head shot up, a look of surprise on his face. “Dana Branson’s father?”

“You do realize,” Pierce said, “that we ruled him out as a suspect? He discovered Dana’s body in the cabin and called 9-1-1, yes, but he had an ironclad alibi during Dana’s time of death.”

“Yeah, so did a lot of murderers I’ve put away over the years,” Logan said. “Never completely trust an alibi, or a profile for that matter. We need to review his alibi again, see how ironclad it really is.”

“Why do you want us to look at Branson?” Pierce asked.

“As part of revisiting Dana Branson’s murder, Frank Branson was re-interviewed. I met him, briefly, and I didn’t get a good feeling about him.” Logan shrugged. “Probably nothing.”

Pierce gave him a sharp look. “If it was nothing, you wouldn’t have brought it up. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a father killed his daughter; happens a lot more than people realize.”

Riley shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be the first, but can I say, ick? His own daughter? She was raped.”

“Dana was his stepdaughter, if that makes any difference,” Pierce clarified.

“It doesn’t.” Riley shuddered in distaste.

Logan flinched as his thoughts turned to Amanda. The police reports stated she wasn’t raped, at least not in the traditional sense of the word, probably because the killer preferred to rape his victims at the moment of death and Amanda had gotten away. But what had happened to her was just as brutal. “What about forensics from the Branson murder?” he asked Pierce. “Did your men find anything the state lab missed?”

Pierce shook his head. “No trace from the perp, only the victims. And all of the blood collected at the scene was either Dana’s,” he looked at Logan, “or Amanda’s.”

Logan winced then quickly schooled his features. Every mention of what Amanda had suffered was like a knife slicing into him. Judging from the expression on Pierce’s face, and their earlier confrontation in the cabin, he obviously wasn’t hiding his feelings very well.

A flash of movement had Logan looking toward the front end of the park. Several men were milling around, talking in a small group and watching the three of them. “Looks like we’ve caught the attention of some of the neighbors. We’d better go introduce ourselves before they flood the station with suspicious-person calls.”

“What do all of the victims he killed in the past four years have in common?” Logan asked as the three of them walked along one of the pine-needle-strewn paths. “Most were in different states so they couldn’t frequent the same businesses. Did they vacation at the same places?”

“Not that I could find,” Pierce said. “About the only things linking the victims are their physical characteristics. They were in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties, had long brown hair and blue eyes. He doesn’t kill prostitutes or the homeless, people who wouldn’t be missed. He only goes after white, middle-class victims.”

“Go on,” Logan said. He knew the profile, had read it dozens of times, but hearing it again might make him think of something, an angle he hadn’t thought of before.

Pierce sighed and continued. “He’s probably blue-collar, or if he’s white-collar it’s in a low-paying job. Either that job gives him opportunities to travel, or he quits and easily finds another similar job in any town he lives.”

“Like a waiter?” Logan asked.

“Or a truck driver?” Riley said, his voice holding an edge of excitement.

They all stopped, ignoring the hostile looks of the growing throng of neighbors thirty feet away.

“Exactly like a truck driver,” Pierce said. “You have something?”

Riley glanced back and forth between Pierce and Logan. “Frank Branson is a truck driver.”

S
ince attempts to locate Frank Branson had failed so far, Logan had decided to embark on a different search. He moved down a row of rusty filing cabinets in the first-floor storage room in the city hall annex. He’d overheard some admin assistants talking about the warehouse fire that had happened, saying they were glad their invoices were stored downstairs. Logan was anxious to take a look and see if any of the police department’s case files were also down here. It was a long shot, but he had to try one last time for a copy of the Northwood file.

Solving that case had become an obsession, he knew it. But he also knew he was better at solving cases when he let his subconscious work on them. Sometimes he needed another case to review to help him get his mind off the current case. That’s when the patterns started making sense. That’s how he’d solved the Metzger case. He couldn’t think of another old case file he’d rather study right now than the case he’d screwed up.

With the disastrous warehouse fire fresh in his mind, he’d decided to search the storage room by himself. At this point, he didn’t trust anyone.

Stopping at a cabinet marked “property of SFPD,” he yanked the drawer open and started thumbing through the files. Five drawers later with nothing to show for his efforts, he moved to the next cabinet. The rusty metal drawer screeched its displeasure as he forced it open. Dust flew up from the top and he waved impatiently to clear the cloud out of his way.

“What are you doing down here, Chief Richards? Is there something I can help you with?” His secretary’s sensible pumps echoed on the concrete floor after she descended the last of the stairs into the storage room. Mabel’s gnarled hands were wrapped around an open-topped box full of computer printouts.

Logan hurried forward and took the box from her. “You shouldn’t carry something this heavy, let alone down those stairs. Have one of the men do that for you.”

“Bah,” she grumbled. “I’ve been going up and down those stairs longer than you’ve been alive. Haven’t managed to fall yet and don’t plan to.” She raised a perfectly plucked, bluish-gray brow. “Put that box over there against the wall and tell me why you’re snooping around down here without asking for my help.”

He carried the box to the spot where she’d pointed, careful to hide his grin at her scolding. When he turned around, she was thumbing through the files in the drawer he’d coaxed open.

“I can’t imagine what you’d find interesting in old expense reports,” she said. “I’ve got a whole cabinet full of requisition requests and travel reimbursement invoices that are much more interesting.”

“I wasn’t looking for expense reports,” he admitted.

She crossed her arms. “You don’t say.”

“I was hoping to find a copy of an old case file that burned up in the warehouse fire.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. The backups are over here.” Her puffy blue hair bounced in rhythm to the click of her heels as she headed to the far side of the cavernous room.

“Backups? I thought the warehouse had the backups.” He rushed across the room and joined her beside a wall lined with more rusty metal file cabinets.

She huffed and stared at him over the top of her glasses. “I never agreed with putting my files in that moldy firetrap. Of course I have backups. Now, which file are you interested in? I’ll find it a lot faster than you will.”

Hope flared in his chest. He’d come down here without any real expectations of finding anything. “There was a case about ten years ago, a woman was murdered in a motel—”

“Anna Northwood.” She moved down the line of file cabinets, scanning the labels on the front of each one.

“You know about that case?”

“Of course. I pay attention around here. I’m not just a pretty face, you know.” She winked and stopped in front of one of the cabinets. “Here we are.”

Logan stepped forward to force the drawer open but she waved him off.

“They open much more easily when you unlock the cabinet first.”

His face heated as she fished her keys from one of the pockets of her long, pleated skirt. It hadn’t occurred to him that the screeching cabinet he’d opened earlier was locked. He’d assumed it was rusted shut because it was so old.

She unlocked the cabinet and pulled the drawer, which slid open on well-oiled rails without a hint of protest. She raised a brow but didn’t bother to chastise him further. Her unspoken command was clear. Next time, ask her first before infringing on her domain.

A quick flick of her sensibly short nails across the tops of the folders and she located the one she was looking for. “Here you go.” She heaved the thick file up out of the cabinet.

Logan took it from her and scanned the first page to confirm it was the right one. He closed the folder and leaned down to press a quick kiss against Mabel’s cheek.

She blushed, her pale, wrinkled skin turning the bright pink of youth. “What was that for?” she said, clearing her throat and smoothing her skirt.

Logan grinned and gave her another quick kiss. “That, my wonderful, efficient Ms. Mabel, was a thank you. May I assist you upstairs or did you have more work to do down here?”

He offered his arm and she raised a brow before linking her arm through the crook of his elbow. Her eyes sparkled. “I don’t need your assistance, young man, but I’ll take it anyway.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “And I’ll take another “thank you” at the top of the stairs, right in front of Mayor Montgomery’s prissy administrative assistant. Betty Lou has a terrible crush on you. I’d like to take her down a peg or two.”

Logan laughed and led his delightfully sassy secretary toward the stairs.

S
unday was supposed to be a day of rest, but Logan was betting the serial killer he was after wasn’t resting. So he wasn’t going to rest either. After spending all day working with his team, he’d come home and secluded himself in his study. He’d begun reading through the Northwood case, several hundred pages of interviews and reports. So far he hadn’t found anything new. He’d also pored through reports and interviews from the O’Donnell case, looking for the elusive clue that would make everything come together.

And he was also trying to forget that Amanda was in the next room.

Living with her under the same roof had proved to be a much bigger strain than he’d expected. He was trying to ignore his body’s inconvenient response to her every time she entered a room. He wanted her, desperately, but it was so much more than that.

She made all his protective instincts go into overdrive. He wanted to help her, keep her safe, hold her close and make sure she knew she never had to be afraid again.

He shook his head, amazed at how quickly his thoughts could stray to Amanda. He needed to concentrate on the case. Their best lead, Frank Branson, wasn’t panning out. No one seemed to know where he was. The trucking company he worked for said he was hauling a load up to North Carolina. But he never made it to his destination. Pierce’s men were staked out, watching his apartment. Logan hoped Branson was their man, but he didn’t want to risk losing time on any other leads if Branson turned out to be innocent.

“Are you going to work all night?”

All thoughts of the case evaporated when Logan glanced up to see Amanda standing in the doorway to his study. She was so beautiful it hurt to look at her. He noticed she’d pulled her hair forward again, hiding half her face. He hated that she felt so self-conscious.

He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was so late. The sun had gone down hours ago and he hadn’t even noticed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize the time. Did you eat?” He started to get up from his chair but she waved him back down as she walked into the room.

“You don’t have to fuss over me. I’ve been feeding myself for quite a while now, without anyone else’s help. I had a sandwich earlier.”

He grimaced. “I haven’t been much of a host since you got here. Is there anything you need? I could go to the store—”

“Karen has been keeping me stocked with everything I need. I certainly don’t expect you to wait on me. You have far more important things to do.” Her smile faded as her gaze fell to the papers strewn across his desk. “Unless you snuck past me sometime today, I don’t think you’ve eaten since breakfast. I haven’t wanted to disturb you, but you’ve got to take a break sometime. I could fix you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

Yes. But not for food.
He cleared his throat and made a show of straightening his papers while he reminded himself she was a witness, staying under his roof because she needed protection. No matter how much he wished he could have met her under different circumstances, he hadn’t. She was off-limits. Period. “I’ll eat later. Thanks.”