Yet she couldn’t steer clear of the cyber world forever. Bad enough the need to check her site, her regular blogs, and her e-mails; she also needed to look up the damn address of the restaurant. She hadn’t seen an actual hard copy of a phone book in a couple of years.
So, with her heart somewhere in the vicinity of her larynx, she sat at her desk and flipped on her connection to the rest of the world, hoping one particularly vile part of it had not once again reached out and connected to her first.
The team had caravanned up to Baltimore in three cars. Unfortunately, sometime during morning rush hour a tractor trailer had devoured a MINI Cooper on the beltway. Two northbound lanes and the shoulder were blocked, and a ride that had taken about an hour yesterday took almost three this morning.
When they arrived at the scene, Alec noted the chaos. Uniformed officers from the city’s police department guarded the entrance. Somebody had gone through a whole lot of crime scene tape circling the fenced lot. Onlookers ranging from suit-wearing businessmen to dock-workers milled around on the street. Guys in hard hats clustered in small circles, wondering when they could return to work. Also wondering what she had looked like, you know, afterward.
He could almost hear them.
Stokes swung their car directly behind Wyatt’s, getting out quickly, her badge already in her hand. Alec followed suit, but moved more slowly.
“Well?” she asked, impatience evident in her inflection.
“Go ahead,” he said, waving her forward. He wasn’t really paying attention, already completely focused on following the path the victim-and possibly her killer-must have taken.
He hadn’t circumnavigated the site, but judging by the severed chain on the ground and the residual fingerprint powder on the post, this was where the detectives believed the suspect and/or the victim had entered. He walked through, his gait slow. His footsteps crunched on the frozen dirt as he stepped past shards of woods and masonry nails. With every step, he pictured the scene, thinking the victim’s thoughts, thinking the unsub’s.
He doubted the Professor had incapacitated the woman and brought her here against her will. Even late at night, anybody could have driven by; a late worker could have left one of the nearby businesses. This wasn’t like the woods or an enclosed warehouse, where he could knock out his victims and then position them.
Lured her here, somehow. Fraudulent investment?
No, she wasn’t the type. Nor would she have come here late at night for a job interview, like the warehouse victim.
Personal, then.
Come, it’ll be special. Wait until you see the view.
He walked on, his head down, careful to avoid the marked evidence. Usable footprints would probably be doubtful, given the amount of activity on an average construction site. But he wasn’t about to make the forensics guys’ job any harder.
The bits of information continued to churn in his brain, coming together like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit and had to be repositioned. At some point, the entire puzzle would take shape, but for now, he simply played with the pieces.
A thirty-eight-year-old operator. Lived with a roommate. Unmarried.
A spinster? Maybe a dating-service scam?
Reaching the exterior walls of the building, he heard Wyatt and the others talking to the local detectives. Again, he barely listened, continuing to move toward the core of the facility, to the construction elevator in which the victim must have risen to meet her doom. Mulrooney and Taggert watched him in visible curiosity, but Wyatt merely nodded as he passed.
She’s anxious. Nervous. It’s night, off the beaten track. The top of the building? Are you sure it’s safe? I’m afraid.
He reached the elevator. Inside, a tech continued to swab the grating, yawning widely as he went through the motions by rote. “You need to go up?”
“When you’re through.”
“I’ve cleared a zone to haul people up and down,” the other man said.
“Find anything?”
“Got some prints; ten to one says any that aren’t from the crew are from the victim.”
He wouldn’t take that bet.
“Stay in that area, okay?” the man said, pointing to a corner.
Alec entered as directed, turning to stare out at the water through the side grates as they slowly ascended to the top of the building.
Slow. It’s so high. Choppy water. Cold and black like a night sky without stars, falling away from my feet. Lights across the harbor? Far away. No one can see. All alone. Private.
Perfect.
The victim’s impression? Or the killer’s?
The higher they went, the easier it was to see. Not just the panorama-the water, the shoreline, the ships-but the past. The crime.
Come with me; I’ll show you the city as you’ve never seen it.
She trusted him enough to trespass on a closed construction site.
She’s willing but she’s nervous, excited. He keeps her calm. Earns her trust. How?
He slowly turned in a complete circle, trying to imagine what she’d felt, what she’d thought as she had been drawn inexorably closer to that date with death.
Did you ride up with her, calm her fears, then strike her into unconsciousness?
That didn’t sound like their man. The Professor’s past crimes had an element of detachment. His letters claimed his hands-and conscience-were clear. He’d never killed anyone, never hurt them, just put them in situations to kill or hurt themselves. Like incapacitating the boys in a car accident before putting them out on that ice to fight for their lives. Impersonal.
She rode up alone. He told her to come up to meet him and she did it.
Why, he couldn’t say.
Deep in thought, he stared down, removing the distraction of the water, wanting to imprint the scene in his head. Make it come to life.
Before it could, though, he saw a tiny red spot near his shoe. He crouched down close, not touching it. No more than the size of a pen’s tip, it must have been overlooked by the tech in his hurry to clear an area to take detectives to the roof.
Not blood; too light. Too waxy.
On his hands and knees, he bent closer, until his face nearly brushed the metal. He suddenly realized the tiny drop was actually the tip of a larger blob that had slipped through the grate. The material had solidified into a tiny icicle hanging from the floor beneath the elevator.
And it wasn’t merely waxy. It was wax. “Candles,” he murmured.
“What?”
He pointed to the spot. “Make sure you get this. I suspect it’s candle wax.”
Red candles. You romanced her, didn’t you, you son of a bitch?
That was the opening. The one detail that allowed him to build the entire scenario in his head from that starting point.
He had romanced her.
They reached the top floor and the tech, visibly embarrassed, immediately descended on the spot of wax. He couldn’t risk grabbing it here; it could fall, and he was probably eager to go back down. “It’s all right,” he said, waving the man away as he stepped out.
A few feet away, another crime scene investigator was carefully bagging clothing. Yet another was on his hands and knees, outlining footprints left in the faint layer of construction dust. Even from here he saw they had been made from bare feet.
“Here’s where she took the dive,” one of them said, looking up at Alec and obviously recognizing him as a fed.
He nodded, but didn’t walk over. Instead, he stood his ground, still visualizing.
Taped hands. Blindfolded. Did she even try to fight you?
He doubted it. “Any signs of physical attack? Blood splatter?” he asked.