Web of Secrets (Agents Under Fire) (26 page)

“So what do you do with this information?” she asked, now genuinely interested in his answer.

“Sell it, of course. We have a very generous local buyer who snaps up the data like it’s cocaine.” He laughed. “Of course, I only give him a little at a time to whet his appetite. Soon though, he’ll be so addicted that I’ll be able to raise my prices.”

“A local man, huh?” she asked casually when in reality, she was beginning to connect the dots. “What’s his name?”

He arched a brow, anger filling his eyes. “You’re playing agent with me, and I will not have that. My secrets are mine alone. Not for the FBI to know about.”

He let his gaze linger on her, as if he were seeing her, but not seeing
her
. The insanity shining through his eyes sent terror to her heart.

“We need to get moving. Your bath is getting cold.” He withdrew his knife, and she held her breath, but he went for her hands to cut them free. She tried to flail out and catch him across the head, but the lengthy strain on her biceps kept her from moving them. She searched the area for something to use a weapon and spotted a pen. She could jab it into his neck, but she’d have to be in the perfect position to surreptitiously take it and ram it into his body.

He helped her to her feet that were still constrained by cable ties. The urge to run nearly overpowered her, but she kept her head and snagged the pen from the table, resting it in her palm out of view. She held her breath, waiting for him to catch her. He didn’t notice.

Thank you, God.

He urged her forward, tenderly holding her elbow. What a contradiction! A gentle killer.

They slowly crossed the room with worn carpeting, stained bedding, and chipped walls. Of course, it was a seedy hotel. He couldn’t take her bound and gagged to a five-star establishment.

He paused to pick up a white gown trimmed with lace, much like the gown she’d worn in the nineties. Her mouth went dry. Her legs felt as if they couldn’t hold her up, and she wobbled like a struck bowling pin. He slowed and encouraged her with soothing comments that made her want to vomit.

In the bathroom, he lowered her onto the toilet seat. She made sure the pen remained concealed. She couldn’t use it at the moment, but she’d find a way.

He drew his knife from a sheath at his belt. “I’m going to free you so you can bathe alone. Mother says that’s the best thing, in case you’re still pure. But I’ll be right outside the door with my gun, so please don’t try anything. Mother says I’m to shoot you if you do.”

Mother, Mother, Mother. She was tired of hearing about Mother. He sliced through her leg restraints. She raised her hands and started to maneuver the pen into position. He suddenly sat back and looked up. She dropped her hands to her lap before he saw the pen.

“I’m sorry about the restraints. Mother thinks you will run, but I say you want to be with me. You do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she managed to say despite her raw throat. She’d say anything to keep him off guard.

“I knew it.” He stood and bent over her.

One swift slice through the cable tie and her hands were free. He stepped back and out of reach. “Take your time and use the soap I’ve left for you. You’ll remember it. Everything needs to be perfect.”

She remembered the soap all right. The rough pumice had been like sandpaper on her skin. She didn’t want to use it, but the last time he’d sniffed her body to be sure she had. When she didn’t smell like the bar, he’d scrubbed her arms and legs himself, tearing her skin. She wouldn’t put herself through that again. All she had to do was lather it up in her hands and pat it on her skin.

He stepped out the door, and she sat for a moment pondering her next move.

“I don’t hear you moving around, my sweet,” he said. “Do you need help?”

“No.” She got up. “The water’s a bit chilly. I’ll just add a little more.”

She turned on the tap and looked around the space. When she finished bathing, she could stand behind the door and strike with her pen. It might work. Might not. She needed a fallback plan. She had a pen and the paper encasing an extra toilet paper roll. She doubted he would kill her here. He was likely just using the room for her to bathe because they’d raided his home. In the event that they did depart, she could leave a message. She unwrapped the paper and wrote,

I’m FBI agent Rebecca Lange. I’ve been abducted. Call Detective Connor Warren at the PPB.

She started to fold it then stopped to add the license plate number of his current car. She went to the toilet paper roll on the holder and unrolled several layers. She tucked the note inside and rolled it back up. He’d never look there. Hopefully, someone else would.

She turned the water off and undressed, then climbed into the tub that she suspected was dirtier than she was. But she had no choice. She’d have to wash her hair or he’d bring her back in here and shove her head under the water himself.

She finished her faux bathing, dried, and put on the gown, which felt like death sliding over and claiming her body. She shivered and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was pale, her eyes unfocused, dark circles lingering beneath them. She looked like death already.

“No,” she whispered. “Stop this. You aren’t going to let him win.”

She firmed her resolve, grabbed the pen, and stepped behind the door.

“I’m ready,” she called out sweetly and waited for the chance to impale the man who’d haunted her dreams—and her life—for years.

AS TAYLOR WAITED for the image to be completed of Van Gogh’s hard drive, she played the video surveillance tape over and over, hoping to find anything that might help. She was sitting in the tech’s SUV while he imaged Van Gogh’s machine on site so she didn’t waste any time in transport.

She replayed the video, zooming in on Van Gogh. Then closer this time, focusing on the rifle. An AK-47?

She paused the video and checked the markings. Not an AK-47. A Sturmgewehr 44.

That’s it! The gun.

She’d seen his gun collection at his house and had recognized quite a few of the weapons as sought-after older guns.

Her dad had looked for a StG 44 for years. It had been developed in World War II and was considered to be the first modern assault rifle. A collector’s item, it wasn’t commonly sold in gun shops. They might find Zwicky by tracing the gun purchase. And she knew just the person to help her find it.

She stepped out of the car and dialed. The phone made it to the fifth ring before he answered.

“You better have a good reason for calling me at this time of day,” Jack grumbled.

“I need your help.” She told him about Becca’s abduction.

“Tell me what I can do,” he said.

“Van Gogh has a gun collection almost as impressive as yours. He was carrying a StG 44.”

“So he knows a thing or two about guns.”

“I was hoping you might put out feelers in the gun community to see if you can track the purchase or locate his favorite place to shoot. Maybe it’ll give us an idea of where he’s gone to ground.”

Silence filled the phone.

“Jack?” she asked.

“I can do what you ask, but you have to know, if I get involved, it’s not going to be by the book like you law enforcement people expect.” He paused. “Tell me now if that’s not okay or that you’re not prepared to deal with the consequences.”

“I’m prepared,” she said, remembering Becca’s tortured look as Van Gogh drove off. “Do whatever it takes, Jack. Whatever it takes.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

THE SUN PEEKED OVER the horizon and flooded the FBI breakroom with a warmth Connor didn’t feel. Mount Hood stood in the distance, reminding him of the mountain they were climbing to find Becca.

She’d been gone for eight hours now. Eight long hours, while he’d spent the time beating himself up over leaving her alone. He’d failed her, this woman he’d come to care for more than any woman in his life. She proved to him that women could be trusted. She’d simply had a horrific experience in her past that she couldn’t share . . . with anyone. She hadn’t cheated on him. Hadn’t bailed on him like his mother had. He’d run from that situation as soon as he was old enough to go, leaving his family behind. Now he realized he’d been wrong . . . and that he’d wasted too many years.

He wasn’t going to do the same thing with Becca. Life was too precious, too short not to go after his dreams. And that meant finding Becca.

He tossed his coffee cup in the trash and went back to Taylor’s cubicle. He wished he could say the coffee had refreshed him as Taylor had suggested it would, but it just left him feeling wired and jittery.

“Anything?” he asked Taylor, hoping she’d found even a hint of a lead on the computer Van Gogh left behind.

“I’m sorry, but no.” She sighed and sat back. “Looks like Zwicky only used this computer to control the car.”

“No email, web surfing? Nothing?”

“No.” She looked up at him. “He’s a computer professional, Connor. He knew what he was doing and carefully planned his moves not to leave a trail.”

“Okay, so what about the computer itself? Can we trace the serial number, maybe find out where he bought it?”

“We can try, but he’d have to have registered it for it to lead back to him. Even then, it’ll just give us his address, which we already know.”

Connor clamped a hand on the back of his neck to keep from punching something. “Maybe he has a second address.”

“Could be. I’ll tell our analysts to add this to their list.” She got up and trudged wearily down the hall.

He felt bad for her fatigue. He’d been pushing her hard. She was a rookie, and he should probably cut her some slack, but he couldn’t. Not until Becca was found. They all had to give one hundred and ten percent. He moved down the row to Kait’s cubicle. She and Nina had come in to personally review traffic cam footage in search of Van Gogh’s second vehicle.

“Tell me you have something, Kait,” he said.

She spun and looked up at him. “Nothing we can act on.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, there’s no camera near the alley where he ditched the car. We picked up a sedan a few miles away. The driver’s a white male who fits Van Gogh’s build. We ran the plates and they came back as a rental, so it could be him.” She tapped a map program on her screen. “This is the last sighting of the vehicle.” She clenched and released her hands. “I should get back to it.”

Connor nodded and backed away to let her work.

Taylor came rushing up to him. “I may have something. Remember I told you Becca had me take Danny’s DNA to a private lab where her friend has a weapons consultancy business?”

Connor nodded.

“When I reviewed the video footage at the abduction site,” Taylor continued. “I recognized the model of Van Gogh’s gun. It looks like an AK-47, but if you look closer, you can see it’s a Sturmgewehr 44. A fairly rare weapon.”

“And?” Connor asked, wishing she’d get to the point.

“I called Jack—the weapons expert—and asked him to try to track the gun. He discovered one was sold at a local gun show. The show was held at a nearby motel and was only open by invitation. Zwicky was on that list.”

“Okay, and that helps how?”

“We can go to the hotel and ask around. With his face, he’d be easily recognized. Maybe someone knows where he hangs out.”

Connor tried to tamp down his disappointment over the less than solid lead. “It’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

Taylor’s excitement evaporated.

“Sorry,” Connor said. “You found a lead, which is more than I’ve done. I shouldn’t have discounted it. Where’s this hotel located?”

She rattled off an address.

“That’s close to the car we’re tracking,” Kait called out, drawing Connor and Taylor over to her cubicle. She brought the address up on her map. “He’s about five miles away on our last sighting. But if he stays on the same road, he could be headed there.”

Connor looked at Taylor, making sure to transmit the enthusiasm he now felt about her lead. “Let’s you and I get over there and throw the jerk a nice welcoming party.”

“Thanks for inviting me.” She grinned. “I’ve always been fond of parties.”

Connor gave Kait his cell phone number so she could keep him updated on the vehicle’s movements, then took off for his car parked in the visitor lot out front. It didn’t take long to get to the motel. He parked a block away to keep from spooking Van Gogh.

“Ready?” he asked Taylor.

“Absolutely.” She tugged on the baseball cap she’d put on to keep Van Gogh from recognizing her and added a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

Connor looked around warily as they hoofed it to the office. He searched for the sedan Kait was tracking, but didn’t see it anywhere. He went straight to the lobby that hadn’t changed since the eighties. It was worn and as tired-looking as the clerk who seemed bored to death. The man looked up, his expression wary.

Connor slapped Zwicky’s picture down along with his shield and eyed the clerk to let him know he wasn’t fooling around. “You ever see this guy?”

“Yeah, a few times.”

“When was the last time?”

“When he checked in last night.”

“He’s here?”

The guy shrugged. “Not sure if he’s actually here right now, but yeah . . . he’s registered in room 141.”

Connor was surprised that the clerk gave him the room number without any hassle, but he didn’t question it. “You got a map of the rooms?”

Without a comment, he set a map on the counter and pointed at the third to the last room on the side facing the road.

Connor nodded his thanks, then bolted outside to get eyes on the unit. The drapes were pulled. The door closed. The parking space in front empty. Connor’s anger flared that Becca might be held behind those curtains in this seedy, rundown motel.

Taylor joined him. “I can’t tell if he’s here or not.”

“Only way to find out is to get inside.” Connor jerked his phone from the clip, dialed Sam, and gave him the lowdown.

“I’ll get a SWAT team dispatched,” Sam replied. “You want me to come out there, too?”

“Honestly, I think it’s better to have you back at the office managing things. Unless, of course, you’re jonesing to take this creep down.”

“He’s all yours, man.”

“There’s a grocery store a block south of here. I’ll meet SWAT there to coordinate the assault.”

“Roger that,” Sam said, and they disconnected.

Connor turned to Taylor. “I need you to stay here and keep an eye on the room. If you see any movement, even a swish of a curtain, you call me.”

Her gaze already fixed on the unit, she nodded and held up her phone.

“Also, I need you to email all of the license plates in the lot to Jae and have her run them. Got it?”

“Got it,” she replied without looking at him.

Connor took off running and made the short drive to the grocery store.

Early-morning shoppers were already milling around, so he parked in an out-of-the-way spot to keep from drawing attention. He retrieved his vest from the trunk, grabbed his rifle, and then checked the ammo, before putting extra clips in his pouches.

Armed and ready, he tapped his foot until SWAT arrived. Together, they formed a strategy and charged the hotel room.

Connor didn’t care if he was risking his life. He was the first one through the door. He hurried past the empty bed with the stained bedspread. Past the scarred dresser to the bathroom, his heart beating so hard he thought it might erupt from his chest. He held his breath. Pushed the door open. It was empty.

He was at once relieved and disappointed at the same time. Relieved not to find Becca’s body. Disappointed she wasn’t there at all.

“Clear,” he called out then returned to the team. “Fan out. Go door to door. Search every room. Every car.”

He set his rifle on the dresser and dialed Taylor to update her and warn her to remain in place, and keep an eye out for a fleeing car. Then he phoned Dane to process this room. Next, he started checking the area as he pulled out latex gloves from his pocket. He found a few zip ties that had been cut. One dangled from the headboard, telling him Van Gogh had tied her up here. He searched for blood. Found none.

“Thank God,” he mumbled and moved on to the table with water rings marring the surface. A water bottle sat half empty. He lifted it to his nose and smelled it. Nothing odd. On the dresser, he found a large white box with tissue paper inside. It was the size and shape for a gift of clothing. Had he brought something along to dress Becca in? Maybe a nightgown?

Connor forced away the thought of what happened to females when they wore the nightgown and went back to the bathroom with cracked tiles and moldy grout. The tub was wet, the shower curtain dry, and one towel damp. So someone had bathed. A bar of strong-smelling soap sat on the edge of the tub. Hopefully, Dane could ID this as the same brand of soap found in the sink in Zwicky’s basement.

Connor turned to leave when the toilet paper roll caught his attention. The roll seemed bulkier in one spot. He pulled on the tissue and a slip of paper fell out. Just a fragment of the paper used to wrap a roll of tissue that likely got caught in the roll at the factory.

His hope plummeted, but he picked it up anyway.

He unfolded it and saw handwriting on the back.

I’m FBI agent Rebecca Lange. I’ve been abducted. Call Detective Connor Warren at the PPB.
It was followed with a license plate number
.

He dropped the paper on the counter and ran for his car where he entered the license plate into his computer. The record came up. It was a rental, but not the vehicle Kait had been tracking.

He dialed Sam and updated him. “Need an APB out on the car. We also need to check ALPR to see if the car’s been picked up anywhere in the city.”

PPB had sixteen cars that were equipped with Automatic License Plate Recognition cameras. The cars patrolled the streets of Portland, scanning plates to find stolen vehicles. In a rare emergency like this one, detectives could check the ALPR database to see if the camera had captured the plate number. If it had, they’d also receive the time and location the vehicle had been spotted.

“I’ll wait here for Dane to arrive. Then Taylor and I’ll go from there. You keep me up to date on the plate scan.”

For the first time, Connor had real hope that they might find Becca. He just prayed they weren’t already too late.

REGINALD CARRIED BECCA to the altar. He gently laid her on the wood where the last few girls had found their peace. He stared at her. Her freshly washed hair flowed over her shoulders, caressing the lace of her gown. Her face was pale and her eyes were restful from the last roofie he’d given to her. She was so beautiful, he could hardly keep from stroking her face, but Mother wouldn’t approve.

Especially since Becca had tried that stupid stunt with a pen. Trying to stab him. Mother didn’t like that at all. Now he needed to hurry up and find out if Becca was chaste before Mother got angrier. It was something he could only determine by questioning her. It might get ugly, like with Molly, but he was doing it for Becca’s own good.

He cut the twist ties and shackled her hands above her head, her gown drawing up and revealing trim ankles leading to smooth calves. He had to touch her, just once.

He stroked his hand over her narrow foot. Over the ankle. Up her calf. Soft, delicate skin.

He waited for his mother to speak. She didn’t. He slid his hand up to Becca’s knee. He felt his mother’s fingers pinching the top of his ear and jerking him away, her sharp fingernails biting in. Branding him. The pain racing along his nerve endings.

Ears. He hated ears. Hated the way she’d used his to control him. Even as an adult, she’d dragged him around by the ear. That’s why he’d chosen pearl earrings instead of a necklace to cleanse the girls. He’d enjoyed removing their ears as souvenirs of his hard work, but he actually kept them as a reminder of what his mother might do if he failed her.

Like now. Touching Becca. He jerked his hand away. Then he grabbed the last bag of zip ties, sliced it open, and fastened them around her ankles.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the indicator. He had a new email from Genetics Inc. Perfect. Lauren’s DNA. He clicked it open and scanned the message. One word stood out. Match. The two samples matched. His dear sweet Lauren lay in front of him.

“You see that, Mother? It is Lauren. It’s her.” He touched the side of Lauren’s face.

“But is she pure, my son?” Mother asked. “Is she the woman you need her to be?”

Becca stirred, moving slowly as if rising from a sweet dream. Her eyes fluttered open, her look confused, a small smile playing on her face.

He stepped back, in awe, basking in her smile. He’d never seen her smile.

Her eyes closed again. She was at peace.