Cold Sweat Page 8

  “The opening of the cancer ward took place five years ago.” The deputy lowered her camera. “What does it have to do with a fashion show in Dallas three months ago?”

  “Good question. This next article is about a famous opera singer receiving a standing ovation in Philadelphia eight years ago.”

  The smiling senator was sandwiched between two attractive women. An illuminated fountain spurting water in the background added an eerie touch to the picture.

  Eve sneered. “It’s too bad Norman didn’t trip over his ego and fall into the fountain. He missed a good opportunity to drown.”

  Too bad indeed. Unfortunately for Amelia, her rank prevented her from expressing such opinion out loud. “Two years before Philadelphia, Norman attended the opening night of the National Ballet in Cincinnati with three gorgeous women.”

  “The man is a douche bag. What do these women find in him?”

  “Some people just can’t see below the surface.” After twenty years, it pained Amelia that she could still relate.

  The following article placed Norman at a Yankees opening game fourteen years ago. He was eating hotdogs with two beautiful young women.

  “Those first row seats behind the catcher must have cost a bundle.” Ford set the camera on the table. “This looks like a little black book—in pictures.”

  Had the time line included the picture of the mystery woman on the bridge, Amelia might have concurred. The gaps between the events were too large to simply represent the women he’d dated.

  “The senator doesn’t strike me as the type of man who only cheats on his wife every couple years. There’s more to it than his infidelities. Now look at this photo. It was hidden in the baby book.”

  The last evidence bag didn’t contain any article, just a picture of young Craig Norman near a buffet table surrounded by women in evening gowns, men in tuxedoes, and military personnel. A date and place were scribbled in blue ink on the right bottom corner. July 4th – American Embassy in Germany.

  “The guy looks like a stiff penguin. Is that...” Grabbing the bag, Ford took a closer look. “Is that you, Colonel?”

  “Yes, I attended the event. If my memory serves me right, Norman was the ambassador’s nephew.” Amelia had come for the food, not the guests. “It doesn’t show in my uniform, but I was pregnant at the time. If Serpent kidnapped my daughter because he thinks I slept with Norman that evening, he deserves to be shot.”

  “You’re standing beside him, Colonel. It’s easy to—Oh pickle!” The deputy’s face lit up. “This is the list Morgan couldn’t get from the senator.”

  Amelia frowned. “What list?”

  “The sheriff went to see the senator this morning.” As she spoke, Eve paced the room rubbing her belly. “Apparently, Discretion is Norman’s middle name. To avoid complications, he only hooks up with married women. Some are one-night stands. Others last a few weeks or a few months.”

  Thompson tossed the book on his desk. It hit the top with a thud. “How did Morgan get the senator to talk?”

  “He didn’t say, Gil, and I didn’t ask.”

  Amelia suspected coercion of the wrong kind. Not asking had been a smart move from the deputy’s part. “Go on, Ford.”

  “The senator insisted he was careful. It didn’t stop six women from claiming he got them pregnant. Can you believe the disgusting douche bag couldn’t remember their names?” More unsavory names and adjectives spurted out of the pregnant woman’s mouth. None suitable for the ears of her unborn child.

  “Politicians have selective memories, Ford. It’s a job hazard.” The time line stared back at Amelia. A neat row formed of six evidence bags. “Dallas. Boston. Philadelphia. Cincinnati. New York. Berlin, Germany. Serpent catalogued six events in six different cities. I’m in the last one. That’s too much of a coincidence not to be connected to Norman’s six pregnant mistresses. Did he tell Richmond what happened to them?”

  “When a woman gets pregnant, he sends her to see Doctor Ned Barry who eliminates the problem.” Small shudders shook Ford’s body. “There’s just one problem. The good doctor retired a year ago. If that time line is correct, he couldn’t have taken care of Miss Fashion Show’s baby.”

  Amelia didn’t put much faith in the accuracy of the senator’s memory. “Barry could have performed the abortion on the side or Norman could have sent Miss Fashion to someone else—and conveniently forgotten to tell Richmond. Could you show me the last email again?”

  The piece of paper was buried under a stack of documents. Yet, it only took a moment for Ford to hand it to her. The mess on the deputy’s desk resembled Amelia’s. Organized chaos.

  Forget the remaining $80,000. I decided to email the pictures to your wife and sons, and post them online for free. That’s the least I can do after the Internet made it so easy to find your daughter. I have to give it to you, Norman, she’s one spunky teenager with one mean streak. I’m surprised she’s alive. What happened? Did you forget to get rid of her? Was she too precious? How would your wife like to see your daughter’s pretty face on the front page of every newspaper?

  I will slowly crush you like the vermin you are, Norman. Her blood, like the blood of all the others, will be on your hands.

  Sly Serpent

  “When Serpent writes, ‘Did you forget to get rid of her? Was she too precious?’, he sounds angry that the girl survived, but the others didn’t.” Amelia wasn’t a behavior analyst, but in her long career she’d dealt with her share of disturbed individuals. “It may suggest a connection between Serpent and one of the pregnant mistresses. If we can identify those six women, it may give us a clue on his real identity.”

  “That was Morgan’s impression as well. He was hoping the doctor might recall their names, but I can’t find Barry.” Ford’s frustration rose loud and clear. “I talked to his ex-wife. She hasn’t heard from him since he moved out of his condo a month ago. I checked with the condo manager. Barry gave a two-day notice, paid a three-month penalty, and didn’t provide a forwarding address.”

  The good doctor was in a hurry to leave. “What about his practice? Was there a sale agreement listing an alternate address or a contact number?”

  “Barry sold his clinic to a doctor...” Ford flipped through her notes. “Doctor Charles Elliot. I tried calling but—”

  “Charles Elliot?” That was the same name as her missing murder suspect. “Where’s the clinic?”

  “North Carolina.” Her face scrunched into a quizzical expression, Ford presented her with a sheet of paper. “That’s the address and phone number. You want to call him yourself?”

  To Amelia’s bemusement, it was the same coordinates she’d seen in Major Elliot’s file. “We may have a problem.”

  Ford exchanged a look with her male colleague. “Big or small?”

  Buying a clinic from a retired doctor isn’t against the law. Stashing a corpse in a cottage falls under a different category.

  “I’m not sure.” A burgeoning headache spread its tendrils inside Amelia’s brain. “Charles Elliot is a military doctor on the lam. A week ago, we found the decomposed body of a woman in his cottage. Nothing in Elliot’s file suggests he was involved with Doctor Barry—or anyone else. I’ll get my people to review the case and search the clinic for any documents that might shed a light on the identity of these six pregnant women. You and Thompson comb those articles. We need the name of every woman pictured with Norman.”

  ***

  The sound of approaching snowmobiles sent Vince into frenzy. He struggled to get the skis out of the outhouse. One caught in the doorframe. It bent then cracked, sending splinters flying over his shoulders.

  Had his mother heard the words spurting out of his mouth, she would have reached for the belt.

  With the brat’s broken gear tucked under his arm, he hurried to his snowmobile. He dropped everything on the seat before returning to the outhouse to fetch all the pieces dispersed in the snow.

  The roaring intensified. Vince glanced toward th
e lush evergreens hiding his snowmobile from view. Footprints led directly from the outhouse to his vehicle. If those people followed his trail, they’d be able to retrace his steps back to the country house—and arrest him.

  To erase the prints left by his boots, Vince grabbed a huge branch. He walked backward, raking the snow in front of him. A loud bang startled him, followed by a second one, and a third.

  The door of the outhouse was slamming in the wind.

  As he cursed under his breath, he discerned the distinctive sound of two different engines. The unwelcome visitors were drawing nearer, he didn’t have time to trek back and latch the door.

  He hustled toward his snowmobile.

  A stormy silence fell upon the forest, and he swore again. He couldn’t depart, not without alerting the newcomers of his presence. As soon as they heard his noisy motor, they were bound to chase after him.

  Hopping mad, he donned his ski mask and snatched his rifle from the seat.

  The wind carried someone’s crisp steps. Vince lay in the snow behind a thick fir and glimpsed through the branches. The sheriff emerged from the clearing with his gun drawn.

  Go home, Morgan. Serpent hadn’t paid him enough money to shoot a man in uniform, but if he came any closer, Vince wouldn’t have a choice.

  The sheriff kicked the door of the outhouse wide open and looked inside for the longest time.

  There’s nothing in the shithole. Go back. Vince had pocketed all the splinters from the broken ski. There was no evidence left.

  Morgan lowered his gun, knelt, and brushed the snow. The branch had given a more leafy texture to the white stuff, but Vince didn’t expect a newly appointed city sheriff to notice the subtle difference.

  As the sheriff slowly stood, his gaze seemed to travel along the leafy pattern covering Vince’s boot prints.

  The butt of his rifle pressed against his shoulder, Vince swallowed his impatience.

  Stepping sideways, Morgan raised his weapon. Unsure what prompted the aggressive move, Vince peered through the scope. Shit. A deer had crossed the clearing, but there was a large gap in the tracks of the animal. When Vince erased his prints, he’d accidently covered the deer’s as well.

  It appeared Morgan had noticed the inconsistency. The sheriff sneaked on Vince’s right, heading straight for his hidden snowmobile where he would stumble on the brat’s gear.

  On probation for threatening a neighbor and shooting his dog, Vince couldn’t afford another strike on his record. Kidnapping charges would send him in jail for a long time. This wasn’t how he intended to enjoy his money.

  A branch cracked under Vince’s elbow. Shit.

  The sheriff turned. His gun aimed in his direction. “Freeze.”

  Vince pulled the trigger.

  Thrust backward, Morgan hit the trunk of a naked tree. A maroon stain expanded on the front of his jacket. He crumbled in the snow. Eyes closed.

  “Sheriff? Is everything all right?” The unfamiliar voice of a second man echoed in the forest.

  Double shit. Vince needed to retrieve the bullet, or else the police would match it to the one that killed the neighbor’s mutt.

  The gun had slipped from Morgan’s hand and landed by his thigh. Intent on shooting the other intruder, Vince pried the service weapon from the sheriff’s fingers. The bleeding man didn’t blink.

  Armed with a weapon he could fire at will and with impunity, Vince marched through the clearing.

  A young guy stood in the doorway of the lodge. “Who are you? Where’s the sheriff?”

  Bleeding to death—like you. Vince shot him. Twice.

  Blood poured from the side of the guy’s head, pooling on the porch. Without checking for pulse, Vince carried the body inside the lodge. One problem solved. He tossed the gun on the floor and closed the door.

  With any luck, no one would miss them until tonight. By then, the storm would have blanketed the entire region and postponed the search until morning.

  ***

  For a moment Amelia feared she’d crossed the line by assuming the lead in the sheriff’s absence. When Ford and Thompson hustled to gather the evidence and fax them to her office, her misgivings vanished. Richmond was right; he was surrounded by a great staff.

  Once she finished briefing Captain Jackman, Amelia introduced him to the deputies. She trusted the three of them to work out the details of the case and keep the line of communication open should she become unavailable.

  “If your Captain Jackman is as cute in uniform as he sounds on the phone, can I give his number to my sister? She needs a good man to straighten her out.”

  “Hold on a sec.” Thompson flipped a pen in the air. “Is that the same sister you tried to set me up with at the post office?”

  “Not the nutty one, Gil.” An ingenuous smile caressed Ford’s lips, accentuating the glow on her cheeks. “The naughty one.”

  The lively banter between deputies acted as safety valve. A vital protection against insanity.

  “Jackman has a wife and four kidlets.” Amelia stuck a post-it note on Ford’s computer screen. “Here’s my cell number. Call me if there’s anything new. I’m going to pay Norman a visit and refresh his memory.”

  Thompson dropped his pen. It rolled underneath his desk. “Would you like me to go with you?”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  For the sake of everyone’s career, it was better if no one witnessed her interrogating techniques.

  Chapter Twelve

  A call from a man identifying himself as Wayne River entered the sheriff’s office shortly after Matheson’s departure. He requested the immediate presence of a deputy. Any deputy.

  Gil drove to Snowy Tip to meet him. Alone.

  An individual was pacing the parking lot of the maintenance bay. He didn’t stop until Gil pulled over and stepped out of his car.

  “Thanks for coming, Deputy.” The man, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, extended a shaky hand. “I’m Wayne River, chief of operations. This way, please.”

  “What is it, Mr. River?” Over the phone, River had given cryptic answers to Gil’s questions. “You were rather vague when we talked.”

  “I wasn’t alone. I didn’t want to alert my staff that something was amiss.” The chief led him to a large shed behind the maintenance building. “I was going to wait for the sheriff’s return, but then I thought you might want to know right away.”

  Gil stepped inside the well-lit shed where a weird, rusted contraption hung from the ceiling. “A giant rake? You didn’t call me to show me this, did you?”

  “Yes. We haven’t used the rake in years, or so I thought until I saw this.” The chief pointed at a green sprig caught between the teeth of the rake. “The needles haven’t turned bristled or brown yet. It’s been used in the last few days.”

  Confused and a tad irritated to have been pulled away from real work, Gil frowned. “Why exactly is this important?”

  The maintenance chief glanced over his shoulder. “Years and years ago, before we bought the grooming machine, we used to attach this rake behind a snowmobile to groom the trails. The sheriff, my son, and I couldn’t figure out how the missing girl’s tracks just stopped suddenly in the middle of a trail. This is how. Someone must have borrowed it to erase her ski tracks. I should have remembered the rake, but it’d been so long that I forgot we had it until I came looking for something else.”

  Morgan had suspected an inside job. The rake suggested he might have been right. “Who has access to this shed?”

  “It’s usually locked. I keep the key in the maintenance bay near the electrical panel. Anyone on my staff could have borrowed it. It would have been harder for a stranger to sneak in without anyone noticing.”

  “Did any of your employees act differently or suspiciously since the girl’s disappearance?”

  “There are some strange characters working for me, Deputy. I can’t say anyone stood out more than ordinary.”

  The initial check that he and Eve had run on the employees h
adn’t revealed anything suspicious. Time for a more thorough check, starting with the maintenance crew.

  “If you see and think of anything else, River, call me right away. And please, do not try to apprehend anyone on your own. Whoever took Hope Craig may be armed and dangerous.”

  ***

  A fire scorched Todd’s skull. He opened his eyes and cringed.

  The dim light coming through the window exacerbated the pain. Reaching out with a trembling hand, he touched the side of his head. A warm, sticky substance matted his hair. He looked at his fingers. Blood. Lots of blood.

  Memories flooded back into his mind. A masked man had stood in the clearing and fired a gun in his direction. He remembered searing pain, then nothing.

  Cautiously moving his head, Todd looked around. He was in the orange lodge, alone with two wooden benches and a garbage can. His attempts to pull himself in a sitting position met some difficulties. The floor rippled, the walls swayed, and his vision became blurry. In the hope to steady his surroundings, he closed his eyes and took deep breaths. The dizziness slowly subsided.

  With both hands, he gently probed the head wound. It felt like a bullet had grazed his skin from the left temple to the top of his ear without penetrating the skull. He checked for more injuries. The sleeve of his jacket was ripped near the elbow, but underneath the fabric, his arm was intact. He was one lucky dude to still be alive.

  The wind whistled at the frosty window and knocked on the door. He spotted something black underneath one of the benches. As he crawled toward the object, its form became clearer. A gun. While he wasn’t too familiar with types or calibers, Todd knew enough about guns to slide the safety pin, aim, and shoot. He tucked the weapon in his coat pocket.

  Using the garbage can as a makeshift walker, he battled to stand up and stay up. He took a tentative step, then another one. With every inch he gained toward the window, his legs grew steadier, and his confidence returned. Sheriff? Where are you?