Cassie Miles - The Girl Who Couldn't Forget

“I won’t object if you arrange for a patrol car to park outside and keep an eye on Franny.”

“Consider it done.”

“I’m going to the cabin. Either I can ride with you or I’ll drive myself.” She took a small key from the rectangular wooden pencil box on her desktop, unlocked the lower right drawer and took out her Glock 42 handgun in its holster. “Your choice, Sloan.”

He approached her desk and stopped when he was close enough to reach out and snatch the weapon from her hand. “Do you have the necessary registration and permits?”

“I take the ownership of a weapon seriously,” she said. “Not only have I gone through the certification and qualified as expert in marksmanship, but I have a shooting range in the basement for target practice.”

His eyebrows lifted, and his gray eyes widened. “In the basement?”

“Soundproofed, of course.” She’d managed to surprise him, and that pleased her.

“You don’t need a gun,” he said. “When we get to the cabin, there’ll be several armed officers.”

“When we get there...” She parroted his words, underlining his implied acceptance. He had almost agreed to bring her along. “I promise that I won’t get in the way.”

“Why does it feel like you tricked me?”

Before he changed his mind, she wanted to get him out the door and into the car. Quickly, she slipped into her espadrilles under the desk. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Leave the weapon here.”

She weighed the alternatives. The gun made her feel safer, but she wanted Sloan on her side. Pushing him too hard might be a mistake. She returned the Glock to her desk drawer, locked it and grabbed her handy-dandy, all-purpose black fanny pack. “Do you have a problem with this?”

“Not if you keep your pepper spray in the holster.”

After he called in a police car to guard the front door and she dashed upstairs to tell Franny to stay put, they were on their way.

* * *

FROM THE STREET in front of Brooke’s house to the cabin was a drive that took seventy minutes, more or less. This afternoon would be more. Traffic snarls, detours and bumper-to-bumper jam-ups slowed their progress. Though impatient, Brooke was grateful for the extra time to figure out exactly what she was doing.

Her first instinct had been to launch herself into the investigation, even though she knew for a fact that impulsive actions were often regrettable. She’d be wise to trust the police and the FBI. After all, it was their job to nab murderers. Sloan would probably be the officer in charge, and he seemed competent.

She studied his profile as he drove. His firm jaw hinted at a determined attitude, and she hoped that trait held true, that he was unstoppable and wouldn’t rest until he caught his man. But she knew better than to count on his physiognomy to understand his character. Hadn’t the notorious serial killer Ted Bundy been an attractive man? She didn’t know Sloan well enough to trust him.

He seemed to be a careful driver but had been talking on his hands-free phone the whole time they were in his SUV. He’d plugged the address for the cabin into his GPS and was relying on the dashboard information for directions rather than asking her. He probably thought he was being efficient. But he wasn’t. If asked, she could have directed him to a shortcut that would have avoided the usual slowdown on Sixth.

Sloan ended his call and looked toward her. “I’ve asked Agent Gimbel to meet us at the cabin.”

“Smart move.” Not only had Agent Gimbel studied their case, but she’d be glad to see him. The older man was a reassuring presence.

“I have one more call.”

“Take your time.”

Brooke would have preferred being in charge. She never enjoyed riding in the passenger seat, but she forced herself to lean back and let the air-conditioning wash over her while she kept her mouth shut. When Sloan took a sharp left turn, she pinched her lips together to keep from blurting out her criticism of his momentarily inattentive driving. She closed her eyes.

Relaxation was impossible. The inside of her head filled with the image of Layla from the computer. Brooke popped her eyes open and blinked hard, hating that high-definition memory. Why can’t I just forget?

Being too smart was a curse. She’d rather be blissfully dumb. But not really. She appreciated her intelligence. The secret was how to use it. Recalling what Sloan had said about details that might be clues, Brooke purposely brought back the vision.

Except for the garish pink lipstick, Layla hadn’t seemed to be wearing much makeup, which was her preference. She seldom bothered with mascara and foundation, preferring a clean face and frequently washed hands. Her personal hygiene habits were even more compulsive than Brooke’s. Had the person who murdered Layla known about that trait? Had he made sure that her hair was freshly washed? Her hands clean? Was he someone who knew her well? Or was he a stalker who had watched her for a long time?

She needed a profile of the killer. Supposedly, that branch of psychology was within the realm of Sloan’s expertise. “We need to get started,” she said, interrupting his phone call.

He excused himself to the person on the phone and looked at her. “Started with what?”

“The profile,” she said. “I want a basis to work from.”

Finally, the SUV hit a path of smooth, unobstructed highway as they approached the foothills. At the end of an arid summer, the vegetation was dull as dirt. He ended his phone call and said, “A profile isn’t guaranteed to be accurate. It provides broad parameters of personality type and behavior.”

“A parameter is just fine. Like I said, I want the profile as a basis—a starting point for the investigation.”

“You can help me.” He shot her a quick glance. “I can’t pull a detailed profile out of my back pocket. I can start with gathering more information about Layla.”

“Like what?” She gestured for him to speed it up. “Ask me questions.”

“From reading Gimbel’s files, I know that she was an orphan with no family ties.”

“Like me.” The demographic was the same. They were both orphans, but Layla’s life was far more complicated. Her parents were both addicts who died together in a car accident when Layla was five or six years old. Brooke had been abandoned at birth—wrapped in a cheap blanket and left outside a fire station. “We both had lousy upbringings but were doing okay until we got kidnapped by a psycho. Move along.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The gentleness of his voice surprised her. She hadn’t expected sympathy or empathy or whatever this was. Her shields went up. “We’re going to be at the cabin in twenty-five minutes or less. What else do you need to know?”

“Tell me about Layla’s social life. Was she a party girl? Did she have a lot of boyfriends or only one special guy?”

“Parties and clubs weren’t her thing. She didn’t drink or do drugs. Two years ago, there was a guy in law school that she got serious about, but nobody recently.”

“Online dating?”

“Never.” Like her, Layla was protective of her privacy. “I don’t understand all these questions about her. Shouldn’t your profile focus on the murderer?”

“The victim comes first. Understanding why the killer attacked her can help in building a profile.” Following the GPS directions, he made a right turn onto a secondary road that went deeper into the pine forests. “It might seem obvious to you that Layla’s murder is tied to the abductions twelve years ago, but the scope of an investigation is widespread. She might have been targeted by someone she knew at school.”

“Then why would they put on that lipstick or the wedding ring?”