The Numbers Killer Page 9

  “Danny?” She balanced her drink against her chest and held the door partway open. A sliver of weak light filtered in through the slit in the drapes.

  Silence.

  The muscles in her shoulders and chest tightened as she stepped inside the dark room, flicked on the light switch, and tried to look everywhere at once. The room was empty and still, appearing as she left it, except the bed was expertly made. No empty cans or bottles littered the tables or counters. No signs of take-out containers or empty pizza boxes.

  She crept to the bathroom and peeked inside the open door. The used towels had been replaced with folded ones. New packaged soaps had been positioned around the sink. A white curtain hid the interior of the shower. Better safe than sorry. Almost holding her breath, she gripped the edge of the shower curtain, braced herself, and yanked it aside like she was tearing off a Band-Aid.

  The shower was empty except for brown mildew stains in the tile grout.

  Beth left the bathroom, both puzzled and relieved. Where was he? She had the car, so wherever he went had to be on foot. Maybe he’d hooked up with a younger woman he met randomly in the hotel. Wouldn’t be the first time. An aching pit began forming in her stomach and a heavy cloud of hopelessness descended over her like a shroud. She pressed her lips together and squared her shoulders, willing herself not to care, to stop thinking about it. Let him. Just let him. You don’t need him. Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen . . . The counting made her feel needy and pathetic, but rarely could she stop once it started. She walked back to the front door, turned the lock, and flipped the bolt.

  Sinking into the couch, she pulled off her shoes and threw them across the room. She grabbed the remote and pressed down hard on the buttons, flicking through channels until she found some local news.

  “Heavy rain in the forecast yet again for tomorrow. Stay alert for flash flooding. If you see standing water, do not attempt to cross it.”

  Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen . . .

  She tapped her fingers on the table, unable to finish listening to the meteorologist. He was trying hard to make the rain sound like the end of days. With more force than necessary, she mashed her finger against the remote and changed to another news program, a sportscaster wrapping up his piece.

  . . . twenty-two, twenty-four, twenty-six, twenty-eight, thirty . . .

  She put her feet on the table, set her salad in her lap, and started eating. After a few bites, the picture on the screen switched to a woman with lush red hair, a plunging V-neck sweater, and an intense look in her eyes.

  “Breaking news today—Is Virginia facing a serial killer’s spree?”

  All counting ceased. Beth dropped her plastic fork, swung her feet off the table, and bolted to an upright position. Serial Killer. Was it her? Is that what they were calling her now? An image of Todd Meiser’s dumpy yard and home filled the large screen in front of her. Yes! A flush of pride warmed her skin. A surge of power radiated through her body. Maybe this was how Danny felt and why he got off on hurting her.

  But then the news reporter brought up Raymond Butler. Again! They were all suggesting a connection. “I don’t even know who the hell Raymond Butler is, so there’s no damn connection! He has nothing to do with this. I did it! I did it! All by myself! Me!”

  Without taking her eyes from the television, she pushed aside the remains of her salad.

  The image on the television changed. There they were again. Agents Heslin and Rivera in the parking lot near the Triple Falls Trail with the same reporter Beth had seen on her phone earlier in the day.

  She scooted to the edge of the couch and leaned closer to the screen.

  Agent Heslin’s smooth blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. As she approached the reporter, a military-type guy claiming to be the SAC, whatever that meant, edged her right out of the way, stepping in front of her. Agent Heslin teetered a bit, looking down as if she had stepped on something she didn’t expect to be there. In an instant, Agent Rivera was at her side, his hand on her elbow. It wasn’t a big deal, not like she would have fallen off a cliff or anything, but he was there to protect her nonetheless, as if he were her knight in shining armor. Beth narrowed her eyes and caught the split-second flash of anger on Rivera’s face as he glanced at the overweight guy. When Rivera turned back to Agent Heslin, his expression softened just a bit, despite the determined set of his jaw.

  “Hmmm.” Beth’s mouth spread into a smug smile, like she knew his secret. “There’s no mistaking it. He’s in love with her.”

  The news story on the television changed to angry, egotistical politicians in suits arguing about a budget, but the snapshot of the agents standing side by side remained clear at the forefront of Beth’s mind. She rolled it over and around, savoring the image like a mouthful of expensive wine. “Rivera.” She said his name aloud, letting it roll off her tongue.

  Did Heslin love Rivera back? She should. He was handsome enough. Took care of his body. And it looked like he cared for her so much, like he would never hurt her. But the female agent didn’t appear to be paying attention to him the way he did to her. They didn’t act like Jason and Kelly Smith, going out of their way to touch and make googly eyes at each other. Of course, how could they? They were at work. They had to look professional. Perhaps their after-work behavior told a different story.

  Beth dragged her laptop across the table until it was in front of her. What else was there to learn about the lovely Victoria Heslin? Typing in Victoria’s name produced several links about the death of her mother, Abigail Heslin. Eyes gleaming, Beth scanned from line to line, soaking up the information.

  After three days in captivity, heiress Abigail Heslin succumbs to a heart condition.

  Captivity? Beth hit the back arrow, selected another article, and kept reading. The story said tragedy struck one of America’s wealthiest families. Billionaire heiress Abigail Heslin was kidnapped for ransom. After three days of captivity, under the stress of her captors and without the medicine for her heart condition, she suffered a heart attack and died within hours of the FBI tracking her down.

  The story must have been huge when it happened ten years ago. Victoria Heslin would have been around nineteen or twenty years old at the time. She must have been so worried, but maybe she trusted the FBI would do their jobs and find her in time. How interesting that Victoria ended up working for the very same organization that failed to save her mother. Interesting indeed.

  Within a few minutes, Beth had access to the county tax records database and Agent Heslin’s home address. Shortly after, she had control of the agent’s security system. She was no longer tired. With a determined smile, she stuffed her feet back into her shoes, snatched her car keys off the table, and rushed out the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After the new dogs were settled and Ned left, Victoria got the outdoor fireplace going, turned on a heating lamp and sat on the patio with a soft blanket over her legs and a mug of hot tea. The dogs lay down one by one around her and she gazed out at her property, remembering the first time she’d seen it, many years ago. Fortunately, as much as she avoided social gatherings, she had agreed, for once, to accompany her father to an afternoon party in late spring. Some sort of fundraiser, she’d forgotten what or who it was for.

  On that day, elegant women in sundresses sipped flutes of champagne offered on silver trays. A quartet played soft live music and dozens of canopied tables had been spread across the lawn. The house was exceptionally decorated, but all Victoria really noticed were the acres and acres of flat yard and the adjacent trails. The estate was exactly what she wanted. When it came on the market three years ago, she immediately bid above the asking price, unwilling to lose the opportunity, and marking the first time she’d used any of the trust from her grandfather on something other than donations. Her father grumbled that it was more house than she needed, and he was right. But it wasn’t the house she wanted, it was the yard. The perfect yard for animals. She’d reminde
d her father that there were fewer investments better than a fabulous piece of property. The back yard wasn’t quite as pristine as when she moved in, seven dogs, not to mention the frequent foster, running, peeing, and digging could do that in no time, but it could be fixed. Yards were meant to be used, not just admired.

  It really was perfect. Her mother—who’d mostly owned greyhounds, but also took in a long parade of rescues—would have wholeheartedly approved.

  The serenity of the large landscaped yard, aided by the rippling murmur of a fountain, created a peaceful oasis where she could escape from the world. Being alone—with her dogs—was always what she needed to recharge her energy. The day’s horrific crime scenes had dominated her every thought since she stepped into Todd Meiser’s kitchen. Now, she wanted to clear her mind before she revisited the details, hoping to see each scene with a fresh perspective and perhaps think of something she might have missed.

  She finished the last sip of her tea, set down her mug, and uncrossed her legs. Enough relaxing. She and Rivera had three murders to solve. At the beginning of a case, the questions always outweighed the answers. But that would change as they put together everything they learned combined with information from detectives, forensics, and the ME’s office.

  There’s no way the numbers on the victims’ heads were a coincidence, so what did they mean? Soon enough they would have the forensic report on the bullets and know for sure if the crimes were connected. In the meantime, what were they missing? What connected Meiser and the Cossmans? Why did the perp write the numbers? What purpose did they serve? A message to us? A need fulfilled for the perp?

  Frank Cossman had come through with a list of names and numbers, his parents’ closest friends and neighbors. With a tablet and stylus, she began digging for the truth.

  After a few hours, and nothing helpful to show from it, she set aside her note pad. Taking a deep breath, she held it, and let it out slowly. The temperature had dropped from chilly to cold. A hazy sky blocked the stars. Wind rustled the branches and leaves.

  She glanced at the time on her phone. It wasn’t too late to call Helen to discuss the case. It’d be worth it, even if meant wading through a probe of her personal life or lack thereof. Helen Bernard was one of the few people Victoria completely trusted.

  She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. As her call connected, the dogs leapt up, staring alert toward the backyard.

  “Stop. Leave the raccoons alone. Sit down.”

  “Victoria?” Helen said.

  “Hi. You’re still up?”

  Eddie let out a long, low growl. Victoria placed her hand on top of his head.

  “Of course. I’m about to pour myself a glass of wine. What’s going on there?”

  Victoria’s dogs flew off the patio and raced across the yard. Only Leo and Bella remained on the steps, staring out after the others. Not all dogs were wired to chase. “Can you talk for a few minutes?”

  Helen would know exactly what that meant. But that didn’t mean she’d let Victoria get right to it.

  “Are you still all alone in that big house?” Helen had always been direct.

  “I’m not alone. I have my dogs.” As she spoke, they were flying gleefully across her back yard.

  “Take it from me, remember I was one of the bureau’s best profilers—”

  “I know.” The dogs stopped, sniffed the ground, and turned around in a pack.

  “It’s good to love what you do, but not to the exclusion of everything else.”

  Victoria pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Like I said, I’ve got—”

  “What does having a dozen dogs tell you?”

  “I don’t have a dozen dogs—”

  “That you have a gaping hole in your heart that needs to be filled. Don’t pretend a dog—or however many you have—can fill it. On your death bed, you won’t say, ‘I wish I’d have logged another twenty hours on the MacDougal case and rescued five more dogs.’”

  “Actually, I might. And it’s seven now.”

  “Good Lord! Stop making my point. Seven can’t do what five couldn’t, because it’s not really about the dogs.”

  Victoria laughed. “Maybe we can discuss my ‘gaping hole’ another time, since I’m really not convinced it exists.” The dogs returned, panting, looking pleased with their chase. Victoria petted each of them. “Actually, believe it or not, I said I would go to dinner with someone.”

  “Is it the agent you’ve been working with? He’s easy on the eyes.”

  “Rivera? No. I like working with him. But the dinner is with the guy who takes care of my dogs.”

  “Ned? That’s his name, right?”

  “Good memory.”

  “I’m not that old. My memory is still exceptional. If you wanted a date, there’s no shortage of interested and eligible bachelors out there. You can venture beyond your own house.”

  “I know but would they be interested in going out with me the FBI agent, or me the heiress?”

  “Or you—the young beautiful blonde? You won’t really know until you give someone a chance, will you? Even if it doesn’t work out, the finding out process can be fun.”

  “I’m happy. I like my life.”

  “Can’t argue with that, I suppose. But please don’t cancel that dinner if you can help it.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I mean it. I know how introverts work. No cancelling. Now, I’ve got my wine. Poured an extra big glass. Tell me, what’s going on there.”

  Victoria’s smile disappeared. “So here’s why I called. I’ve got three murders and we know they’re somehow connected, but we don’t know how yet.”

  “Start from the beginning. And then we’re coming back to the dog thing. The man thing, too.”

  Going through the facts aloud forced Victoria to sort through what they knew and what they needed to know, in an objective and logical manner. Sharing it with Helen allowed for a mentor’s insights.

  “It’s way too early to know how this ends. Don’t be impatient. Sometimes we never know. You have your facts laid out. With each additional piece of the puzzle you get now, you try to see what you need to complete the picture. You’ll see what fits.”

  “That’s the problem.” Victoria sighed. “Nothing fits.”

  “Then you either don’t have enough puzzle pieces, and you need to be patient, or you aren’t looking at it the right way. Maybe it’s not a cow puzzle, maybe it’s a puzzle of horses but in the very corner there’s one cow. See?”

  “Gosh, that’s a big puzzle, then.”

  “Which is why we can’t solve it tonight. Get some rest. Magnum PI reruns are calling me.”

  “Why would you watch schlocky detective shows when—"

  “Magnum was a detective? I just like the short shorts on Tom Selleck. Later.”

  Victoria had to laugh. She wasn’t any closer to a motive that made sense for the Cossmans and included Todd Meiser, but the facts and the questions were more obvious. When she said goodnight to Helen, she was yawning and ready to go to sleep. Waking up with a clear head was the best thing she could do to get results.

  “Time for bed.” She led Leo and Bella behind a small gate in an enclosure built to separate fosters or injured dogs from her pack. They had a room all to themselves and their own dog door leading to a separate outside area, but they could still see and hear her and the rest of the dogs. “You’re in here. Just until I know my dogs are okay with you, and you’re okay with them.” She rubbed each of them behind the ears and then sat and watched them sniff the new area. “At least you have each other.”

  She yawned again as her dogs trailed behind her into the bathroom, watched her brush her teeth, and followed her back to the bedroom.

  “Good night everyone. Sleep tight.” Victoria flipped off the light switch and sank into her bed. Below her pillow lay her personal gun. The thought of something happening to her, something that would leave her dogs without their owner, was enough to keep it nearby. If it
could happen to her mother, it could happen to her. She wasn’t about to be anyone’s victim. Around her, the dogs grunted and sighed until the room fell silent.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Beth hurried out of the hotel with her hands stuffed inside her pockets. She shouldn’t be allowing herself this distraction. Not while she still had witnesses to eliminate. What if visiting Agent Heslin somehow prevented her from finishing the job that would keep her from going to prison? But she couldn’t seem to alter her current plan, even though it defied common sense. It was as if Agents Heslin and Rivera were calling to her, as if they were in desperate need of her help and she couldn’t ignore them.

  “Where are you going?” Danny’s growling voice carried across the lobby.

  She whirled around. Crossing her arms, she answered, “Not really your business. Notice I’m not asking you where you’ve been.”

  “Uh. Can I help you?” the woman working the front desk asked, her face a mask of concern.

  Beth glanced around. The hotel employee was still staring at her. Beth’s eyes shot daggers back.

  “I’m sorry.” A forced-looking smile took shape on the woman’s face. “I thought you were speaking to me.”

  “I wasn’t. I was talking to my husband.” Beth marched out to her car, half hoping Danny would go away so he didn’t ruin everything for her. This thing she was about to do, it was her thing. But at the same time, she didn’t really want to be alone.

  “Why are you wearing your hair like that? You’ve never pulled it back like that before.” Danny’s tone communicated the scowl she would surely see on his face if she fixed her eyes on him.

  Frowning, Beth ran her hand over her head and down the length of her ponytail. “Thanks for noticing.”

  He scoffed. “It makes your forehead look huge. You look like the Addams Family girl. You know, the hideous one.”

  Sometimes it was like he could read her thoughts. She did her best to ignore him, keeping her mind occupied with her own plan. They said little else on the long drive that took them from city lights and billboards to lengthy, dark stretches of trees and hedges. When the distance between each driveway was greatest, she slowed the car to a stop and idled in front of a giant iron gate. They had arrived at Victoria Heslin’s residence. The agent’s home wasn’t visible from the road, but it was back there somewhere, at the end of a long, fancy-paved driveway. Small spotlights lining the road beyond the gate illuminated tufts of tall, unusual grass, bushes shaped with precision, and neatly-trimmed trees—the kind of stuff that requires regular landscaping. The darkness beyond was different than elsewhere. Not depressing, not hiding unknown horrors like back at the Sonesta Hotel, but alluring, almost a tease concealing whatever constituted the unlit surroundings.