Mariah Stewart - Cold Truth

“Cassie, you ever think we were maybe switched at birth?” Lucy grabbed her cousin by the arm and pointed to the mirror that hung above the sink. “You look so much like my mother, and I look so much like yours. You have the light hair, I have the dark.”

“Well, our mothers were sisters, Luce. We do share lots of the same genes.” Cass stared into the mirror. She and Lucy did share a strong resemblance. “But I never realized how much you look like my mom. And how much like Aunt Kimmie I look, now that you mention it. Of course, since we are four months apart, it would have been hard to switch us in the hospital, you know?”

“Seems like the resemblance grows stronger as we get older,” Lucy noted. “Not such a bad thing, though, right? They were both knockouts.”

“They sure were. Last time I saw your mother, she still looked fabulous. I can only dream of looking that good when I’m her age.”

“She takes good care of herself, though I think she gets too much of that Arizona sun. You’ll look great, too, when you’re in your fifties if you take care of your skin. Oh-I have a wonderful little concealer you have to try. It will just wipe away those puffs and lines under your eyes. I’ll just leave it in the bathroom for you to use in the morning.”

“And they say rest is essential, right? Well, I’m all for getting some rest.”

“Okay, then, I’m going to make up my bed and you go right ahead and crawl into yours. I have a feeling you’re going to give that under-eye cream a severe test.”

“Are you sure I can’t give you a hand?”

“Go to bed, Cassie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Cass yawned. “Lucy, I’m glad you’re here. And I’m sorry you’re having problems.”

“I’m glad I’m here, too. And as for my problems, well, a little retail therapy might help. Would you be upset if I did something about that sofa in the living room?”

“Whatever.” Cass laughed and went to bed.

Downstairs, a small notebook in hand, Lucy began to plan the bungalow’s makeover. If she couldn’t be happy, she could at least be busy.

FBI Special Agent Mitchell Peyton only wanted one thing on this Friday afternoon: an uninterrupted ten-minute block of time in which to finish his lunch.

He scowled as the fifth phone call in a row was put through to him. Okay, I’ll settle for five. He counted to ten, put down the sandwich he’d been about to bite into, and tried to talk himself into not picking up the receiver.

He wished he could make himself not answer, just once.

“Peyton.”

“Mitch, it’s John Mancini. Got a minute?” As always, the boss wasted little time with small talk.

“Sure.”

“Come on down, then.”

Mitch hung up and rewrapped his sandwich-his favorite, roast beef and provolone with horseradish on a crusty whole-wheat roll-in the heavy white butcher’s paper Andre’s Deli used for some of its best work. He put Andre’s latest masterpiece back into the bag it had been delivered in, then opened the bottom drawer of his desk. Not that anyone in his office would walk off with someone else’s sandwich, of course.

Yeah, right.

“Bunch of sharks around here,” Mitch muttered, and dropped the sandwich into the open drawer, then took a long drink from the bottle of water that sat open on his desk before setting out for the elevator.

“He’s expecting you. Try not to let him go on for more than eight to ten minutes. He has a meeting with the director at noon,” Eileen Gibson, longtime secretary to John Mancini, said without looking up from her computer when Mitch entered her office. “The coffee’s fresh. I just made it.”

“Thanks, Eileen.” Biting back the urge to refer to her by the name the field agents called her behind her back-the Little General-Mitch paused long enough to pour a cup. He ignored what he knew coffee would do to his near-empty stomach.

He rapped his knuckles on the inner door, then let himself in.

“Be right with you. Have a seat.” With one hand, John motioned vaguely in the direction of the chairs that stood on the opposite side of the desk from where he sat, and with the other, he finished scribbling whatever note he’d been in the midst of making.

Mitch folded his long legs as he sat on the chair closest to the window and sipped at his coffee.

“Nice job you did, wrapping up the Kingsley case, Mitch.”

“Thanks. I had a lot of help on that one.”

“True. Everyone on that team is to be commended. And will be commended, officially. I’ll be seeing to that in about forty minutes. But I do believe it was your investigative-and computer-skills that put the pieces together. Very impressive.”

“Thanks, John.”

“Actually, you did such a good job, and I’m so impressed, I’m going to ask you to look into something else for me.” John Mancini leaned back in his chair. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and his glasses hanging from his shirt pocket, no one would suspect him to be the head of a special investigative unit that operated within the FBI. “You know who Joshua Landry was?”

“Sure. He’s that true crime writer who was killed last year by one of the three murderers who had hooked up in Pennsylvania and switched hit lists. Sort of a Strangers on a Train meets Ted Bundy and friends, if I recall.”

John nodded. “Close enough. The three met by accident in a holding room in the courthouse and had a little too much unsupervised time alone. They seemed to have made some type of deal to kill for one another-each would knock off three people who had at some point in time pissed off one of the others. None of them ever admitted to it, but it was pretty apparent that an agreement had been reached among them. Anyway, Landry crossed paths with one of them some years ago and had apparently made one hell of an impression. Enough so that he was gunned down in his barn one morning last fall. Shame, really. He was not only a good writer, but a smart investigator. He’d have made a hell of an agent, I always thought.”

Mitch sat quietly, waiting to find out what all this had to do with him.

“One of the things that Landry did that set him apart from other writers in the genre was he’d look into open cases, usually older ones, cold ones. If he solved them, he’d write a book about it. More than once, he’d turned over information or evidence to us or to the local law enforcement agency, which helped lead to an arrest and conviction. He was a pretty sharp guy.”

“Sounds like.” Mitch was still wondering.

“I was there the day he was murdered. Spent some time with his daughter-did I mention he had a daughter?” John looked across the desk.

“No, but I know you’re working up to it.”

John laughed. “We’ve worked together too long, Mitch. I got a call from Regan Landry-that’s the daughter-this morning. She’s been going through her father’s files for the past few weeks, organizing things and what all, thinking about selling his house. I’m not surprised. It’s a beautiful spread he had, but Josh was killed there. Guess that spoiled any really good memories she might have had of the place. Anyway, she tells me she’s going through some boxes and found some notes Josh made about the Bayside Strangler. Remember him?”

“I don’t have to remember him. Every time I turn on the news, I hear about another murder that’s being attributed to a copycat Strangler up there in some Jersey resort town. At least, last time I heard, they were still suspecting it was a copycat.”

“Right. That’s the official word. Well, it seems Regan has some correspondence from the real Strangler that was written to her father years ago, as well as some notes that Josh made that Regan isn’t sure how to interpret. She thinks they may somehow relate to the old case. I’d like you to make a trip up there-Landry’s farm is right outside of Princeton -and look over what she’s got. If something Josh had in his files could help ID the original Strangler, who knows? Maybe it could lead to the killer who’s trying to follow in his footsteps.”