The Numbers Killer Page 19

  Betty stared, covering her mouth with her hand. “I recognize some of them as the people who were killed.”

  Rivera saw the fear in her eyes. The hotel’s guests were more at risk than the witnesses for the Butler case. The police should be guarding them instead. But none of the victims had been killed at the hotel. Should the hotel close until the killer was apprehended? The media didn’t know about the connection yet, but surely once the word spread about the victims’ sole connection, everyone would flee and cancel reservations as quickly as they could. Once word got out, the hotel wouldn’t be able to give rooms away. “Can you get me the names of everyone staying here for the past four days, with their room numbers?”

  “Yes. We’ve already done that for the FBI and the police, like five . . .”

  “I’d like to see it again.”

  “It will just take a few minutes.” Alex shook the mouse on a nearby computer and woke it up.

  Rivera left the office and walked to the far corner of the lobby where he had a view of the entire space. He called Victoria. There was no answer.

  Alex returned and presented Rivera with several printed pages. The agent set them down on a coffee table. He jotted down the names and room numbers of the victims in order of their deaths. He also wrote down the Smiths’ names, since it was possible, even likely, they had twice been targeted and followed.

  Meiser, aka Jason Bourne: room 267.

  Cossmans: room 383.

  Gomez, aka Jim Johnson: room 145.

  Horrigan: room 125.

  Smiths: room 123.

  And the still missing Thomas Wilson: room 332.

  The hotel employees hovered nearby, ready for another request. Rivera stared at the information and rubbed his chin. The victims’ rooms weren’t in consecutive order, nor were they even on the same floor. He handed Betty his list. “I’ll need access to these six rooms.”

  “Sure. Just . . . I’ll be right back.” She pivoted around and returned to the office.

  Five minutes later, carrying room keys in six different labeled sleeves, Rivera headed to the room occupied by the Smiths. It had already been cleaned and made ready for the next occupants. He didn’t expect to find anything there, but he slipped on gloves and searched every corner, shelf, and drawer for possible answers. His eyes traveled the room one last time searching for anything that didn’t belong. He moved the drapes aside and peered out the window into the dark woods. Beyond a large berm, twisted branches bent and straightened in the wind.

  A glance at the bedside table clock told him Victoria should have made it to her house by now.

  He walked down the hall, poked through Horrigan’s belongings, and found nothing of interest. He took the stairs to the second floor and the room Meiser and Olivia had used. The room had already been cleaned, occupied, and cleaned again. But in room 225, Gomez’s belongings were still inside. Again, nothing in the room struck Rivera as significant.

  On the third floor, in room 383, the Cossmans’ stuff had been cleared away since his last visit with Victoria. By request of the authorities, the hotel had been told not to give the room to any new customers yet. Rivera took another quick look. He didn’t expect to spot anything new, and he was right.

  Thomas Wilson’s room, 332, had also been cleaned before the hotel had been instructed to leave it as is.

  Except for room 332, each of the other rooms shared the same layout and the same view on one side of the building. The only other common thread between all was being in close proximity to each other between three floors of the Sonesta Hotel last Friday night. The same night Olivia saw the mystery couple fighting.

  What are we missing?

  Rivera parted the curtains and stared outside toward the woods again. Nice enough as a backdrop, if you didn’t look too closely. Not a forest exactly, but enough trees for teens to hide in and guzzle beers. A place to toss trash into for those too lazy to make the trek to the dumpster. Big enough for small creatures, the ones who occasionally ventured out onto the highway for an unplanned game of Russian roulette. From his current angle, he spotted the start of a narrow trail, snaking haphazardly through overhanging limbs.

  Removing his gloves, he checked his phone again for a message from Victoria. Doing something was better than doing nothing.

  He walked down to the first floor and left the hotel through the backdoor. Outside, a dampness hung heavy in the cold air, descending with the gloom as if it meant to creep into every corner, every crevice. He crossed the parking lot and stopped somewhere between the building and the edge of the woods. Looking back at the hotel, he scanned the roof and the exterior walls. He located the rooms he’d just explored by their dark, unlit windows. Had all the victims seen something behind the hotel that put them in danger? After a few seconds of staring, he pivoted to face the woods. He’d have a quick check, and if Victoria still hadn’t called him back, he was heading to her house.

  Intermittent gusts of wind cut through his sports coat. A faint, unpleasant smell wafted from somewhere close by. A dead squirrel maybe—the little creatures didn’t only die on the highway. He rubbed his neck. Something about the woods bothered him.

  He scanned the edge, where the woods met the patchy grass, found the trail opening, and headed in. Tall, wet weeds slid against his pants. With each step deeper into the canopy of tangled trees and fallen branches, the smell grew stronger and more repulsive. Surprising that the hotel staff hadn’t received a request to do something about it yet. Or maybe they had.

  The swishing of sodden, fallen leaves accompanied his steps. It took stumbling over a bumpy root for him to get with it and turn on his phone’s flashlight. Broken foliage indicated someone or something else much larger than a raccoon or possum had been through recently. His heart beat faster as he stepped slowly, alert for anything unusual.

  The electric whoosh and the clickety-clack of an approaching train cut through the silence. The horn blasted, the noise steadily building to a roaring crescendo. Olivia’s claim that the train blocked out all other noise rang true. He took another step forward. A metal can crunched under his foot. A few more yards ahead, a piece of white fabric floated above the ground, glowing like a ghostly apparition in the small circle of light emanating from his phone. Rivera peered toward the fabric. The smell was strong. A few steps closer and the outline of a torso became visible under the white fabric. A man with pale bloated skin and dark hair lay face up. A single word covered his forehead. Not written in black ink, but in deep pink strokes of color. Lipstick.

  Rivera edged closer, struggling to decipher the letters. B. E. T. R. He couldn’t make out the rest. He looked away, cleared his head of assumptions, and tried again.

  Betrayer.

  He’d found victim number one.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The time for medical attention had long passed. The man had been dead for several days. If the smell wasn’t enough of a giveaway, the damage from scavengers—tiny missing chunks of flesh—made it certain. Rivera pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and crouched down, disturbing as little as possible around him. The man had been shot at least twice. Black stains circled his collar bone, stomach area, and the grass and leaves around him. He had died right there in the woods. Rivera put the gloves on and searched the dead man’s pockets for identification. He found a wallet with a license inside. The name on it meant nothing to him.

  The train had passed, but the wind was starting to howl. He called the medical examiner’s office and Rebecca answered.

  “It’s Rivera. I found another gunshot victim.”

  “Hello, Rivera. Where did you find him?”

  “Sonesta Hotel. Can you come out?” He put Rebecca on speaker and moved his flashlight beam slowly over the ground, looking for shell casings or other evidence.

  “It just so happens that I can, for you. I can be there almost immediately.” The sound of movement and metal clinking came through the phone, like Rebecca was putting away her tools.

  “You kno
w where it is?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. Drive around the back. Look for the dumpster. I’ll meet you there.” He glanced at the time and at his messages. Still no word from Victoria.

  “Hold tight. I just have to clean up here and grab my bag. Then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Not sure what you’ll find. He’s been there awhile and with the rain . . . It’s starting again now. Sounds like a storm coming.”

  “Whatever there is to see, I’ll do my best with it. I’m also good at my job.” She chuckled. “I’ll call Forensics on my way.”

  “Thanks, Rebecca.”

  The rain was just a cold drizzle, but the wind was cold and biting when Rivera called Murphy to give him an update.

  Murphy huffed into the phone. “Why the hell didn’t anyone find that body before?”

  “Don’t know, boss.”

  “I can’t come out there. I’m up to my neck in this other thing. I’ll call the Chief of Police, so he doesn’t feel left out. Glad Rebecca and forensics will get there first.”

  On the verge of shivering, Rivera called Victoria next. Still no answer. She’d always answered his calls before, no matter what she was doing, even when she was out walking her dogs. Once she’d even picked up in the middle of taking a shower. He left a message asking her to call him immediately and told her he had found another body. Victim number one. He bit into his lower lip, his concern for Victoria escalating; his bad feeling about her situation growing worse. He had to wait for Rebecca to arrive. But then he was getting in his car and driving straight to Victoria’s house.

  His call to Sam went to voicemail. He left a message with the victim’s name. “I’m going to text you an image of his license. Tell me anything you can about him.” He ended the call and sent Sully a text, then read case updates in his email until the ME’s familiar white van appeared. The drizzle changed into a light but steady shower as a young man stepped down from the driver’s side and Rebecca emerged on the passenger side.

  “Over here.” Rivera waved from the edge of the woods. He was pleased Rebecca brought someone with her. He didn’t intend to wait until she was finished, but also wouldn’t have felt right about leaving her alone.

  “What have we got?” Rebecca carried a bag of data collection tools. Her assistant walked behind her carrying an umbrella and lighting equipment.

  Rivera wiped water from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Hey, Rebecca. Hi—”

  “Eric. I’m an assistant. Just started last week.”

  “Hi, Eric. You got here fast.” Rivera walked toward the path. “The vic is back here. He’s been dead a few days.”

  “We hustled to get here before the rest of the cavalry arrives and tramples the scene. You think this one is also a victim of the Numbers Killer?” Rebecca asked.

  “I’m sure.” Rivera lifted a branch to avoid getting hit in the face.

  “I hope he’s the key to stopping the killer.” Rebecca ducked under the branch.

  “So do I.” Rivera led the way to the body, staying off the path and walking right through the brush to preserve evidence. “There he is.”

  Rebecca followed Rivera’s gaze to the corpse. “I smell him already. He’s dead. You got that part right.”

  Eric set up the lights while Rebecca removed items from her bag. “You need a hat to keep the rain out of your eyes,” Rebecca said, talking to Rivera but studying the scene before her. “I’ve got an extra one in the van you can have.”

  “I can’t stay.” Rivera glanced over his shoulder toward the parking lot. “Unless you need me for something specific.”

  Rebecca chuckled. “Nothing I need you for here.” She glanced at him sideways. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” Rivera rocked back on his heels. “I’ve got to go check on . . . a situation. I’ll call and either meet you back here or at your office.”

  “Okay. No problem. Forensics is on their way. I’ll give you a personal update as soon as I’m done. And good luck with your situation.”

  Rivera raced through the rain to his car, threw open the door, and sped out of the hotel parking lot with the rain battering his roof.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  For the last few miles to Agent Heslin’s house, Beth drove her rental behind a small red car. Large magnets advertising Farm Fresh Meals decorated the back and sides. The car’s brake lights came on as it approached the large iron gates. It stopped in Agent Heslin’s driveway. Beth pulled up alongside it, hopped out of her sedan, and walked up to the driver’s window. “Hi. You’re delivering?”

  “Yes.” The woman smiled sheepishly. “A little late. I got behind.”

  “I’ll take that for you. I’m a friend of Agent—a friend of Victoria’s. I’m going up to the house.”

  “Oh, okay. Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” Beth forced a smile.

  “All right. That will help. I’ll get the bag.” She removed it from the trunk. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Beth maintained her fake smile. Now drive away.

  She returned to her rental and waved the other woman away. Once the red car had disappeared down the road, she drove past the entrance and parked around a bend on the side of the road, where the car wouldn’t be seen by anyone entering at the front gate. She dropped her gun in the delivery bag, hustled back to the gate, and pressed the buttons to announce her presence. “Hi. I have the—” Oh crap. What is it called? She glanced down at the bag. “The Farm Fresh Meals delivery for Victoria Heslin.”

  “Kristen?” said a deep, masculine voice. Figured Mr. Sexier would sound like that.

  “No. Kristen is sick today. This is Beth. Are you going to open the gate? Food is getting cold.” Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve . . .

  “The food is supposed to be cold.”

  “Oh. Fine. No one told me what’s inside.” Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen . . . “I have other deliveries to make.” She swallowed hard, her mouth dry.

  The gate inched open, swinging in a slow arc across the fancy pavers. Yes! I’m in! Beth hurried forward carrying the bag. She didn’t know where the delivery people usually took the bag of food and she didn’t care. Somehow, she would get past the guard dogs. Perhaps Mr. Sexier really had killed them today and she had nothing to worry about. Although what would that make him? Someone to watch out for, at the least. She walked around to the shadowy area at the back of the house. She’d just set foot on the edge of the stone patio when the dogs came rushing out, barking.

  “Damn! No! Stay back! Bad dogs!” With her heart pounding and fear threatening to paralyze her muscles, she grabbed her gun from the bag. She violently shook the bag upside down, dumping its contents to the ground. Kicking at one of the boxes, she sent it flying up into the air, scattering roasted vegetables around the patio.

  The dogs immediately forgot about her. They scarfed up the food like live vacuum cleaners. All except for the two smaller mutts who didn’t really fit in with the others. Something about them was familiar. They stood together, away from the rest of the pack, barking, and snarling at Beth like they had their own set of rules.

  Sweating and breathing hard, Beth yanked the tops off two other boxes of food and tossed their contents away from the house. The dogs scrambled after it.

  With her gun cocked in front of her chest, and not taking her eyes off the animals, she hurried away. Grabbing the back door—please be unlocked!—she swung it silently open, jumped inside, and pulled it shut behind her. She slumped her back against the tall windows. On the other side of the glass, the dogs were eating and sniffing their noses over the ground. She sighed with relief. They were out and she was in.

  She took a few quiet steps across the floor. Nothing creaked or groaned. Of course it didn’t. Everything in the fancy house looked perfect, but not that it mattered, the dogs had already made enough of a racket. She stopped in the kitchen to admire the room, her mouth hanging open. The space was big and open but warm
and inviting at the same time. Beautiful wood floors gleamed, and stately marble covered the counters. The high-tech stainless appliances—a computer in the fridge?— looked like something from a future decade. The tiny video feed images hadn’t done it justice. Did it get any better than this? Actually—yeah- same set up but without the faint, lingering smell of dogs. Still - just wow! And if what Beth suspected was true, Agent Heslin didn’t deserve to live there.

  A framed picture hung on the wall—the same family Beth saw online. Except in this photo, they were relaxed and laughing instead of formal and posed. She was reaching to touch it when an angry voice blasted through the silence from behind her.

  “Who are you?”

  She jerked around to see Mr. Sexier, a towering presence with his arms crossed.

  She lifted her gun, aiming it at his chest. His eyes grew wide. He took several steps back.

  Beth swallowed and cleared her throat with a sharp cough. “Listen, Mr. Sexier, I’ve killed people, and I won’t hesitate to do it again. Do what I say, and don’t you dare try to trick me.”

  “Ahh, yes ma’am. What is it you want?”

  “Ma’am? What the—? I’m not an old lady!” She forced her anger out through her stare.

  “I know.” He opened his palms toward the ceiling. “I was just being polite.”

  Beth shook the gun. “First, I want to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  “You want to know what I’m doing here? Shouldn’t—”

  Beth gritted her teeth and screamed. “Answer my question!”

  “I’m Ned McCallister. I take care of the owner’s dogs.” He looked past her, out the glass door. “And since you dumped dinner on the ground, looks like I’m going to be her chef tonight as well.”

  Beth sneered. “Glad you can find humor in this situation. But let me tell you something, there’s nothing funny about it. And it didn’t look like you were taking care of them today. Looked like you were trying to kill them.”

  “Kill them? Why would you think—and how would you know anyway? Were you watching me?”