The Kill (28 page)

A knock on the door, then Jan O’Neal popped her head in, saw Olivia, and entered. Quietly she said, “I have Lydia Markow here. I put her in the other conference room, gave her some water. Where’s Travis?”

“With Chief Pierson. I’ll sit with her if you want to go get him.”

“Thanks. I don’t want to leave her alone for too long. She seems to be doing okay, but you never know.”

Jan held up a photograph. “We swung by her house to pick up a recent picture of the victim.”

Nina Markow was a beautiful girl, small-boned and delicate-looking, with a wide, engaging grin. Her white-blonde hair was pulled into a bun that rested tight on her head, glimmering as if reflecting all the light in the room. It was a full-body shot of Nina in a red, white, and blue body suit, barefoot, in a complicated pose. So much life and energy radiated from the still shot. It overwhelmed Olivia; she found her hand rubbing her eyes, as if willing Nina to walk into the room right now.

“I’m going to take the photo to be copied and distributed,” Jan said. She looked at the sketch in front of Olivia. “Is that Driscoll?”

Olivia nodded.

“Damn bastard.”

Jan escorted Olivia to where Nina’s mother waited.

Olivia looked through the glass window in the door. Lydia Markow looked just like her daughter, with the same blonde hair, pulled back; she was attractive, wearing a simple and inexpensive navy business suit. She was playing with two thin gold bands on her left hand.

Olivia took a deep breath and hoped Zack came quickly. She didn’t know what to say to the mother, but she did know if she were in Lydia Markow’s shoes, she’d want someone to simply be there with her.

Lydia looked up when she entered the room. Her eyes were red, but dry. She gave Olivia an awkward smile. “Have you found her?”

Olivia shook her head and sat down. Lydia closed her eyes and crossed herself.

“We’re doing everything possible.”

“Do you know who did it?”

Olivia hesitated. She didn’t know what to tell her. “We have a suspect,” she finally said. She wouldn’t lie to this woman.

“It’s the same man who killed those other girls, isn’t it?”

Olivia didn’t answer. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything. She’d never worked with survivors before. What was she supposed to say? How much was she supposed to reveal?

“I thought so.” Silent tears streamed down Lydia’s cheeks. “I can’t lose her. My husband—he died when Nina was two. She was the light of his life. She’s mine, too. I don’t know how—no, God won’t take her from me. He’ll protect her.”

Lydia tugged on a necklace that was buried under her blouse. It was a small, gold crucifix. Her lips moved in silent prayer, her eyes downcast.

Zack came into the room and Olivia turned to him, tears in her own eyes. He rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

He said, “Mrs. Markow, I want you to know that we are doing everything to find Nina. Everything. Every officer in Seattle is looking for her. We have a sketch of the man who took her. Would you mind looking at it?”

She held out her hand for the paper.

She stared at the sketch for a long minute. “I’ve never seen him,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not a problem. Abby Vail and Henry Jorge both gave good descriptions. We have several leads.”

Zack told her what they believed happened that afternoon.

“Do you have any questions?”

“How—how long—I mean, I read in the newspaper that he doesn’t kill them right away. So we have time, right? We have time to find her, right?”

Zack swallowed and Olivia could feel the frustration and tension radiating from his body.

“We believe we have some time. We also have a lot of information we never had before. We have a partial license plate and right now six pairs of police officers are working through the list, talking to all twenty-two owners of late-model white trucks with that partial plate in King County. We’ll expand to the surrounding counties next. We have a sketch of the suspect we’re distributing in key locations, and the media has agreed to run the picture on the news. An Amber Alert has been issued. The FBI is involved. I promise, we will do everything in our power to find Nina and bring her home safe.”

Lydia squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking. “Thank you,” she managed.

“Your neighbor, Mr. Jorge, is still here. He wanted to wait for you to see if you needed a ride home,” Zack said.

“Henry is a kind man. I’ll have him take me to church. If you hear anything, you’ll find me at St. Stephen’s.”

Normally, Zack enjoyed riding the ferry from Flauteroy to Vashon Island. Tonight, the twenty-minute ride seemed ten times as long, and he paced the observation deck as he and Olivia planned out their time.

“Say he lives here or works here. That means he would probably buy groceries? Eat in restaurants? Fill his car with gas?” Zack threw out ideas.

“Let’s start here. Ask the ferry workers if they recognize him.” Olivia put out her hand to stop Zack from pacing. “You take the crew below, I’ll take the crew on the observation deck, and we’ll meet back at the car when we dock.”

“You’re right. I should have thought of it.” He ran a hand through his hair, intensely frustrated that Driscoll had taken another girl when they were so close to finding him.

They split up, and Zack went down where the passenger cars waited. Most of the people had headed up to the observation deck; a few mingled outside, huddled in jackets. The air was distinctly colder on the water than in the city, and now that fall had taken firm hold, temperatures would continue to drop.

Zack started with the security crew. He asked all four on the car deck and none recognized Driscoll. Two barely glanced at the picture. What good was security if they didn’t see anything?

Ten minutes later, when the first whistle blew, Zack was ready to go to the transportation authority over the idiots they hired.

Until he met Stan Macker.

Stan Macker was nearing retirement, bald, with the leathery face of a man who’d worked outdoors most of his life. He looked like he would prefer to die working the lines and be buried at sea. His post was at the gate.

Zack approached him, not expecting anything.

“Detective,” the old man nodded.

“How do you know I’m a cop?”

“Name’s Stan Macker. I’ve worked ferries forty-two years. I’ve been watching you since you came on board. You and that cute little filly. Saw that you asked all the security guards and half my crew to look at a picture. I suspect you want me to look at the picture.”

Zack held out the sketch.

Stan stared at it, nodding, handed it back. “Dark green Ford Ranger. Late nineties’ model. He was here today.”

“When?”

“Took the one-ten across to Flauteroy. Hasn’t returned.”

“Why do you remember him? You must see thousands of people and cars every day.”

“I’ve been here so long, I remember cars. People. There’s a woman who lives on Vashon who’s been taking the ferry every weekday for sixteen years. She didn’t show up one day. I was surprised. I called over to the Vashon substation, described her and her car, said she hadn’t been sick a day in sixteen years, maybe something happened. Something did. She’d had a seizure that morning. The medics saved her life.” He shrugged. “I just remember.”

“What makes this man memorable? Does he commute?”

Stan shook his head. “Naw. Very irregular. But he stays in his truck. Every time. No music. Doesn’t get out and stretch his legs. Doesn’t read—we get a lot of people who’ll read a book or newspaper while they sit in their cars. Not this one. He stares straight ahead. That’s why he stands out.”

“Do you have security tapes? I need to see his truck, get a license plate.”

“Talk to the head of security. He can get them for you.”

“Have you ever seen him in another vehicle? Perhaps a large truck or SUV?” Zack didn’t want to lead him, but he needed to know if Driscoll brought his victims to the island.

“No. Only the Ranger. But I’m not on duty 24/7.”

“Thanks for your help. I’ll talk to the security head. What’s his name?”

“Ned Jergens.”

“He was a cop.” Zack hadn’t known him well, but he recognized the name.

“Yep. Good guy. He’s stationed on Flauteroy, but here’s his direct number. They give it to us in case we have some trouble.”

“Thanks a lot, Stan. I appreciate it.”

“The guy’s bad news, isn’t he?”

“The worst. If you see him, call Jergens immediately. And me.” Zack handed him his card.

As soon as Zack and Olivia disembarked, he called Chief Pierson and told him what Stan Macker had said. Pierson would contact the Seattle Port Authority and Ned Jergens and get all security tapes since Jennifer Benedict’s abduction last month.

The shopping district on Vashon was lively at night, and Zack and Olivia split the street. Thirty minutes later, Olivia walked into a restaurant at the end of the pier. The scent of good food made her stomach growl; her only meal that day had been a prepackaged sandwich at the San Francisco Airport.

She asked to see the manager. A few minutes later a young twenty-something Asian girl came bouncing out of the kitchen. “Hi! I’m Denise Tam. Can I help you?”

Olivia introduced herself and showed her FBI ID. “We’re looking for a man we believe lives on the island. He drives a dark green Ford Ranger.” She handed Denise the sketch. “Have you seen him? Perhaps he’s been in to eat?”

“Ohmigod,” she said, her hand covering her mouth. “That’s Steve.”

Olivia’s heart leapt to her throat. “Steve? Does he have a last name?”

“Steve Williams. He’s been a server here for nearly two years. Ohmigod. What happened? He’s not in trouble?”

Olivia glanced around the restaurant, trying to spot Driscoll. “Is he working tonight?”

She shook her head. “No, he swapped shifts. He has a daughter who goes to college in Oregon and went down to visit her.”

Daughter? There was nothing in his records that indicated he had any children or had ever been married. It could be the truth, or a ploy.

“Do you know his daughter’s name?”

“Angel.”

Olivia sucked in her breath, but quickly recovered. “I need to see his employment records right now.”

“I—I don’t know if I’m supposed to do that.”

“I can get a warrant and come back in an hour, but in the time it takes me to return someone might die. Do you want that on your conscience?”

Denise looked like she was ready to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Come to the office.”

“One second.” She flipped open her phone and dialed Zack. “Bingo. Restaurant at the pier . . . the Crab Shack. I’ll be in the back office with the manager.”

Thirty minutes later, Zack and four sheriff deputies from the Vashon Island substation had the cottage rented by Steve Williams, a.k.a. Chris Driscoll, surrounded.

The small house sat on the edge of the woods where Jillian Reynolds’s body had been discovered less than a mile away. The property felt empty, but Zack didn’t take any chances. He had the deputies do a complete perimeter check, then knock on the door. When there was no answer, they entered the house.

Chris Driscoll had lived on Vashon Island for well over a year, but the cottage reflected nothing personal. No photographs. No pictures on the walls. When Zack had called the landlord about the property, he’d learned that it had been rented partially furnished. Driscoll paid cash rent and told the landlord it was from his tips. He never paid late.

The cottage was sterile, immaculate, without personality.

The garbage had been emptied. No dishes on the counter or sink. No plants in the window box. The glass-topped table had two chairs perfectly aligned.

The bedroom didn’t look slept in except that the bed had white sheets and two blankets tucked tightly in, military style. Zack feared Driscoll had already escaped, that he had no intention of returning after Nina Markow.

He checked the drawers, relieved to find clothing. Three sets of uniform clothes for the restaurant—black slacks and black polo shirt—were stiffly folded. Even Driscoll’s underwear and socks were orderly. There were no dirty clothes in the hamper; no clothes in the washer or dryer.

Because the room was devoid of everything personal, the lone picture stood out like a beacon.

Gloved, Zack picked it up.

The boy was Driscoll, age nine or ten. Blond hair cut in a short buzz popular in the fifties and early sixties. The girl was four or five, a beautiful little girl. A little girl who at nine would look remarkably like Michelle Davidson or Nina Markow. There was a woman kneeling between the two children, her arms around their shoulders. Smiling for the camera.

Zack turned it over.

Mama and Angel. February 10, 1960.

It had been taken six months before Bruce Carmichael killed Miriam Driscoll.

Oddly disturbed, Zack put the picture down and went to the closet. Inside was a briefcase of sorts, more like a large black box that one might see a traveling salesman use.

It was locked.

Could Driscoll have rigged the cottage with some sort of explosives? Zack didn’t have the tools to defuse them, and it would take the bomb squad at least thirty minutes to get to the island, even if they used the Coast Guard.

He called Doug Cohn. “Doug, I need you and your team out to Vashon ASAP. Bring George Franz with you.”

“Bomb?”

“Probably not, but I don’t want to take the chance of not seeing your ugly face in the morning.”

“Got it.”

Zack gave him the directions, then instructed the sheriff’s deputies to secure the cottage and let no one in until the crime scene investigators arrived. Then he looked for Olivia.

Where in the world had she disappeared to?

Had she seen something? She wasn’t stupid—she wouldn’t have gone off after Driscoll on her own! Would she? Had he read her wrong the entire time? Her heart and mind were so wrapped up in this case, between her parents and her sister and what had happened with the Davidson family.

No. She was a professional first.

But his heart beat rapidly and he drew his gun, holding it at his side as he circled the cottage.