Unfair Advantage

CHAPTER FOURTEEN





Roarke didn’t sleep.



He went over in his head what Fielding would say in the press conference come morning. Any other time, media involvement could work to an investigation’s advantage. Always, someone knew something. Or had seen something they didn’t realize held insight, evidence to a crime.



Not for this case. Roarke knew in his bones that this guy worked alone. He must. To have kidnapped and killed so many without leaving a single clue, or sighting, he must be a ghost. A phantom operating on a different level. A sort of parallel universe he’d come to rule.



During the drive, he considered the case. Even items of evidence such as the chemicals or drugs that showed on the tox screenings, micro fibers, abrasions from robes or tape gave little hope. To make any use of them, NYPD must have a suspect to compare.



Early on, Roarke had felt time worked in their favor. Although serial killers tended to improve at what they did, often they became greedy. Needed grander, or more frequent fixes. Sooner or later they slipped. Gave pieces of identity away in fulfilling their wants and needs.



This bastard hadn’t. He’d covered his ass by thoroughly cleaning the bodies, didn’t get reckless, or anxious. Even the methods of decontamination and disposal bordered on brilliance. Isopropyl alcohol and bleach for cleansing, both purchased in quantities too small for tracking. Hand soap provided in three different chains of fuel and grocery marts. Generic forms of plastic for transportation and handling that left the barest traces of material, could often be found naturally within reasonable cross contamination distance from the dump.



Yet another clear indication of well above average intelligence. Keeping the dump sites within one precinct’s district limited cross jurisdictional involvement. All resources would cooperate, pursue the investigation. But not the same as if he’d dropped bodies all over Greater New York.



Fielding had spent hours pulling reports and records, tracing employee grievances and civil complaints trying to get a fix on someone with a grudge. Someone with a reason to target their precinct. Nothing. Their man just knew better than to spread himself around.



When the killer learned they had a psychic helping to hunt him, their man would do one of three things. Laugh, smile to himself at their ignorance and desperation. Test, push the envelope. Maybe kill again to see if she could find him. Or, vanish. Simply pull up stakes and disappear. Out of state. Or even country.



None of those offered Roarke hope to prevent more slaughtered kids.



He unhooked the bungee cords, took the kayak from the back of his pickup. He used an entry ramp to ease the kayak out, step, settle in and paddle onto inky Hudson Bay. The sun wouldn’t rise for another hour at least. With the lights shining on the black water, he tried to work out his frustration.



A sudden image of Dani struck him. He pictured her standing beside the lake in the misting rain, slender body swallowed by the rain coat. Then he pictured her lying in the hospital bed, ugly burns ringing her wrists.



He couldn’t protect her either.







Peta never slept over. Especially at Dominic’s place.



She rolled from the tangled bed, dressed quietly and slipped from the small Village studio apartment. For a cop he sure as hell slept the deep sleep of the trusting.



Glancing at her watch, Peta cursed, hurried down the stairs to the small entrance hall and out onto the street. In less than seven hours Detective Fielding would put his All American good boy face in front of the cameras, along with his captain and the chief of police. The media would have an official statement.



And she would then break her big follow-up.







Dani woke at three AM, stared at the ceiling. When she’d returned home from meeting Steven, she’d watched the eleven o’clock news on the newly delivered TV. Details about her first contact with the police, the ensuing investigation came in astonishing detail. Even the fact she’d come to them and experienced the brush off.



Even after hours of restless toss and turn dozing contemplation the truth continued its ugly glaring.



Peta Seymour had an inside line. Someone gave her privileged information. And she used it like a sword.







Roarke, Fielding, Tanzetti, Locke, Hardy, Wagner and Bristol sat in folding chairs in small gray-walled conference room with Captain Ferreli, Richard Grace the chief of police, and newly arrived special FBI consulting agent, Brad Ford behind the small wood and aluminum table up front.



Grace’s voice held obvious sadness, “It’s pretty clear one of our own has hemorrhaged information to the press. Namely this Seymour woman from Six. We believe her snitch was there that day when Miss Richards first came in. Pulling work records told us that lots of low level employees worked that day. Ten to be exact. Along with you seven, Captain Ferreli and a lieutenant from a Brooklyn precinct who’d come to brief us about the uncut heroine causing all the 911 calls.” He looked at Ferreli, who then took over.



The captain cleared his throat, “So far what she knows could come from close firsthand observation. She realized she’d caught wind of something potentially big, followed her nose and hit pay dirt. Larkin and Fielding have handled this with complete professionalism. It’s been strictly by the book. We have nothing to apologize for. Fielding will stand with the chief and I, we’ll give a brief statement, no questions. Done deal.”



Agent Ford said, “I’ve advised Captain Ferreli to put men at Miss Richards’ apartment. I’ve seen cases before where the psychic became the target of various groups and individuals. People with missing children, husbands, brothers in the military on dangerous assignments. Religious factions opposing the use of psychics, considering it the Devil’s work. That kind of thing.”



Roarke had to force himself not to jump on that. That’s all he needed. Desperates and zealots.



“Okay.” The chief stood. “We’re on at 8:30.”







Dani sat on the floor. Her furniture for in here wouldn’t arrive for another half hour. The Channel Six anchors, Ann Lipton and Terrence Colby gave a short rehash of the earlier reports their station gave. Then they cut to the press conference.



Her heart froze in her chest. Buddy hurried to climb into her lap. She dug her fingers into his plush fur, stared at the television. Men identified as Captain Ferreli, Police Chief Richard Grace and FBI special agent Brad Ford stood behind a tall long podium. A bank of microphones fanned before them like a bouquet. Tim stood just to the side. He looked composed and professional.



That made her smile a touch. She could almost feel his uncomfortable nervousness.



Chief Grace began. “Good morning fellow New Yorkers, ladies and gentlemen of the media, cooperating law enforcement agencies and Mr. Major. I’m Police Chief Richard C. Grace. This is Nicholas Ferreli, captain of the main precinct handling the investigation, To the far left Detective Tim Fielding, a primary investigating officer. He’ll give a briefing. Quiet during, please. No questions taken at this time. Thank you. Detective.”



The FBI agent stepped back into Tim’s place as he moved forward. The chief also deferred position, leaving Ferreli and Fielding at the microphones.



“Good morning,” Tim greeted. He sounded steady, cool. “Over the past six months, we’ve had a series of abductions ending in murder. A few more before that, with greater duration between which had no apparent connection. However, when the age and gender of the victims stabilized, we began to form a theory that a group or perhaps one individual might be responsible for them all. No physical evidence, forensic or otherwise linked these cases. We had no motive or profile. Therefore hesitated to involve the media. Those instances were covered by the media, though in relative isolation from each other until recently.



Four days ago, a seventh victim, this time older and under different circumstances, was discovered dead. Again we have no evidence or leads. But we maintain our belief that a group or individual may be culpable for them all. FBI profilers could not establish a solid theory or profile for our perpetrator or perpetrators. Our experienced officers exhausted every possible avenue of research and investigation without success. Therefore, we cannot classify the unknown.



An unexpected form of investigation became available. Today’s law enforcement agencies use it with ever increasing achievement and consistency. We are using that tool while continuing traditional techniques in hopes of finding the vital clue that will change this into a fast developing search for our suspect or suspects.



We ask media and citizens alike to respect the integrity and delicacy of this case. Not just as the pursuit of justice, but out of reverence for the families of the victims and the victims themselves. Your understanding and cooperation is appreciated. Thank you for your time.”



The clustered journalists lunged verbally with the forbidden barrage of questions. The men all filed away under blue-uniformed escort.



Smart. No mention of Peta Seymour’s bombshell exclusive, or even the word ‘psychic’. A final reminder about the victims might help shame people into behaving as asked. Maybe.



Buddy had growled off and on since before six that morning. When he charged to the door rumbling in his throat, it didn’t really bother her. She expected the living room furniture delivered soon anyway. Shuffling and voices beyond cemented the belief, she glanced through the peep hole, saw a commotion.



Great, if her stuff caused a crush in the hall, it might crowd the heck out of her living room. She crated Buddy, hurried to slide back the bolts and open the door. Three police officers held back a crowd that lurched forward at her appearance.



Waving pictures and personal items they yelled so loudly she couldn’t make out anything. Dani saw one of the officers fending off the mob with one hand to press the call button of his shoulder mounted communication unit with the other. She ducked back into the apartment, locking every bolt and device behind her. Like soldiers over the top of a foxhole, people poured over the six foot privacy fence of her courtyard. The rushed to the French doors, peering in, banging, shouting.



Who were they? Her stomach clenched. She felt dizzy with panic.



Dani raced to grab her cell phone from where it charged in her bed room, dialed Larkin’s cell. Her hand shook so badly she almost couldn’t make them work.



He answered on the first ring. “I know. I heard. More crowd control officers are en route forthwith. I’m twelve blocks away. Hang in there. I’m coming.”