No Escape (7 page)

Still seated in the rear of the luxury car, with Roylston looking on, though he was pretending not to, Gibson played with the card. Even with the gloves on, his skills were amazing. The card appeared and disappeared with lightning quickness.

Tiring of the game, he slid the card into an envelope he’d gotten straight from a box, affixed the address label he’d cut from an image he’d downloaded from the police department’s website. He added a picture of the young woman who’d been recently killed, a picture of her in the water not far from where her body had been discovered by two young Germans looking for a romantic section of the beach. He pulled the paper from the sticky strip, made sure there were no fibers clinging to it, and sealed the envelope.

When he was finished, he waved to Roylston, who pulled over to the public mailbox in front of the seedy hotel where Heath Sawyer was staying. Gibson thumbed down the window and leaned out for just a moment, knowing there were no security cameras on the premises to catch him in the act.

He popped the letter through the slot, then sank back in his seat as Roylston guided the car through the parking lot like a big shark. Gibson hummed to himself and took out the gold coin again, rolling it deftly across his knuckles, almost mesmerizing himself as the gleaming metal caught the reflection of the neon lights.

Chapter 5

Y
ou shouldn’t be here
. Heath told himself that again and again as he stood on the fringe of the crowd at the graveyard service.
You should be back in Jamaica trying to find Gibson.

In the end, though, he’d had to come to Chicago to attend the Megan Taylor funeral. Part of the reason he’d felt the need to be there had to do with the investigation. The other part was the guilt that he still felt for deceiving Lauren Cooper. He didn’t know how he was going to make up for that, so he concentrated on the investigative area.

Once the police departments in the various cities had realized they were working a serial killer after the White Rabbit cards had started coming in, they’d gone out to the victims’ families and friends and gotten as many pictures and as much video as they could. They’d combed through those images and video footage, the same way he and Janet had done.

No one had ever seen Gibson.

That didn’t mean he hadn’t been there, though, and it was that hope that had brought Heath to Chicago.

At least, that was what he told himself, but he knew he wanted to see Lauren Cooper again, as well. The woman had left quite an impression on him.

She sat there beside the coffin with an older woman that Heath assumed was her mother. The woman appeared frail and exhausted, leaning on Lauren for physical and emotional support. Big sunglasses crowded the woman’s face under the broad-brimmed hat. Heath had noticed the lack of eyebrows and the wig at first sight and had known she was taking chemo.

Beside her, dressed in black, her head bare and bowed, Lauren held the older woman’s hands in one of hers and wrapped her thin shoulders with her free arm.

It was a good day for a funeral, which was an odd thing to think, Heath admitted to himself, but he did. He’d attended many funerals when it had been raining or so muggy you could drown in your own clothes. The sun was shining, the trees were green and vibrant overhead, blocking the early afternoon sun and dropping a green tinted haze over the cemetery. A gentle wind blew to stir things up, but even then the grounds were quiet enough that the preacher’s voice rang out.

A lot of people had turned up for the funeral. That was one of the things that Heath had noticed during his attendance at the funerals of murder victims, and of his own family. There were always more people at a young person’s funeral than at an older person’s burial. Common sense said that an older person would have made more friends and more solid relationships. In actual practice, more people attended the funerals of the young.

Death was a new experience for young people, and it was scary at the same time. They didn’t know how to act, and when an older person passed, they were always a generation or two away. Death didn’t seem so close. So they came to funerals because it was a social event and because it was something new.

Now you’re being cynical
. Heath took in a breath and let it out. He was tired. He still wasn’t sleeping well because the frustration clamored inside him. But over the past three nights, the last one in Jamaica and the two since, he’d had nightmares, too. He still had the ones involving Janet, but Lauren Cooper was in there now as well, and he didn’t know why.

The worst one had been when he’d stood by helplessly while Gibson put Lauren into one of those boxes magicians always used, locked her down tight, then broke out the chain saw. In practice, magicians routinely passed swords, guillotines and chain saws through those boxes. No one ever got hurt, though. But in the dream, Lauren had screamed in pain, and blood had cascaded to the floor. Heath hadn’t been able to save her.

A creeping chill climbed Heath’s spine. He was dressed in a black suit, fitting in with the other attendees, but he suddenly found himself wishing he’d brought a jacket.

And a gun.

His own sidearm was back in Atlanta, and the revolver he’d bought in Jamaica was still there in that hotel room behind the air vent cover. Getting a pistol while in Chicago was too problematic.

He’d slept in his rental car down the street from Madeline Taylor’s home. That was where Lauren had been spending her nights. She had her own apartment, but she’d stayed with her mother. Heath had gotten a police scanner from a pawn shop and tuned it in, then grabbed as much sleep as he could during the night while watching over the two women. In the mornings, he’d tailed Lauren as she’d gone about making arrangements for her sister’s funeral.

He’d gone back to stakeout mentality, sitting on a person of interest and hoping for the best. There was no reason to think Gibson would be there, but the killer’s habits were accelerating and no one knew why. Sometimes they just did. The adrenaline rush the killer got from killing wore off faster and faster.

Taking shelter behind the tree where he stood, Heath raised the small digital camera he’d brought with him from Jamaica, part of his investigation go-bag he had for when he had to move fast. He focused the camera quickly and took another round of shots, getting as many of the faces as he could. He’d get more when the people came by to pay their last respects at the grave. Identification would come through Facebook and online college and high school yearbooks.

“Hello.” The voice came from behind him, neutral but authoritative.

Heath knew at once that he’d been busted. Slowly, keeping his hands on the camera, he turned around.

Two men, one black and one Hispanic, stood there just far enough apart that they couldn’t both be gotten easily, but they were still right there to help each other. Neither of them had their hands on their guns, but their jackets were open, and their hands were open and ready.

“Hi.” Heath released the camera with one hand but kept the now-empty hand up and clearly visible.

“I’m Detective Green with the Chicago police department.” The black man’s eyes were invisible behind black Ray-Bans. His hair was cut short, barely showing against his skull. A small, narrow mustache framed his mouth. “This is Detective Hernandez. We need to see some ID.”

Heath didn’t bother asking why. If he’d been Green, he’d have asked him for identification, too. In fact, in different instances on some of the cases he’d handled, he had asked to see identification from people who hadn’t seemed to fit at funerals and other events.

“Sure, Detective. Right-hand pants pocket. I’m going to move slow.”

The man nodded.

Heath forked his wallet out and passed it over.

Green opened the wallet, then looked at Heath again. “Says here you’re from Atlanta. You’re a long way from home.”

“I’ve got some more identification for you if you’ll let me get it.”

“Slow.”

This time Heath reached inside his jacket and brought out his badge case. He passed it over. Green flipped it open and found Heath’s shield.

“What are you doing here, Detective Green?”

“The deceased was the female victim of a violent crime. Those go down, usually it’s the husband, a boyfriend or an ex. Sometimes a family member. A funeral can bring out the worst in people. The captain thought we might drop by, make sure everybody stays safe.” Green looked up. “Are you on the job here, Detective Sawyer? Something the Chicago police department should know about?”

“I’ve been working the White Rabbit killings.”

Green nodded toward the funeral party. “This was one of those?”

“Yeah. Jamaica P.D. hasn’t made it official yet, but it is. They got the card two days ago.”

“I haven’t heard anything about it.”

“Jamaica has better control over their news services than we do here.”

“If they can keep that quiet, they do.” Green handed the wallet and badge case back.

“It won’t last forever.”

“No, it won’t.” Heath put away his things, managing it one-handed because he was still hanging on to the camera.

“Does the family know?”

“I told the sister when I met her down in Jamaica. I don’t know if she believes me.”

“You tell her about the card?”

“No. I haven’t talked to her since Jamaica.”

“Probably something you should do.”

Heath hesitated. “We didn’t really get on while we were down there together.”

Green lifted an eyebrow, but he didn’t ask about that. “Tell you what. I’ll call Jamaica, confirm the White Rabbit connection, then I’ll have a word with the sister. Professional courtesy.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“If you find out anything further, Detective Sawyer, let me know.” Green passed across a business card, pausing briefly to write a cell phone number on the back. “Looks like we’re all interested in this now. I’ve been following the White Rabbit case and know what happened in Atlanta.”

Heath took the card and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“I’m sorry it went down like that with your detective.”

“Me, too.”

“But you must have been getting close to the guy, right?”

“We thought so.” Heath knew he couldn’t drop Gibson’s name. The department would rake him over the coals for exposing them to a lawsuit like that.

“We’ll get this guy.” Green gave Heath a brief flicker of a grin. “It’s what we do.” He nodded and kept moving, his partner a silent shadow behind him.

Keyed up all over again, face-to-face with how Janet had been lost so quickly, Heath tried to put his emotions aside and concentrate on doing his job. When he turned back, though, he saw that Lauren Cooper was headed straight for him, and she didn’t look happy to see him.

* * *

At first, Lauren hadn’t believed that Heath Sawyer was there. She’d noticed the police detectives as they’d been circulating the funeral. She didn’t know what they were doing there, or if someone from the police department always showed up in a situation like this, but she knew that Heath Sawyer shouldn’t have been there.

From the disappointed look he gave her, she knew he wasn’t happy that she had seen him. For some reason, that lack of appreciation made her angrier and more confused. She had felt livid, surprised and excited to see him all at the same time. That was something she didn’t want to do. Her emotions were too confusing now.

He cleaned up really well. The black suit was clean and pressed and fit him nicely. It made him look a lot different than he had in the casual business attire he’d worn while masquerading as a coroner. He was clean-shaven, his hair moussed and in place, and the pair of Oakley sunglasses would have gotten him on the cover of
GQ.
His tie was knotted perfectly.

Lauren stopped in front of him and folded her arms, looking up at him.

Heath gave her a small, crooked smile. “By the time I realized you had spotted me, it was too late to retreat.”

“Do you feel the need to retreat, Detective Sawyer?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His Southern accent was more pronounced now, or maybe she was so used to the native accents around her that something different really caught her attention.

“What are you doing here?”

“Miss Cooper.” He spoke calmly to her, and that infuriated her even more. She was burying her sister, and he was butting in, catching her off guard the same way he had down in Jamaica. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to talk about this.”

“Did you have another time planned?”

“No.”

“You came here because you thought Gibson would be here, didn’t you?”

He hesitated a moment before answering. “I did.”

Lauren sipped her breath and made herself speak rationally. She glanced over her shoulder to check on her mother. Madeline Taylor was doing fine at the moment, having some final words with her brothers and sisters. The closeness of those family members had made Lauren feel the slightest bit out of place, something she hadn’t experienced in years.

She looked back at Heath. “I read over the newspaper stories about the White Rabbit killings. All of them. They’re all different. Different women. Different ways they were killed. Different times of days, weather conditions, a lot of things are different. I’ve also done a lot of reading on serial killers the last few days.”

Heath didn’t say anything to that.

“Most serial killers kill the same kind of victim in the same way with the same kind of weapon. The killing is an orderly series of events.” Lauren couldn’t believe she was talking so nonchalantly about such a horrible subject. The reading had been hard, but she’d always been good at research.

“There are different kinds of serial killers.” Heath’s voice was flat, no-nonsense. “What you’re describing? Those are ritualistic killers. Guys who have hang-ups about something or a particular kind of person. There are also compulsion killers. Guys who don’t know why they kill other than whatever satisfaction they derive out of it. Gibson is an organized killer, always in control of the victim, in control of the encounter area. He plans out his killings, but he doesn’t do the same thing over and over again.” He paused. “Magicians don’t always pull the same tricks over and over again, do they?”