Nameless (12 page)

McBride’s interest slid across the table to Grace. The silver blouse she wore beneath that black jacket sported a scooped neck that
almost
gave a hint of cleavage. When she’d unbuttoned her jacket and taken a seat across the table from him, he had been pleasantly surprised. Her hair was restrained in a shiny silver clasp that held it ponytail-style at the nape of her slender neck. Maybe the lady really wasn’t the ice princess he had first labeled her.

Or maybe he’d succeeded in setting her thermostat to thaw.

“Davis, where are we on that list of names?” Worth asked.

McBride’s focus snapped back to the head of the table. This was the first he had heard about a list of names. He shouldn’t be surprised. What the hell had he expected? He wasn’t going to be treated like an equal. There wasn’t anyone in this room who wanted him here. His participation was a necessary evil.

Davis shuffled the pages in front of him. “We’ve come up with more than five thousand hits.”

Worth rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you brief everyone about this list and we’ll do a little brainstorming to see if we can come up with some criteria for narrowing it down.”

Davis glanced at McBride as if he dreaded explaining himself. “SAC had me come in at five this morning and start pulling together a list of names in the Bureau’s incoming-mail database.” Davis tugged at his collar as if he needed to make room for spitting out what came next. “Letters and e-mails either addressed to McBride or with a subject line that related to him or one of his cases.”

Grace leaned forward to look past Aldridge. “And there were over five
thousand?”

Guess the lady hadn’t realized just how popular he had been.

Davis nodded. “And I only got it down to five thousand after I narrowed the search parameters to work-related e-mails. There were a lot more asking for dates and … offering marriage.” Davis tapped the stack of pages and smirked. “You had yourself a regular fan club, McBride. Just like a rock star.”

That explanation didn’t appear to sit too well with Grace. She leaned back in her chair, her face impassive, as if she could care less. “Shall we differentiate the sexes?” she suggested to Worth, not sparing McBride a glance. “Are we operating under the assumption that our unsub is male or female?”

“Considering the rats,” McBride said, waiting for her to meet his gaze. She refused. “I’d lean toward male, but that’s just me. Maybe I prefer to believe my female fans wouldn’t be quite so hard-core.”

She looked at him then, her dark eyes flashing with disdain. “I’ve met one of your female fans, McBride. I wouldn’t rule out that possibility.”

Obviously she was still ticked off about the shoe comment. He angled his head in a gesture of touché and she redirected her attention to the SAC.

“It just so happens,” Davis piped up, “that I did that. Eighty percent are female.” He looked at McBride now with something that resembled admiration.

Clearly not impressed and certainly not in awe of McBride, Worth asked him, “Any other parameters you’d recommend for narrowing down the list?”

“Go backward,” McBride suggested.

Worth looked skeptical. “Backward?”

To Davis, McBride explained, “Look for repeat offenders. Whoever Devoted Fan is, male or female, this unsub has followed my career for some time, not just one case.”

“And how do you know that?” Worth challenged. “Other than that one line where he referred to you as his ‘old friend,’ what else is there?”

“Forty-one,” Grace said, with an I-got-this-one look at McBride. “That’s the number of high-profile cases you solved during your career.”

There had been a lot more than forty-one cases, but she was right, there was exactly that number that had captured the media’s as well as the nation’s attention, spanning from year one all the way until the curtain call. Tragedy TV. There were those who couldn’t resist watching … like passing a car wreck.

“I thought it was strange,” McBride said, his gaze lingering on her then looking from her to Worth, “that the unsub would select forty-one hours as the allotment of time for rescuing Alyssa Byrne. Most of these scumbags are rather anal. They work with nice round numbers, like twenty-four or forty-eight. Forty-one was a clue. We just didn’t see it right away.” By “we” he meant Worth, but no need to piss the guy off this early in the day.

“Secondly,” McBride continued, addressing Davis with this part, “look for mail with northern Alabama, southern Tennessee, eastern Mississippi zip codes. Our unsub isn’t far away.”

“That may be a waste of time,” Grace countered, “if the unsub has moved in the past three years.”

“True,” McBride agreed, “but it’s a usable parameter that could be advantageous.”

“What about relatives or close friends?” Aldridge spoke up. “Is there anyone you can think of who would want some sort of revenge for the Bureau’s decision three years ago?”

One corner of McBride’s mouth twitched. “You mean, besides me?”

Aldridge exchanged a look with Worth.

“I’m aware that you’re going to consider me a suspect until you have someone else to blame,” McBride said, letting both men off the hook. “Just don’t let that aspect of your investigative work keep you from looking for the real suspect.”

“We know how to conduct an investigation,” Worth said. “We’ve got folks at Quantico reviewing your old cases, checking on any possible family connections to perps you’ve eliminated or put behind bars who might bear a grudge. You made a few enemies in your time, McBride.”

He couldn’t deny that charge. McBride was just glad to hear that at least some effort was being directed toward any theory at all that didn’t include him as a suspect.

“Excuse me, sir.” Agent Schaffer strode into the room.

McBride had wondered where she’d gotten off to. Today she wore shiny red cowboy boots. The lady did like her boots.

Worth looked up as Schaffer approached his end of the conference table. “Yes, Agent Schaffer?”

She glanced at McBride then said, “We have a new communication from Devoted Fan.”

Everyone in the room prepared to move into action, but McBride was the one to go to the computer to view the newest communication. He felt Grace move up behind him as he clicked the necessary keys to open the document.

Good morning, McBride,

I trust you slept well in your grand accommodations.

“He knows where you’re staying,” Grace said, her voice thin.

McBride cleared his mind of both distractions, Grace and the idea that this scumbag knew where he’d stayed last night, and read the rest of the e-mail.

Here is your next challenge:

This city was built on blood, sweat, and determination. Even now, mightiest to weakest, hard work is what makes it thrive … is what forged the path from atop Red Mountain.

A Jones is a hard worker, but there was a time when she was oblivious. She is remorseful of that mistake and its consequences. But remorse is not always enough and is inevitably too late.

Her life is in danger, McBride, you must find her before she drowns in her regret. Death can be so cold; she need not die to find her atonement. Her preservation is in plain sight. You have twenty-four hours … don’t be late.

I remain …
Your Devoted Fan

McBride reread the last two lines. Only twenty-four hours this time. The wording and details given were much more obscure … not as definitive as before. Uncertainty snaked around his chest and squeezed. First, he should … his mind scrambled for the proper protocol.

“Who is A. Jones?” Grace called out to the others. “We need to know the answer to that question ASAP!”

“I’m on it,” Pratt tossed back.

Okay. McBride knew how to do this.
No fear
. No self-doubt.
Focus
.

He printed a copy of the e-mail and pushed away from the computer.
What next?
“Davis … you … you stay on narrowing down those fan mail lists. Aldridge, you and Schaffer work on what Devoted Fan has given us this time. See if you get any matches on possible locations in the city using this verbiage.”

“The first thing that comes to mind is steel,” Grace said as she retrieved the hard copy of the e-mail from the printer. “This city was built by the steel magnates.” She studied the e-mail. “He uses the word ‘forged.’”

“Iron Man,” Schaffer suggested, taking Grace’s theory and running with it.

“Atop Red Mountain,” Grace concurred. “Schaffer’s right. Vulcan Park, home to the Iron Man atop Red Mountain. And he’s definitely in plain sight.” Grace looked to McBride. “That would be a good place to start, maybe even before we identify the victim. We could get a search team over there to have a look around. Park security could assist.”

“See if Birmingham PD will authorize a small search team to get started,” McBride agreed. “Any head start is better than none.” The A before Jones worried him. Was the A an initial or an article referring to Jones? That one missing piece of punctuation would cost them precious time … but then that was likely the point.

Worth held up his hands and moved them back and forth as if erasing the suggestion Grace had made and McBride had approved. “We don’t even have a line on the victim yet. What she looks like, how old she is, nothing. We need to know who we’re looking for prior to launching a search.”

“But there
is
a victim,” McBride argued. “We just don’t know the specifics.”

As valid as Worth’s point was, this wasn’t about him. It wasn’t even about the victim.

This was about McBride’s ability to meet the challenge.

And he only had twenty-four hours.

CHAPTER TEN

Vulcan Park
5:30 P.M
.
16 hours, 30 minutes remaining …

“The K-9s have been over every inch of this park.” Vivian mentally cringed as she reported her status to Worth. There’s nothing here, sir.”

Six hours, ten acres. And nothing.
Dammit
.

Worth had been right.

McBride had sent her here to head the search while he focused on identifying and tracking down anything he could find on the victim. And she had gotten nowhere. She had wasted time and resources.

A reporter, Nadine Goodman, and a cameraman from WKRT had shown up and attempted to question Vivian. Park security had sent them on their way. Fortunately, that one news crew was all that had bothered. Leave it to Nadine Goodman to sniff out the scent of a story ahead of the pack.

The hoopla at the cemetery had been about Alyssa Byrne, the daughter of one of the city’s prominent families. If the media had gotten wind of McBride’s participation, there was no indication. Vivian hoped their luck held out. Still, it seemed odd that a high-profile reporter like Goodman would show up for a missing persons search without a socially elite name attached. Goodman was the one to worry about. She was ruthless. If she got wind of McBride’s participation, this case would ignite in the media.

Worth ordered Vivian back to Eighteenth Street. That lone command proved more devastating than if he had raked her over the coals.

She shoved her phone back into its holster and considered the official vehicles scattered around the parking area. All of it a major waste of time.

McBride, Pratt, and Davis were still working on identifying the latest victim and narrowing down the list of fans that had followed McBride’s career. Finding the victim was like looking for that single four-leafed mutation in a field of clover. There were hundreds of Joneses in the Birmingham area; more than a third had first-name initials that began with the letter
A
—if the letter was even intended as an initial.

Basically, they had nothing.

How did you look for a missing person when you didn’t even know who you were looking for? Coming to Vulcan Park had been a shot in the dark at best.

What Vivian needed was a Coke. She had barked so many orders and walked so many miles over the park grounds, she was exhausted. The high sugar content would do her good. Lunch had come and gone with no time to care. After giving Birmingham PD’s team leader the final word to head home, she made a stop in the gift shop.

“Dollar fifty-nine,” the clerk said after ringing up the soft drink.

Vivian handed her two one-dollar bills and reached for her Coke. A long line of brochures advertising local attractions filled display racks on the counter next to the register. The first couple snagged her attention. Shelby Ironworks and Sloss Furnaces. Both historic landmarks, the latter was now a huge open-air museum. Vivian had visited the Sloss Furnaces on a sixth-grade field trip. She reached for the brochure, some distant memory vying for her attention. She definitely needed that sugar; her brain was going to sludge.

She and McBride had considered Sloss Furnaces and Tannehill Ironworks as well as Shelby Ironworks as secondary search locations, but none of those were located atop Red Mountain like Vulcan Park. That one factor had advanced the park to the top of the priority list.

But they had been wrong …
she
had been wrong.

“Now there’s a neat place to visit,” the clerk said with a knowing nod. “I take my kids there every year for the haunted house they put on. Scares ’em to death.”

Maybe it was the low blood sugar level or the gut-wrenching frustration, but Vivian opened up the multi-folded brochure for a look. Anything to take her mind away even for a second. “It’s been a while since I was there,” she remarked, more to herself than to the woman behind the counter.

“Oh, you definitely need to go back,” she urged. “Why, that old place is something to see. Towering smoke stacks and furnaces.” She cackled. “Old pipes snaking around in every direction like steel ghosts peeking around corners.”