Absolute Pleasure Page 4
Sunny let out a frustrated sigh. “I need to get a visual on this case.” She dragged a yellow legal pad in front of her and drew two lines down the page. “What do we know? What do we suspect? What can we prove?” Once she had a list, the entries would go onto three-by-five index cards which she’d be able to move around on a chart, like a giant jigsaw puzzle.
“We know there are seven vics in seven different states and no confirmed pattern,” Ned started. “We also know one man is responsible for at least four of the crimes based on DNA evidence collected.”
Georgia flipped through her printouts. “DNA was collected from hair samples in Philly and St. Louis. Miami from a cigar stub…” Confusion filled her blue eyes when she looked up at Sunny and Ned. “A sweatband from the Atlanta location?”
Sunny shrugged and entered the names of the victims and their geographic locations in the first column, followed by the DNA links. “We suspect he’s responsible for all seven crimes.” She looked up at the two rookie agents. “There’s a possibility we could have nine victims. A recovery expert hired by Wilder’s insurance carrier was at the estate this morning. In addition to Wilder, he claims his office is handling two additional cases with similar M.O.’s.”
“Did you get the names?” Georgia asked. “Do you know which locations?”
“Not yet,” Sunny answered. She wasn’t proud of the fact she’d been so thoroughly distracted by the awareness sizzling between her and Duncan that she’d failed to ask him even a few pertinent questions regarding his investigations. “I’ve left a message for him.”
Georgia moved the printouts and other documents from her lap to the floor, then reached across Sunny’s desk for the file containing the six composite sketches of the UNSUB they’d obtained from the victims. “Which of these four guys match our DNA evidence?” she asked.
“Ian Banyon, Burke Conners, Scott Kauffman.” Sunny consulted her notes. “And Adam Hunt.”
Georgia separated the four composites, helped herself to the plastic box of pushpins from Sunny’s drawer, then hung the four sketches on the wall near the map. “Okay, now give me the order?”
“Conners first in St. Louis, Atlanta was Hunt,” Sunny told her. “Miami is Banyon, and put Kauffman last for Philly.”
Georgia pulled the neon-orange pins from the map, exchanging them for bright yellow, then arranged the composites in corresponding order. She stood back and examined the map, then looked over her shoulder to Sunny and Ned with a satisfied smile. “Do you see it?”
Sunny pushed out of her chair and moved in to get a closer look at the map.
“He’s getting sloppy,” Ned suggested from behind her. He indicated the first two locations with the tip of a pen. “Seattle and Napa produced no DNA evidence. The UNSUB was careful, cautious. By the time he got here,” he said, pointing to the yellow pinhead marking the St. Louis crime scene, “his confidence was up, so he relaxed and got careless.”
“I don’t think so,” Sunny said. “He’s not careless, he’s very thorough and methodical. I’d suggest arrogance, but you don’t get cocky from only two successful jobs. Plus, it was a hair sample found in the drain pipe of the victim’s shower in St. Louis, so that could be a fluke. By the time he hit Miami, it may have been intentional if he’s playing with us, but our involvement isn’t public yet. If there’s any meat to Ned’s theory, though, then we have more crimes to worry about.”
She looked over at Georgia. “Can you pull all the data reported from crimes in the last two years that match our UNSUB’s M.O.?”
“I can try,” she said, but didn’t look too hopeful. “If the stats aren’t entered into the national database, there’s not much I can do.”
“They usually don’t bother,” Ned added, “unless it involves a violent crime. On the surface these have the characteristics of theft. That’s not something anyone would commonly associate with a serial-type offender.”
Sunny turned her attention back to the composite sketches. “See what you can find anyway,” she said to Georgia. “I know it’s a long shot, but we could find gold.”
“The lab could come up with more DNA from Wilder’s place,” Georgia suggested. “How long before you’ll hear something?”
“Could be days.” Sunny moved closer to the map, meticulously studying each sketch for what had to be the six hundredth time. She was missing something…but what?
Ned adjusted his glasses and peered at the sketches of Burke Connors and Ian Banyon. “How does he do it?” he asked. “How does he manage to completely alter his appearance? I see basic similarities, but it just doesn’t look like the same guy. You know, I could style my hair differently, wear contacts, but I’d still look like me.”
“I know what you mean,” Georgia agreed. “I could go brunette or blond but I’d still be me. If it wasn’t for the evidence, I’d swear we should be looking for four different men. Nothing suggests this is the same person. It’s spooky.”
“Oh my God,” Sunny blurted. “That’s it!” She turned to look at the two agents and grinned. “These are not sketches of the same person.”
Georgia took a step back and looked down at Sunny as if she’d lost her mind. “Come on, Mac. You’re reaching. The evidence indicates otherwise.”
“I’m not refuting the evidence,” Sunny explained. “Stay with me a minute.” She went to her desk for the remaining two composites, then pinned them to the wall above the other four drawings.
“Marcus Wood.” She pointed to the first sketch. “Tansey Middleton’s favorite cause is animal rights. She writes big checks to support no-kill shelters and foots the bill for an adopt-a-pet event twice a year. Wood comes along posing as a dog-loving, animal-rights activist.”
Ned folded his arms and rocked back on the heels of his polished wingtips. “Yeah, so?”
“Maddie Bryson takes over the operation of the family vineyard when her brother loses a lengthy battle with cancer. To recoup their losses, Maddie explores the possibility of exporting their award-winning Napa Valley grapes to several French winemakers. Travis Reisner shows up claiming to be a buyer for a French winemaker.”
Georgia’s eyes filled with understanding. “Joy Tweed is a professional college student,” she said. “Some guys don’t change their socks as often as Joy changes majors. She’s what they used to call an M.R.S. degree candidate way back when. Burke Connors is a Ph.D. candidate, another professional student, in Joy Tweed’s eyes.”
“Exactly,” Sunny agreed. “Bettina Manchester falls for the supposed owner of a chain of sporting goods stores. Celine Garfield is conned by a guy posing as an importer of Egyptian artifacts. Scott Kaufman is a rich playboy for a socialite, and Justin Abbott is a patron of the arts to an art connoisseur.”
Ned pushed his glasses up the slope of his nose again and studied each of the composites more closely. He looked over his shoulder at Sunny, his pale blond brows knit in confusion. “Sorry, Mac. I’m not following you.”
Sunny tapped her finger on the first drawing. “Doesn’t Marcus Wood look like one of those lunatics that would run through a dog show opening cages, freeing the dogs in the name of animal rights? And Conners here has egghead professor written all over him.” Next she indicated the composite drawing of Adam Hunt. “This guy looks like a jock, just the kind of guy you’d expect would own a chain of sporting goods stores.”
Ned scratched the back of his head. “I still don’t see what you’re saying.”
“Each of these drawings appear to be a completely different guy, right?” She waited for Ned and Georgia’s acknowledgment before continuing. “That’s because the vics aren’t remembering the way the UNSUB actually looks, but how they saw him. The composites aren’t going to give us an accurate physical description because they aren’t of the actual man, but of the image he portrayed to his victims.”
“It is an interesting theory,” Georgia said. “Didn’t Celine Garfield say that Banyon spoke with some sort of British, or maybe a South African, accent?”
Ned still didn’t look as convinced as Georgia. “The UNSUB’s ability to transform himself may very well be his recipe for success,” he eventually conceded, “but how is your theory going to lead us to him?”
Undaunted by Ned’s lack of vision, Sunny’s smile widened. “We might be able to narrow down possible locations since we know what attracts him.”
“Money,” Georgia added. “A whole lot of money.”
“You’re talking haystacks and needles, Mac,” Ned argued. “You know how many people in this country come into big bucks every day? How many of them are women? A new millionaire comes along every couple of weeks if all the state lottery stats are accurate.”
“But we’re only interested in the perpetually single and recently unattached,” Georgia added helpfully. “That should narrow the field considerably.”
“Divorcées, widows,” Sunny told the analyst. “Any woman between the ages of twenty and fifty-five that fits the profile.”
“I’ll play with some data, see what comes up.”
“Great.” She’d been on the SEDSCAM case for almost four weeks and finally felt as if they were making progress. “Ned, what about the bank in Atlanta? Any luck?”
“None yet,” he said. He propped his shoulder against the wall. “We do know the UNSUB didn’t clear out Manchester’s accounts with a stolen check the way he did with Bryson. If there’s a hole in the bank’s software, give me enough time and I’ll have it for you.”
“What about an Internet transfer?” Georgia suggested, gathering up her printouts and reports.
“First place I looked,” Ned told her. “Neither Manchester’s personal nor business accounts were set up for Internet banking. Doesn’t eliminate a hack job, but banks are required to report security breaches so don’t hold your breath.”
“Did you tell Mac about the check?” Georgia asked Ned, lifting the stack of papers to the chair.
Ned stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark trousers. “Bryson’s bank finally released the original check the UNSUB forged to clear out her account.”
Sunny glanced down at the still quiet phone. “That’s progress.”
“You were unavailable for consultation.” Ned cleared his throat before continuing. “I hope it’s okay, but I went ahead and asked Milken over in check fraud to give us his opinion on the Bryson check.”
“No, that’s good,” Sunny told him, hiding a smile when Ned stood just a tad straighter under her praise. “Don’t be afraid to ask the other divisions for assistance when you need it.”
“Ah, here it is,” Georgia said suddenly. She stood, a sheaf of papers clutched in her hand.
“How would you like to get out of the office tomorrow?” Sunny asked her.
“I’d love a change of scenery. What do you need?”
“Accompany the sketch artist to Wilder’s tomorrow. Take notes of anything else she might recall,” Sunny instructed. “If those warrants come through, Ned and I will be hanging out with the techno jocks at the gallery and theater.”
Georgia’s smile turned sly as she handed a set of documents to Sunny and Ned. “This caused production to grind to a halt in word processing.”
A warming blush heated Sunny’s cheeks as she scanned the cover sheet of Margo Wilder’s recorded statement. “No doubt,” she muttered, grateful she’d used a tape recorder rather than a video camera. “This was quick.”
“It’s the weekly supply of Krispy Kremes she feeds them,” Ned said with a quiet laugh, flipping through the statement.
“Works like a charm,” Georgia agreed good-naturedly.
“Good God,” Ned blurted. He pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against and gave the knot of his tie a tug. “People actually do this kind of thing?”
Georgia burst out laughing. “If you have to ask, then you’re spending way too much time with computers.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Sunny warned gently. “Georgia, why don’t you try the clerk’s office again.”
“Will do. But first tell me who is the hunk?”
Sunny frowned. “Hunk?” she hedged.
“Chamberlain,” Georgia clarified. “The man has a voice that could melt granite. That spells hunk in my fantasies, not short, fat and bald.”
“I’m gone,” Ned announced and quickly gathered up the notes and files he’d brought with him. “Maybe Milken has something for us.” He practically jogged for the door.
Sunny waited until she and Georgia were alone. “How’d you hear his voice?” she asked in a hushed tone.
She hadn’t dared replay the session herself, afraid of what she might hear—like her own heavy breathing. When she’d arrived at the office, she’d turned the tape over to word processing as a rush job. Not that she was eager to relive the fantasy she’d conjured during the interview, but she did need to thoroughly dissect Wilder’s statement for clues.
Georgia sat on the edge of the chair and leaned forward, resting her arms on Sunny’s desk. “My cubicle’s next to word processing,” she said, keeping her voice low. “When all the gasping and giggling started, I got curious.”
“Oh God.” Sunny closed her eyes and groaned. “They were playing the tape aloud?”
Georgia’s grin widened. “There wasn’t a headset in use. So? Is he as good-looking as he sounds?”
Sunny bit her bottom lip, then shook her head. “We’re federal agents, Georgia.”
“Statistics show that more and more couples are meeting on the job. We’re agents, Mac, and women. With the hours we put in, where else are we going to find a man?”
Georgia did have a point. Hadn’t Sunny just been bemoaning how long it’d been since she’d found a guy who could hold her interest? Duncan certainly had done that…and more.
“So?” Georgia prompted when Sunny remained silent. “Is he or isn’t he?”
Sunny looked toward the door to make certain they wouldn’t be overheard. “That voice,” she whispered, looking back at Georgia, “isn’t all that could melt granite.”
They giggled. Like women, not agents.
“He has these bluish-gray eyes, and they are so intense,” Sunny said once they stopped laughing. “When he looks at you, it’s like he really sees you.”
“Unlike cleavage crawlers,” Georgia said with distaste. “You know the type. They never look you in the eye because they’re too busy staring at your chest.”
Sunny wrinkled her nose. “How would they feel if we stared at their crotches?”
“Like we’re speaking their language. So, is he tall? Short, what?”
“A little over six foot.”
“Hair?”
“Wavy. Black.”
“Ass?”
Sunny grinned. “The nicest I’ve seen in a while.”
“Oh, it’s not fair.” Georgia let out a sigh. “Such luck. Beauty and brains, too.”
Sunny pushed out of her chair and walked to the filing cabinet. “How does a nice ass equal brains?” She pulled open the top drawer for the bottled water she kept on hand.
“Well, he’s not stupid. He made an interesting point when he said if we’re going to nail the UNSUB, we need—” The phone on Sunny’s rang and Georgia automatically reached for it. “It’s probably the clerk’s office.”
Sunny handed Georgia a bottle before she twisted the cap off her own and took a drink. “Need to know his habits,” she said quietly, recalling Duncan’s words during the interview. “His quirks.”
“Special Agent MacGregor’s office,” Georgia said into the receiver.
UNSUB. CID.
How many more terms did he use that she couldn’t immediately recall? And was Duncan’s use of Bureau slang nothing more than a coincidence? He could’ve picked up the terminology from hanging around law-enforcement personnel. Except when he spoke, i
t’d been…unconscious. Natural.
“Yes, she’s here.” Georgia shook her head, signaling the call wasn’t from the clerk’s office.
Sunny had one of the most powerful databases at her disposal. In a few keystrokes, she could easily satisfy her curiosity. Was it an invasion of privacy if the party wasn’t aware they’d been invaded? she wondered.
“One moment, Agent Caruso.”
Sunny frowned and took the handset from Georgia. “Mac, here.” The only reason any of the agents assigned surveillance of the Wilder estate would call is if something had happened at the scene. The UNSUB was no doubt long gone, so the call probably was nothing more urgent than an eager reporter caught trying to sneak onto the estate or claiming she’d given him permission.
“You gotta see what Quantico is teaching these new kids to do with a laptop and a cell phone. This Eggbert stuff ain’t half bad.”
“Is there a point to this call, Jack?”
“Not really, Mac. Just called to see how it’s hanging.” His gravelly voice was drenched in sarcasm. “You know, in between pissing in the bushes and sweating like a friggin’ pig out here on the hottest day of the year. Hell yes, I have a point. Weidman pulled up something on your boy and I thought you should know about it.”
She wasn’t sure she appreciated Agent Weidman’s checking up on her UNSUB or his aggressiveness. A lead was still a lead, and considering her current level of progress, she’d withhold judgment for the time being. “My apologies, Jack. What’d he find?”
“The kid ran a basic background check. Chamberlain has an impressive résumé with a ton of high-end experience as an investigator.”
“Chamberlain?” As in Duncan Chamberlain, the hottie capable of melting granite and a whole lot more. Not the UNSUB as she’d mistakenly assumed.
Dread crept up her spine and settled in her shoulders. A knot of tension formed at the base of her skull and began to throb in a slow, steady rhythm.
“You wanna take a shot at where he got his training?”
Sunny briefly closed her eyes. “Where?” she asked, even though she had a good idea of the answer.
“Quantico, Virginia, Mac.” Jack’s tone sobered. “The son of a bitch is FBI.”