Last Words

14

“Everyone seated? Got your coffee, your tea, whatever? Once we start, I don’t want any interruptions, so whatever it is you need, get it now. Anyone?”

Beck stood at the head of the table in the conference room where once again he’d gathered his staff behind closed doors for what he referred to as a “situational update” on the Holly Sheridan case. Everyone who’d had an assignment was expected to report their findings, and everyone present was expected to be tuned in to whatever information was being shared.

Noting that everyone appeared to be set, he continued.

“First, I want to thank all of you for giving up Sunday morning with your families. If circumstances were different, we’d have waited until tomorrow. Agent Shields is with us again today, along with her colleague, Dr. Anne Marie McCall, who will offer her insights once everyone else has reported on their piece of the pie. Any questions?” Beck surveyed the room. There were none.

“Then let’s get started. Duncan, you’re first up.” Beck pointed to the officer who sat halfway down the table to his right.

As Duncan cleared his throat, about to begin, the door opened and Christina Pratt hurried into the room.

“Am I late?” she asked.

“We’re just about to start,” Beck told her.

“Great.” The woman settled into a seat to the left of Mia and took a small notebook and pen from her handbag.

Mia caught Beck’s eye to see if he’d noticed, but he hadn’t appeared to. She made a mental note to call it to his attention. Letting civilians have confidential information made her nervous, whether that civilian was the mayor or the guy who sold you coffee in the morning. When that information was written down, it made her doubly so.

“Do I need to remind you all that what is said here, stays here? Anyone not understand what that means?” His eyes surveyed the room. “Anyone?”

No one spoke up. Mia hoped the mayor understood that that meant her as well.

“We’ll be having a community meeting once I’ve sorted through everything we discuss here today, but I will be the one who decides what information is made public and what we keep close to the vest.” He leaned over the chair, his arms resting on its back. “ Duncan, let’s do it.”

Duncan Alcott’s fingers tapped so lightly on the table that only those seated to either side could hear the sound. He was tall and thin and wore military-style glasses and a crew cut. He’d joined the force under Hal as a patrolman, and had never distinguished himself as either a great cop or an especially poor one. He was pretty much average in every way. There’d been a few flare-ups over the years-like the times he’d been bypassed for a promotion he’d wanted, and about a decade ago there’d been an incident in a bar down in Cambridge-but for the most part, he’d been reliable and trustworthy. Because he had no family in the area, he could be depended on to work holidays and weekends, which made him popular with his fellow officers. He had nearly twenty years in uniform and preferred traffic and night patrols, and Beck was content to let him remain in his comfort zone. Efforts over the years to fit him into any other mold hadn’t been successful anyway. Hal had once described Duncan as “a good soldier,” and Beck found it still fit.

“Um, well, Chief asked me to figure out Holly Sheridan’s itinerary between Colorado and Maryland. What roads she took and that sort of thing.” Duncan cleared his throat again. “The victim left her parents home in Denver on Monday, July second. She filled up her Explorer right outside of Denver, headed onto to Route 70, took it all the way to St. Louis, then dropped down onto 64 into Kentucky, then picked up 79 into West Virginia. Around Morgan-town, she got onto 68, took it as far as 70, took it straight on over to Baltimore.” He looked up at Beck and asked, “Do you want every stop she made? She had an overnight in Columbus, Missouri, and made a number of gas and food stops.”

“Are any of them particularly relevant?”

“Just the last one.”

“Which was?”

“She stopped in Wye Mills.” He glanced at the two FBI agents and added for their clarification, “That’s in Maryland, not far after you come off the Bay Bridge. You probably drove through it on Route 50.”

Mia nodded. She remembered.

“Anyway, the victim stopped for gas at a mini-mart off Route 50, 1:00 A.M. on Thursday, July fifth. Filled up her tank, went inside, got a soda and a snack. Got her on tape,” Duncan said. “Can’t see outside near the pumps, though, so I checked in with the manager, which is how I got a copy of the tape.”

He held it up.

“The manager called in the guy who was working that night, showed him the tape.” Duncan continued his flat recitation. “He did recall the victim, but he-”

“Holly Sheridan,” Beck reminded him. “Let’s use her name once in a while. She was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister. Let’s give her a little dignity.”

“Right.” Duncan reddened. “Anyway, the witness recalled Holly Sheridan coming in that night. She bought a diet Pepsi and a packaged sandwich. She opened the soda and drank it standing there, said she’d been on a long drive and how good it felt to stand and stretch her legs and how happy she was to be back.”

“Did you ask if there was anyone else pumping gas at the time?”

“Yes, but he said there was no one there when she arrived.” Duncan held up the tape. “I noted to him that maybe a minute before she left the store, you could see a flash of headlights reflected in the window, and he said he thought someone did pull in. The manager pulled the receipts for the night and found a cash sale was made about five minutes after the vic-after Holly’s credit-card sale.”

“So the other customer would be on the tape when he came in to pay,” Hal Garrity spoke up. “Let’s see it.”

“Sorry, no. After seeing the tape, the attendant remembered he had walked Holly outside and was standing by the door. The second customer had a ten dollar sale, handed the guy a ten, and didn’t want a receipt.”

“Any description, of the customer or the car?” Beck asked hopefully.

“Said the guy was maybe mid-thirties, medium height and build, had a baseball cap on, didn’t see his hair, didn’t really look at his face. Doesn’t really remember much about him except that he was driving a dark SUV. Didn’t catch the make.”

“Guy works in a gas station and doesn’t notice what someone was driving?” Hal shook his head skeptically.

“He said he too busy watching Holly walk across the parking lot to her car. He said she was wearing some pretty hot shorts.”

“Swell,” Beck muttered. “Well, at least we know she made it to Maryland, and if she ran into someone, or someone followed her, it was close to home.”

He turned to Duncan. “Nice work.”

“Thank you.” Duncan went red again.

“Guess her car still hasn’t turned up,” Beck said.

“No, sir. But this morning I did check again with the state police, just to make sure they know we’re still looking.”

“Great. You keep on that.” Beck turned to Hal. “You were going to show Holly’s face around town.”

The older man nodded. “I did. I made fifty copies of that photo you got from her roommate, and I passed it around. Turns out she’s been just about everywhere. Barbie down at the bookstore said she was in once a week, picked up a mystery or a romance and whatever new food magazine had come in since her last visit. Rocky at the gallery said she’d stopped in the weekend of the art show; there were several works she admired but she didn’t buy any.”

“Either Barbie or Rocky mention if she was with anyone?”

“She was alone the three or four times she stopped in at Barbie’s, and Rocky thinks she came into the gallery alone and left alone.” Hal shook his balding head. “Steffie says she was in for ice cream a couple of times, but doesn’t think she was with anyone. Said she chatted with her a few times, that Holly was pretty outgoing. Said she talked to whoever was in the shop whenever she was there.”

Hal glanced down the table at Beck and added, “And no, she doesn’t remember anyone in particular, just the usual assortment of locals you get at any given time on any hot day.”

Hal passed a photo of Holly around the table. When it reached Christina Pratt, she said, “I’ve seen this girl around. I think it might have been at Steffie’s. Founders Day weekend, after the concert, I think it was.”

“Do you remember who else was around?” Beck asked.

“Only half the town. Including you and your sister.” The mayor took a final look at the photo before passing it across the table to Lisa Singer. “I remember seeing you there, because my son had his kids that weekend and my five-year-old granddaughter was fascinated by Vanessa’s shoes, and-” She stopped and laughed self-consciously. “Well, suffice it to say, half the town was in line for ice cream at Steffie’s after the concert.” She turned to Lisa Singer. “You were there too, weren’t you? You and Todd and your boys?”

Lisa nodded. “We were, though Todd got a call from someone who’d been in the week before looking at a boat and had to leave.”

“So there you go.” The mayor looked around the table. “It would be easier to make a list of the people who weren’t there. Which means Holly Sheridan was in good company.”

“Maybe not all good,” Beck reminded her. “If that’s where he first saw her, not so good at all.”

“You think he’s from St. Dennis?” Christina Pratt frowned.

“I do,” Beck nodded. “I can’t think of another reason for him to have left the body of a girl who was living here in the back of my car. But maybe our profiler will have some thoughts on that, and we’ll get into that later, once we’ve finished this discussion.”

“If he’s from St. Dennis, then chances are we all know him.” The mayor looked around the room. “You have his voice on tape. Why didn’t someone recognize it?”

“He used a device that distorted the sound.” Beck turned to Lisa. “You’re on.”

“Chief asked me to talk to Holly’s coworkers, see if I could find out more about her social life.” She thumbed through some notes. “Seems she didn’t really have one, at least not this summer. This girl was all work, almost all the time. Took some time to rest up between shifts, but that’s about it. According to Dan Sinclair, she was determined to learn as much about running a B and B as she could.”

“Any of the guys working at Sinclair’s seem interested?” Beck asked.

“Not really.” She shook her head. “Everyone seemed to like her, but no one seemed to be overly interested. Keep in mind that Dan Sinclair only hires interns who are really into the whole B and B thing. He only hires seniors or grad students, and interviews them all pretty carefully. The University of Delaware faculty recommends students who are serious about learning the business, and most return every year until their graduate work is completed.”

“Talk about training the competition,” someone commented.

“Apparently, Sinclair’s been doing it for years,” Lisa replied.

“Is there a boyfriend?” Beck asked.

Lisa nodded. “Eric Johnson. He was at the wedding, flew out of Denver on Sunday night to Montana, where he’s doing some sort of internship with the forest service.”

She glanced up at Beck and added, “I checked. He arrived on time Monday morning. He was there all week.”

Lisa turned a page in the folder and continued. “Holly’s parents are having her dental records sent out here ASAP-the mother’s sister is the family dentist, so there’s no problem getting those. They’re going to express them, so I expect to see them by ten-thirty tomorrow morning. I’ll take them right over to Dr. Reilly when they arrive. The sooner we can make a positive ID, the better.”

“Did anyone mention if Holly had a tattoo?” Mia asked.

“Actually, yes. One of her coworkers did. She had a Claddagh on the upper part of her right arm.” Lisa nodded.

“In green ink?”

“Traditional color for the Irish symbol, yes.” Lisa stared at Mia. “Why do you ask?”

“The victim found in Chief Beck’s car had a tattoo in that very place,” Mia told her. “The design wasn’t clear due to the decomposition of the body, but the ink was clearly green.”

“So there’s not much of a question…” Hal stated the obvious.

“None in my mind,” Beck replied.

“Holly hasn’t been identified as a victim to the media as yet, right?” Mia asked.

“Right. Even though I’ve been ninety-nine percent certain all along that it’s her, I hate to release information that hasn’t been positively confirmed. We sent some of Holly’s hair from her brush to the FBI lab along with hair from the victim to make sure the DNA profiles match, but I’m sure it’s her.”

“When are you going to make that public, Beck?” Mayor Pratt asked.

“As soon as the dental records are received and the match is confirmed,” he told her. He turned to Lisa. “Have warrants been requested for the computers and cell phone records of the three known victims?”

“Yes, but we couldn’t get to Judge McIlvain to sign them until Friday night. We called the cell companies yesterday, and faxed over his warrants, but we probably won’t have the records in our hands until tomorrow morning. Holly Sheridan’s laptop was in her car, which we have yet to find, but I’ve asked the Ballard and Cameron PDs to pick up the computers from the Preston and Kenneher homes. The parents didn’t demand warrants; they’re eager to do whatever they can to help. If I don’t have a response by noon, I’ll follow up again.”

“Do we know if anyone else is missing?” Mayor Pratt asked. “I mean, if this guy is from St. Dennis-and I’m still not buying that he is-would he just have started doing this out of the blue? Wouldn’t there have been other women missing before these three?”

“I think those are good questions for our profiler.” Beck turned to Annie. “Want to take it from here?”

“As your chief has noted, my name is Anne Marie McCall. I’m a psychologist, I’m a supervisory special agent, and I work primarily with agents assigned to a specific unit within the Bureau.” Annie stood. “For starters, I don’t believe these are your offender’s first kills. The manner is way too sophisticated for an amateur. He’s definitely not new at this game. He’s played before. We just need to find out where, and when, and I believe Agent Shields has something on that. Mia?”

“Yes. There’s nothing for the past year, but back in 2001, a young woman on vacation in Dewey Beach went missing. Kim Bradley, twenty-one years old, from Penns Grove, New Jersey, a new graduate of Salisbury University, rented a beach house with a few of her sorority sisters. A group of them went to a club in Rehoboth”-Mia paused to refer to her notes-“a place called the Elephant Room. When it was time to leave, she was nowhere to be found. She stumbled into the house around six the next morning, bruised and hysterical. Said she’d met a guy in the bar, they went outside for some fresh air, he forced her into his car at knifepoint and raped her.”

Beck turned to Lisa. “Find out who the officer in charge of that investigation was and talk to him, get everything he’s got. And find out where the rental property was and who they rented from.”

His attention returned to Mia. “What else do you have?”

“Two rape-abductions in that same area, June and September of the previous year, both college girls. Pretty much the same story. Met a guy in a club, stepped outside, then bam! I’ve requested copies of the files, and will have someone from our field offices follow up and interview the victims. One is in Columbus, Ohio, the other is in Boston. Those were the only local missing persons we found, but there’s always the possibility that he lived elsewhere at some point, and may have been active there. There are thousands of missing persons reported every year. There’s no way we could narrow the field.”

“I’m assuming you also ran a check nationally for cases with similar MOs?” he asked.

Mia nodded. “There have been many rape-abduction-murder cases where the victim was held for a period of time, but none where the vics have been suffocated as these women have been. While I think there’s a really good chance that what we’re seeing is an escalation over his previous activity where he abducted and raped but did not kill-as Dr. McCall said, this guy’s no beginner-it’s impossible to sort out all of the rape-abduction cases over the past five to ten years just by looking at the data reports. The victims I mentioned earlier were all college girls, all from out of state, and all the abductions occurred in beach areas. None were held beyond the actual rape, none mentioned being restrained. I understand that the area from Dewey Beach in Delaware down through Ocean City, Maryland, is very popular with young people.” She paused, then added, “There’s no way of telling how many others there might have been over the years. Rape victims don’t always report the crime, and girls of this age under these circumstances are often reluctant to call the police.”

“Because sometimes it’s a matter of the girls picking up a guy in one of the clubs and getting more than they bargained for,” Lisa said. “They’re embarrassed to admit they made such an error in judgment.”

“Exactly. They think maybe they set themselves up for it, going off with someone they didn’t know, so they’re reluctant to complain to the police.” Mia nodded. “I will request that as many of these women as possible be tracked down and interviewed to see if we have a pattern in the MO and to see if we have physical descriptions of the subject that match up, but that’s going to take some time.”

Beck ran a hand wearily over his face and nodded to Annie to go on with her presentation.

“I’ve had an opportunity to study the files on the three women and while I can’t pretend to have all the answers, I can share some insights based on my twelve years experience doing this sort of thing.” She leaned against the far wall, her hands in the pockets of her skirt. The petite blond woman, always immaculately dressed and professional, began to weave her words into a compelling narrative. Everyone in the room hung on her every word.

“For starters, the man you’re looking for has massive control issues as far as women are concerned.”

The mayor snorted.

Annie appeared amused. “You had something you wished to say, Mayor Pratt?”

“The guy ties women up and keeps them tied up, then rapes them, and when he’s done with them, he wraps them in plastic and suffocates them. It doesn’t take an FBI profiler to figure out that he likes to be in control. And I’ll bet you’re going to say those issues stem from his relationship with his mother.”

Still smiling, Annie nodded. “Oh, there’s a good chance they do. This is a man who reflects pretty much what we see in most of our serial killers. His approach may differ, his MO may be different, but scratch the surface and you’ll find he and Ted Bundy are brothers under the skin. He really doesn’t like women very much.”

“So he’s probably single, right?” Sue asked.

“Not necessarily, no. He may be married, in a long-term relationship, or divorced. The women he’s been involved in are probably very complacent, nonaggressive, which permits him to have his way, to feel superior.”

“And if she protests?” someone asked. “Or becomes more assertive?”

“Then he’ll react to that. Sever the relationship, have an affair, something that restores the balance to his world, where he is king and women are there to please him.”

“Not in my house.” The mayor’s comment elicited light laughter.

Annie smiled, then continued. “Now, let’s take a closer look at our man. He’s very organized. He has his victim picked out in advance, he’s probably stalked her and studied her so he knows where, when, and how to get to her. He takes with him what he needs to get the job done, which in his case is some rope-we know he keeps his victims restrained when he’s not with them…”

She glanced around the room. Every eye was on her.

“How do we know? Even without the medical examiner’s description of the marks on the wrists and ankles of the two victims she’s examined, it would stand to reason. In Colleen Preston’s case, for example, she’d been missing for several weeks, but the body, when found, hadn’t started to decompose, so we know she hadn’t been dead long enough for the tissue to begin to break down. I believe your ME determined she’d been dead for less than twenty-four hours. The marks on her wrists were both old and fresh, meaning she’d been in those restraints for long enough for the earliest ones to heal over. So if he’s had her for weeks, he’s had to leave her alone for hours at a time, and he’s not going to let her roam freely. He would have known ahead of time exactly what he was going to do. Everything would have been planned very carefully, as dictated by his fantasy. And you all know that most of these killings have their genesis in fantasy, right?”

All of the law-enforcement officers nodded their heads.

“So you know, then, that the primary source of pleasure for the killer is his ability to control his victim.”

“Doesn’t he enjoy the sex?” the mayor asked.

“Yes, he does, because the sexual attack is his best way to control,” Annie said, “because a large part of the control is in degrading his victim. Making her feel totally powerless, totally under his control, totally humiliated. That’s what he gets off on. He has to make his victims feel utterly helpless. That is his primary motivation.”

“Why?” Susan asked.

“Because at some point in his early development, someone important to him made him feel powerless, and that feeling of powerlessness, of helplessness, made him angry and frustrated. So for kids who never learned to channel those feelings into something constructive-sports, for example, or academics-they very often try to comfort themselves by making others hurt, too.”

“So we’re back to Mom again,” the mayor said.

“I’m afraid so,” Annie acknowledged.

“I never really understood that,” Lisa admitted. “I mean, I’ve read it all, I even took courses in college, but I don’t understand how hurting someone else can make you feel better.”

“That’s because you are emotionally healthy,” Annie told her. “Believe me, I’ve given a talk like this to a group of convicted multiple murderers and to a man, they all sat there nodding their heads, agreeing with every word I said. They immediately understood how being able to dominate another human being-having the power of life and death over someone else-can make a man feel superior. How that power overcomes their real feelings of inadequacy. Suddenly, they are invincible.”

“And it’s the mother’s fault, these feelings of inadequacy.” Christina Pratt crossed her arms over her chest defensively.

“Who has the most control over the developing child? Not always, but most frequently, the mother,” Annie replied.

“So if Mom controls the child, locks them in the closet and abuses them or something like that-”

“Yes, Mayor, those things happen. Unfortunately, they do. I’ve heard heartbreaking stories of abuse from these men. No mercy had been shown to them, therefore no mercy will be shown to their victims.

“But it doesn’t have to be anything as overt or dramatic as extreme physical or mental abuse. Very often the abuse is much more subtle. Divorce of the parents at a young age, parents who are unable to show affection or who are demanding, perfectionists, or parents who separate themselves from the child-I’ve seen all of these conditions in the backgrounds of offenders I’ve studied. Alienation from one or both parents has been seen to be a factor in some cases.”

“But it isn’t always the parents…” Hal said.

“Of course not. There can be other adults-uncles, cousins, grandparents, even older siblings, or neighbors, friends of the family. Sometimes the abuse is at the hands of other children. Bullying is abusive. Maybe the child is overweight or has a physical disability, something that makes him different. If the abuse is harsh enough, the child may escape through revenge fantasies. He might learn very early just how powerful fantasies can be.”

“Then how come every kid who gets teased or bullied in the school yard doesn’t end up a serial killer?” Lisa asked. “I was an overweight kid and was teased mercilessly, but I’ve never wanted to kill anyone because of it.”

“Really? Are you sure?” Annie turned to face Lisa from across the room. “Think back. You never wanted to hurt any of the kids who teased you?”

Lisa looked thoughtful for a long moment, then smiled. “Well, maybe a little…but I never thought about killing anyone.”

“Everyone gets pissed off at someone or other at some time in their life. You think of a thousand ways to retaliate. We all do it. The difference between those of us who grew up to be serial killers and those who did not is that most of us learned other ways to deal with our anger and frustrations. Most of us had a safety net in place, or learned how to construct one for ourselves, and we managed our feelings and moved on. But some kids never get past it; they never learn to move on. And some of those kids fantasize about what they would do to get even, and get fixated on revenge. For those kids, acting out those fantasies becomes their way of alleviating pain. They do unto others what has been done unto them.”

The room was very quite for a moment, then Hal said, “So the abuse can be mental as well as physical.”

“Absolutely. One of the major forms of rejection cited by serial killers who have been interviewed wasn’t sexual abuse, it was an unstable home.”

“Back to Mama again,” the mayor said dryly.

“Many times parents have no idea that their actions are having a negative effect on their children. I’ve seen cases where the mother was very dominant and the father was outwardly very complacent, but inwardly, he was very resentful of the control the wife exercised over him. In cases like that, Dad may play the buddy role with the son. ‘Hey, it’s you and me, son.’ And the son grows up to resent his mother’s control the same way his dad did, resents the disdain with which his mother treats his father, because the son identifies more with the father. Mom rejects Dad, Mom is rejecting the son. Do the parents view this situation as abusive? Of course not. But often in situations like this, the boy will fantasize about showing his mother that he’s every bit as powerful as she is.”

“There are a lot of powerful women in the workplace,” the mayor reminded her. “Just look around the table…Lisa, Sue…hell, even me. Are we running the risk of turning our sons into serial killers?”

“Look, it’s always a matter of choice, and it always comes back to fantasy.” Annie told her. “It’s one thing to have those fantasies-many children do. But it’s something else entirely to act them out. The serial offenders we’ve studied all came from backgrounds where they felt powerless to control their situation-whatever that situation might have been-and never developed the coping skills necessary to overcome it. So it follows that there’s a really good chance that our current offender came from a similar background. He’s abducting these girls so that he can control them, and by doing so, he’s become powerful, superior. That’s the bottom line on this guy.”

“So we’re looking for someone local who came from a background where he was neglected or rejected by his parents or teased by his friends,” Sue Martin said.

“That could be anyone.” Christina Pratt frowned. “Christ almighty, my own son went through a period where he was pissed off all the time at everyone because he had a minor speech defect and sometimes at school the kids made fun of him. Does that mean he could be the killer?”

“What it means is that when you identify the killer, you will find there was some sort of difficulty in his background.”

“I thought a profiler was supposed to be able to tell us who to look for.” The mayor closed her notebook with obvious annoyance. “So far, you’ve just talked about generalities. Oh, he could be this, he could be that. I haven’t heard anything yet that could help us figure out who he is.”

“Profiling isn’t an exact science, it’s merely a tool, Mayor Pratt. I can study the victim and the crime scene-and in these cases, we don’t even have crime scenes, we don’t know where these women were abducted and we don’t know where they were kept or killed. I can tell you what type of personality is most likely to commit this type of murder. But I cannot conjure a name out of the air.” Annie did her best to hide her growing impatience with the mayor. If she’d understood Mia correctly, Christina Pratt had been the one who’d wanted a profiler assigned to the case. Why was she being so argumentative now that she had what she’d wanted? “That’s like asking me to pull a rabbit out of my hat.

“Other things you might want to consider,” Annie continued, “is that this man has been able to fly under the radar for a long time. He’s very practiced at keeping that anger and need to control in check. I think he’s probably married, or has been. He may be a father, and if so, outwardly he might dote on his children, though inwardly he might be indifferent to them as individuals. He sees them as his creations, and therefore, in his eyes they are perfect. He’s socially capable, sexually active, and may well live with a partner from whom he’s successfully hidden his inner self. He’s also good at controlling his own emotions-if you listen to the tape he made while he was preparing to kill Colleen Preston, you’ll hear no evidence of excitement in his voice. He’s in total command, and he’s very cool about it. There’s a hint of superiority in his tone. He’s also going to be very interested in how the media covers his story, which is why so often you hear about the killer showing up at a funeral or a press conference or a community meeting.” She paused and looked across the room at Beck. “I’m assuming that’s one of the reasons behind the meeting you’re calling?”

“That’s one reason, of course.” Beck nodded. “But both the mayor and council and I think the residents have the right to know what’s going on. They need to know how to protect themselves.”

“One way of doing that is by finding the common thread amongst the victims,” Annie told him. “What did they have in common?”

“Well, we know they were all in their early twenties and lived within about six miles of each other,” Lisa said. “They were all reportedly fun-loving, pretty, girls-”

“There are probably hundreds of pretty girls who like to have a good time in the area. What was it about these girls that attracted the killer?” Annie leaned on the end of the table.

“They all liked the beach.”

“Why do you say that, Lisa?” Beck asked.

“I was going to get into it when we talked about Mindy Kenneher. Whose background, incidently, is very similar to Colleen Preston’s in terms of her family life, education, job, that sort of thing.”

“Get back to the beach.” Beck gestured with his right hand for her to get on with it.

“Well, you know how Colleen was planning on a weekend at the beach with a friend?”

“Are you telling me Mindy was going in on a condo in Ocean City?”

“ Rehoboth Beach,” Lisa told him. “She and two of her friends.”

“Tell me you have the name of the person who owned the beach house.” Beck stared at her.

“No. Mindy was handling the arrangements. The other girls don’t even know what street the house is on.”

“And you were going to tell me this when?”

“Actually, I was trying to right before the meeting but you were on the phone. I only just talked to the girlfriends this morning. Unfortunately, no one seems to know who the property owner is.” Lisa paused, then added, “Including her parents. I already asked. And I called the Prestons. They don’t know who Colleen was renting from.”

“We need those cell phone records,” Beck told her. “If you don’t have them in your hand by ten tomorrow morning, call the companies again. There’s a good chance the victims may have been in contact with the so-called property owners by phone.”

“So we need to find out who owned the place in Dewey and the place in Rehoboth from those two older cases Agent Shields mentioned earlier.”

“I’ll do the follow-up.” Lisa nodded. “And I’ll contact Ballard and Cameron PDs and see if anything showed up on the victims’ computers.”

“When shall we have this town-hall meeting?” the mayor asked.

“The sooner the better,” Beck told her. “I’d like to do it tomorrow night, if we can get the word out.”

“I’ll call the local radio stations as soon as I get back to my office.” Christina Pratt stood to her full five feet ten inches. “I’ll also have a flyer made up immediately and ask the local shops and restaurants to hand it out to their customers. You think maybe seven, seven thirty, Beck?”

“Seven thirty is good,” he agreed.

“Fine.” She stepped away from the table and pushed in her chair. “I trust I’ll see you all then.”

“That should do it,” Beck told the others as the mayor left the room, “unless someone has a question.”

“I have a question.” Sue directed her question to the two FBI agents at the opposite end of the table. “If you’re right and the killer is from St. Dennis and he’s at the meeting, how will we know who he is? I mean, we know everyone in town. How are we supposed to know who we’re supposed to be watching, or what we’re watching for?”

“Well, that’s a good question,” Beck replied. “I guess the best we can do is keep our eyes open and hope that he somehow does or says something that makes him stand out.”

“What are the chances of that?” Hal asked.

Beck shrugged.

“Pretty much what I thought.” Hal nodded. “Slim to none…”

Mia shrunk back from the bright sunlight as she stepped outside the municipal building.

“Should have brought my shades.” She raised her hand to shield her eyes.

“You don’t have to walk me to the car,” Annie told her. “Go on back inside.”

“It’s okay.” Mia joined Annie on the sidewalk. “I want to. It’s the least I can do, after you pulled yourself off another case to look at this one, especially on a weekend. I owe you big time, and I’m sure Beck appreciated it.”

“And you’ll pay up, one of these days. But what’s with Pratt?” Annie frowned. “I sensed hostility there.”

“I don’t know. I’m guessing she’s a mama who resents her kids’ problems being foisted back onto her.” Mia shrugged. “And she probably watches too much TV. Thinks the profiler should be able to show up and pull a list of names out of her butt.”

“Don’t I wish I could,” Annie said. “Damn, but that would make all our jobs easier, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, no more long, drawn-out, boring investigations. Just, ‘Hey, it’s either Tom, Dick, or Harry. Let’s get DNA and see which of them did it.’ Sorry she seemed to be picking at you.”

“Not the first time, won’t be the last.” The two women reached Annie’s car. She unlocked it and dropped her briefcase onto the backseat and her handbag onto the front passenger seat. “Thanks for the hospitality last night. It’s been a long time since we’ve been able to visit with one another. It was good to have some time to chat.”

“It was. Let’s not wait so long between visits.” Mia gave Annie a hug.

Annie got into her car and slammed the door, then rolled down the window. “Mia, if there’s something bothering you-”

“There isn’t.”

“…or if you just want to talk about anything, you know I’m always here for you, right?”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Mia pushed back the lump that was beginning to form in her throat.

“Just don’t ever hesitate, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Annie, but I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

“Then take some time off. When was your last vacation, anyway?”

Mia shrugged.

“That’s how agents burn out, Mia. I’ve seen it happen too many times. Don’t let it happen to you. You love your job too much, honey.”

“I know. I’m fine, really.” Mia backed up so that Annie could turn the car around.

Mia waved good-bye, then stood in the parking lot and watched Annie leave. When the car had disappeared, she stuck her hands in the pockets of her light jacket and walked back into the building, her head down. She could talk to Annie if she had to, she knew that. But what could she say? Forgive me for not knowing that my brother was going to kill your fiancé? The fact that Dylan hadn’t been the intended target really didn’t matter. Brendan had set out to murder his own flesh and blood. How do you get past that?

And why, she asked herself for the thousandth time, why hadn’t she seen it coming?