Facing Evil Page 8

  Sophia Channing.

  Classy name for a classy piece of ass. She looked like woman used to getting whatever she wanted.

  He shoved the papers back in the envelope and drained the rest of his beer. In this case, he was just the man to oblige her.

  Chapter 4

  Sophia looked up at the slight noise, ears straining. Hearing nothing further she resumed reading, mentally berating herself.

  It was easy to trace the source of her residual jumpiness, she admitted. It was a byproduct of her stop at the old Coates’ place. But the visit had been useful, as it had sparked something for her. When she’d gotten to the office she’d done far less work than she’d intended checking on the progress of her patients. One of her colleagues, Dr. Redlow, had taken over her client list during the time she’d been on the Cornbelt Killer case. A few days ago she’d thought it was time to start resuming some of her client appointments.

  Of course that was before they’d discovered that the last of the trio was still in the area. And had resumed killing again. So today the task of tweaking Baxter’s profile had consumed her.

  Her files on others she’d completed for previous cases were stored on her laptop, but the textbooks she wanted to consult were kept in the small research library in the suite she shared with three other psychologists. They all had their own receiving areas and offices, with the library a common hub in the center. Each of their individual spaces radiated from it like spokes.

  As a rule the building was fairly quiet, although there were always the usual business sounds to be heard. Phones. Voices in the hallway. The sound of clients coming and going.

  Which didn’t explain her startling at every little creak or rustle. Frustrated with herself, she reread the paragraph she’d been trying to focus on.

  As a female serial murderer, Vickie Baxter had already achieved a relatively rare status. She shared the female predator commonalities of childhood abuse and her later abuse of children, her own son. Although there wasn’t a comprehensive work of interviews with female serial killers, it was known that they were somewhat more likely than males to work with partners. When they acted alone their crimes most frequently involved children and the infirm or monetary gain.

  Sophia looked at the profiling framework she’d developed for the woman. Baxter was even more unique for being a female sexual predator. The short interview with Van Wheton had cemented that theory. From a clinical standpoint, the woman was a treasure trove for forensic psychology.

  Giving up on reading for a moment, Sophia leaned back in her chair. Stretched. The one time she’d met Baxter the woman was still posing as Rhonda Klaussen. Although Cam was suspicious, they’d had no way to know at first that she wasn’t another of Vance’s victims, as she’d claimed. As Klaussen she’d been a consummate actress, and Sophia had found her credible. How much of the personality she’d shown had been pretense, and how much real? If she could just figure that much, she’d be well on her way to…

  A clatter in the hallway had Sophia’s heart leaping to her throat. Leaving her work on the table, she went to her adjoining reception space and looked out the front door. Paul, one of the night janitors, waved at her from down the hall. Feeling foolish, she gave a weak wave in return and ducked back into her suite again.

  Okay. It was time to stop kidding herself. Clearly staying past office hours had been a huge error in judgment. She hadn’t come in until mid-afternoon and it was now—

  she checked the clock above her absent secretary’s desk—after seven.

  She winced. Her last communication with Cam had been a couple hours earlier when he’d texted a terse summary of the motel lead they were following up on. Clearly he was still immersed in that or he would have reached out and nagged her about her whereabouts.

  Sophia went back to the library and put away the reference material she’d been using. The space was accessible for both of her colleagues’ suites, as well, but there was no door to the hallway. She gathered up her profile notes and the cell she’d taken with her. Heading back to her office space, she flipped the light off before closing the door behind her.

  Stuffing her files into her briefcase, she collected her purse, pausing to send Cam a text message saying she was on her way home before dropping the phone into it. Then she locked up her office and walked swiftly to the building’s back entrance. The office space available in the West building was affordable and perfect for her needs. The parking was less so. The clients used the side facing the street, while the occupants of the building used the smaller lot in back.

  Her heels clicked lightly on the blacktop as she dug in her purse for her keys and used the fob to unlock the driver’s door. The furnace-like heat inside the vehicle slapped at her as she slid cautiously into the driver’s seat. Although she was appreciative of the seat warming features in winter, leather seats in Iowa summers weren’t a benefit.

  Sophia checked the review mirror as she began backing up. There were only a handful of vehicles in the lot at this hour. Most sane people would have gone home a couple hours ago.

  She thought she heard a rustle and braked. Listened. Heard nothing but faint traffic sounds.

  Seriously. Irritated with herself, she resumed backing up. Sophia had infinite patience with a client dealing with the after effects of a traumatic event. For one of them she’d suggest coping techniques. Relaxation measures. Ways to avoid triggers. She was far less tolerant of her own state. Maybe she needed to take some of her own advice when she got home and…

  She caught a flash of movement in the review mirror and jerked the car to a halt. Her head whipped around to look behind her. Just in time to see a man in a facemask rise from his crouched position in the hatchback to lunge over the back seat toward her.

  * * * *

  “So far we’ve got a few strands of hair in the bathroom. Latents on the faucets in the sink and shower.” Cam filled in SAC Maria Gonzalez while he watched the DCI crime scene team at work over her shoulder. The bedspread had been bagged, as had the bed linens and towels. Criminalist Seth Dietz was on his hands and knees running the trace evidence vacuum over the carpet. Phil Stabenow and Nancy Friedley were lifting prints and preserving trace evidence in the bathroom.

  “Motel rooms make crappy scenes,” Gonzalez muttered, half turning to follow his gaze.

  Ordinarily Cam would agree. They’d find hundreds of prints here, and likely unrelated stains and fibers. But he had no reason to believe this room was a crime scene, and he wasn’t trying to identify an UNSUB. All he needed was physical affirmation that Baxter had been in the room. Since they already had her prints on file, a match could be relatively simple.

  “She registered here two weeks ago for an extended stay. Twenty-eight days is the longest this motel allows.” The warrant Maria obtained for them had opened up the registration information, and those details had jostled the memory of one of the reservation clerks, although she’d been shaky on the photo ID of Baxter. “Extended stay requests are infrequent enough that a front desk clerk recalled it. Said the woman had mentioned being in and out of town on business all month, and the stay would be easier than separate reservations each time.”

  “And then she made arrangements to ban housekeeping from the room by requesting towel service on an as-needed,” Maria mused, her dark eyes shrewd. “Any idea when she last made the request?”

  “The housekeeping software shows two days ago.” Mentally Cam blessed Alison Jaye for being so organized. “They were told to leave the towels in front of the door.”

  “And the door had a Do Not Disturb on its handle.”

  “If this is Baxter’s room and she had anything to hide, it’s gone now,” Cam countered. “Likely she wanted to keep her exposure to a minimum.” He and Maria had frequently partnered on cases before he’d taken a multi-agency task force assignment. The assignment had proven to be longer and more harrowing than he’d expected. During his time away from the agency Maria had been promoted to Special Agent in Charge, a p
osition she deserved. Her promotion hadn’t dulled the instincts he’d valued when they worked together. But administrative politics sometimes trumped investigative instincts. It was a compromise she’d been willing to make. Cam wouldn’t have been so accepting.

  She had made swift work of the warrants today, so he was in the mood to be expansive. Hotel reservations meant credit cards, and tracing the one Baxter had used to check in had taken another warrant. It was also potentially their best lead so far. His hunch told him the woman wouldn’t be so careless as to leave a trail that could so easily be traced. But no one could cover all of their tracks. He was counting on that.

  “We made a list of the motels in the metro area that offer extended stays, which unfortunately is a lot of them.” Cam and Maria watched the activity in the room from the hall through the doorway. “But when we cross-checked those with the tip line database of reported sightings, we can narrow it down to five others. Gives us a place to start.”

  “All the extended-stay motels will need to be notified.”

  His reaction to the obvious statement was an arch of the brow. He owed her for the warrants so a little diplomacy was justified. “I’ve got Jenna and Brody on it. But this is going to take manpower, Maria. I’ll need Patrick and Samuels’ return to be full time. And depending on how this shakes out I may need more agents. DMPD is as strapped for manpower as we are.”

  She tapped her lips, thought a moment. “Beachum and Loring are on that child murder case in Ames. But when it looks like we’re getting close, I’ll give you everyone I can spare.” Her expression went grim and he noticed again the threads of silver in her dark hair and the creases on her face that hadn’t been there just a few years ago. “I want this bitch caught, Cam.” Her tone was as fierce as her expression. “Media pressure and political bullshit aside, I want her brought down. She’s a drag on humanity and she needs to be put in a cage for the rest of her life.”

  He considered her. “You always said women were the more vicious of the genders.”

  “Damn straight.” She stepped aside when one of the criminalists walked out with the bagged linens. “But we’re the smartest, too. So catching her isn’t going to be easy.”

  “Maybe not.” His voice was as hard as hers. “But it sure in hell is going to be satisfying.”

  * * * *

  Sophia screamed. A short burst of sound, but the echoes of the shriek careened through her, reverberating through her system. She stomped on the brake, her fingers scrambling for the button to unlock her door. Felt the kiss of a cool steel blade against the side of her throat. Stilled.

  “Oh, no you don’t, bitch. Stay put. Get this tin can moving.”

  She tried to think through the roar in her head. Her heart was jackhammering in her chest. A thread of cold fear snaked down her spine. She needed to think. To move. But paralysis had gripped her limbs.

  Not again not again oh God oh God oh God…

  The flashback rolled over her like a mental tidal wave. Of Vance pulling her out of the shower, overpowering her easily. Feeling helpless. Hopeless.

  “Please.” Sophia moistened her lips. “You can have the car.”

  “I’m gonna take me a ride on something a little racier than this piece of shit.” She felt his breath on her nape and shivered. Vance’s face swam before her again. She gave herself a mental shake to dislodge it. Not Vance. He was in jail. Who then, was this? “I got some nasty surprises for you, bitch. Hope you cleared your schedule.” She closed her eyes and shuddered when the blade traced up to her earlobe and down again. “What I got planned for you will take a few days. Now drive. You make a move for the door and I cut your throat.”

  “All right.” She shuddered out a breath and eased up on the brake. Sophia was calmer now. Steadier. The lot was empty except for the cars she’d noted earlier. Traffic on the street flanking it was light. “You’ll have to tell me where to go.” She kept her right hand on the wheel. Her left crept toward the pocket at the bottom of the door.

  “Turn left out of the lot. I got lots more directions for you. You’re going to…” The blade pressed threateningly against her neck. “Get both fucking hands on the wheel or I slice you open like a pig.”

  “I need a tissue.” Her fingers scrambled inside the small area in a mad search. Found what she was seeking and took a deep breath. “I’m so scared…” She turned suddenly and brought up the small canister she’d been seeking, spraying the pepper spray directly into his eyes.

  “Fuck fuck fuck!”

  She fumbled with her seatbelt release and unlocked the door, half falling from the vehicle. The car kept moving slowly. Out of the lot. Across a lane of traffic. Sophia slipped off her shoes, stumbled to a run, expecting the maniac with the knife to jump from her car and come for her at any moment.

  She’d gotten only a few steps when she saw the taxi bearing down on the vehicle. There was a loud crunch and the shriek of grinding metal as it hit her Prius broadside.

  * * * *

  Cam burst into the DMPD interview room and stopped short when he saw Sophie at the table with a plainclothes detective. The uniform accompanying him to the room had assured him she was unharmed, but he’d needed to see that for himself. He took visual inventory as he moved into the room, ignoring the detective.

  “Sir, you’ll need to leave. You’re not authorized…”

  “Prescott. DCI.” Cam badged him without taking his eyes from Sophie. “Someone heard her name on the scanner and contacted me.” Satisfied for the moment that she was uninjured, he spared the man a glance. “I didn’t get any details.”

  “It’s all right. I’m fine.”

  The detective, a balding man with the seamed face and tired eyes of a veteran, spoke over Sophie. “DCI have an interest in an attempted rape?”

  Cam went still as the words washed over him. Rape. Fear tangled in his his gut with something much more visceral. Primitive. “I have an interest in this one. She’s mine.” It took a moment to realize what he’d said, and backtracked. “That is…Dr. Channing is working on the Cornbelt Killer case with us.”

  “Detective Sam Udall.” The man looked interested. “Any chance this assault is related to the case?”

  “It’s doubtful.” Reaching inside his suit jacket Cam withdrew his card from the inner pocket and handed it to the detective. “We do know Vickie Baxter is still in the area, and that she’s killed again. The Traer case? Detective Manning is liaison on it. That said, I’d appreciated being kept up to date on this.”

  “Not a problem.” Udall returned his attention to the notebook on the table before him. “Dr. Channing, I just have a few more questions. Any idea how this guy got in your vehicle?”

  “He was in your car?” Cam sank into a chair next to her. Took her hand beneath the table. Squeezed it reassuringly. She sent him a small smile before answering.

  “None. I always lock it, even at home. And it was locked before I got into it.” There was the slightest quaver in her voice. Udall might not notice it, but Cam did. And it scraped something inside him. Unconsciously he balled his other fist.

  “He was in the hatchback. Probably under the tarp.” Her Prius had a protective covering there to be used over luggage or other items hauled. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice him. I was in a hurry to get home.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  She shook her head. “He was wearing a facemask. When I caught a glimpse of movement in the rearview mirror, he lunged over the back seat. And then he was behind me the whole time, with the knife.” She winced and tugged at her hand. Only then did Cam realize how tight his grip had become. Loosening his fingers, he brushed his thumb over the back of her hand soothingly.