Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard #3)

Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard #3) Page 19

She shook her head. “No.”

“All she had to do was hook into their system. She didn’t have to be there to watch you at the counter. Was there anything to distinguish her voice?”

“No, nothing. She just sounded . . .”

“What?”

“Creepy. She told me not to be a killjoy, called what she was doing a game. She didn’t want me to spoil her fun.”

Avery remembered the papers she’d shoved in her backpack and pulled them out.

“What’s that?”

“I asked Cannon to give me all the information he had on the other two women who canceled at the last minute. She told me there were two women with Carrie now. They have to be the same ones. The first name is Anne Trapp. She lives in Cleveland and owns Trapp Shipping Company. Then there’s Judge Sara Collins from Miami. It appears that all three reservations were made on credit cards. Each with a different name on it.” She read the names to him.

“Do the names mean anything to you?”

“No,” she answered. “I don’t think Carrie’s ever mentioned any of them, and I don’t know how she would know them. Carrie and my uncle live in Bel Air.”

“I figured that was where you were from.”

“For a while I was,” she said. “I live in Virginia now.” She picked up the watch and checked the time again. “Can’t we go any faster?”

“I’m going close to eighty now. The speed limit is fifty-five. I just hope the highway patrol isn’t around.”

Oh, God, she hadn’t thought about that. They would be delayed indefinitely if they were stopped.

“Slow down then.”

“Make up your mind, sweetheart. Fast or slow? It’s your call.”

“We’ll make up the speed on the access road. Slow down for now.”

He did. “You’re sure the woman on the phone said, ‘We have her’?” stressing the plural.

“You already asked me that, and, yes, I’m still sure she said they have her. Why is that important?”

He could barely contain his excitement. “Because just maybe Monk is waiting for you at that spot on the map, and that gives me a unique opportunity to kill the bastard. If I can figure out a way to get ahead of him . . .”

He didn’t go on, but she noticed he increased their speed again. “I think it’s time for you to answer some questions,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Why were you looking for Carrie? How do you know her?”

He had to confess. “I don’t know her.”

“But you said . . .”

“I lied,” he said curtly. “I know the man who . . .”

“Who what?”

He was going to say the man who killed her because, if Monk was continuing with his pattern, those three women were already dead and buried. He had changed one thing, John Paul acknowledged. He was obviously now working with a partner.

“. . . who is after the women,” he said. “The man calling himself Monk. I doubt that’s the name on his birth certificate.”

“Tell me what you know about him. Who is he?”

“A professional killer.”

“A what?” she asked sharply.

He repeated himself, and then he glanced at her face to see how she was taking the news. Not well, he decided. Not well at all. She was rapidly turning green.

“Are you gonna get sick?” He asked the question without a bit of sympathy in his voice.

“No.”

He didn’t believe her. “Roll down the window and lean out if you think—”

“I’m okay,” she said, even as she hit the button to automatically lower the window. She took a couple of deep breaths. The air was heavy with an earthy, musty scent. It made her want to gag. No, fresh air wasn’t helping.

A professional killer. My God, she thought.

She exhaled and tried to clear her thoughts. Deal with what you know as fact, she told herself. Think it through.

Anne Trapp. Sara Collins. Those two women were throwing a wrench in her analysis. What was the common denominator?

“There has to be a connection,” she said, and as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she shook her head. “No, I can’t assume that.”

He concentrated on the road. He had increased the speed once again because there weren’t any other cars around, and he was betting the highway patrol was busy monitoring the more congested areas. He eased up on the gas pedal when the needle hit seventy.

“Road ends in five miles.”

She grabbed the map. “How do you know?”

“I just read the sign.”

“We’re supposed to take the access road.”

“I’m looking,” he said.

She glanced at the watch for what had to be the hundredth time and saw that a full twenty minutes had passed. Then she measured the distance in her mind to the red X.

He glanced over at her. “Without good roads, it’s going to be close. We might not make it, Avery.”

“We’ll make it,” she insisted. “We have to make it.”

“Ah, here we go,” he said as he swerved off the road onto an access. Gravel spit up over the tires and hit the windshield as he fishtailed up the winding road. It was only wide enough for a single car, and the branches of the evergreens scraped the sides of the SUV as it zoomed past.

“We’re headed in the right direction, and that’s all that matters,” he said.

“If we’re lucky, maybe farther up we’ll hook into a better road.”

“Or no road at all.”

“How exactly do you know Monk?”

“I’ve never met him, if that’s what you’re asking. He’s become a hobby of mine. He went after someone close to me.”

“Someone hired him to kill this friend of yours?”

“No,” he answered. “But she got in the way. It was my sister. He was hired to get some information she had, and he tried to kill her to get it. Fortunately, his plans got all screwed up, and he ended up going to ground.”

“So you’ve been tracking him for some time.”

“Yes,” he answered. “The man I called from Cannon’s office also has a vested interest in Monk.”

“Who is he?”

“Clayborne,” he answered. “Noah Clayborne. He’s FBI,” he added with a note of disdain.

“But he’s a friend of yours?”

“I wouldn’t call him that.”

She tilted her head as she studied him. What was his problem? He turned her attention then when he said, “Like I said, Monk went underground for over a year. Couldn’t find more than a hint of his work . . . until now.”

“How did you know he was in Colorado?”

“He used a bogus credit card he’d used before in Bowen . . . that’s where I live,” he said. “Bowen, Louisiana.”

“Then the FBI knows he’s in Colorado too,” she said.

“No, they don’t.”

“But if you tracked him with the credit card receipt, surely the FBI—”

“They don’t know about the credit card receipt.”

“You didn’t notify them?”

“Hell, no.”

There it was again, that surly edge of hostility.

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want them to screw it up.”

“The FBI does not screw up investigations. They’re experts and extremely efficient in their—”

He cut her off. “Spare me the platitudes. I’ve heard all the propaganda before. I didn’t buy it then, and I don’t buy it now. The Bureau has become too glutted with bosses all trying to break the backs of the agents working under them so they can get to the top. There isn’t any loyalty these days. It’s just dog eat dog. They’re . . . bureaucratic,” he added with a shudder.

“You’re cynical.”

“Damn right.”

She looked out the side window. “Thank you anyway.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

“Coming with me. You could have refused.”

“Just so you understand. I’m not doing this for you or your aunt. I want to get Monk before he kills anyone else.”

“In other words, you have your own agenda, and you aren’t doing me any favors. I understand,” she said.

She didn’t understand, though. How could anyone be that hardened? She found herself wondering if he ever went out of his way to help anyone in trouble. Probably not. He was the type of man who drove past accidents and stepped over heart attack victims.

They rode in silence for several minutes, and then Avery said, “Tell me what you’ve learned about Monk. He must have a pattern. They all do.”

He thought it was odd she’d know about such things. “Actually he did have a pattern, but it’s obviously changed.”

“How has it changed?”

“Monk always kept a low profile. In and out as fast and as clean as possible.”

“You sound like you admire him.”

“No, I don’t admire him,” he said. “I’m just saying his pattern never varied much before. In the beginning, the murders he committed all took place within a two-week span every year. That didn’t change for seven years. I have a theory about that.”

“You think he holds down a full-time job somewhere? That he’s living two separate lives.”

“I think he used to,” he corrected. “Murder obviously pays a hell of a lot more, so I’m guessing he probably quit his other job. Couldn’t you just picture him sitting at his desk, diligently working. He would have been the nice guy. You know, the one who draws the chart for the football pools, and because he was so well liked, people would tell him their troubles. I’ll bet you this, Avery. When he gets caught, the people he worked with will be shocked. They’ll all say the same thing. Bob was such a sweet, charming man.”

“So was Ted Bundy.”

“Exactly my point.”

“How do you know the early murders were his work? Did he leave a card or something so he’d get credit?”

“Sort of,” he answered. “He likes roses. He leaves a long-stemmed red rose.”

“That’s eerie,” she said. “So he used to be a nine-to-fiver, and killing people was his idea of a great vacation, but now he’s strictly a professional killer . . . any time of the year. What else is different about him these days? You seem to have studied his work closely.”

He nodded. “He’s never tried anything like this . . . taking three victims. He isn’t a showman. And he’s always acted alone before. Now it appears that he’s hooked up with a woman. Maybe he’s showboating to impress her.”

They struck a bump in the road. Avery grabbed the dashboard again as the top of her head hit the roof.

“Are we still headed north?” It was impossible to tell. The trees hid the sky, and it was ominously dark in this stretch of forest.

“Northwest,” he said.

She heard a scream in the distance. No, it was more like an animal’s screech. The sound gave her chills.

“How does he get his contracts? Do you know?”

“No, but I’m guessing the Internet,” he answered. “It’s easy. It’s anonymous, and up until now, he’s been careful and discriminating in selecting his targets. He probably has enough work to keep busy for the next fifty years. You’d be surprised how many husbands want their wives dead and how many wives would pay through the nose to get rid of their husbands.”

“My uncle Tony had nothing to do with this.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” she answered emphatically.

He let it go for the moment. “You said there had to be a connection between the women . . .”

“I was analyzing what we know, trying to put it together. I made the assumption that one man or woman hired Monk to kill all three women, so that’s why I was trying to think of something they all had in common. But my premise might not be valid.”

“Meaning?”

“We have to allow for the possibility that three different people hired Monk, and that, for whatever reason, he decided to kill the victims all at the same time.”

He had to admit she was right. “One thing is certain. Monk was paid a hell of a lot of money to kill these women. He doesn’t come cheap. If he has lumped them together, the real question is, who wants your aunt dead?”

He expected her to immediately tell him what a sweet, lovable woman her aunt was and that she didn’t have an enemy in the world.

“Lots of people dislike my aunt. Some, I would imagine, hate her.”

He wasn’t prepared for that. He actually smiled. “Yeah?”

“Carrie can sometimes be . . . abrasive.”

“Is that right?”

Avery nodded. “She’s in a cutthroat business.”

“Oh? What business is that?”

“Commercials.”

“Excuse me?”

“She makes commercials.”

He laughed, the sound harsh in the confines of the car.

“However,” she continued, ignoring his reaction, “none of her business associates would go to such extremes to get rid of her.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just am,” she said.

“Okay, then that brings us back to your uncle Tony. How strong is their marriage? Any problems you know about?”

She was suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. “Carrie thinks Tony’s cheating on her.”

“Ah.”

“They’ve been seeing a marriage counselor.”

“Is that right?”

“Tony loves Carrie,” she said.

“How well do you know your uncle?”

“Not as well as I should,” she admitted. “I went away to boarding school and was only home during the summer, and then I worked in Carrie’s office. Still, I think I’m a good judge of character. Tony would never be unfaithful.”

“Wives usually know.”

“Carrie isn’t your typical wife. She’s got a very suspicious nature. I think, deep down, she can’t believe any man could love her. She’s . . . insecure, and that’s why she’s often abrasive. She doesn’t want anyone to see her vulnerability.”