Pretty Girls Dancing(102)
She dropped to the edge of the bed, considering. “They might deal on DeVries if she’s found alive, but he’d still go down for killing his daughter. And if he gives us the girl, we’d have his place of operation. Probably plenty of DNA there from his other victims.”
And if he didn’t give up the girl, she’d die of thirst within days. His gut twisted. David Willard had likely been lying to him all along. About the hotel-room reservations that hadn’t been turned in as charges on his company’s account. About how his fingerprints got in the lake house. About his nonexistent alibis when Kelsey and Whitney had gone missing.
Willard and Mikkelsen. The two men Luther Sims had mentioned. The profiler had never been satisfied with either of their stories. They’d been loose ends. Except now one of those loose ends had been clipped.
“I’m sort of sorry that I’ll never get a look inside that old church in Tillgy Springs. If ever a place looked perfect to house a serial killer, it was there. Most of its windows are boarded up, but the ones in the basement look like there are still curtains on them. No one seems to be taking care of the property. The grass and brush are overgrown.”
She’d told him about her unsuccessful mission there on the way back from the police station, but his focus had been elsewhere. “You couldn’t find out who had the keys to it in town?”
Sloane shook her head. “The sheriff didn’t have a clue. The owner of the newspaper is making more calls. But I told you that already.”
He looked at the pictures again. Whitney DeVries, whose precious remaining time was ticking away. The other unverified victims who might never get closure.
“Maybe Mikkelsen knows.”
She made a scoffing sound and got up to put her boots on. “And he’d be happy to tell us, right?”
“Possibly. I think he knew about Newman’s photography sideline. That he used the knowledge to blackmail him into a monthly payment and doing the custodial work for free.”
“From what you’ve told me, that sounds less like the pastor and more like his lovely wife. I got a look at her watching us through the window as we left the church.” She slipped into her coat and buttoned it.
“You going somewhere?” Mark asked.
“We are.” She sent him a blinding smile. “Out to a celebratory dinner and at least one White Russian. We deserve that much.”
He wanted to refuse but from the feel of it, his stomach lining was devouring itself. “I could eat.” He got his coat. Started toward the door.
“She reminds me of that hatchet-faced movie actress that was in all those oldie horror shows I used to watch. Older, of course. I can’t place which one, though.”
Mark stopped midstride. “Who?”
“Mikkelsen’s wife. She looks like she might have been pretty once before she got joyless and bitter, you know what I mean?”
He turned back to look at the picture of Betsy Graves. And something buried deep in his subconscious clicked. “I think so.” Because he now knew exactly why Graves looked so familiar. He couldn’t place her before because he couldn’t recall the context, but he did now. He was almost certain of it. Almost. “I’ll drive. And buy,” he squashed Sloane’s protest. “But first, we take a side trip.”
“Agent Foster.” Luther Sims looked surprised when he opened the door, before swinging it wider in invitation. “Come in.”
Mark stepped inside. Wiped his feet on the hooked rug he remembered from his first visit. He saw the man glance beyond him at the car in the drive but knew he couldn’t see Sloane inside it. “I’m on my way to Columbus, and you’re not far out of the way. Thought I’d stop in to give you a quick update on the case.”
Pleasure spread across the retired agent’s face. There were two large Band-Aids on one of his cheeks that hadn’t been there the last time they’d spoken. “I appreciate that. I don’t get many opportunities to talk shop anymore. You know your way back to the kitchen. Let me just shut my wife’s door so we don’t disturb her.” As he moved to the right side of the hallway, Mark threw a quick glance to the left where the family room was. The TV was off, but there was a book lying across a closed laptop next to the recliner. The array of pictures was still on the wall.
Including the photo of Elizabeth Sims. Young. Unsmiling. But nearly identical to the one of Betsy Graves.
As certain as he’d been earlier, it was almost a shock to see the verification. Greg Larsen had been right. Betsy Graves had been the TMK’s first kidnap victim. Her body had never been found because she was still locked in hell with the Ten Mile Killer. A mental image flashed through Mark’s mind of the glimpse he’d gotten of the woman’s gnarled hands the last time he was here. Rheumatoid arthritis, Sims had said.
Or maybe the result of systematic torture.
Tension shooting up his spine, Mark headed toward the kitchen, hyper aware that a bloodless killer followed a step behind him. With new eyes, he observed the locks on all the cupboard doors and drawers. Not to protect a woman in the grips of Alzheimer’s, but to protect Sims from any weapons she might get her hands on. A ball of hot fury lodged in Mark’s chest, and it took every ounce of effort he possessed to not turn and grab the man by the throat. He drew in a silent breath. Released it slowly. And prepared to play the role of his lifetime.