Criminal Investigation Division
10:30 a.m.
“I know it’s Sunday,” Lieutenant Eudora Owens began, “and we’d all rather be someplace else like church.”
Bauer laughed. “No point wasting a perfectly good Sunday morning in church when you’re going to hell anyway.”
The LT rolled her eyes.
“Speak for yourself, Bauer,” Devine challenged, “the rest of us might have different plans.”
Bobbie propped her head in her hand, mostly to cover a smile. It was good to see the team interacting the way they did before they lost Newt. He would never want the team to suffer because he was gone. Miss you so much, Newt.
Nick’s kiss nudged its way into her thoughts. She wanted to regret the moment but somehow she couldn’t. She had felt the urgency in his touch. Maybe they were both a little desperate for human touch.
Desperation is never a smart thing. Distraction was even more dangerous and definitely something neither of them could afford just now.
Clearing her mind, Bobbie fixed her attention on the case board as Owens reviewed what they had so far, which was not a hell of a lot. A sketch artist had worked with Sage Parker to develop an image of the man he’d seen. The sketch had been shared with the FBI and other departments as well as the media. Devine still dropped his head whenever the sketch was mentioned. He needed to deal with it. The sketch could be an important tool in the search for Fern Parker and Vanessa Olson—that was top priority. Not a single cop in the MPD was going to relax until those girls were found.
Next to Bobbie, Holt’s chair squeaked with her shifting. She hadn’t said much this morning. Bobbie wondered if baby Howie was sick or if she and Tricia were fighting again. A cop’s life was complicated. Throw a newborn into the mix and things could be really tough. Bobbie made a mental note to remind Holt not to take a minute with the baby and her wife for granted. It could all vanish in an instant.
“Unfortunately,” Owens was saying, “the bites our killer took from the hearts of Heather and Nigel Parker weren’t clean enough to create an impression.”
Though Bobbie had heard this news first thing this morning from Carroll, she groaned along with the rest of the team. She and Carroll had discussed at length all her findings, including her conclusions about the murder weapon.
“For now,” Owens continued, “we’ve officially linked the Parker, Manning and Olson cases. The list of persons of interest continues to grow, but we have no true suspects. The tip line has given us nothing but leads that don’t pan out. We need to find the connection among these victims. We need to find it fast, people. Our friends in the FBI are working equally diligently toward that end. The chief and I sat in on a briefing at eight this morning. They’re still beating the bushes just as we are.”
“Hanover’s dagger may be the murder weapon we’re looking for,” Devine said. “Dr. Carroll believes the blade in the photo he provided is a match to the pattern left in the bodies of the Parker victims.”
“That doesn’t make him the murderer,” Owens countered. “The FBI believes this is the work of a fledgling serial killer.” Everyone in the room grumbled and she raised her hands to quiet their protest. “However, I don’t agree. I believe the warning Weller shared with Bobbie is what set these murders in motion. If that proves the case, we’re looking at a far more cunning foe here. A killer potentially sent by one or more of the most heinous serial killers alive today. The FBI insists this so-called Consortium does not exist. They believe Weller is playing some sort of twisted game with Bobbie and his son, Nick Shade. Whatever the case, we need to stay focused and watch our backs.”
“Why isn’t the FBI sitting in on this briefing?” Bobbie had wondered from the moment she entered the room why no one had shown up other than their team. It wasn’t like the feds to ignore a briefing.
“Since we’re only going over the limited information we have,” Owens explained, “I saw no reason to include God and everyone else in this briefing. We passed along what we had to share this morning.”
As true as her statement was, Bobbie had been a part of this team too long not to understand that the LT’s announcement was code for someone on the FBI’s team had seriously pissed her off. She was generally a gung-ho team player.
Holt said, “Late last night I received a call from Manning’s sister. She and the family forgot to mention a broken engagement with a woman the vic dated a couple of years ago. Bauer and I are interviewing her this afternoon.”
“Two years is a long time to wait for vengeance,” Bauer said, showing his skepticism about the lead.
“Follow every lead,” Owens reminded, “no matter how seemingly unlikely. Taking into consideration Weller’s possible involvement, the killer is probably someone none of the victims knew, but we have to go through the usual steps until we have reason to do this any differently.”
When the killer learned Nick was in Montgomery, Bobbie figured going after him would be the next logical step. Nick kept his vehicle parked away from her house. He hadn’t appeared at any of the crime scenes as he had the last time they’d worked together. But she knew better than to believe he was hiding. Whatever his strategy he wasn’t ready to share it with her yet.
Considering the reports he’d posted on his case map last night one thing was abundantly clear: he had at least one high-level source in the FBI. Not to mention the numerous ones he had among killers and those who studied them. His life was even more engrossed in murder than hers. She wondered if he ever took a break. Where would a man like Nick Shade vacation? What would he do for a hobby?
When was the last time you took a vacation? Bobbie had no right to point fingers. Her last hobby had been finger painting back in kindergarten.
“Keep knocking on doors,” Owens said. “A neighbor or maybe a visitor of one of the neighbors had to have seen something. These murders didn’t happen in a vacuum. Find a connection between Fern Parker and Vanessa Olson. Their bodies haven’t turned up, so we have to assume the killer has plans for them. I want those women found alive.” She looked directly at Bobbie and added, “Whatever you find—no matter the source—I want to hear it.”
The attention in the room shifted to Bobbie. Holt had already taken her to task about not coming clean with her when she’d asked. Bobbie held up her hands in surrender. “Yes, ma’am.”
Owens gave her a nod, then gathered her notes and left the conference room. When Devine and Bauer congregated at the case board to bemoan the sketch that looked so much like her partner, Bobbie moved closer to Holt. “Is everything okay? That couple down the street still having trouble?”
Bauer had mentioned how worried Holt was about the wife and kid. Watching a victim plummet toward disaster and knowing that nothing you could say or do would stop the coming crash was one of the worst parts about being a cop.
“Things were quiet for the first part of the night and then all hell broke loose.” Holt yawned. “Howie’s not sleeping. Tricia and I are both exhausted. I think last night was the worst.”
“The one thing you can count on with a baby,” Bobbie advised, “is that nothing stays the same. He may start sleeping through the night next week. He could be on the verge of a growth spurt.” She smiled. “I remember when Jamie hit six months. For two or three weeks it was like I had someone else’s baby. The sweet little guy who hadn’t given us a minute’s trouble suddenly fretted nonstop.”
Holt stared at Bobbie in surprise as if she’d announced she knew the identity of the murderer they needed to find.
Bobbie opened her mouth to ask what was wrong when she realized what she’d said. This was the first time since Jamie died that she’d spoken so openly and casually about him with anyone. Getting air into her lungs was suddenly harder than it should have been.
Holt reached out and squeezed her arm. “Thank you. I’ll tell Tricia we might just survive this.”
Bobbie managed a jerky nod.
Westminster Drive
2:00 p.m.
Sixteen-year-old Bree Chastain could have been Fern Parker’s twin. Devine had mentioned this similarity the first time he’d interviewed the girl. The two had the same blond hair and wore matching black clothes. Bree’s parents, Harlan and Brenda, sat quietly on either side of their daughter, hands clasped. The father had called to say his daughter might have relevant information about Fern.
“She was worried about her little brother,” Bree said. “All the trouble she’d been in lately was because of this stupid kid who was bullying Sage. Fern never got into trouble at school until that happened.”
“Did she call or text you the night she was murdered?”
Like most suspicious teenagers, Fern kept her phone empty of evidence. Her call and text logs had been cleared. It was possible the killer had done this but since neither the mother’s nor the father’s had been cleared, Bobbie doubted that was the case. Regrettably it took time to get phone records and time was something they didn’t have.
Bree nodded. “I was supposed to spend the night with her, but her parents were fighting, so she sent me a text and said maybe we should do it another night. I asked her to come here and she said no. She and her brother were afraid to leave the house when their parents fought.”
“Why is that?” Bobbie asked. “Were Fern and Sage afraid their parents would hurt each other?” There was no record of assaults, but not all were reported. Like Holt’s neighbor, some people were too afraid or too ashamed to report abuse. “I know it may seem strange to you since we’ve already asked these questions,” Bobbie explained, “but sometimes it helps to cover the same ground.”
Bree nodded her understanding. “No, it wasn’t like that. Their parents never did anything but yell. Sometimes their mom broke things, but nothing major. Fern and Sage were scared someone else would hurt them while they were distracted with fighting. Someone shot at their other house, you know.”
Smart kids, Bobbie decided.
“They both received a lot of death threats,” Mr. Chastain interjected. “We worried anytime Bree went over there.”
Mrs. Chastain shook her head, her eyes bright with tears. “But how do you tell your daughter she can’t spend time with her best friend?”
Bobbie got that part. Teenagers typically ran in pairs or packs. “Had anything new or different happened in Fern’s life? I mean other than her parents’ issues. Was she involved with a boy that maybe no one else knew about?”
Bree opened her mouth to answer but she hesitated. Devine had gotten a resounding no last time. Bree’s hesitancy warned the answer might be different this time.
“Anything you tell us is confidential,” Bobbie reminded her. “No one will ever know the information came from you.”
“She went to this summer camp back in July. Before the really big sh—crap hit the fan.”
“Was this a local camp?” Bobbie readied to make notes. “Run by a church or other local organization?”
Bree shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. It’s a youth camp where they have rich kids helping poor kids. It’s like some community outreach. Her mother signed her up for it earlier in the spring. I think maybe she went last year, too.”
“All Kids Matter,” Mrs. Chastain interjected. “That big nondenominational church, Life Church, sponsors it. A lot of the wealthy families in Montgomery support the effort and their teenagers sponsor less fortunate children in the community.”
Devine was scribbling furiously in his notebook, so Bobbie focused on asking the questions. “You believe she met someone there she liked or looked up to?”
Another of those sad shrugs lifted Bree’s shoulders. “I don’t know but she mentioned it a couple of times as if it was the best time of her life.”
Bobbie would look into the summer camp. “Did Fern mention seeing anyone she didn’t know around the neighborhood lately? Maybe someone watching the house?”
Bree shook her head. “They had a security guard who sat in a car in front of their house but he wasn’t there, like, all the time.”
“Did her father say the man worked for him?” This was the first Bobbie had heard about a private security guard. The housekeeper had insisted there was no security detail. She’d even had to take a cut in pay to stay on.
Bree shrugged. “That’s what Fern said.”
“Did you ever see this man?”
“Sure.” She shrugged. “I didn’t see him really well. His windows were tinted and he wore dark sunglasses.”
“Was he white or black? Dark hair or light hair? Did you recognize the kind of car he drove?”
Devine flipped to a new page in his notepad in preparation for copying down the answers to Bobbie’s questions.
“White for sure. His hair was brown or black. I never, like, stopped and stared at him. It was a big car, older I think.”
Bobbie showed the girl a copy of the sketch created from Sage Parker’s memory of the man who’d been in his house. “Did he look anything like this?” Next to her, her partner shifted and stared down at his notepad once more. Understandable. He was still reeling from Sage’s announcement.
Bree shrugged. “I guess. Maybe. The hair is right.”
“Did he ever speak to either of you?”
“Fern talked to him a couple of times.”
“Do you recall when this happened?”
The girl shrugged. “I think maybe Monday or Tuesday was the last time. I can’t say for sure.”
“One final question,” Bobbie said. “Think really hard. Did you see him there on Wednesday?” He damned sure wasn’t there on Thursday.
Bree thought about the question for a moment. “No. I don’t think he was there Wednesday.”
“Are you sure?” Bobbie pressed. “Could he have been driving a different car or maybe he was just parked in a different place.”
“Nope. He wasn’t around Wednesday morning. I would have noticed.”
“Wednesday is garbage pickup,” Mrs. Chastain explained. “Everyone’s trash can is out at the street. It makes parking on the street difficult. I didn’t notice any cars on the street that day, either.”
“Did you notice the kind of car he drove?” Bobbie asked Brenda. She needed the make of that car. Her pulse was hammering with hope.
“I never noticed him,” Mr. Chastain said before his wife could answer. “It’s usually dark when I get home and I leave before daylight most mornings.”
“One of those older Lincoln Town Cars,” Brenda said. “Really old, like from the ’80s. It was dark. Black I think.”
“License plate?” Bobbie asked hopefully.
Mother, daughter and father exchanged glances, and then shook their heads.
“Did you get a look at him?” Devine asked the mother, speaking for the first time instead of taking notes.
She shook her head again. “I promise you I won’t make that mistake again. Their killer may have been sitting out there right in front of us for days before they were murdered.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “It’s just awful. So awful.”
Bobbie had a bad feeling she was right about the man in the Lincoln Town Car.
Life Church
Troy Highway
4:30 p.m.
Pastor Winifred Liddell insisted on giving Bobbie and Devine a tour of the massive church before answering any questions. The church was not as ornate as some of the larger churches in Montgomery, but it was well done. No stained glass or towering crosses. According to Liddell the church dollars were devoted to bringing people together and to God. The fifty-year-old had started as a member of the church when she was fifteen. After theology school she had devoted herself to this particular church because of the good done in the community of Montgomery. All Kids Matter was one of her favorite outreach programs.
Devine seemed antsy. Maybe Bobbie wasn’t the only one who didn’t feel comfortable in God’s house.
“I was one of those children whose family was blessed financially,” Liddell confessed. “My friends and I were spoiled rotten.” She gestured toward her office and then led the way. “This church was just getting off the ground at the time. My boyfriend and I were forced into service that summer. Our parents were looking for a way to be rid of us for a couple of weeks.” She pursed her lips as if in thought. “Actually I think it was three weeks.”
“I’m sure you remember Fern Parker,” Bobbie said, ready to move past the reminiscing.
“Oh, certainly.” Liddell took a seat behind her antique desk. “A lovely girl.” Her face lined with worry. “It’s so sad about her parents. A travesty.” Her eyes rounded hopefully. “Is there any word on Fern? Has she been found?”
“I’m afraid not. That’s why we’re here.”
Liddell looked surprised. “I see.”
“We thought perhaps Fern met someone during the camp in July.”
Liddell pressed a finger to her chin and nodded. “She made friends quite easily.” She shook her head. “But no one in particular stands out in my mind. She was very focused on helping the other kids.”
“We’ll need a list of the kids who attended the camp this year and anyone Fern might have come into contact with on a regular basis. Counselors, cooks, anyone who worked during the time she was here.”
“Certainly.” Liddell blinked once, twice. “I hope you don’t believe someone on our staff had anything to do with what happened. I have good people here. We do good work, Detective. We try to instill confidence and hope in those less fortunate.”
“We’re only suggesting,” Bobbie assured her, “that she may have met someone who remained in contact with her. Someone who might be able to help us retrace those last hours before she went missing.”
Liddell offered a dim smile. “Of course.” She pulled open a drawer. “We always do a closing report each summer. The names of all involved are included with the report.” She flipped through her files and then withdrew a multipage document and passed it across the desk. “You may have that copy. I can have another printed.”
Bobbie flipped past the report to the names. Fifty children attended but none of the names save Fern’s was familiar. The last page listed the camp workers, none jumped out at Bobbie. The final column was the names of those who provided the donations necessary to make such a big event happen.
Mark Hanover.
Pieces of the puzzle abruptly clicked into place as Bobbie passed the report to her partner. “Pastor Liddell, do you recall if a Vanessa Olson ever attended your camp?”
The pastor smiled. “Yes. She certainly did. Three summers during high school. She should finish college year after next I believe. A lovely young woman.”
Bobbie’s blood chilled. She exchanged a look with Devine and then said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you, ma’am, but Vanessa was abducted on Friday. We believe the same person who took Fern may have taken her.”
Liddell’s hand went to her chest. “Dear Lord, that’s just awful. Truly awful. I’ve been at my sister’s home in Florida for the past four days. I only arrived back home today. I saw the news about the Parkers but I didn’t see anything about Vanessa.”
Because of the ongoing federal case, the Parkers were national news. Vanessa Olson, on the other hand, was not. With Liddell out of town there was no reason for her to have heard about Olson. “We’re hoping to find them quickly,” Bobbie said. “Anything you might recall relative to Fern or Vanessa could prove useful to our investigation.”
“I understand. Whatever I can do, please just let me know.”
“I noticed Mark Hanover is one of your donors,” Bobbie ventured cautiously. Donors such as Hanover were important to programs like the ones at this church. Liddell would be protective.
The pastor beamed a broad smile. “An amazing man. He and his father have helped with the programs for the youth in our community for decades. We’re very lucky to have donors like the Hanovers.”
“Would Mr. Mark Hanover have been in contact with either Fern or Vanessa?”
Liddell nodded slowly. “Certainly. He’s very hands-on with all our programs.” A frown inched across her brow as if she’d just realized why Bobbie asked. “Mark Hanover is an outstanding supporter of this community as well as this church.”
Bobbie nodded. “You understand I have to ask.”
Liddell gave another nod but her expression warned she still didn’t like the line of questioning. Bobbie thanked her and stood to go. Devine followed suit. The pastor appeared more than a little relieved.
When they reached the door Liddell hesitated. “Detective Devine, are you by chance Pearl Whitley’s nephew?”
Bobbie looked from the woman to her partner who smiled, the expression a pale imitation of his usual charmers. “Yes, ma’am.”
Liddell gave a nod. “I thought I recognized you. Is she under the weather? She hasn’t been to church all month.”
“Her allergies flared up and she’s feeling poorly,” Devine explained. “I’ll tell her you asked.”
Liddell’s finger went to her chin once more. “I believe you attended our camp one summer, didn’t you? What was it, twenty years ago? Maybe longer?”
“Twenty-one years,” Devine said. “I was just a child. I barely remember.”
The two chatted a bit longer. Bobbie didn’t really hear the exchange; she was stuck on the idea that Devine knew this church. He had attended the youth camp—the same one Fern and Vanessa had attended.
And he hadn’t said a damned word.