Pretty Girls Dancing(89)
“If it hadn’t been for the drug dog, it wouldn’t have been noticed. But I’m surprised no one observed the smell.” Even that hadn’t been overwhelming, however, until the bag had been opened. “The place is empty, but there are showings for the property, a cleaning service, Realtors. Not to mention the occasional trespasser.”
“If I had to guess? And like too much of my job, this is conjecture. If this body does turn out to be the work of the TMK, for whatever reason, I’d predict he wanted her found. And there could be all sorts of explanations for that. To increase the family’s suffering might be one. Another could be affection for this victim.”
“Luther Sims seemed to think that all the victims had a parent who was deficient in some way.”
“Yes, I’ve read his notes. Certainly, he worked more closely with the cases than I have, but from the reports, I don’t really get that picture. But like I say, he met some of those people, and I didn’t.”
They spoke for several more minutes before Mark disconnected the call. Returned to his laptop. “Larsen thinks the killer may have meant for the body to be discovered.” He considered what else the man had suggested. That the reason might be “affection” for the victim. Disgust twisted through him. Mark had what it took to follow the evidence, track down offenders. But ascribing the sickest serial offender in the state’s history with any softer human emotions . . . that was probably beyond him.
“It also might mean someone is screwing with us and trying to make it look like Willard was a victim of the TMK. Someone in the vicinity who knew about the empty house and saw a perfect opportunity to get rid of a body.”
“Yeah. Unfortunately, it’s going to be a few days until they complete the comparisons with the other verified victims.” He returned to his e-mail. “He did say he’s tentatively attributed a couple more victims from years ago to the killer. He’s sending me photos.” He waited impatiently for the e-mail to arrive. Opened it and clicked on the pictures attached and printed them. Sloane got up and fetched them from the printer tray. Without a word, she picked up the tape and hung them in the top row with the other unverified victims.
Mark zeroed in on the first one, an odd sense of recognition flickering through him. “Does that first picture look familiar to you?”
“Only because they all have a similar appearance.”
That was true enough. All the pictured girls were attractive, with long, dark hair and slender figures. Taken with the entirety of the collection, the sense of familiarity faded. He leaned closer to read the identifying information on the two girls in Larsen’s pictures. Betsy Graves and Deena Horton. He frowned as he reread the date on the first one. “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “Thirty years ago? That’s eight years earlier than Sims thought the TMK had been active.”
“I don’t pay much attention to the ones where no bodies were found.” Sloane returned to typing her report. “That’s a good way to head down the wrong path—start chasing after leads that have no evidence to support them.”
Mark grinned. “You know, you almost sounded like Craw there for a minute.”
“Be sure and let me know if I start looking like him,” she retorted, then stopped when his cell buzzed again. “You’re Joe Hollywood tonight.”
“It’s the sheriff’s office,” he said tersely before answering it.
“Foster, it’s Rossi. We’ve been running the fingerprints we collected from the lake house and matching them against ones we have in city and county files. Pretty sure we’ve zeroed in on the owner of that stash of illegals we found—Josh Ferin. Local punk who Newman named as giving him a key.”
“The Realtor’s son.”
“That’s the one.” The sergeant sounded as exhausted as Mark was feeling. “His prints are all over those bags of illegals. But here’s the thing—and this one’s a doozy. In the bedroom, same place we found the drugs, we discovered latents that matched another set in our system. They belong to David Willard.”
Whitney DeVries
November 16
5:58 p.m.
“It doesn’t look as though you’ve eaten much today.”
The words had something inside Whitney going still. How would he be able to see the small pile of food he’d set on the stage this morning? It was well outside the glow provided by the computer screen and projector. And now that she thought about it, how did he see in the morning when he brought the food? She’d been awake the one time. He’d arrived without a light of any kind.
“I haven’t been hungry.”
She hadn’t, because excitement and fear were gnawing a hole in her belly. Last night she’d finally loosened the last screw. Her success had filled her with triumph and a newfound fear. Now came the most difficult part.
Each night when she quit working, she twisted the screws in loosely, so they’d be close to the bracket. But easy to unscrew when the time came.
That time was tonight.
Nerves clutched and jumped inside her. Another reason she hadn’t been able to eat much since she’d started loosening the barre. Last night before she finally went to sleep for a few hours, she’d fetched the leftovers and stowed them next to the shower. She had no idea where this place was. What she’d face when she got loose or how long it would take to find help. If she could, she’d take some of the food with her.