The Numbers Killer Page 11

  She followed the footprints around the side of her house and toward the front of the property. Broken branches and trampled bushes indicated where the night time visitor had climbed the tall fence. Victoria straightened, rubbed her chin, and thought. She wasn’t being paranoid if the threat was real. But how concerned should she be? She walked the perimeter of her home. No one had attempted to enter. Someone would be foolish to try and break into her home alone—yet she only saw one set of prints. The intruder might have been nothing more than a teenager on a dare. Egged on by her friends, hadn’t she once been dared to scale the neighbor’s brick wall and swim a lap in their pool when she was younger? Her soaked hair and clothes had provided the proof of her daredevil behavior. That might be all it was, except . . . there was the concerning issue of the security feeds.

  Unwilling to climb through the bushes and jump the fence, Victoria jogged to the entrance to see if she could pick up the trail on the other side. Steps away from the gate, she spotted something small and white standing out against the black iron.

  Careful not to ruin any fingerprints, she unfurled a wet slip of paper from around the bars and opened it like it was an ancient, fragile manuscript. Diluted purple splotches of ink smudged the paper. She squinted to decipher all the letters.

  Without trust, you have nothing. Do you trust Rivera, and can he trust you?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Driving to the office, Victoria pressed the phone to her ear as she pulled onto the interstate. She’d barely said hello before she yawned.

  Rivera chuckled. “Late night?”

  “Sorry. I sent you the summary notes I took after making calls and reviewing the research we got from local detectives.”

  “I looked everything over. Sent back my thoughts. Not much for us to go on.”

  “Nope. Not yet.”

  For a few miles, they brainstormed ideas about the murders, discussing the profile of whoever was responsible.

  Victoria yawned again, although this time it might have been a nervous reaction rather than from her lack of sleep. She took a deep breath. “I had an unexpected visitor last night.”

  “A visitor?”

  She told him what she’d found, including the note.

  “Wait. You let me drone on and on about our case homework and then decided to drop that little bomb on me? What the hell?”

  “Guess I was still processing the information.” She turned down the heat because the warmth was making her sleepy.

  “Any idea what the note means?”

  “Nope. I was hoping you might.”

  He huffed. “Do you have it to give to the techs?”

  “Yes. It was wet, not sure about prints, but they can at least compare the writing and the paper with the other one. I’ll bring it to the lab as soon as I get there. You know, I think this focus on me could be the killer’s weakness. It might be how we put an end to this.”

  Rivera grunted.

  “Listen . . . don’t tell Murphy. Let me tell him.”

  “Sure. But tell him right away.” Rivera ended the call.

  Victoria scanned her ID card and entered the FBI building just in time for Murphy’s update meeting. Rivera was already seated at the table in the windowless conference room. His fingers tapped the table like he was playing the base notes of a piano piece. He clasped his hands together and studied Victoria as she took the adjacent seat, leaning toward him. “I dropped off the note. They’ll analyze it to death for us—including the handwriting—but with the lighter staff on Sunday, results will be delayed.”

  Rivera nodded. He followed Victoria’s gaze to the wall. Pictures from yesterday’s crime scenes were displayed on a white board: a gruesome close-up of Todd Meiser’s bloody face was taped above a wide view of the Cossmans lying across the hiking trail. Normally there might have been lines, some solid, some dotted, drawn between the images to illustrate the connections. There were none.

  Murphy entered. “All right, I’m here.” He slapped Rivera on the shoulder as he passed behind him. Before taking a seat, he dropped his notepad on the table and plunked his insulated thermos down beside it. “Let’s get to it. Here’s what I know. We now have two major crimes in the course of twenty-four hours and a media frenzy brewing. The media sure does love themselves a serial killer.” He clutched his thermos. “Meiser’s death might come with an explanation, one that ushers a boatload of blowback for us—should have been under protection, blah, blah, blah—you all know I wanted them protected. The Cossmans’ deaths—well, until we have an explanation, their deaths came straight out of nowhere. More frightening for the public. More blowback for us. So let’s put their fears to rest . . . what do you have? Thoughts? Leads?”

  Victoria and Rivera exchanged brief glances. She knew what he was reminding her to do, but she managed to ignore the frown on his face. “How was your son’s chorus concert?”

  “Fine.” Murphy grunted.

  “Good. Glad you were able to make it. Well, it’ll be easier to figure out the who, after we know the why. So we’re focusing on what connected the Cossmans to the Butler trial. We’re also looking for any reason someone might want them dead.”

  Murphy took a swig from his thermos and wiped his hand over his chin. “Obviously.”

  “So far, we’re not seeing that connection. No one Rivera or I spoke with could give us a reason someone might want the Cossmans dead, nor could we connect them to the Butlers, or Meiser. They don’t appear to have posed any threats or crossed anyone.”

  Repetitive thoughts raced through Victoria’s head. What did the victims have in common? What have we missed? And why the notes for me?

  Murphy stared at Rivera. “Anything to add to that bunch of nothing?”

  Rivera coughed, giving Victoria a side long glance.

  Murphy wasn’t looking at her. In a plea for Rivera to give her just a few more minutes, she held one finger up just above the table.

  Rivera noticed and gave the slightest shake of his head before answering Murphy’s questions. “Sam gave us their credit card receipts from the past two days, since they arrived in town. Nothing we found puts Meiser and the Cossmans anywhere near each other.”

  Victoria pointed to the white board. “So, if we’re staying open-minded here—the crimes show almost no passion, no excessive violence—the victims weren’t tortured, their deaths appear to have been instant. Yet the murders don’t appear well planned or connected in any way aside from the numbers on their heads.”

  “If that information was leaked, someone else could have copied it,” Rivera said. “We asked to keep a lid on those details, but the neighbor who found Meiser saw it, so did the officers and the techs. At the Cossman crime scene we had police, the sheriff, the hiker, techs. . . any of them or all of them could have mentioned it to someone.”

  “And the note left for you at the Cossman murder scene—” Murphy narrowed his eyes at Victoria. “That suggests some pre-planning. It also suggests the killer is messing with us or has some sort of fixation on you.”

  “Well . . .” Victoria grasped her necklace. “There is something else. Someone left a note on my property last night. I think—"

  Murphy plunked his forearms on the table and leaned toward her. “What do you mean, a note? What did it say?”

  Victoria told him.

  “Seriously, Heslin? That should have been the first thing you told me.” He scowled at Rivera. “Did you know about this?”

  Victoria answered, not wanting Rivera to be in trouble for keeping quiet about it like she’d asked him to do. “We don’t know that it’s related to the other crime scenes.”

  Murphy sighed heavily and sat up straight in his chair. “Let me know if forensics matches it to the others. If so—well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Victoria let out the breath she’d been holding and smiled inside, relieved she was still on the case. She wanted nothing more than to catch whoever killed Meiser and the Cossmans.

  Murphy’
s phone lit up on the table. He ignored it and took another gulp from his thermos. “What about the Cossmans’ hotel? Did you or the cops find anything there?”

  “Nothing with the staff,” Victoria said. “They all had alibis.”

  “The police have spoken to every person who stayed at the hotel in the past week. They made up an excuse about lost and found items, they didn’t want to cause a panic, but wanted to make sure they were all alive and well. We have three guests we still haven’t spoken with. Jim Johnson—might be a fake name. Paid with cash.” Rivera glanced at his notes and smirked. “Jason Bourne also paid in cash. And one guest was using a stolen credit card.”

  Murphy plunked his elbows on the table, rested his chin in his clasped hands. “The one using the stolen card. Tell me about him. Or her.”

  Rivera flipped a page in his notebook. “He was in room 332. When I called Thomas Wilson, the person whose credit card was used for the stay, I got an elderly man in San Francisco. Mr. Wilson hasn’t left the Bay Area in years. Whoever was staying in room 332 had opened a new credit card in Thomas Wilson’s name. He had the room reserved for three days, but one of the cleaning attendants reported that the bed hadn’t been slept in after the first night, and his belongings were gone.

  “So we don’t know the criminal’s real name or what happened to him?”

  “Correct.” Rivera tapped his fingers over his notepad.

  “At least we haven’t found his body yet. Prints?”

  Rivera shook his head. “The woman who cleaned the room found empty beer cans, but she threw them out and they’re long gone. We dusted the door handles, the remotes, and the phone. But it’s a hotel room, there are too many. Didn’t want to drag the lab down this alley when we don’t have anything to connect him to the murders, and as far as we know, he left before Meiser was killed.”

  Murphy grunted. “See if the card was used anywhere after he left.”

  “We did.” Rivera flipped his notepad closed. “It wasn’t.”

  “Keep the account open and put a trace on it so we know if it gets used again.” Murphy grabbed his belongings and stood up. “Well, get back to it. Let’s hope we get some leads today, from somewhere.”

  Victoria left the meeting room and walked straight to her office. Cloudy morning light filtered in from a small window above her head. She opened her laptop and checked on her house. All the video feeds were working. On one screen, Izzy wandered through the kitchen, staring up at the countertops and sniffing here and there. One of her favorite things to do was to leap on top of them and search for errant crumbs. No doubt she’d try it soon enough. Ned might even find her there when he arrived in a few hours. The other cameras showed the rest of the dogs were fast asleep.

  Victoria had to find out what happened to cause the temporary glitch in her video cameras, but for now, the murder cases came first, until a glance at her phone showed her father had left a message. If he needed something from her, she’d better find out what it was, or he’d be calling back soon. Her father was a wonderful man, but he had no practice with being ignored. She pressed the play button and raised her phone to her ear.

  “Tori, darling. Hope you are well today. My attorney called. A sizable amount of money left your trust. Two hundred thousand dollars. You know I trust you, but Fenton just wants to make sure you aren’t in any . . . trouble. Just call me. Love you.”

  Victoria deleted the message and set down her phone. Make sure she wasn’t in trouble? What on earth did Fenton imagine she did with the money? She rolled her eyes. Fenton was supposed to be her attorney as well. He should call her directly if he had concerns. Although, she didn’t want to explain every dollar she spent, nor should she have to. She had good reason to keep her transactions secret and anonymous. She didn’t want the publicity, and with her career, she couldn’t have it. Federal agents were supposed to live quiet, private lives. The public didn’t need to know she existed.

  Rivera popped his head in the opening of her door. “You okay, Tori?”

  She turned her chair to face him and offered a slight smile. “Absolutely.”

  He handed her a coffee.

  She peered into the paper cup. “Do I want to drink this?”

  “It’s fresh. I just made it.”

  “Thanks.” She took the cup and wrapped both hands around it, letting the warmth seep through her skin. “I know I must look a little rough around the edges. Not much sleep last night. But I’m fine.”

  “If you’re worried about—"

  “Good, you’re both here.” Murphy burst into Victoria’s office, hitching up his pants. Victoria quickly scooted her chair out of reach to avoid a slap on her back or shoulder. Murphy didn’t discriminate, every shoulder apparently beckoned to him. At least it was shoulders and not rear ends, or he’d be facing more charges of harassments than he could count.

  Murphy directed his gaze at the top of her head. “Heslin, do you color your hair to make it blonde like that?”

  “Uh, no. I’ve never colored my hair. This is the hair I was born with. Why?”

  “I just called down to forensics. Their report isn’t ready, but they gave me something. There were long blonde hairs on that silk scarf from Meiser’s house. Techs thought they could be yours and wanted a sample.”

  “I don’t see how—”

  “Relax. They’re not yours. And I told them you weren’t that sloppy. The hairs they found were brown hair dyed blonde.”

  Victoria met Rivera’s gaze. “We need to identify the prostitute Meiser was with and see what color hair she had.”

  “Or if Meiser had a lover who found out he was with a prostitute.” Murphy wagged a finger. “He could have taken the girlfriend to a real nice dinner for the same amount of money he paid the hooker.”

  Rivera wrapped both hands around his mug. “You think the hypothetical girlfriend got that mad?”

  “When it comes to a woman scorned, there are no limits.” Murphy slapped Rivera on the shoulder before walking out.

  Victoria called after him. “So, you’re willing to consider that Meiser’s death might not be related to the Butler trial?”

  Murphy yelled back from the hallway. “Of course. I’m willing to consider his Grandma did it, but it’s not likely.”

  Victoria swiveled her chair back to face the center of her desk. “Between the small footprints and the long blonde hairs, there’s a woman involved. But there’s no good reason for a scorned girlfriend to then become a serial killer.”

  The agents’ phones beeped at the same time. Victoria read the message. “Okay. Ballistics just confirmed the bullets matched. The same gun killed Meiser and the Cossmans. So that’s good. Finally a connection besides the numbers. At least we know for sure they’re connected.”

  “Same hit man, different client?”

  Victoria shrugged. “I really don’t see any evidence that either was a professional hit. Even though I know it’s the best and only motive we’ve got so far with Meiser.” She took a sip of her coffee and flinched. It was a far cry from a spiced pumpkin latte, but she took another sip because she didn’t want to make Rivera feel bad. She swallowed the second bitter gulp and stared at her notes.

  A day later, and the same two questions remained. How were the crimes connected? Why would anyone want to kill the Cossmans?

  Chapter Eighteen

  After tapping around on the top of the bedside table, Beth sat up and found her phone. She jammed her finger on the button to stop her alarm. Running her hand through her matted hair, she stared blankly at the wall. Her eyes drooped closed. She clutched a pillow, plopped back against the mattress, and rolled onto her stomach. She should get up, but she didn’t want to. Need more sleep. Her body ached. The bed was comfortable, the pillows decent. Just a few more minutes . . .

  “Get out of bed, lazy ass,” grunted Danny. “You’ve got to get the Smiths before they’re out of here.”

  Danny was right. Jason and Kelly got lucky yesterday when the cop showed up. But toda
y would be their last day flitting around town being all sweet to each other like it was their honeymoon. It had to be. Because I’m not going to jail. Please, God, don’t let them have called the police already. She rarely prayed, only when she was in dire danger of being caught for something. Now was as good a time as any.

  She pushed herself out of bed and trudged into the bathroom. She rubbed her eyes and frowned at her puffy face, her flattened hair, and the dirt caked under her fingernails. She stripped and turned on the shower. The water helped soothe her soreness. Jumping through the bushes and over Agent Heslin’s fence had not been one of her better ideas.

  Alone in the room while getting dressed—just like Danny to go down to breakfast without me—she turned on the television. In no time at all, she’d found a news update about what she did. Her face lit up as she turned up the volume. The brawny guy, he must be the boss of the other agents, gave a statement about Todd Meiser’s death and what it meant for the Butler case. The Butlers again! Those freeloaders sure were getting a lot of attention for what Beth had done.

  During the commercial, she rifled through the clothes in her suitcase and pulled out wrinkled black pants and a white blouse, the most business-looking outfit she owned. She purchased them just in case she needed to pretend to be someone sort of professional for one of Danny’s business schemes. The pants were a bit tight around her thighs and the shirt poked her underarms, but it made her feel official. Confident. Powerful. Like someone deserving of respect. When packing, she’d envisioned completing the outfit with her black, floral scarf—no longer an option thanks to Meiser—and going somewhere kind of nice. She and Danny were on vacation, after all.

  Just over a week ago, he had plopped down on their couch, opened a beer and said, “Next week is our three-year anniversary.”

  “It is?” She knew their anniversary date, but she had a hard time believing he had remembered.

  “We should celebrate. Let’s get away for a few days.”