Tami Hoag - Deeper Than the Dead

“Someone brought those cars out to Sells’s field, through the back gate,” Mendez said, “wiped them down and left them.”

“And then what?” Dixon asked. “Walked back to town? Had an accomplice drive back? Or is Sells the accomplice?”

“You have to take Sells out of the equation with Warwick and Vickers,” Vince said. “He’s not the kind of guy who has a partner. Him doing his own thing, at his own place, disposing of his victim in his own backyard-that I can see. But that kind of murder and Lisa Warwick are two entirely different things.”

“We’ve got two killers,” Dixon said. “Un-fucking-believable.”

He got up to pace. He was in uniform and still looked starched and pressed, despite what the day had already put him through.

“We do everything in our power to keep this out of the media,” he said. “Gordon Sells is in custody. The press can keep their eye on him for now.”

“And you have to hope your UNSUB doesn’t get pissed off by that,” Vince said. “Sells getting credit could push him into something.”

“It’s a no-win situation,” Dixon said. “If we admit there’s still a serial killer out there, he gets his ego fed, then he wants more. He wants more, he does more-right?”

“Probably,” Vince conceded.

Dixon swore under his breath and shook his head. “We’re working three murders and a missing person with at least two different perps in a county that doesn’t see three murders in a year. We’ve got to break this down.

“Trammell and Campbell, check all missing persons reports from a five-county target area then work your way out if you have to. We’ve got to try to put a name to the victim at Sells’s. The Bureau of Forensic Sciences has a forensic artist who can come up with a likeness of the victim from the skull. And put some pressure on the nephew, see if he won’t crack.”

The two detectives grabbed their lunches and headed to their desks to start making phone calls.

“If we take Sells off the board, that leaves us where with Lisa Warwick?” Dixon asked.

“Nowhere,” Mendez said. “But I’m pretty stuck on the idea she was having an affair with Steve Morgan. We asked Peter Crane about it this morning-he and Morgan are buddies-and he about turned himself inside out trying to deny it.”

“I spoke to Morgan this morning,” Vince said. “He’s not interested in owning that. He’s a cool customer. I told him you’ve got semen on Lisa Warwick’s sheets. He said then you’d better test Gordon Sells’s blood type.”

Brow furrowed, Hicks abandoned his sandwich and dug through a stack of papers that had been left on the table over the morning while they were out.

“Here’s why,” he said, holding up a report. “I asked for labs back ASAP on the semen stains. No blood type available. Whoever left that sample for us is a nonsecretor. He wouldn’t be worried we’d match his blood type if he knew his blood-type antigens didn’t carry into his semen.”

“How many people know if they’re secretors or nonsecretors? Most people don’t even know what that means,” Mendez said. “And only twenty percent of the population are nonsecretors. It’s not like he had a fifty-fifty shot at being right. He had to know.”

“Having an affair doesn’t make him a sexually sadistic homicidal maniac,” Dixon said.

“Have you done a thorough background check on him?” Vince asked. “Has he been in any kind of trouble with the law? Where did he come from? What do you know about him? He spends a lot of time with at-risk women. That could make him the Man of the Year, but that same set of circumstances could attract a predator. Has he been involved with other women associated with the center?”

“Jane would never have it,” Dixon said. “If she caught a whiff of impropriety, he would have been out of there. It’s not like the world is short on lawyers.”

“When we asked Dr. Crane if he knew where Karly Vickers was going after her appointment, he suggested she might have stopped by the Quinn, Morgan offices to find out about getting time off to have her dental work done,” Vince said. “Has anybody checked that out?”

“If she left the dentist at five o’clock, the law office was already closed,” Mendez said. “The sign on their door says they close at four thirty.”

“They lock the door at four thirty. That doesn’t mean there might not have been someone still there,” Vince pointed out. “Appointments run late. Lawyers love to rack up those billable hours.”

“Check it out,” Dixon said.

“She probably never made it out of the dentist’s office. Janet Crane probably killed her and ate her,” Mendez said. “That’s the meanest woman alive. I don’t get why he would be married to her. He’s a successful, educated, good-looking guy. Why would he hook up with a ballbuster like that one?”

“Maybe he sees another side of her,” Vince offered. “Or maybe he’s a masochist. Can you picture her wearing leather and spike-heeled boots?”

“If I want to have nightmares.”

“Don’t add another killer to the mix,” Dixon said. “We’ve got enough trouble. If you can’t find anyone at Quinn, Morgan who saw Karly Vickers after her appointment, find out where Peter Crane was.”

“Home with the family,” Mendez said. “That’s his alibi. We’re not going to break that unless someone saw him somewhere else.”

“I’m meeting his wife this afternoon. I’ll see what I can find out,” Vince said, drawing a stunned look from Mendez. “I’m curious. What can I say? And she’s the agent representing the vacant building next to her husband’s office. A great place for a newcomer to start a business-or for a kidnapper to stash a victim while he establishes an alibi. I’ll scout it out for you.”

“I’ve made a call to the Oxnard PD,” Mendez said. “That was where Julie Paulson had her last two arrests for prostitution. They’ll get back to me if they can connect her to any johns who might have gotten caught up in a sweep with her.”

“Steve Morgan spends a lot of time in Sacramento,” Dixon said, grim-faced. “I can reach out to a friend in the PD, see if they’ve had anything going on up there. I hope to God not.”

“If we’re dotting i’s and crossing t ’s,” Mendez said, “Someone has to account for Frank’s whereabouts last Thursday night. Otherwise it’ll look like we gave him a pass.”

“Talk to his wife,” Dixon said, checking his watch. “I told him we have to do this by the book, and no one is more by the book than Frank. He’ll deal with it.”

Famous last words, Mendez would think later. For the moment it was just one more thing on the endless checklist of a murder investigation.

Vince popped a couple of pills and washed them down with a locally bottled orange cream soda. Nice town, he thought again, as he walked down the pedestrian plaza. Nice place to settle-except for the serial killer.

He tossed the soda bottle in a trash can camouflaged with decorative wrought iron, and checked himself in the window of a parked car. In a smart dove gray suit with an orange Italian silk tie, he looked pretty damn good for a guy who had been raised from the dead.

Janet Crane was waiting for him when he arrived at the building next door to her husband’s dental office where a sign on the door declared the office was closed. A HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? poster of Karly Vickers hung below the CLOSED sign.

She was an attractive brunette in her thirties with a head of puffed-up, sprayed stiff black hair, red suit, red heels, and a thousand-watt smile.

“You must be Vince,” she said, shaking his hand. She tilted her head just so and batted the eyelashes. She seemed a little too excited, a little too eager, her grip was a little too strong. “I’m Janet Crane. It’s so nice to meet you, and so nice to be able to show you this fantastic space.”