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ere’s anything I can do to further Mike’s cause.” He left by way of the garage door.
“You heard,” Drex said. “You’ve got five. So think and talk fast. What did Jasper bring into the marriage?”
“Sorry?”
“Possessions, Talia.”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“The guys I profile are sociopaths, and they share characteristics. No conscience. Above the rules. They’re smug and have overblown egos.”
“I overheard you describing that to the detectives last night.”
He nodded. “They’re also compulsive collectors.”
“Collectors?”
“They take souvenirs.”
He watched her face as she reasoned out what he was saying. Her gaze dropped to the file. “What were they missing?”
“We don’t know, and that’s been damn frustrating. None of the women had the same body type, no common feature like blue eyes, crooked teeth, long hair, short hair, a beauty mark. They were physically different, and lived different lifestyles. No common hobby.
“Nothing alike except healthy bank accounts that were emptied within days of their disappearances. He could collect safe deposit box keys, ballpoint pens, locks of hair, fingernails. We don’t know. But I would bet my career that there’s something he takes from them. And saves. And takes out on occasion and fondles. Possibly masturbates.”
She looked nauseated at the thought.
“Does he have a safe, sealed packing box, tool box, tackle box, anything that he asked you not to open?”
She was shaking her head before he finished. “He told me he had sold everything when he moved to Savannah.”
“From Florida.”
“He said Minnesota. He told me he no longer needed heavy clothing and cold weather gear, so he had disposed of everything.”
“A logical lie. But didn’t he have any personal items? Photographs? Memorabilia? Stamp collection? Coins? A cigar box of postcards?”
“Nothing, Drex.”
He looked at his wristwatch. “Think, Talia.”
“He had his car, his clothes, some cookbooks.”
He shot to his feet. “Where are they?”
“They’re cookbooks.”
“Where are they?”
But by the time he had repeated the question, he had remembered the shelf above the stove. He went over to it and picked one of the books at random. It was a two-year-old edition with a glossy cover. The spine was unbent. The pages were so new and unused, some stuck together. He remarked on its newness.
“When we met, he hadn’t been a foodie for long,” she said. “It was a hobby he began after his retirement.”
“Books are good hiding places. I’ll have Gif tear into them.” She seemed on the verge of protesting, and he pounced on that.
“Do you want him caught, Talia?”
The file held her interest for a ponderous moment, then she looked up at him. “If he did what you allege, then, yes, of course. Those women deserve justice.”
