Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (33 page)

“In general, yes. That is, of course,
assuming that he hasn’t grabbed a child already.”

“We thought of that,” Deckert expressed.
“There haven’t been any unresolved child abductions in the area
within the past two years.”

“What about Seattle?”

“Nothing,” Ben added. “If he already grabbed
a kid, either it hasn’t been reported, or it happened somewhere in
between here and Seattle. I’ve got a coupl’a guys workin’ on
compilin’ a list right now, but that’s gonna take some time.”

“Dammit! There has to be something.” My pace
was quickening as my patience began showing wear. “There’s
something there, and I’m too blind to see it.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Rowan,” Felicity
chimed.

“Why not?” I shot back as I came to a halt
and motioned to Ben and Deckert. “They’re taking me at my word on
all of this. They’ve got cops all over the place watching schools
all day. What if I’m wrong? What if this bastard doesn’t try to
grab a kid after all? What if he kills a waitress from the local
pancake house? Or a secretary? Or anyone else for that
matter...Then it’s MY fault because I was wrong.”

The room fell hushed as my diatribe ended,
and the three of them watched me in concerned silence. After a long
moment, the quiet was ushered from the room by the raspy sound of
Detective Deckert clearing his throat.

“Do you think you’re wrong?” he asked
simply.

I allowed his words to fade softly away
before bringing my gaze up to meet their faces. “No. No, I
don’t.”

“Then stop kickin’ yourself in the ass,” Ben
ordered. “It’s not gonna help us figure out who this sicko is.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if anything is,” I
whispered.

“If it weren’t for you, we’d have never made
the Seattle connection,” he continued. “It’s not like this asshole
has been leavin’ behind a lot of clues. Trust me, even I don’t
believe I’m about to say this, but right now your dreams or
nightmares, or whatever the hell you call ‘em, are the best leads
we’ve got. So far, you’re two for two, and that’s a damned good
average in my book.”

“But the dreams aren’t just ‘Bam, here’s the
answer’, Ben,” I objected. “The clues are obscure and symbolic.
Like the Seattle thing. I had that dream days ago, and it was about
rain. I didn’t make the connection until I got a package from a
client that’s based in Seattle, and it triggered the thought. I
still don’t know what the other ones mean.”

“So maybe you just need to relax,” Deckert
volunteered.

“Could be.” I leaned against the doorframe
and let out a long sigh. “That would probably help.”

“I don’t mean to push, especially on that
note, but you mentioned somethin’ about money on the phone
earlier,” Ben queried. “Any idea what it means yet?”

“No, not yet... And there’s a perfect example
of what I mean about the clues being obscure. What I saw in the
dream wasn’t actually money, it was a tarot card.”

“You mean like those fortune teller cards,”
Deckert intoned.

“Exactly.” I pushed away from the doorway and
retrieved a tarot deck from the top drawer of the buffet then
seated myself back at the table. “This deck belonged to my mother,”
I told them as I unwrapped the square of white silk that
encompassed them. “Neither Felicity nor I have ever been really
into tarot, so I had to look some of this up. Ariel, on the other
hand, was fascinated with it. In my dream, we were sitting at a
table, and she was reading the cards for me...but not really FOR
me, more like TO me.”

“I don’t believe I’m asking this,” Ben spoke
this time, “but what did she tell you?”

“Nothing really.” I fanned the deck of
seventy-two oversized cards before us and began carefully choosing
those that had appeared in the dream. “I think this one represents
the killer.”

As they watched, I placed the Knight of Cups
face up in the center of the table.

“Why’s that?” Deckert asked.

“Whenever Ariel read tarot,”
I explained, “she used a method know as the Celtic Cross. The
variation of the style she followed requires that the reader choose
a card called a
significator
to represent the person being read for. This was
the card she chose in the dream.”

“So what does that tell us?”

“If you follow the assigned, or divinatory as
it’s called, meaning of the card, then it would represent a young
man with light hair and eyes.”

“Not exactly a specific description is it,”
Ben ventured rhetorically.

“She continued with this card.” I reached out
and placed The Devil over the significator card. “As you would
expect, this card can signify violence and black magick. In this
position of the Celtic Cross, the card represents the general
atmosphere surrounding the subject.” I placed The Tower across the
two cards. “Next, the sixteenth card of the Major Arcana,
representing an overthrow of existing ways of life, imprisonment,
even death. This position shows the forces that oppose the subject
of the reading.”

“It represents us,” Felicity whispered
softly.

“That’s my guess,” I agreed. “Anyway, that’s
where the reading stopped. Suddenly everything changed, and I
witnessed her being murdered by a shadowy figure once again.”

“Excuse me if I appear stupid,” Ben puzzled,
“but where in the hell did ya’ get money outta that?”

“From this card,” I answered and tossed the
Seven of Pentacles face up onto the pile. “Seventh card of the suit
of Pentacles, sometimes called coins. The money card. A little girl
appeared in the dream and handed it to me... It recurred several
times in the next nightmare as well. That’s why I think it’s
important.”

“You still just don’t know why,” Deckert
volunteered.

“Exactly.”

At that moment, the wall clock executed its
assigned task and announced the time with a loud bong. The
singularity of the tone signified that it was half past the hour.
The black metal hands imperceptibly rotated around its ornamental
face and showed the time to be 4:30 P.M.

“Sheesh, I didn’t realize it was gettin’ this
late,” Ben announced after glancing over his shoulder at the
timepiece. “I still have to get by the bank and hit the ATM.”

The bank.

Mentally, I turned the piece of the imaginary
jigsaw puzzle in my ethereal hands. Its curved, interlocking
fingers instantly took on a familiar shape, matching obviously with
its mate. I pressed the fragment downward and watched it slip
snugly in where it belonged.

“That’s it,” I whispered.

“What’s it?” Felicity asked. “Are you okay,
Rowan?”

“The bank,” I spoke more audibly. “Money. The
bank. The killer works at a bank.” I turned quickly to Ben and
Deckert. “The four victims. Did they go to the same bank?”

“I don’t know,” Ben answered. “But I doubt
it. They all lived in different parts of the city.”

“I don’t know either,” Deckert admitted. “But
we can find out. Ben’s probably right though. Even if they did use
the same bank, that doesn’t mean they used the same branch.”

“Let’s check it anyway,” I told them
adamantly. “It has to be the connection. It just has to be.”

* * * * *

Material leftovers from the lives of the four
women resided within catalogued and labeled plastic bags—purses and
wallets that, until the deaths of these women, had been sacred
repositories of their ordinary, extraordinary, and personal items.
Purses that husbands and boyfriends refused to violate, taking them
instead to their loved one held at arms length and waiting
patiently for her to pull that which he sought from its depths.
Purses, the contents of which had now been heartlessly fondled,
inspected, dusted, and inventoried by the hands of complete
strangers.

These tangible remnants, once owned by the
four women, now lay neatly upon the surface of the conference table
at the Major Case Squad command post. “Bagged and tagged” as Ben
would often say. Dispassionately “bagged and tagged” and now
waiting for Ben, Deckert, and myself to join the ranks of the
prying strangers.

“I wouldn’t bother with any credit cards,” I
volunteered as they began rummaging through the contents of the
clear plastic bags. “It’s going to be a checking or savings
account. Something that would get them into the bank where he could
see them.”

“Here’s one,” Deckert announced and tossed a
worn, blue leather checkbook on the table in front of me. “It’s
Ariel Tanner’s.”

I reached for the checkbook and hesitated
noticeably when he volunteered the identity of its former owner. I
don’t think either of them noticed, as Ben was still searching
through a bag, and Deckert had turned his attention to the next one
in line. I took a deep breath in through my nose and then let it
out slowly through my mouth, forcing myself to relax. Only then did
I pick up the checkbook and flip open the cover.

The checks were a simple mottled tan, a line
of text boasting the fact that they had been printed on recycled
paper. Across the upper left corner, ARIEL R. TANNER was imprinted
in bold black letters, her address and phone number followed
beneath in slightly smaller type. Just above the memo line was a
shadowy, stylized logo of a domed building bisected by a line of
sturdy type.

“Capitol Bank of Missouri,” I read aloud.

“Same here,” Ben echoed, peering up from the
checkbook he was holding, then added, “Ellen Gray.”

My heart started to race. Thus far, two of
the four women had used the same bank. While there were several
branch offices throughout the metropolitan area, it was easily
possible they had both visited the same one at some point in time.
My theory with regard to the last two nightmares was being proven
true.

“This is it,” I exclaimed. “I was right. This
is the connection.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Deckert interrupted,
a sagging frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Community
Bank of Overmoor.” He waved the grey vinyl-covered checkbook at me.
“Karen Barnes.”

“Westview Federal Savings,” Ben recited in a
dejected tone. “Darla Radcliffe... Sorry, Rowan... It was a hell of
a try though.”

My rising bubble of elation had been abruptly
punctured by Detective Deckert, and as I began dropping back toward
earth, Ben ripped a mile wide tear in the fabric that sent me
crashing. There were three different banks between the four
victims. I didn’t understand. That piece of the puzzle had fit in
so perfectly. I couldn’t be wrong.

“Can I see those?” I asked tonelessly as I
dropped into a chair.

The two solemn detectives quietly slid the
checkbooks across the table to me. I reached out and picked up the
first one. I opened the pebbly-surfaced grey vinyl to reveal the
happily colored pastel checks imprinted with the names RICHARD H.
BARNES and KAREN L. BARNES. The dark black logo for the Community
Bank of Overmoor stood out in hard contrast against the dusty blue
background, wordlessly telling me I was wrong.

I sat holding the rectangular booklet of
smooth paper and grainy plastic. Something simply didn’t feel
right. I ran my fingers over the checks, tracing the lines
imprinted on their faces. They were crisp and clean. The cover felt
stiff and new, unsullied by repeated use. I could even detect a
faint chemical odor, like that of vinyl upholstery. On a hunch, I
flipped open the register occupying the other half of the checkbook
and pored over the first line.

“This is a new account,” I voiced
immediately, turning the register to them. “Look at this. According
to the starting balance, it was opened less than a month ago.”

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Deckert muttered as he
stared at the date.

“I’m willing to bet they had an account at
Capitol Bank,” I volunteered.

“I’ll call the husband,” he stated, taking
the checkbook from my outstretched hand.

The call was short and bittersweet. While I
was glad that I didn’t have to be the one charged with calling the
dead woman’s husband, at the same time, I felt for him.

“You were right,” Deckert affirmed as he
dropped the handset back into its cradle. “They closed their
account at Capitol earlier this month.”

“I hate to rain on your parade, guys, but
this account isn’t new.” Ben had been reviewing Darla Radcliffe’s
checkbook once again and now waved it at us as we turned our
attention to him. “Look at the date code next to ‘er name. She
opened this account over four years ago.”

I wasn’t going to give up. Three of the
victims had used the same bank, and it had to be the connection.
This was the clue that was going to identify the killer; I was sure
of it. The fact that the fourth victim had conducted her business
with a different bank couldn’t be allowed to dispel my theory.

My mind raced, briefly touching upon each of
the catalogued facts it held and lingering momentarily on the ones
that triggered a thought. Two of the victims were single, one
separated, and one married. Ariel Tanner was single, and she was
killed in her apartment. Karen Barnes was married, and she was
killed in the park. Ellen Gray was separated, living alone. She was
killed in her home. Darla Radcliffe was single, and she was killed
in her apartment.

“He didn’t want to chance a confrontation,” I
muttered thoughtfully to myself.

“What’s that?” Deckert looked up at the sound
of my voice.

“Just thinking out loud,” I told him. “One of
the victims was married, one separated, and the other two were
single, right?”

“Yeah,” Ben chimed. “So?”

“So Karen Barnes was killed outside of her
home where she would most likely be away from her husband,” I
continued. I wasn’t even sure what I was driving at myself, but
voicing it seemed to be helping my thoughts take on a recognizable
shape. “The other three were killed in their homes.”