Page 46 of Dead Drift

Thornton brought in a sketch artist all the same. An image of any part of the intruder’s face could be helpful.

The man had not parked in the lot, so they had no video footage of his vehicle, only him skirting the video camera’s viewing area as he made his way to the east door.

Switching hotels, Griffin felt reasonably sure they were safe, but he hadn’t been able to settle down enough to sleep yet. Instead, he was still sifting through Burke’s files, but seeing as it was nearly two in the morning, he needed to try to at least get some rest. They had a full day of interviewing the remaining two detectives and the victims’ families ahead.

He climbed into bed and curled around his wife, her hand pulling his arm tightly about her. He reached back, clicked off the light, and pressed a kiss to her head.

She’d asked him to leave the curtains open a smidge so she could fall asleep under the gorgeous harvest moon outside their window.

He closed his eyes, but the case still tramped through his mind. The correlation between the victims’ killings and the key words leader, agent, and barn was downright bugging him. Three key words, handcuffed, wrists, and Glock—given all the murders were conducted with a large-caliber round, which could be used with a Glock—applied to all the murders so far, but what about the rest? And what was his message? Dumping the women in the water?

Finley snuggled deeper into his hold, snoring softly. More a humming noise than an outright snore, and he found it adorable.

He exhaled, praying for sleep to come, but the more perplexing key words continued to dance through his mind.

Agent. Leader. Barn.

Perhaps the killer took his victims to a barn somewhere outside of whatever town or city they were near to torture and kill the girls before driving to a body of water and dumping them. But how had Burke discovered that?

Leader and agent most likely referred to the killer’s position or job. Both titles could apply to so many different careers, it was nearly impossible to narrow it down. And that was if he was even correct in assuming the words applied to a profession. They could apply to an area in which he volunteered or to a hobby. But professions seemed the strongest possibility, so he let some run through his mind—travel agent, customs agent, ticket agent, life insurance agent. Leader of his team at work? Or leader of a volunteer group, fitness class, or even the principal player in a musical group? The word leader could also refer to a blank section at the beginning or end of a reel of film or recorded tape.

What if the sicko was videotaping or audio recording his time with the girls?

The thought disturbed him beyond measure.

He shifted against the concrete parking barrier he was leaning over for purchase as he studied the detective and his wife asleep in their bed in their hotel room across the alleyway. So they’d gotten his message and thought switching hotels would be enough to get beyond his reach. There was no place far enough for that. Not even death. All his girls learned that. He owned them. Whether they surfaced mattered not. They were his.

He watched the shafts of moonlight streak across Finley’s soft cheek through the opening in the drapes and the urge to take her grew, but the detective started to stir, and he couldn’t risk exposure. Not now. Not yet. Not under these circumstances. No, he needed to draw them away from other people and have his time with them. The detective he’d kill quickly, but the wife—he’d take that nice and slow.

The patrol officers struggled to keep everyone at bay while setting up a perimeter around the crime scene.

“How long until the homicide detectives arrive?” one of the officers asked.

“Said they’d be here in ten,” another officer answered.

The first nodded.

Word of a body found along the shoreline had spread like wildfire that warm May morning in Chesapeake Harbor.

Griffin approached the sand’s edge with dread weighing heavy in his gut. What if it was Jenna? She’d been missing three weeks.

Parker rushed forward, tears in his eyes.

Tears?

Declan and Luke were racing down the street to be at his side in case . . .

The four of them stood there, looking beyond the officers to the body washed up on shore by the morning’s tide. Her hair was dark brown. She was the right build, though her skin was puffy and missing in places.

Griffin fought the urge to hurl.

An unmarked police car with sirens wailing arrived. Detectives stepped out, conferred with one of the police officers, and then approached the body. The crime-scene investigator took photographs, his camera snapping over and over until, finally, they rolled her over. . . .

Griffin swallowed the bile rising up his throat.

Jenna.

Sobs threatened to wrack his body as hot fury engulfed him.