Authors: Lynde Lakes
“What gives?” a sleepy-eyed Ellen asked as she gestured for Jill to come in. Jill headed toward Tess’ room and Ellen followed with her slippers flopping against her heels. “Is there something wrong?” she drawled.
“I’m not sure.” Jill turned on the bedroom ceiling light. “Tess may have gotten herself in a jam.”
Ellen’s eyes, now alert, clouded with concern. Jill hadn’t meant to upset her. She patted Ellen’s shoulder. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
God, I hope I’m wrong.
Jill pulled out desk drawers, checked the bureau, and scanned the closet packed with colorful clothes, mostly expensive labels. Some of the dresses still had the tags on. And all those shoes. How could Tess afford all this?
She didn’t know if it was the overpowering fragrance of vanilla sachet in the closet or her fears about what Tess might be doing that made her nauseous. “Tess must be making good money at her part-time job.”
Ellen shrugged. “She’s still teaching dancing at the Rec Center. And she’s had a few modeling jobs and a couple commercials.”
“Modeling?” Jill’s knees almost buckled under her. She clutched the molding on the closet doorway to steady herself. She’d known about the dancing. Her sister had danced since she was three. She could do it all, tap, ballet—but the modeling...oh, God.
She couldn’t let her imagination get the best of her. She had to keep a clear head.
Jill emptied the wicker wastebasket onto the carpet. The only thing that caught her eye was a matchbook cover from the Jester’s Motel. Since Tess didn’t smoke, it was odd to find it in her trash. “Do you know anything about this?”
Ellen pulled her bathrobe tighter around her chubby hips and stifled a yawn. “She kept it for the address, think it had something to do with her video class. Modeling job, maybe. Some of the guys use a room there to do their taping.”
The possibility that her sister was in big trouble grew stronger by the minute. “Tell me the truth, Ellen. Tess wasn’t into porno or anything like that, was she?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “After Tess started taking the video class she...well, you know...she clammed up.” Ellen sounded hurt.
So, Tess hadn’t told her everything either. That wasn’t like her—since grade school they’d shared all their secrets.
Jill cleared her throat. “What about men?”
“There’s no one special, least I don’t think so. Wait a minute—there was a guy who came here a few times to work on video projects with her. Don’t think she ever dated him.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I’m trying to remember.” Ellen clicked her tongue against the bridge of her mouth several times, as she often did when perplexed. “He was an older guy, maybe in his late-thirties.”
Ellen wrinkled her brow. “Uh, Don...Dave...something like that. I believe his last name was Kent...like Superman...no, it started with a C.” Ellen picked up Tess’ address book and thumbed through it. “Here it is—Dane Clark.”
“Dane Clark!” Jill’s heart beat faster. At another time, she might have laughed at Ellen’s Superman-connection. But not now. Ellen’s description of Dane was overly dramatic, but she was right. The newspaperman was a compellingly attractive man and probably more dangerous than either of them could imagine. Her face warmed with outrage. The worldly reporter had no business fooling around with her less experienced nineteen-year-old sister. “I need to borrow Tess’ address book. Someone listed there might know where she is.”
“I dunno...”
“Come on, Ellen. Under the circumstances, she won’t mind.”
A shiver slid down Jill’s spine.
Better angry than dead.
Chapter Seven
Jill drove toward The Jester’s Motel, strongly aware of the matchbook in her pocket. How had her sister landed in the middle of a case that spanned three states?
At first, the killings had been spread over such a large area that the police hadn’t known the man they were after was a serial killer. It wasn’t until he’d turned careless or lazy and murdered eight women in one city, all models, that they put it together.
Then the senseless slaughter crossed the Nevada state line into Utah. That was when she’d been brought into the case and attached to a special FBI unit. She’d been promoted to second in command because of her expertise in tracking and dealing with the psychotic mind. The snuff case was a tough assignment; but the tougher the case, she’d always told herself, the deeper the satisfaction when it was over.
Jill stopped at a red light and glanced at the distinguished-looking man in the Mercedes next to her. He gave her an admiring once over. What would he think if he knew he was flirting with an FBI psychologist? Most men ran in the other direction after they learned she worked for the Bureau.
So what? Her work was enough. Or at least it would have to be until she found a man she could trust, who was secure enough in his own life to accept hers. Since it was unlikely that she’d find someone like that soon, she didn’t think about it much. With her schedule, who had time for men anyway? It had taken years of sacrifice and hard work to get the necessary experience and training. To get the background she needed to deal with psychopaths like the Snuff Video Killer, she’d graduated with a bachelor’s in science with a specialization in behavioral psychiatry, followed by the basics in law school and med school work. Opening her own practice had been an early dream. What had happened to it?
Jill didn’t realize how hard she was pressing down on the gas pedal until she skidded wide into the curve.
She slowed.
On the next rise she caught a glimpse of the lights of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. She descended the hill onto a short stretch of freeway, then merged into thin city traffic. Ahead, the Jester’s Motel vacancy sign blinked in bright, bold red letters. It reminded her of a strip-joint marquee.
She skidded to a stop in the entry driveway and sprinted to the office.
The night manager was behind bars and glass. The surly-looking, blond ape tilted back in a wooden chair, feet on the desk. His sleeveless T-shirt stretched over a well-muscled chest. This was a man who worked hard to keep his body fit—the rest of him needed some care. Tangled shoulder-length hair, facial stubble and rumpled clothes gave him the scruffy look of a man who’d just crawled out of bed after a bad night. She pressed the buzzer to get his attention.
He put the newspaper down on the desk and barely glanced at her. “Fifteen an hour or forty-nine for the night,” he mumbled without removing the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. His indifferent eyes squinted against curling smoke.
Jill flipped open her I.D. “Do I look like a hooker?”
Rather than inspecting her credentials, he stared at her with a gaping mouth. “Er...certainly not.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Just kidding, Officer. We run a legit place here.” The grin he flashed didn’t change his cold gray eyes. “What can I do for you?”
Jill pressed the picture of Tess to the glass. “Have you seen this young woman?”
He rubbed his unshaven jaw. “A real ten plus, isn’t she?”
Jill leaned closer to the security pane. “Please, just answer the question.” How could she get this brawny baboon to stick to business with two inches of glass separating them?
“What could you possibly find funny? A girl is missing. My sister.” She wanted to add,
Look, Baboon, her life is at stake.
But venting wouldn’t help.
Grinning like the cat who ate the canary, he handed her a card. “I could use a raise. Tell Bernie I cooperated fully. Okay, Lady Fed?”
“Yeah, right.” She tucked the card in her bag and strode away.
Back in her car, Jill headed for the police station. She rubbed her forehead to ease a dull ache. It was late, but she had to know if her suspect had spilled his guts, yet.
The desk officer told her they still had Dane in the interrogation room. She requested to watch from behind the one-way glass.
Dane hadn’t changed his story and nothing in his body language contradicted his words. The lines around his eyes had deepened and his voice was getting hoarse, but his back was erect and his shoulders were squared. As he answered each question with directness and clarity, she found herself rooting for him.
What was that about?
Wavy strands of hair had fallen to his forehead. Her heart beat faster. It was a good thing she was behind glass because if she’d been in the same room with him she might have given in to a very unwise urge. It was irrational, but she’d wanted to touch his thick brown mane. Something about him had her dangerously out of balance.
She watched him rake the strands from his forehead with steady fingers. His tone had a surly edge. Even with the city’s three finest interrogators pounding him with rapid-fire questions this man wasn’t going to crack.
Jill was astonished at her sense of relief. She wanted him to be innocent. Why did she care? She absolutely had to bring her emotions under control.
As she left the building, she made an impulsive decision to check the FBI computer files on Dane Clark right away. There was no chance she would sleep until she had some idea of the kind of man she was dealing with.
He knows Tess
,
replayed in her mind as she drove to the federal building.
Jill showed her identification to the guard, then punched in the security code to enter the corridor where her office was located. She dropped her tape-recorded report on the Du Bois murder in her secretary’s in-file. The action started her mind churning again: No prints. No blood-spatter. Possible set-up. Suspect, Dane Clark, caught at the scene. Bloody knife nearby. He had the opportunity. Still, what about motive?
The killer’s motive wasn’t clear. The connecting threads seemed to center around beautiful models. But was there something deeper, more insidious?
Jill scanned the computer files for about thirty minutes and learned that Dane had won top awards for his stories and the only mark against him was that he’d been jailed twice for refusing to reveal his sources.
She frowned at a reference code indicating another related file, but she couldn’t bring it up. The dull ache in her head had eased, but her eyes stung from fatigue. After a half dozen attempts to locate the file, she exited the computer, making a mental note to have Leo check it out for her. If anyone could retrieve a lost record, he could.
Jill left her office feeling somewhat relived. Nothing in Dane’s file justified suspicion. Could everything he’d said have been true? It came back to the same question. If so, who had set him up? And why?
She climbed into her car, strapped on the seatbelt and headed out of the lot. She nodded to the night guard, then pulled out onto street. It started to drizzle but not enough to need her windshield wipers. Jill flipped on her recorder and made a verbal note to call Gary. She’d have him go to the newspaper office and check out Dane’s personnel files, ask around about him—any murder stories he’d worked on, what his boss and coworkers thought of him—the works. Psychologically speaking, she wanted to know the reporter better than he knew himself.
Jill usually enjoyed driving in the drizzle, threading her way through the streets as traffic signs and neon lights glittered on the wet pavement, but tonight she could only see the image of Tess’ picture in the file with all those murdered models. And it had been in Dane Clark’s filing cabinet.
Suddenly she was eager to get to the safety of her small home in the suburbs of Saratoga, longed to feel the serenity of the walls around her. She doubted that sleeping would be possible, but still she had to try. To catch this killer she needed a sharp, rested mind.
A black van turned onto the freeway entrance ramp behind her. There were hardly any cars, and she and the van had their lane all to themselves.
Her mind was a jumble of questions. If Dane wasn’t the killer, then someone had cleverly set the stage to throw her off his trail. She and her team had gone over the studio with meticulous care. Other than being caught at the scene and having those incriminating pictures in his file, nothing else pointed to Dane. What more did she need? Those things alone were enough to keep him cooling his heels in jail for a while.
The black van stayed behind her all the way to the off ramp and exited when she did. Could the driver be following her? Jill went a little faster, then quickly jerked the wheel and turned onto her own street. The van turned also. She didn’t remember ever seeing it in her neighborhood. It didn’t make sense for it to share the same route all the way from the center of the city. She slowed in preparation to turn into her driveway. On impulse she drove past her house. The car followed and matched its speed to hers, maintaining its distance as they circled a couple of blocks.