Mariah Stewart - Cold Truth

“No offense, but DNA matches won’t help us if we don’t have a suspect.”

“We have the potential for four.”

“How do we quickly cull the herd?”

He smiled. “You sure you’re not from Texas?”

“I had a roommate once who was.” She resumed eating.

“While you were in the shower, I called the boss. He’ll have the sketch artist here by midday tomorrow, so within twenty-four hours we should have a fair idea what this guy looks like. I’m willing to put money that someone will recognize him right away. Denver or Phyl, probably.” He paused, then added, “Maybe even you. But in the meantime, we’ll take a few hours tomorrow to go over what Mitch has compiled, see if anything stands out.”

“I’m betting nothing does.” She shook her head. “That’s the thing about this guy. Nothing about him seems to stand out.”

Two more middle-aged men walked past them and were seated at a table to their left.

“Sooner or later, he’ll give something away.”

“What makes you think so? He’s been at this game for twenty-six years without a slip, Rick. What makes you think he’ll get careless now?”

“Because it’s personal to him now. I don’t think he’s used to failure. And the attack on Lucy ended in failure. No rape. No murder. It’s got to rankle. That makes it personal. And let’s talk about the fact that he’s got to be pretty pissed off at you. You interfered with his plans, not once, but twice.” He watched her face while his words sunk in. When she offered no response, he said, “You know that nine times out of ten a pissed-off killer is a careless killer.”

“We don’t know if he’s failed in the past. We only know about his successes.” She winced at the use of the word.

A gentleman passed and was greeted loudly by the group nearby.

“And that’s what we’ll focus on.” Rick glanced up as laughter erupted from the table where four men now sat. “Sadly, it’s his successes that will lead us to him. We’ll have to try to be patient while we piece the entire picture together.”

She brightened slightly. “Oh. Speaking of which, while I was upstairs changing right before we came down for dinner, Phyl called me.”

“Phil?” He frowned.

“Phyl Lannick. Chief Denver’s assistant. She said she remembered that a woman who lives across the street from her is on the board of the bird sanctuary. She spoke with her when she got home this evening.” Cass speared a slice of carrot with her fork.

“And…?”

“And the neighbor told her that, yes, they did use that hawk stamp on the backs of the hands of all paying customers and volunteers at the all-day fund-raisers or at weekend events. They still use the same motif.” She put her fork down. “And it was her recollection that my mother had submitted the original design for the hawk.”

“She did?”

“That’s how Phyl’s neighbor remembers it.” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Wouldn’t it be odd, if that’s the key to finding this guy? That after all these years, something that came to me through hypnosis, something I don’t even consciously recall, would lead to the man who killed them? Not only my family, but all of these women.”

“And that that something had been first sketched by your mother?” Rick nodded. “I don’t know that I’d find it as odd, as much as fitting.”

She put her fork down.

“Every time I think about what he almost did to Lucy…”

“But he didn’t, Cass. He didn’t because you didn’t let him. You bested him.”

“That time.”

“What do you mean, that-”

“I think I need to turn in now, I’m very tired. Do you mind? Are you finished?” She folded her napkin and set it next to her plate.

“Yes, I’m finished, and no, I don’t mind. But Cass, if you’re thinking you should have been able to save your mother… save your family… save anyone… You can’t possibly think you could have.”

She pushed her chair back without meeting his eyes.

“I think I’ll go on up to the room, if it’s okay. Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.” Without waiting for a protest, she stood, and after removing her handbag from the back of her chair where she’d earlier hung it, she left the room.

Rick signaled for the waitress to bring the check. He hastily wrote in a tip, signed his name and room number, and followed Cass to the lobby, hoping to catch up with her before she barricaded herself in her room, the way he suspected she was going to do.

From his seat, he had a perfect view of her, could at times read her lips. He watched her leave the table and hurry from the room.

Lovers’ quarrel?

No. She and the Fed weren’t lovers. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps in time-there appeared to be a genuine interest there, on both their parts, whether either realized it-but not yet. Too bad they wouldn’t get to explore that.

Well, the Fed would get over her. He’d remember her as a dream tragically unfulfilled, that sort of thing. Despite his rugged appearance, there was a sensitivity about the Fed. It was there in the way he looked at Cass, in the way he watched her face when she spoke. But he’d move on. Everyone moves on.

It was clear something had upset her. Of course, the cause of her disturbance was immaterial to him, and whatever it was would pale in comparison to what he had planned for her. As it was, it was all he could do to keep his mind on the conversation around him. All he could think of was putting his hands around her neck and squeezing until her eyes went blank-and how very good, how very satisfying, it would feel.

He watched the Fed sign the check, watched the waitress turn to walk to the cashier.

“Miss?” He waved her over, beckoned her close, and whispered, forcing her to lean into him slightly. “Bring us a bottle of champagne, would you? And four glasses?”

She smiled and nodded, totally unaware that his gaze had fallen to the check she held casually in one hand.

He couldn’t read the signature, but the name of the Fed was totally unimportant. He’d gotten what he wanted.

Room 212.

The second floor used to be all two- or three-room suites. He wondered if it still was. That would make sense. It was clear to him that she and the Fed weren’t sleeping together, but the Fed was sticking as close as he could. A two-bedroom suite would certainly fit the bill.

A satisfied smile crossed his lips. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d do with the information now that he had it, but he was certain it would come in handy. Perhaps a quick trip to the second floor-merely to get the lay of the land-was in order.

“Excuse me,” he said to his companions. “I’m going to hit the men’s room. Order the bluefish for me if the waitress comes back, would you?”

He strolled through the room, which had filled up considerably since he’d first arrived. He waved at an old acquaintance or two on his way to the lobby. Once there, he entered the empty stairwell and climbed undisturbed to the second floor.

Room 212 was at the very end of the hall. Convenient. But which side of the building was he on? He couldn’t remember. It had been too many years.

He walked to the opposite end of the hall and looked out the window to orient himself. The room overlooked the street.

Not good.

Not insurmountable, but not good.

A glance at the room locks proved encouraging, however. He’d gotten through more challenging locks with his eyes closed.

He whistled all the way to the stairs, and all the way back down to the lobby. He might need to change his plans a little, but so what? Plans should be flexible, right?

One of his companions looked up as he approached the table. “You’re in fine form tonight. You look like the old cat that ate the canary.”