ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS BOOK 1 (33 page)

“I can hear you fine.” The man’s voice was booming, commanding, and the anchor smiled. It would be a strong interview.

“Mr. Clark,” the anchor continued, “we understand that you believe your daughter has been taken by the Southern Strangler. Can you tell us what information you have been given that has led you to draw this conclusion?”

“My little girl is missing, and I want to plead with whoever took her to please let me have her back. I’ll be posting a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to her safe return. She’s such a sweet girl, she never hurt anyone. Please, please, just let her go.” His head dropped into his hand and his shoulders started to shake. A small arm appeared from his left and the camera pulled back to show a young girl comforting Clark. The alleged best friend, of course. The girl looked young, younger than Ivy Clark’s age of twenty-one, but the cameras could be deceiving when it came to youth. She could have been twelve or thirty as far as Baldwin knew. The way she touched Tanner Clark made him wonder if there wasn’t something more between Ivy’s best friend and Ivy’s megamillionaire father. A montage of pictures filled the screen while the man broke down. Ivy on a horse, Ivy in a ball gown, Ivy in jeans and boots and a tiny pink tank top with a young man who looked suspiciously like Prince William. The anchor wasn’t about to lose the shot of the grieving father, but he had gotten to dead air and needed to keep the interview rolling. “Miss Simone, is that right?”

“Yes, I’m Serene Simone.” She had a slight accent that Baldwin wanted to say was French but he could not be absolutely sure. “I am Ivy’s best friend. She is dear to me and I want to echo Mr. Clark’s sentiment. We just want Ivy back home safe and sound.”

“Can you tell us a little more about Ivy, please, Miss Simone?”

As she began to speak, the montage started again. Ivy Clark was a stunningly beautiful young girl who looked like she could have a good time. She was smiling in all of the pictures, and Baldwin could see the sparkle of a small diamond in her right nostril. A photo of her in an open-backed dress showed a couple of tattoos on her shoulder, and another shot of her from the back showed some sort of tattoo on her lower back. Baldwin pulled the missing persons report to the front of the file and read a bit more. Chinese symbol on the inside of her right ankle, a small dragon on her bikini line, a rose on the top of her foot, a small butterfly on her right shoulder blade and more Chinese symbols on her lower back. They should not have any trouble identifying the body if the tattoos were intact. He looked at the screen again, muting out the honeyed words of Serene Simone and concentrating on Ivy’s face. The mischievous grin and the sparkle in her eyes got to him the most. This girl was so alive, too alive to possibly be dead. But Baldwin knew that was probably exactly what she was. Dead and gone, like all the others. They needed to catch Buckley. Damn, why hadn’t they gotten any more information on him?

The time for the segment was up; the anchor wrapped the interview quickly. “I’m sorry to have to cut you off, but we are out of time. Let’s see that emergency number again, producers. If you have any information on the whereabouts of Ivy Tanner Clark, missing from Louisville, Kentucky, please call this number. We’ll see you after the break.”

The screen filled with an 800 number, one that Baldwin recognized as the FBI tip line. The number had generated hundreds of calls with leads that were going nowhere. It was time to make a change, to make something happen. A hundred thousand dollars might help. Of course, it might hurt, too, because they’d be inundated with tipsters dolling out bogus information. Baldwin looked down at the files in front of him. He went through the list again, covering Jake Buckley’s travel schedule for the past two months. The man had been on a junket, and had been in thirty cities in the past month. But the cities they needed to see him in figured prominently. Huntsville, Alabama; Baton Rouge, Louisiana; Jackson, Mississippi; back to Nashville. Then on to Noble, Georgia; Roanoke, Virginia; Asheville, North Carolina, then Louisville. He was scheduled for a break back in Nashville that would last for a week. Maybe he was done killing, maybe he wasn’t, but he was coming home, and home was where they’d hopefully find him. He was due back in Nashville last night. He had not arrived home, so the BOLO, Be on the Lookout, for his car had been issued, yet no one had reported seeing the car anywhere between Nashville and Louisville. It was time for Baldwin to talk with Quinn Buckley. He needed to get a better sense of who they were dealing with.

He dug in the dirt like a carefree child, singing softly to himself under his breath.

“One little, two little, three little Indians…four little, five little, six little Indians… Don’t have the seventh or the eighth little Indian…but that’s okaaaaay for now!”

He spread the rich, loamy soil into the holes, then dusted off his hands and broke open a package of seeds he’d gotten at the local hardware store. Sprinkling the minute buds of life, he started to laugh. Pushing up daisies, literally. Really, he could be so funny sometimes. He stood, brushing the dirt from his knees, and reached for a gentle misting hose. He started the water and stepped back to admire his newly sown garden. How very lovely.

Quinn Buckley was starting to get worried. Jake was due home and had not shown up, the FBI was looking for him, a nationwide alert had gone out about his car, and nothing was happening. She was sitting alone, in her empty kitchen, nursing a cup of tea and a broken heart. She had not been able to reach her brother for several days, and she had not been able to make plans for her sister’s burial. The children had gone to play at a friend’s house. She barely remembered telling them that they could, but there was a terse note from Gabrielle telling her that the kids were down the street on a play date. The big house was silent and brooding, and she felt like she was losing her mind.

She knew there was no way Jake Buckley had killed all those girls. Jake may be many things, a poltroon, an adulterer, a bad husband, yes, he was all of those. But he was not a killer, and when she got the phone call from John Baldwin at the FBI she had readily agreed to have him come out and sit with her, to talk about some of the details about Jake Buckley that he had not been able to ascertain. Maybe she was just lonely and needed to have someone sit with her, hold her hand and tell her they understood.

She wandered into the study, the one room in the house that she felt she could call her own. Perhaps a book would cheer her up. She entered the room and took in a deep breath. Standing in the middle of the room was Reese, her little brother. She jumped and let out a startled cry. He just looked at her with unfathomably sad eyes.

“Jesus, Reese, you scared me to death. When did you sneak in here? I didn’t even hear the doorbell. Oh, it’s good to see you. When did you get back?”

She went to him and enfolded him in a hug. Reese was tall; like Jake he was nearly six foot four in his stocking feet. He had black curly hair, a rogue’s smile, dark blue eyes and a dimple in his chin. His jaw was broad, his nose chiseled, and Quinn couldn’t help but give him an admiring glance. He was just so handsome. And so very young. She was filled with pride for a brief moment then shook it off.

“Sweetheart, I tried to reach you for days, but I could never get through.”

“I’m sorry, Quinn. I told you we’d be out of touch. It was amazing. Really amazing. I learned so much. I got in late last night and heard your message on my machine this morning. Why did you need to reach me?”

Quinn did not know how to approach the subject. She knew Whitney and Reese were not close by any means. But they were related, after all, that had to count for something. She took his hand and led him to the closest chair, a huge leather swayback with studded nails going up the sides. She sat him down and in turn took a seat on a velvet ottoman facing him. She took both of his hands in hers and looked him straight in his gorgeous eyes.

“Sweetheart, Whitney has been in an accident. She was killed. It happened, well, she was on her way here, to the house. I didn’t know if anyone else had gotten through to your team down there, that someone from home had told one of the doctors you were with. I wanted to tell you myself.”

There was no reaction from Reese, and Quinn’s heart sank. He couldn’t hate her, not that much. Reese looked up at her, his eyes troubled.

Quinn squeezed his hands tighter. “I know, honey, I know. It’s awful. There’s more. The police have taken Whitney’s laptop. Apparently she’s been involved, somehow, with this horrible man that has been killing these girls all over the Southeast. I didn’t know if you’d heard about that, either, though it’s been national news and in all the papers. I thought you might have heard something about it. Reese? Reese?”

Reese was staring, unblinking, his face drained of all color. A single tear built up in the corner of his eye and dribbled down his cheek unchecked. He shook his head, unbelieving. Quinn nattered on, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“I mean, I can’t understand it. Whitney, involved with this killer? I don’t know how that’s possible, and the police aren’t giving me a lot of information. I’m sure she was planning on doing some sort of story on it, and she was trying to reach me the day before—” Her voice broke, and she had to gather herself before she continued. “The day before she died. Oh, Reese, what are we going to do?”

Reese finally met Quinn’s eyes, gently removing his hands from hers. “So she didn’t know?”

“She didn’t know what, sweetheart?”

Reese stood up and walked to the bookcase. He reached out a slender finger and traced the spine of an intricately carved book. “All that work,” he murmured to himself.

Quinn heard but didn’t understand what he said.

“What, sweetheart? I didn’t hear you. Are you okay?”

He turned to her, a small smile on his face and a glistening in his eyes. “All my work. She didn’t know.” He started to laugh, and Quinn was unsure what to do. Grief took all forms, and though she knew Reese was not terribly fond of his other sister, she thought that laughter was hardly the best emotional avenue for him to take at the news of her death.

“Now, Reese Connolly, I don’t know what’s wrong with you. I’ve just told you your sister is dead and you laugh. What is wrong with you?”

He was laughing harder now, tears streaming down his face. He stepped over to Quinn, took her in a brief yet forceful hug, and then, still laughing, disappeared from the room. Quinn heard the laughter fade away, then heard the front door slam. A throaty engine turned over and he tore off down the driveway. She sank into the chair he had been sitting in before his bizarre reaction to his sister’s death had drawn him to stand. What the hell was that about? Quinn shook her head. It was beyond her. She knew that there was no way he could know the truth, but maybe she was mistaken. Maybe Reese had been fooling them all along.

The doorbell rang, and she took a deep breath, got out of the chair and went to the door. She opened it to find both Taylor Jackson and a man she assumed was the FBI agent she’d spoken to standing on her doorstep. Taylor was sporting a black eye and a tight smile. The FBI agent just looked worried.

“Come in, come in, please.” She beckoned to the foyer and watched them closely while they came in the door. Something was going on. Hell, what else could be happening? The police had confiscated Whitney’s computer. They were searching for her husband. Her little brother had laughed when he found out his sister was dead. Her life was quietly disintegrating, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

Taylor and Baldwin settled themselves in the library, watching Quinn flutter about like a feather caught in a breeze. She finally sat across from them and took a deep breath.

“Please, tell me what’s going on. What’s the real reason the FBI is looking for my husband?”

Baldwin leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Mrs. Buckley, we have reason to believe that your husband has been involved in several crimes we’ve been investigating over the past few weeks.”

Quinn threw back her head and laughed. “Let me guess. You think Jake is the Southern Strangler. Please, Mr. Baldwin, let me assure you, Jake is no more the Strangler than I am. It’s just not something that could possibly happen. He’s not capable of killing. Sticking his dick into any female that comes within twenty feet of him, absolutely. But killing? No.”

Baldwin wasn’t deterred. “Mrs. Buckley, you don’t seem to understand. Your husband has been in the exact areas that the girls have gone missing from, and the exact spots where their bodies were recovered. That in and of itself is compelling evidence against him. Have you heard from your husband today?”

“No, I haven’t, but that means nothing. Jake goes for days without checking in. I have no idea where he is half the time…” Her voice trailed off. She stared out the window for a moment. “You’re serious, aren’t you?

That’s why you took Whitney’s computer. You think Jake’s been sending her these messages, these poems. But why in the world would he do that? Jake doesn’t send poetry to anyone.” She broke off, her voice catching. “At least, not anymore.”

Her eyes widened. “That son of a bitch. He was sleeping with Whitney, wasn’t he? He was sending her love poems, like he used to do with… Dear God, is nothing sacred? That would make sense. My perfect husband fucking my equally perfect sister. Isn’t that just a riot?”

Baldwin tucked that morsel of information into his mind and tried to get the interview back on track. “Mrs. Buckley, I know how hard this must be for you. You’ve lost your sister, and your husband, well, we don’t know where he is, or what he’s been doing for the past few weeks. I’d like your permission to take a few articles of Mr. Buckley’s personal items with me. We’d like to run some tests, see if we can’t match—”

Quinn came to life, fire spilling from her eyes. “Are you out of your mind? Do you actually think I’m going to march upstairs and give you anything that might implicate my husband in a crime? You get a warrant, Mr. Baldwin. I won’t help you frame my husband for something he didn’t do.”