“How many agents are here?”
Feinberg glanced up at the balcony before he answered. “Wesson isn’t sharing that information. I honestly don’t know how many are here, and if and when more are coming.”
“Where is Wesson?”
“In the bedroom getting some papers. This is a nice place, isn’t it? If the circumstances were different, I’d want to camp out here. The lake reminds me of Walden Pond.”
Nick nodded. “This is the cabin you ought to buy, Laurant,” he said.
She agreed. The light was wonderful. Two-story picture windows brought the view of the lake inside. The living room and dining area had been combined into one large rectangle. The atmosphere was rustic, yet airy. It was cluttered now though. Computer boxes and other equipment were scattered about. The dining room table had been pushed against the far wall, and on top were two computers. It didn’t look like either one had been plugged in yet.
She heard a door open and looked up to the balcony just as Jules Wesson stepped out. He was talking on his mobile phone and was carrying a stack of papers.
Wesson was tall, wiry, and partially bald. He had piercing eyes, but after giving her and Nick only a brief glance, he ignored them and continued with his phone conversation. She watched him go to the table and put the papers down. Then Feinberg drew her attention again.
He handed her a gold watch. It looked like an old-fashioned Timex with a stretch band. “We’d like you to wear this, and we don’t ever want you to take it off, not even in the shower. It’s water repellent, of course. You could even go swimming with it. There’s a tracking device inside, and I’ll be monitoring your every move on that screen behind me. We want to know where you are at all times.”
Laurant removed her own watch and slipped on the new one. She’d left her purse in the car and didn’t have any pockets, so she handed it to Nick, and he tucked it in the pocket of his shirt.
Wesson hung up the phone. He nodded to Laurant as Nick introduced her, but he didn’t waste any time on pleasantries. “I’m ready for him,” he announced briskly. “But I don’t like surprises. You don’t leave Holy Oaks without getting my permission first. Understand?”
“Yes,” she replied.
Wesson finally got around to acknowledging Nick. The commander was establishing a pecking order, letting Nick and Laurant know he was the man in charge. Even in a crisis, games were still played. What bullshit, Nick thought. He knew Wesson considered him competition, and no amount of talking would ever convince him that Nick wasn’t interested in fast tracking his way to the top.
Personally, Nick didn’t like Wesson one little bit, but he was stuck working with him, and he would make the best of the situation. Wesson had an ego the size of Iowa, but as long as he didn’t let it get in the way of the operation, Nick thought they’d get along just fine.
“Morganstern wants you to call him,” Wesson said.
“They get anything on the phone call?”
Feinberg answered. “They were able to lock in on the call the unsub made to the rectory. The phone was owned by a woman named Tiffany Tyler, and the call was made just outside of St. Louis.”
Feinberg stepped forward. “The highway patrol found her car parked on the shoulder of I-70. The left back tire was flat, and there wasn’t a spare in the trunk. We think that she willingly got into the unsub’s vehicle, but that’s just an assumption. We also think he never touched her car, but even so, our techs went over it from top to bottom, inside and out. It’s an old Chevy Caprice, and it was loaded with prints. They’re running them now.”
“We don’t believe any of the prints belong to our unsub.” Wesson directed his explanation at Laurant. “He’s careful, real careful.”
Feinberg nodded. “And methodical,” he added as he removed his glasses and began to clean them with his handkerchief. “There wasn’t a single smudge or half print on that tape or that envelope he left with the police.”
“We want you to start irritating him,” Wesson said. “Hopefully, he’ll lose control and mess up, and we’ll get a lucky break.”
“Tiffany’s the woman I heard screaming over the phone, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is,” Wesson answered. “He used her phone to call you.”
“Have you found her yet?”
“No.” The answer was clipped, his lips pinched. He acted as though she had just criticized him personally.
“Maybe she’s still alive. Do you think—”
“Of course not,” Wesson impatiently cut her off. “She’s dead, no doubt about it.”
His cold attitude rattled her. “But why would he pick her up in the first place? If he’s so careful and if he does study his clients before he takes them on like he bragged, then why would he do such a spontaneous thing?”
Feinberg answered her. “We’re pretty certain he killed her to get our attention. He wants us to know he’s the real thing.”
Nick took hold of her hand. “And Tiffany was . . . convenient. She was helpless and his for the taking.”
Feinberg put his glasses back on, adjusted the rims around his ears, and said, “I forgot to mention that Farley and I went through your mail. It’s piled up on the table by your front door.”
Laurant took the invasion of privacy in stride. Although it hadn’t occurred to her that the FBI would be opening her mail, the fact that they had didn’t bother her. They were simply being thorough, and that was something she appreciated.
Wesson took a step closer to Nick and said, “Just so you understand. You’re here solely as Laurant’s bodyguard. Your job is to protect her every minute.”
Wesson’s tone had been antagonistic. Nick’s was mild in comparison. “I know what my job is.”
“And the plan is to enrage the unsub, so both of you have got to put on a show everyone in town will believe.”
Nick nodded. Wesson wasn’t quite finished putting Nick in his place. “My team will do the real work and catch this creep.”
“The real work?” Nick repeated sarcastically. “We’re working this together, like it or not.”
“You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Morganstern,” Wesson pointed out.
“Yeah, well, I am here, and you’re going to have to deal with it.”
The mood had turned hostile. They were like bulls getting ready to butt heads. Laurant squeezed Nick’s hand. “We should get going, don’t you think?”
Nick didn’t say another word. The phone rang just as he was opening the door to leave with Laurant. He turned back when he heard Wesson exclaim, “Hot damn.”
Nick waited until he’d finished the conversation, then asked, “Hot damn what?”
Wesson smiled smugly. “We’ve got a crime scene.”
CHAPTER 17
Wesson was a prick. He was also crass, obnoxious, rude, and arrogant, and his people skills sucked. Worse, he lacked compassion. The agent’s response to hearing that a farmer had stumbled upon the mutilated body of eighteen-year-old Tiffany Tara Tyler had been grossly inappropriate. Wesson had been downright jubilant. Shouting with glee, the man had all but broken out in song, and what made his unbridled enthusiasm all the more obscene was that Laurant, a civilian, was there watching him.
Nick wanted to get her out of the cabin before she saw or heard anything more, and deal with Wesson later, but when he took hold of Laurant’s arm to lead her outside, she pulled away. What she did next not only surprised him, but raised his admiration a notch.
She made Wesson squirm. She got right in his face so he couldn’t ignore her, and then she gave him hell. She reminded him that a young girl had been murdered, and if he couldn’t feel any remorse or pity for poor Tiffany, then perhaps he should consider another line of work.
When Wesson began to argue, Nick took over, but his language was much cruder than hers.
“That’s going in my report,” Wesson threatened.
“See that it does,” Nick countered.
Wesson decided to end the conversation. He resented that an outsider would offer an opinion about his behavior, and he wasn’t about to waste any of his valuable time trying to placate her. That fell under Nick’s job description.
“Just do what I tell you to do, and we’ll catch him,” he said.
She didn’t back down. “And keep my opinions to myself?”
He didn’t see any need to answer. Turning back to the computer, he ignored her.
Laurant swung around. “Nick, may I use your phone?” He handed it to her. “What’s Dr. Morganstern’s private number?”
Wesson did a one-eighty in the swivel office chair and sprang to his feet. “If you have any problems, you bring them to me.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, I don’t think so.”
Wesson looked at Nick for help in dealing with the difficult woman. Nick simply stared back at him as he rattled off Morganstern’s phone number. “Just hit thirty-two. It will speed dial the number for you.”
“Look, ma’am, I know I sounded . . .”
She paused in dialing. “Callous, Mr. Wesson. You sounded cold-hearted, cruel, and callous.”
Wesson tightened his jaw and narrowed his eyes at her. “It doesn’t do any of us any good to get personally involved. We’re trying to catch this pervert so that there won’t be any more dead bodies.”
“Her name was Tiffany,” Nick reminded.
“I’d like you to say her name,” Laurant told him.
Shaking his head resignedly, as though he’d say or do anything just to get her off his back, he said, “Tiffany. Her name was Tiffany Tara Tyler.”
She handed the phone back to Nick and marched out of the cabin. She was inside the car before Nick could open the door for her.
“What an obnoxious man,” she said.
“Yes, he is,” he agreed. “You made him sweat, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
“I don’t understand why Pete would put someone like him in charge.”
“He didn’t. Pete is consulting on this case. O’Leary’s the one in charge, and Wesson works under him.”
Nick headed the car back toward town. The sun was just beginning to disappear behind the trees, creating a luminous glow on the lake’s surface.
Laurant’s thoughts were on Tiffany. “Wesson actually cheered when he heard about that poor girl.”
Nick felt compelled to set the record straight. “No, he didn’t cheer because a woman was murdered. He was excited because we now have a crime scene, and hopefully, that’s going to change things. I’m not excusing Wesson’s behavior,” he added. “I’m just trying to explain it. He’s supposed to be a good agent. I’ve only worked with him once in the past, but that was a long time ago, and we were both new and inexperienced. Pete says he’s good. But Wesson’s going to have to prove it to me.”
“You said that now that you have a crime scene, things will change. How?”
“Every killer leaves what the profilers call his personal signature at his crime scene. It’s an expression of his sick and violent fantasies, and it will tell us a lot about him.”
“He’s careful, you said so yourself. What if there aren’t any clues at the crime scene?”
“There will be,” he assured her. “Whenever one person comes into contact with another, he leaves something behind, no matter how careful he is. A hair follicle, a scale of skin, a bit of a fingernail, tread marks from the bottom of his shoes, or maybe a thread from his pants or shirt . . . there’s always something left behind. The trick won’t be finding the evidence. It’s the analyzing what they find that’s more difficult. It will take time and care. And while the criminologists are doing their job, the photos of the scene will be sent to the profiler and he’ll tell us what fantasies the unsub’s acting out.”
He glanced over at her before continuing. “A killer’s signature,” he explained, “is his psychological calling card. He can change the methods he uses and the where and the when and the how, but he never changes his signature.”
“You mean there’s always a pattern.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Like the marks on the body or the way the body is positioned. The profiler looks at that and figures out what the killer is really after. I can already tell you that, with this man, it’s all about control.”
Nick stopped the car at the corner of Oak and Main. A young woman pushing a baby stroller crossed the street in front of them. She paused to give Nick the once-over and to wave at Laurant before continuing on.
“My house is on the next block, second from the corner. But I don’t want to go there. I wish we could just check into a motel.”
“You’ve got to go home and act like nothing’s wrong, remember?”
“I know, but I still don’t want to,” she said. “I don’t ever want to go back into that house again.”
“I can understand that.”
They drove down the street, which was lined with trees older than any of the residents. The light of dusk, filtered by low branches, dappled the yards, but heavy storm clouds were just beginning to loom up on the horizon. Laurant saw her house and remembered how charming she’d thought it was the first time she’d driven up to it. It was old and worn, and she loved it. After she had moved in, the first thing she did was purchase a porch swing at the garden shop. Every morning she’d take her cup of tea and sit on the swing while she read the paper. In the evenings, she’d chat with the neighbors tending their yards.
The tranquility she’d felt, the sense of belonging, was gone now, and she didn’t know if she would ever get it back.
“Is the camera still there, or did they take it away?” she asked.
“It’s still there.”
“Is it on?”
“Yes. We don’t want him to know we found it.”
“Then he didn’t see the agents when they went into my bedroom?”
“No, they found it in the hall closet,” he reminded her. “They kept out of the camera’s eye.”
He pulled into the driveway and turned the motor off. She was staring at the house when she asked, “Where would he get something like that? Do they sell transmitters in the stores?”