Midnight Fear Page 6

  Caitlyn dressed quickly in jeans, a scooped T-shirt and soft yellow cashmere cardigan. As she ran a brush through her tangle of hair, she was aware of the flush to her skin. The thought of her face pressed against Reid’s bare chest as he spoke comforting words to her—the intimacy of him in her bed—embarrassed her. Still, she gathered her courage and went downstairs.

  His eyes met hers as she entered the kitchen. He handed her a mug of steaming coffee.

  “This time it’s the real thing. No decaf.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured, as grateful for his casual demeanor as the coffee. She looked at the skillet on the gas burner, which contained a large, fluffy omelet. Two thick slices of bacon drained on a paper towel. “You cook?”

  He gave her a look. “It’s just eggs. You learn skills or you starve.”

  “Or eat takeout.”

  He smiled at her comment, the grooves in his dimples deepening. “Actually, my sister and I learned to cook when we were young. Dad had a crazy work schedule.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She died when I was twelve.”

  He handed her a plate containing the omelet, bacon and toast. Behind him, Caitlyn noticed that the maple cabinets and butcher-block countertops were now print-free. He must have been up for a while, she realized. The truth was, she had no idea if he had gone back to the guest room or stayed in her bed. The last thing she remembered was reveling in the feel of his strong hands stroking her hair. It was the first time she’d felt safe and protected in as long as she could remember. She must have fallen asleep in his embrace, although this morning she’d awakened alone. Taking a sip of coffee, Caitlyn wondered what he must think of her weakness.

  “Aren’t you going to eat, too?” she asked.

  “I already did.” He sat down on a stool on the other side of the island, his own mug in hand. Reid wore the same clothes from the previous evening, and she noticed the bluish hint of stubble on his jaw.

  “About last night…” she began hesitantly, not meeting his gaze.

  “It’s all right, Caitlyn.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not.”

  Reid reached across the table, laying his fingers over the back of her hand.

  “I want you to get your security system repaired and upgraded. Today.” The seriousness of his words sent a chill through her. “Promise me that. I think—”

  The shrill of his cell phone interrupted. He reached into his shirt pocket for the device.

  “Novak.” His eyes fell on Caitlyn as he listened to the caller. She moved the omelet around on her plate with the fork, unable to eat more than a few bites. Whoever was talking to Reid had his rapt attention. He paced the kitchen floor, then went into the hallway to continue the conversation. When he returned, his expression was tight. “I’ve got to go.”

  “It’s another murder, isn’t it?”

  His eyes told her all she needed to know.

  “I’ll be on guard,” Caitlyn assured him from the porch. Reid had donned his leather jacket, and he stared out over the front lawn into the autumn woods that concealed the drive leading back to the road. He had told her little about the second murder, other than that another body had been discovered in D.C., far away from her quiet township.

  “I don’t like you being out here. It’s too remote.”

  “Maybe not as remote as you think.” They heard the sound of a car coming up the drive. Rob and Sophie’s black Mercedes station wagon emerged from the orange-and-gold canopy of leaves and pulled in front of the house.

  “They’re friends of mine,” she said.

  “I should go, then.” Their eyes held for another second, and then he went down the porch steps. Reid nodded a curt greeting to Sophie and Rob as they exited their vehicle. He got into his SUV and drove away.

  “We ran into Ed Malcolm at the Breakfast Nook,” Rob called as they came across the driveway and onto the porch. He was tall and heavyset, with prematurely graying hair. His wire-rimmed spectacles caught the sunlight. “He said you had a break-in last night. You should have called us, honey. Are you okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. The police came by and dusted for prints. Nothing was taken, as far as I can tell.”

  “Who was that?” Sophie wanted to know, her head still turned in the direction the SUV had taken.

  What should she say? The FBI agent who captured my serial killer brother. The same one who now thinks there’s a copycat with me in his sights. Instead, Caitlyn said simply, “He’s with law enforcement.”

  “I haven’t seen him around. Is he with the Middleburg Police?” Rob asked, curious.

  “Not exactly. You guys really didn’t need to come over.”

  “You’re our friend.” Sophie was petite, with auburn hair that she wore in a stylish, chin-length bob. “Of course we’re going to check on you, Caity.”

  Caitlyn nearly flinched at the nickname. No one ever called her that except Joshua, and he’d used it last night in her dream. In it Caitlyn had been tied up like the women in Joshua’s grotesque drawings. Naked. Spread-eagle. He’d started to torture her with the hot, burning end of a cigarette when Reid had woken her, pulling her from her nightmare.

  Rob looked around the porch. “How’d they get in?”

  “The kitchen door. They broke the window. The phone lines were cut, too. The security system was tied into them.”

  “You sure you don’t want to use our guest room for a while?” Rob asked. He gave a small bow. “Our casa es su casa.”

  When Caitlyn smiled faintly but declined, he grew more serious.

  “A pretty, single woman like you out here all alone. Burglars probably saw you as an easy mark. Let’s hope stealing was all they had in mind.”

  He took his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts. “I can give you the name of a local repairman for the window. I also have some pull with the Middleburg phone company. They’re typically slower than Christmas, but I might be able to get you back up and running today. Need me to stick around and supervise things?”

  “I’m sure you’re too busy. I can handle it,” Caitlyn said.

  “The Garwoods’ summer house was broken into just last month,” Sophie noted worriedly. “Ed Malcolm says the trouble is spreading up from the District. I don’t think there’s really anyplace safe anymore.”

  Biting her lip, Caitlyn looked at the porch’s wide, whitewashed planks.

  Sophie had no idea.

  As it turned out, a repairman for the broken window wasn’t required. Soon after Rob and Sophie’s departure, Manny had come up from the stables once he’d learned of the break-in and offered his assistance as a jack-of-all-trades. By 10:00 a.m. he was back from the hardware store with a new glass pane and the proper supplies.

  Caitlyn left Manny in the kitchen and went upstairs while she waited for the telephone technician to arrive. It was hard not to think that just last night, an intruder had been inside her home, invading her privacy and planning to do who knew what before the police sirens chased him away. She stopped in the threshold of the guest bedroom. Reid had made the bed. The striped duvet was in place, and the pile of matching pillows at the headboard had been carefully arranged. Caitlyn ran her hand over the duvet’s smooth fabric, thinking of him sleeping there under the goose down comforter.

  In the guest bathroom, she noted the slight disarray of towels, the only remaining sign of his presence. She picked up a damp towel from the vanity to take to the laundry, then stopped as a plastic pill bottle rolled from under it and fell to the tiled floor. Caitlyn picked it up, hearing the rattle of tablets inside it. The prescription was in Reid’s name.

  Sudamitrix. 10 mg. Take as needed.

  The prescribing physician was someone Caitlyn recognized from her board work on several D.C. charities. Dr. Rahm Isrelsen was a neurologist, a prominent specialist in his field. He had been a key contributor to an urban youth program Caitlyn had chaired several years earlier.

  She thought of Reid’s
mysterious leave from the Bureau. The amber bottle with its neatly typed label sent an arrow of worry spiraling through her.

  9

  “Let him through,” Mitch called to the officers at the cordoned-off crime scene. The victim lay in dense shrub, just off the concrete biking path at Hains Point, overlooking the Potomac.

  Reid shouldered his way through, stopping when he reached the nude body of the woman concealed from onlookers by a raised plastic tarp. An ugly, blackened ligature mark was evident around her neck, with similar bruising on the ankles and wrists. Knife wounds marred her small breasts. Decaying leaves and twigs were tangled in the blond hair spread out on the damp ground behind her head.

  “Johnston called and said you were on your way. It took you long enough. We’ve been holding the body.” Mitch tossed him a pair of latex gloves. “Where the hell were you?”

  “Out of town.”

  “Where? Middleburg?” Mitch’s eyes bugged when he realized his guess was on target. “That’s a slippery slope, brother.”

  Reid didn’t want to talk about Caitlyn. Not while another woman lay dead at his feet. Pulling on the gloves, he knelt beside the body. Circular welts—cigarette burns—stood out on the inside of one forearm. Rigor mortis hadn’t fully developed, indicating the time of death was relatively recent. His stomach turned as an insect crawled from the nasal cavity. He looked away briefly, focusing on the river’s rough, gray waters.

  “Is there a chess piece?”

  “Stuffed into the mouth. Forensics already bagged it.”

  “A biker found the body around eight this morning,” Morehouse, Mitch’s partner, said as he ducked behind the tarp to join them. He had been talking to some bystanders being kept back from the scene, but he’d worked his way over when he saw Reid. “Looks like the unsub tried to conceal the body with leaves and branches, but it was too windy to keep it hidden long. The guy who found her is still here if you want to talk to him.”

  Reid stood, glancing at the overweight, middle-aged biker who had packed himself into spandex for his morning ride. The harsh breeze rushing in from the river felt like a slap across his face. The tips of his ears were cold, and he noticed Mitch’s nose was red from the time he’d spent outside.

  “Morehouse, tell the photographer to take shots of the crowd—just in case the perp came back to watch the circus.” Mitch turned to Reid. “The uni’s conducted a grid search of the area an hour ago. There’s tire tracks that indicate a vehicle pulled off-road, probably to dump the body. I know it was in the dark of night, but this guy’s got some big, brass ones to put her here in a public park.”

  Reid scanned the broad perimeter of shoreline. A few bikers and inline skaters were getting their exercise on the promenade, moving along with their routines as if nothing unusual had happened. Just another murder, he thought. Leafless trees lined the path that ran along the peninsula, their bare arms stretched upward to a pale blue sky.

  “The placement was important to him,” Reid noted quietly. “It was symbolic.”

  It was also another direct challenge.

  “Johnston figured you’d think that, which is why he wanted you down here,” Mitch said, his eyes following Reid’s to the other side of the Potomac. A steel-and-glass high-rise stood at the water’s edge, housing pricey loft apartments. Two years ago, it had been the site of an abandoned, rundown factory.

  Although the dilapidated structure had been torn down to make way for progress, it was where Joshua Cahill had taken his last victim.

  The VCU offices were located in Judiciary Square, in a redbrick building off Pennsylvania Avenue that was in proximity to federal and municipal courthouses. Afternoon sunlight spilled through the plate-glass window in the fifth-floor space Reid had previously shared with Mitch. He’d spent most of the day there, pouring through the Cahill case files with the other two agents.

  “We need to know who Joshua Cahill’s been in touch with,” Reid said, rubbing his strained eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. Cahill had worked alone—was a loner by all accounts—but there was always the chance the copycat had reached out to him. He would want to get to know the killer he was emulating as personally as possible.

  Mitch directed Morehouse, who took notes on a yellow steno pad. “Call the penitentiary and have them send me the visitor list—if Cahill’s had any. And get a monitor put on his mail. He’s probably got pen pals.”

  “Aren’t those usually women?” Morehouse asked.

  “Just do it.”

  “He’s your partner, not your secretary,” Reid pointed out once Morehouse had left the office. He’d gotten up from behind the stacks of files on the conference table to sit on the edge of the credenza.

  With a snort, Mitch swiveled his desk chair in Reid’s direction. “He’s a rookie. Lucky to be in the VCU. Apparently his high scores at Quantico and a well-placed word from one of the Washington pencil pushers got him in here. You remember your rookie days, right? He should be glad I don’t send him to pick up my dry cleaning.”

  “Remind me why I liked being your partner?”

  “My charm?” Mitch grinned. “Or maybe it’s because I’ve always had your back under fire.”

  That much was true. Reid studied Mitch, who’d undone his tie and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. Crime scene photos from the Cahill investigation were interspersed with the recent ones and spread out on his desk, along with the preliminary forensics report on the first victim. The report indicated there was no semen inside the body, no latent prints or other physical DNA evidence left behind on the skin. The killer had been careful.

  “Tell me about the first victim—Allison Murrell,” Reid said. “The one from Middleburg.”

  Mitch stretched and cracked his knuckles. “Like I told you over the phone last night, Morehouse and I went up there yesterday when the car was found. We’d had an APB out on it ever since we got the jewelry registry list and cross-referenced it against missing persons. We talked to the staff at the wine bar and showed the vic’s photo around. The bartender thought he recognized her, but didn’t recall seeing her with anyone. All he remembered was that she’d been drinking cosmopolitans alone. Lots of them. And no, there were no surveillance cameras on the parking lot or premises.”

  “What’s her background?”

  “Divorcée, a wealthy one. No kids. Closest relative is her mother. We talked to her but didn’t get much information—she was too upset.” Mitch shook his head. “She’s elderly and had to make the ID through a photo from the morgue since she was unable to come down in person.”

  “What about the ex-husband?”

  “He lives in Portland now. He’s also got a solid alibi.”

  “Did you talk to the Middleburg police chief?” Reid asked. “Ed Malcolm?”

  “He’s been apprised of the local abduction, but the discussion went no further than that. At that point we had one vic—I didn’t see a need to sound the alarm on a serial murderer that might or might not exist.”

  Reid thought of the second victim. Another Jane Doe. “But that’s changed now.”

  “Yeah,” Mitch agreed, looking serious for once. “By the way, I have the background check you wanted on Caitlyn Cahill’s employees. It came through this morning.”

  He shuffled through the unwieldy, dog-eared pile of papers in his in-box. Finding the paper-clipped documents, he slid them toward Reid. “I haven’t had a chance to get all the way through it yet. But there’s one you might want to take a look at.”

  Reid paced the office as he looked through the papers. He stopped when he came to the section Mitch had underlined in red. “I’d like to bring him in for questioning. Today.”

  “So I guess that means I have to schlep back out to the sticks?”

  “It’s your case,” Reid reminded.

  “Why do I feel like it’s not anymore?” Mitch grabbed his suit jacket from a hook on the back of the door and shoved his muscular arms into its sleeves. “Just so you know, I was joking e
arlier when I asked if you’d been out to Middleburg. Who knew I was on the money? When I called you last night about the Murrell woman’s car being found, why didn’t you tell me you were on your way to see Caitlyn Cahill again?”

  “There was a break-in at her home last night. She got scared.”

  “And she called you?” Mitch opened the door and Reid followed him out. “Like I said, that’s a slippery slope.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Disappointed?”

  He ignored the comment. “I think she’s at risk.”

  A half-dozen inner-city youths were gathered around the white-faced quarter horse named Gemini. Caitlyn was instructing them on how to curry the animal, in order to loosen up the dirt that had accumulated on the trail ride. It was late afternoon, the last session for the day, and she allowed each one to take a turn stroking the animal with the nubbed paddle. Although some equestrians skipped currying and went straight to stiff brushing, Caitlyn explained that the horse benefited from the invigorating massage the currycomb provided.

  She’d just retrieved the water hose with the wide, gentle showerhead when a dark sedan rolled into the open dirt space in front of the stables.

  Three men climbed from the vehicle, including Reid. In the presence of the others, he looked somehow different to her than he had that morning. His lean features seemed harder, his physical presence more aloof. Caitlyn felt a knot settle in her stomach. She had an unsettling recollection. These men were official—just as they had been when they’d arrived at her place of work two years ago, wanting to talk to her about Joshua.

  “Can you take over for me?” Caitlyn handed the hose to one of the stable hands. She waited until he had stepped in and picked up her discussion with the teenagers. Then brushing her hands on the back pockets of her jeans, she walked over to meet the men.