The Seventh Victim (23 page)

“That when you talked to her last?”

“Yes. It was after eleven.” She drew in a breath. “Can you tell me how she died?”

“She was strangled.”

The older woman’s face pinched with surprise for just a brief moment, and then the expression vanished before she met his gaze again. “Strangled? I was certain you were going to tell me it was a drug overdose or an accident.”

“No, ma’am.”

Mrs. Silver sat so straight he thought her spine would snap. “Where was she found?”

“Near the interstate.” Every death notice was different, many times unexpected reactions. Tears. Anger. Denial. Frustration. He usually got some kind of response. But Mrs. Silver was completely flat. It was almost as if she’d not actually heard him.

He watched her closely. “Ma’am, can you tell me if Blair had boyfriends or acquaintances that might have done her harm?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know any of her friends anymore. The set of friends she had a couple of years ago were not good people. But she kept swearing to me she’d changed and her friends had changed. I just couldn’t allow myself to hope. I called her often. Was always checking up on her.”

He couldn’t imagine not dogging a child who was headed toward trouble. “She listed your address as her permanent address.”

“Well, I suppose you could say it was her last permanent address. She’s been moving around a lot for the last couple of years.”

“What was she studying at the university?”

“English. History. Economics, of late. She could have done anything. She was brilliant. But she chose to have a good time rather than apply herself. She was about to graduate but just barely.”

“Mrs. Silver, I’ve got two other victims who might have been killed by the same man.”

Her eyes widened as she struggled with unwanted emotions. “Her death didn’t have anything to do with her drinking or the drugs?”

“I don’t think so.”

She swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m trying to retrace her last days.”

“I wish I could help. But Blair and I didn’t communicate well. I called. We were polite, but our conversations had little depth and generally ended with us shouting at each other.”

“When was the last time she lived here?”

“She spent a night here about three months ago.” Mrs. Silver leaned forward and from a silver box removed a cigarette and lighter. She lit the tip and inhaled deeply. “It wasn’t a good visit. We fought. I was worried she’d start drinking again and she was furious that I didn’t trust her.”

“Could I have a look at her room?”

“Certainly.” Stiffly, she snubbed out her cigarette and rose. “Follow me.”

He sensed beneath the ice, sadness and regret swirled in a destructive twister. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Silver led Beck up a cream-colored carpeted staircase that wound by walls sporting neatly framed watercolors. In his grandfather’s house the carpets had been worn and threadbare and the walls filled with pictures of Beck, his brother and his father as a child. There were images of Beck swinging a bat and posing with the football team. It was a chaotic mishmash of pictures. And he still found it warm and welcoming especially compared to the elegant sterility of the Silver house.

Mrs. Silver led him down a center hallway toward a door on the back left. She opened the door and stepped back as if entering hurt. “Spend as much time as you’d like in the room. I’ll be downstairs waiting.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“There is a computer in her room. She didn’t take it with her but the last time she was here she spent time on it.”

“Thank you.” He waited until she’d turned to leave before entering the room. Painted in a pale pink, the room was dominated by a large canopy bed with a white eyelet coverlet. Twin nightstands sported crystal lamps and a chaise set by a large bay window. It was the perfect little girl’s room.

He sat down at a delicate, girly-looking desk, hoping it would support his six-foot-six frame. The chair groaned a protest but held steady. He pressed the computer’s power button. The screen saver was a collage of pictures taken of Blair and her friends over the last couple of years. In most of the images she was grinning, her arm wrapped casually around someone’s neck, a drink and cigarette in the other. In several, Blair’s hair was dark brown, in others she had dyed a streak purple, and finally she’d switched to blond—the color that had caught the killer’s attention. She wore deeply cut blouses and heavy makeup. Lots of gold bangles dangled from her neck and wrists.

He shifted his attention to the men in the photos, wondering if any of them stood out. Many sported the ruddy cheeks and goofy expressions of a drunk and most appeared to be college age. Seven years ago, they’d have been in middle or high schools. Nothing caught his attention.

He opened her e-mails. Two hundred and twelve messages appeared. Most were ads for clothes, shoes, some even from an online university. Only a few appeared to be from actual people, but that wasn’t surprising. Kids Blair’s age communicated via text or cell. E-mail, Santos’s youngest sister had once said, was for old people.

The majority of the personal e-mails were from men and their messages dealt with setting up a meeting. Nothing specific was discussed, and Blair’s outgoing box showed no responses on her computer. He’d need to track down her cell phone records for that. He checked her browser history but found most of her stops were online stores and tarot reading sites.

Beck rose from the chair and unplugged the computer, hoping Mrs. Silver would let him take it with him so his experts could search it. He could get a warrant but hoped she’d make this easy.

He checked dresser drawers, which were empty, and he checked her closet. The clothes that remained were for a younger girl, and many of the dresses still had the tags on them. He could picture Mrs. Silver buying perfect clothes for a daughter who wasn’t so perfect and would never wear what her mother had chosen.

He moved down the center staircase, the computer in hand. He found Mrs. Silver sitting in the living room where they’d first visited.

She’d lit another cigarette and with a trembling hand lifted it to her mouth. “I never would have smoked in this house while my husband was alive. He hated the smell. I think that’s why Blair started smoking. She wanted to make him angry.”

“Mrs. Silver, would you mind if I took Blair’s computer? I’d like my forensics experts to have a look at it.”

She nodded. “Take whatever you want.”

“Thank you.”

She snubbed out the end of her cigarette in a crystal ashtray. “I read about a woman in the Sunday paper. Lara Church. The photographer. The article said she had survived the Seattle Strangler. And you said my Blair was strangled.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is the article about Ms. Church true?”

“Yes, ma’am, it’s true.”

“Do you think the Seattle Strangler is here?”

“I don’t know.”

Her gaze narrowed. “But you have suspicions.”

“Which I cannot discuss.”

“Can Ms. Church give you a description of her attacker?”

“She has no memory of the attack.”

Dark eyes flashed with frustration. “There’s got to be a way to make her remember.”

“We’re doing all we can.”

Mrs. Silver shook her head. “Are you?”

Her pain burrowed under his skin and grated against his nerves. “Yes, ma’am, we are.”

“I made a lot of mistakes with Blair. Warning signs I shouldn’t have ignored years ago. I should have trusted that she wanted to get sober, but I didn’t. I failed her in so many ways, but there is one last thing I can do for her.”

“What’s that?”

Gray eyes hardened. “Make sure you find her killer.”

“I’m giving it my best.”

“You damn well better, Sergeant. You damn well better.”

Mrs. Silver walked to the front door, each step controlled and brittle. “Thank you for your kindness.”

He opened the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

A quick nod was all she managed as she opened the door and watched him step onto the porch. She closed the front door with a soft click. Seconds later he heard the soft muffled sounds of her weeping.

When Lara arrived in the lab with Lincoln, the room of students was unnaturally quiet. The students, who normally were chatting and texting and thinking about everything other than lab, sat tense and silent. As Lincoln lay down behind her desk, she set her backpack on the desk and carefully unzipped it. Beyond the silence, she heard the ticking of the clock and steady breaths of the kids in the front row.

“I suppose you’ve read the paper,” she said without raising her head.

No one said anything, but several kids murmured back and forth at each other, hoping to find someone who would speak for the class.

Lara pulled out her laptop. “If you have any questions, now is the time to ask because once I start my lecture I’m not discussing this again.”

Tim Gregory, the big, beefy football player in the back of the room, half raised his hand. “Is it true?”

Lara’s gaze met the boy’s. “The article in the paper about me? Yes, it’s true.”

Annie, a girl who always wore athletic shorts, white tees, and a scrunchie in her long, black hair, sat taller. “So, like, you were strangled once?”

“Yes, I was.”

More murmurs rippled across the room.

Tim’s smile looked more uncomfortable than jovial. “This dude killed six women before you.”

“That’s right.” Her gaze skimmed the astonished faces to Danni, who stared with wide-eyed understanding.

“So how did you get so lucky?” Annie said.

Lucky
. Lara had never thought that luck would have a double-edged sword. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, but aren’t you afraid?” Annie said.

Lara laid her hands on her desk. “Honestly, at this point I’m more afraid that the majority of you are going to fail my class this semester.”

That caused several kids to sit forward in their seats.

“I’ve tried to treat you as adults, but frankly most of you are more worried about the next party than you are about this class.” Indignation welled, jostling aside the lingering fear of a man she could not remember. “If you think it is an easy A you are going to be sadly mistaken. Most are going to have to hustle hard just to get a C. And for some, I know you need that C to remain on the roster for the fall sports teams.”

Tim grumbled. “Coach said I shouldn’t worry about snapping pictures when I should be doing strength conditioning.”

She smiled. “Coach is wrong if you want to pass, Mr. Gregory.”

He groaned. “That’s not right. I worked hard for my spot on that team.”

“You’re not working hard in my class, Mr. Gregory, and that is all I care about.”

He opened his mouth to protest.

She raised her hand to silence him. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. Do your work or fail.”

“The coach says art is just fluff.”

“It’s fluff that’ll get you kicked off the team.”

“You’ll lose your job,” he countered.

She grinned at his attempt to threaten. “Mr. Gregory, I was nearly strangled to death seven years ago. Do you think losing a job scares me?”

He frowned but didn’t speak. Several of the kids sniggered nervously.

“I can promise that you won’t pass if you don’t do the work. And whether I’m gone or not you’ll still have an F, and you won’t be playing ball in the fall.”

She hoped her big speech would prompt everyone to sit up a little straighter and pay closer attention, but, other than the random rustling of pages, there was little change from last week.

She dismissed the group into the darkroom, where they worked for the next couple of hours. When lab ended, the students shuffled past her, some glancing at her as if they’d wanted to say more. But under Lincoln’s watchful eyes, none voiced their thoughts and each left.

Danni stopped at her desk. “Hey, if you want to shoot more pictures, I’m in.”

Lara smiled. “Thanks, but it might be wiser if you stayed clear of me for the time being.”

“Because of the other dead women?”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Danni straightened to her full five foot one inch. “I’ve seen my share of shit.”

A half smile tugged at the edge of Lara’s lips as she stared into the girl’s world-weary eyes. “No need to see any more. Thanks, Danni, and as soon as I get the all-clear I’ll give you a call.”

“You better.”

When the last student left, she packed up her bag and breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay, Lincoln, let’s take a walk.”

His ears perked up and tail wagged, he followed her down the staircase and out the back door. The air was hot and the sky clear. This would be a good day to shoot pictures and she mentally inventoried her developing supplies.

When she reached her truck a white paper flapped under her windshield wiper on the driver’s side. A glance around confirmed that the same flyer was stuck under all the wipers. An ad. She got into the car, started the A/C and waited until it had cooled a little before she let Lincoln hop up into the passenger seat. She tossed her backpack on the seat between them.

She grabbed the flyer and as she balled it up she caught sight of words scrawled in red magic marker over the advertisement. Carefully, she unfurled the paper to read:
The killer is close.

Lara snorted her disgust as she stared at the childish handwriting, reminiscent of Tim Gregory’s. She’d nearly been strangled to death. Been on the run for seven years. And now this little creep thought he’d scare her with words.

She’d have gone to the dean, but knew she’d need more than an anonymous note before sanctions would ever be levied on a star football player. “Nice try, Mr. Gregory.” Resisting the urge to toss the note, she shoved it in her backpack as she slid behind the wheel and slammed the door behind her.

If the damn note had done anything it had solidified her decision to stand her ground. She wasn’t running this time. She wasn’t.

The locals kept talking about the day’s milder temperatures, but Raines believed Texas was hotter than hell. He longed to return to Seattle with its cool misty days, great coffee, and familiar streets.