nagging little voice in the back of his mind. That wouldn’t be smart. Not smart at all. You haven’t prepared. You know nothing about her. She might be missed. Don’t do it.
The anger at Morte’s harsh treatment burned in his skin. He didn’t do it on purpose. He’d had no idea Tommaso was Morte. That Tommaso was like him. It was purely a fluke that he’d uncovered the connection. He heard Morte, Tommaso’s voice in his head, the lines scrolling on an invisible computer screen.
Don’t even think about it, Gavin. She’s delectable, and would be a perfect doll, but you haven’t prepared. No preparation, no doll. Those are the rules. You know the rules.
But what if I succeed? What if she isn’t missed? I’ve missed the opportunity of a lifetime.
Don’t do it.
But I’m lonely.
Gavin thought about the dollhouse, lying quietly in the dark, empty. Waiting. Abandoned. So lonely. He was so good at his vocation. He could make her disappear. He could have a new doll. She’d practically asked for it. Stupid, stupid girl.
“Ga-vin,” Kendra singsonged. “You’re going the wrong wa-ay.” She smiled at him, her lips full, teeth straight, those braids clicking, and he thought he would burst. She would make such an exquisite doll! He could already see the bones of her collarbone sticking out; she was a tiny thing. It would be quick.
“This way is faster. It’s a shortcut,” he said. He sped up, taking the curves on Highway 100 at speed. Half a mile now, a quarter, Kendra next to him, chattering about something. He tuned her out. He tuned out his conscience. He tuned out Morte’s scrolling language, his anger. He would show him. He didn’t need Morte’s instructions. He started alone. He could stay alone from now on. Morte was the only reason he’d gotten flashy lately, gotten into the performance art. He was acting out the paintings, taking things a step further than Morte. Their competition was the driving force, and Gavin was winning. He was still the better artist-had more fully realized his settings. He’d acted his out, for God’s sake. Morte only imitated. Gavin was a conductor, Morte was first violin.
The Conductor. Oh, how he liked that.
His driveway was just ahead. He slowed, then turned. The drive was gravel; he needed to go carefully. He’d always meant to pave it, but never got around to it.
“I really think you’re going the wrong way,” Kendra said, with the tiniest tremor in her voice, guileless, clear chocolate eyes turned on him in doubt.
He pulled in front of the rambler and stopped. She glanced at him, at the house, and the first signs of panic started to cross her face.
“Didn’t your daddy tell you not to get into cars with strange men?” Gavin asked, and this time, he did smile. Kendra’s eyes flared white. She grabbed the handle of the door. Gavin was faster. With the refrain banging in his mind- don’t do it don’t do it don’t do it -he clobbered her over the head with the heavy printer cartridge. It slowed her down enough that he was able to take another shot. That one knocked her out. She slumped against the door, blood trickling down her face.
Gavin was breathing hard. See! he told his invisible voice triumphantly. I am the Conductor!
This was glorious! He needed to move. He launched himself out the driver’s-side door, rushed around the side of the car, slipping and going down on one knee at his right rear bumper. He righted himself, then opened the passenger door. Kendra fell out into his arms.
She was light; he carried her to the front door. He unlocked the door, then realized that maybe he should have gone in through the garage. He usually brought the dolls in under cover of darkness; it was still evening and the sunset outlined him against the door frame.
He glanced around, the girl becoming heavy in his arms. No, this was fine. No one around for miles.
He locked the door behind him, went directly to the basement door. The cat meowed loudly, unsettled at seeing his master rushing around without paying the slightest bit of attention to him.
Down in the basement, he opened the case. He stripped the prize, wiped her face clean of blood, then maneuvered her body into the box. Her arms and legs flopped unceremoniously. His erection strained painfully against his zipper.
“In you go,” he panted, out of breath. She fit perfectly. He closed the lid, locked the latches, and grabbed his chair. He sat heavily, staring. Unbelieving.
He had a brand-new doll.
And she had come to him.
Twenty-Seven
T aylor sat in her old office, away from the B-shift detectives, watching a replay of the late local news with disgust. She’d like to strangle all of the reporters, and a few people in Metro’s ranks as well. They had a leak. She’d been playing with the stupid Brit and hadn’t been on top of this. Served her right. She’d lost her focus.
Channel Four had scooped everyone, had gotten someone from the Radnor Lake crime scene to talk. One of the rangers, more than likely. But they would have had to confirm the information with an officer or technicians who’d been on the scene, and that’s what had her so riled up. Her people knew better. At least, when they were her people they did.
She watched as Demetria Kalodimos read the copy against a cutaway shot of the entrance to Radnor Lake. She threw it to Cynthia Williams, who let all of Middle Tennessee, parts of Kentucky and the northern tip of Alabama know that a postcard of a famous painting had been found at the scene, and that the police felt the two murders were connected.
Oh, this was not good. She’d never be able to unring this bell. They already had that damn name for him, the Conductor. Catchy and descriptive. Great. Just great. The crackpots would start coming out of the woodwork and lead them down false trails. The networks would get involved, and the national media platform would lead to the international news forums.
It all served to make her more determined. It was getting late and Taylor was tired, but she pushed that away. She needed to catch this suspect, now.
She shut off the television, went to her desk in the bullpen and turned on the computer. She started with the databases available to her, looking to match the names on the sheet to the DMV database. She wished the name would leap out at her, declare itself. I am your killer. Wouldn’t that be nice? It would certainly save her a lot of time.
The names from the copyright pages weren’t entirely unique either, which was going to be a problem. She’d have to run down every Gavin Adler, Al Hardy and Paul Theroux in town. The remaining names belonged to women, so Taylor triaged them. These crimes didn’t have a feminine touch, that was for sure.
The first search turned up seven entries for the Theroux name alone. She worked quickly, running addresses and criminal records for each name, cross-referencing with the DMV database, looking through the tax rolls.
She ended up with forty-six possibles. Forty-six. Too many. She needed to keep looking.
She narrowed the search further to Prius drivers, and got it down to eight. Eight was more manageable. Two G. Adlers, three A. or Al Hardys, and three P. or Paul Therouxs. Still, she was amazed that so many names matched white Priuses. It might be a mistake in the system. She’d have to check each one out, just to be certain. The Prius and the Infiniti G35 had usurped the BMW as Nashville’s car of choice, so it did make a perverse kind of sense.
Tyrone Hill’s interview popped into her head. He was right; the odds of a killer being foolish enough to use his personal vehicle in the commission of such a major crime would be slim. But it was a chance, and she took it, making a note to herself to look at rental agencies if this didn’t pan out.
She started with the full names, just in case. Initials usually meant women.
She matched the addresses from the car registrations to the driver’s license database, and had her jumping- off point. She ran arrest and probation histories, and narrowed the list down to four. Two Al Hardys and two Paul Therouxs. None of the Adlers had a history with the department. One of them, as a matter of fact, was so clean that she added it back into the mix. Their boy was careful, and it stood to reason that he might, just might, be completely off the radar.
That was a good enough start for her. Five possibles. Astounding, really, that so many of the names and cars
