Shit. Another one. He looked around wildly, as if the killer would be sitting nearby, enjoying the show. There was no sign of anything amiss.
The fact that he’d been left behind was not lost on him. Baldwin, the FBI’s glory boy, off chasing his solid lead while Grimes the grunt stayed behind, trying to play catch-up yet again. At least he had found the newest poem.
A girl in a stocking cap walked by, grinning at the crazy man mumbling to himself. He flipped his hand in front of his face, hoping to dismiss her gaze. He took a bag out of his pocket, angled the pushpin out of the note and the corked bulletin board, and managed to get it into the bag without touching it. He held the note by the edges and put it in the bag after the pin. Maybe they’d get prints off this one, who knew. But it wouldn’t stand to do anything less than try everything they could.
Grimes went back to the car and drove out of the campus and toward his hotel. He had laid the photo of Noelle Pazia on the front seat facing him. Noelle’s eyes stared up at him, accusing, sad, lonely, and he feared for her. He’d know soon enough.
He opened his cell phone and punched in a number he knew by heart. A man answered the phone.
“It’s me,” Grimes said.
“Hey, Dad, what’s up? Have something new for me?”
“I do. Just found out there’s a girl missing from Asheville, name’s Noelle Pazia. There’s also been a body found in Louisville, Kentucky. I’m assuming it’s her, you’ll have to do the rest on your own.”
“Thanks, Dad, I appreciate it. Gotta run. I can get this on the wire right away.” The phone went dead.
That’s just how my life is, Grimes thought. Screwed up the case by not getting the poems, wife gone for going on four months now, a spoiled daughter who never spoke to him unless she needed money, a son that used him because he could give insider information and bolster the boy’s fledgling career as a news producer in New York. Baldwin would kill him if he knew where the leak was coming from. Well, fuck Mr. Perfect Profiler.
He pulled into the lot of the hotel and parked. Taking the picture of Noelle with him, he went to the front desk. The information should be in from the Louisville office. Maybe Perfect Boy Baldwin had sent some of his profiling guidance too.
“Do you have a fax for me? Grimes, FBI?”
The man behind the desk gave him a nasty look. “I do, sir, and I have to ask that you refrain from having this kind of material sent over our fax lines. It’s just outrageous. I won’t stand for it, and neither will my manager-”
“Shut up and give me the fax.” Grimes was so far out of patience that he wanted to punch the mouthy brat. Maybe he could arrange for the nurse at the school and this man to have a date.
The man flounced around the side of the desk and disappeared into the back room. He came out a moment later with a manila folder in his hand. “There,” he huffed dramatically. Grimes just gave him a smile and slid the folder under his arm. He walked over to the bar and ordered a scotch. It was drawn and poured, and he took a sip, trying to calm his heart. He didn’t want to know if Noelle Pazia was dead. He didn’t want to imagine those bottomless brown eyes dull and gray. But he didn’t have a choice. He could hardly ask the bartender to compare the photos.
So he swallowed the liquid courage in a single gulp, pulled out the picture Noelle’s roommate had given him and set it on the bar. He poised the folder above the picture and opened it. The sight made him want to vomit.
There was no question. Noelle Pazia was dead.
He looked away from the file and caught the bartender’s eye, signaling for another shot. The man slid the bottle to him, it was as if he decided it wasn’t worth the time it would take to refill the glass again and again. Grimes nodded his thanks and poured himself a glass to the brim. His hands were shaking as he brought the liquor to his lips. He needed to call Baldwin, give him the confirmation. Before he had a chance, his phone rang.
The call didn’t take long. As he hung up, staring in disbelief at the cell, all thoughts of calling Baldwin left him. He set the phone down on the oak-planked bar. He pulled out his credentials case, eyes lingering on his FBI shield. All the things it meant to him. Fidelity, loyalty, bravery. Ah, this fucking case.
All he wanted to do was suck down a few more drinks and float away.
Fuck the Southern Strangler.
Fuck Baldwin and the FBI while you’re at it.
Fuck it all that seven girls had died at the hands of this maniac. The hand burglar. For fucking what?
Noelle stared up at him with those baby-brown eyes, and he heard her voice in his head. “You’re drunk, Grimes. It’s okay, you don’t have to get so upset. These things happen. You know that. These things happen and there’s nothing you can do about it, you just have to try and catch the man who did this to me. To all of us. Do you understand what I’m saying? You need to catch him and stop him, he’s going to do this again.”
The big brown eyes started to cry and Grimes slammed the folder closed. Jesus, he couldn’t take this anymore.
What was this freak hoping to accomplish? And here he was sending the poems to a reporter. Did he want to get the story out on the news? Or did he just have the hots for this chick? Did he just want to impress her? Well, it was going to be pretty hard to impress her now, buddy. She’s dead, and you don’t even know it. You can come and fuck her and get off on all the wonderful things you did for her, you stupid son of a bitch. She’s dead and cold, and all of these girls are dead and cold, and you can’t have any of them anymore, you bastard.
Grimes was shouting, hysterical, flinging his arms around and becoming more incoherent by the minute. He’d chugged his way through more than half the bottle of scotch and was looking like he needed a good place to sleep it off. That’s what the bartender saw, he had come over to try and slow him down. Grimes was crying and blubbering, spilling liquid from his glass on the bar and the seat next to him. His hand was on his gun, and when the bartender tried to get him to stop he swung out his arm. Crying, he told the man to tell Baldwin he was sorry. He put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.
Thirty-Seven
B aldwin beat the early-evening traffic out of town, heading south on I-65 to Franklin. He took the exit onto Highway 96, into the heart of downtown Franklin, passing picturesque row houses and the quaint downtown square. Precise choreography got him through the traffic circle, he came out the other side and found himself in front of Health Partners headquarters.
He parked and went inside. The cool air-conditioning gave him goose bumps. He introduced himself to the receptionist, who sat behind a clear glass desk, showing off young supple legs. He was expected. She gave him a charming smile that he returned, then rose and indicated a door to her left. Coming out from behind the desk, she brushed against him provocatively as she walked to the door. He smiled, the girl couldn’t be more than eighteen. Nice to know he was still remotely attractive to the younger generation. Not attracted to, of course. With a woman like Taylor at home, he wasn’t attracted to much else these days.
“Do you need anything?” she asked, and he shook his head.
“Too bad.”
The girl pushed a combination of numbers on a keypad and the door unlocked with an audible click. He followed her through the door, down a spare hallway and into a larger, more comfortable waiting area. A tall black man with crinkly gray hair came out of an office and made his way to Baldwin. He stuck out a hand and introduced himself.
“Louis Sherwood. You’re Agent Baldwin? Good to meet you. That will be all, Darlene, thank you.” The girl shot her boss a look of annoyance and left them.
Sherwood ushered Baldwin into a spacious office decorated in dark mahogany. Just the kind of office you’d expect from a CEO. Tastefully decorated, expensively accented, yet understated enough to make it seem that Health Partners wasn’t totally rolling in dough. A nice presentation, overall.
Sherwood motioned to a matching set of overstuffed brown leather chairs with brass nails running up the sides. Was there an office anywhere that didn’t have this kind of chair? Baldwin took a seat, and Sherwood sat opposite him.
“Can I get you anything, Agent Baldwin? Coffee, tea?”
