The Kill (6 page)

“Detective,” Pierson said in a tone that made Zack take note. They stared at each other and Zack knew that his chief hadn’t made the move. It made him feel marginally better, but with the Feds hanging around his precinct, something was up.

Pierson continued. “Agent St. Martin is here because of a similarity in your case with one she investigated, and believes her information may help us find the killer. I spoke with her boss yesterday and he assured me that they’re not sending anyone officially. I agreed, after hearing what information they had, that he could send someone unofficially.”

“Yesterday?” Zack repeated. Why hadn’t the chief given him a heads-up?

“I don’t have to remind you of the seriousness of this matter,” Pierson continued, ignoring or oblivious to Zack’s implied question. “I agreed to the FBI’s offer, but you’ll retain total control over the investigation. Agent St. Martin is here simply to help. Think of her as—” he paused, now obviously uncomfortable “—your partner.”

That didn’t sit well with Zack, but he wanted any and all information that could help him find the bastard who murdered two little girls. Still, could he trust this Fed to be on the level?

“You know how they operate, Chief. All wine and roses up front, false promises to share information, then
wham
! They pull a rabbit out of the hat at the last minute, and we find out they’ve been keeping their cards close to the vest. We do the work, take out the bad guys, and they take the credit because they were less than forthcoming.” It had happened twice in Zack’s career, once with near fatal results. He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“I wouldn’t think it would matter who got the credit as long as justice is served,” Agent St. Martin said, her voice as smooth as twenty-year-old Scotch.

Zack glanced at her, cool and collected, making him feel like a hothead. When he was a kid, he’d had a harder time controlling his temper, especially when someone was being unfairly picked on.

“Zack,” his grandmother would say, “your passion for those who can’t defend themselves is admirable, and will take you far if you don’t become a bully in the process.”

He’d worked hard at it, mostly had his temper under control, but tonight he remembered the bad taste the Feds left in his mouth the last time they’d worked together.

He was about to explain his comments when the woman said, “What’s mine is yours, Detective.”

She arched her eyebrows and stared him down, her hands clasped in her lap, her hazel eyes firmly locked on to his. Almost daring him, challenging him . . .

He looked away, surprised that the little woman had such courage to attempt staring
him
down. Yet she had. He’d turned away first. He felt an unwanted jolt of admiration. “Fine,” he said. “But,” he continued, looking at Pierson, then at Agent St. Martin, “if I find out that you’re playing games, withholding evidence, or generally jerking the department around, all deals are off.”

“I don’t play games, Detective,” she said.

Olivia knew she was on thin ice. If Detective Travis really pushed, he might learn the truth. The threat of exposure terrified her, but also gave her the courage to stand firm, and she mentally braced herself for a confrontation.

Travis stared at her, his dark eyes taking in her entire appearance with an almost crude appraisal. She resisted the urge to straighten her spine. He reminded her of a football player, a man who worked out and liked it. She felt even smaller than her diminutive not-quite-five-foot-three. Being seated certainly didn’t help.

But Olivia would not be intimidated.

“As long as we understand each other, Agent St. Martin,” he said. “Ready to share?” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm toward the door.

Olivia released a pent-up breath. Slowly, so neither Chief Pierson nor Detective Travis could see her relief.

“Absolutely,” she said as she stood, holding her briefcase. She nodded to the chief and followed the detective from the office.

“I have one of the conference rooms set up for this case,” Travis said. “Let’s go there.”

“I’m not here to cause problems,” Olivia said, feeling a strong need for him to accept her.

“I’m sure you’re not.” Sarcastic.

“You don’t like the FBI?”

“My dealings with them in the past have never been what you’d call positive.”

She frowned. She knew some stories of locals and the FBI not getting along, but she’d always been two or three steps removed from the investigation. Everyone she worked with seemed to be friendly. True, her experience was often thousands of miles away in a crime lab, but she thought she would have picked up on hostilities.

Detective Travis led her through a maze of desks. A dozen men and women watched them pass. Their watchful eyes made her increasingly nervous as she crossed the brightly lit space. She kept her face impassive, determined not to let any of these people get to her. She was already playing a dangerous game; jeopardizing her career was only the beginning. But she would see it through. She had to.

She would find Missy’s killer and he would pay. Justice would be served. Or she would die trying.

The thought didn’t scare her—and
that
worried her. She
should
be scared. She should be terrified of the killer who—by her count—had raped and murdered no less than twenty-nine girls in thirty-four years. Thirty, counting the death of Michelle Davidson.

But she’d come this far. There was no backing out now.

Zack stopped abruptly and turned into a conference room, closing the door behind them. “Sit. We have a lot of work to do.”

Olivia put her briefcase down and slid into a chair. “I said I would share everything I have. I don’t think it’s fair that you’re judging me without even giving me a chance to prove that I have no agenda other than to capture this killer.” A tickle of guilt flitted down her spine. She was withholding information from him, but not about the case.

He pulled out a chair and sat heavily, pulling a stack of files toward him. He stared at her, seeming to weigh her words. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable, but she held firm. Zack Travis was the type of cop who would see right through her if she even
thought
about lowering her shields.

“I’m glad that we could come to an agreement,” he finally said, without directly responding to her comments. “Our department wants to find this guy just as bad as your agency.”

Olivia nodded.
No you don’t. No one wants this guy more than I do
.

Zack noticed an odd look cross Agent St. Martin’s face, something he recognized but couldn’t put a name to. She straightened her back, which didn’t do much for her overall height. She was petite, trim, with an hourglass figure under an expensive suit.

As he stared, she tightened her jaw. He almost missed her biting the inside of her cheek, and for a brief moment she looked haunted. But he blinked and whatever he thought he saw had disappeared, and she simply looked like someone used to being in charge.

Zack said, “Do you have a first name? Or should I just call you Superagent?”

He liked the way she bristled. She would have been fun to tease if they didn’t have serious business ahead of them.

“Olivia,” she said.

“Do people call you Liv?”

She shrugged. “Some.”

He waved a hand to the murder boards set up against the far wall. He’d watched her eyes darting toward them, obviously eager to get started.

“What do you know of my cases?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, but it almost immediately fell forward. “Initially, I read the press reports, then I had the lab reports sent to me so I could review the evidence. But everything I have is from the Benedict murder. I haven’t had time to review the Davidson file. I assume it’s the same killer?”

“Yes.”

“No doubt?”

“Not in my book. The director of the crime lab is taking the case himself. Doug Cohn. He concurs—same knife, same M.O., and—” he paused, then said, “You know about the hair, right?”

“The killer cut a chunk about one inch in diameter from the victim’s head.”

Zack nodded.

“Any differences between the two cases?”

Zack shook his head. “Nothing substantial. Jenny was nine; Michelle was eleven. Jenny was an only child whose parents are divorced; Michelle has two siblings and her parents are still married. Both were abducted in the afternoon, killed within forty-eight hours, bodies dumped in a marginally public area and discovered in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Someone found the body of Jenny Benedict quickly, though,” Olivia said. “Your report said possibly within two hours?”

“We tracked down every employee who works in that industrial park. The owner of Swanson and Clark Electronics left just after six o’clock Friday evening, three weeks ago. He swears he walked right past where her body was found and she wasn’t there. The last employee to leave,” Zack checked his notes, “Ann Wells. Works at an industrial paint supply store at the end of the row. She didn’t see or hear anything unusual; her husband picked her up right at seven o’clock.”

“And your witness arrived about 9:30?” Olivia prompted.

Zack nodded. “Sunset was officially 6:57, but it probably wasn’t full dark until after 7:30. I’m figuring he waited until dark to dump the body as an added precaution.”

“You’re looking at a two-hour window?”

“I’m thinking the killer didn’t expect someone to discover the body until at least Saturday morning, and possibly not until Monday. None of the businesses open over the weekend.”

“I saw something about a tattoo.” Olivia’s heart quickened. This was what she really wanted to hear, but she didn’t want to seem overeager at this point. “No details?”

“One of the girls who saw Jenny walk away with the killer saw a tattoo. It was a vague impression, and she had nothing else for us. My partner is looking into similar crimes. We’ve tracked down two so far—four dead girls in Austin, Texas, and four in Nashville, Tennessee. We’re waiting on Nashville’s reports.” He stared at her and leaned back in his chair. “You work either of those cases?”

Clearly, it was her turn to share.

Olivia opened her briefcase and took out the thick folder of information she’d compiled. “Unfortunately, I believe the man we’re looking for has killed thirty girls, including Michelle Davidson.”

“Thirty? And no one caught on that we have a nationwide serial killer?” Zack looked as irate as she felt.

“He’s cautious. Methodical. Patient. Years of inactivity between murders. In three cases—California, Kansas, and Kentucky—someone else was arrested and tried for the crimes. There’s no clear-cut pattern, and because the murders happen within weeks of each other before he stops, the cases grow cold quickly.” She slid over a copy of her file.

“How did you connect these cases to mine?”

“I told you someone was tried in California for a crime I believe your Seattle killer is responsible for. The M.O. is similar. The man convicted was just released from prison because of a DNA test. He was convicted on circumstantial evidence, but it convinced the judge and jury. But he didn’t rape Mel—the victim.”

“He could have been involved.”

“Yes. I’ve thought of that, but the prosecutor said the evidence after all this time is too thin to guarantee a conviction. And with all the publicity over wrongful convictions across the country—well, I think they simply didn’t want to try a difficult case.” She’d talked to Hamilton Craig about it when Hall was released two weeks ago. He was willing to retry Hall, but he didn’t think they’d win. There was no evidence suggesting there were two people involved. That didn’t mean there weren’t, but it would be harder to prove. And thirty-four years later? Virtually impossible.

“What do you think? Think my killer has a partner in crime?”

He was asking her an opinion that another cop, or an FBI agent, could offer. She didn’t know. “I don’t have any evidence to suggest either way—”

“What do you
think
? What’s your
gut instinct
say? Or aren’t you FBI types allowed to listen to your instincts?”

Instincts? She didn’t know how to listen to her instincts. She needed the facts in front of her. Numbers. Statistics. Probabilities. She could compare microscopic threads and tell with certainty whether they matched or not. But her feelings about whether Missy’s killer had a partner? This was unfamiliar and potentially dangerous territory, and an area she wasn’t comfortable exploring.

“Well,” she said, trying to buy time.

“You have an opinion. Spill it. I’m not going to hold you to it if you’re wrong.”

She swallowed, tucked her hair behind her ear. “Okay, I think the killer works alone. His crime is too personal, too
intimate
to share with another person. But—the California murder appears to be his first. And maybe he was still working out the bugs in his killing style. The primary evidence that convicted Hall was his truck—evidence in the truck proved that the victim had been in it.” She paused when she realized she’d said Hall’s name out loud. She hadn’t meant to, and quickly continued her line of reasoning, hoping Zack didn’t seize upon her slip. “Perhaps he drove the killer? Or maybe lent the killer his truck? But I can’t see anyone keeping quiet and going to prison to protect someone.”

“I agree.”

She was surprised. “You do?”

“The crimes are too personal. I don’t see him having a partner. But maybe early on he had help.” Zack shrugged. “We won’t know until we find him.”

“Do you have a DNA sample? Anything like that?” Olivia asked.

“We have a sample off Michelle Davidson, but it’s apparently small.” He shook his head. “I’m not well-versed in DNA testing, I’ve left it to Cohn. He’s good. But it’ll still take a few weeks to get anything. Cohn’s trying to push the state crime lab into rushing the test, but they have to put court-ordered DNA testing first.” He ran a hand over the dark stubble on his face, then rubbed his neck.

“I—” How could she get that sample without Zack thinking she was taking over the case? She had to proceed carefully. “You know, I might be able to rush the sample through the FBI lab.”