Текст книги "The Last Victim"
Автор книги: Karen Robards
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Stretching her arms above her head, Garland pinned her beneath him, kissing her like he would never get enough of the taste of her mouth. Charlie had a brief uneasy instant in which she realized that in this position she was almost entirely helpless against a man of his size and strength. A glimmer of caution, a glimmer of doubt—what if sex was the trigger that brought out the monster in him?—was swamped by a wave of fierce need. She could feel the whole long length of him pressing her into the thick softness of her comforter, feel the pressure of his muscled chest against her breasts and the hair-roughened rasp of his powerful thighs as they settled between hers and the burning weight of his manhood brushing her skin. He was big, and heavy, all rippling sinew and hot sleek skin, and the feel of him against her drove her wild. When his mouth left hers, it trailed down her neck to find her breast. Hungry and wet, it closed over one nipple, kissing her, licking her, and then moved on to the other. Shivery with arousal, Charlie arched her back and closed her eyes and gave herself to the darkness and the heat. When he shifted his grip so that one hand shackled her wrists and the other was free to slide between her legs, she quivered and moaned and moved for him and let him play. When he finally let her wrists go, when he kissed his way down her body to lick into the delicate cleft his fingers had explored, she cried out and came for him.
After that, when he stretched back over her and started to fit his body to hers, she was warm and pliant and still pleasantly floating. Holding himself a little above her with his elbows taking most of his weight, he pushed into her slowly, letting her feel him, and her eyes fluttered open with interest as he entered that first little bit. He felt huge, long and thick and hard, all velvet over scalding steel. Sated though she was, she made a little sound of surprise and pleasure as her body got with the program again and began to clench and burn around him. His mouth was set, his eyes open and so dark they were almost black as he watched her face change, as he watched her register what he was doing to her and how it felt. She knew she must be flushed, knew her eyes must be heavy-lidded and slumberous, knew her lips were parted with anticipation and swollen from his kisses. She could sense the tremendous control he was exercising as he pushed inside her inch by deliberate inch, until she couldn’t stand it anymore, until she closed her eyes and clenched her teeth and started to move, rocking up against him, trying to draw him in deeper, digging her fingernails into his back, gasping at the sheer pleasure of it, wanting more.
“You want me to fuck you, ask me.” The low growl in her ear made her suck in air.
Charlie’s eyes opened to find that he was watching her still. The hot, fierce gleam in his eyes made her go all liquid inside. She was moving beneath him, she couldn’t help it, he was making her wild, she was on fire from wanting him. Never in her life had she been this sexually aroused. What had sprung to life between them was pure chemistry, a kind of sexual magic, an erotic intensity so potent that it sizzled in the air.
“Michael,” she begged.
At the sound of his name on her lips, his eyes blazed. Charlie saw the clenching of his jaw, felt the slight tremor in the arms braced on either side of her, heard the hoarse sound he made.
Then he kissed her, a hot lush kiss, and pushed all the way inside her. Charlie cried out, clung, writhing at the sheer fierce pleasure of it. He pulled back, then pushed in again, hard and deep, and she cried out once more. He kept going, fast now, driving into her, his movements almost savage, kissing her all the while. On fire, Charlie wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and moved with him, matching him stroke for stroke and kiss for kiss with passionate abandon, giving herself over to the hot dark wildfire he had ignited inside her until, “Michael,” she gasped at last, and came in a shattering climax that rocked her world.
He came, too, then, shuddering, driving deep and holding himself inside her shaking body and groaning with the intensity of his release.
For a long moment afterward neither of them moved. He was hot and damp with sweat and heavy as a slab of concrete on top of her. His arms were locked around her, holding her tight. His head had dropped to rest in the tender curve between her neck and shoulder.
I love the way he feels.
Charlie was just having that thought, just resurfacing from the aftermath of the explosions that had detonated inside her, just becoming aware of how boneless she felt and how violently the storm still raged outside and how warm and cozy her bed was with him in it, when he shifted position. Her eyes snapped open as he rolled onto his back and pulled her with him so that she ended up lying on top of his chest. Folding an arm beneath his head, splaying a possessive hand over her ass, he looked at her.
Okay, so meeting his gaze was embarrassing. So was lying naked on top of him in a tangle of bedclothes while he casually fondled her bottom. Come to think of it, so was just about everything they’d done.
“So?” he asked, his eyes crinkling at her.
Charlie knew what he was asking. Her breath caught: The earth moved.
“Very nice,” she answered repressively, and felt her heart speed up as he gave her a broad smile.
“Don’t mess with …,” he began, but Charlie didn’t hear the rest of it because, out of nowhere, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Charlie.” A man was speaking to her urgently. It was Tony’s voice, and he …
Charlie’s eyes widened. “Michael.” As she realized what was happening, she clutched at him urgently, but it was already too late. He and the bed and her house and everything else dissolved around her, and then her eyes opened to find Tony leaning over her. His hand was on her shoulder, shaking her awake. Behind him were Kaminsky and Crane. All three were fully dressed, frowning, and Crane and Kaminsky were talking to each other while Tony concentrated on waking her.
After a horrifying moment in which she thought she might be naked and rosy with sex, Charlie realized it wasn’t so. She was once again wearing the pink pajamas that Michael had so recently taken off her. Lying curled up on the couch where she had fallen asleep. With a single lamp burning, and her laptop lying on the floor beside her.
Even as Tony withdrew his hand and Charlie blinked and sat up, she was aware of the most profound sense of loss.
Michael.
“What is it?” she snapped, shaking her hair back from her face, glaring up at Tony like it was all his fault and then impartially at the other two, knowing that she sounded irritable and not able to help it. With every ounce of her being she longed to be back in the tumbled bed she had just left.
That was a one-time deal, you know. Don’t you even begin to let yourself think it’s ever likely to happen again.
The thought made her heart bleed.
“I tried to wake you up.” Kaminsky sounded as cranky as Charlie felt. “I knocked, I came in, I shook you. You didn’t stir. I had to call the guys. Did you take a sleeping pill or something?”
“No.” Doing her best to push her recent sexfest out of her mind, Charlie took a deep breath as her head continued to clear. She brushed her hair out of her face with both hands, glanced around. The digital numbers on the cable box below the TV read 4:22 a.m. Out here in the real world, something—something major—was clearly up. “What’s happened?”
“There’s another victim.” Tony’s face was grim. “We’ve got to go. Get dressed.”
Charlie’s pulse started to pound in her ears. “Another victim? You mean—another family’s been attacked?”
“Bayley Evans’ cousin. Hannah Beckett. Her father and stepmother—Philip and Rosalie Beckett—are dead. Hannah’s missing.” Tony turned and walked out of the room, motioning to Crane and Kaminsky to follow him. He glanced back at Charlie over his shoulder. “You’ve got ten minutes. We’ll meet you downstairs.”
Left alone, Charlie dressed fast, then took a precious moment to do a quick walk-through search of the apartment, even turning on the kitchen tap. Nothing.
“Michael,” she called softly. She heard the urgency in her voice, and it stopped her cold. If she was going to survive this, she needed to start backtracking, fast. To begin with, he couldn’t be “Michael” to her. Not here in the real world, from which he might even now be gone. For her own sake, she had to do her best to keep what distance she could between them. Because if she didn’t, her heart was going to get way too involved, and the hard truth was that he wasn’t among the living anymore, and he couldn’t stay.
There was no sign of Garland anywhere. Facing the fact that there was nothing she could do about it and that she was out of time anyway, Charlie succumbed to one last temptation, and sent a hurried prayer winging skyward asking God to keep him safe. Then she went downstairs.
The crime scene was a largish brick ranch house at the very end of a cul-de-sac not too far from Kill Devil Hills’ small central business district. Very modern, lots of glass. The property was approximately an acre, with lavish landscaping, including a privacy barrier of loblolly pines, which meant the neighbors, whom the local police were already interviewing, had not seen or heard a thing.
When Charlie and the team arrived, making their way past an already established police perimeter and an army of arriving media, the bodies were still inside. The first gray fingers of dawn were just creeping up over the eastern sky as they entered the house. Immediately they were asked to safeguard the still-fresh forensic evidence by suiting up in paper jumpsuits, booties, and rubber gloves, which they did.
“Let them in,” Haney barked at the uniformed officer who tried to block their access to the master bedroom, where Haney and his partner and various crime scene technicians seemed to be taking care to hug the walls as they worked. As soon as Charlie got a glimpse of the room, she saw why: the body closest to the door lay sprawled in a veritable lake of blood that had soaked into the once-plush beige carpet and turned it a hideous shade of brown. Blood splatter covered the bed, the walls, every available surface that she could see. It looked like an abattoir. The raw meat smell of fresh carnage hung heavy in the air. Charlie felt her stomach start to churn. As the cop guarding the door moved aside and Tony led the way into the bedroom, with all of them stepping carefully so as to avoid the blood, Charlie had just enough time to identify Hannah’s stepmother’s blond, bird-boned body crumpled near the foot of the bed before nausea hit her hard. The rest of the room seemed to recede as her eyes flew to a tall, slender man in a pair of blood-drenched blue pajamas who came walking out of the en suite bathroom to stare down in disbelief at something on the floor in front of him. Charlie stopped cold, told herself fiercely to breathe, and followed his gaze to the floor. With the bed blocking her view, all she saw of what was transfixing his attention was a man’s long, narrow bare foot and an ankle sticking out of blue pajama pants identical to the ones the man wore. The body to which the foot and ankle belonged lay on the floor on the other side of the bed. Charlie knew that what she was seeing was the spirit looking down at his own recently murdered corpse. Then the man apparently felt her gaze on him. His head came up and he looked at her. Even as he realized she could see him, Charlie recognized him from a set of pictures of the latest victims the team had been looking at on the way over. He was Hannah’s father, Phil Beckett, now deceased.
“There’s been a murder.” Beckett’s voice was croaky but surprisingly controlled under the circumstances, and Charlie remembered that he was—had been—a lawyer. Still, his eyes were wide with shock as they met hers. “It’s me. And Rosalie. A man … broke in. We’ve been killed.”
He came toward her, passing right through the solid structure of the bed, and as he drew near Charlie saw that he was hideously wounded. The front of his pajama shirt was in tatters, baring most of a thin chest laid open with long, vertical slashes that were scarlet with blood and gore. Half of his right sleeve was missing, and the flesh of his forearm had been sliced to ribbons. An inches-long gash across his right cheekbone went right down to the bone.
“Hannah—it’s the same thing that happened to Bayley, isn’t it? God in heaven, look what he did to Rosalie!”
Charlie took an involuntary step backward as he stopped a few feet away, his eyes riveted on the body of his dead wife, and swallowed hard in an attempt to combat her rising nausea. Up close, the horror of what had been done to him was impossible to miss.
“I fought. I tried to protect them. I landed some punches. I think I broke his damned front tooth.” Anguish was plain in his eyes as he looked again at Charlie. “My wife … my daughter …” His face contorted with anger and grief. His voice rose. “That bastard has my daughter, doesn’t he? Oh, God, what can I do?” Turning, he dropped to his knees beside his wife, and tried to touch her with a hesitant hand. “Rosalie? Rosalie!”
Remembering where she was, knowing that she was surrounded by possible witnesses, Charlie didn’t say a word. Under the circumstances, there was nothing she could do to comfort him, so she didn’t try. Instead she turned on her heel and left the room. Her stomach was in full revolt, and she was afraid she was going to vomit where she stood if she didn’t get out of there. Blindly she strode down the hall that led to the bedrooms, meaning to rush outside and get some fresh air. But there were cops in the living room, and through the glass pane in the top of the front door she could see the bright glow of klieg lights that could only belong to the media stationed out front. Hanging a sharp right, she walked through the kitchen and found herself on the adjoining screened-in porch.
It was dark, shadowy, alive with the sound of insects and water dripping off trees from the recent rain. Fake grass carpeted the floor. Charlie knew, because she dropped to her knees on the bristly stuff and, lowering her head, took in great gulps of air.
The horror of what she had just seen stayed with her.
“Charlie?” Tony banged through the door behind her.
Charlie pushed to her feet. She turned to look at him, but discovered speech was beyond her for the moment. Her stomach heaved. Her head reeled.
“Hey. You okay? I know that was bad in there.”
His arm came around her shoulders as he peered into her face. Charlie made a wordless sound, and he pulled her against him, wrapping her in a steadying hug.
Charlie leaned against him as the only sturdy thing available, grateful for his presence. He was a good guy, handsome and strong, capable and genuinely nice, and she had a serious screw loose in her psyche to prefer the darkness to the light.
“Phil Beckett fought. He may have broken the killer’s front tooth.” Her words were breathy and rushed, but she was lucky to have gotten them out at all. The nausea was bad. Having spoken, she dropped her head down onto his shoulder and concentrated on not losing the coffee and power bar she’d half consumed in the car on the way over.
“What? How do you know that?”
Charlie wasn’t up to even attempting to answer at the moment. She just shook her head.
“Charlie?” Tony’s arms tightened around her. She took another deep breath. Then she felt something—call it a disturbance in the force—that made her look up. There, standing in the dark a few feet away, looking as solid as the man whose arms were wrapped around her but bigger and a whole lot badder, was Garland. His booted feet were planted apart, his arms were folded over his chest, and his expression as his gaze fixed on her oozed displeasure.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Just looking at him made her heart beat a little faster. Charlie gathered from the way he was eyeing the two of them that he didn’t much care for finding her in Tony’s arms … and was glad to see him anyway. Something inside her she hadn’t even realized was tense with worry eased.
Not good. In fact, bad. Then she had a corollary thought. If I’m not careful, this—whatever he is—is going to break my heart.
“Charlie. How sure are you about the broken tooth?” Tony’s tone was urgent.
Ignoring Garland, Charlie pushed out of Tony’s arms, took a few unsteady steps toward one of the three plastic lawn chairs on the porch, and sank down on it. It was still dark, but more the charcoal of awakening dawn than the pitch-black of night. There was a warm breeze blowing in through the screen. It carried the scent of rain and wet grass on it. Her stomach was settling down a little bit, and she thought the fresh air might be helping.
“Fairly sure.”
“You have some kind of psychic experience in there?” His tone was slightly cautious.
Charlie sighed. She didn’t like people knowing even a little bit about her ability, for all sorts of reasons, but Tony wasn’t exactly people, and anyway, he knew enough to at least take what she said semi-seriously, so what was she going to do, deny it?
“Phil Beckett spoke to me. That’s where I got the information.”
She could see from his expression that he was curious, that he wanted to know more, and resigned herself to an interrogation. But what he said was, “Okay,” and then, “Sit tight, I’ll be right back” as he turned and strode back into the house.
Charlie didn’t even look up at Garland as he came to stand beside her. She stared out at the night, at the swaying pines, black and tall, at the far end of the yard, at the hammock moving with the breeze closer at hand, at the lightening sky.
“You know, I’m starting to not like that guy,” he said reflectively, and at that Charlie did flick a look up at him.
“You sound like you’re jealous.” She was deliberately cool, deliberately off-hand, deliberately creating as much distance between them as she could, because she was horribly afraid that the alternative was going to make her life unbearable one day soon.
She could feel him studying her. “Except for being dead, I’m a pretty normal guy, and I just fucked you to Sunday and back. So, yeah.” He hunkered down beside her. “You want to tell me what’s with the attitude?”
There were flowers growing over by the garage. She tried to decide what kind. “What attitude?”
“Charlie.”
He was right beside her, gorgeous as always—but unbelievably, achingly dear now, too. And that’s what was twisting her heart, Charlie realized. Almost unwillingly, she met his gaze. Even through the shadows, his eyes were heartstoppingly blue.
“Look, we both know that … what happened … was a one-time thing,” she said. “I don’t regret it, precisely, but I have to move on. So do you.”
His eyes held hers for a moment, and Charlie watched as his hardened and cooled.
“FBI guy what you’re planning to move on to?”
“Maybe. We’ll have to see how things work out.”
“After I’m out of the picture, hmm?”
“Yes.”
He stood up abruptly. Charlie looked at him. His face was unreadable now. “You’re a smart lady, Doc. I always did think so.”
Whatever she might have replied to that was lost as Kaminsky came bursting through the door. “Bartoli sent me to get you. Come on, we’re on the move.”
By the time she finished speaking, Garland was gone.
“He’s escalating.” Tony was staring at the computer monitor in the War Room at Command Central. Kaminsky was seated in front of it, having called up the pictures of the seventeen most viable suspects, which were staring out at them from the screen. In Charlie’s usual seat in front of the other computer, Crane was running checks on credit card, phone, and work records that should provide at least some of these so-called “persons of interest” with an alibi for the previous night. It was not quite seven a.m., and Charlie had already drunk so much coffee she was wired. Any thought that wasn’t centered on finding Hannah Beckett she had blocked out of her mind.
“Big-time,” Charlie agreed. “Also, the attack was more savage. In the other murders, only the mothers bore more than one or two stab wounds. With everyone else, it was just enough to kill them and no more. Nothing egregious. But Phil Beckett was slashed to pieces. That’s a sign that the killer was very angry.”
“Why?” Tony stared at the screen as if the answer was right there, if only he looked hard enough. “Why was he so angry?”
“Something must have interrupted his routine. For whatever reason, he didn’t get to play his fantasy out to the end,” Charlie said.
“Are you thinking he killed Bayley Evans before he meant to?” Kaminsky glanced back over her shoulder at them.
“Before he wanted to,” Charlie corrected. “Something must have gone wrong.”
“What?” Kaminsky asked.
“Once we figure that out, I’m pretty sure we’ll have our killer,” Tony answered.
“With Hannah, there wasn’t a dance,” Charlie said slowly. She looked at Tony. “I think that after he killed Bayley, he went looking for a substitute to take her place. To finish out the fantasy. If, as we’re assuming, he spotted Bayley at the Sanderling, he would have seen Hannah there at the same time. He’s continuing the fantasy with her, not starting anew. But it’s not the same. It’s throwing him off. He’s frustrated. And, like I said, angry.”
Tony’s hands were so tight on the back of Kaminsky’s chair that his knuckles showed white. “Which means we may have even less time than we thought. Instead of a week, maybe two days, you think? If he’s using her to take Bayley’s place.”
“There’s no way to be sure.” Charlie massaged her temples. Her earlier nausea had morphed into a killer headache. “Now that he’s off his routine, there’s no way to judge it.”
“Okay, eight of these guys are definitely out. I’ve got records placing them somewhere else at the time the Beckett family was attacked,” Crane said.
His tie didn’t match his shirt—one blue-striped, the other green plaid—Charlie noticed. Of course, pulling on your clothes at four a.m., which was the approximate time the call had come in, was the equivalent of dressing in the dark. She glanced down at herself, just to be sure: white blouse, black pants. The good thing about an unofficial uniform was it was hard to go wrong. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail. Charlie looked at Kaminsky, who was wearing her usual suit and high heels: no mistakes for her, either.
“I’m sending you the info,” Crane said. “Take ’em off the grid.”
Kaminsky nodded. A moment later an icon flashed on her monitor. A click of a button, and their prime suspect list was down to nine.
“Still too many. Who else can we eliminate?” Tony looked at Charlie.
“Pets. He won’t have pets,” Charlie said.
Tony shot a sideways glance at Crane.
“On it,” Crane said. “Pet licenses.”
“A lot of people have pets without licenses,” Kaminsky pointed out.
“But if they do have a pet with a license, they’re out,” Crane retorted.
“Younger siblings,” Charlie prompted, just as Crane whooped in triumph.
“Two with pet licenses. See there, Lena, some people are law-abiding.”
“Seven.” Kaminsky’s tone was sour. “And stuff it, Crane.”
“Both of you stuff it,” Tony snapped, then looked at Crane again. “Younger siblings,” he said.
“Three with younger siblings.” Crane smacked a hand on the desk beside his computer with enthusiasm. “We’re getting somewhere.”
“Four left,” Kaminsky announced. “Always supposing Dr. Phil knows what she’s talking about.”
Charlie didn’t even bother to shoot her a look.
“Anything else?” Tony cast an inquiring glance at Charlie. Staring at the faces left on the screen, hoping for inspiration, she had a painful throbbing at her temples and a dry mouth and nothing else.
She shook her head. “That’s all I can come up with right this minute. Sorry.”
“Good enough.” Tony straightened. She could see his tension in the restless gleam of his eyes, in the tightness of his jaw and mouth. Shadows beneath his eyes made it clear he hadn’t slept properly in a while. Like the rest of them, he was jacked up on coffee and adrenaline. Unlike Crane’s, his shirt (white) and tie (blue) matched. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the five o’clock shadow already darkening his jaw, he would have looked as if today was nothing more than business as usual. “Names and addresses, Kaminsky, and if there’s any place besides home they’re likely to be at this time in the morning, I want to know it.”
“We going to go bring them in?” Crane sounded surprised. Charlie remembered what Tony had said about the need to find the girl before arresting even the most viable suspect.
“We’re going to go look at them. For a broken front tooth.” Tony glanced at Kaminsky as the printer started to hum, and she said, “Got it.”
“Then let’s go.” Tony was already on his way out the door.
Early as it was, Central Command was packed. The electricity in the air was palpable. Phones rang nonstop, every computer was occupied, and two orange-vested deputies were huddled with what looked like a civilian volunteer in front of a new search grid that had been hung on the wall. A cop talked earnestly with Sy Taylor, who perked up as he spotted the four of them coming toward him.
“Agent Bartoli, can you hang on a minute? I’ve got a question for you,” Taylor called.
Tony waved a hand at him. “Later.”
Then they were out the door.
Outside was a circus. The cops were doing a good job holding the perimeter, which was cordoned off with sawhorses strung with crime scene tape, but beyond that a sea of media stretched in all directions. White vans with satellite dishes attached were everywhere. Charlie saw from some of the logos on the vans that the coverage had gone national: CNN and MSNBC caught her eye in particular. Reporters with camera crews and microphones rushed the barrier as soon as the four of them came into view. So many questions were shouted their way that Charlie couldn’t understand any of them. Part of that, she was sure, was because the drone of the helicopters circling overhead drowned everything else out.
Tony opened the passenger-side door of the SUV for her, and she got in. The door slamming shut behind her cut off the worst of the din, and moments later they were on the move. Only instead of trying to go through the frenzy, Tony reversed, and to Charlie’s surprise they went bumping over the beach.
“Way to avoid the media, boss,” Crane said from the backseat with approval.
“I don’t want them following us.” Tony seemed oblivious to the surprised looks of a couple of joggers and a man wading in the shallows with a bucket, apparently digging for clams. The sky was a bright clear blue with scarcely a cloud in it, and the ocean was as smooth as glass. The sun was the pale yellow-white of a scoop of lemon sorbet. It was going to be another hot one, Charlie could tell already, but so far the heat was bearable and the humidity wasn’t too bad.
“Driving on the beach is illegal, and we’re probably going to get stuck in the sand,” Kaminsky pointed out. She sounded grumpy. It had been a hellacious day so far, and it was only just getting started, so Charlie was with her on that. Glancing back, Charlie saw that Kaminsky was riffling through the papers on her lap. They were the pages she’d just grabbed from the printer.
Tony shook his head. “Four-wheel drive.”
They didn’t get stuck, and when they drove up the public access boat ramp and out onto the road, no one was following them, prompting Charlie to give Tony a mental thumbs-up.
“Where are we going, Kaminsky?” Tony glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
“I’ve tried to arrange them nearest to farthest,” Kaminsky replied. “But it’s hard, because I don’t have any way to be absolutely sure any of them will be where they’re supposed to be, and—”
“Kaminsky,” Tony said.
“Hampton Moore. He lives out in the county, but right now he should be opening the Blue Wave Coffee Shop on Seventeenth Street.” She gave the street address, which Tony punched in to the SUV’s GPS. “He’s twenty-six years old, six-one, hundred eighty-five pounds, a local. He works at the coffee shop mornings and for Frigate nights and weekends. He was at all three dances.”
“Um, did you say we’re going to go look at these guys to check for a broken tooth?” Crane asked. He did not add Why? but it was there in his voice.
“Beckett fought the unsub, who may have sustained a broken front tooth,” Tony said. “The only way to keep all four of these guys under constant surveillance is to get the locals involved, and once we do that, the potential for leaks goes up astronomically. We spook this guy, let him know we’re coming, he’s going to kill Hannah Beckett. If we find one of them has a broken tooth, we’re going to watch him ourselves, see where he goes.”
“What if none of them has a broken tooth?” Crane asked.
“Then we’re going to have to go to Haney, give him these names, and try to persuade him to keep them under surveillance for twenty-four hours. If we’ve got nothing by that time, there’s no way I’m going to be able to stop him from moving in on them. Hell, we’ll have to move in on them.”
“We might have a problem, leak-wise,” Kaminsky said. “Suspect number three, bartender Eric Duncan, is the first cousin of Kill Devil Hills Police Officer John Price.”
A moment of silence greeted that. Then Tony said, “Damn small towns, everybody’s related,” half under his breath, and with that they reached the Blue Wave Coffee Shop.
Crane went in, and minutes later came back out carrying a blue plastic bag.
“You buy something?” Kaminsky asked as Crane got back in the car.
“What, did you want me to just walk in there and say ‘Let me see your teeth’? I bought doughnuts. From Hampton Moore, who goes by Ham, by the way, who was working the counter. He smiled at me. His teeth are fine. No sign of facial or any other kind of injuries, either.” Crane paused. “That’s six dollars and two cents on the expense account, boss. Anybody want a doughnut?”
Charlie shuddered at the thought.
