The Last Victim (23 page)

“Done.” He grinned. “I—”

Whatever he’d been going to add was lost as a man came charging out of the shadows toward them. He came from the direction of the road, and his dark form blended with the night so well that Charlie was only aware of him when he was almost on top of them.

Her heart leaped. She gasped and jumped, but had no time to do anything else because Bartoli thrust her behind him and at the same time whipped out his weapon, leveled it, and barked, “Federal agent! Freeze!”

Dear God …

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, it’s John Price.” Identifying himself, the figure stopped so suddenly that he nearly toppled over. He wasn’t the only one struggling for balance, either. When Bartoli had thrust her behind him, Charlie’s heel had caught on the edge of one of the planks. She stumbled and would have fallen backward into the sand dunes if she hadn’t grabbed on to Bartoli’s waist to steady herself.

“Price?” Bartoli questioned sharply.

“Yeah.” The man’s reply was sheepish. “You know, Officer Price from Kill Devil Hills PD.”

“Did you want something?” There was an undertone of disgust in Bartoli’s voice. As he asked the question, he slid an arm around Charlie’s shoulders to help steady her. Even though her brain registered that they were not in danger after all, her heart still thundered, her pulse still raced, and her legs felt like spaghetti. Grateful for the support, she leaned into Bartoli’s side as he reholstered his gun. His arm stayed around her, and she liked it being there.

“Haney sent me to tell you …” Price, out of breath, huffed between words. “… that we got a surveillance video of a car he wants you guys to look at. It’s from Wednesday night … Thursday morning, I guess … about four a.m., taken off a traffic camera not far from here. The picture’s blurry, but he thought you guys might be able to sharpen it up so we could get something off it.”

Bartoli’s eyes brightened. “Where is he?”

“In the car, out there on the road. We were heading back to town when he spotted you and Dr. Stone walking here, and he told me to
bring it over to you. So here it is.” Still huffing, Price pulled something from his pocket and handed it to Bartoli. “He said he’ll stop by tomorrow to see what you get.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “He said he doesn’t want anybody talking about it on the phone. He’s paranoid that some of the reporters … or somebody else … might be listening in.”

Bartoli nodded. “Tell Haney I said thanks, and we’ll do our best.” He pocketed what appeared to be a small DVD.

Price nodded, and turned to head back the way he’d come.

Bartoli looked after him for a minute, then glanced at Charlie. She was suddenly way too aware of her hands on his waist and his arm around her shoulders. Beneath the smooth cotton of his shirt, his waist felt firm and trim, and his arm felt warm and solid and protective curved around her shoulders. He smelled nice, too—maybe some kind of detergent or fabric softener in his clothes, she thought.

And we’re this close because I almost bit the ground. Again
. The realization took the this-almost-could’ve-been-romantic overtones out of the situation.

“Okay, I admit it: I’m a terrible klutz,” she said with a sigh, and stepped away from him.

He let her go. “That’s not what I was thinking about,” he protested, and grinned. The grin was a dead giveaway.

“You don’t have to be polite about it.” Charlie started walking. Bartoli fell in beside her. “I’ve been falling all over myself since we met.”

“If you knew me better, Dr. Stone, you’d know polite isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

Charlie looked up at him. He wasn’t quite as tall as Garland
—not that I’m thinking about Garland
—or quite as muscular, or quite as handsome—
or comparing him to Garland in any way
. It was just that Garland was the last man (?) she had stood this close to. But Bartoli was plenty tall and muscular and handsome in his own right, and a dependable, steady man of good character besides.

“Probably it’s time you started calling me Charlie.”

The slow smile he gave her told her he liked that. No, it told her he liked
her
. Which was great, because she liked him, too.

“Charlie,” he said. “But only if you call me Tony.”

“Tony,” she repeated, and smiled back at him. This was progress. Plus, they had a date to go running together in the morning, which was something, too. Then, a little worried that she might be moving too fast, or heading in a direction she wasn’t a hundred percent sure she wanted to take, she glanced away and added in her best professional tone, “I wouldn’t have picked Detective Haney as the type to hand over potential evidence his department found to the FBI. He strikes me as being more territorial than that.”

Bartoli—no, Tony now—seemed content to follow her lead. “Yeah, but he’s got a problem: the media around here are going to crucify
him
if we don’t catch this guy fast. He’s the local detective in charge of the case. He’s the one who’ll take the heat if Bayley Evans …”

With a glance at her, he trailed off. But she knew what it was he wasn’t saying:
if Bayley Evans dies
. And with that thought, any lingering hint of prospective romance in the air vanished. The night suddenly became a whole lot colder and darker and every bit of pleasure she’d taken in the deepening of her connection to Bartoli—Tony—was gone.

He must have felt the weight of the case on him, too, because their conversation from then until he handed her over to Kaminsky, who was in the RV with Crane, stayed strictly professional.

Seated at adjacent computers in the War Room, Crane and Kaminsky were exchanging verbal jabs about the significance of a drunk driving arrest in one of the background checks when Charlie and Tony, having made it almost unnoticed through the hustle and bustle still going on in the front part of Central Command, approached them.

“By itself, not that significant,” Charlie advised, and Crane smiled triumphantly at her, while Kaminsky looked put out. Tony interrupted the budding discussion that threatened to follow with a quick description of the news report that had revealed Charlie’s true identity and to tell them about Haney’s disc, and then told Kaminsky to escort Charlie back to their lodging.

“And stay put. It’s almost midnight. You’re done for the night,” he added sternly to Kaminsky.

“You and Crane—” she protested.

“Will be coming when we’re done here. Go do your job, Kaminsky.”

Kaminsky sulked, especially when Tony pulled out the DVD Officer Price had given him and handed it to Crane, who inserted it into the computer.

“Go,” Tony ordered over his shoulder when Kaminsky continued to show a disposition to linger.

She did, taking Charlie with her, but it was obvious she wasn’t happy about it.

“So your cover got blown, huh?” Kaminsky inquired as she marched Charlie into the house, up the stairs, and into the in-law suite like a cop with a prisoner.

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll keep the bogeyman away.”

Charlie waited as Kaminsky conducted a quick search of her rooms. She was dead tired, emotionally wrung out, and in profound need of Tums and aspirin. As a result, her patience was frayed, and Kaminsky’s semi-sarcastic tone hit her the wrong way.

As Kaminsky returned to the living room, where Charlie stood by the door, Charlie snapped, “Is it me you have a problem with, or just psychiatry in general?”

Kaminsky looked about as surprised as she might have if a cat had barked. Then her eyes narrowed. “The day you explain to me how you, through some kind of psychiatric mumbo-jumbo, can tell that an unsub has a red heart stamped on his hand is the day I’ll believe that psychiatry has a role to play in solving a case like this.”

Kaminsky had her there. But not entirely. “Are you saying you think it’s a bad lead?”

The other woman’s mouth thinned. “No. But …”

“But nothing. I got this investigation a solid lead it wouldn’t otherwise have, and I’d appreciate it if you would respect that.” Charlie opened the door. The brightly lit hall beyond looked incongruously cheerful. “If you’re confident the bogeyman isn’t here, lying in wait for me, I’ll say good-night.”

Kaminsky looked at her, seemed about to add something else, then didn’t, and walked out the door.

“Good-night,” she said stiffly over her shoulder.

Charlie closed and locked the door.

After her own quick search of the apartment, in case Garland had shown up—he hadn’t—Charlie kicked off her shoes, found the Tums and aspirin, and washed both down with a glass of water. Exhausted but too wired to just immediately fall into bed, waiting for the aspirin to kick in and take the edge off her headache and the Tums to do its thing on her stomach, worried about Garland although she hated to admit it even to herself, she took a quick shower. In the process she discovered the heart stamp was pretty much impervious to soap and water and filed the information away as something to be mentioned later. Then she pulled on her nightie and robe, grabbed her laptop, and curled up in the big green recliner in the living room.

Her avowed purpose was to do a quick check of her e-mail.

She was not waiting for Garland, who might very well have crossed the Great Divide permanently and be gone for good. She did
not
feel like the parent of a teenager who’d missed his curfew. She was not even
thinking
about Garland.

If he’s gone, good riddance
.

But still, after a cursory glance at her e-mail, she found herself opening Garland’s file, which she had downloaded to her personal laptop for convenience when she had first acquired him as a research subject at Wallens Ridge.

You want to know what kind of interaction with my “father figure” I had when I was eleven years old? I’ll tell you: I shot the bastard dead
.

The savagery in Garland’s voice as he’d told her that echoed in her head.

A history of violence as a youth: this mark of a serial killer was present in every single case she’d studied. It was textbook. Charlie had a hazy memory of glancing through a long list of qualifying offenses in Garland’s past. At the time, she hadn’t been paying that much attention. Garland had been just one more monster in a world surprisingly thick with them.

However, now he was sort of
her
monster.

So she paged impatiently through a file that, printed out, would
be as thick as a brick, searching for his juvenile record. When she found it, she saw the offense right off:
subject, 11, murdered stepfather with victim’s shotgun
.

The entry was recorded in a social worker’s neat, sloping penmanship beside
Admitting Offense
on the form used to remand Garland to a Georgia state facility for juvenile offenders. He had stayed there until the age of fourteen, when he had run away.

The body of the entry, a single handwritten paragraph in the space allowed on the form, said:

Subject was adopted by Stan and Susan Garland as a three-year-old, after having been in foster care from the age of seven months. Stan Garland subsequently left the family and Susan Garland filed for divorce. Susan Garland married Barry Davies, the victim. This marriage took place when subject was seven. Police records indicate multiple domestic violence calls to house before the time of the offense. Susan Garland Davies states that the victim was “a crazy drunk” and would beat her and subject regularly. Susan Garland Davies and Barry Davies both have numerous documented instances of alcohol abuse. Susan Garland Davies states that on the night of the offense, victim had beaten her and subject and subsequently left the house. When he returned, subject shot victim with a 12-gauge shotgun victim kept for household protection. Susan Garland Davies expresses anger at subject for killing victim, and is in the process of giving up her parental rights. Susan Garland Davies states that subject is “a mean little shit” and she wants nothing further to do with him now that he has killed her husband
.

Charlie was surprised to find that she had a lump in her throat as she finished reading. She was even more surprised to realize that her sorrow wasn’t for the victim, but instead for the abused eleven-year-old boy whose mother described him as “a mean little shit” and deliberately gave up her rights to him. Probably, given what Charlie knew of the juvenile corrections system, just when he needed her the most.

Suddenly her own mother, difficult as her alcoholism had been to deal with, seemed worthy of mother-of-the-year honors. At least Charlie had never doubted she was loved.

Charlie was just clicking through to the next page in Garland’s file when there was an urgent knock on the door.

“Dr. Stone.”
It was Kaminsky.

“I’m coming.” Kaminsky’s tone set off alarm bells in Charlie. Shoving the laptop onto the nearest table, she jumped up and hurried to answer the summons. Before she could reach the door, Charlie heard a key in the lock. Kaminsky had sounded like something was wrong, and now she was coming in without waiting for Charlie to admit her.

Whatever it is can’t be good.…

Charlie discovered that her heart was pounding even as Kaminsky, still fully dressed, down to her shoes, burst through the doorway. Their eyes met for a pregnant instant.
Trouble
, was what Charlie read in that look, and then Kaminsky glanced around wildly.

“What?”
Charlie registered Kaminsky’s drawn gun and surrendered to a full-blown case of the nervous jitters.

“Did someone come in here?” The agent’s voice was sharp. Shutting the door, she looked around with more care. Then, shaking her head at Charlie in a gesture that warned her to stay where she was, she started moving carefully through the living room, two-handing her gun, glancing behind the furniture and into corners before eyeing the kitchen suspiciously.

“No one’s here but me,” Charlie assured her.

“I saw a man in the hall right outside your door. I had just come up from the kitchen and stepped inside my room, and I caught a glimpse of him behind me out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t see where he went, but there wasn’t time for him to go anywhere else. I—I’m almost sure he came in here.” There was the tiniest degree of hesitation in that last sentence, which told Charlie that Kaminsky was growing less sure by the second.