Karen Rose - Count to Ten

Thursday, November 30, 12:30 p.m.

"Beacon Inn, River Forest. This is Kerry. How can I help you?" He kept his back to the pay phone, eyes scanning the street, ready to run. "Hi. Can you connect me with Joseph Dougherty, please?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but the Doughertys checked out yesterday." I kind of figured that out on my own . "Oh dear. I' in calling from Mike Drummond's Used Cars. We heard about the loss of their home and wanted to offer them use of one of our cars until their insurance supplied them with another one. Could I possibly get a forwarding address or telephone number?"

"Let's see…" He heard the clacking of a keyboard. "Here. Mr. Dougherty asked deliveries be forwarded to 993 Harmony Avenue."

"Thank you." He hung up, well-satisfied. He'd head on over there right now to make sure they were there. He wouldn't let them slip through his fingers a third time.

He got back into the car he'd stolen. He was boiling mad on the inside, but freezing on the outside. He'd had to walk out of Hope Center with nothing more than the clothes on his back and the book in which he'd stuffed all his articles. And not a minute too soon. He'd been halfway down the block when a cruiser pulled up to the front gate. Another minute and he'd have been trapped. He'd quickly abandoned that car and stolen another in case they detected his absence right away.

Damn bitch cop. She'd gotten to the print discrepancy sooner than he'd expected. He'd thought he'd have another day at least. Shit . For the time being he'd have to travel light. He'd run back to his house, taking time only to leave a surprise for the lady of the house and to grab his seven remaining eggs. He had to make sure the woman who'd cooked and cleaned for him all these months wouldn't give him up to the cops, because he had big plans for his little bombs. And when everything settled down, he'd go back to the house for the rest of his things. His souvenirs of the life he was leaving behind. Then he'd go on with a new life, all sources of anger eliminated from existence. He'd finally be free.

Thursday, November 30, 2:45 p.m.

"You gonna eat those fries?" Murphy asked and Mia gave him the Styrofoam box.

They were sitting around Spinnelli's table, Reed and Mia, Jack and Westphalen, Murphy and Aidan. Spinnelli paced, his mustache bunched in a scowl.

"So we have no idea where he is?" Spinnelli said for the third time.

"No, Marc," she said, irritated. "The address on his personnel sheet was fake. He told us he had a fiance, but nobody at the school knows her name. He has no credit cards. He's cleaned out his bank account, the address on which is a PO box in the main post office with about a million other people who don't want to be found. We have an APB on his car, but so far it hasn't turned up. So, no. We don't know where he is."

Spinnelli glared. "Don't get sarcastic with me, Mia."

She bristled. "I wouldn't dream of it, Marc."

"What do we know about Devin White?" Westphalen inserted in a way that made Reed think the old man had calmed those two down before.

"He's twenty-three," Reed said. "He taught math at Hope Center starting this past June. Before that he was a student at Drake University in Delaware. According to the resume in his personnel file, his degree is in math education and he played on the school's golf team. The registrar's office at the university confirms he was a student there."

"He had to live somewhere," Spinnelli said. "Where did they mail his checks?"

"Direct deposited," Reed said.

"We lifted prints from the coffee cup in his classroom," Jack said. "They matched the ones I'd been looking for so I didn't bother reprinting the students."

"How did he get through the background check?" Aidan asked.

Jack shrugged. "I talked to the company that does Hope Center's fingerprinting. They swear they printed him and that they uploaded his prints into the system."

"I used to work with ex-cons in a rehab program," Westphalen said. "On drug test days, they'd pay people for their urine. We had to change our system. One of us had to go in the toilet with these guys and watch them give their sample."

Everyone grimaced. "Thank you for that picture, Miles," Spinnelli said dryly.

Westphalen smiled. "My point is, if White didn't want to be in the system, there are ways to avoid it if the security at this printing company was lax enough."

Spinnelli sat down. "How reputable is the company?"

Again Jack shrugged. "It's a private firm. It does employee fingerprinting for a lot of companies in the area. I suppose it's possible White got somebody to take his place, but why would he? His prints aren't in AFIS."

Murphy's mouth bent speculatively. "Maybe he was worried they were."

"He could have been arrested for a misdemeanor," Mia mused. "But he still would have shown up on a records check. Unless… this guy has no credit cards, and all the addresses he's given are fake. He's flying really low under the radar. What if Devin White's a fake?"

"The university confirmed he'd gone there," Reed said. Exhausted, he dragged his palms down his face. "Graduated with honors."

"Yeah, they confirmed Devin White went there." She tilted her head. "Can we get a picture from the university? A yearbook picture or something?"

Aidan stood up. "I'll check. Murphy, you fill them in on what we found."

"We found a neighbor who remembers seeing a guy meeting White's description with Adler last night," Murphy said. "He was helping her up the stairs to her apartment."

"That's consistent with White's story. The bartender says she drank three beers. Her car was still at the bar. We knew that already. What else?" Mia said impatiently.

Murphy shook his head. "Testy today. While we were going door to door, a woman came screaming at us, saying someone had stolen her car. Ten-year-old Honda."

"His getaway car," Reed said.

"But it gets better." Murphy's brows went up. "It had GPS. Installed aftermarket."

Mia sat up. "No way. He probably picked an old car thinking it wouldn't have GPS. So where did you find it?" she demanded.

"Parked in a 7-Eleven lot near Chicago and Wessex."

Reed frowned. "Wait." He pulled the list of White's bank transactions from the pile of paper in front of him. "That's a block from where he wrote some of his checks to 'Cash."

Mia's grin was Cheshire-cat slow. "It's where he lives. The bastard murdered two women then drove to his neighborhood, probably walked home and went to sleep."

Spinnelli stood up. "I'll get uniforms canvassing that area with pictures of White."

"We can go to the press," Westphalen said and Mia gave an exaggerated wince.

"Do we have to?" she whined.

Spinnelli shot her an understanding look. "It's the most direct way."

"Not Wheaton or Carmichael, okay? How about just to Lynn Pope? We like her."

"Sorry, Mia. This one I'd have to give to all the networks. But I'll try to avoid Miss Wheaton." He left to organize the search.

"Damn." Mia turned to Westphalen. "Did you talk to Manny today?"

"I did."

"Thompson went to see Manny last night. Right before he called me. A few hours before he died."

Westphalen took off his glasses and polished them. "That makes sense. He said that his doctor had told him not to talk to anybody. Not to 'cops, lawyers, or shrinks."

"So he didn't talk to you?" Reed asked.

"Not a lot, no. He was genuinely terrified, but not of Thompson. He did tell me that cutting out the articles wasn't his idea. That they were given to him, but he wouldn't say how or by whom. I asked him where he got the matches, and he claimed he didn't take them, that they'd been planted there. When I asked why someone would do that to him, he shut up. Didn't say another word, no matter how I pried."