The Numbers Killer Read online

  What would Beth’s posts look like if she shared her daily life? “Great day! Hacked into an online account and opened three new credit cards with the info! Whoopee! Oh, yeah, and then Danny smacked me and broke a tooth because he was wasted and I didn’t know where the TV remote was. Can anyone recommend a dentist?” Ha! The world would love knowing her dirty little secrets. She never made her comings and goings public and never would. People should know better, not be so trusting. Otherwise it served them right if someone made off with their flat screen TV, spread toothpaste over their walls, syrup on their furniture, or borrowed their identity until their credit was maxed out.

  After a couple of minutes, Jason’s right blinker light began flashing and he pulled the car into a complex with stores and restaurants: a Target and Best Buy, but mostly small franchises, the kind that lined most strip malls in America. Was this where he would make the sales pitch? Beth’s heart beat a bit faster, like it was warming up for the main event.

  Cars chugged along slowly in every direction, up and down the crowded parking lot lanes, no one wanting to make the trek from the empty spaces farther from the stores, not now, with the steady rain approaching a downpour. Beth prayed Jason would drive behind the stores where the trucks unloaded their cargo and there wouldn’t be any people. And then what? Shoot them in the shopping mall’s parking lot? How was that going to work? Maybe she hadn’t thought this out as well as she could have. Until that moment, identifying her targets and following them had seemed like a big enough accomplishment.

  With so much traffic meandering through the shopping center, and some of them being damn aggressive—it’s not Black Friday, lady!—Beth had no choice but to stay close behind or risk losing the Smiths. Jason steered right up to the curb and stopped. Beth hit her brakes behind him, just in time. The Jeep’s passenger door swung open and Kelly’s shapely legs appeared, clad in tight yoga pants. With her head down, Kelly made a run for the nearest store, the Plush Nail Salon. It didn’t look very plush. The H and the N hung sideways off the sign. One fierce gust of wind would send them flying away. So, Kelly wasn’t going to the sales pitch with Jason after all. She was going to get herself all pretty while her man did the hard work. Beth frowned, rolling her bottom lip into her mouth. That wasn’t good. Not good at all. She needed them to stay together.

  Inside the doorway, Kelly blew her husband a kiss. But it wasn’t aimed toward the driver’s seat of the Jeep. Beth jerked her head back, following Kelly’s gaze, knowing she’d missed something.

  Jason was out of his car. Covering his head with a magazine, he hurried straight toward Beth, staring at her through the windshield, his face a determined grimace. A spike of adrenaline edged Beth toward a full-blown panic attack. What was he going to do? He must have recognized her. She yanked the steering wheel to her left, but a line of barely-moving bumper-to-bumper cars prevented a quick escape. Her eyes flew to the rearview mirror as she jammed the gear shift into reverse, but behind her, another car boxed her in.

  Jason was only a few steps away.

  Heart racing, she doubled over and grabbed the Glock from beneath her seat. Her stomach lurched as she flicked off the safety. He was probably at her window now. There were too many people around. This wasn’t the right place! She’d be caught for sure if she tried to shoot him here. She shoved the gun under her T-shirt, wincing in terror. Had she flipped the safety off? Her hands were shaking so much she didn’t trust them on the gun, especially not with the weapon against her own body.

  A knock on her window made her bolt upright, still gripping the gun under her shirt.

  “Hey.” Jason stared right at her.

  No choice. She eased the gun out from under her shirt.

  Hunched over in the driving rain, Jason pointed toward the front of her car. “Just wanted to let you know that your right headlight is out. Didn’t want you to get a ticket.”

  And then he trotted away, still covering his head with the sodden magazine, the shoulders of his coat dark from the drenching rain.

  Beth sat stunned, staring into but not seeing the sheets of rain, not hearing the incessant hammering of drops on the roof. Danny was right. She couldn’t do it. And right then, she didn’t even have the wherewithal to drive her car, never mind follow anyone and do what needed to be done without being caught. But that wasn’t all that had her freaked out. Something else about the brief encounter bothered her. Jason didn’t act like he knew her. Not a bit. Unless he was playing some sort of game to screw with her head. Maybe that was it. Maybe her headlight was working fine, and the broken headlight story was just a ruse to get her out of the car. She whipped her head to her left and to her right but didn’t see anyone else.

  Jason was already pulling out into the slow-moving traffic.

  She drove back to the hotel, below the speed limit, her breath coming in fast gulps, murmuring a rhythm to herself, counting every fourth scraping swipe of the windshield wipers.

  “Four, eight, twelve, sixteen, twenty, twenty-four, twenty-eight, thirty-two. Four, eight, twelve, sixteen . . .”

  # # #

  “I knew you couldn’t do it.” Danny sneered. “Your screw up only made things worse for yourself. You’re kinda . . . noticeable, you know. Ya stick out like a witch with the dark roots in your hair and that purple bruise.”

  Witch? She wasn’t ugly. She’d always thought she was sort of attractive—average height and maybe she could have been in better shape, but it’s not like she was overweight—until Danny started making a point of telling her otherwise. “The bruise—whose fault is that?” She sunk down into the corner of the hotel room couch and grabbed a pillow to protect her face, just in case. Danny always found a way to reason that everything was her fault. Like if it weren’t for her he’d be living-it-up in luxury, driving a Mercedes, sitting in the front row ordering beers at the Wizards games. As if.

  “So now he got a good, close look at you. He knows exactly what you look like. It will be real easy for him to pick you out of a line up once the police come for you. Set you up there with four other chicks past their prime—”

  “He didn’t act like he knew me. I mean, he—"

  Danny grunted. “Have yourself a good time in jail. Not sure how you’ll manage. You can’t stand to be alone, can you? Makes you all freaked out and you start counting stuff like a fricking nut case. You’re really a piece of work.” He sneered and threw his head back. “They won’t give you a pen because you might poke your eyes out, but you can use your own blood to make tic marks on the cement walls, one for each day. Ha! You’ll have plenty of those, you’ll be counting them tic marks until you’re an old hag. One, two, three, four, five . . . no—not five! I can’t end on an odd number because I’m a psycho! Unless . . . unless they hang you, shoot you up with electricity, or whatever it is they do to get rid of bat-ass-crazy killers these days.”

  Clenching her jaw, she faced away from Danny. She’d been counting the up motions of her bouncing leg. She pressed her hand down hard against her knee and kept it still, but the numbers didn’t stop, they only grew faster and louder inside her head.

  I’m not going to prison.

  The day was only just getting started. She would wait until the Smiths were together again. In the meantime, there were more people on her list. She knew exactly how many—seven. She’d been counting them over and over again.

  Next time, she wouldn’t fail.

  Chapter Three

  Victoria Heslin’s skin tingled in the cool October air as she walked the wet trails. She inhaled deeply and stepped over a rushing stream on a newly constructed bridge of logs, heading towards the mountain trails. There was no place she would rather be than outside, hiking with her dogs.

  The rain had ceased, although the clouds were determined to keep out the sun. At the end of a pink leash, Izzy trotted down the path with her head up, alert for any movement or rustling in the bushes. Like a stealthy hunter searching for prey, the Spanish greyhound never stopped scanning her surroun
dings. Eddie, a large retired racing greyhound, lagged behind, nose toward the ground, sniffing and marking every few yards with a casual lift of his hind leg as if it was his sworn duty.

  “Come on, Eddie. Keep up.” Victoria gave a gentle tug on his leash. The big dog tore off a mouthful of grass and ambled after her.

  Victoria’s phone buzzed, an unwelcome interruption that made her grimace inside. She pulled the device from her hip pocket, glanced at the screen, and sighed. It was her boss calling. It was Saturday, but that didn’t matter with her job. She answered. As she expected, it quickly became clear her walk would be cut short.

  “Oh, no. And he’s definitely dead?” she asked, already turning around to head back the way she came. “Okay. I’m just out on my property. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I have his address.”

  She jogged home with the dogs, unlocked the heavy iron gate, and let them loose in her backyard. Inside the mudroom, while she pulled off her hiking boots, the rest of her pack of Greyhounds, Galgos, and Podencos surrounded them, wagging their tails, snorting, and sniffing Izzy and Eddie as if they had been transformed into brand new creatures during their walk.

  “Hey. Hey. Calm down everyone.” Laughing, Victoria wove through their wagging bodies and into the house. “You act like we’ve been gone a week.” Their tails smacked back and forth against the entryway walls in response. “I’m so sorry to tell you all this, but I’ve got to go out again.”

  Seven wagging tails followed her into the master bedroom, Eddie and Izzy leaving faint traces of mud in their path. Victoria tore off her shorts and T-shirt and hurried into the shower. Less than three minutes later, she was putting on a white camisole that covered her sapphire necklace, her mother’s birthstone. She ripped open a dry-cleaning bag and pulled on gray slacks, a blouse, and a jacket in a fast, rehearsed manner. Amidst strokes and head rubs for the dogs, she hustled into the kitchen and handed out treats and apologies. She checked the dogs’ bowls, grabbed the prepacked bag of human snacks, slipped a water bottle into her backpack, locked the doors, and then jumped in her customized Suburban. Cruising down her long driveway, she hooked up her phone to the car and dictated a text message for Ned.

  “Hi. It’s Victoria. I had to leave on short notice and I’m not sure when I’ll be back, so definitely plan to come around dinner time to feed my dogs and give them some attention. I’ll keep you posted once I know more. As always, thanks for your help. And text me that you got this.”

  A soft chime indicated an incoming text. Victoria read Ned’s reply at the next stoplight. Got it. Monday still good for our dinner?

  She pressed the speaker button on the steering wheel. “So far so good.” Victoria sighed. Was that apprehension she was feeling, just a little, or was it possibly a hint of nervous excitement? She wasn’t sure. It wasn’t a real date, was it? After all, Ned was her employee. She rarely dated. She’d been attracted to a few men, and recognized when it was mutual, but . . . then she kept her distance. Somewhere deep inside her subconscious, not getting romantically involved with anyone felt like the right thing to do, at least right now. A long time had passed since she’d given anyone a chance. She barely remembered her last awkward dinner. She’d been called away right in the middle of it. Should have shut her phone off, and she knew it, but maybe she wanted to have a possible excuse to bolt. She shook her head, remembering, and not impressed with her behavior. Perhaps it was time to give it another go, give someone a try. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if the dinner with Ned was a real date. Or almost like one.

  Ned sent another message. Good. So we can talk about what I should bring when we go to the shelter in Spain next month.

  She dictated again. “Yes. I’m glad you’re going with me. It’s going to change your life. And you’ll make a big difference there.” After sending the message, she dropped her phone into the center console.

  She was definitely nervous about having a back-up dog walker for so many days. She’d really learned to count on and trust Ned, finding him was nothing short of a miracle, but everything would work out. The trip to Spain was important. She had a long list of things to check on while she was there.

  She pressed the home button again. “Send Ned a text.”

  “What would you like to say to Ned?”

  “I can’t remember if I told you this, but Myrtle seems to despise the new herbal toothpaste. Use the poultry one in red tube or she might snap at you.” That was her subtle way of reminding him to brush their teeth after dinner.

  Ned responded with a thumbs-up.

  Thirty minutes later, thanks to non-existent traffic, she parked behind three police cars and an SUV. A chilly wind hit her as she stepped out of her Suburban. She pulled her jacket tight around her chest. A uniformed officer approached. He held up a hand. “This is a crime scene, Miss, you need to get back in your car.”

  Victoria lifted the edge of her coat and looked down at her waist. “I’m Agent Heslin with the FBI.”

  The officer followed Victoria’s eyes to the badge attached to her pants. “Oh. I didn’t—”

  “Not your fault. I’m not wearing my jacket.”

  The officer rocked back and forth on his feet, then turned toward the small, ramshackle house behind him. “We’ve been keeping the scene secure for you. The other agent just arrived.”

  Victoria moved her badge from her waist to the collar of her shirt where it would be more visible, in case any of the other authorities had any initial doubts that she belonged there. “Thank you.” She smiled, walking past the yellow crime scene tape, toward the home that was currently the center of attention. Paint peeled off around the windows, gray mildew coated the exterior, and a broken gutter pipe hung loose at an odd angle. Aside from the weeds, the small yard was mostly dirt. Puddles of muddy water filled the ruts and depressions. An empty yellow potato chip bag and a blue ice cream sandwich wrapper provided the only color. Everything about the property shouted shoddy construction that had seen better days, except for a gleaming black Range Rover that just barely fit under the rusty carport.

  The neighbors’ homes all conveyed the same message—those living there had either given up caring or never cared much at all. They might not even be aware of the neglect they were loudly advertising—almost abandoned but not quite.

  Agent Rivera stood inside the open doorway, one hand running over his short dark hair. His FBI coat was also absent. He wore a crisp white tailored shirt under a charcoal suit jacket and pants. His outfit was nearly identical to Victoria’s, male and female versions of the same colors and materials. Oops. Someone at the office was bound to make a crack about their matching attire.

  As she walked toward the house, he saw her and his eyes lit up.

  “Hey, Tory.” He stepped outside the splintering front door and let it creak closed behind him. “Forensics aren’t here yet. Busy day for them.”

  “First off—nice to be working with you again. I didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

  “Yeah. I’m not complaining.”

  “So, what have I missed?” Victoria bent down and pulled on shoe covers.

  “Well, the state’s best witness took a bullet to the head. No sign of a gun, so not likely his own doing.”

  “There’s going to be a lot of angry agents and prosecutors.” She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and put them on. “What do we know?”

  “Shot to the temple at close range. Bullet went in and out. Cops found it under the counter.”

  Victoria opened the door and stepped inside. “Really?” She frowned. “A bullet was left behind?”

  “Yep.”

  The agents walked into the house along the edge of the hallway. A trail of dark red partial shoe prints stained the tile floors and led outside.

  She bent down to get a closer look at the narrow tread marks. “Who stepped in the blood?”

  “According to the neighbor who found him—she’s still inside—the prints were there when she arrived.” Rivera lowered his voice and lea
ned toward Victoria. “We’ll have forensics get shoe prints to make sure, but at a glance, they’re too small for any of the officers here.”

  Still crouched, Victoria clasped her necklace through her shirt. “Whoever it was left during the day, out the front door, where they were more likely to be seen.”

  The agents entered the living room from the hallway. Three uniformed officers, all men, stood together in the room. A tall man with broad shoulders lifted a hand in greeting.

  “Hey, Sully.” Rivera gave his friend a half-smile. “You’ve met Agent Heslin?”

  Detective Sullivan nodded, his expression slightly grim, as appropriate for a crime scene. He was a big guy who used to spend a lot of time at the gym, sometimes with Rivera when the agent was in town. He’d had his share of troubles and heartache, and Victoria hoped he was doing well. With his skin looking as flushed as deli ham, she wasn’t sure. His eyes were a little bloodshot, but that could be from working a double shift and not getting enough sleep.

  The detective introduced the other two policemen and said, “I just got here a few minutes before you.”

  The officer with glasses stepped forward. “No sign of a break in, although the doors might have already been unlocked. He was obviously dead, so we didn’t touch anything and called forensics.”

  “Yeah.” A very young officer with red hair nodded. “Only thing we touched was the microwave. It was beeping, so I opened it to shut it off. He was cooking something when he got killed.”