Malcolm Clinton.
He’d only met Clinton on one occasion and that had been two months ago. Clinton was a guard at the prison where Randolph Weller resided in far better circumstances than he deserved. For an agreed-upon fee, Clinton had promised to call Nick with the names of any visitors beyond the usual FBI profilers who wanted to pick the monster’s brain. This was the first time Clinton had called. The idea that his father hadn’t had the first visitor who wasn’t FBI in all that time made Nick inordinately happy.
Or, even better, maybe the bastard was finally dead.
He accepted the call. “You have an update for me.” His pulse reacted to the anticipation pumping through his veins.
“Yes. Dr. Weller had a visitor this evening. I had to pull a double shift so I couldn’t call until now.”
“I’m listening.”
“It was a woman his attorney called for him. A detective from Montgomery.”
Tension slid through Nick.
“Detective Bobbie Gentry,” Clinton said.
“How long did she stay?” Why the hell would Bobbie visit him? Nick couldn’t fathom any reason she would visit Weller.
“Not more than fifteen minutes. She seemed a little distracted or unsettled when she left.”
Nick glanced at the time on the dash. “What time was this?”
“About five thirty.”
“Thank you.” Nick ended the call before Clinton could say more. He tossed the phone onto the seat. “What’re you up to, Bobbie?”
He’d kept up with her since he left Montgomery. As hard as he’d tried to forget her, he could not. She showed up in his dreams when he slept and in his thoughts when he didn’t. He’d learned Bobbie had a new partner, a Detective Steven Devine. Nick had done a thorough search of Devine’s background and found nothing troubling except that he was single and close to Bobbie’s age.
The idea of her spending long hours each day with the guy grated on Nick. He’d watched her interactions with Howard Newton—the partner she’d lost. The bond had been palpable. Would she forge that same sort of bond with the new guy? Wasn’t that what cops did?
None of your business.
He shook off the thoughts. He had more pressing concerns. Why would she visit Weller?
There had to be something going on. He’d been mostly out of touch the past forty-eight hours. When he closed in on his prey, it was important that he not be distracted. Even a major homicide case wouldn’t explain why Bobbie would go to Weller. Whatever had happened, it had to be specific to a serial killer she believed Weller would know, and even then the FBI would likely insist any questions be funneled through their channels.
Nick glanced at his phone and resisted the temptation to call her. Five or six times in the past two months he’d pulled out the one video of her he’d kept and watched it just to hear her voice. The video had been made before her abduction by the Storyteller. She’d been in the backyard with her husband and child—the husband and child the Storyteller had stolen from her. Nick kicked himself every time he watched. What kind of fool was jealous of the life a dead man had lived? And yet, Nick watched the video over and over, the life depicted in those captured moments making him yearn for things he could never have.
“This is your life,” he reminded himself. There was no need to pretend otherwise. Feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t get the job done.
Nick made the trip across town to the low-rent motel he’d been staying at since his arrival in New Orleans. He backed into the parking slot directly in front of his door. Inside, the dark room smelled musty but it was cool and quiet, two things he required on a hunt. He closed the door and turned on the light.
The reports and photos he had gathered on the Executive Executioner lined one wall. He knew many things about Adele. Where she was born, where she’d lost her virginity, how she lured her prey. His research was always in hard copy. He didn’t have to worry about a housekeeper stumbling upon his work since he always made an arrangement with motel management. He cleaned up after himself and picked up fresh towels and linens at the front desk. There was some risk using this method but not nearly so much as leaving electronic tracks for his friends in the FBI to follow.
Now that the hunt was done, he would pack up his research, drive to some place well outside the city and burn the whole lot. But first he had to know why Bobbie had visited Weller.
He opened his laptop, entered the passcode and then searched the news for the Montgomery area. The first headline to top the Google search gave him the answer.
Seppuku-Style Killings Take the Lives of Wealthy Montgomery Couple
He read the story, noting that Bobbie was the lead detective on the case. According to the reporter’s inside source, the murders were carried out in the same MO as the Seppuku Killer from the last decade. Had to be nothing more than a copycat. But Bobbie having shown up to visit Weller after being assigned the case was far too big a coincidence to ignore.
Nick closed the laptop. If someone was trying to send him a message, he or she had known exactly how to get his attention.
He would shower, grab a few hours of sleep, and then he was going to Montgomery.
To Bobbie.
Baptist Medical Center
Friday, October 21, 7:00 a.m.
Bobbie watched Sage Parker sleep. According to the uniform who’d just gone off duty, the boy had a bad night. Nightmares had disturbed his sleep. Bobbie’s heart went out to the child. No matter that his aunt had arrived yesterday to be with him, he was alone in a way every child feared. Both parents had been taken from him in one fell swoop; his sister was still missing. Every hour that passed diminished the expectation of finding her alive.
When she was twelve years old Bobbie lost her mother, but she’d had her father. Her father hadn’t passed away until she was in college, but his sudden death had been extremely difficult to accept. Not because she had loved him more than she had her mother, but because his death had been like losing her history. There was something intensely painful about losing the roots that bound you to this life. Sage Parker’s pain had only just begun.
She sighed, resisting the impulse to sweep a lock of light brown, very nearly blond, hair from his forehead. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks. His fingernails were dirty from playing the way little boys play. Digging in the dirt and pocketing rocks were two of his favorite things to do, according to his aunt. He was a climber and had the broken collarbone to prove his fearlessness. He would need all the courage he owned to get through the next couple of years. His parents were gone, murdered. He’d have to leave his friends and all that he knew and move to Nashville, assuming his aunt was willing to take him, and start over again.
Then and there Bobbie silently made two promises to the kid. She would find his sister and she would get the person or persons responsible for devastating his life. His parents, no matter their sins, deserved justice. Sage deserved the ability to move forward without looking over his shoulder or wondering for the rest of his life.
Marla Lowery, his aunt, appeared at the door, her coffee cradled in both hands. Bobbie stood and, with one last look at the boy, walked toward the door.
“I thought I’d get some breakfast while he was resting,” Marla offered in explanation for her absence.
The officer on duty when Bobbie arrived had told her as much. The FBI agent had taken a break, as well. “I’m sure you’re exhausted.” Bobbie flashed a smile at the new uniform who’d come on shift a few minutes ago.
Marla