James Swain - The King Tides

“Only one? Talk about showing a girl a good time,” she said.

“We can split it,” he said.

She leaned against her door and blew the steam off her drink. “I joined the FBI right after I graduated from Dartmouth and worked my way up the ranks. Maybe because of what happened to me in college, I became adept at catching sexual predators. I would stay up all night running them down. My bosses noticed, and in 2012, I was promoted to running the Violent Crimes Against Children/Online Predator Unit. I wasn’t on the job two weeks when the first photographs landed on my desk.”

“The killers sent them to you?”

“They were more clever than that. The victim’s photographs were taken on an old-fashioned camera, and the film was dropped off at a pharmacy to be developed. When the pharmacy processed the film and saw it was of a murder, the local police were contacted. The cops didn’t know what to do with the photos. They didn’t have a body or know the victim’s identity, so the photos were forwarded to the FBI. Since the victim was a young girl, the photos were passed on to me.”

She tore a piece off the pastry and popped it into her mouth.

“You can have all of it,” he said.

“Thanks. The first photos came from a pharmacy in Houston, so I flew in and worked with our office there trying to identify the victim. We eventually matched her to a body that had been found in a field on the side of a highway. She was an illegal Mexican immigrant who left her job at the mall one afternoon and never arrived home. There were no real leads in the case, so I went back to DC.”

“Those were the photos you showed Rusty,” he said.

“Yes. She was the first victim.”

Half the pastry was gone. It seemed to help her relax.

“Six months later, another set of murder photos showed up on my desk,” Daniels said. “Same scenario as before. Taken on an old-fashioned camera and dropped off at a pharmacy to be processed, this time in Atlanta. Again, the cops didn’t know what to do with them, so they were sent to the FBI, and I got them. I flew to Atlanta, and worked with our office there to identify the victim. She was another teenage girl who worked at a mall and never came home. The body was found in a field while I was there. It struck a nerve.”

“The killings in Hanover,” he said.

She nodded. “The Hanover killers also discarded their victims’ bodies in fields. It made me wonder if the murders were connected, so I had a forensics team compare the evidence from the Hanover killings to the killings in Houston and Atlanta. All four of the victims had worked in malls. They’d also been fed a meal before they were killed. There were enough similarities with the cases that forensics concluded the same pair of killers had murdered all four victims.”

“That must have freaked you out,” he said.

“It was very upsetting, to say the least. I went to my bosses and asked them to open an active investigation into the Houston and Atlanta killings. An active investigation means the bureau devotes a portion of its budget to a case, and is required to report its findings to the Justice Department every six months. My request got approved, and I’ve been chasing the killers ever since.”

“How many victims are there?” he asked.

“Fifteen so far. The photos show up like clockwork every six months. They rotate between Houston, Atlanta, and Fort Lauderdale. The killers have a unique calling card. In the before photo, the victim is wearing a gold Saint Jude medal, in the after photo, she’s not. Just when I get ready to shut the investigation down, I have to start it back up.”

“Why would you shut it down?”

“Bureau rules. If there’s no movement in six months, the case is put on the back burner, and the agent handling the case is given a new assignment.”

“Are you telling me that you’ve been working this case continuously since 2012?”

“Afraid so.”

“That’s seven years working one case. You must be frustrated as hell.”

“I am. But I can’t stop. I look at the photographs of these dead girls, and it rips me apart.” She turned her head and stared through the windshield. “I can’t remember the last time I had a decent night’s sleep.”

She fell silent. The pastry was a memory, so he got out of the car and went into the Starbucks and purchased an apple fritter the size of a softball. He brought it to her, and she immediately started picking at it. Sweets were definitely her weakness.

“We caught a break two years ago,” she said. “The photographs were dropped off at a Walgreens pharmacy in Plantation in South Broward. I flew down and interviewed the photo processor who’d been on duty that day. His last name was Daniels, so of course we hit it off. Daniels remembered the guy who’d dropped the film off, and told me that he’d seen the guy at a Fourth of July fireworks celebration on the beach.”

“So our killers live in Fort Lauderdale,” he said.

“At least part of the time. They may also have residences in Houston and Atlanta as well. You want some of this fritter? It’s really tasty.”

He tore off a small piece to be sociable. “Where are we in the rotation?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said that every six months there’s another victim. Are we due for another killing? If the way you ransacked my condo is an indication, I’m guessing we are.”

“Yes, we’re due. The last victim was killed five months and three weeks ago. I should be getting another packet on my desk any day now.”

“From Fort Lauderdale?”

“Correct. It’s next in line. We think the killers kidnap a girl and keep her doped up for a few days. They feed her a last meal, and then it’s lights out.”

“What’s the significance of the last meal?”

“We don’t know. Maybe it’s a way to calm her down.”

He chewed on the fritter and washed it down with his coffee. “If your math is right, these guys are going to kill another girl very soon. Do you have any other leads?”

“No. I’m running blind.” She gave him a weary look. “Can you help me save her?”

The question caught him off guard. Saving people had been his specialty as a SEAL. His pot belly and small stature had made it easy for him to blend in just about anywhere in the world. That had come in handy during hostage rescues.

“I’m happy to try. You want to take a break first? Go for a walk?”

“I’m okay, but thanks for offering,” she said.

“I have a theory about your killers,” he said. “Before I share it with you, I need to ask you a question. How many of the victims worked at malls or in retail centers?”

“All of them.”

“So the victims were around groups of people when they were abducted.”

“Yes. Except for me. I was walking home from a class.”

“You were different.”

“How so?”

“Our killers saw you walking by yourself and decided to be opportunistic and grab you. They put ski masks on, jumped out of their car, and abducted you. It was a rushed job, and they botched it. That’s why you managed to escape.”

“That makes sense. What’s your theory?”

He thought back to the elderly man in the tracksuit pushing the dying woman in the wheelchair, and how every person they’d encountered had avoided them. “Our killers have come up with a unique way to abduct their victims from public places,” he said. “They use a wheelchair. I first thought the wheelchair was for distraction, but there’s another reason. Let me show you how it works.”

He took out his cell phone and pulled up the surveillance video of Nicki’s near abduction at the Galleria mall. Daniels held the phone up to her face and stared at the screen. Her mouth grew taut with rage.