By a quarter to eleven, however, Sean was more frustrated than ever. The information in the Philadelphia files brought him no closer to understanding the killer. The women from Pennsylvania could have been carbon copies of the ones from North Carolina in the looks department—blonde, in their twenties, with similar body types. The pennies, carvings, and public dump scenes also tied them all together. But that’s where the differences ended. The three local vics had all been working women—in legal professions—while only the last one in Philly had been working and had gone missing from a nightclub. The first one was probably picked up by the suspect posing as a john, and investigators had never been able to figure out where victim number two had encountered her killer.

He now had three new victims to add to the time line, but the suspect count still stood at zero. “Fuck.”

Sean stood and stretched as Brad, Brian, and Rafe walked into the room. They looked as frustrated as he felt. Since they were due in Sheriff Griffin’s office in a few minutes, the group decided to wait until after the press conference to compare notes.

Griffin met them in the hallway. “Let’s get this over with. God, I fucking hate these things.”

The sheriff had donned his formal dress uniform for the meeting with the press. Sean and the others were all wearing two-piece suits, white dress shirts, and subdued ties—very professional. The somber group started down the hall toward the lobby.

“By the way,” Griffin said, “the ME can’t make it. His mother broke her hip this morning and he’s at the hospital with her. Sean, the press is going to want to hear from the FBI, so be prepared for some questions.”

“No problem.”

As Lynch had told them earlier, the department’s press liaison, Sergeant Zweig, and Captain Dworski, had set up the conference on the front steps of the station. On the top step stood a wooden lectern with over a dozen microphones on it. Griffin approached it and spent the next five minutes updating the crowd of television and print reporters scattered on the steps and walkway. He released Daphne Jones’s name as the sergeant handed out copies of the photo of her that her roommate had given them. The picture had been taken with Cheryl Armstrong’s iPhone the night she’d gone missing and it showed Daphne’s smiling face, full of life. A life that was snuffed out a few hours later.

The sheriff asked for anyone who may have seen Daphne at Visions the night she was abducted to contact the task force and provided the department’s special phone number for information. He also said they would accept any tips on the other victims as well.

Sean was a little shocked at how many reporters there were. Apparently when the local broadcast of a serial killer in Dare County hit the news, it had attracted an even larger audience, twice as many reporters as the day before. There were news vans from all over the state, as well as a few from across the Virginia border, Washington DC, and even one from CNN. By this evening, the task force would be on national television from coast to coast. Most killers loved the attention they garnered from their crimes and Sean hated contributing to that, but it was a necessary evil. They would need the public’s help to solve these murders or a whole lot of luck. He didn’t care how they caught the killer—as long as they did.

“I’d like to introduce the members of the task force,” Griffin said into the multitude of microphones perched on the lectern he stood behind. “Lead detective, Brad Lynch, of the Dare County Sheriff’s Department. Detectives Rafe Montoya and Brian Malone of the SBI. And Special Agent Sean Malone of the Greenville FBI office.” He turned to Sean. “Agent Malone, would you like to make a statement?”

Not really. “Yes, Sheriff Griffin. Thank you.” He replaced the sheriff in the hot seat and basically repeated what Griffin had already told them, adding that the FBI was doing everything they could to assist the local law enforcement agencies.

“Agent Malone,” one male reporter yelled out. “Are there any suspects yet? And if not, have the FBI come up with a profile of the killer yet?

“As Sheriff Griffin already stated there is no official suspect yet, but we have several leads and are looking for anyone who may have known or come across any of the three victims at one time or another. As for your second question, we’re expecting an FBI profiler to arrive this afternoon from Quantico to assist us.”

“Agent Malone, are you new to the FBI?” This came from a busty, bleached-blonde, female reporter on the other side of the crowd. Sean was surprised at the question and before he had a chance to recover the woman added, “I tried to contact you through the Greenville office yesterday and was told you hadn’t officially started working there yet. Are you from another office? Is there a connection to other homicides in another state?”

Sean shot a glance at Griffin. The blonde was hitting a little too close to home for his comfort. Where the hell was she getting her information from? “No, I’m not new to the FBI. I’ve been assigned to the Jacksonville, Florida office for over seven years. I’m originally from North Carolina and transferred back here recently.” He deliberately didn’t mention the homicides in Pennsylvania. The longer they kept a lid on the cases up there, the better.

Sheriff Griffin wisely stepped back to the lectern at that moment and ended the press conference. “We’ll hold another press conference at the same time tomorrow. But for now there’s nothing else we’re releasing to the public. Please remind your female viewers to take extra precautions and not go out alone. They should travel in pairs and groups, avoid being alone when there are strangers around, lock their doors, and be extra vigilant. If any member of the public has any information pertaining to this case they can call our tip-line. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

Several reporters continued to shout out questions, but the lawmen ignored them, returning to privacy behind the electronically locked door inside the station.

When they were finally away from the microphones, Sean repeated his earlier thought aloud. “Where the hell are they getting their information and how the fuck did that reporter get my name? Does anyone know who she is and who she works for?”

“Jessica Daly, Channel Four News in Greenville, but she covers Dare and Currituck Counties,” Brad told him as they entered their conference room. “And she’s a bitch, a shark, and a mongrel with a bone all rolled into one. Always seems to be one step ahead of the other local stations.

“I’ve been on the receiving end of one of her quote-unquote investigations. She tried to hit on me to get information—wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole. She may be hot, but she’s too ambitious for her own good. Even if I wasn’t happily married, she’s definitely not my type.

“Be careful around that one. She’s gonna get herself into trouble one of these days.

“I’d love to know where she’s getting her info, though.”

Sean shed his jacket and hung it on the back a chair. “So would I.”

They all took seats at the oblong table and began to update each other and the sheriff with what they had learned since the morning briefing. Sean handed out copies of the reports Agent Winslow had e-mailed him. “She’s overnighting the rest of the stuff.”

Lynch took his copy of the reports and glanced at them. “Hey, what time does your profiler get in? My wife’s friend is the manager of the Day’s Inn up the street. I can call her and have a room set up for your agent. How many nights will she be here?”

“I haven’t a clue. But it’s . . . uh . . . no problem,” Sean replied. “I offered her the spare bedroom at the beach house.”

“Oh really?” his brother teased. “Getting cozy with the doc, huh? What happened to little Gracie?”

The younger Malone rolled his eyes. “Like I said before, asshole, Suki’s a friend—nothing more. I told her to take one of the spare bedrooms because it’s nicer than staying in a motel.” Sean didn’t mention Grace, but now he realized she might take Suki staying at the cottage the wrong way. He’d have to introduce them to each other and explain to Grace that he had no romantic interest in Suki. Why did it feel like he just dug himself into a deep hole?

* * *

Grace sighed with relief as the last physical therapist she’d interviewed left Pro-Care a few minutes after noon. Up until applicant number four, she’d thought she would never find another PT for the business. She wondered how numbers one through three had even graduated high school, much less gotten their physical therapy certifications. However, Tim Koppel, applicant number four, was perfect for the job. He was intelligent, friendly, seemed to have good references, and knew his stuff. The forty-eight-year-old was a widower and father of two teenage boys. He had been a physical therapist for almost twenty years in Seattle and had moved his boys to North Carolina to be closer to the rest of his family after his wife died of cancer two years earlier. He was currently working at one of the hospitals in Currituck County, but heard he might be losing his job soon due to cutbacks and layoffs. Deciding not to wait for that to happen, he’d applied for the job with Grace as soon as he’d heard about it. When she explained it was a new business and might be slow as they worked to develop a clientele, he responded he had no problem with that. Koppel had confided in her that he had an eye for investments and made enough money in the stock market to retire, but he was afraid he would be bored to tears if he did. Besides that, he loved working with people.

Grace would double check his references this afternoon, and if all was well, she’d call him in the morning to offer him the job. Now that she had staff and a place, she just needed the equipment to be delivered and she was good to go. She wanted to call Sean with the good news but didn’t want to disturb him at work. Maybe she’d stop by the beach house later to see him. In the meantime, she needed to go purchase the television and stop at the sign company to see the Pro-Care sign, which would be mounted outside her business above the door and picture window. They wanted her approval before delivering and installing it.

She was just grabbing her coat and purse when there was a strange scratching noise coming from the front door. Laughter burst from her when she looked and saw Dan Malone’s dog, Jinx, sitting on the other side of the glass “knocking” at her door with his paw. He had a silly look on his face, which Grace adored, and a piece of paper in his mouth. She unlocked the door and opened it. Jinx’s tail began wagging in earnest when she squatted down to his level and gave his ears a good scratching before taking the paper from him. Unfolding it, she read aloud, “Come join us for lunch at Dan’s. Love, Aunt Bonnie.” She grinned at Jinx. “I guess this is a formal invitation, huh, boy?”

The dog woofed his response causing Grace to start laughing again. “You won’t take no for an answer, will you?”

Jinx shook himself from nose to tail, turned, and after looking both ways as his human counterparts would, trotted back across the street to the hardware store. Grace didn’t realize how hungry she was until now and decided to join the older couple for a bite to eat. She knew Bonnie occasionally closed her shop for a half hour during lunch while leaving a sign in her boutique window saying she could be reached at the hardware store in an emergency. She often wondered why Dan and her aunt never became romantically involved. As far as Grace knew Bonnie hadn’t dated in years and Dan never remarried after losing his wife to cancer while they were both still in their twenties. Thirty-five years was a long time to live without someone special to love.

Anyway, lunch first, errands second.

* * *

George Wallace sat at the lunch counter of a local greasy spoon he frequented, waiting on his sandwich and watching the end of the twelve o’clock newscast with interest. I’ve made the news again, he thought with pride, and decided to record the evening news later to save as a memento. He hadn’t stayed in Pennsylvania long enough to garner any press up there but apparently he was big news here in North Carolina. He was now convinced moving to the house he’d inherited from his deceased aunt had been a great idea. The warmer weather would also bring tourists and beach bunnies who loved to show off their slutty, little bodies in two-piece bathing suits. Just thinking of potential victims made his mouth water.

“Here ya go.” He was snapped out of his fantasies by the waitress putting his lunch in front of him. “Can I get you anything else, George?”

“No thanks, Anita; this looks perfect.”

Anita smiled. “Well, enjoy. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will,” he responded, picking up half of the huge BLT. He liked Anita. An older, plump brunette with hints of gray, she was never anything but happy and kind. He often wished she was his mother.

At a very young age, George learned to fend for himself. He’d loved school and went every day, holding an A minus/B plus average all through his sixteen years of public education. It gave him a reprieve from his shitty home life that had included his mother’s drinking binges, scream fests, and beatings, which usually occurred in that order.

His mother had been a lazy-assed, bleached-blonde bimbo who sent him off to the movies every weekend so she could entertain her johns to subsidize what she received from the state in welfare and food stamps; the government wouldn’t pay for all the alcohol she liked to drink. He had only been a little kid and she’d told him to walk three blocks to the theater, by himself, with a handful of loose change. He had to buy a movie ticket with a bunch of quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies, while she was charging men a lot more than that to do disgusting things with them. What kind of mother did that? A lousy, worthless one.

He had to save the change the whore had given him for a few days, sometimes over a week, to have enough money for a movie to get away from his miserable life. In the meantime, he’d go to the park, or the zoo on free Wednesdays. Even though it hadn’t cost anything to get in, he still had to sneak in since the attendants usually questioned his age and wanted to know where his parent or guardian was. He could still remember the look on one woman’s face when he’d responded, “Fucking some guy for money.” Guess she hadn’t expected a seven-year-old to say something like that.

But little did Wanda Wallace know, as her son got older, he kept the paltry bit of change she gave him. Instead, he watched her and her clients from a small hole he’d drilled into the back of the closet in his room, which was next to his mother’s bedroom. The more he watched the fucking slut in action the more he hated her, which worked out well because she hated him. His mother had constantly reminding him of how she got stuck with him after his good-for-nothing father took off as soon as she’d told him she was pregnant.

He never did get into the zoo that day since he ran after the attendant had wanted to call the police to help him. They wouldn’t help him; they never did. Usually they just stuck him in horrible foster homes whenever his mother was in jail, then returned him to her after she promised it would be the last time. Right. And those assholes believed her, so his childhood had been nothing but a pitiful merry-go-round from hell.

At least it was until he turned fifteen.