Кей Хупер - Blood Ties

He was satisfied she did. “So Quentin spent some time at a pretty reclusive resort thirty miles from here. Don’t see as how that would have anything to do with the murders here.”

“Neither did I. Until I found another connection.” She opened the topmost file of the stack on her blotter and turned the page so he could read it if he so chose, even though she was relaying the information. “Reported missing ten days ago, Taryn Holder, age twenty-eight. Blond hair, brown eyes, five foot seven, a hundred and twenty pounds. Single. Her boyfriend in Knoxville reported her missing when she failed to return from the latest spa break she was in the habit of taking at least twice a year.”

Duncan got it quickly. “At The Lodge?”

“Yeah. She was last seen checking out and driving away. She never made it home.”

Miranda said, “You should give that deputy a raise. Whether this pans out or not, she showed real initiative.”

Duncan nodded. “Yeah, I’m bound to lose her to some big-town police department. Or to you lot. Look, I sent her home to get some rest, but if you need any of my people to help out later on—with anything that doesn’t involve carrying or using a weapon—I’d recommend Bobbie.”

Miranda smiled. “She’s one of your part-timers.”

“Yeah. She grew up in a hunting family and probably knows how to handle a gun better than I do, but she hasn’t gone through the training yet, so I’m not about to issue her one. That aside, she’s smart, she learns fast, and as you can see she’s ambitious and resourceful. Plus, she just plain enjoys the work.”

“We may well need her.” Miranda looked at the stack of files with a rueful sigh. “Unless another murder victim turns up far outside your jurisdiction, we might be staying in Serenade awhile longer than I’d anticipated.”

“Because of what Bobbie found?”

“That. Also the fact that this location is fairly central in relation to the other murders, so it’s a good base for us geographically, especially given the helicopter we have at our disposal. And… this is a small town, quiet. No TV station, and the one newspaper is a weekly. Working here, we have a better shot at avoiding the media spotlight at least a little longer.”

It was Duncan’s turn to sigh. “I know it’s a judgment call as to when to go public with this kind of information, but if this is a serial killer with eight notches already on his belt…”

DeMarco spoke up then to say, “No commonalities, Sheriff. We don’t have a clue how he’s choosing his victims, how he’s hunting them, or how often he needs to kill. Warning people that a killer is on the loose when you can’t also tell them how to protect themselves is only going to lead to panic.” He shrugged. “Chances are, your people here are already doing what they can. Locking their doors, bringing outside dogs in at night, sleeping with shotguns within reach. They would have started taking steps yesterday morning, when word of the first victim got around. By last night, after we had a second victim, I’m betting the whole town was on alert.”

“True enough.” Duncan looked at him curiously. “You’re from a small town?”

“No. But people are pretty much the same all over.”

Duncan nodded, then said, “Well, since I’m sure I’d only cramp your style by hanging around, I’ll head back to the office.” He held up a hand when Miranda would have spoken, and said with a rueful smile, “No need to be polite about it; we both know it’s the truth. Since the ID on the male victim marks him as an out-of-towner, I’ll have my people ask around, show his mug shot, see if we turn up anybody who saw him. But I’m guessing all we’ll turn up is zip. His body was dumped here, like you figured. Chances are he never walked here on his own two feet.

“As for the female victim, if she turns out to be this Taryn Holder from Knoxville, it would seem like she was dumped here as well. Why here I don’t know, and what that shooter yesterday has to do with either I also don’t know. Honestly, I’m hoping he was just passing through, happened to see what was going on, and got crazy stupid enough to take a couple of shots at cops.”

Quentin murmured, “Could be.”

“Yeah, well. We all know that isn’t likely. But if it turns out that neither of the victims is local, that sniper is pretty much your problem—unless he decides to keep on shooting at people. Especially if he’s your serial killer. We aren’t equipped to even start to hunt for a serial killer, like I told you. But if there’s anything me or my deputies can do for you, let us know. If you need another warm body or two, for research or knocking on doors or filing paperwork, whatever, say the word. Until then, we’ll go about our usual business and try to stay out of your way.”

“Thanks, Des,” Miranda said, matter-of-fact. “We’ll keep you informed of any progress we might make.”

“If it concerns my county and this town, I expect you to,” he said, an unexpected trace of steel entering his drawl. Then he smiled again. “Otherwise, I’m not all that nosy. You don’t have to send these files back; Bobbie made copies for you. Good hunting.”

Quentin gazed after the sheriff for a moment, then said rather absently, “I like him.”

“You like anybody who gets out of your way,” Miranda noted.

“It’s a lot less trouble when they do.” Quentin drew a breath. “Okay, if nobody else will say it, I will. If the sheriff’s industrious young deputy is right about the I.D. of our female victim, we could have another connection to another prior case.”

“You’re stretching, don’t you think?” DeMarco said, but not as if he really believed that.

“Am I? What’s the good of being psychic if we can’t take an unexpected fact and make an intuitive leap or two?”

“Especially,” Miranda said, “when we haven’t caught a single break in this case so far.”

“I’m not arguing,” DeMarco said. “Speculation tends to consist mostly of intuitive leaps, anyway, and we do plenty of speculating.”

Hollis said, “You noticed that, huh?”

“It sort of sticks out.”

When Hollis looked at Miranda with lifted brows, she smiled faintly and said, “It’s his military background. Every ex-military agent we have is the same. Just a little bit uncomfortable with speculation.”

“I didn’t say I was uncomfortable,” DeMarco retorted. “But defining a thing is important, that’s all. And, so far, what we have here is speculation.”

Quentin said, “Okay, then let’s speculate. We know David Vaughan, aka Brian Seymour—look, I’m just going to hyphenate the names for convenience, okay? We know Vaughan-Seymour was involved with the church in North Carolina, definitely on Samuel’s payroll and maybe someone else’s. On our side, of those of us here, Reese, Hollis, and I were active in the investigation. Now we may have a connection between the second victim here and The Lodge, where, a year ago, Diana and I were involved in what became an official investigation of a new murder and a lot of old ones.”

Slowly, Diana said, “That makes you the common denominator, Quentin.”

“So far.” He was looking steadily at Miranda. “But we haven’t tried to tie any of the six previous victims to old cases of ours, have we?”

“No,” she replied. “There was nothing in the profile, no hint we should have been looking for a connection to us or to past cases. So we had no reason at all to go in that direction.”

“I’d say we have a reason now.”

Hollis nodded and said, “Let’s suppose for a minute. Suppose we do find that the other victims can be tied, however tenuously, to previous cases. Not only cases Quentin worked on, but others too. Is that the key here, or at least something we can use to break open this case? Are we looking at a serial killer who just found a nifty new way of choosing his victims? A more than usually twisted version of a copycat?”