Karen Rose - Kill for Me

“Of course,” she murmured. She stood, straightening her shoulders. “Let’s go.”

“Did Garth give you anything?” Chase asked when she was gone.

Luke hesitated. “Nothing on Barbara Jean we didn’t already know except she had a swastika ring that probably branded all the girls in the morgue. Susannah’s is twice as big, though, so there’s still another branding tool out there.”

“What else?” Chase asked shrewdly. “There’s more.”

Luke sighed. “Garth wasn’t involved in Susannah’s assault. He said the same thing you did-that Jared O’Brien would have bragged about it. Apparently Granville had claimed… possession of Susannah. He said she was his and for the others to stay away.” He looked away. “Garth also said there was more between Simon and Carol Vartanian than there should have been.”

“Oh God,” Chase said in disgust. “How’d Susannah and Daniel turn out okay?”

“Must’ve been raised by wolves,” Luke muttered. “They’d have done a better job. But that was mostly it. Garth gave us names of people Bobby lunched with in Atlanta, but they were just her johns. So we’re nowhere closer to finding Bobby. I’m going to go over to Nate’s office to search Mansfield’s hard drives. Maybe Mansfield did get a shot of the man Monica Cassidy heard. Besides, Nate’ll need a break. He had a hard night.”

“I heard he’d found those kids on a podcast. I’m sorry, Luke.”

“Yeah,” Luke said bitterly. “Me, too. But one thing at a time. If you need me, use the land line in The Room. My cell phone doesn’t always pick up in there. And Chase…” Luke shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Yeah, I know. I also know Talia won’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“I know.” He closed his eyes. “I just keep seeing Susannah getting shot out of her chair yesterday. Bobby Davis is still out there.”

Chase’s words were hard, but his voice gentle. “So go do your job and find her.”

Atlanta, Monday, February 5, 11:05 a.m.

I hate this job,” Luke muttered. He’d been staring at the door to The Room, feeling claustrophobic before he even opened the door. The door opened and he jumped back.

A startled Nate stood in the doorway, an empty coffee carafe in one hand. “Don’t do that,” Nate said tightly. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Luke looked at the pot. “How much coffee have you had, man?”

“Too much and not enough. What are you doing here?”

“Mansfield’s hard drives. The Sweetpea files. We’re hoping Mansfield got a picture of the man Monica Cassidy heard with Granville.”

“The mysterious thích . I’ll make a fresh pot.”

Luke hesitated, the pressure on his chest suddenly so heavy it was hard to breathe.

“You won’t find him standing there,” Nate said quietly. “It’ll be easier to breathe once you step inside.”

Luke looked up, met Nate’s weary eyes. “You, too?”

“Every goddamn day.”

And a little more of you dies each day . “Make the coffee strong,” Luke said. He stepped inside and pulled up the Sweetpea files. It was harder than the first time, knowing what he’d find. But he steeled himself against the images of brutality and looked instead for details, backgrounds, shadows, anything that might belong to the occupants of the room there at that damn bunker. Anything except the victims and their suffering.

But he could never see one without the other. That was his problem. It was also, he knew, what made him good at this godforsaken job.

The door opened, closed behind him, and Nate put a mug of steaming coffee on the desk. “What are you looking for, exactly?”

“A man, probably in his sixties. Monica said Granville asked him about how the VC broke its prisoners. Monica said the man slapped Granville for asking.”

“Emotional response. You’re thinking he was a soldier, captured maybe?”

“Maybe. Susannah heard Granville mention him when she was a little girl, so he had to be living around Dutton then. I had stills made from the video of Sheila Cunningham’s funeral. Susannah said the whole town was there.” He spread the pictures out.

“Hell, half the town is over sixty, Luke.”

“Yeah. Looks like anybody with brains got out of Dodge right after high school.”

“Can you blame them?” Luke separated out the photos with older men and pinned them to the board above the monitor. “We could be looking for one of these men. Granville had access to this guy when he was a young teenager. This guy was a religious figure to Granville.”

“The whole Buddhist thing.”

“Yeah.” Luke frowned. “But there isn’t a Buddhist congregation in Dutton. I checked.”

“He didn’t have to be a real cleric,” Nate said.

“He just had to be able to have access to a teenager without it being obvious.”

“Meaning he could be a teacher, a preacher, a doctor… All the usual suspects.”

“All of which have lived there since Susannah was a little girl. I have a list of the town’s residents from when I was looking for men named Bobby on Saturday.” Luke looked over the list he’d studied the night before as Susannah lay sleeping and he could not. “I ran military checks on all the men over fifty.”

Nate looked surprised. “When did you do that?”

“Last night. It was what I was doing when you called to tell me about seeing Becky Snyder’s little sisters on the Net.”

Nate’s eyes shadowed. “Any of those men serve in ’Nam?”

“Not one. If I’d found one, I would have hauled my ass over here last night.” Instead, he’d taken a few hours of comfort in Susannah’s arms, in her willing body. Respite. He’d needed it more than he’d realized.

“Well, your ass is here now, whether it wants to be or not.” Nate pulled up a chair. “Let’s get started. Four eyes are better than two.”

Luke shot him a grateful look. “Thanks.”

Charlotte, North Carolina, Monday, February 5, 11:45 a.m.

Harry Grimes sat next to CSU tech Mandy Penn, staring at the grainy stills taken by the ATM across from Mel’s Diner where Genie Cassidy had been abducted.

“What are you looking for, exactly?” Mandy asked.

“I’m not sure.” Harry leaned forward. “That’s the kidnapper’s Volvo pulling past the camera, into the parking lot. There’s another car. It’s stopping, watching .”

“It’s a Ford Crown Vic,” Mandy said. In the distance, two figures grappled. The smaller figure was dragged to the back of the Volvo. Through each still, the Crown Vic maintained position, and Mandy whistled softly. “You’re right, Harry. He’s watching.”

“Can you zoom on the license plate?”

“I can try.” Mandy zoomed, focused, then sat back, satisfied. “There you go.”

“Excellent.” He squinted at the photo. “Is the guy in the Crown Vic talking on a cell?”

“Looks like. Maybe calling 911?”

“Nobody called 911 from that location. I checked. Can you run an ID on that plate?”

Mandy did, then went still, eyes wide. “He wasn’t calling the cops. He is a cop.”

Harry looked at her screen, stunned. “Paul Houston, Atlanta PD. He just sat there, watching while Genie was snatched.”

“Maybe the car was stolen.”

“I sure hope so. Thanks, Mandy.” Harry started back for his desk. “I owe you one.”

Springdale, Monday, February 5, noon

Talia parked in front of the house belonging to Carl Linton, Marcy Linton’s father. “You ready for this, Susannah?”

Susannah stared at the house. “Darcy told me she’d come from Queens, that her father beat her and her mother. That she’d run away from home.”