Desperate Girls (Wolfe Security #1)(45)

“Yep.”

“Corby has no military training. And he’s not a hunter.” Erik looked at his friend. “This setup doesn’t feel like a fit. Everything he’s done till now has been up close and personal. Like very up close. A shank in the gut.”

“You checked your e-mail lately?” Jeremy pulled out his phone and opened a message. “This just came in,” he said, handing the cell to Erik.

It was a forwarded message from Lindsey Leary. Erik scrolled down and saw the exchange between the detective and someone named Shawn McGowan, who had to be Mick McGowan’s son. The man had provided investigators with a list of missing items from his father’s gun cabinet.

“Glock twenty-three. Beretta nine-mil. An FN Five-Seven?” He glanced up at Jeremy. It was the type of gun used by many Secret Service agents. Erik preferred a SIG P229, but the Five-Seven was a serious piece of hardware.

“Keep going.”

“A Remington twenty-two. A Winchester twelve-gauge. Shit, a Remington seven hundred.”

A deer rifle. The military version was the M24, a favorite of snipers.

“He have a scope on it?”

“Lindsey asked that, too, and yeah. Shawn McGowan told her it’s a Leupold.”

“Fuck.”

Jeremy didn’t say anything, but Erik could tell he felt the same. A scope like that didn’t make the shot easy for someone like Corby. But it made it possible.

Erik glanced around the parking lot, looking for cans or food wrappers or cigarette butts, any sign that someone had used this location as a sniper hide. They walked back to the other side, away from the overhead parking lights, and Erik pulled out a penlight to examine the concrete.

“Any evidence he was here?” He looked at Jeremy.

“Not besides the view. But it makes sense. People park here for the theater, so it’s busy evenings and weekends but empty most mornings. And did you notice the camera setup on the way in here?”

“There isn’t one,” Erik said.

“Exactly.”

Erik combed his flashlight beam over the area, illuminating dirt and grit but no trash to speak of. He’d repeat the procedure on the levels below, too.

“I don’t like the rifle,” Jeremy said. “And I sure as shit don’t like the scope.”

“I don’t like how the fucking marshals have been after this guy for a week, and still they’ve got nothing.” Erik looked at Jeremy. They’d worked together so much he could tell his friend knew exactly what he was thinking. The marshals couldn’t be relied on to make this problem go away.

“It’s time to ramp this up,” Erik said.

“We need to talk to Liam.”

“We need more agents, more cameras, and much less visibility.”

Jeremy lifted an eyebrow. “She’s not going to like that.”

“You talk to Liam. I’ll handle Brynn.”

Lindsey eased down the darkened street, scanning the dilapidated houses separated by chain-link fences. Torn-up cars sat on lawns. Some homes looked deserted. Others were clearly inhabited, and shadowy figures lounged on sofas, watching the street from their porches. Lindsey was in an undercover ride tonight, but she still stood out like a parade float.

She passed a utility easement littered with abandoned fridges and construction debris. The next section of the neighborhood was even less inviting, with several of the homes boarded up and covered in gang graffiti. This neighborhood was a literal dump, caught between a rash of foreclosures and the promise of gentrification that hadn’t yet materialized.

Lindsey checked her phone and squinted at the curb. No painted numbers, so she’d have to go by the dropped pin on her navigation app. She eased into the shadow under a tree and rolled to a stop. After checking her weapon, she got out.

The humid night air smelled faintly of sewage. A dog barked in the distance, and Lindsey glanced around cautiously before emerging from the shadows and crossing the street. She stepped onto the overgrown lawn of a desolate one-story with plywood over the windows.

James Corby’s former home. The notorious serial killer had rented the place for nearly five years before his arrest. The house had fallen into disrepair, but even when Corby lived here, it was a far cry from the manicured campuses and landscaped apartment complexes where he’d trolled for girls.

Many criminals stayed within their comfort zone, but not Corby. He slipped in and out of wealthy neighborhoods, raping, torturing, and murdering with ruthless efficiency. Lindsey believed his job had provided a key advantage. As a cable installer, Corby had learned to move through vastly different neighborhoods without drawing attention. He’d overcome the natural human reluctance to trespass. And he’d learned to be elusive. All skills that served him well as a predator.

Lindsey stared at the dark front door, matching it to the crime-scene photos she’d seen in the case file. The yellow tape that had once crisscrossed the entrance was long gone. The property had changed hands several times in the intervening years.

Another glance around. An orange ember glowed on a porch across the street, letting Lindsey know she wasn’t alone. She ignored it and crossed the yard to the side gate beside the shared fence. The gate stood a few inches ajar. Lindsey pulled. It didn’t budge, and she gave it a hard jerk to unstick it from the weeds.

On her left, the fence was swallowed by a dense tangle of vines. She moved along the side yard, noting the weathered boards and chipping paint. It was dimmer here and danker, and the overgrown lawn was a minefield of trash. Crumpled beer cans lined the base of the house, and Lindsey stepped over a section of gutter as she entered the backyard.