Cruz area. He murdered and dismembered six of them. It wasn’t until after he killed his mother and her friend that he turned himself in to authorities.
She looked over at Ganza just as he glanced up. The lines on his forehead bunched together in a frown when he saw something in her face that prompted him to ask, “What is it?”
She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, but felt a sudden chill as she thought about the dead woman’s battered face. “I was just thinking of Edmund Kemper. He used a claw hammer to beat his mother to death while she was asleep.”
She didn’t add that she was also thinking of Albert Stucky, another serial killer whose signature was to put dismembered pieces of his victims into take-out containers and leave them to be found on cafe tables, truck-stop counters, and hotel room service trays.
As if he could read her mind, Ganza said, “Let’s hope we don’t have another psycho bastard like Kemper on our hands.”
CHAPTER 39
Sam told herself it wasn’t a lie she had told to Special Agent R. J. Tully. It was simply omitting the truth.
Sam had insinuated that she and Jeffery were in the warehouse district when the fire started. But the truth was, Sam had been home for several hours. She had tucked in her son and shared a cup of tea with her mother. She had been fast asleep when Jeffery’s phone call woke her.
Now she tried to remember if he had told her how he’d found out about the fire. Usually she didn’t bother to ask. The man had more contacts and informants than the CIA. She just presumed he’d been tipped off.
Although she had told Agent Tully that Jeffery had a police scanner—and he did—Sam knew he couldn’t have heard about the fire that way. She knew because she didn’t think the police or fire department had even been called yet by the time she and Jeffery arrived. Her own film footage seemed to verify that. Hell, the street people were just crawling out of their cardboard boxes and stumbling from their warm corners.
So how did Jeffery know so early?
Sam didn’t really care, or maybe she didn’t want to know. Same thing with Jeffery’s decision to do absolutely nothing about the story Otis P. Dodd had shared with them. It wasn’t her call. She needed to concentrate on doing her job, a job she loved and wanted to keep. The way Sam looked at it, Jeffery helped put a roof over her family’s head and food on the table. That’s all she needed to know. Jeffery had made that happen. Better than that, he had made sure she was rewarded with bonuses that she stashed away for her son. If things continued to work out the way she planned, her son would never have to struggle the way Sam and her mother had all those years without Sam’s dad.
She wasn’t too stubborn to realize that her success and financial stability depended on Jeffery Cole’s success and financial profitability. He was one of the top paid investigative reporters in the country and would become even more famous when Big Mac gave him his own show. So when things got a bit crazy, Sam reminded herself that she had attached herself to his star and had to be ready for the journey. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she had sold her soul to Diablo.
She pulled her car off Interstate 66 and immediately found the diner where Jeffery had asked her to meet him. As far as she could tell, it wasn’t anywhere on the way to their next interview, but again, rather than question Jeffery, she simply followed instructions.
Sometimes he liked to eat at out-of-the-way dives, once driving them down the Virginia back roads to what looked like a two-room clapboard shanty on the river. One side sold bait and tackle, the other side served some of the best barbeque pulled pork Sam had ever eaten. Of course, there were also those places that ripped up Sam’s stomach, like the bamboo hut in Jinja, Uganda, overlooking Lake Victoria. Never again would she let anyone talk her into eating monkey.
Today’s diner looked a bit too commercial for Jeffery, but Sam found a table by the window and waited for him.
When he came in, his face was flushed and his shirt wrinkled, the sleeves shoved up instead of neatly rolled up. He must have left his tie and jacket in the car, even though the day was a bit chilly. Sam thought he looked out of breath.
“Are you okay?”
He sat across from her, grabbing a menu before he got settled.
“Of course, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He scooted the wooden chair in, scraping the floor and arranging himself so he could see out the window. Without looking at her, he said, “They have excellent cream of asparagus soup here.”
Sam shrugged it off. Jeffery was an interesting study in contrasts: hot then cold, black and white, up and down. Like a sports car, he could go from calm to enraged in less than sixty seconds. However, she had no inclination to study him. It was tough enough keeping up with him and staying out of his way or on his good side.
“What can I get for you two?” A waitress appeared and slammed down two glasses of water. The one she set in front of Jeffery splashed over the rim.
Jeffery stared at the puddle like it was toxic waste while he held the menu, his elbow planted on the table not far from the spill. Immediately Sam’s jaw started to clench. She had witnessed him blow up at a waiter for bringing him a salad fork when he had asked specifically for a dinner fork.
“I’ll have a bowl of the cream of asparagus soup,” Sam said quickly, in an attempt to distract Jeffery.
“Oh honey, we don’t have the asparagus. It’s chicken and rice today.”
“I just told my colleague how delicious the cream of asparagus is, Rita.” Jeffery read the waitress’s nameplate with what Sam recognized as his best fake smile, the calm before the storm. “You sure your cook can’t whip some up for us?”
“Asparagus is on Mondays, sweetie. I can bring you a couple bowls of chicken and rice.”
“You know what, I bet the chicken and rice is just as delicious,” Sam said. “I’ll have that. And a grilled cheese.”
She closed the menu and slapped it down, hoping to distract Jeffery. She tried not to wince, tried not to look at him. It was never pretty. First, he’d tell the waitress that she obviously had no idea who she was waiting on. Then he’d ask to speak to the cook. Once in a Miami restaurant he made Sam translate his complaints into Spanish along with instructions on how his entree should be cooked and served.
Sam looked away, glancing out the window to avoid watching the education of Rita. She didn’t even see the stream of smoke until Jeffery’s arm shot out across the table, pointing it out.
“What the hell is that?” He was already on his feet and headed for the door.
CHAPTER 40
“One body doesn’t mean it’s a serial killer,” Maggie told Ganza. “And thankfully the Edmund Kempers of the world are still a rare breed.”
He nodded and took a bite of lasagna.
“I just can’t figure out how the arsons play into the murders,” Maggie said. “Kunze wants Tully and me to profile this arsonist, but so far he blows away—no pun intended—all the typical motives.”
“ATF’s ruled out insurance fraud, from what I’ve been told,” Ganza said.
“Did they bring you evidence from last week’s fires?”
He shook his head. “Kunze asked me to take a look at these two. Said no one could connect these warehouses. Told me to see what I could do.”
“All of the warehouses are owned by different companies, so revenge seems unlikely. They’ve all happened in
