Desperate Girls

8

LINDSEY WAS expecting business attire, but Brynn Holloran showed up in a damp swimsuit and sweatpants, with a towel around her neck and her supersized bodyguard trailing closely behind her.

Max tried to cover his surprise as he stepped forward to shake her hand. “Ms. Holloran, I’m Detective Gorman. We spoke on the phone the other night. Thanks for meeting with us.”

“Of course.” The lawyer looked at Lindsey. “And you are?”

“Lindsey Leary. I’m pitching in on the case.”

“Great.” She glanced around the apartment, which looked about as homey as a dentist’s waiting room. “We can sit in here,” she said, leading them to a long table.

Brynn took a seat at the head of the table opposite Jeremy, the bodyguard who had let them in here. Everyone claimed a chair except for Erik Morgan, who leaned against the bar. Lindsey had just met the man, but she pegged him for ex-military based on his perfect posture, short haircut, and steely gaze.

“So what can I do for you?” Brynn asked.

“We hear you’re on the Sebring trial,” Max said.

“That’s right.”

“Conlon trying that one?”

“He is.”

“Tough case.”

“Yes. But I assume you’re here to discuss Jen Ballard’s case?”

“We are.” Lindsey scooted her chair in. “We believe you can help with our investigation. I understand you and Jen were friends?”

“Yes.”

Lindsey flipped open her book. “And . . . I understand you were on her team for the James Corby trial?”

“That’s correct.”

Lindsey glanced at Max, whose gaze was glued to the attorney—which shouldn’t have been surprising. The woman definitely made an impression.

Lindsey waited for her to elaborate on her answer, but she didn’t. Defense attorneys tended to hold their cards close.

“Listen, Ms. Holloran,” Lindsey said, “I’ll cut to the chase here. We’re a small department. We’re understaffed and underfunded, and we’ve got a crapload of cases to deal with. So we could really use your help on this one.”

“I’ll help however I can, but what is it you want, exactly?”

“It’s more what we don’t want,” Lindsey said. “We don’t want to reinvent the wheel here, in terms of our investigation. I’m sure you know our prime suspect—actually, our only suspect, at this point—is James Corby. You prosecuted the man. You know him. It’s possible you know him better than anybody, now that Jen Ballard and Michael McGowan are dead.”

Brynn’s brow furrowed at Lindsey’s words. “And?”

“We’d like you to tell us more about his MO,” Max said. “You helped convict him of four homicides—”

“A jury convicted him.”

Max nodded. “Well, what’s his trademark? What should we look for to link him to these crime scenes?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s got to be something,” Max said.

“No, that’s just it. Nothing is his trademark.” She looked at Lindsey. “He leaves behind no trace of himself whatsoever. No prints, no semen, no hair or fiber evidence. He’s meticulous. That’s what made him tough to prosecute.”

Max leaned back in his chair, watching her. “That’s been our problem so far. CSIs have been over both victims’ houses, and they haven’t found dick, if you’ll pardon my language.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Brynn said.

“What about people?” Lindsey asked. “Is there anyone he’s close to who might be helping him, giving him refuge? You’ve probably heard that Mick McGowan’s killer stole his guns and his truck, and there’s been a BOLO out but no sightings.”

“Wait, guns?” Erik cut in.

“He cleared out McGowan’s gun cabinet,” Lindsey said. “The door was open, and everything was missing.”

“I need a list of those weapons.”

“We’re working on it. We’ve made contact with McGowan’s son, and he’s supposed to get us a list of everything that could have been in there.”

Based on his intensely unhappy expression, this was the first Erik was hearing about the gun cabinet.

“He takes trophies.”

All eyes turned to Brynn.

“From his victims,” she elaborated. “A chunk of hair, a bracelet. He takes a souvenir from each of them, sometimes two. In Lauren Tull’s case, she was missing a necklace. Investigators found it in Corby’s possession, which was how they finally nailed him.”

“We read about that,” Lindsey said. “We’ve checked for anything missing at the judge’s house, but so far nothing that anyone can pinpoint.” She flipped through her notepad. “What about relatives? Do you recall anyone who attended Corby’s trial?”

“No.”

“Friends? Girlfriends?” Max persisted. “Maybe someone who just showed up for a day?”

“Not that we ever knew about.”

“That old truck of McGowan’s is distinctive,” Lindsey said. “I keep thinking he has to be hiding it in a garage someplace, or we would have had a call on it by now.”

“We believe someone must be harboring this guy,” Max added.

But Brynn was shaking her head. “I wouldn’t assume that,” she told them. “Corby’s a loner. I mean, in the extreme. He’s an only child, he never knew his father, and his mother’s been dead for years. The guy’s alone in the world, which—if you believe the shrink who evaluated him—is part of his problem. There’s nobody. His coworkers at the cable company said they barely knew him, that he kept to himself. No one posted his bail or attended the trial to support him. He had no visitors in prison, with the exception of a few curious reporters who were hoping to write a book.” She sighed. “The man is antisocial, in every sense of the word.”

Lindsey glanced at Max. They’d really been hoping for a name or a place that might provide a new lead.

“Back to the guns,” Brynn said.

“What about them?” Max asked.

“That whole thing seems off. All of his sexual homicides, he killed them with a knife. If he’s on some sick revenge quest, then I’d expect him to use a blade and not a bullet.”

Lindsey looked at Max. “You didn’t tell her?”

“We were keeping it under wraps.”

“Tell me what?” Brynn leaned forward, her sharp words at odds with the fear in her eyes.

“Jennifer Ballard . . .” Lindsey hesitated.

“Jen died of gunshot wounds.” She looked at Max. “That’s what you told me on the phone.”

“Yes, but her killer didn’t just shoot her,” Max said. “He cut out her tongue.”