Targeted (Callahan & McLane Book 4) (7 page)

Sitting in her car in the FBI parking garage after the interview, Ava reread the email from Jayne that Jayne’s therapist had forwarded, searching for subtext. Each time she saw the therapist’s email address appear in her inbox, she caught her breath and her heart stopped.

Every email made two thoughts race through her brain.
Is Jayne dead? Is Jayne hurt?
She couldn’t stop her reaction. Logic told her that bad news would come via a phone call, not an email, but anxiety still raced through her veins at the sight of the email address.

Mason had suggested the therapist email him instead so he could tell Ava if the messages carried bad news. Ava had refused. It wasn’t a matter of privacy; it was a matter of responsibility.

Jayne was Ava’s baggage.

Mason had promised he would help her shoulder the load, and he had. He’d lifted a lot of Jayne pain and angst from Ava’s mind and heart. After she read each email, she’d forward it to Mason and they’d discuss it. It was good therapy for her and an educational process for him. Mason learned to read the emails through Ava’s eyes. What might seem inconsequential to him could be a sign to Ava that Jayne was struggling.

Ava knew Jayne chose every word with purpose; she wanted to affect Ava in a certain way. The sentences might be delivered in the most casual style possible, but they were deliberate and measured. Jayne could mention the purchase of a purse, and Ava would know it was an attempt to spark jealousy. An indication that Jayne needed to feel she could manipulate Ava’s reactions. It was a grasp for power.

She didn’t realize that Ava was no longer sixteen.

Jayne’s social and emotional skills had frozen during high school. Or earlier.

The emails didn’t make Ava jealous; they made her sad. It crushed her to see that her sister couldn’t relax and simply enjoy her life. For Jayne, every moment of the day was about manipulating people to turn their focus to her. Everything in Jayne’s life needed to circle back around to her. To the point where it had nearly cost her life. Today her email said she was going on a supervised outing to the mall with a few other residents, even though she had very little money to spend. Translation: you should feel sorry for me and send me money.

If you only knew how much I’m already paying.

Ava read the letter a third time. Two paragraphs. Nine sentences. Four of the sentences were about her watercolors. Two were about the shopping trip. Three were about another resident.

A man.

Ava’s heart sank, and she read the personal note the therapist had included at the bottom of the email. She stated that she was encouraged by Jayne’s enthusiasm for pursuing her watercolors. She assured Ava that the male resident Jayne had mentioned was just a friend. He was much younger than Jayne and married. The therapist claimed she was watching the relationship closely.

Ava knew better. A younger man? That meant that Jayne was emotionally closer in age to him. A positive in Jayne’s brain. The fact that her sister had written about this man meant he was constantly in her thoughts, and that she had him in her sights. Ava knew this from long experience with Jayne and men. It was also an attempt to make Ava jealous.

No, thanks.

Nothing would stop her sister from pursuing her goal. That he was married didn’t matter. An all-out assault of interest from Jayne McLane created men who left relationships bobbing in their wake. Solid relationships. Marriages.

They were all vulnerable.

Jayne knew how to get in men’s heads and swing them her way.

Ava started to dial the therapist and froze.

What am I doing?

It’s not my fight.

She clicked off her phone screen, hearing Mason’s voice in her head. “It’s not your responsibility. Let them do their job. That’s why we pay them the big bucks.”

The residential center cost a small fortune. Insurance had paid for some of it, but with Mason’s blessing Ava had taken on the rest. Their other home remodeling projects could wait, he’d said. As long as they weren’t putting themselves in debt, he’d agreed Ava could do as she wished.

Ava knew she wouldn’t be as patient if Mason had a sibling who was a financial and emotional black hole.

Part of her wanted him to stop her from paying for Jayne’s care. If he put his boot down and said hell no, it would be easier to bear.

But where would Jayne be then?

Jayne had good doctors. If they couldn’t see what she was about to do with this young man, they would soon learn. It wasn’t Ava’s responsibility to point it out. If she called, they would pat her on the head, thank her, and ignore her advice.

Ava turned on her car. She needed a latte and a cookie.

8

T
he phone’s ring jolted Mason out of a sound sleep.

Ava’s phone.

A blurry glance at his clock showed it was two
A.M.
and he relaxed back into his pillow, listening to her fumble for her phone and answer. Her voice was thick with sleep, making him want to pull her close and absorb her heat.

“Are you sure?” she asked. There was a long pause. Mason heard someone speak but couldn’t make out the words.

“Send me the address,” she said. “It’s not far from me. I’ll be there in half an hour.” She set her phone back on the nightstand with a sigh. “I need to go.”

“What is it?” Mason yawned, wondering if he would be able to fall back to sleep or if he should get up and scramble some eggs.

“Another mask. Southeast Portland.”

He sat up, fully awake. “Who is it?”

Ava swung her legs out of bed and sat on the edge, stretching her back. “An Oregon state trooper. Murdered in his home.”

“Name?”

“Louis Samuelson. Know him?”

He thought hard. “I don’t think so.” He pushed the covers back and got out of bed. “I’m going with you.”

She sat silent on the edge of the bed. Ava should say he couldn’t accompany her to the scene, but she didn’t.

“Okay, but I get the first shower,” she said.

The narrow street in southeast Portland was brightly lit with flashing lights. Mason counted twenty patrol cars, both OSP and Portland police, and then stopped counting. His gut had overflowed with anger since Ava’s call. Nothing infuriated him more than when someone targeted a cop.

OSP troopers put their lives on the line every day. When they pulled over a driver during a routine stop, they didn’t know whom they’d encounter behind the wheel. Rarely was it someone happy to see them.

He followed Ava up the front walkway to the small bungalow. It was one of those older Portland homes that look like tiny cottages from the outside, but inside are sizable and made with high-quality craftsmanship that has lasted a century. Wooden floors, wooden arches, thick walls. A single-lane driveway led past the house to a small garage behind the home. Someone had hung a sheet over the large window at the front of the house.

The front yard had been converted to a Halloween graveyard. Mason read the names on the gravestones. D
EE
C
AYED
. W
ILL
B. B
ACK
. P
AUL
T
ERGEIST.
Plastic bone arms and legs protruded from the grass. A headless stuffed body sat in a chair on the small front porch. Mason looked away from the decorations. The Halloween cheer was at odds with what he knew was indoors. Ava had learned more details as he drove them to the home, and he knew the scene inside would be difficult to stomach. He neatly printed his name in the scene log under Ava’s, thankful the police officer had no reason to question the appearance of an OSP detective, and slipped on booties.

They stepped inside. Mason nodded at a few familiar faces in the foyer, unsurprised at the level of anger he felt in the home. None of the officers he recognized said a word; they simply nodded back. A few people he didn’t know cast annoyed glances Ava’s way. Sexism was rife in many police departments and some cops didn’t want to see a female FBI agent when one of their own had been taken down. Mason returned the glares tenfold; Ava ignored them. She’d told him in the past she didn’t care what people thought. She did her job and knew she did it well.

They turned a corner and found themselves in the living room at the front of the house. Ava froze and Mason nearly bumped into her back. He looked across the room and caught his breath. The trooper had been nailed to the wall with thick spikes through his wrists. A white contorted ghost mask covered the officer’s face.

Mason wasn’t a religious man, but he said a silent prayer for the man’s soul and family. And then asked for the rapid capture of the person who’d committed such a sin. He saw Ava’s shoulders rise and fall with her deep breaths. Her chin lifted and she moved into the room, crossing to where Zander stood with Nora Hawes.

Nora’s eyes narrowed as she spotted Mason. “What are you doing here?” she asked as a greeting.

“I’m not here,” he replied, shoving his hands in his pants pockets.

She held his gaze a moment longer and then gave a short nod. “As you wish. But if someone directly asks me . . .”

“I understand,” he said. If asked, he knew she’d say he’d showed up and refused to leave. He could live with that and whatever consequences it brought.

This was about Denny. Screw anyone who tried to shut him out of this investigation.

“What do we know about him?” Ava asked.

“Louis Samuelson was a trooper with OSP for fifteen years.” Nora looked at her notepad. “Forty-one, lives alone, divorced, no kids. He was spotted around one thirty this morning when a jogger ran by and saw him through the window.”

“Wait,” said Ava. “Who runs at one in the morning?”

“Our witness,” said Zander. “He works a rotating schedule at Home Depot and runs when he can. He’s outside with one of the patrol officers. We’re going to talk to him more in depth in a few minutes. Needless to say, it scared the crap out of him when he decided to take a closer look through the window.”

Mason glanced at the covered front room window. It was quite large and didn’t have curtains or blinds. He hadn’t noticed any large bushes or trees blocking the window from the street. The house sat up on a slight rise, but anyone on the sidewalk would have a clear view to the inside of the house. He wondered how long it’d taken the cops to hang something over the window.

Looking carefully, Ava stepped closer to the body, and Mason saw that most of its weight was supported on large metal spikes that’d been hammered into the wall under the victim’s armpits. The same spikes had been put through the wrists, but Mason felt they were for shock value, not necessity.

He recognized the mask from a series of popular horror movies. The white mask’s mouth was elongated and the eyes were a distorted jelly bean shape. “What movie is the mask from?”

“The
Scream
franchise,” Zander said. “I just looked it up. It’s never the same killer wearing the mask. It could be anyone in the films.”

“Never saw them,” said Nora. “Not my thing.”

“Could we have more than one killer?” Ava murmured. “What are they trying to tell us?”

“It’s almost Halloween,” Mason pointed out. “It could simply be something handy for him.”

“But his first victim worked with Freddy Krueger memorabilia,” Nora said. “Assuming the Vance Weldon case is part of this. After tonight, I think the possibility is almost definite.”

“Unless our killer heard about the mask used at Vance’s suicide,” said Ava. “Although that was kept quiet and out of the media as far as Zander and I could tell. But if the word got out, it could inspire someone.”

“Either way, we’ve got a serial killer on our hands,” Zander said. “We need to reach out to the Behavioral Analysis Unit for some input. This is a fucked-up case.”

Mason didn’t say anything. He considered the work done in the FBI’s BAU to be partially witchcraft but admitted they’d been helpful in the past. They’d salivate over the file of a killer who used horror movie masks during the week of Halloween. Nora stepped forward and gently lifted the mask. The long mouth had covered Samuelson’s neck, and they saw it had been sliced open like Denny’s. Mason looked at the spikes through the wrists, noticing there was virtually no blood at the sites.

“He was dead before they hung him up,” Mason said. “He would have bled more if he’d been alive when he put those spikes through his wrists.” The other three investigators nodded. The neck of Samuelson’s shirt was soaked with blood. He wore jeans and tennis shoes. Mason looked at the floor of the living room and noticed a smeared blood trail that led into another room. “He was killed in another room?”

Nora nodded. “In the kitchen. Follow me and watch your step.”

They stepped carefully and followed Nora into a spacious kitchen. Here was the murder scene. A tech took photos as another set out numbered tags next to blood drops. A bloody kitchen dishrag lay on the floor along with a tipped-over water glass. Two large pools of blood were in the center of the gold linoleum, their centers still wet but their outside edges darkening and drying. Mason could see where Samuelson had been dragged out of the pools and into the living room. The heavy blood smears grew lighter along the path to the living room.

“Weapon?” asked Mason. “I assume it’s a knife of some sort.”

“Haven’t found it. I’ve got men doing a canvass of the yards with flashlights, and we’ll do it again once it’s daylight.”

“Samuelson’s not that big of a guy,” Zander commented. “I think one person could have managed this. We noticed a bunch of blood on that overturned chair in the living room. I suspect he used that to help him prop the body up while he lifted him to the spikes.”

“I don’t know,” said Ava. “Two people would have made this task much easier.”

“Easier, but not impossible for one guy.”

Ava nodded in agreement, a thoughtful look on her face. “Someone took a big risk by doing it in clear view of the street. Maybe the lights were off for that part, and he turned them on before he left.”

“That’s possible. All lights on this level were on. Even the one in the powder room. Upstairs the master bedroom light was on,” Nora stated.

“Was there a forced entry?”

“No,” said Nora. “Both the front and back doors were unlocked.”

“He’s still in street clothes,” said Zander. “Looks like he was caught before he got ready for bed.” He glanced at his watch. “When will the medical examiner get here? I’d like to take the body down.”

“He should be here any minute,” said Nora. “Let’s see if our jogger feels like talking now. He was too upset earlier to say much.”

Mason hung back in the kitchen and took a long look at the dark puddles of blood, remembering how the blood had pooled around Denny. At least Denny’s had merged with the soil, returning to nature. The blood on the old linoleum would be diluted and blended with soapy water in someone’s cleaning bucket. A worker on hands and knees, who’d never known Samuelson, would clean up.

Mason hoped his own death wouldn’t leave stains for a stranger to remove. He’d rather die under a fir tree, his blood soaking into the earth.

Ava recognized the athleticism in Brian Wasco. He had lean muscles and thin tendons that formed deep grooves down his neck. When it came to running, he said he didn’t care about the time of day or whether it was pouring rain. Ice was the only thing that stopped him from his run.

The twenty-eight-year-old sat on the low rock fence that separated the sidewalk from the home, his elbows resting on his thighs. Someone had given him a bottle of water and he squeezed it like a stress toy while he spoke. Nora finally asked him to stop, the loud crunching noise getting on everyone’s nerves.

“I got off work at midnight because I was filling stock after hours. By the time I got home it was almost one. I changed and ran out the door,” he said, looking earnestly at the investigators. “I like running at night. It’s quiet and you feel alone but sorta powerful because most of the city is sleeping. There’s an element of mystery that makes it feel like you’re doing something wrong.” He gave a sheepish look. “Sometimes I’ve wondered if cops on the graveyard shift would think I was running away from something.”

“Do you usually run this street?” Ava asked. Brian seemed direct and honest, but she hadn’t made up her mind. Something about him seemed slightly off.

“About half the time. I try to mix it up, and I usually save this road for when I have to run in the dark because the roads and sidewalks don’t have any root bumps to trip over.”

“You said earlier that you don’t always work the same shift,” Zander added.

“That’s right. Some days I work nights, some swing.”

“What made you stop and look closer at this house?” asked Nora.

“I actually ran past two more houses and then came back,” said Brian. “I assumed I’d seen a Halloween decoration out of the corner of my eye, but it was a bit odd that the house was all lit up. Usually every house on this street is dark when I run it at night.” He took deep breath and squeezed his bottle. He shot an apologetic glance at Nora. “I came back because it’d felt too real. You know how you get that feeling when you’re staring at something and your brain can’t figure out what it’s seeing? I stood over there at the beginning of the walkway and stared for a long time, expecting to see the guy walk through the room, setting up more decorations.”