The Seventh Victim Page 7

  No answers had surfaced that night, or the next. But the need to keep shooting remained. Her cameras got fancier, more sophisticated, but none gave her the feel she needed. And then she’d visited a Chicago auction house selling old photographic equipment. The trip had been more of a curiosity than a mission until she’d seen the hundred-and-fifty-year-old bellows camera. Instantly drawn to the camera, she’d bid high enough to win the camera and drain her savings.

  The digital camera had forgiven her amateur photographic skills, but the bellows camera had no patience for novices. She’d found a photographer in Pennsylvania who taught her how to prepare her glass negatives, shoot her images, and develop the smoky, moody pictures that so suited her subject matter.

  Lara scribbled down the address of the murder scene and grabbed her keys. “Ride in the car?”

  The dog perked up immediately and bounded out the front door to her black truck. He sat by the driver’s-side door barking and wagging his tail while she fired up the engine and the car’s air-conditioning. She loaded her camera equipment into the back of the truck along with a cooler of water in the backseat.

  She slid behind the wheel, shifted into drive, and headed toward the main road.

  Traveling to the murder scene took forty-five minutes and by the time she arrived the sun was high in the sky and the air hot.

  Lara pulled off the highway. A glance at the rolling landscape told her the light was not right. The sun was too high. But later, maybe at sunset.

  Still sitting behind the wheel, she snapped digital pictures of the road, her truck, and the area around it as she tried to get a feel for the area. In the distance she spotted a slight flap of yellow, which she guessed was crime scene tape left behind by the police.

  Shutting off the engine, she locked the car and with Lincoln headed toward the hint of yellow. Gravel crunched under her boots as Lincoln dashed ahead. She stopped ten feet short of the yellow tape. The tape looked fresh, as if the cops had returned to the area to renew their search. Made sense if they were looking for a connection between the two murders.

  Pulling off her sunglasses, she stared at the low-lying grass in the center of the tape; it still appeared to be matted down. She squatted and set her sunglasses on a rock.

  Was that the impression of a body? She started to snap pictures moving in a counterclockwise fashion around the site. Later, she’d load the images on her computer and then determine which angle would work best for the bellows camera and tripod.

  When she’d snapped over one hundred images she lowered the camera and without the lens’ protection stared at the ground. A woman had lain here, perhaps dead, perhaps dying, as someone had knelt over her and wrapped strong fingers around her neck.

  She closed her eyes as she’d done a hundred times before and tried to imagine her attacker. The cops had said that she’d had no defensive wounds, but there’d been skin under her nails. She’d fought.

  The Strangler had brought her to the wooded location off Route 10 and had laid her on the ground. What had happened next? Had he straddled her before he wrapped fingers around her neck? Had he been in a rush or had he enjoyed slowly watching her fade away? She glanced at her hands, wondering where she’d scratched him. She prayed it had hurt him like hell.

  Lara could not remember.

  A honking horn from the highway snapped her back to the present. Sweat dampened her brow and the sun had left her pale skin pink. “Lincoln!”

  The dog appeared over the ridge and ran toward her. The two hurried to her truck, where she replaced her camera in its bag and then filled a water bowl for Lincoln. Her hands trembled slightly as she held her own bottle to her lips and drank. The liquid cooled her body temperature but did little to ease her nerves. She did not like this place, though at dusk she would return to shoot the same scene in the fading light.

  And so here she was, trying to put down roots, let go of the past, and live. She glanced toward the yellow tape and the grass that looked a little matted.

  Here she was.

  But where was he?

  Beck spent the better part of the day reading the Raines file on the Seattle Strangler. The case files were detailed and precise. The observations were thoughtful. Raines had not taken any shortcuts. There was no doubt that Raines had been one hell of a cop.

  As he’d sipped a fresh cup of coffee, he studied a seven-year-old picture of Lara that had been taken right after the attack. It was rough. Not only was her neck black and blue, but also her eyes were so bloodshot their vivid blue was lost. Notes indicated that an internal examination confirmed rape, though no semen had been found in or on her body. There was DNA under her fingernails, but the sample didn’t match any known DNA on file.

  Anger twisting his gut, Beck closed his eyes and rubbed calloused fingers over a brow. He willed memories of the gun-toting Lara Church to elbow aside images of the sad, broken woman in these police photos. Seeing any woman hurt bothered him. Seeing Lara Church bruised and battered cut deep.

  His phone rang, pulling his thoughts back. “Beck.”

  It was the officer at the front desk. “There’s a guy named Raines out here to see you.”

  Beck pinched the bridge of his nose. He did not have time for this guy. However, to ignore him invited trouble. “I’ll be right down.”

  He rose, rolled down the sleeves of his white shirt and fastened the cuffs, and slid on his coat. He took the elevator down to the lobby and found Raines talking to the officer on duty.

  Raines was relaxed as he and the duty officer shared a joke.

  “Raines,” Beck said.

  The detective looked up, wished the officer behind the desk a good day, and moved toward Beck with a confident stride. He’d showered and shaved and was alert.

  Beck extended his hand toward a bank of chairs in the lobby. “Raines, caught any sleep?”

  He eased into a chair as if he owned the place. “You get caught up on your rest while you were on leave?”

  Beck sat down, irritation snapping. “Been doing a little homework.”

  Raines grinned. “For what it’s worth, I’d have done the same if I were in your shoes. You shouldn’t have been benched. I’d have kept trailing Dial.”

  Beck didn’t need Raines’s approval. “Others didn’t see it that way.”

  Raines was relaxed as if they were old friends. “Fuck the rest. You got justice for that kid and put that piece of garbage in the ground. That’s what counts, not the shit the media spins.”

  “You’ve had your issues with the media.” The statement didn’t require research. If he’d been lead investigator on a serial murder case, the press would have been all over him.

  “I have.” He shook his head. “And if you end up with more strangled bodies, you’ll learn how hellish the press can make your life.”

  “What’s the point of this chitchat?”

  Raines chuckled. “Direct. Good. Saves time. Did you go and see Lara Church?” His voice sounded crisper, stronger and all business.

  “I did.”

  “And?” Raines spoke to him as if they were partners.

  “And nothing I can discuss.”

  “Ah, come on, Beck. I gave you Lara. I didn’t have to, but I did. At least tell me if she remembers?” When Beck didn’t answer right away, he added, “I’d ask her myself, but I’m afraid she’d shoot me on sight. I made her life tough in Seattle. In fact, I blame myself for her leaving town. I pushed too hard, and she couldn’t take it.”

  “She’s no wilting flower now. She’s grown some steel in her back.”

  Raines cocked a brow and nodded. “Good. I’m glad. She’s gonna need it if the Strangler is back. She might not believe it, but I liked her. She’s talented and didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

  “No.”

  “Was she of help to you?”

  Same question asked differently, just like a good homicide detective. “She told me to get lost.”

  Raines shrugged. “She was anti-cop by the ti
me she left Seattle.”

  “That hasn’t changed.”

  “If you keep at her, she’ll come around. Not remembering plagued her. I’ll bet that her curiosity will get the better of her, and she’s going to want to figure this out.”

  “I’ve every intention of visiting her again. If she’s got any memory locked in that head of hers, then I want at it.”

  “Go easy, or she’ll spook.”

  Beck shook his head. “I did a little reading up on her. She’s put down roots in Austin. She’s teaching photography at the university, and she’s got an art show opening this Friday.”

  “I saw the notice in the morning paper. The show’s called Mark of Death. Interesting topic.” Raines tugged at a loose thread on his cuff. “She might not remember Seattle, but it made an impression.”

  Beck leaned forward. “Stay away from her. I don’t need you mucking up this investigation.”

  “I’m not making that promise. If the Strangler is back, and you can’t make headway with her, I will be paying her a visit.”

  Beck bristled. “Stay away.”

  “Find the Strangler, and I will.” Raines rose. “I hear you’ve got good food here in Austin. Looking forward to trying it. See you soon, Beck.”

  “Stay out of my case, Raines.”

  “Solve it, and I will.”

  Raines couldn’t hunt this killer if he didn’t understand the hunting grounds. Austin, like all towns, had its quirks with streets and traffic. After reading a collection of street maps, he got in his rental car and drove around the city.

  When he saw the off-ramp to Interstate 35 he took it, knowing that the killer had left the two bodies near the southbound side of I-35. He barely noticed much of the landscape. Instead, his gaze was searching for signs of a crime scene: yellow tape, burned flares, a stray cone.

  Finally, thirty-five minutes outside of Austin, he found the spot where the San Antonio paper had reported the first murder. He’d been getting both the San Antonio and Austin papers since Lara had settled in town.

  Though tempted to walk over to the scene, he didn’t. His vehicle would stick out here, and he didn’t need to explain himself to a highway patrolman. Spotting the access road, he drove a little farther south until he found the exit that gave him access to the secondary road that ran parallel to the interstate. Backtracking, he searched for the signs of a crime scene. Years of stringing yellow tape made it easy to spot the tattered strip left behind by the technicians.

  He parked and got out, cursing the heat as he moved over the rough terrain toward the site. He reached the site, wiped the sweat from his brow, and then turned his attention to the land around him. He could see why the killer had chosen it. Isolated, quiet, it would be easy to leave a body here in the middle of the night without being seen. And this kind of heat would quickly decimate a body in days.

  He glanced at the highway. “But you don’t want them to vanish and go unnoticed, do you, sport?” he said. “You want them found. That’s why you take the time to dress them and leave them out in the open. Probably why the second body was closer to the road. The initial one took too damn long to be noticed.” When he’d read about the first woman, he’d not given her much thought. The papers had said scattered bones and mentioned the boyfriend was a person of interest. Now with this latest victim, he needed to take a real look at the forgotten first.

  The first six Seattle killings had been different. Yes, the women had been dressed, but they’d been left in a remote section of woods. In those days, the Strangler had not wanted to be caught. And then there’d been the sloppy attack on Lara Church. The killer appeared to have acted impulsively. He’d introduced sexual assault to his new MO. He’d strayed too close to the road. So what had changed?

  Lara.

  Seven years ago, the notion that Lara was the key burrowed into his bones. And though not everyone in his department believed him, he’d not wavered. It was why he’d kept tabs on her the last seven years.

  What was it about Lara?

  Frustrated by the taunting lack of answers, he caught the glint of metal in the corner of his eye and moved toward the shiny object. He reached down and picked up the sunglasses. They looked clean and pristine. They’d not been out here long and likely did not belong to the first crime scene unit. And, judging by the size, they’d belonged to a woman. What woman would come out here to see a Strangler crime scene?

  He grinned. It made sense Lara would come out here with her camera after Beck’s visit. This place, like all the murder scenes she’d photographed, potentially could unlock the answers trapped in her mind.

  “Lara Church.”

  She still wanted to remember. Good. He pocketed the glasses, knowing he’d see her soon.

  The glaring sun prompted Lara to reach up on her head for her sunglasses. When she didn’t feel them she remembered setting them down by the crime scene. Twenty miles back. “Damn.”

  She considered going back for the glasses, but she was already a half hour late for her appointment at the gallery. She balanced the value of dime-store glasses against the cost of gas and her lack of time. The glasses lost.

  Lara, with Lincoln in the front seat of her pickup truck, rode into Austin. Her show was opening in just a couple of days, and she’d promised the gallery owner and her cousin, Cassidy Roberts, that she’d swing by to discuss last-minute show essentials.

  Cassidy’s 101 Gallery was located on South Congress Avenue in a bustling, albeit quirky, section of Austin. The three-story brick building, rimmed by glass high-rises on neighboring streets, dated back to the 1930s. It had belonged to their grandmother, who’d snapped up land in the seventies when it was cheap and converted it into a dress shop. When her grandmother had gotten ill two years ago, she’d gifted the building to Cassidy. Her cousin had painted the brick building white with three red horizontal stripes and expanded the first-floor windows so that passersby could see the art inside the studio. 101 Gallery blinked bright in blue neon above the main door.

  Lara parked in the small lot behind the building, and she and Lincoln made their way through the back entrance. Dwindling renovation dollars had left the back entrance area much as it had been when their grandmother was alive, with dim lighting, old cracked linoleum floors, and a rickety shelving system.

  “I can smell that mutt a mile off!” Cassidy’s clear, young voice shot down the hallway that led to the main gallery.

  “He doesn’t smell.” Lara dropped her car keys in her backpack. “You saw my truck pass in front of the gallery.”

  Cassidy emerged from a small office. She wore a peasant blouse, a black ruffled skirt, and a thick belt that matched a pair of cowboy boots. Dark hair was swept into a topknot and held in place by hair sticks. No makeup enhanced her smooth olive skin and high cheekbones. Silver and turquoise bracelets jangled from her wrist.

  Cassidy tossed a wary glance at Lincoln, who settled on the cool wood floor. “God, he gets bigger every time I see him. Are you sure he’s not part wolf?”

  Lara rubbed Lincoln between the ears. “He’s just a big puppy.”

  “With big fangs.” Despite Cassidy’s protests she looked as if she had no problem with the dog. Though she groused about his smell and his hair, she never once said he wasn’t welcome in her gallery.

  Cassidy had been twelve when her mother had died, and she’d gone to live with their grandmother. Lara, however, had only lived in the Austin home during the summers, a time when her own mother needed a break from the demands of motherhood. The start of her summers with Cassidy always began with tension as each wondered how much the other had changed over the year. But by end of summer the girls cried when Lara’s mother appeared and took Lara away.

  Cassidy studied Lara. “Looks like you got some sun today.”

  “I did some preliminary shooting.”

  “You should wear a hat. The Texas sun chews you up.” Cassidy arched a brow just as their grandmother had. “Where did you shoot?”

  “A site out
off of I-35 north of San Antonio.”

  “Odd choice.”

  “I don’t pick the places. They pick me.”

  “Not another murder scene.” The words rushed out in a sigh.

  “Yep.”

  Cassidy was silent for a moment. “Don’t get me wrong, I adore the pieces you’ve taken. But every time I look at them I realize how dangerous it is for you to take those pictures. And the side of a highway can’t be the most secure location.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  Cassidy clasped her hands together. “Please, for my sake, would you not take any major risks between now and the opening? I need my artist looking radiant and wonderful and not dead on the side of a highway.”

  Logic demanded Lara lock her doors every night and carry a shotgun when she walked and was out in the field. However, deeply buried emotions overruled logic, at times sending her to tenuous places to take pictures. The irony was not lost on her. “I’ll be fine. Now show me what you have so far.”

  Cassidy grabbed a ring of keys and unlocked the door that separated the front of the gallery from the back. “Are you nervous about this show?”

  A casual shrug hid a flurry of nerves. “No. Why would I be nervous?”

  “It is a big step.”

  “It’s a show.” It’s a show. It’s just a show.

  Green eyes narrowed. “Then why do I smell your unease?”

  Lara smiled. “Maybe you just smell Lincoln.”

  Cassidy wasn’t put off by the joke. “No, you’ve been different since you got back to Austin. You travel to crazy places for your pictures and yet treat strangers with caution.”

  “You have an imagination.”

  “You weren’t like this as a kid. You were the brave one. The one never afraid to talk to anyone.”

  “I’ve grown up.”

  “You have an obsession with death.”

  “I do not.” And that was the truth. “I’m compelled to understand death and the mark it leaves behind, but I have no desire to meet up with it for at least another fifty or sixty years.”