Caribbean Rain (21 page)

The relief was beginning to flower on Ruiz’s face.

“The day she turned fifteen, I came home from work early to surprise her. She’d seemed to be coming around some. She was smiling more and even told me she loved me before she went to bed most nights. I was going to take her over to Arecibo, the Observatory, and then a nice supper in Old San Juan. A daddy-daughter night. But it didn’t happen. When I walked through the door, she wasn’t there. I checked in her room—still no Anna. I searched the whole house—still no baby girl. I finally went out the back door and then saw her out near the far corner of the garage. It was hidden from the neighbors because of the weird-ass angle the builder had constructed the building. I called to her, and she didn’t respond. So I walked out there and just as I got there, she heard me and tried to cover up what she was doing.”

Ruiz shivered and lit another cigarette. His eyes were dry, but ever so distant. Manny knew that look. He wore it for months after Louise had died.

“Detective, you don’t have to finish…”

“No. I do. Not just to help find her, but . . . I
need
to.”

“Okay, Carlos, tell us what she was doing,” said Sophie.

“I know you know. My little girl was watching an iguana die. It had been carved to pieces; blood and guts everywhere. The knife was still in her hand. Like I said, at first she tried to hide what was going on, then she sliced it again. It was like she didn’t give a flying frog’s ass for what I thought. She only wanted to watch that lizard bite the big one.”

“After that, I took her to more counseling, lots of it. She seemed to get better, but I’m a cop. A detective. I knew. I read up on the Macdonald Triangle thing. By the time, she went away to live on campus, I was relieved and terrified at the same time. Every murder, every weirdo killing that happened on the island scared me. Because I knew.”

Standing, he stared out the glass facing the conference room. “I spend most of my time thinking about how I could’ve stopped this, but no one seems to know why the switch flips like it does, at least not completely. I don’t know. Maybe something happened to her when I wasn’t around . . .”

Looking back to Manny, he was broken. But glad to get his story off his chest. Ruiz was right—one day, the odds were good that she would evolve into something worse. Rare as it was, a woman serial killer, especially a non-Caucasian, wasn’t out of the question. But Ruiz would always live with the guilt that dads harbor when their children didn’t turn out a certain way.

“Detective. I’m sorry you’re going through this. But how can this help us find your daughter? I mean, why would you think that your story could help us?” asked Manny, running his hand through his hair.

“I think she’d try to find this killer. Maybe even try to partner up.”

Manny raised his eyebrows. “Why would you say that?”

“Because the last two serial killers caught in San Juan both had visits from my lovely daughter. She said it was research, but I knew better. The last one, Jorge Munoz, the guy that had stalked and killed four nuns at the school he’d attended, actually sent for me saying he wanted to confess to more killings. But he didn’t do that. Instead, he told me to put Anna down. Imagine that, a serial killer telling me to kill my daughter because she was going to join the clan. My God. It was like she was drawn to them.”

Manny let the silence have its way. It seemed right. He wondered if Anna Ruiz could be the one they sought, but dismissed the thought as fast as it came. Mostly because of the hand in the box, but not entirely. Self-maiming is not an unusual trait for some killers. Most serial killers start small, test their plan, their method, their preferences. They didn’t run like this one was running.

One of the CSU techs knocked on the door, waving a file. Sophie retrieved it and handed it to Manny. He opened Anna’s file and saw that it contained information about the hand, and maybe more important, about the amputation tool. It was a sharper-than-normal blade, and the cut was very precise, a perfect north-to-south slash. There were no jagged edges, and it appeared to be a one-swing cut, consistent with their perp.

There was a note in the preliminary toxicology report saying that there could have been a sedative in her system, but they didn’t know which one, yet.

Closing the file, his mind was racing a mile a minute. Why send Anna’s hand to her father? Was he escalating the game aspect? Exerting control? Trying to muddle up the investigation or maybe delay it? Was that it? Random? Or was Anna in the wrong spot at the right time? But if she did seek this killer out, and somehow found him, how did she do that? He’s obviously clever. She was just a second-year criminal justice major, but a complete psychopath in the making, according to Ruiz. He’d read that some psychiatrists theorize that these types of serial killers actually have some sort of subconscious kinship with each other. That by their subconscious actions and habits, they actually might recognize one another.

He ran his hand through his hair again and felt Sophie looking at him, waiting. Most of these killers are also opportunists. It’s how they reach the high road to satisfying their urges. Maybe his plan mandated sending body parts all along, and the fact that the victim was Anna was a pure coincidence. Again, right place, wrong time?

Or, if what Ruiz said was true and Anna had tried to partner up, had she been an unwelcome guest? The problem wasn’t just that she’d seen the killer, but given that the vast percentage of these men worked alone, she’d be just another body to him. That couldn’t be good for anyone because it meant things were going to get even more complicated than he’d anticipated. Much more.

Multiple messages from one killer displayed supreme arrogance and confidence, narcissism at its finest.

“Agent? You all right?” asked Ruiz.

“No. I don’t think I am. This is far worse than I thought, even two hours ago. Finding your daughter may be the key to all of it.”

Chapter-39

Running his hand over Anna’s wrist, the one that was missing its hand, he admired his work. Remarkable what a red-hot iron could accomplish. He’d cauterized the wrist right after he’d cut it off, but it hadn’t been as effective as he’d intended. After all, he wasn’t exactly a doctor—at least that kind. But after he’d gotten her back on the bed, tied spread eagle and much more securely than before, she was, once again, his. He’d repeated the cauterization. She’d screamed, despite the new dose of sedatives. The tang of burning flesh hung in the air. It was one that he found less than unpleasant. In fact, it wasn’t bad at all.

I wonder what it would be like with a spice or two . . .

He was amazed at the human body, and what it was able to undergo when the situation commanded it. Anna should not have been conscious, but there she was, fighting to survive. That was more than interesting, but in the end, she just didn’t have what she truly needed to survive.

His guest had lost blood, had been traumatized past what most people could ever imagine, and moreover, had experienced a disappointment that rivaled no Christmas presents under the tree by not being able to team with him. Yet her heart rate seemed fine, and her breathing was even and steady. She had a slight temperature, and perhaps could use a bath, but all in all, was doing well.

His eyes shifted to the rise and fall of her chest, fixing on her breasts. After a few breaths, he felt that sensation again. The one that said he could do anything he wanted. That he was entitled to anything he wanted.

It rose from a place he hadn’t been familiar with, until recently. The instinctive and primordial urges that society, and the church, over the centuries, had taught mankind to submerge into the realm of the unacceptable and perverse, were now
right
for him.

Running his hand along Anna’s bare thigh, his mind wandered deeper into what he wanted as opposed to what he needed. He ran his hand back and forth over her soft skin and speculated on how many people knew the difference. How many really cared? Just feed the beast.

He unexpectedly felt her eyes on him, accompanied by a humorless grin.

“You
are
a sick one, aren’t you,” she rasped. “But do it, if you want. I’ll even moan and groan, it you need me to. Maybe I’ll even feel something.”

“Sick? Is that what you think? Not sick, Anna: driven. And soon the whole island, perhaps the world, will see what’s really important. What’s really at stake here.”

She laughed, one of those haunting kind. “You make it sound so noble, but you’re no different than me. You got the fever, and that’s all that matters. A dog always recognizes another dog.”

He moved very close to her face, smelling her coppery breath, and grabbed her throat, squeezing.

“Whatever fever I may have has to do with justice, not murder. These deaths are a tool, that’s all. Exactly like you, you’re here to serve the greater good, my greater good.”

Anna’s eyes grew large as he tightened his grip. A moment later, he released it and stood. She caught her breath, coughed, and repeated it, all the while, that peculiar smile never leaving her face.

Fascinating.

He bent to her again, putting the rag back in her mouth and then squeezed her face as he whispered into her ear.

“Let’s see how long that smile lasts when we send another package to the authorities bright and early in the morning.”

Chapter-40

Detective Crouse pulled up in front of the neat but not overdone hotel and let Sophie and Manny out, promising to be back at nine a.m. sharp. The plan was to go over the case files at headquarters and develop a profile for their blade-happy perp that could be released to the entire force. Six hours of sleep, maybe, but he knew in his gut it’d take some time to unwind. Then again, exhaustion was a harsh dictator. He’d been there more times than he wanted to recount.

Thanking Crouse for the ride, he and Sophie pulled their travel cases out of the car and watched her speed off. Sophie looped her arm through his, and they headed for the front of the hotel. They had taken only a few steps when he stopped, jerking Sophie to a halt with him.

“What the hell, Williams? You tired of walking?”

“Exhausted, but look.” He pointed to the two ships in port and how they were lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree, even at two a.m.

“Yeah, they were hard not to notice when we went around that other hotel and ended up in front of this one. You’ll excuse me if I don’t gush. That cruise thing hasn’t been the best experience for me, and God knows, you either.”

“True. But I have some good memories from the first one. Like when we found out Louise didn’t have cancer, and that night we danced . . .”

Suddenly the past was gripping his throat, making his words stick. He looked to the dark brick sidewalk and slowly shook his head.

“You okay, Big Dog?” asked Sophie, squeezing his arm.

“I will be. Sometimes those memories, the ones that are kind of carved into your soul, come around for a visit.”

“Well no shit, Sherlock.”

They took a couple of steps forward and Sophie stopped him.

“I don’t get that whole dream world you and Jen went to, or think you zoomed to, but Louise was right, you gotta move on. But having said that, if you think she’s not going to hang out in things that you see, places you visit, or food you eat, every once in a while, then you really are tired and a little goofy, too.”

“You haven’t been this nice to me for a couple of months, what’s up?” he grinned.

“Hey, everyone likes a little ass, but no one likes a smartass, and I know that one.”

The almost-full moon seemed to catch the twinkle dancing in her eyes, and his appreciation for her climbed another notch. He couldn’t have done better in the partner department.

They went through the large brass doors and straight to the check-in counter. A few minutes later, they were riding the elevator in silence heading for the fifth floor, and sleep that he hoped was waiting for both of them.

Yeah, and people in Hell hope for ice water.

They got out of the elevator and moved down the west wing.

“Okay, 509, this is my room,” said Manny.

“I don’t think so,” said Sophie. “I’ve got that key and you’re SOL. You can have 513. I hate that number anyway.”

“A little too old to be superstitious, aren’t we?”

“You got a mouse in your pocket? You can’t be talking to me. We Chinese don’t call it superstition; we call it not tempting the gods into some little bullshit prank.”

“Seriously? I never knew that about you. Is that another way to say chicken shit?”

“Just go down the hall and plop your blue-eyed ass into bed before you get hurt.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She waved him off and got half way into the room, and turned back to him.

“Manny?”

“Yes?”

“I’m not so good with some things. Like I kind of like this new guy, but I don’t really know how to be nice to him.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“I’m also struggling to try to piece all of this case into something that makes sense, even in my convoluted way,” she said, biting her lip.

Every picture of each of the victims exploded into some ungodly collage in his mind’s eye. He sighed. “You ain’t alone on that one, Missy, but it’ll be better in the morning. You’re not standing here because you want to talk about this case, so what’s really on your mind?”

“I don’t do
thank you
and
I love you
very well, never have, but thank you for believing in me and recommending me for this FBI gig. You’re the closest thing, well, you’re like a big brother and I, ah, love you.”

Then Sophie ducked into the room, pulling her bag behind her. She moved through the door so quickly that he laughed out loud.

“I love you too, Sophie,” he whispered.

Manny stepped down the hall, still grinning about his partner’s confession, slid the keycard into the slot, and pushed the door open.

The high-pitched scream raised the hair on his arms and caused the goose bumps to come so fast he felt like he just had gotten out of cold Lake Michigan. It took a second to realize where the scream came from.