The White Carnation (17 page)

The gentle sound of Rob's breathing indicated he was still deeply asleep. She raised her head just high enough to see the alarm clock on the bedside table. Six fifteen. Yawning again, she laid back into the pillow and closed her eyes. Rob stirred in his sleep, tightening his hold on her, and she felt his morning arousal against her back. Memories of their ardent lovemaking surfaced and desire flared in her, further confusing her. She moved quickly, gratified when he turned away from her.

They'd skirted the events of their past that had caused their breakup, but they hadn't discussed it or resolved any of the issues. By unspoken agreement, they'd arrived at a truce because he needed her help as much as she needed his. Easing the quilt back, she got up and padded into the bathroom. The image in the mirror was familiar, but the eyes were haunted.

Returning to the bedroom, she grabbed her robe from the foot of the bed and went downstairs.

The coffee maker on the counter was the same as the one in her apartment. Brewing a cup of her favorite blend, she carried it to the rocker by the window and sat.

The coffee table was covered with file folders, probably the information Rob had told her Clark, the FBI agent in charge of the Harvester case, would send him. Her fingers itched to look through the paperwork, but she hesitated. If Rob's theory held, the Harvester's victims had all been through the same violation she had. Had they felt victimized like she did? How long had it been before they realized what had happened to them? Had the fear stayed with them throughout their unexpected pregnancies? Had it grown into terror when they'd been kidnapped, forced to give birth under who knew what circumstances? Had they realized they were about to die when they'd been given the cyanide?

“You're up early.” She jumped at the sound of Rob's voice and looked up. He stood at the loft's railing.

She blew out a frightened breath. Was this the way she'd be from now on? Jumping at the least little noise? “Not really. This is my usual wake-up time. Is this the stuff Clark said he'd send?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded normal.

“It is. I'll be right down.”

Faye sipped her coffee, praying it would calm her frazzled nerves while she waited for him to attend to business and join her. He came down the stairs wearing only his jeans. The scar from a bullet he'd taken a few years back reminded her how dangerous his job could be. She, too, had a scar. If only the aftereffects of this attack could heal as easily as Mahoney's had. She'd taken self-defense courses, had undergone survival training, but this monster and his drug had taken away her ability to defend herself. How did you fight an invisible threat? It was a virus, a bacteria out there all around you, and there was nothing you could do to protect yourself.

“How are you feeling? Any headache?”

She chuckled. “No, doctor. I feel fine—well, as fine as I can, I guess.” She concentrated on her coffee, hoping he wouldn't see the fear she'd seen in the mirror.

“Good. I'm glad. This is everything Clark sent, and I printed it all before the storm knocked out the power.”

“Where did you get the colored folders?”

“From Dr. Chong's desk. I'm a visual person. I need to see the stuff, classify it, and organize it. I looked through it last night. It's everything you need for that Pulitzer Prize-winning story of yours.”

“If your theory's right.”

“Even if it isn't. I ran your ultimatum by Clark when I called him. He isn't as pissed as I thought he might be. He's impressed with your reputation as a take-no-prisoners journalist, and since we've been floundering for more than a year … He does have some stipulations. Nothing gets published until the Harvester is behind bars.”

“I can live with that. Those women deserve their day in court, their chance to have their stories told, to get beyond being nothing but notches on a serial killer's belt.” She swallowed. “He has to be stopped, Rob. He can't do to anyone else what he's done to me.”

“We'll do our best, Faye. That's why we need your help, your insight.”

“With what exactly?”

“My partner, Tom, and Pierce, the FBI liaison guy I've been working with, are right about one thing. My theory has so many holes in it, you could probably drive a tank through some of them. My gut is convinced it's right, and while some things make sense, others don't. At this point, everything is jumbled in my mind. I can't tell the difference between evidence and my suppositions.”

“So, how do I fit in? How can I help? I'm one of these cases, aren't I?”

“You are, but you're also one of the top investigative reporters in the Boston area. We need fresh eyes on this, educated eyes that may see things differently than we do. I've always admired your ability to add two and two and get five. You find what everyone else misses. Being part of this investigation and helping take down the Harvester will be a hell of a coup. Having the exclusive will be a career-changer. You'll be able to write your own ticket—that is, if you still want to help. I've spoken with the doctor, and I know how hard it'll be to objectify yourself the way you'll have to do for this to work. It'll put you in control. It won't obliterate your fears and whatever else you're feeling right now, but maybe it'll give you back your confidence, put you back in the driver's seat.”

“I thought you considered that aspect of my character to be narrow-minded cockiness and didn't like it one bit. And as for my ability to put things together, I believe the last time I did, you used it against me to ruin my career.”

“I've told you before, Faye. I had nothing to do with that file. I'll admit there were times it drove me crazy, like when you put yourself in danger or badgered me for information. I suppose I was jealous of the hold your career had on you and how little time you seemed to have for me.”

“You were just as bad,” she retorted. “You wanted that promotion, and you put in how many hours of overtime to get it? I'm a big girl. I didn't need Superman watching over me all the time, telling me what was safe and what wasn't, always trying to one-up me—”

“Faye, I don't want to argue.” The solemn look on his face surprised her.

“Neither do I.” She sighed. “As long as he's out there, I won't be able to move on. Fear is a terrible thing. It incapacitates you, drains you, and leaves you weak and needy. I won't be a victim. He won't beat me. I'll help you solve this case and see the bastard gets everything he's got coming to him. But you're wrong about one thing. I never put my career ahead of us. It may have looked that way, but … Let me get dressed, and then I'll make breakfast.”

“Any chance I can get a Lewis specialty omelet? I think we have all the ingredients.” He looked at her with that pleading little-boy look, his lower lip jutting out in a pout.

How many times had he used that look to get what he wanted? “I think that can be arranged. Give me twenty minutes. After we've eaten, you can show me what you've got, one file at a time.”

• • •

Rob took the last mouthful of coffee and sat back from the table. She'd made a salsa and cheese omelet, and between them they'd polished off all of it.

“More coffee?” she asked, standing to make herself another cup.

“Please. What time is it?”

She glanced at the microwave. “Nine thirty.”

“Clark should be calling at any time. He said Amos would have those lab reports ready this morning.”

As if on cue, the phone rang, and Rob answered on the first ring. He wasted no time on the usual chitchat. “What's the verdict?”

Faye stood still as he listened carefully, jotting down notes, and then reached for a file to compare what he had with what Trevor was telling him. He nodded his head several times and
uh-hum
ed a few more before finally speaking.

“Dr. Chong is positive? … You're kidding … No, I hoped it would, but I wasn't sure. It was my missing link … Yeah. We'll stay here for a while. I don't want to put her in danger again … I don't want the son of a bitch knowing we're onto him … I'll pick up the package as soon as I can. Thanks.”

He hung up the phone.

“What did he say? I can tell you're excited. Were you right?”

“I was. Dr. Chong's test has verified that Baby Smith is Baby Howard.”

“What about the paternal DNA?”

“As we suspected, it doesn't match the DNA from your rape kit. Congressman Howard's brother and his wife are on their way to collect their grandchild. But, as great as that is, I've got more. The couple who brought the baby in was caught on camera leaving the hospital. They were arguing, and neither one of them looked happy. The FBI is running all the DMV license photos. We'll get them, and when we do, we'll find out where they got the child, and why they abandoned it.”

“What about the other babies—did any of the fetal DNA match?”

“The missing babies all have the same father.”

“And?” She wrapped her arms around her midsection trying to shield herself from the answer, knowing instinctively what it was going to be.

“The man who drugged and raped you is the same man who fathered the missing children.”

She covered her mouth in an attempt to hold back the sobs, but tears spilled down her cheeks. “You're certain?”

“We are. According to Amos, all of the women were drugged with scopolamine three times—once about a year before they died, then three months later, and finally six months after that. All of them except Meredith Howard, whose scopolamine residue was limited to a single dose about eight weeks ago. That's how he manages to get them to comply. He probably sets up his surveillance the first time, impregnates them the second, and then gets them to follow him and disappear in their sixth month. Once he has them, he shackles them to prevent anyone from running away.”

“My God. There was nothing in the news reports about them being shackled. How was the coroner able to pinpoint the drug use so accurately?”

“He tested their hair. Using hair is more time-consuming and expensive than routine blood and urine tests, but it's a lot more reliable since it can pinpoint drug history. I haven't told you this, but the women who weren't brunettes all had their hair dyed using a natural stain made from walnut husks. Cause of death for Meredith was the same as the other victims—an injection of three milliliters of potassium cyanide—but she was close to death when it was administered because of blood loss with the birth. She was still hemorrhaging.”

“So, my attacker, Lucy's killer, and the Harvester are the same man. It's insane.”

Rob shook his head. “Is this iron-clad proof that the rapist and the Harvester are the same man? No, it isn't. As Clark pointed out, we know the man who drugged and raped you probably did the same thing to the others, but we have no proof he's the man who kidnapped them and killed them. And we have nothing to tie him to Lucy Green. This is all circumstantial, but if it isn't the same man, it's someone working with him. I'm positive the missing link is the motive for Lucy Green's death.”

“You've lost me.” She sipped from the mug she held in her hands.

“Trevor told me yesterday that we can be certain Mary was kidnapped, just like the others. The way her apartment was cleaned and the things they found there prove it.”

“What do you mean? What did they find?” She placed the empty mug on the table, grateful she hadn't dropped it. That monster had her friend probably in chains in a basement somewhere. She shuddered.

“The apartment had been sanitized like the others, and they found evidence of surveillance equipment removal.”

Faye dropped onto the couch. “Surveillance equipment? You mean mini cameras and stuff like in a goddamn spy movie?” She'd accepted the idea that he stalked his victims as he had her, but she hadn't thought he'd go as far as to watch them twenty-four seven.

“Not as sophisticated as the stuff you see in James Bond, but basically yes.”

“Was there any at my place?”

He nodded, and she felt her stomach churn. “Where?”

Rob looked away, avoiding her eyes. “In a couple of places.”

She clenched her fists and swallowed the bile rising in her throat. That bastard had been spying on her. For how long? Weeks, days, months? Had he seen her cry when she'd learned of her stepfather's death? Had he watched her dress?

“Where exactly were the cameras? I assume there were cameras.”

“In the main rooms, Faye. Audio equipment, too.”

Shame filled her. He'd seen her naked in the shower. He'd observed her in the aftermath of those vicious nightmares. Had he laughed when she'd drunk herself into oblivion because she'd been too low to care? This was worse than drugging her and using her for his own enjoyment. On the heels of her embarrassment came anger. She huffed out a breath as her righteous fury stiffened her spine. Enough was enough.

“Was there any surveillance stuff in Lucy's apartment?”

“No. I'm convinced Mary said or sent something to her mother that identifies him in some way and that's why he killed her or had her killed. Trevor and the BAU are inclined to agree with me, even though we still have more questions than answers.” He indicated the files. “There has to be a connection, and we hope you'll see it.”

“What about the babies? If Baby Smith is Baby Howard, I guess you're right about him selling or giving away the children.”

“They aren't convinced of that anymore. Now that we have proof he's fathering them, Clark likes your idea that he may be keeping the children for himself or people he knows, but we can't figure out why he'd do that since the odds of getting caught rise exponentially if he still has the children.”

“You said no one's removed the surveillance equipment from my apartment, right?”

“With your loft under observation, we figure he hasn't been able to, but if you're going where I think you are, it's a dead end.”