Kitabı oku: «The Girl Who Couldn't Forget», sayfa 3
Chapter Three
Riveted, Brooke stared at the screen, unwilling to believe what she was seeing. Layla, beautiful Layla, was carefully posed on the bed in the one-room cabin. Her head tilted to the right, toward the door and the kitchenette. Her shiny black hair fanned out on the pillowcase. Her pink gown was buttoned all the way up to her chin. The flowered peach comforter tucked under her arms had been smoothed to perfection, and her long fingers laced together below her breasts. Brooke stared at the plain gold band that gleamed from Layla’s left hand—stared so hard that her eyes strained and began to water. Not again.
Twelve years ago, Layla was forced to be Hardy’s bride. That had been her role in the sick little family he had created. Night after night, he’d come to her, demanding his rights as her husband. At first, Layla had screamed. And she must have struggled, because Brooke had heard the crashing around and had treated Layla’s wounds the following day. Her blood had been literally on Brooke’s hands.
After a while, Layla had given up and quit fighting. Her desperate cries had faded into quiet sobs. At the end of the seven months they were held captive, Layla’s voice had been silent in the night.
Brooke buried her face in her hands. Layla didn’t deserve an early death, not after what she’d survived. She’d worked so hard to get through law school. Her dream had been to defend other victims who had given up hope and had nowhere else to turn. Why had she been taken? Why? Brooke dropped her hands. There was no answer. Sometimes, life didn’t make sense.
In a flat voice, she said, “Layla’s dead.”
“We don’t know for sure.”
Sloan didn’t make the mistake of trying to comfort her with a touch or a pat on the shoulder or a hug. He kept his distance. Smart man. She could already feel her grief transforming into anger, and she might lash out at whatever or whoever was in her path. “I should call the sheriff.”
“I’ll handle it,” he said. “Give me directions to the cabin or an address so I can contact the authorities and the ambulance.”
She wrote the information on a sticky note. Her fingers trembled, but she took care to make her penmanship legible. “We don’t have a spare key hidden at the cabin, and the windows are secure. Still, I’d appreciate if they don’t break down the door.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
He stepped away from the desk but didn’t leave the office. Hovering in the doorway, he kept an eye on her. His voice was a smooth murmur as he made phone calls. She overheard him tell someone to treat the cabin like a crime scene.
The image on the computer screen wavered before her eyes, and she forced herself to inhale a steadying breath before she made a promise to Layla Tierney. “You will have justice, my sister. I will find the bastard who did this to you, and I will make him pay.”
Adrenaline surged through her veins. A wake-up call. This sensation was unlike her panic attacks or the nervous tension that sapped her energy and left her paralyzed. She felt powerful, strong and filled with purpose. There was nothing more she could do for Layla, but she’d make sure the killer was caught and no one else came to harm.
With a few keystrokes, she exited the computer connection to the cabin. If Franny came in here and stumbled across the image of their dead friend, she’d be devastated. Brooke rose from behind her desk and confronted Sloan when he ended his call.
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
“Please sit, Brooke. I need to ask you a few questions.”
Still standing, she said, “We should get going.”
“You tried to reach Layla at the cabin yesterday. What time?”
“It was after Franny and I left her apartment—between four thirty and four forty-five. The cabin was empty.”
“And today?”
“It was three hours ago, before I made lunch. One of the twins contacted me, and I told her I’d check again.” At the time, she hadn’t been worried. Over the years, she’d grown complacent, believing all of them were safe and could lead relatively normal lives. Clearly, a mistake. “This was my fault. If I’d gone to the cabin this morning, I could have prevented Layla’s murder.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Based on the time I contacted her, she must have been killed during the three-hour window between eleven thirty and right now.”
“I advise against making assumptions,” he said in a firm voice that was both aggravating and authoritative. “Until we investigate and have evidence, we can’t draw conclusions.”
“But it’s obvious.”
“Think about it, Brooke.” Rather than handling her with kid gloves, he seemed to be using a direct approach. “Did you see signs of violence in the cabin?”
She appreciated his candor. “There wouldn’t be blood spatters if she was strangled.”
“But she would have struggled,” he said. “I see no defensive wounds on her hands or arms. No bruises or scratches. We don’t know what happened. Or when. To determine the time of death, we need a coroner’s report.”
“You’re right.”
“She might have died elsewhere and been transported to the cabin.”
Brooke was ashamed that she hadn’t considered all those possibilities. Where was her brain? Her intelligence seemed to have deserted her at a moment when she needed to calm down and concentrate. Sloan was right when he told her not to base her thinking on unfounded suppositions, which was precisely why she needed to go to the crime scene and gather information. “Shouldn’t we be going?”
“When was the last time you spoke to Layla?”
“I can check my phone records, but I think it was four days ago, on Monday. She’d made an appointment to look at a property she might lease as an office and wanted me to come.” Brooke sat behind her desk, brought up her digital calendar and pointed to the notation. “See, right there. It was supposed to be tomorrow at ten in the morning. I should call and cancel.”
Verifying a meeting with a property manager seemed trivial, but Brooke knew she’d make that call before the day was over. She was compelled to take care of details. Life went on even when Layla was dead. Oh, God, this was so unfair. Tears threatened, and she tossed her head, shaking them away. “I’m ready. We should go now.”
“I can’t take you with me, Brooke. Bringing a witness to a crime scene is against the rules.”
The clever man already knew her well enough to present the argument that would be most persuasive. He was aware that she hated to disobey normal conventions. But her need to avenge her friend surpassed her habit of coloring inside the lines. She had to convince him.
“Lipstick,” she said.
“What about lipstick?”
“Layla is wearing a particular color—Rosy Posey—that Hardy liked. She’d never choose that disgusting pinkness for herself. And the shiny, narrow wedding band is almost a perfect match for the one that Hardy forced her to wear.” She could be straightforward, too. “I know more about Layla and the things that happened to us than anyone else. You need me. I can be a valuable asset in your investigation.”
“And I’ll review my findings with you. But you should stay here, where you’re safe. It might be best for you and Franny and the others to go into protective custody.”
“I won’t object if you arrange for a patrol car to park outside and keep an eye on Franny.”
“Consider it done.”
“I’m going to the cabin. Either I can ride with you or I’ll drive myself.” She took a small key from the rectangular wooden pencil box on her desktop, unlocked the lower right drawer and took out her Glock 42 handgun in its holster. “Your choice, Sloan.”
He approached her desk and stopped when he was close enough to reach out and snatch the weapon from her hand. “Do you have the necessary registration and permits?”
“I take the ownership of a weapon seriously,” she said. “Not only have I gone through the certification and qualified as expert in marksmanship, but I have a shooting range in the basement for target practice.”
His eyebrows lifted, and his gray eyes widened. “In the basement?”
“Soundproofed, of course.” She’d managed to surprise him, and that pleased her.
“You don’t need a gun,” he said. “When we get to the cabin, there’ll be several armed officers.”
“When we get there...” She parroted his words, underlining his implied acceptance. He had almost agreed to bring her along. “I promise that I won’t get in the way.”
“Why does it feel like you tricked me?”
Before he changed his mind, she wanted to get him out the door and into the car. Quickly, she slipped into her espadrilles under the desk. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
“Leave the weapon here.”
She weighed the alternatives. The gun made her feel safer, but she wanted Sloan on her side. Pushing him too hard might be a mistake. She returned the Glock to her desk drawer, locked it and grabbed her handy-dandy, all-purpose black fanny pack. “Do you have a problem with this?”
“Not if you keep your pepper spray in the holster.”
After he called in a police car to guard the front door and she dashed upstairs to tell Franny to stay put, they were on their way.
* * *
FROM THE STREET in front of Brooke’s house to the cabin was a drive that took seventy minutes, more or less. This afternoon would be more. Traffic snarls, detours and bumper-to-bumper jam-ups slowed their progress. Though impatient, Brooke was grateful for the extra time to figure out exactly what she was doing.
Her first instinct had been to launch herself into the investigation, even though she knew for a fact that impulsive actions were often regrettable. She’d be wise to trust the police and the FBI. After all, it was their job to nab murderers. Sloan would probably be the officer in charge, and he seemed competent.
She studied his profile as he drove. His firm jaw hinted at a determined attitude, and she hoped that trait held true, that he was unstoppable and wouldn’t rest until he caught his man. But she knew better than to count on his physiognomy to understand his character. Hadn’t the notorious serial killer Ted Bundy been an attractive man? She didn’t know Sloan well enough to trust him.
He seemed to be a careful driver but had been talking on his hands-free phone the whole time they were in his SUV. He’d plugged the address for the cabin into his GPS and was relying on the dashboard information for directions rather than asking her. He probably thought he was being efficient. But he wasn’t. If asked, she could have directed him to a shortcut that would have avoided the usual slowdown on Sixth.
Sloan ended his call and looked toward her. “I’ve asked Agent Gimbel to meet us at the cabin.”
“Smart move.” Not only had Agent Gimbel studied their case, but she’d be glad to see him. The older man was a reassuring presence.
“I have one more call.”
“Take your time.”
Brooke would have preferred being in charge. She never enjoyed riding in the passenger seat, but she forced herself to lean back and let the air-conditioning wash over her while she kept her mouth shut. When Sloan took a sharp left turn, she pinched her lips together to keep from blurting out her criticism of his momentarily inattentive driving. She closed her eyes.
Relaxation was impossible. The inside of her head filled with the image of Layla from the computer. Brooke popped her eyes open and blinked hard, hating that high-definition memory. Why can’t I just forget?
Being too smart was a curse. She’d rather be blissfully dumb. But not really. She appreciated her intelligence. The secret was how to use it. Recalling what Sloan had said about details that might be clues, Brooke purposely brought back the vision.
Except for the garish pink lipstick, Layla hadn’t seemed to be wearing much makeup, which was her preference. She seldom bothered with mascara and foundation, preferring a clean face and frequently washed hands. Her personal hygiene habits were even more compulsive than Brooke’s. Had the person who murdered Layla known about that trait? Had he made sure that her hair was freshly washed? Her hands clean? Was he someone who knew her well? Or was he a stalker who had watched her for a long time?
She needed a profile of the killer. Supposedly, that branch of psychology was within the realm of Sloan’s expertise. “We need to get started,” she said, interrupting his phone call.
He excused himself to the person on the phone and looked at her. “Started with what?”
“The profile,” she said. “I want a basis to work from.”
Finally, the SUV hit a path of smooth, unobstructed highway as they approached the foothills. At the end of an arid summer, the vegetation was dull as dirt. He ended his phone call and said, “A profile isn’t guaranteed to be accurate. It provides broad parameters of personality type and behavior.”
“A parameter is just fine. Like I said, I want the profile as a basis—a starting point for the investigation.”
“You can help me.” He shot her a quick glance. “I can’t pull a detailed profile out of my back pocket. I can start with gathering more information about Layla.”
“Like what?” She gestured for him to speed it up. “Ask me questions.”
“From reading Gimbel’s files, I know that she was an orphan with no family ties.”
“Like me.” The demographic was the same. They were both orphans, but Layla’s life was far more complicated. Her parents were both addicts who died together in a car accident when Layla was five or six years old. Brooke had been abandoned at birth—wrapped in a cheap blanket and left outside a fire station. “We both had lousy upbringings but were doing okay until we got kidnapped by a psycho. Move along.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The gentleness of his voice surprised her. She hadn’t expected sympathy or empathy or whatever this was. Her shields went up. “We’re going to be at the cabin in twenty-five minutes or less. What else do you need to know?”
“Tell me about Layla’s social life. Was she a party girl? Did she have a lot of boyfriends or only one special guy?”
“Parties and clubs weren’t her thing. She didn’t drink or do drugs. Two years ago, there was a guy in law school that she got serious about, but nobody recently.”
“Online dating?”
“Never.” Like her, Layla was protective of her privacy. “I don’t understand all these questions about her. Shouldn’t your profile focus on the murderer?”
“The victim comes first. Understanding why the killer attacked her can help in building a profile.” Following the GPS directions, he made a right turn onto a secondary road that went deeper into the pine forests. “It might seem obvious to you that Layla’s murder is tied to the abductions twelve years ago, but the scope of an investigation is widespread. She might have been targeted by someone she knew at school.”
“Then why would they put on that lipstick or the wedding ring?”
“The quick answer is that they were interested in her history and looked up the details on the computer, but there are many other possibilities.”
“You’re being thorough.”
“That’s right.”
She nodded in approval. “I’ll make a list of the men Layla dated in the past couple of years. And another list of professional contacts—people she’s worked for, schoolmates, professors and mentors.”
“Also doctors, therapists and your attorney,” he said. “It’d help if you put it on a thumb drive so we can build a database.”
“All those guys are suspects?”
“Most will be quickly eliminated, but it helps to cover all bases.”
“You can turn off the GPS,” she said. “We’re here.”
The cabin that she and Layla had purchased for their private hideaway perched among the trees on the side of a steep hill. The main road ascended the incline, and her driveway peeled off, cutting straight across the hill, forty-seven yards to her cabin. Several official-looking vehicles, including an ambulance, had gathered at the start of the asphalt driveway but hadn’t driven up to the house.
She looked toward the house, where she counted two men in sheriff’s uniforms and one in a suit like Sloan. “Why didn’t they drive closer?”
“They didn’t want to disturb possible tire tracks or footprints.”
The driveway was mostly asphalt, but there was dirt on either side. Again, she was impressed by the methodical approach used by law enforcement. She unfastened her seat belt and inhaled what she hoped would be a calming breath. In moments, the image on the computer screen would become real. She would see Layla’s motionless form. The only other dead bodies she’d seen had been neatly tucked away in coffins at funerals or displayed scientifically as cadavers when she took an anatomy course.
“You need to stay in the car,” Sloan said.
She felt a glimmer of relief. She wasn’t squeamish—far from it—but she would rather picture her friend laughing or picking flowers or reading a book. It had taken a long time to partially bury her memories of Layla after her nights as Hardy’s “bride.” The thought of her death was worse.
Still, Brooke couldn’t back down. “If you didn’t want my help in your investigation, why did you bring me along?”
“I didn’t want you to race up here, half-cocked and looking for trouble.”
An unfair characterization if she’d ever heard one. “I’m never half-cocked.”
From her fanny pack, she heard the buzz of her cell phone indicating a text message. While engaged in conversation with another person, she usually ignored texts. But she was worried about Franny.
She checked the message and read it twice: Settle down, Brooke, or you’ll be next.
Chapter Four
Sloan took the cell phone from her hand and read the message. The “you’ll be next” part seemed like a generic threat, but the effect of the text on Brooke indicated something more significant. Her lower lip quivered. Her blue eyes wavered as though frantically seeking an escape route. For the first time since they’d met, he caught a glimpse of raw vulnerability.
Watching her reaction, he said, “‘Settle down,’ it says. What’s behind those words?”
“Hardy always said that to me. ‘Settle down, Brooke.’” Her fingers knotted in her lap, and she stared down at them. “Is the murderer watching us? Is he close enough to see what’s going on?”
He couldn’t guarantee that she was safe from an observer with binoculars or a rifle scope. This area was too heavily forested, and the hills were dotted with boulders that a sniper could hide behind. “I can arrange for you to be taken home.”
“I want to be here. I owe it to Layla.” She hunched her shoulders, fighting her fear. “I can’t let a stupid text message throw me.”
“A reminder of the past,” he suggested.
“I’m fine.”
When she looked up, her defenses slammed back into place. She was twice as prickly as before. Her blue eyes were as hard as tempered steel. Her chin jutted at a stubborn angle, and her spine was ramrod stiff. His natural instinct was to be gentle, to reassure her and hold her close, but that wasn’t going to happen. If he reached toward her, she might rip his arm off.
The main reason he’d brought her along was to gather information, and he needed to penetrate her shell to find the insights he needed. Keeping his tone conversational, he asked, “When Hardy told you to settle down, what did you do?”
“I settled.”
“Did he use that phrase with all of you? Franny mentioned that her mystery caller said something about little ladies who don’t behave.”
“His commands were different,” she said, “depending on our role in the sick, disgusting family he put together.”
Sloan waited for her to continue. He’d read about their captivity in Gimbel’s reports and knew that Hardy had kidnapped the six young women for different reasons. Only two had been sexually molested: Layla and Sophia. All had been restrained, chained, starved and brutalized.
“His family, ha!” Her rage and loathing erupted. “We weren’t allowed to have feelings or opinions. Everything revolved around him. Layla was his bride. Sophia was his girlfriend. The younger girls—Franny and the twins—were his playmates, his little ladies. And if they didn’t do as he said, he’d take great pleasure in disciplining them.”
Hardy had punished Franny by cutting off the tip of her finger. To make it worse, he’d forced Brooke to hold Franny’s wrist and had told her that if she refused, he would lop off the whole hand. Calling them family was one of the cruelest things he could do to these foster kids who either had come from dysfunctional families or had been abandoned—or both.
She continued, “I was the mother. My job was to keep the house clean and do the cooking with whatever scraps he brought home. If I dared to ask for more or burned the food or left a speck of dust on the table, he’d tell me to settle down. And there would be a punishment so I wouldn’t forget what I’d done wrong.”
Her early life had been a horror show, and Sloan was impressed with her fortitude and her ability to handle her post-traumatic stress. Again, he wished he could embrace her. Quietly, he said, “I’m sorry for what you went through.”
“Enough about the past,” she said abruptly. “We should get on with the investigation.”
He’d already decided against bringing her into the cabin crime scene. There was no need to retraumatize her with the sight of her murdered friend. But how was he going to convince her to stay in the car? Handcuff her to the steering wheel?
“A few more questions,” he said. “Tell me about your security at the cabin. Is it like your house? Do you have cameras?”
“Not anymore. I had a couple of motion-sensitive cameras, but they were difficult to maintain. When they got stolen by vandals a few months ago, I never bothered replacing them.”
“You had a robbery?”
“An attempted robbery,” she said. “There was a screaming loud alarm that went off when someone tried to break in the door. There was nobody close enough to hear it so I got rid of it. All the windows are triple-pane glass, which is really hard to shatter. And there’s a dead bolt on the door.”
He appreciated her efforts to protect herself and the people she loved. “How often do you come here?”
“At least once a month. Layla is a more frequent visitor.” She exhaled an impatient sigh. “Why are you wasting time with these questions?”
“To help me build a profile.” He doubted she’d argue with that logic, but she scoffed. Brooke had never met a nit she didn’t pick.
“I don’t get it,” she muttered. “What do my security precautions tell you about the murderer?”
“The fact that you and Layla kept your cabin locked up tells me that the killer needed to exercise care and intelligence when he chose to use this place. The murder wasn’t a random attack. He planned his actions.” For the moment, she seemed satisfied. “Now, let’s go back to those special phrases, like settle down. How many people would know them?”
“Only a few hundred thousand.” She gave a cold, ironic laugh. “We were written up in the newspapers and online and in all kinds of journals, plus there was the television documentary by Nick Brancusi.”
“He’s the same guy who’s talking to Sophia in Las Vegas, right?”
“A scum bucket.” Anger threaded her voice. “I told Sophia that I’d never agree to another project like the last one, but she was free to do whatever she wanted.”
“Sophia is the only one who moved away from the Denver area.”
Brooke shrugged. “She always held herself kind of separate, as though she was better than the rest of us, and I’d have to admit that she was definitely the prettiest. After her attempt at a career in Hollywood fizzled, she ended up in Vegas. She thinks another documentary would be good publicity.”
“And you don’t.”
“Oh, hell no.”
He looked through the windshield toward her cabin and saw Gimbel coming down the driveway. The old man gave a cheerful wave. With plastic booties on his feet, his plaid shirt and red suspenders, he looked like a cowboy clown. As soon as Brooke spotted him, she beamed a smile, flung open her car door and dashed toward him. Had she already forgotten the potential watcher in the woods? It didn’t seem like her to ignore a threat.
Though she was obviously fond of the retired agent she’d known for twelve years, she was still skittish. First, she shook Gimbel’s hand and exchanged hellos, then Gimbel touched her arm and spoke quietly to her, and finally she collapsed against him. It wasn’t a real embrace, because Brooke held her stiff arms close to her body, but she allowed the older man to hold her. For a brief moment, her shoulders shuddered, and Sloan thought she might cry. Instead, she tossed her head and stepped back two paces.
“Glad to see you,” Sloan said to the former agent. “Would you stay here with Brooke while I take a look inside the cabin?”
“I’m coming with you,” Brooke said.
This was where he had to draw the line. “No civilians at crime scenes. Not until the forensic team is done gathering evidence.”
“But it’s my house.”
“Those are the rules,” he said. “But I’m willing to offer a compromise. While I’m inside, I’ll take photos. Then I’ll bring them out here and show you. If there’s anything you have a question about, I can go back in and get an answer. Deal?”
Through clenched teeth, she said, “I don’t like it, but okay.”
“I’ve got a problem,” Gimbel said. “I’m happy to spend time with Brooke, who’s one of my favorite people in the world, but this heat is kicking my tired old butt. Give me your car keys, Sloan. Your FBI-issued SUV has a better cooling system than my truck.”
And it provided better protection against watchers. He dropped the keys into Gimbel’s waiting hand. “Do you miss the perks of the job?”
“I do, but not the responsibilities.”
“Don’t worry about us,” Brooke said. “We’ll stay cool...in your air-conditioning.”
A joke? As if she was lighthearted? He did not understand this woman.
Leaving them behind, he strode up the inclined driveway toward the cabin. He hoped to kick-start his profiling before the news of Layla’s murder leaked to the media, and he needed to clarify his responsibilities with the other agents involved.
Investigating had already begun. At the edges of the asphalt driveway, he noticed a few numbered placards indicating footprints and tire tracks. The one-room log cabin perched on the side of a steep, forested cliff with the front porch facing a retaining wall and a direct view of the opposite side of the canyon. The setting was isolated. He doubted there would be witnesses who might have noticed the arrival of the murderer.
At the side door to the cabin, he approached Special Agent Sam Keller, who—like Gimbel—had beaten him to the scene. Disposable booties covered Keller’s shoes, indicating that he’d been inside and had chosen to leave. Sloan understood. He hated death scenes. His expertise was discovering motive, not dealing with the physical, forensic evidence.
“Hey, Sloan, why did you bring the girl along?” In spite of the circumstances, Keller’s greeting was cheerful. “Are you keeping your enemies close? Scared she’ll attack you again?”
He never should have mentioned the pepper spray to the other guys in the FBI office. “Have you been inside the cabin?”
“Yeah, and we caught a break. I’ve arranged for the body to be delivered to our morgue and ME in Denver for autopsy, but the local coroner is a retired MD. He’s got preliminary results. According to him, she’s been dead for over forty-eight hours.”
Brooke would be relieved to know that Layla had been killed before yesterday when she checked the camera in the cabin. Nothing could have been done to prevent her friend’s murder. “Cause of death?”
“Ligature strangulation. No defensive wounds.” Keller lowered his sunglasses and glared over the rims. “Assistant Director Martinez put me in charge of this investigation. Everything coordinates through me.”
His alpha-male stance was unnecessary, because Sloan didn’t want to be the boss. “It makes sense for you to take the lead. I haven’t been here long and don’t have your connections with the locals. There could be jurisdictional problems.”
“Count on it.” He pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and leaned back on his heels to make himself look taller. “Anything that involves the Hardy Dolls is high profile.”
He had the distinct feeling that Keller enjoyed the attention. “I suppose you’ll be talking to the media.”
“I’ve got no choice. They’re going to want a statement.” He preened. “I’ll keep the murder quiet for as long as possible, but things are going to get crazy. I wasn’t at the Denver office twelve years ago, but I saw the segments on national TV news shows.”
Sloan remembered the sad photos of six little girls. “It was a lot of coverage.”
“Have you ever been part of a big story like that?”
During his years in Texas, he’d participated in several serial killer investigations but had never been the agent in charge. “Here’s what I’m thinking, Keller. I’d like to spend most of my time with Brooke and the other women, setting up profiles and following leads. I’ll report directly to you.”
“Fair enough.”
In the interest of full cooperation, he told Keller about the text Brooke had received and suggested they might want to search the hillsides. Quick and efficient, Keller dispatched a couple of the local law enforcement officers who were hanging around outside the cabin, waiting for the FBI forensic people.
He glanced over at Sloan. “The coroner’s still inside, if you want to talk to him.”
Before entering through the side door, Sloan put on booties and latex gloves. “Were there signs of a break-in?”
“No scratches on the wood frame. No pry marks. Both doors—the one in front and this one—were unlocked when the locals arrived.”
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