Lucy shook her head. “No, no, nothing like that.”
“But you still think you know who it is.”
“No, I didn’t say that. I don’t know who he is. But I recognize the car he’s in,” she added, a sly grin on her face.
Marcus gave a hopeful glance to Lincoln, who had also gone on alert. This could be a huge break. Imagine, they could solve the Rainman case in one day while the Sex Crimes Unit had been trying for years.
Marcus stepped a bit closer, put a hand on her arm. She didn’t jerk away, just stared at his hand like she’d never been touched before. Marcus had an inkling that she had, just not in such a gentle way. She looked up at him, looked him straight in the eye.
“It’s an unmarked car. The man who raped me is a cop.”
Twenty-Five
Christina Dale woke leisurely, cloudy and warm. She clung to the last vestiges of the dream, images from her childhood, a park, or no, was it her backyard? It was green and warm, and she could smell a hint of onion in the freshly mown grass. The sky was as blue as a robin’s egg, clear and heavy, with puffy white clouds floating by. She felt content, it was the best kind of dream, the one where you wake up and just know it’s going to be a wonderful day. A languid smile moved across her face, and as she began to swim into focus, the images drifted, blown away on the winds of her mind.
She started to roll over and realized her body wasn’t following her brain’s command. That was weird. She must still be drunk from last night. That happened sometimes, she was still drunk when she woke up. Especially when they did those dumb drugs the college kids liked so much. The roofies always made her boneless the next day.
She tried to reach down and massage some feeling back into her legs. Her eyes flew open and she knew something was dreadfully wrong. There was rope tied around her arms and legs. She came fully awake, panicking, adrenaline rushing through her body and bringing everything into focus. The rope cut bitterly across her ribs, her arms were stretched above her head, painfully pulling her shoulders from their sockets. She tried to wriggle but only succeeded in drawing the ropes tighter, nearly cutting off her breath.
“Oh my God,” she moaned. It all came back to her. The lazy grin, the shock of black hair that fell across his forehead, those intense cobalt cat eyes. Her mother warned her time and time again that she was too open, too trusting, that if she kept on sleeping with every Tom, Dick and Harry she met around that she could end up hurt or dead. But who wouldn’t respond to the gorgeous creature of a man that she had stumbled out of the bar with?
She stared around the room, trying to piece together how she’d ended up in what was obviously a mess. Had things gone too far last night? Had she asked to be tied up? She’d done it before, a small-town girl trying out new things without any repercussion. Maybe the man-Lord, what was his name-had simply passed out after they’d fooled around. She looked to either side and only saw the empty loneliness of a motel room, stark white walls, a cheesy landscape in oranges and yellows hanging above a cut-rate TV. She was alone.
Suddenly she heard the toilet flush and relaxed. A shadow moved along the wall and he popped into view. It was him all right, tousled and naked, looking even sexier than she had remembered.
“Mornin’, darlin’. You wanna get me out of this and we can pick up where we left off?”
He smiled and moved no closer, just stood watching her like a feral cat in heat.
“Seriously, get me untied. This is starting to hurt.” She realized even before she saw the knife that he had no intention of letting her go. Ever. She opened her mouth to scream but he was on her, slapping a piece of duct tape over her mouth so all she could hear was her own hysterical cries, muffled and caught in her throat.
As her mystery man dragged the tip of the knife slowly across her face, his cheerful grin disappeared, and he spoke only one word, the last Christina would ever hear.
“Bye.”
Twenty-Six
Taylor was back in her office, waiting for Lincoln and Marcus to return from interviewing the previous alleged victim of the Rainman. She had missed a call from Baldwin, which left her moody. She wanted to talk with him, but he was up to his ears in dead girls.
As she fiddled with a few reports that needed to be completed, Fitz rolled in, with Marcus and Lincoln on his heels. He got to the office door first.
“Everything okay?” he asked gruffly.
Taylor gave him a startled look. “Everything’s fine. Why?”
“You’re just looking a little ill, that’s all. You’re not catching something, are you?”
Taylor waved his concern away. “Had a long night. I’m fine, really.”
“Ready to go over what the kids got on the Rainman?”
She nodded. “Yeah, let’s do it. But let’s go into the conference room, I don’t feel like crowding in here.” She led them to the room down the hall, then locked the door behind herself so they wouldn’t be interrupted at an inopportune moment.
“Okay, give it to me. Marcus and Lincoln, you first.”
Lincoln leaned back in his chair and flipped a file open in his lap. “We talked with the last victim of the Rainman, Lucy Johnson. She was victim number seven, and had told Betsy she thought she recognized the guy, right? Well, after thinking on it for a few days, she wasn’t totally sure she even wanted to point a finger. Marcus charmed her right out of her panties, so to speak, convinced her that it would be the right thing to do. Here’s where the problem is. She thinks it’s a guy that works out at her gym. She also sees him around town a lot, the Mapco when she goes for gas, Publix when she’s shopping. So he’s local to the area. Too local.”
Taylor nodded. “Think she’s legit?”
Lincoln shook his head. “We know he’s been working a specific geographical area. He went pretty far out of it to get to Betsy in East Nashville. All the other rapes occurred out in the west and south parts of town, Bellevue, Forest Hills, Franklin and Brentwood.”
“Where does Lucy Johnson live?” Taylor interrupted.
“That south part of Davidson County off Highway 100 that straddles Williamson County.”
“And what gym does she use?”
“She goes to the YMCA at Maryland Farms.” Lincoln was pulling more notes from his file. “At least three of the other victims work out at that gym. So that’s a connection between them. I guess I can understand why Betsy got excited when Ms. Johnson told her that she thought it was a guy from her gym.”
“Well, that’s great, but did she identify him?”
Marcus gave a half smile. “Well, that’s the problem. She’s a treadmill and bike, he’s apparently into the free weights. She didn’t see his face anyway, so there’s no ID to go on. She recognizes his arms.”
Taylor looked at the file, flipping back through the witness statements. “Free weights? I thought he was supposed to have a slight build?” she asked.
“Slight, not tall, but muscular and strong. That’s what Lucy Johnson said.”
Fitz had been quiet throughout the exchange. “Can she pick him out of a lineup?” That was Fitz, taking it down to brass tacks.
“It’s not a face that she remembers. It’s the arms, the body, the way he walks. She also said she hasn’t seen him at the gym in a while. So unless we pull their records and go through all of the ID cards, then get all of their arms in a lineup, there’s no way to go this route.”
Taylor chewed her lip. “I thought you said she recognized him from around town, running errands and the like.”
Marcus glanced at Lincoln and they shared a silent look.
“C’mon, guys, spit it out. There’s something more to her statement. What is it?”
