“You can’t be serious?” he said. “You think the killer took her out for pizza first, then bashed in her head and sliced out her breast implants? That’s absurd.”
“Really? And why do you say that, Dr. Stolz?” It was her turn to grow impatient with his questioning of her expertise, his distrust that an outsider might have an answer.
“For one thing, that would suggest it could be someone local.”
“And you don’t think that’s possible?”
“This is the middle of Connecticut, Agent O’Dell. Maybe on the coast or closer to New York. This guy, whoever he may be, is using the quarry as a dumping ground for his sick game. My guess is that he lives miles away. Why would he risk dumping bodies in his own backyard?”
“Didn’t Richard Craft do that?”
“Who?”
“Richard Craft, the guy who killed his wife and then put her dismembered body through a wood chipper.” She watched Stolz’s expression go from arrogance to embarrassment. “In the middle of a snowstorm, if I’m not mistaken, and not far from his home in Newtown. Newtown, Connecticut—isn’t that just west of here?”
CHAPTER 28
Lillian sat quietly, listening in disbelief as Henry told her and Rosie about the bodies they had found so far. Of course, it was all confidential, and she knew there were things he wasn’t telling them, couldn’t tell them. When he came in earlier, his distraught and exhausted demeanor had been enough for Rosie to suggest they close the store early, something Lillian thought she would never hear her partner suggest. Now they sat, sipping decaf among thousands of the best stories captured in print, and yet Lillian couldn’t help thinking Henry’s story had them all beat. Forget Deaver and Cornwell, this was something only Stephen King or Dean Koontz could concoct.
“Sweetie,” Rosie said to her husband, keeping her small hand on top of his large one. “Maybe it’s some drifter. Maybe this has scared him off.”
“No, O’Dell says he has a paranoid personality. Usually those guys stick to familiar territory because they are paranoid. I’ve been trying to think of everyone I know who lives alone out on acreages in this area. But those I can think of don’t seem like the type.”
“The profiler says he lives close by?” Lillian wasn’t sure why that made her heart skip a beat. Perhaps it made it all too real. She liked thinking about this case in terms of fiction.
“He’s probably watching the news coverage every day, getting his kicks.”
“But if he’s paranoid, Henry, he’s not getting kicks,” Rosie said. “Wouldn’t he be devastated that you discovered his hiding place? Maybe even ticked off?”
Henry looked at his wife, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected her to hit the nail right on the head. But it seemed like common sense. You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist or Sherlock Holmes to know this guy would be upset. Lillian added to Rosie’s thesis, “Yes, very upset. Are you concerned that he might come after one of you?”
“That’s what O’Dell suggested.” He didn’t look happy that someone else would suggest the same. “She said the guy might panic, but I don’t think he would risk screwing up.”
Lillian couldn’t help feeling elated that she could have come up with the same idea the profiler had come up with. Maybe she was good at this. Who said you had to have life experiences to figure these things out, when all she had done was read about it.
“I’m guessing the profiler says he’s a loner, a plain sort of man who goes about his business without much notice.” She liked playing this game. She tried to remember some of her favorite serial killer novels. “Perhaps he’s someone who doesn’t draw much attention to himself in public,” she continued while Henry and Rosie listened, sipping their coffee, “but ordinarily, he seems to be a nice enough guy. He works with his hands, a skilled worker who has access to a variety of tools. And, of course, his penchant for killing will most likely be somehow tracked to the volatile relationship he probably had with his mother, who no doubt was a very controlling person.”
Now the pair was looking at her with what she interpreted as admiration or maybe amazement. Lillian liked to think it was admiration.
“How do you know so much about him?” Henry asked, but Lillian had been wrong about his look of admiration. It appeared instead to be laced with a hint of suspicion.
“I read a lot. Novels. Crime novels. Suspense thrillers.”
“She does read a lot,” Rosie said, as if she needed to vouch for her partner.
Lillian looked from Rosie back to Henry, who seemed to be studying her now. It caught her off guard and she felt a blush starting at her neck. She gave a nervous shove to her glasses and tucked her hair behind her ears. Did he really think she knew something about this case, about this killer?
“Maybe I should read more,” he finally said with a smile. “I could probably crack this case faster. But I have to tell you, for a minute there you sounded like you were describing someone, someone you knew fairly well.”
“Really?” she said, and tried to think of a character who might fit the bill. And suddenly her stomach did a somersault. She did know someone who fit her description, but it wasn’t anyone in a novel. The person she had described could very easily be her own brother, Wally.
CHAPTER 29
It was late by the time Maggie got to the Ramada Plaza Hotel. She started to feel the exhaustion of the day. A tight knot throbbed between her shoulder blades. Her eyes begged for sleep. And she wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. In the parking lot, while she unloaded her bags, she felt someone watching her. She had looked around but saw no one.
As she waited for the desk clerk—or rather, according to Cindy’s plastic clip-on badge, “desk clerk in training”—Maggie tried to decide what she’d tell Gwen. After everything that had happened today, she wasn’t any closer to knowing where Joan Begley was. For all she knew the woman was still here at the Ramada Plaza Hotel, lying low and simply escaping.
Maggie watched the desk clerk as she plugged in her credit card information. Hotel policy wouldn’t allow them to give out Joan’s room number. And Maggie didn’t want to draw attention to herself or cause alarm by whipping out her FBI badge. So instead she said, “A friend of mine is staying here, too. Could I leave a note for her?”
“Sure,” Cindy said, and handed her a pen, folded note card and envelope with the hotel’s emblem.
Maggie jotted down her name and cell phone number, slipped the card into the envelope, tucked in the flap and wrote “Joan Begley” on the outside. She handed it to Cindy, who glanced at the name, checked the computer and then scratched some numbers under the name before putting it aside.
“Here’s your key card, Ms. O’Dell. Your room number is written on the inside flap. The elevators are around the corner and to your right. Would you like some help with your luggage?”
“No thanks, I’ve got them.” She slung her garment bag’s strap over her shoulder and picked up her computer case, taking several steps before turning back. “Oh, you know what? I forgot to tell my friend what time we’re supposed to meet tomorrow. Could I just jot it down quickly?”
“Oh, sure,” Cindy said, grabbing the note and sliding it across the counter to Maggie.
She opened the envelope and pretended to write down a time before slipping the card back in, this time sealing the envelope and handing it back to Cindy. “Thanks so much.”
“No problem.” And Cindy put the card aside, not realizing she had just shown Maggie Joan Begley’s room number.
Maggie threw her bags onto the bed in her own room. She kicked off her shoes, took off her jacket and untucked her blouse. Then she found the ice bucket, grabbed her key card and headed up to room 624. As soon as she got off the elevator, she stopped at the ice machine to fill the plastic bucket, and she padded down the hall in stocking feet to find Joan’s room. Then she waited.
