FATAL FORTY-EIGHT: A Kate Huntington Mystery (The Kate Huntington Mysteries Book 7) (12 page)

The headline read
Parents of Dead Student Angry About Slow Response.
Below it was a black-and-white picture of a couple standing behind a podium, a bouquet of various sized microphones poking up at their faces.

Tim hit the zoom-in icon.

“Holy shit!” Kate said.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Jane asked from the speaker.

“It sure is,” Tim said. “Can you get me an address on him?”

“Working on it. Hang on a sec.” Keyboard keys clicked.

Kate shot Tim a grin. She leaned toward the speaker. “You’re the best, Penelope.”

“Huh?”

Tim hit the mute button on the speaker. “I told you not to do that!”

Kate kept right on grinning.

His mouth twitched. He hit the button again. Jane was in mid-sentence, oblivious to having been momentarily cut off. “…lived in upstate New York, one town over from where he worked. Then he moved to White Plains.”

“How close is that to New Haven?” Kate asked.

“About an hour to an hour and a half drive,” Tim said, “depending on traffic. How old’s that address, Jane?”

“He bought the house in March, 2012.” She gave the address and Tim wrote it on his pad.

“Right after the wife’s suicide,” Kate said.

Tim nodded. “How’d the wife kill herself?”

“Overdose of Valium,” Jane said. “She had a prescription for it, for panic attacks.”

Excitement bubbled in Kate’s chest. They had their man.

Tim flashed her a grin as he reached toward the speaker. “Thanks, Jane. I’m gonna send a letter of commendation to your boss.”

“Awesome.”

Tim hit the disconnect button, then pulled out his cell phone and ran his finger over it repeatedly.

“What’s next?” Kate asked.

“I call an old buddy of mine in White Plains, New York. Here it is.” He punched a number into the phone on the table.

“It’s Saturday night and I’m off duty,” a deep voice rumbled from the speaker box. “This better be good.”

“Hey Jack, you remember New Haven’s Forty-Eight Hour Killer?”

“That you, Cornelius?”

“Yeah.”

“How could I forget that bastard? Every cop in a four-state area was trying to find him.”

“He’s raised his ugly head, in Baltimore’s northern suburbs this time, and we think we’ve got a lead on who he is.” Tim filled him in.

When he got to the part about an address in White Plains, a long, low whistle came from the speaker.

Tim gave the man Sally’s description. “Maybe we haven’t found him down here because he’s taken her up there. You willing to track down a judge and get a search warrant?”

“I’m on it. And I’ll get a BOLO out on Ms. Ford and this guy.”

“Thanks.” Tim disconnected and stood up. “Let’s fill the lieutenant in.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sally had a pattern going. She would thump on the wall once or twice, then pause to listen for the click and whir of the door in the wall. Thump, thump. Pause. Thump. Pause. Thump, thump.

Wait! Morse code. SOS
.

Three rapid thumps, then pause. Thump, pause, thump, pause, thump, pause. Three rapid thumps.

Muffled banging from the other side of the wall.

Her heart raced. Thump, thump, thump in rapid succession. Then pause. Thump, pause.

The neighbor pounded again on the wall. Sally grunted against the gag. She cocked her foot back.

Click.

Fear clogging her throat, Sally pivoted around on her butt. Blood pounded in her ears, covering the whir, but she knew he was coming. She managed to roll up onto her knees. Hooking her chin on the side of the bed, she pulled up with her neck muscles as her feet scrabbled for purchase under her. She lurched to her feet and almost went over backwards.

Her captor stood two feet inside the room, staring at her. His eyes narrowed. “What have you been up to?”

She shook her head, trying to look innocent.

He walked around the bed and removed the gag. “I asked you a question, young lady?”

She worked her jaw, licked her lips. “I fell again. I think I’m getting dehydrated.”

“I’m giving you water.”

“Apparently it’s not enough.”

He reared back a little at the sharpness of her tone.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Didn’t mean to snap. I’m just not feeling well at all.” She sat down on the edge of the bed.

He put a hand to her forehead–the gesture again that of a parent, checking for a fever. “Have you been…you know?” He tilted his head toward the open door of the bathroom.

“Yes, but not very often.”

“Well. I have the remedy for that.” He held up his other hand. In it was a paper bag of fast food, and hooked around his thumb, the handle of a plastic grocery bag, something heavy in its bottom.

Sally’s stomach growled in spite of herself.

He smiled. “First some of this.” He set the paper bag on the little table by the bed and extracted a bottle of sports drink from the grocery bag. Once he’d poured some into the almost empty water bottle, he held its straw to her lips.

She hated the taste of sports drinks, but she made herself suck on the straw. The electrolytes were exactly what her thirsty cells needed.

When the combination of minerals, water and citric acid hit her empty stomach, it heaved in protest. She let go of the straw with a small gasp.

“What’s the matter?” Now the impatient parent.

“Sorry, I think I need some food in my stomach before I can drink more of that.”

Exaggerated benevolence again on his face. “Of course, my dear. I have a burger, a chicken sandwich and fish. Which would you prefer?”

What the hell happened to the vegetarian crap?

Out loud, she meekly said, “Chicken, please.”

He took a napkin out of the bag and spread it carefully across the rumpled lap of her peach skirt. Then he unwrapped a sandwich–grilled chicken, lettuce and tomato on a sesame-seed bun– and held it to her mouth.

She took a bite, chewed slowly and swallowed. He dabbed the grease from her lips with another napkin. They continued the routine until the sandwich was gone.

“Fries?”

Her stomach grumbled, far from satisfied, but she recalled a workshop she’d attended on eating disorders. The dietician-turned-therapist presenter had described how different foods promoted the production of the various neurotransmitters, which in turn affected mood and thinking.

Sally shook her head. “Maybe some of the fish.” Protein promoted dopamine production, the neurotransmitter that supported clarity of thinking. She needed all of that she could get!

He picked up the water bottle. “More of this first, before you get your tummy too full.”

My tummy?

She dutifully sipped on the straw, closing her eyes partway so he couldn’t read her thoughts. This guy was truly around the bend, treating a woman his own age or older as if she were a child he was caring for. When he had every intention of killing her.

She finished two-thirds of the fish sandwich, then gave a slight shake of her head. He once again dabbed her lips with the napkin. Holding up the water bottle, he poked the plastic straw at her mouth.

She really didn’t want any more of the disgusting stuff but she made herself take another long pull of power drink.

He turned toward the bedside table and put the bottle down.

“What’s going to happen?” she asked.

He froze in the act of putting the trash back in the paper bag.

“I think I have a right to know.” She kept her voice low and even, as non-confrontive as possible.

He stepped back and silently finished crumpling the leftovers and trash together in a ball, then stuffed it all into the plastic bag.

She thought he wasn’t going to answer her.

He heaved a sigh. “Yes, I suppose you do.” He raised his eyes to meet hers. “At seven p.m. tomorrow, unfortunately I will have to kill you.”

Years of conducting therapy helped her hide her reaction. “You will
have
to?”

“Yes. To accomplish the goal, I’m afraid sacrifices must be made.”

She made herself pause and school her voice into neutrality. “And what goal am I to be sacrificed for?”

“You’ve already lived your life. Your death will help to save the young ones.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Shh, shh, you don’t have to worry your head about it tonight. I’ll explain more tomorrow.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial. “Now I want you to take one of these so you can rest. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

He made it sound like they were going to the fair.

“What is that?” She wasn’t totally successful at the neutral tone this time.

“Just a light sedative, to help you sleep.”

“If I’ve got less than twenty-four hours to live, I’d rather not sleep through any of them.”

Ignoring her comment, he opened the vial and shook out a small white pill. Holding it up in one hand, he lifted the water bottle in the other.

She kept her mouth clamped shut.

“Don’t make me force it down your throat.” His tone was an odd mixture of solicitousness and aggression.

She figured he’d enjoy that so she opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue.

“And no tucking it into your cheek,” he said as he placed the pill in the center of her tongue. “I’m going to check.”

She closed her mouth and quickly maneuvered the pill under her tongue.

He reached over and patted first one cheek, then the other. “Very good, my dear.” He lifted the straw to her lips.

She took a sip, swallowed.

“Open your mouth.”

She did and he examined her empty tongue.

“Very good,” he said again. “Now, let’s get you comfortable.” He fluffed the pillow and lifted her feet up onto the bed, forcing her to lean back in a semi-reclined position. He covered her lower body with the blanket, tucking it in to make a cocoon around her legs.

“I’ll just sit with you for a bit.” He perched his butt on the side of the bed and smiled benevolently.

Sally faked letting her eyelids drift closed.

After a few minutes, his weight lifted from the bed. Then the click and whir.

She strained to hear the apartment door thudding closed, so she could lean over and spit out the damn pill. But she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind drifted.

Too late, she remembered that some medications were intentionally administered under the tongue, where they were absorbed directly into the bloodstream through the membranes there.

~~~~~~~~

10:30 p.m. Saturday

The faces around the conference table showed an array of feelings. Judith’s was impassive, although Kate suspected she was far from indifferent to what was going on.

The lieutenant had called a halt to the canvassing for the evening. They would pick up on it tomorrow, expanding the radius. So Skip, Rose and Mac had returned to the police station, along with SA Wallace.

Skip had sent Manny Ortiz home.

Mac, bless his heart, was trying not to look bored. He was a man of action. Sitting around waiting for a phone call was not his idea of how to spend a Saturday night.

At least Julie Wallace was keeping her hands to herself, although she was still making doe’s eyes at Skip. Kate knew it wasn’t just her imagination. Rose was watching her business partner and SA Wallace with great interest as well.

Not much got past Rose.

Tim looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. His excitement over the break in the case had long since turned to poorly concealed anxiety.

Or perhaps the others couldn’t read the signs of worry as well as she could.

Break in the case
… She’d promised to call Rob if there was one. As she rummaged in her purse for her cell phone, she debated over the lateness of the hour. He and Liz were early-to-bed, early-to-rise types, but he would want to know what was happening.

There were no remnants of sleep in his voice when he answered before the phone could ring a second time. Kate filled him in on the breakthrough and that they were waiting for the White Plains police to get a search warrant for the suspect’s house.

“Should I come down there?” Rob asked.

“There’s nothing you can do right now.”

“Okay, keep me post–”

The conference room phone rang.

“Hang on,” Kate told Rob.

“Took long enough,” Tim was saying into the receiver as he punched the button on the plastic box. “You’re on speaker, Jack.”

“We got seven criminal judges in White Plains.” A gruff voice filled the room. “And six of ’em picked this weekend to go out of town. Finally caught up with one of ’em who’d been fishing with his grandsons all day.”

A pause.

“And?” Tim said impatiently.

The sound of air being blown out in a long sigh. “And he said no.”

“What?” Tim yelled.

“Says there’s not enough probable cause to invade a victim’s father’s privacy.”

“We’ve got witnesses. He’s the killer.” Tim’s irrate voice filled the room.

“Not the way the judge sees it,” Jack said. “You got witnesses who saw a guy who looks like he might be the father wandering around near your vic’s apartment building. And all this two states away from the house you want searched.”

“Can you track down the supervising judge tomorrow?”

A pause. “This guy
is
the supervising judge.”

“Shit!”

“I went by the house. No answer when I knocked. Place has that look houses get when their owner’s away. I’ve got a uniform there, in case the guy shows up. If he does, we’ll definitely bring him in for questioning.”

Tim didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” the gruff voice said from the speaker. “Hey, take me off of speaker for a sec.”

Tim raised the receiver to his ear as he hit the button. He listened for a minute. “Shit,” he muttered again under his breath. “Thanks for trying, Jack.”

“What?” Kate said.

Tim shook his head as he hung up the phone.

Judith blew out air. “Okay, we don’t know if this guy has taken her to New York, or if he’s holed up down here. So we start canvassing again at six a.m. You all…” She swung a finger in an arc, pointing at the civilians in the room. “Go home and get some sleep. I need you fresh tomorrow.”