'Mrs. Marx, did Nancy have a checkbook?'
'She kept it in the kitchen, in the utility drawer.'
'Canceled checks as well?'
'Nancy had one of those cards. Like a credit card, but it drew from her checking account. The bank keeps the canceled checks.'
'How about an address book? Or credit card statements? Or personal letters?'
'She has a box of papers that she never unpacked after moving in. It's in the closet there. Did you find anything from Talon?'
'No.'
'I didn't think so. Nancy gathered up everything, pictures, gifts, cards, and threw it away when she left him. But I was thinking. If you want to find out about him, you could ask that private detective.'
'Ma'am?'
'Nancy hired a private detective to spy on Talon when she thought he was being unfaithful.'
My heart rate went up.
'Do you remember his name?'
'Let me think. Nancy actually went out with him a few times, after Talon. She brought him to the house once, and he pinched my bottom.'
Sylvia Marx giggled, tears still in her eyes.
'Henry, was it? Henry McGee. No, McGlade. Henry McGlade?'
'You mean Harry McGlade?' Benedict asked.
'Yes, that was it. Harry McGlade.'
Jackpot.
Chapter 37
HE HAS TO GET RID OF the truck.
That isn't part of his plan. His fingerprints are all over the damn thing. Even if he spends an entire day wiping it down, he'll never clean it completely.
And his fingerprints will lead them to him. He's never taken the pains to establish a new identity. He never thought that they'd get close enough for it to be necessary.
He goes over it all again in his head, goes over what they have.
They know his face now. But with some hair dye and a shave, that can be changed. There's nothing connecting him to the truck; he stole it in Detroit and put stolen Illinois plates on it. He has no business license. His driver's license is current, but shows an old address, and he never bothered to update it after getting married and moving.
But there are some links to his present address. The phone company and the electric company. The IRS. Credit cards. The bank. If the cops get his name, they'll be able to find him without much trouble. And once they find him, they'll be able to convict. In his cockiness, he's giving them his DNA. Not the smartest move, in hindsight.
He has to move quickly, establish a new ID. Maybe even go to one of those doctors who can laser away your fingerprints. He'll disappear, resurface someplace else. Maybe even leave the country. There were plenty of women around the world to have fun with.
But first he has to finish the job here.
He takes a bus back to his house after ditching the truck in an all-night parking garage. Jack isn't on his mind for the moment. All of his focus is on the last victim. She'll be the easiest of all. No stalking necessary. No need for the truck. If he plays it right, he won't even need the Seconal.
He picks up the phone, no longer worried about telephone records or paper trails. It will all be over by tomorrow.
'Hello?'
'Diane? This is Charles.'
'Charles?'
'I know you're surprised to hear from me. We didn't split on the best of terms. How are you?'
'Good. I'm doing good. I'm seeing someone.'
'Good for you. I hope he's treating you well. Look, I'm calling because my therapist...'
'You're in therapy?'
'Yeah. For about six months now. She's helping me deal with my anger.'
He tries to keep the smile out of his voice.
'Well, good for you, Charles. I'm happy for you.'
'I need a favor, Diane. After you left me, I did a lot of soul-searching. My therapist says I'm a different man now, but I still carry a lot of guilt over how I hurt you. As long as I have this guilt, I won't be much good for anyone, myself included.'
He was reading out of a notebook filled with chicken scratches, sentences rewritten over and over until they sounded right.
