Profiled (11 page)

“Right. As if Etta didn’t bring enough for an army.” John held the door for Lexie, and they walked inside, where Etta distributed nut bread to the group. The smell of bananas and pecans filled the tiny area and made Lexie’s stomach growl. She’d forgotten breakfast and had eaten a plain bagel for lunch. Not much of an Easter dinner, but she hadn’t been in the mood for more. She looked at the end of the table, where Angel eyed her slice, triple the size of everyone else’s.

“You didn’t have to do this.” She broke off a piece of the steaming bread and popped it in her mouth. After swallowing and rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, she added, “But we’re glad you did. Don’t guess you’d share the recipe?”

“You give me the information on where to buy that jacket, and I’ll share my granny’s secret recipe.”

Angel smirked. “Deal.”

Lexie sat down and took a bite of her bread, added her own praise to Etta’s culinary talents, then watched the lady, beaming, leave the room, while promising to bring more goodies when she came to work tomorrow.

A new, packed file of information rested on the table in front of each task force member. Lexie flipped hers open. Molly Taylor’s background sheet topped the pages. Lexie examined the pretty girl, then lifted the page and viewed the next victim’s photo.

“Since we’re still at the wait stage for today, and since we still don’t have the missing persons data from February of ‘85, I thought we’d concentrate on the next best way to determine more about our killer,” Angel tapped her file. “Victimology. We’re going to look at all of the victims to see if they have more in common than the three signature criteria we’ve already noted.”

“We’ve been through this with each series.” Lou tossed an oversized chunk of bread to the back of his mouth while he flipped through the pages. “It hasn’t changed. The women have nothing in common except they were single, blonde and pregnant. Evidently that’s enough for our killer.”

“At this point, until we get that missing persons data, victimology is our best resource.”

Lexie knew Angel well enough to know she wasn’t pleased with Lou’s flippant attitude. They were dealing with a killer, and whether or not he murdered again today, they still needed to find him.

“Well, if we’re going to look at victims,” Ryan said, “we should be able to look at all of them.”

“What do you mean?” Captain Pierce fanned the corners of his victim sheets. “We’ve got them all right here.”

“Not this one.” He lifted a page. “They never gave us much more than her name. But considering the name, I guess they thought that was enough.”

Lexie’s throat tightened. She’d turned past that page in her own file and had hoped no one noticed she didn’t examine it like the rest. But now, with him holding it up for the group, she found it difficult to control the natural reaction. Angel wasn’t immune to the effects either. The profiler’s mouth flattened, as if she had no response to Ryan’s comment regarding the prominent senator’s daughter, but Lexie knew better. Angel’s teeth were undoubtedly clamped against her inner lip and helping her maintain composure, the method she had always used to mask her pain.

“I understand they wanted to protect Truman’s family, but all we have here is the same information available on public record. We’ve never found out if the killer selected her because she fit his signature criteria, or if it was more political than that. They never even questioned Truman,” Ryan explained.

Angel cleared her throat. “According to the information I received, he wasn’t able to answer questions. His heart attack and subsequent mental breakdown left him incapable of helping with the investigation. And all evidence suggests that Beverly Truman had been selected like every other victim, because she fit his criteria, not because she was Nicholas Truman’s daughter.”

While they continued discussing the most notable victim, Lexie fought to maintain composure. She hated that Angel had to listen to their speculations, their theories, about something so personal, so painful. But Angel Jackson’s professionalism kept her part of the killer’s history private. Then again, Angel hadn’t seen the Sunrise Killer.

Lexie had.

She stood from her chair. “Excuse me. I left my tape recorder in the car.” Then she exited the room and put some distance between her and the photo that pierced her heart. But she’d seen the concern in Angel’s eyes before she left the table. Angel wanted to follow her, to make sure Lexie could deal with the past until they caught the killer. But she couldn’t, and Lexie would be even more upset if she did. They’d come too far to let everything fall apart now. It had all started with the two of them, together. And if they caught him now, it would end the same way, with the two of them, together.

They could do it, Lexie and Angel. They’d help the government put him away for good, but both of them knew the risk they were taking by coming back to his domain. If he learned Lexie’s identity, or Angel’s, before they identified him, they were as good as dead.

She held her emotions in check as she moved down the hall passing officers and forcing cordial greetings through a throat pinched tight. She exited the building, filled her lungs with thick air and returned to her car. Then she let the tears fall in silence.

In contrast to yesterday’s rain, the sun beamed, filling the Lexus with warmth and cloaking her pain with heat. The memory fought to be reclaimed, and Lexie fought just as hard to keep it at bay. She couldn’t stop now. She had to find him, had to stop the nightmares.

Closing her eyes, she decided to wait a few more minutes before returning inside. Let them discuss the prominent senator’s daughter and the way she died without Lexie having to hear. She didn’t need anything to remind her, didn’t need to hear about Senator Truman’s heart attack, didn’t need to remember how his entire world had shattered during the two weeks when he lost his two oldest daughters. And she didn’t want to remember how he’d have made his way to the White House.

Lexie didn’t want to remember. But she did. In fact, she remembered the sirens, the way they’d blared on that day so long ago. And the screams. If she could only block out the screams...

Opening her eyes, she saw John Tucker climb in his truck then peel out of the parking lot.

Dear God, what happened?

She punched the unlock button on her door. Her stomach rolling, she tried to open her door, but she’d hit the wrong button and locked it again. Two black-and-whites sped past, Ryan and Lou in one, Zed and the captain in the other. Lexie pounded the button again and flung her door open, nearly falling to the pavement with her momentum.

Angel sprinted from the building and hurtled through the parking lot toward her SUV. Her hair unbound now, it billowed behind her as she ran.

Lexie knew something big had happened. “What is it?”

“Another murder. No time to explain—follow me.”

Her heart raced. “He found someone, didn’t he? He got someone else?”

Angel’s grim face answered Lexie’s question. “Come on!”

“I’m right behind you.” And then they left, Lexie following Angel, the two of them headed to the scene of his kill. Another single, blonde, pregnant woman was dead. Lexie could feel it. She tightened her hands on the steering wheel. It had happened, the monster had murdered. Again.

Angel pressed the accelerator and tore through town, her mind repeating the directions Sims had given her before they left. All of the locals knew where they were going, and she hadn’t taken the time to program her GPS, just listened to the turns and, like everyone else, made a beeline toward death. Tucker hadn’t stopped long enough to translate anything, but she hadn’t expected him to. As the homicide detective in charge, he had to get first and foremost to the scene.

She looked in her rearview mirror and saw Lexie, following so closely Angel couldn’t see the front of her car. Lexie. How would she handle this scene? Simple, Angel thought. She wouldn’t.
Even though Lexie McCain had secured a spot on the task force for the investigation, she still counted as media, and no way would the crime scene investigators allow a reporter near the body. Thank goodness. Lexie didn’t need to see someone else who’d been attacked by the Sunrise Killer. Although Angel knew what he was capable of, had seen the crime photos verifying the fact, she’d never seen the victim firsthand. Lexie, on the other hand, had. And viewing the scene this soon after the murder would intensify those memories. Lexie didn’t need to sharpen that image. Remembering the details meant reliving the pain, and no matter how many times Lexie McCain revisited that scene, one detail remained unchanged...

She didn’t remember his face.

Angel started to think she’d picked the wrong street, but then she saw the telltale red and blue lights flashing outside a tiny brick house. She pulled in behind Tucker’s green Grand Cherokee and jumped from the Tahoe.

Lexie parked behind Angel and hopped out as well. “When did it happen? Who is she? Who found her?” Lexie ran toward Angel in full investigative reporter mode. But Lexie the reporter wasn’t asking the questions; these questions came from Lexie, the woman who wanted the killer stopped, just like Angel.

“I don’t know anything yet. The call came in a few minutes after you left the conference room, and I followed Tucker’s lead.”

“Well, we need to find out.” Lexie stepped toward the house.

Angel didn’t want to stop Lexie’s progress, but she also knew the reporter wouldn’t be allowed on the crime scene. Plus, knowing Lexie’s past, Angel would be the first to declare Lexie McCain didn’t need to see the body. But she didn’t want to be the one to tell her she couldn’t. Thanks to the two cops who’d responded first, she didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait here.” One of them stepped between Lexie and the house.

“But I’m on the task force.”

“You’re Ms. McCain, right?” the second cop asked. “The news lady?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Detective Tucker told us to have you wait out here. He’ll be out to update the media as soon as the scene has been analyzed.”

“The media? I’m not just the media. I’m helping the police with this case. I’m
on
the task force.” Her words were sharp, clipped and determined.

Angel hadn’t been sure whether she’d see eye-to-eye with John Tucker about anything in this case, but right now, she did. He could’ve foregone typical protocol with Lexie on the task force, but he didn’t. Maybe he realized the truth, even if he didn’t know why.

Lexie didn’t need to go inside.

“I’ll keep you posted on what’s happening.” Angel started toward the front door. She stepped around a
For Rent
sign, but stopped when another field cop, the size and build of a professional wrestler, centered her path.

“I’m sorry. Only authorized personnel inside.”

Angel displayed her badge. “FBI.” Then she moved past him without a backward glance.

Two additional police officers stood inside the door. She flashed her shield again, then proceeded down the hall to the bedroom, where Elijah Lewis backed out of the doorway and stepped on her foot.

“Whoa.” He cradled his camera as he moved away. “Sorry, didn’t hear ya coming.”

“That’s okay.” She cut her gaze to the photographer. “You got here fast. When did they call you?” She understood how the cops who’d been first on the scene already had everything roped
off and moving. She even understood how the CSI guys had been at the ready position for the 911 call telling them he’d struck again. But the crime scene photographer wouldn’t have been one of the first called.

“Heard it on the scanner. Been waiting to hear something since last night, so I was ready.” He grinned, excited, and this time two specs of tobacco dotted his top teeth. “Didn’t want to miss getting the gig.”

Angel fought the urge to grab him and fling him into a wall. “The gig is a murder. A woman who was alive yesterday is dead today. I’d say that qualifies for a stronger term than
gig
.”

“I meant the homicide.” He grinned. Then he turned and snapped more pictures.

“Looks as clean as the others.” Ryan Sims stood beside Tucker and eyed the woman on the bed.

“Tell me everything was documented before the scene was contaminated by overzealous cops.” Angel glared at the flurry of uniforms at the scene.

Tucker shifted to look at her. “They’re on our side, remember?”

Angel breathed in, cringed at the foul odor of death, then let it out—and reminded herself not to inhale any more than necessary. She had no reason to get mad at the local law enforcement.
They
hadn’t murdered the woman. “Did they find anything?” She noted two CSI guys searching the room.

Lou Marker grunted. “Nope, place is as spotless as all his other scenes were. The guy’s a pro.”

Angel looked again at the blonde woman on the bed. Wearing a blue waitress outfit, she had her Waffle House nametag above her right chest. The yellow rectangle had her first name inscribed in black block letters in the center. “Vickie.”

“Vickie Jones.” Tucker stepped away from the body.

Angel’s gaze moved to the woman’s flat stomach. “She wasn’t pregnant?”

“EPT kit in the bathroom has a big plus sign that says she was.” Ryan Sims nodded toward the open bathroom door.