Kay Hooper: Touching Evil

Hesitant, the nurse said, "She'll be fine, sir."

"Yes. Thank you, Nurse." He sent a final look at Kendra, then left the room without another word.

He went directly to his rental car in the parking lot near the emergency room and started the engine but didn't move the car. It was a long time before he reached for his cell phone and punched in Bishop's familiar number.

Jennifer poured herself another cup of coffee, afraid to stop and try to figure out how much she'd consumed in the past couple of days. It was barely six A.M. on this cold, dreary Thursday in November, and she had enough caffeine in her system to stay awake until Christmas.

Not that she expected to sleep between now and then anyway.

Scott came into the room, looking as tired as the others but considerably more dusty. "If I never see another file again," he announced, "it'll be too soon."

Jennifer felt a stab of guilt. "I should have been helping you, Scott. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." He grinned. "I'll get even later."

"The question is," Andy said, "did you find anything helpful?"

Triumphant, he said, "I found out what happened in 1894. Well, sort of."

Sitting at the conference table at Kendra's laptop, Quentin looked at him in respect. "How in hell did you do that? The computer databases haven't coughed up a damned thing."

"Punch in Boston," Scott advised.

"Kendra's the expert with this beast," Quentin said as he scowled at the laptop. "But I'll try."

Andy said, "What'd you find out, Scott? And how?"

He grimaced. "How is simple enough. That box of miscellaneous files I've been going through. I found the police report of the seventh victim from 1934." He opened the folder he was carrying and produced a photograph of a young woman with dark, curly hair and striking dark eyes.

It didn't take more than an exchange of glances to confirm that she was completely unfamiliar to all of them.

Andy sighed. "Why did I hope at least one of us might recognize the face of the next possible victim so we could do something about it before he grabs her?"

"Wishful thinking," Jennifer said. "It was always a real long shot, Andy, you know that."

"Yeah." He watched Scott pin the photo on the bulletin board in its proper place in the line of 1934 victims, then said, "But she was killed here, right, in Seattle? So how did you find anything about Boston and 1894?"

"One of the investigating officers in 1934 put a note in the file, apparently out of frustration more than anything else. Said he'd tried everything he could think of to find the bastard killing Seattle's young women, even thoroughly checking out all the family members of the victims despite their lack of motive- because his father, who had also been a cop, had told him about some murders that took place in Boston forty years before, murders that sounded eerily similar to the ones here, at least as far as what was done to the victims."

Quentin frowned at him. "So why did the cop focus on family members?"

"Because in the Boston murders, it was apparently the brother of at least one of the victims who committed the crimes." Scott shrugged. "He was vague on the details, just said these killings were different in some ways but he was desperate, willing to try anything, so he checked out family members."

"And?"

"Well, nothing more in that file. I still have more to look through, and we don't know anything about the eighth victim. Maybe there'll be more info in that folder-assuming I can find it."

Quentin looked at the humming laptop. "It'll take this thing a while to check the historical databases again, even with a specific city and date."

"I'm going to keep looking for the file on the eighth victim," Scott said. "Maybe there'll be more info that might help us."

"Get a shower and breakfast first," Andy told him. "And maybe sleep a couple hours, at least."

"I will if you will," Scott said dryly, and left the conference room before Andy could respond.

With a sigh, Jennifer said, "We're all going on caffeine, adrenaline, and nerves. Much longer, and none of us will be worth a damn." She got up. "I'm going to go see if we have anything useful yet on that company Robson worked for."

Andy's phone rang as she left, and he answered it with a hopeful expression that very quickly turned to grimness as he listened. Finally, he said, "Okay, yeah, tell 'em we're on our way." He cradled the receiver and muttered a curse under his breath.

Quentin lifted a questioning brow. "They found Tara Jameson?"

"No." Andy hesitated, then said, "But they found somebody else, Quentin. At least, it sounds like…"

After a moment, flatly, Quentin said, "Joey."

"Yeah. I'm afraid so."

Quentin didn't say anything during the trip with Andy out to the waterfront location, and after a glance at his face Andy didn't try to open a conversation. He thought fleetingly that the seemingly easygoing, humorous man beside him would be a very, very dangerous enemy, and he was glad they were on the same side. It wasn't the first time he'd thought that.

So he said nothing until he parked the car near a cluster of other police cars not too far from where 1-90 crossed over Lake Washington from Mercer Island. It was a fairly congested area, so it wasn't surprising that the body had been discovered so early by an unlucky jogger.

Andy said, "Given the tides, there's no telling where he was dumped into the water. The southern end of Lake Washington, probably, but that covers a lot of territory."

Quentin nodded but said nothing as they approached the taped-off area near the water's edge.

Andy stopped to talk to the detective in charge, but Quentin went on until he could look down on the body sprawled on the rocks half in and half out of the water. Faceup.

Cause of death was obvious. There was a gunshot wound to the center of the chest and another between the eyes. Quentin didn't have to hear the medical examiner explain it to know that the first shot had been to the chest-and had failed to stop Joey. Quentin hadn't known many men capable of withstanding what should have been a mortal injury, but he had no doubt it hadn't stopped Joey. It had taken a second bullet to do that.

'Ah, Joey," he murmured.

Andy joined him. "He had your card, which is why they called me." He shrugged when Quentin looked at him. "Word's got around already that the Bureau is helping out on the rapist investigation, so they knew who to call."

"How long's he been dead?" Quentin asked matter-of-factly.

"Preliminary estimate is eight to ten hours, give or take a couple. Some time last night."

Quentin turned his gaze to the lake before them, frowning. "So it didn't take him long to find whatever he found. Maybe he was near the water when he was shot, and maybe not."

"Yeah. Doesn't narrow the possibilities much."

"Not unless we can place an old black Caddie fairly close to the waterfront."

"You think he found it?"

"Don't you?"

Andy grimaced. "I think it'd be stretching coincidence too far to think somebody uninvolved killed him right after he started looking for the Caddie."

"Agreed." Quentin's mouth was a thin, grim line. "So let's find that goddamned car."

Jennifer met them back in the conference room, still obviously wired with caffeine, and announced, "Maggie just called; she and John are on their way in. And the computer's sifted through the information on that electronics company, but so far nothing. No name matches up to any on our list of family, friends, or acquaintances of the victims. Now I'm going over the list myself. I don't trust these damned machines."

The damned machine on the conference table beeped just then, and Quentin went to study the laptop's screen. "Okay, we have a couple of very brief articles from a Boston newspaper, 1894. A man named Robert Graham is suspected of murdering his entire family." He looked up suddenly. "Seven sisters. And his own wife."