Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
EVERETT
I wake in darkness with Vivian curled against me and my phone lighting up my nightstand.
It’s a text from Luke Ballard.
Incoming
Though I hate to leave Vivian and the warmth of her body, I’ve been waiting for this.
Moving slowly so I don’t wake her, I slip from the bed and pull on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, then grab my phone and head downstairs. I get the coffeemaker going.
Ballard’s team has been working around the clock on the killer’s burner phone since we sent it to him over a week ago. Yesterday, they finally obtained the serial number from the phone records.
My phone chirps again, and I huff a breath before turning it over. Giving Jordy Clarke over to the feds is still a sore subject, and even though it’s not Luke’s fault, a part of me wants to hold it against him.
He’s sent me an email with attachments .
Is this the moment I finally see the killer’s face?
Everett,
Serial number matches a phone sold at a big box store in Ogden, Utah. We used time of sale to view footage. We think this is our guy.
Luke
I download all the attachments, then click open the first one.
It’s grainy like all security footage, and shot from above. It shows a man partially turned away from the counter, a small plastic shopping bag in one hand. He’s wearing a baseball cap that shields his face, so I focus on the other details. He’s tall and on the lean side, his jeans hanging slightly loose on his thighs, but his chest is filled out, like he spends time in a gym, or maybe he works a labor job, like construction. Or he’s a climber. His long sleeved t-shirt has no logo or graphic markings, and he’s wearing sneakers.
In short, he could be anyone.
Though I’m relieved he has no resemblance to Jordy Clarke. It was a long shot, but one I can safely put to rest.
I open the next image. They must be in reverse order, because he’s a back step closer to the counter in this one. A good amount of the right side of his face is visible, but the hat shades what I need most—his eyes.
I go back one more.
In this one, the guy’s free hand is halfway up to the bill of his ball cap, like the camera caught him about to adjust it. I still don’t get his eyes, but there’s a gray smudge on his wrist, where the cuff of his shirt has slipped down. A watch? The edge of a tattoo? Some kind of bracelet? It’s too grainy and with the grayscale, I can’t be sure.
I advance through the next few images, but I don’t learn anything new. In the final picture, he’s facing the salesman, giving me his profile. He’s still wearing the cap, but I note his slightly elongated nose and his surprisingly plump lips. I also get the right edge of his eye, and when I zoom in, I detect what could be faint wrinkles.
It’s enough to make me think he’s late thirties, or early forties.
The last frame shows his hands on the edge of the counter. He’s turned away from the camera, showing the back of his head. His thick hair is trimmed short, and it’s dark. Most likely a dark brown.
Show me your eyes, damn it!
But this guy’s careful. He would have already scoped the cameras before he bought the phone. He wore a hat to conceal his face, and he never looks in this direction head on.
Damn it.
We are so close yet so agonizingly far.
My coffeemaker gives its final gurgle. I pull down a mug and fill it, then add milk from the fridge. After several sips, I go back to the photos.
There’s something bugging me about this guy’s features.
This time, I play them forward, quicker to trick my eyes into thinking he’s moving.
Is it the way he walks? Or is it those rounded lips?
I get the feeling I’ve seen this guy before. Where?
Another email from Ballard pings with the title rendition .
Composite sketch from one of our crime scene artists.
I open the attachment. The man staring back at me is only a best guess based on his features, his race, and estimated age, but that inkling I got earlier from the screen grabs is gone.
The rendition is off somehow.
I carry my coffee and phone to my office, and call Ballard.
“Hardly the slam dunk we were hoping for,” I say when he picks up.
He gives a heavy sigh. “Legit.”
“What now?”
“Every law enforcement agency in the intermountain west has these images,” he says .
This could help us if this guy gets pulled over or interacts with police somehow, but it’s unlikely to help us right now.
“What’s on his wrist?”
“I wondered that too. Tattoo maybe. Or one of those woven rope bracelets.”
Same conclusion I came to. “Did a burner phone show up on Kimberly’s records?”
“Yes. Different number though. And we don’t have the same type of proof of malicious intent that we did with Marin’s phone.”
“But you’re getting in, right?”
“Warrant came through yesterday. We should have something by tomorrow.”
I groan in frustration. “He’s going to hide his face from the cameras again.”
“I’d say that’s likely.”
“Fuck,” I grit out, then huff a breath.
“I know.”
Though my instinct is to put this guy on a WANTED poster and canvass every city in Idaho and Utah to see who might recognize him, the last thing we want is to spook him into hiding. Yet doing nothing isn’t an option, either.
Ashley Lambert’s haunted eyes flash through my mind.
“What do we do?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.
“We’re dispatching field agents to that store in Ogden. Maybe he’s been back, or maybe that salesclerk will recognize him.”
“And if that doesn’t pan out?”
“We keep digging. I know it’s frustrating, but we’re closing in.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
We end the call and I pull up the emails on my laptop. Maybe a bigger image will help me figure out what about this guy snagged my attention. I sip my coffee and click through the series again, twice, but nothing pops. When I pull up the sketch, it just pisses me off.
This guy is moving through the world in plain sight, but I can’t get to him.
Are we going to have to wait until he takes another young woman’s life to stop him?
I decide to go for a run and use the laundry room to change into my gear.
Under normal circumstances, moving helps me think, and refreshes my optimism. Not today, though I do appreciate the way it channels my pent-up frustration.
When I return home, the breakfast show is in full swing. Vivian gives me a bright smile from the kitchen where she’s scrambling eggs for the boys in a pair of leggings and one of my flannels. Thanks to her fancy new walking boot, she’s no longer tied to the crutches. Another sign that we’re all healing.
I wrap my arms around her and kiss her behind her ear. “Morning.”
“Morning,” she replies on a sigh.
We get lunches made and the boys out the door, then we shower together the way we have every day since she moved in, including a bonus round on the linen shelf. While Vivian finishes getting ready for her first day back at work, I make us breakfast and a travel mug of her tea. While I wish we could stay at home together all day, both of us have jobs to do, work we both believe in. For Vivian, it’s caring for children and new moms.
For me, it’s catching a killer.
I’m in my office gathering some papers when she peg-legs in. “I warmed up your coffee,” she says, carrying it to my desk.
I set it aside and pull her sideways onto my lap. “Thank you.” I slide my nose alongside hers, savoring her honey scent and the warmth of her body.
Her eyes fill with that tender longing I love. “You’re welcome.”
She gives the case files, maps, and murder books a quick glance. “Is this what got you out of bed this morning?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes linger on Marin’s murder book. “Any leads?”
“A new angle, yeah. ”
She sighs. “That’s good.”
“We’ll see.”
I caress down the curve of her back and wrap my arm around her waist. Our lips meet in a slow, sensual kiss. An electric buzz flips my belly inside out. Being away from her today is going to be torture.
She pulls back and presses her forehead to mine. “We should go… before we can’t.”
I give her one last kiss. “You’re right.”
When I shift her so I can stand up, the movement wakes my laptop and the images I was looking at earlier flash into focus. Oops. I reach out to close the lid when Vivian stops me.
“Is he part of your investigation?” Vivian asks with a frown.
I study her face, confused. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes turn wary. “That’s Professor Milankovitch. Has he done something wrong?”
A cold flush slides down my spine. “Professor? Wait a sec, do you know him?”
“I did some work for him.”
“You… what?” I grip her shoulders. “What do you mean?”
“I compiled data for a research project he’s running,” she rattles off. “It was easy work, and the pay was pretty good. I just did it in my spare time. He was going to send me more, but…”
“But what?” I prompt.
“With everything that’s happened, I sort of forgot. He was supposed to send me more work, but… I guess he never did.”
I close my eyes for a second to get my bearings. “My god.”
“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, her voice wavering.
“No, it’s nothing you did.” I cup her face and lock eyes with her “But baby, I need you to tell me everything you know about this guy.”