For Love or Vengeance Page 10

  “Guess again. It might kill me, or you or Lanie, if I let warm and fuzzy get in the way of logic and reason.”

  He’d really thought they’d reached an understanding of sorts, even before their hookup the other night. But her words were like a slap in the face. No, a physical slap would have been less painful. Because it struck way too close to home.

  Maybe he’d been wrong to think she had any real concept of emotion. Obviously, he had been deluding himself. “I get it, ice princess. I won’t let emotion get in the way of what I have to do. But I also have a heart. Something you seem to lack.”

  She didn’t blink, or even bat an eyelash. Didn’t react in any way. Sadly, it only confirmed his comment.

  Helene cared nothing for the people around her, or the cases they investigated.

  She only cared about results, about closing the case and seeing justice served. He wasn’t sure how long he could partner with someone so blind to the human side of their work.

  But for now he’d keep his mouth shut. Because there was one thing he was sure of—he and Helene were going to find the Broadway Butcher.

  He just hoped it would be in time for Lanie Santini.

  A quick trip back to the music store revealed that two days before, Lanie had purchased sheet music for a song from West Side Story.

  “I remember now. That didn’t make sense to me,” Jeff said, shaking his shaggy head.

  “Why not?” Miguel asked, folding his arms.

  “We try to keep up with what shows are coming up in the area. That way we’ll have whatever sheet music the wanna-bes will need to prepare for an audition. And the scores they’ll need to put on the show.” Once again Jeff shook his head. “This show is already on Broadway.”

  “Which means?” Helene prodded.

  “You can’t put on another production of the same show within a certain number of miles, so if she was auditioning, it was for something totally far away. Like beyond off-off-Broadway.”

  Miguel picked up the photo of Lanie that the roommate had provided. “Would she have known that?”

  The clerk shrugged carelessly. “Probably. Who knows?”

  The killer knew. Miguel met Helene’s sharp gaze. She was already processing all the information, determined to find Lanie before she became the next victim.

  He returned his attention to the clerk. “You’ve still got my card?”

  With a sexy smile, Jeff leaned onto the counter toward him. “Of course I do, Special Agent Sanchez,” he said with almost a purr.

  Miguel nodded, ignoring Helene’s subtle eye-roll. “The next time anything out of the ordinary like this happens, call us immediately. Anything, get it?”

  “Got it,” the young man said with a wink.

  Miguel and Helene walked out of the store. She glanced at her watch. “If Lanie went missing last night—”

  “We have one day at best to locate her,” he finished grimly.

  With an abrupt nod, she said, “Let’s get back to the office and start going through the papers we found at her apartment. There’s got to be something in there we can use.”

  There was no denying the determination in Helene’s voice. Unfortunately, Lanie’s piles of newspapers, as tidy as they were, still might not give them a lead.

  But at least they had a head start on who the victim was this time.

  They called NYPD to put out a BOLO for Lanie. Maybe a local LEO would see something off and investigate. Maybe some alert citizen would call it in.

  There was also the possibility the unsub himself would decide to contact them. Serial killers loved to challenge their pursuers, thinking they were smarter than everyone else.

  Maybe.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By the time Miguel and Helene got back to Federal Plaza, Lanie Santini’s cell phone records were waiting for them. They quickly discovered she had made a series of calls to a prepaid cell phone—one of the phones they suspected had been purchased by the Butcher.

  As with the other cell phone numbers, this form’s fake information had Broadway details—the purchaser S. Sondheim, the address on Bernstein Ave.

  Miguel watched Helene stare at the form, and could almost hear it percolate in her mind. All at once, she sat upright and closed her eyes.

  “What?” he asked. It was spooky how she did that—concentrated really hard, then suddenly came out with the most bizarre bits of information.

  She looked triumphant. “The lyrics to West Side Story were written by Stephen Sondheim, music by Leonard Bernstein. And the book—” She got up and walked over to the bulletin board, and rapped her knuckle against the cell phone form under victim number one—“by Arthur Laurents. This purchaser name? That’s the man who wrote the book for the musical.”

  “The book? As in the novel?” Miguel asked.

  She shook her head. “As in the dialogue for the story. Lanie and this victim are connected by the same show—West Side Story.”

  He rose and went over to the bulletin board. Standing beside her, he almost felt the rush of her excitement at finding a new clue.

  She pointed at one of the crime scene photos. “Look.”

  Behind the victim’s body, a tangle of fire escapes climbed up the buildings in the background. A fuzzy recollection came to him. “Isn’t there a scene in the movie where they sing to each other on a fire escape?”

  She smiled, a bright glitter of hopefulness in her eyes. Her reticence around him had vanished. Maybe they could work things out between them, after all. Find a balance between being partners and being lovers.

  “Exactly,” she said. “Tony and Maria sing to each other on the fire escape. Maybe it’s not just the forms he’s using Broadway connections for. Could he be recreating the stage sets with the locations he chooses?”

  “A battleship, a river, fire escapes, castles, and—a garbage dump,” Miguel said, going down the line of crime scene photos.

  She made a face. “Well, maybe not that last one. Anyway, if the Broadway shows on the forms match up with the corresponding body dump locations, we may have something.”

  Though how that would help them actually find the bastard, he had no idea.

  “And the poses,” he added, peering at the photos. “The poses have to mean something, too.”

  She studied them for a moment before shaking her head, her curls brushing her shoulders. He could smell the fragrance in her hair, sweet and spicy.

  “Maybe only to the killer,” she said.

  “Maybe,” he replied, although he was convinced otherwise. He just didn’t have enough information yet to make a connection. “Okay. There are five victims, each with a unique location and show. But now victim number six’s form relates back to this one.” He pointed at the fire escape photo.

  “What are the odds he intends to dump the body in the same location?” she murmured, and met his gaze.

  “That’s risky behavior. But maybe he can’t resist the challenge. Maybe he doesn’t believe we’re on to him, and thinks he’s safe.”

  “So we stake out this location. There’s only one problem with that plan,” she said, looking troubled.

  No kidding.

  For that plan to work, Lanie Santini would have to already be dead.

  Miguel could almost feel the tension radiate from Helene’s body in waves. As the day fled and they ran through dozens of possible scenarios, none led them closer to discovering where the unsub might have taken Lanie.

  Helene pulled her hair back from her face as she flipped through the copies they had made of Lanie’s papers. The originals had been sent to the lab to check for evidence—a fingerprint, residual DNA, anything.

  As he watched her, he mentally reviewed all the information they had and tried to make sense of it. Tried to formulate a reason why the killer would select these particular young people. Then he ran through all the possible ways he might choose them.

  A bogus audition seemed the most likely, but so far they had found no common element connecting any of th
e victims or Lanie.

  Across from him, Helene picked up the copies again, and zipped through them like flash cards. He wondered how she could even read them at that speed. But then again, she’d proven to be a wealth of information during the course of the investigation. Maybe she had a photographic memory?

  He wouldn’t second-guess her methods because she was very good at what she did. At every turn in this investigation, she’d had something to offer. Intriguing, the way her mind worked. It made him realize there was something even sexier than her body—her amazing mind.

  She paused in shuffling the papers, put them all down, then picked one up again. As their gazes connected, she seemed to sense his thoughts because a slight flush blossomed along her cheeks. She hid it by holding up the paper. “This is a copy of a copy.”

  He scrutinized it closely. “You’re right. The original was a copied page she had from one of the trade papers.”

  “Why only this one?” she asked. “And why is it the only copy?” She spread out the rest of the papers on the table.

  Miguel rose and went to stand beside her. “So we’re thinking he’s setting up a fake audition, right?” He shifted the papers around to eliminate everything except those that listed casting calls. The paper Helene had identified was one of only three. But why a copy and not an original?

  “There are lots of casting calls listed here,” he said, perusing the paper. Many identified the specific show, but there were just as many open calls that only asked for a certain type of character.

  “It’s got to be on this one,” she said earnestly, and snagged the paper from him.

  “Let’s review the phone numbers in the listings. See if we find one of the Butcher’s cell phone numbers on it.”

  They made a copy so they wouldn’t compromise the evidence and sat down side by side, shoulders occasionally touching as they examined the page of ads. He read down the dozens of casting calls until one caught his eye.

  But before he could say a word, she was reading it out loud. “Open casting call, musical revival. Dark-haired woman. Twenty-something. Strong singing and dancing skills required. Call 917-555-1212.”

  Miguel didn’t need his notes to check the prepaid cell phone number. It, along with the other eleven, was ingrained on his brain. “It’s one of his.”

  Reaching for the war room telephone, he hit the speaker key and dialed the number.

  The phone rang and rang before going to a generic mailbox whose automated message was clearly voiced by a computer.

  “It’s still live. Maybe we can triangulate it,” he said.

  They quickly contacted their specialists, provided the number, and arranged for them to track down where the phone was located. As they sat back to wait, Helene sighed tiredly.

  Absently, he reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll happen. We’ll find her in time.”

  She shrugged off his attempt at sympathy. “Odds are against us, Sanchez.”

  So it was back to “Sanchez,” was it?

  Sure, the odds were against them and they needed to be prepared for the worst-case scenario, so she wanted some emotional distance. But he had hoped she wouldn’t also push him away. That she’d turn to him for support instead.

  When the war room phone rang nearly fifteen minutes later, he hit the speaker key and answered, “Sanchez.”

  “We were able to triangulate the signal on the cell phone, but it’s smack in the middle of a landfill. Your unsub must have tossed it as soon as he finished with it,” the tech told them.

  “With nearly twelve-thousand tons of garbage leaving the city each day, the chances of finding it in the landfill are negligible,” Helene said mechanically.

  “Totally right, Special Agent Alexander. Even if it’s at the top of the garbage heap, the battery will run out soon.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Helene said, and disconnected.

  “We should have them put a trace on the remaining numbers he hasn’t used,” Miguel offered.

  “Definitely. He’ll keep the phone turned on if he’s expecting inquiries from the casting call. Now we know which trade paper he used, so we can get started on that, too.”

  But their call to the trade paper revealed that no such ad had been placed. Helene frowned and picked up the paper. “This was the only listing Lanie had that was a copy. Maybe he doctored the original.”

  “Let’s take it to the lab and see if they can confirm that it’s been altered,” Miguel suggested.

  When they got there, Miguel gave one of the technicians the paper and showed her the suspect listing. “What can you tell us about this ad?” he asked.

  The technician placed the paper under a microscope and with a few quick keystrokes, she brought up the image on a large color monitor. She moved the image from side to side and up and down before she said, “This ad isn’t part of the original. The dot characteristics vary drastically.”

  “But the fonts look similar and there’s no shadow or any other indication of cutting and pasting,” Helene said.

  The other female agent smiled. “No need for that. It’s all done digitally now. Scan the original and you can alter it with any basic photo or drawing software.”

  “If it was printed using a computer, the serial number of the printer should be on the page somewhere.” Miguel walked up to the monitor and studied the image.

  “Chances are it’s a standard color laser that anyone can purchase at a local office supply store. If they didn’t send in their registration card—”

  “All we’ll know is where it was purchased and when. It may still help,” Helene said.

  “I’m on it. It may take a few hours, but I’ll get that info for you, then run this for prints and DNA.”

  “We appreciate that,” Miguel said, and they headed back to the elevator. “What do you think? Should we brief the boss?”

  She made a moue. “Yep. Time for the boss man.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  In ADIC Hernandez’s office, Miguel and Helene outlined the information they had gathered on the case, along with the likelihood that the serial killer had already taken another victim. Miguel got more and more uncomfortable as they talked. The ADIC kept eyeing them with a slight frown, his gaze traveling between Miguel and Helene as though he were more curious about them than the case.

  No doubt he was picking up on the tension between them, and the obvious icy distance she was keeping from Miguel.

  “So you’ve got a BOLO out on the girl and the local LEOs are staking out the earlier crime scene?” Hernandez asked.

  “Correct. Though it’s unlikely the unsub will dump her body in the same place. Too risky,” Helene said, the tone of her voice almost clinical.

  “If she’s dead. Hopefully she’s still alive,” Miguel put in.

  Helene shook her head. “I know you want to hold out hope, but his M.O. suggests he only keeps his victims for two days at the most. This is day two.”

  “There’s still time—” he began, but she immediately cut him off.

  “Hours only. And we have no idea where she went for her audition. No idea where he might be keeping her, based on the evidence we’ve gathered.”

  “And no idea where the Santini girl got her casting call information,” Hernandez said, and raised the copy of the doctored trade paper he was holding. “Either Santini picked it up on her own—probably somewhere within the area you’ve delineated—or someone gave it to her. One of her friends. Start with the roommates and keep me posted,” he ordered, handing the newspaper back to Miguel.

  “Yes, sir.”

  They turned to leave and he stepped aside, giving Helene a broad path to the door. “Sanchez, can you give me a moment?” the ADIC asked before he could follow.

  Great. Here it comes.

  “Yes, sir.” He turned back, and Hernandez said, “Please shut it. I’d like some privacy.”

  Miguel couldn’t fail to see Helene’s surprised look as he closed the door in her face.

 
The ADIC leaned back in his chair, braced his elbows on the arms, and steepled his fingers before him as he scrutinized Miguel.

  “Is everything okay with you and Alexander?”A tic jumped in his jaw muscle. But he kept his voice firm and calm as he replied. “Everything is just fine, Sir.”

  Hernandez regarded him evenly. “Helene can be difficult and about as cold and emotionless as anyone I’ve ever met.”

  Miguel knew his ADIC meant well, but he wasn’t about to play his game. “Helene and I have reached an understanding of our respective roles in this partnership,” he said. Which was true, in part. They certainly had found a rhythm working together, and with their respective strengths. It was the personal part they had totally messed up. The personal part was none of the ADIC’s business.

  Hernandez narrowed his gaze, clearly skeptical, but thankfully didn’t press. “If there was a problem between you and Alexander—”

  “If anything was interfering with our ability to work together, I would certainly let you know.”

  His ADIC dismissed him with a hesitant nod, obviously unconvinced.

  Miguel left his office and headed to his desk. Helene waited for him. There was nothing frigid or distant about the anguished look on her face.

  “NYPD called. 911 got a report about a body at one of the high school basketball courts.”

  “Is it Lanie?”

  Her lips thinned into a grim line. “I’m sorry. I wish I had been wrong.”

  He dragged his fingers through his hair and blew out a disgusted sigh. “Me, too. Let’s go confirm the ID and make sure the scene’s secure.”

  Helene was taking it hard. Miguel totally understood. They had both been working like fiends to find the Butcher and had been so close to making a break on the case.

  So close, but not close enough to save Lanie Santini.

  Helene’s body was rigid, her face a mask of determined anger as the ME zipped Lanie into a body bag and took her away. It would be several hours before the ME could confirm time and cause of death. They snapped a photo of the scene to add to their board, and returned to their office in Federal Plaza where they called Lanie’s parents with the terrible news.