Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) (44 page)

Cars sprayed rooster tails of water, the gutters momentarily overwhelmed, large puddles creeping into the road. Two more blocks and the Cowboy’s brake lights lit up. He turned into a service station with a twenty-four-hour convenience store. This was new.

Tracy drove past the station and watched the rearview and side mirrors. The Lexus didn’t stop at the pump. It drove around the side of the building, and Tracy feared it might exit onto the side street. Then the brake lights illuminated, and the Lexus parked. Tracy turned right at the intersection, made a U-turn and pulled into a strip mall parking lot kitty-corner to the convenience store, with a view of the Lexus.

She turned off the lights and the wiper blades but left the engine running.

He had time to kill.

He just loved that line. He loved the irony of it. He thought he’d heard it in a movie somewhere, like maybe
American Psycho
or some weird Woody Harrelson film. Harrelson did those kind of movies now—
Natural Born Killers
and
Zombieland
. Hard to believe he’d once been just Woody, the dumb-as-a-post bartender on
Cheers
, but that was a testament to Harrelson’s acting chops.

He liked to think he could have been the same type of actor, versatile enough to play different roles, if he’d ever been given the chance to seriously pursue it.

He pulled into the gas station with the twenty-four-hour convenience store and parked on the far side of the building, out of the glow of the lights above the gas pumps, which was where any camera would be focused. The rain continued to fall, but at least the torrent he got caught in as he was leaving work had let up. He could feel moisture seeping through his shoes and socks, and his shirt sticking to his back. It was annoying, but it didn’t take away from the tingling sensation pulsing through his body, the same sensation he’d felt backstage before the start of every show, the sensation that made him feel alive.

He pulled the brim of a nondescript Mariners baseball cap low on his head and hurried from the car into the store, lowering his chin as he entered through the glass doors to the buzzing of an electric eye. Jazz music filtered down from speakers in the ceiling. He nodded to the man behind the counter, polite but indifferent, unmemorable, and made his way to the refrigerator. He needed a jolt of caffeine. It had been a long day, and it was going to be an even longer morning. The girls had calmed since the news of the capture of the Cowboy, but that didn’t mean they were any easier to deal with. Bunch of divas is what they were—a demanding pack of bitches.

He set two cans of an energy drink on the counter, along with a carton of milk and a six-pack of eggs. Staples. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Late night?” the store owner asked.

“Early morning,” he said. “Pack of Camels. Silvers.”

“King Size or 100’s?”

“King Size.”

“You heading to work?” the clerk asked.

“Unfortunately.” He put a twenty on the counter. “Right after I drop off supplies at the house. Can I get a bag?”

“Where do you work this early?” the clerk asked, bagging his items.

“Airport,” he said. He checked his watch. “And I better get a move on if I don’t want to be late.”

The clerk handed him his change.

“Can I get a book of matches?”

The clerk grabbed two from under the counter and dropped them into the bag.

“Thanks. It defeats the whole purpose if you can’t light them,” he said. “Maybe that would be a good thing.” About to leave, he heard the perfect line of dialogue pop into his head—something so good he couldn’t resist giving it a try. “I should quit,” he said, “but tonight the urge is just too strong.”

Tracy watched the Cowboy exit the store carrying a brown paper bag. He pulled a can from the bag, popped the tab, and tilted it back, taking a long drink. Then he dashed to his car. This time, he didn’t wait. He pulled to the driveway. Tracy thought he was looking south, watching the northbound traffic and waiting to cross the double yellow line.

She was right.

The Lexus pulled into the turn lane and waited for a northbound car to pass. Then it merged. The Cowboy was not heading home.

She felt a rush of adrenaline and hit the gas, timing a gap in the traffic and pulling into the northbound lanes. She sat up and exhaled a deep breath. Time to focus on following. Traffic wasn’t heavy, but there were enough cars to allow the truck to blend in, or to get in her way if the Cowboy made a sudden turn.

The wind had picked up, causing the streetlights dangling from wires strung across the road to dance and shake in the gusts, and the rain to splatter hard against the windshield. As the Cowboy neared an intersection, the stoplight turned yellow. She figured he’d stop, not wanting to risk a traffic ticket. But instead, he sped up to make the light. Tracy accelerated, then quickly hit the brake when the car in front of her stopped.

“Damn,” she said. She kept an eye on the Lexus as it continued north, hoping it would get stuck at the next light. As she waited, a large delivery van drove into the intersection, obstructing her view. The driver was waiting for the traffic to clear so he could complete a left turn.

“Move,” she urged. “Make the damn turn.”

The truck inched forward when the light turned yellow. Tracy’s light changed from red to green, but the truck remained in the intersection. She hit the horn just as the truck lurched forward.

The Lexus was nowhere to be seen.

She continued down Aurora, her head swiveling, frantically searching motel parking lots for any sign of the Lexus. Then she remembered that the Cowboy was likely parking on side streets, something Izak Casterline had mentioned when he’d pulled the Lexus over two blocks from the motel.

She made a right turn at the next intersection and continued down the block, slowed at the four-way intersection, and peered down the tree-lined residential streets, considering the parked cars. The rain and darkness made the already-poor lighting worse, and the number of cars was not insignificant. She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm, and fought to slow her mind. What had Amanda Santos told them? The Cowboy was organized. He was smart, careful. He didn’t want to be caught. He didn’t want to be seen—or heard, likely the reason he drove a hybrid. He’d take precautions.

She took a right, forcing herself to proceed slowly. He wouldn’t want to park in front of a house or under a street lamp, or on a well-lit street. He’d try to blend in, parking his car in an inconspicuous but hidden place.

She felt flushed. Trickles of perspiration rolled from her temples and down her sides. A large rock had dropped in her stomach.

At the next intersection, she looked right and left, taking in the view between the wiper blades. She saw a dark-blue sedan parked at the left curb halfway down the block, punched the accelerator, and pulled up beside it.

He slipped on the hooded sweatshirt and pulled the ball cap low on his brow, walking the side street, gym bag in hand, just a guy on his way to an early morning workout, which wasn’t completely untrue. Acting was all in the presentation. He’d read half a dozen books and taken another half a dozen classes on method acting—how to use your body to convince your mind you were the character you sought to portray. The Stanislavski method was one of his favorites. He also liked Lee Strasberg. He’d once looked into applying to the Actors Studio in New York. He had the talent. He didn’t have the cash.

He felt the energy drink kicking in, though it could also have been the thrill of the anticipated performance. The second can was in his gym bag, along with the cigarettes and matches. “I should quit,” he said, smiling at the thought of it. “But tonight the urge is just too strong.” He liked the line almost as much as “He had time to kill.”

He had told himself that Gabby—that’s what he’d called Gabrielle Lizotte—would be his last for a while. He’d told himself that maybe it was time to move, as he’d done after Beth Stinson, go to a new city for a while. The scrutiny by the police had become intense. When they’d formed a task force, he knew they were serious. That’s what they’d done for Bundy and Ridgway, which was rarefied air. So was his nickname—the Cowboy. It had a certain ring to it. Not as good as Urban Cowboy or Drugstore Cowboy, but not bad. “The Cowboy,” he said.

He’d gone nine years in between Beth Stinson and Nicole Hansen, damn near a decade. Stinson had been his first. He’d never forget that experience. It was like opening night of a long-awaited new show. The thrill had been intense. The urge had been present for years, but he hadn’t acted on it until then. For one, he wasn’t sure how to meet the women. Then he’d read an article about pedophiles hanging out at places where kids went, which disgusted him but gave him the idea of working at a strip club. What better place to meet whores? What better place for them to become comfortable around him, to trust him? What better way to hide in plain sight? So he went to a new club, someplace where no one would know him, Dirty Ernie’s Nude Review, and the owner, a woman—and wasn’t that a kick in the pants—hired him. Within two months she’d made him the manager. Of course she had. He’d been punctual and hardworking. He used the time to try and determine which dancer would be his first. Then Beth Stinson and her friend started at the club. The friend didn’t last long, but Stinson was a natural—danced under the name Betty Boobs, and the name fit. Nasty figure. She packed a lot of punch on a small frame. She was also naïve, barely out of high school.

He took his time getting to know her, befriending her, gaining her confidence. He talked to her in between her sets on the stage and working the VIP rooms. After her friend quit, Stinson was looking for a confidant. Soon she became comfortable enough to tell him the intimate details of her life—like the fact that she was a whore—just as he’d predicted. Just like his mother. She’d said it was to make extra money, pay the bills. He knew better. She was a whore. That’s what whores did.

After Stinson confided in him, he had a hard time hiding his disgust, but his acting classes helped. Besides, her revelation had provided his inspiration on how to do it without getting caught. Wait until a night when she’d been with one of the men. The guy’s fingerprints would be all over the room, along with all the others she’d brought home. So would his DNA. That’s when he’d started to plan. He learned where she lived and scouted out the neighborhood, a quiet residential street with no street lamps. The neighbors seemed to keep mostly to themselves.