Mr Perfect (37 page)

They went down the narrow, puke green hallway, and Leah opened the door marked "Storage," stepping aside for T.J. to enter ahead of her. T.J. wrinkled her nose at the smell, dank and sour, as if no one had been in there for quite a while. It was also dark.

"Where's the light switch?" she asked, not stepping inside. Something hard hit her in the back, shoving her forward into the dark, smelly room. T.J. sprawled on the rough concrete floor, scraping skin off her hands and knees. Sudden horrified realization exploded in her mind, and she managed to roll to the side and scramble to her feet as a long metal pipe came whistling down.

She screamed, or she thought she did. She wasn't certain, because her heartbeat was thunderous in her ears and she couldn't hear anything else. She tried to grab the pipe, and wrestled briefly for possession of it. But Leah was strong, very strong, and with a hard shove knocked T.J. off her feet again.

T.J. heard that whistling noise again; then lights exploded in her head and she didn't hear anything else.

A door opened out in the hallway. Corin froze, listening to the heavy footsteps as they crossed the hall; then there was the sound of another door opening and closing. It was someone in maintenance, he realized. If the man had looked in this direction and seen the open door of the storage room, he would certainly have come to investigate.

Corin was agonized. Why hadn't he thought of the possibility that one of the maintenance workers could be nearby? He should have; he hadn't been careful enough, and Mother would be angry.

He looked at the woman lying on the dirty concrete floor, barely visible in the light coming through the open door of the storage room. Was she breathing? He couldn't tell, and he was afraid to make any noise now.

He hadn't done this right at all. He hadn't planned well, and that frightened him, because when he didn't do something perfectly, Mother was enraged. He had to please her, had to think of something he could do, some way he could make up for his mistakes.

The other one. The one with the smart mouth. He had made a mistake with her, too, but it wasn't his fault she hadn't been at home, was it? Would Mother understand? No. Mother never accepted excuses.

He would have to go back and get it right.

But what would he do if she wasn't at home, again? She wasn't here; he knew, because he had checked. Where could she be?

He would find her. He knew who her parents were and where they lived, he knew the names of her brother and sister, and their addresses. He knew a lot of things about her. He knew a lot of things about everyone who worked here, because he loved reading their private files. He could write down their social security numbers and dates of birth and find out all sorts of things about them on his computer at home.

She was the last one. He couldn't wait. He needed to find her now, needed to finish the task Mother had given him. Very quietly he laid down the pipe beside the unmoving woman, and crept out of the storage room. He closed the door as silently as possible, then tiptoed away. Detective Wayne Satran stopped by Sam's desk with a fax. "Here's the report on the shoe print you've been waiting for." He dropped the fax on top of a pile of reports and continued to his own desk.

Sam picked up the report and read the first line: "The tread does not match – "

What the hell? All crime labs had books or databases on sneaker tread patterns, updated on a regular basis. Sometimes a manufacturer wouldn't get around to sending in an update whenever they changed their styles or refused to do so for reasons of their own. When that happened, usually a lab would simply buy a pair of the shoes in question to get the pattern.

Maybe the shoes had been bought in another country. Maybe they were an obscure off-brand, or maybe the guy was slick enough to have used a knife to change the tread pattern. He didn't think so, though. This was no organized killer; this guy operated on emotion and opportunity. He started to toss the report, but realized it was rather wordy for a simple "does not match." He couldn't afford to overlook a single detail, couldn't let his sense of urgency distract him. He began reading again. "The tread does not match that of any athletic shoe for men. The pattern does, however, match an exclusive style that is manufactured only for women. The section of tread pattern available is insufficient for determining exact size, but indicates probable size between eight and ten."

A woman's shoe? The guy was wearing women's shoes? Or… the guy was a woman.

"Son of a bitch!" Sam said between his teeth, lunging for the phone and punching in Bernsen's number. When Roger answered, he said, "I got the report back on the shoe. It's a woman's."

There was dead silence for a moment; then Roger said, "You're shitting me." He sounded as appalled as Sam felt. "We excluded the female employees from the NCIC search. We hog-tied ourselves. We have to go through their files, too."

"You're telling me a woman – " Roger fell silent, and Sam knew he was thinking of the things that had been done to Marci's body, and Luna's. "Jesus."

"Now we know why Luna opened her door. It didn't make sense that she would. But she was on guard against a man, not a woman." That feeling of having missed something was growing stronger.

A woman. Think of a blond woman. Immediately he flashed to Marci's funeral, and the tall blond woman who had broken down and wept in Cheryl's arms. A drama queen, T.J. had said, but Jaine had a different take on it: The wheel's still going around, but her hamster's dead. She thought the woman had a loose screw, that there was something wrong there. Damn it! She had even mentioned her when he asked about employees who had experienced difficulty getting along with others at work. T.J. had said something else, something that hadn't clicked at the time: the woman was in her department, human resources. The woman had access to everything, all the information in all the files, including private phone numbers and the names and addresses of relatives to call in case of an emergency.

That was it. That was what had been nagging at him. Laurence Strawn had specifically told him the personnel files weren't on computers with Internet connections; it was impossible to hack into them. Whoever had called T.J.'s cell phone number had gotten it from her file, but that file, without specific authorization, was accessible only to those in H.R.

What was her name? What was her damn name?

He reached for the phone to call Jaine, but the name popped into his head before he could dial Shelley's number: Street. Leah Street.

He dialed Bernsen instead. "Leah Street," he rasped when Roger answered. "She's the one who was crying all over Marci's sister at the funeral."

"The blonde," Roger said. "Shit! She fit the profile, too." Right down to the ground, Sam thought. The nervousness, the excessive emotion, the inability to stay in the background.

"I've got the file here," Roger said. "There are several complaints about her attitude. She didn't get along with people. God, this is classic. We'll bring her in for questioning, see what we can shake loose."

"She'll be at work," Sam said, and alarm clawed his gut. "T.J. went to work today. They're in the same department, Human Resources."

"Get on the phone to T.J." Roger said. "I'm on my way." Sam quickly looked up the number at Hammerstead. An automated answering message picked up on the first ring, and he ground his teeth. He had to listen until the recording gave the appropriate extension for Human Resources, which took valuable time. Damn it! Why didn't companies use real people to answer the phone? Messages were cheaper, but in an emergency the delay could cause real trouble.

Finally the recorded message gave the extension he wanted, and he punched it in. A harried voice picked up on the fourth ring. "Human Resources, Fallon speaking."

"T.J. Yother, please."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Yother has stepped out of the office."

"How long has she been gone?" he asked sharply. Fallon wasn't a pushover. "Who is this?" she asked just as sharply.

"Detective Donovan. It's important I find her. Listen to me: is Leah Street there?"

"Why, no." Fallon's tone had changed. She was a lot more cooperative now. "She and T.J. left together about half an hour ago, I guess. The phones have been ringing like crazy and with both of them gone we've been short- handed. They – "

Sam interrupted, "If T.J. returns, tell her to call me immediately, Detective Sam Donovan." He gave the number. He thought about alerting Fallon to the situation but quickly decided against it; if Leah hadn't bolted, he didn't want to alarm her. "Can you switch me to Mr. Strawn's office?" Only Laurence Strawn had the authority to do what he wanted.

"Yes – sure. Of course." She paused. "Do you want me to?"

Sam closed his eyes and bit back a raw curse. "Yes, please."

"Okay. Hold on."

A series of electronic tones sounded in his ear, then the smooth voice of Mr. Strawn's executive secretary. Sam cut into her practiced welcoming spiel. "This is Detective Donovan. Is Mr. Strawn available? It's an emergency." The two words "detective" and "emergency" got him put through immediately to Strawn. Quickly Sam outlined the situation. "Call the gate and don't let anyone leave, and start searching for T.J. Check every broom closet and bathroom stall. Don't confront Ms. Street, but don't let her leave. Detective Bernsen is on the way."

"Hold on," Strawn said. "I'll call the gate right now." He was back on the line in about thirty seconds. "Ms. Street left the premises about twenty minutes ago."

"Was T.J. with her?"

"No. The guard said she was alone."

"Then find T.J." Sam said urgently. He simultaneously wrote a note and signaled Wayne Satran. Wayne took the note, read it, and jumped into action. "She's somewhere in the building, and maybe she's still alive." Maybe. Marci had been dead from the first hammer blow. Luna hadn't died immediately, but she had also suffered head trauma so severe she died before she could completely bleed out from the stab wounds. The M.E. estimated, based purely on his personal experience, that she had lived, maybe, a couple of minutes after the initial attack. The attacks were vicious and overwhelming.

"Should I be discreet about it?" Strawn asked. "At this point, finding her fast is what's most important. Leah Street has already escaped. Alert everyone in the building to assist in the search. When you find her, if she's alive, do whatever you can to help her. If she's dead, try to preserve the scene. Emergency personnel are on the way." That was what Wayne had been doing, getting the wheels rolling. Law enforcement officers from several different jurisdictions were converging on Hammerstead, as well as medics and evidence techs.

"We'll find her," Laurence Strawn said quietly. Sam's instinct, as a cop, was to go to the scene. He stayed where he was, knowing he could do more good right there.

Leah Street's file was on Roger's desk. Sam called the Sterling Heights P.D. and got the detective who answered to look in the file and give him Leah's home address and phone number, plus her social security number. After a minute the detective picked up the phone and said, "I don't find a Leah Street. 'There's a 'Corin Lee Street,' but no 'Leah'."

Corin Lee? Jesus. Sam rubbed his forehead, trying not to wonder what in hell that meant. Was Leah a man or a woman? The names were too similar for coincidence. "Is Corin Street a man or a woman?" he asked. "Let me see." A pause. "Here it is. Female." Maybe, Sam thought. "Okay, thanks. That's the one I want." The detective read off the information Sam had requested. He copied it down, accessed the motor vehicle department and got her license plate number and description of the car.

He then had a BOLO – "be on the lookout" – issued for the car. He didn't know if she was armed; so far, she hadn't used a firearm, but that didn't mean she didn't have one, and she might well have a knife with her. She was unstable as hell, like nitroglycerin; she had to be approached with caution.

Where had she gone? Home? Only a real looney-tunes would – but Leah Street was a real looney-tunes. He got officers en route to her house.

While he was getting everything in motion, he tried not to think about T.J. Had they found her yet? Were they too late?

How much time had lapsed? He checked his watch; ten minutes since he had talked to Strawn, so that was thirty minutes since Leah had left Hammerstead. She could hit the interstate highway system and in half an hour could be anywhere in the Detroit area, or have crossed over into Windsor, Canada. That would be great; they already had four or five jurisdictions involved, so why not bring in another nation?

He thought about calling Jaine, but decided to wait. He didn't know anything definite about T.J. and couldn't put her through the ordeal of waiting to hear, not so soon after Luna.

Thank God Jaine was at Shelley's house. She wasn't alone, and she was safe, because Leah didn't know who Shelley was or where she lived – Unless Jaine had listed Shelley as her "contact in case of emergency."

Because he and Roger had divided the personnel files alphabetically, with Sam taking the top half of the stack of printed sheets and Roger the bottom half, Roger had Leah Street's file – and he had Jaine's. There were more Bs than any other letter of the alphabet, and he hurriedly riffled through the stack. When he found Jaine's file, he jerked the pages out and quickly scanned them. Shelley was listed.