Cold Truth (23 page)

T
wenty-three

He drove leisurely, just another car that had been parked along Maple Avenue near the municipal building. He could have been coming from the public library, which was located in three rooms on the second floor. Or he could have been leaving the police station, having paid a ticket—or the borough clerk’s office, having purchased new tags for his dog.

Of course, he had been doing none of those things. But, to the casual observer, the man driving the Chrysler sedan was just another citizen, going about his afternoon business.

He stayed several car lengths behind the black Camaro that carried his prey, just far enough to stay under the radar of the driver, who had to be a Fed. God knew he’d known enough of
them
in his day. He knew how to tail the best of them without being noticed.

The Camaro turned right on Brighton, and he followed casually. But when the driver turned into the parking lot of the Brighton Inn, he went straight, at the same steady pace he’d maintained since he began his surveillance. He hesitated only briefly before reaching for his mobile phone. He dialed the number and waited, and was only mildly annoyed when voice mail picked up instead of a live voice.

“Hey, hi, it’s me. Listen, I just had an idea. I know we all agreed to meet at Bowers Diner for dinner, but I’ve been having a craving for seafood since I got up this morning, and it won’t go away. I was wondering if we could change our dinner plans to meet at the Brighton Inn instead. Back in the day, they had the best baked bluefish on the Jersey coast. And I worked there a few summers, you know, so I was thinking it might be nice to stop in, see how the old place has held up. Think it over, and if it sounds good to you, give me a call and I’ll get in touch with the others. You have my number . . . I’ll wait to hear from you.”

He disconnected the call and made a turn into the parking area right off the beach. No point in going anywhere until he heard back from his friends. He didn’t think there’d be a problem with the change in plans. The guys liked to get together and talk about the old times, it wouldn’t matter where.

Glory days, indeed.

If they only knew.

Not that any of his old buddies would ever suspect. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, imagining their reactions should the truth ever come out. He could almost hear their shocked words.

No, no, I don’t believe it. Not a word of it . . . I won’t believe it until I hear it from his own lips. I’ve known him all my life—went to school with him since fucking kindergarten . . . No, no, there has to be some mistake. He’s like a brother to me . . .

A firm shake of the head would follow as denial dug in its heels.
No, I’ll never believe it . . .

Believe it, buds. Believe it . . .

He took off his shoes and socks and slipped the phone into his pocket before locking the door and heading off over the dune. This late in the afternoon, this early in the season, there were mostly older kids on the beach, the littlest ones having gone home with their mommies to start dinner. Kids—teenagers, anyway—didn’t bother him. He had no interest in them whatsoever. He skirted around their volleyball net and walked until he reached the surf. At low tide, the sand wore a thick layer of broken shells, forcing him to walk above the waterline. Still, the cuffs of his pants were water-marked, and he’d have to change before dinner. He shrugged it off. After all the years he’d been away, a quick trip back to his rented cottage to change his clothes was a small price to pay for a walk along the beach. His thinking had never been clearer, his focus never sharper, than when he was doing just that.

Like today. All had fallen into place with his first step upon the dune. Now, turning back, he knew exactly what he needed to do, and how he would accomplish his goal. Wasn’t that lesson learned long ago, drummed into his head over and over by his father?

“You can’t accomplish a damned thing without goals,” the old man had lectured time and time again. “You want to succeed at something, you set the goal, you pursue it with everything you have.”

Well, that was probably the only thing the old man had ever said that had made much sense to him, and had thus been worth remembering.

The ringing of the phone shook him back to the present and the situation at hand. He answered on the second ring. Of course they could meet at the Brighton Inn. The others had already been contacted and they all agreed. Meet at seven, first one there gets the table and orders and pays for the first round. Just like old times.

Now he had his goal, he had his plan. Buoyed by optimism, he turned back and walked across the beach until he reached the dune. Without so much as a backward glance at the ocean he’d missed so much for so many years, he returned to his car and dusted the sand from his feet. He had less than thirty minutes to run home and change before meeting the guys for dinner.

He was looking forward to more than just a good meal.

“I’m glad you decided to join me,” Rick said after the waitress had served their entrées. “You look a little worn-out. My gram always used to say that the best cure for that kind of weariness was a good meal and a good night’s sleep.”

“Well, with luck, tonight I’ll have both.” Cass rearranged her napkin on her lap for what Rick thought might be the fifth or sixth time.

“Luck shouldn’t have to factor into it. You ordered a great dinner, and as soon as you’re finished eating, you can go back up to the second floor and crash for as long as you need to.” He remembered his conversation with Mitch. “Or at least until it’s time to get up tomorrow morning to make our ten o’clock meeting.”

She frowned. “Are you sure you need me along?”

“Would I rather leave you here alone?”

“I’ve been looking out for myself for a long time, Rick.”

“And God willing, the day is near at hand when you’ll be looking out for yourself again.” He lowered his voice. “But until we have this guy in lockup or on a table in the ME’s office, my time is your time.”

“It can’t happen soon enough for me. I want to get back to work.” She picked at her plate of scallops. “Besides, it seems as if everyone is waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s been three days since he attacked Lucy. That’s the longest he’s gone between attacks since this started.”

“How likely is it he’s left town?” He appeared about to say something else, but stopped as the waitress led a well-dressed man to a nearby table for four.

“Anyway, let’s hope we can put this together soon, before he makes his next move.”

“What are the chances we’ll be able to do that?” She put her fork down. “Realistically.”

“Mitch says he’s got a number of DNA matches, coast to coast. We’re waiting for the DNA results on the blood that was swabbed from your back door. I’m betting it’s a match, all the way around.”

“No offense, but DNA matches won’t help us if we don’t have a suspect.”

“We have the potential for four.”

“How do we quickly cull the herd?”

He smiled. “You sure you’re not from Texas?”

“I had a roommate once who was.” She resumed eating.

“While you were in the shower, I called the boss. He’ll have the sketch artist here by midday tomorrow, so within twenty-four hours we should have a fair idea what this guy looks like. I’m willing to put money that someone will recognize him right away. Denver or Phyl, probably.” He paused, then added, “Maybe even you. But in the meantime, we’ll take a few hours tomorrow to go over what Mitch has compiled, see if anything stands out.”

“I’m betting nothing does.” She shook her head. “That’s the thing about this guy. Nothing about him seems to stand out.”

Two more middle-aged men walked past them and were seated at a table to their left.

“Sooner or later, he’ll give something away.”

“What makes you think so? He’s been at this game for twenty-six years without a slip, Rick. What makes you think he’ll get careless now?”

“Because it’s personal to him now. I don’t think he’s used to failure. And the attack on Lucy ended in failure. No rape. No murder. It’s got to rankle. That makes it personal. And let’s talk about the fact that he’s got to be pretty pissed off at you. You interfered with his plans, not once, but twice.” He watched her face while his words sunk in. When she offered no response, he said, “You know that nine times out of ten a pissed-off killer is a careless killer.”

“We don’t know if he’s failed in the past. We only know about his successes.” She winced at the use of the word.

A gentleman passed and was greeted loudly by the group nearby.

“And that’s what we’ll focus on.” Rick glanced up as laughter erupted from the table where four men now sat. “Sadly, it’s his successes that will lead us to him. We’ll have to try to be patient while we piece the entire picture together.”

She brightened slightly. “Oh. Speaking of which, while I was upstairs changing right before we came down for dinner, Phyl called me.”

“Phil?” He frowned.

“Phyl Lannick. Chief Denver’s assistant. She said she remembered that a woman who lives across the street from her is on the board of the bird sanctuary. She spoke with her when she got home this evening.” Cass speared a slice of carrot with her fork.

“And . . . ?”

“And the neighbor told her that, yes, they did use that hawk stamp on the backs of the hands of all paying customers and volunteers at the all-day fund-raisers or at weekend events. They still use the same motif.” She put her fork down. “And it was her recollection that my mother had submitted the original design for the hawk.”

“She did?”

“That’s how Phyl’s neighbor remembers it.” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Wouldn’t it be odd, if that’s the key to finding this guy? That after all these years, something that came to me through hypnosis, something I don’t even consciously recall, would lead to the man who killed them? Not only my family, but all of these women.”

“And that that something had been first sketched by your mother?” Rick nodded. “I don’t know that I’d find it as odd, as much as fitting.”

She put her fork down.

“Every time I think about what he almost did to Lucy . . .”

“But he didn’t, Cass. He didn’t because you didn’t let him. You bested him.”

“That time.”

“What do you mean, that—”

“I think I need to turn in now, I’m very tired. Do you mind? Are you finished?” She folded her napkin and set it next to her plate.

“Yes, I’m finished, and no, I don’t mind. But Cass, if you’re thinking you should have been able to save your mother . . . save your family . . . save
anyone . . .
You can’t possibly think you could have.”

She pushed her chair back without meeting his eyes.

“I think I’ll go on up to the room, if it’s okay. Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.” Without waiting for a protest, she stood, and after removing her handbag from the back of her chair where she’d earlier hung it, she left the room.

Rick signaled for the waitress to bring the check. He hastily wrote in a tip, signed his name and room number, and followed Cass to the lobby, hoping to catch up with her before she barricaded herself in her room, the way he suspected she was going to do.

From his seat, he had a perfect view of her, could at times read her lips. He watched her leave the table and hurry from the room.

Lovers’ quarrel?

No. She and the Fed weren’t lovers. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps in time—there appeared to be a genuine interest there, on both their parts, whether either realized it—but not yet. Too bad they wouldn’t get to explore that.

Well, the Fed would get over her. He’d remember her as a dream tragically unfulfilled, that sort of thing. Despite his rugged appearance, there was a sensitivity about the Fed. It was there in the way he looked at Cass, in the way he watched her face when she spoke. But he’d move on. Everyone moves on.

It was clear something had upset her. Of course, the cause of her disturbance was immaterial to him, and whatever it was would pale in comparison to what he had planned for her. As it was, it was all he could do to keep his mind on the conversation around him. All he could think of was putting his hands around her neck and squeezing until her eyes went blank—and how very good, how very satisfying, it would feel.

He watched the Fed sign the check, watched the waitress turn to walk to the cashier.

“Miss?” He waved her over, beckoned her close, and whispered, forcing her to lean into him slightly. “Bring us a bottle of champagne, would you? And four glasses?”

She smiled and nodded, totally unaware that his gaze had fallen to the check she held casually in one hand.

He couldn’t read the signature, but the name of the Fed was totally unimportant. He’d gotten what he wanted.

Room 212.

The second floor used to be all two- or three-room suites. He wondered if it still was. That would make sense. It was clear to him that she and the Fed weren’t sleeping together, but the Fed was sticking as close as he could. A two-bedroom suite would certainly fit the bill.

A satisfied smile crossed his lips. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d do with the information now that he had it, but he was certain it would come in handy. Perhaps a quick trip to the second floor—merely to get the lay of the land—was in order.

“Excuse me,” he said to his companions. “I’m going to hit the men’s room. Order the bluefish for me if the waitress comes back, would you?”

He strolled through the room, which had filled up considerably since he’d first arrived. He waved at an old acquaintance or two on his way to the lobby. Once there, he entered the empty stairwell and climbed undisturbed to the second floor.

Room 212 was at the very end of the hall. Convenient. But which side of the building was he on? He couldn’t remember. It had been too many years.

He walked to the opposite end of the hall and looked out the window to orient himself. The room overlooked the street.

Not good.

Not insurmountable, but not good.

A glance at the room locks proved encouraging, however. He’d gotten through more challenging locks with his eyes closed.