She made it downtown in ten minutes flat. The supercharged engine had obligingly launched itself down the street; the drive left her feeling a little frisky. Despite the fact that Elm might be in the office, she felt good. It was always helpful to have information, to know what you were dealing with. She’d drawn a psycho, someone who’d most likely starved a woman to death, someone who may have a number of murders under his belt, but at least they had something to go on.
Allegra Johnson’s presentation fascinated her. What could she have been lying on that made her back and legs look like a spotted cow? Taylor ran through some of the possibilities then discarded them immediately. Who knew? They’d have to find the primary crime scene, then they’d have a chance at figuring out that piece of the puzzle.
She made her way to the homicide offices and stopped at her desk. A Post-it was stuck to her phone- Bangor, Inter. 1. She grabbed the note and balled it up. Her desk phone rang, but she ignored it. Her mind was already getting into the interview with Bangor.
She stopped at the whiteboard, erased her earlier status and marked that she was in the conference room. This level of accountability was going to drive her mad.
The walk to the interrogation room was short. She stopped at the soda machine and grabbed two Diet Cokes. Her cell rang, and she juggled the cans trying to get it out of her pocket. She didn’t recognize the caller ID, but answered anyway.
There was static, and then a loud clanging. The scream of a bird rent the air. She had just enough time to think seagull before the phone went dead.
Damn it. She leaned back against the wall, stared down at the tiny screen of the cell phone, chills skittering through her body. What, the Pretender had her cell phone number, too? She bit her lip. When was this going to end?
The phone rang again, and she jumped. When she answered, she didn’t say anything, just listened. The same noises, loud clanging, followed by a deep voice cursing, one that she readily recognized. Not the Pretender. Oh, thank God.
“Fitz? Is that you?”
Pete Fitzgerald, her former number two, was yelling, the background noise nearly drowning out his deep baritone. He was off with his girlfriend, sailing around the Caribbean islands while he decided whether to take the enforced retirement Delores Norris had arranged, or join the lawsuit and get his old job back. Sailing, for God’s sake. That’s what love did to you. It took a perfectly normal cop and put him on a forty-two footer with a rum drink and a bikini-clad cohort. Taylor couldn’t begin to imagine that scene. Honestly, she didn’t want to.
“Taylor?”
“I’m here. Is everything okay?” She was yelling, too, as if that would help him hear her.
“Yeah, think so. Just saw something strange, thought I should tell you about it. How’s the fed?”
“Baldwin’s fine. Working in town for the moment. What did you see?”
There was more squawking, another series of shrill sounds from the gulls. Fitz’s voice was breaking up, the connection getting worse. She plugged her left ear, dropping the Coke cans with a clatter.
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you. Where the hell are you, anyway?”
“…Ados.”
“Barbados? Nice work if you can get it. It’s good to hear from you.”
The signal cleared at last, and Fitz came through like a foghorn.
“Yeah. It’s beautiful down here. Listen, just wanted to give you a heads up. There was a guy following us. Gave me the creeps. Tall, tan, super-short jarhead bristle cut. Sound familiar?”
“Quit yelling. Yes, it does. The Pretender looks like that.”
“I know. I saw the composite you and Owens put together.” Fitz was forever calling Sam Loughley by her maiden name. Fitz wasn’t a big fan of change. “This guy was pretty much a dead ringer.”
Taylor went back into the homicide office, leaving the cokes abandoned on the floor. A small frisson of panic started moving through her body. “Tell me everything. I can, well, I don’t know what I can do, but…just tell me what you saw.”
“That’s it, little girl. Don’t have any more for you. Susie and I are docked in port, waiting on a part. Last stop was St. Lucia, last week. Didn’t see him there, so this might just be a coincidence.”
Coincidence. Like she believed that.
“So he followed you around in port?”
“No. He followed Susie. She was looking for some sort of conch to make for dinner, was coming out of a shop. I was watching from the boat, through binoculars. He walked right up to her, bumped into her, apologized, helped her pick up her stuff. Then he looked right at me, and I swear to God the sumbitch smiled. I woulda shot his sorry ass, but he was too far away. Then he strolled around a corner and disappeared. I got Susie back on the boat, but we’ve got a broken raw water pump, are waitin’ for a new impeller, which means we’re stuck here until the damn thing clears customs. Had to ship it down from Fort Lauderdale.”
“Huh? Fitz, you know I’m not a boat person.”
“We got no juice ’cause we can’t cool the engine. We can’t sail until it’s fixed-we got no GPS, no depth finder, none of that. We’re anchored in the harbor, so we’re safe enough, and I’m watching for him. No one can get to us without pulling up next to the boat. I left word with the local constabulary, but they can’t do anything. We’re safe, no worries. He’s probably already long gone. But I just wanted you to know.”
Safe. Like that word could ever be applied to the same sentence as the Pretender.
“You need to check in with me, let me know what’s happening. Now you have me worried, old man. When are you due back?”
“Next week. I’ll let you know if I see anything else. I gotta go, the connection’s for shit on this crappy cell phone. And it’s costing me four bucks a minute. Be good. And don’tcha worry. I can take care of myself.” There was a loud click, and her ear filled with static. She turned her phone off, slapped the cover shut.
Friend, mentor, father figure, Fitz was all these things and more to Taylor. Hitting him would be as close a blow as hitting Baldwin. The Pretender knew that. He was stalking her through her friends.
Rage bubbled into her mind, blackening the edges. One more instance of her life catapulting out of her control.
How had he known where Fitz was going to be? He was obviously keeping tabs on more than just Taylor. And how could he be cognizant of a murder in Nashville while in Barbados?
An itinerary. She went back to her desk, took out her directory. Bob Parks was one of her favorite patrol officers, and a good friend of Fitz’s. She called his cell, and he answered with what she could tell was his trademark grin.
“Loot! How the hell are ya?”
“Wishing I was still a Loot, Parks. I need a favor.”
She gave him the instructions, thanked him and hung up. Parks could hit Fitz’s house, see if anything had been disturbed, while she did her interview with Bangor.
She stared out the window for a long minute, then made two more calls. She got voice mail for both Lincoln Ross and Marcus Wade, left messages asking them to meet her after work. If the Pretender wanted to start playing games, they needed to be wary as well. She called Baldwin too, left him a voice mail. Jesus, where was everyone? She had a brief, horrifying moment imagining that they were all gone, disappeared, then shook it off. That was silly. She didn’t have to worry about them.
McKenzie appeared in the doorway to the homicide offices.
“Um, Jackson? Are you coming? I’ve got food in the conference room, and Bangor is getting antsy. I’ve talked to the chaplain, he can meet us after 3:00 to do a notification. I’m still tracking down the vic’s address.”
She looked at McKenzie, wondered how much warning she should give him. Later, she decided.
Food. Suspect. Food. Suspect. She sighed.
“I’m coming,” she said, abandoning her troubles at her desk.
Hugh Bangor wasn’t anything like Taylor was expecting. And here she’d been telling McKenzie not to make assumptions.
His presence filled the interrogation room with energy. He was in his early to mid-forties, small, dapper and prematurely gray. He jumped to his feet and greeted her with a warm handshake. She was immediately at ease
