All the Pretty Girls

Forty-Two

Baldwin ran his fingers through his hair and made the ends stick up like quills on a hedgehog. He’d been up all night, unable to get any restful sleep. Grimes, a faceless killer, dead bodies had swarmed through his troubled dreams. He’d finally roused himself at 3:00 a.m., after Taylor had left in a rush, and powered up his laptop. He went through his notes again and again, trying to make all the details fit into a pretty little package.

The transportation of the dead girls was bothering him. There were a few tight time frames in Buckley’s schedule. Mapping it out, it was clear that he must have skipped some flights, driven instead. Of course, itineraries change, flights are missed, rental cars lost. He’d put in a request for all of the rental cars Buckley had used to be worked over by forensic teams, but that could be a mute gesture. The feds would be working that today.

He got into the shower, stood under the stream of water and made a mental note that he needed to change the filter on the showerhead. The thought stopped him. In the middle of all of this death and mayhem, he was worrying about water pressure.

He let the water run a few moments longer, then snapped off the faucets and stepped out from behind the plastic curtain. He wanted a new house with a shower and tub that were separate, but he wasn’t sure how to approach Taylor about it. He knew how much she loved their house, the cabin sanctuary that she had created for herself, and then him, to live in. But it was a small place for two people, and what happened if they got married and had kids? They would need a bigger house for that anyway, unless they wanted a child living in a hammock in the loft, strung above Taylor’s precious pool table. He laughed to himself at the image. All he knew was that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, and give her anything she wanted. Kids, house, dogs or cats, it was hers. He just prayed that she would feel the same and want to let him give her the world. Taylor was a strong woman, but he could not believe that she would not want to be with him exclusively forever. Well, he would have to tackle first things first, and a marriage proposal was top on the list. He had already bought the ring, it was this damn case that had interrupted the events that he had planned. He’d almost managed it in the kitchen last night. She’d circled him warily for the rest of the evening, as if he was a bomb about to explode. He laughed and vowed to himself that the minute they caught this bastard, he was asking her to marry him. The thought gave him new resolve, and he dressed quickly and walked back to the study.

Jake Buckley was looking more and more like a plausible suspect in this case. A BOLO had been issued for the man’s BMW, the airports had been faxed pictures of him in case he tried to hop a plane; train and bus stations were circulating pictures among the ticket agents, yet he was nowhere to be found. Nor had any trace of Ivy Clark been discovered. He checked his watch, it was almost noon. Seven girls dead and one missing. He shook his head. It was just too much sometimes. He understood that. But Grimes had not, and Baldwin was sorry about that. There wasn’t much Baldwin could do when a fellow agent was on that track, despite Garrett’s admonishments. He still thought he should have seen it coming. Regardless, he couldn’t get himself into a funk over it now. There was too much to be done.

Baldwin went back to tracking Buckley’s exact timeline and whereabouts to see if Buckley was in the specific area when the girls were kidnapped. As vice president of Marketing and New Development for Health Partners, Jake Buckley traveled a great deal, checking on new properties, making sure the established hospitals were running properly, making adjustments in staff and provisions for the hospitals that were under way but not totally established yet. A lot of responsibility lay on the man’s shoulders.

The first thing Baldwin had done was simply match his schedule to the timeline of deaths and kidnappings. Jake Buckley had been in every one of the cities that the girls were missing from as they went missing, and was at each town where the bodies had been dumped on the day they’d been found. The timeline matched. He’d driven his own vehicle to many of the meetings, but in some cases he’d flown. That’s why Baldwin had put in the call about the rental cars. It was a long shot, but everything needed to be checked out.

He had started to pull the files together when the phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw it was Taylor. He answered the phone with a smile in his tired voice.

“Hi, honey.”

“Hey there. You making any progress?”

“Not really. I was just finishing the timeline to see if Buckley’s actual travel matched with the kidnappings and murders. They do, to a tee. Everything okay with you?”

“We’ve finally had a break in the Rainman case. The call I got last night? He broke into a woman’s house and raped her. But we caught him.” He heard the pride in her voice.

“What happened with that victim you were interviewing?”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot to tell you about that last night. I can safely say she was just a woman scorned. She’d basically made the entire story up to get back at a former boyfriend. There was enough information in the paper for her to make some pretty educated guesses as to how to make herself look like a victim of the Rainman, but the DNA came back and didn’t match the other cases. We arrested her for making a false report. In the meantime, this asshole went off for another night of jollies. We took him down leaving the scene. It was great.”

“Tough girl. Only you would describe a takedown as great,” he teased.

“Anyway, that’s not why I called. Fox News is getting ready to do a one-on-one interview with Tanner Clark and one of Ivy’s friends. I thought you might want to see it.”

“I do.” Baldwin got up and started rummaging for the television remote. “Where did you hide the remote for the TV in the office?”

Taylor laughed. “Yeah, I hid the remote. I never watch TV in the office. Sorry about that.”

“Okay, okay. Had to ask. When will you be home?”

“Hopefully soon, barring any bizarre happenings. Brian Post has the rapist and is questioning him now. You’ll be there?”

“I’m planning on it unless something breaks. I’ll make you something nice to eat.”

“That’s so sweet of you. Here you are, in the middle of this big bad ugly case, offering to make little ole me dinner. Whatever happened to that big tough cop I fell in love with?”

“Hush up. We’ll talk when you get home.”

“Yes, sir. By the way, you might want to put an ice pack in the freezer for me. The son of a bitch tagged me when we were chasing him, I look like half a raccoon.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, sweetie. I haven’t felt this good in weeks.”

“All right then. I love you.” Baldwin waited for the love-you-bye response that Taylor always gave then hung up the phone. He’d have to scramble to come up with something great to make for her. The woman loved food, though her metabolism was filled with jet fuel. She could eat anything and never gain a pound.

Baldwin found the remote hidden behind a fern on the bookcase and laughed. He swore Taylor moved it around and hid it just to make him crazy. He pushed the power button, and when the picture came up put in the satellite number for Fox News.

He was just in time. The pre-interview information was being given and the anchor, a sandy-haired man with round glasses, was giving some last-minute details.

“It’s believed that Ivy Tanner Clark could be the eighth victim of the vicious serial killer known as the Southern Strangler. Ivy has been missing for twenty-four hours now and we have her father and best friend linked by satellite from Louisville, Kentucky, to give us some more information. Mr. Clark, can you hear me okay?”

The screen split, and the image of an attractive, silver-haired man with Ray-Ban Orb sunglasses came onto the screen. The lenses of the sunglasses were polarized, and they looked dark yellow under the studio lights. He looked more like a Hollywood actor than a grieving father. The man had his faded jean-clad legs crossed, an ankle across the opposite thigh, and Tony Lama brown suede cowboy boots peeked out from the overlong jeans. His shirt was snowy-white linen and his tanned body rippled beneath it. The man oozed sex and money, he was a perfect example of Ralph Lauren’s vision for the horsey set. Watching the silent show, Baldwin understood how Tanner Clark came to be known as the don of the horseracing world.

“I can hear you fine.” The man’s voice was booming, commanding, and the anchor smiled. It would be a strong interview.

“Mr. Clark,” the anchor continued, “we understand that you believe your daughter has been taken by the Southern Strangler. Can you tell us what information you have been given that has led you to draw this conclusion?”

“My little girl is missing, and I want to plead with whoever took her to please let me have her back. I’ll be posting a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to her safe return. She’s such a sweet girl, she never hurt anyone. Please, please, just let her go.” His head dropped into his hand and his shoulders started to shake. A small arm appeared from his left and the camera pulled back to show a young girl comforting Clark. The alleged best friend, of course.

The girl looked young, younger than Ivy Clark’s age of twenty-one, but the cameras could be deceiving when it came to youth. She could have been twelve or thirty as far as Baldwin knew. The way she touched Tanner Clark made him wonder if there wasn’t something more between Ivy’s best friend and Ivy’s megamillionaire father. A montage of pictures filled the screen while the man broke down. Ivy on a horse, Ivy in a ball gown, Ivy in jeans and boots and a tiny pink tank top with a young man who looked suspiciously like Prince William.

The anchor wasn’t about to lose the shot of the grieving father, but he had gotten to dead air and needed to keep the interview rolling. “Miss Simone, is that right?”

“Yes, I’m Serene Simone.” She had a slight accent that Baldwin wanted to say was French but he could not be absolutely sure. “I am Ivy’s best friend. She is dear to me and I want to echo Mr. Clark’s sentiment. We just want Ivy back home safe and sound.”

“Can you tell us a little more about Ivy, please, Miss Simone?”

As she began to speak, the montage started again. Ivy Clark was a stunningly beautiful young girl who looked like she could have a good time. She was smiling in all of the pictures, and Baldwin could see the sparkle of a small diamond in her right nostril. A photo of her in an open-backed dress showed a couple of tattoos on her shoulder, and another shot of her from the back showed some sort of tattoo on her lower back. Baldwin pulled the missing persons report to the front of the file and read a bit more. Chinese symbol on the inside of her right ankle, a small dragon on her bikini line, a rose on the top of her foot, a small butterfly on her right shoulder blade and more Chinese symbols on her lower back. They should not have any trouble identifying the body if the tattoos were intact.

He looked at the screen again, muting out the honeyed words of Serene Simone and concentrating on Ivy’s face. The mischievous grin and the sparkle in her eyes got to him the most. This girl was so alive, too alive to possibly be dead. But Baldwin knew that was probably exactly what she was. Dead and gone, like all the others. They needed to catch Buckley. Damn, why hadn’t they gotten any more information on him?

The time for the segment was up; the anchor wrapped the interview quickly. “I’m sorry to have to cut you off, but we are out of time. Let’s see that emergency number again, producers. If you have any information on the whereabouts of Ivy Tanner Clark, missing from Louisville, Kentucky, please call this number. We’ll see you after the break.”

The screen filled with an 800 number, one that Baldwin recognized as the FBI tip line. The number had generated hundreds of calls with leads that were going nowhere. It was time to make a change, to make something happen.

A hundred thousand dollars might help. Of course, it might hurt, too, because they’d be inundated with tipsters dolling out bogus information.

Baldwin looked down at the files in front of him. He went through the list again, covering Jake Buckley’s travel schedule for the past two months. The man had been on a junket, and had been in thirty cities in the past month. But the cities they needed to see him in figured prominently. Huntsville, Alabama; Baton Rouge, Louisiana; Jackson, Mississippi; back to Nashville. Then on to Noble, Georgia; Roanoke, Virginia; Asheville, North Carolina, then Louisville. He was scheduled for a break back in Nashville that would last for a week. Maybe he was done killing, maybe he wasn’t, but he was coming home, and home was where they’d hopefully find him.

He was due back in Nashville last night. He had not arrived home, so the BOLO, Be on the Lookout, for his car had been issued, yet no one had reported seeing the car anywhere between Nashville and Louisville. It was time for Baldwin to talk with Quinn Buckley. He needed to get a better sense of who they were dealing with.