Sara asked, “Do you know the disposition of the bodies?”

“All but Van Dorne were cremated.” Faith walked over to one of the boards. “Here’s the important thing, though. There’s a pattern to the three recent murders.”

Amanda said, “We have no proof of murder.”

Faith made a face. “Feeney, Danske and Van Dorne. I ran through their social media profiles, checked dating sites, credit reports, addresses, all the usual stuff, but there’s no connection. But then I looked at the calendar. Feeney and Danske both disappeared the last week of March. Van Dorne disappeared the last week of October.”

Sara said, “Tommi Humphrey was attacked the last week of October. Caterino and Truong were attacked in late March.”

Faith said, “And Alexandra McAllister was killed in October. We’ve got a murderer who averages two victims a year, roughly five-to-seven months apart.”

Amanda gave her another sharp look, because that sounded like a serial killer.

Nick said, “The FBI profiler says that the killer thinks about what he’s doing for a while. There’s a fantasy element. Then, something sets him off. Maybe he loses another job or his mother nags him about leaving his socks on the floor, so he pops off.”

“Hold on, I’ve got an update from the lab.” Amanda looked at her phone. She tapped the screen a few times, then silently read. Finally, she told them, “The GBI doesn’t have a record of the Leslie Truong toxicology reports from Grant County eight years ago.”

Nick said, “We were still faxing back then. I might have a copy in my old files. The report would’ve gone from me to Brock with a cc to the Chief.”

Sara said, “It wasn’t in his files.”

Amanda told Nick, “Track it down.”

He closed his briefcase and left.

Sara said, “Brock should have a copy, too.”

“Good.” Amanda said, “Rasheed, go back to the prison and work on the Vasquez murder. Gary, you’ve still got your training wheels on. I need you out of here for this next part.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Gary closed his notebook. He left with Rasheed.

Amanda waited until the door was closed.

She told Faith, “Heath Caterino.”

Faith doubted Sara and Will had talked about yesterday’s revelation, so for Sara’s sake, she said, “Beckey Caterino has a seven-year-old son. He’ll turn eight at Christmas.”

Sara bit her bottom lip. She had done the math.

Faith told her about the letter Daryl Nesbitt had sent Gerald from prison. “Gerald supplied us with the DNA report off the saliva from the stamp and envelope seal. An AABB-accredited, court-recognized commercial lab ruled out Daryl Nesbitt as the father.”

“So,” Sara was clearly struggling to make sense of this new detail. “If Daryl isn’t Heath’s father, that means he wasn’t the person who attacked Beckey, which means he wasn’t the person who attacked Leslie Truong.”

Faith tried for the positive. “As soon as we find a suspect, we can prove he raped Beckey through a paternity test that ties him to Heath.”

Amanda said, “We can prove that he had sex with Beckey around the time that she was attacked. Yes, she identified as a lesbian, but any defense lawyer worth his salt would challenge her fluidity. The truth won’t matter. The girl is in no condition to say otherwise.”

Faith leaned her elbows on the podium. She was getting tired of Amanda knocking them down. There were so many flashing signs that they were practically landing on the Vegas strip.

Amanda picked up on her mood. “Faith, you of all people should be familiar with taking baby steps. We move one foot, then we move the other. We don’t jump across the room. Slow and steady builds the case. What about this Love2CMurder website?”

Faith paused to make her reluctance felt. “According to the site, Dirk Masterson is a retired Detroit homicide cop. He moved to Georgia with his wife, who is a retired school teacher, because they wanted to be close to their ten grandchildren. His invoices go to a post office box in Marietta. The city of Detroit has no record of an officer named Dirk Masterson. Meanwhile, he’s bilked Gerald Caterino out of tens of thousands of dollars.”

“Dirk Masterson,” Amanda said. “Isn’t that a porn name?”

None of them were comfortable with Amanda being the one to make this observation.

Faith said, “I filed a subpoena to Dirk’s ISP so we can find out who he really is. I read some of his so-called case files. He sounds like a cop like I sound like a chicken.”

“I want you in his face by the end of the day.” Amanda added, “Also, go back and look for women who were reported missing in the months of October and March over the last eight years. Email me the list. I’ll make some discreet phone calls.”

Faith felt a glimmer of hope, but she knocked it back with sarcasm. “Since we’re not looking for a serial killer with a specific pattern, should I put out an alert for current reports of missing women, or women who’ve reported feeling like they’re being watched?”

Amanda narrowed her eyes. “Sure.”

“Thanks.”

Amanda turned back to Sara. “Do you think Tommi Humphrey will talk to us? She’s the only living victim we have who can cogently provide information. It’s been nine years. Perhaps she’s remembered something.”

Sara’s reluctance was palpable. “I showed Nesbitt’s booking photo to her the day he was arrested. For what it’s worth, Tommi said it wasn’t him, but later that day she tried to hang herself in her parents’ backyard. She was taken to a private hospital for treatment. The family moved out of Grant a year later.”

Amanda said, “Tommi’s attacker spoke to her. He promised not to hurt more women if she kept silent. We can infer that he had other conversations with her. Perhaps she remembered something. Or, more than likely, she held something back.”

“It’s possible,” Sara allowed, but she was still visibly reticent.

Amanda pressed, “Would you be more amenable to reaching out to Tommi Humphrey if you could be the one to speak with her?”

Sara deflected. “She never looked at his face. She was drugged when it happened. She went into and out of consciousness. The medication alone could cause amnesia.”

“She could remember the days or weeks leading up to the attack,” Amanda said. “Did she feel like she was being watched? Was she missing anything that was important to her?”

Sara’s reluctance hadn’t abated, but she said, “I’ll try.”

16

Gina Vogel could not shake that unsettling feeling of being watched. She had felt it at the gym. She had felt it at the grocery store. She had felt it at the post office. The only place she didn’t feel it was inside of her house, and that was because she was keeping all of the blinds and curtains closed, even during the day.

What was wrong with her?

One missing scrunchie and she was turning herself into Howard Hughes, sans the money, fame and genius. Even her toenails were reaching Hughesian lengths. She had canceled her usual pedicure at the nail salon. The monthly appointments had started two years ago. There came a time in a woman’s life when she was not to be trusted to safely clip her own toenails. That time was when she needed reading glasses to see the finer details of her own damn feet.

Was she really too scared to leave the house?

Gina put her hand to the back of her neck. The hairs stood at attention. She had goosebumps on her arms. She was talking herself into a nervous breakdown because of one missing scrunchie and a general feeling that a madman was stalking her based on absolutely no proof except a bad feeling and too many hours of watching murder documentaries.

She had to get out of this house.

Gina walked to the front door. She was wearing her day pajamas, but none of her neighbors were home. At least none that she liked. She would walk to the mailbox and check her mail like a normal person.

She stepped down the concrete steps to the front stoop. She saw a car drive by. Acura. Dark green. Mom in the front. Kid in the back. Normal stuff. No big deal. Just a family going to school or to a doctor’s appointment, never mind the woman in stylish pajamas carefully stepping down from her own front door like a namby-pamby fool dipping her toe into the pool because she was afraid of jumping in.

Gina took another step down. She was on the walkway, then she was turning right onto the sidewalk, then she was standing in front of her mailbox.

Her hand felt trembly as she took out her mail. The pile was filled with the usual detritus—coupons, catalogs, circulars. She found her credit-card bill, which would be depressing, and a political campaign postcard, which was infuriating. The glossy magazine from her alma mater was a surprise. Gina had been blocked from the official Facebook page after she had posted that the theme for their twentieth reunion should be Fucked? Married? Killed?