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He loathed the idea of touching her again, but he tamped down his revulsion and used a tiny pair of manicure scissors to clip the threads securing a button to the neckline of her dress just above the zipper. Holding it by the eyelet, he twirled the small, fabric-covered sphere. What clever way could he sport it, he wondered.
He didn’t have to decide now. He could take his time and be creative, as he’d had to be with some of the buttons already in his collection. But he never failed to come up with an ingenious way in which to hide them in plain sight.
He replaced the scissors in his leather manicure set, zipped it up, and placed it in his suitcase, then removed the velvet pouch from the inside pocket. Over the past two days, he had increased his collection from an even dozen to fifteen buttons. The FBI had underestimated his achievements by six women, proof that their agents weren’t as brilliant as that moron on TV had boasted. Jasper’s nimble mind could run circles around Dr. Easton’s.
Indeed, it had, hadn’t it?
He worked open the pursed top of the velvet bag and was about to drop the new addition into it when, yielding to an irresistible urge, he dumped the contents onto the top of the dresser. The hectic pace of the past few days had prevented him from looking at his souvenirs arrayed like this.
He wondered if the FBI’s “striking similarities” and “signature” were the missing buttons. Had Easton made that connection? Jasper didn’t see that it mattered, except that it caused another, sharper pang of regret that there wasn’t a button from Talia. That would have been the best prize of all.
But he really must get over that disappointment. He couldn’t allow himself to be detained by it. For the time being—and only for the time being—Talia was beyond his reach. Accept it.
He soothed his irritation by separating the buttons so he could admire them independently and reminisce on how he’d come by each one. There were three pearls, but each of a different size. Two were made of tortoiseshell. Four of various shapes and textures were solid black. The matte white one had adorned the skirt of the woman he’d killed last night. Naturally, all the brass ones looked somewhat military. One silver disk had a finish as smooth as satin. And, now, this cloth one.
He took a moment to appreciate its uniqueness, then it went first into the pouch. One by one he added the others, each joining the collection with a satisfying clink. He was about to pull the drawstring closed when something struck him as odd. He paused to consider, then upended the bag and spread out the buttons again. He counted them. Recounted. Meticulously, he grouped them into rows of five.
He hadn’t miscounted. One of the rows was short a button.
With his heart knocking and a sweat breaking out over his shaved head, he squeezed the velvet pouch to see if one of the smaller buttons had become trapped by an inside seam. He didn’t feel anything, but to be sure, he turned the bag inside out.
He searched among the magazines stacked on top of the dresser. He felt along the bottom of the television set, thinking that perhaps one had slid beneath it. He pushed aside the ice bucket and plastic wrapped glasses.
It wasn’t on the dresser. He dropped to his knees, looked under the bed, the desk, the dresser. He crawled across the floor, madly skimming his hands over the carpet.
He stood up, breathing as though he’d swum miles. Starbursts of red exploded behind his eyes. Twin freight trains roared through his ears.
One of his trophies was missing.
Chapter 38
After his face-off with Rudkowski, which had produced the desired result, Drex powwowed with Locke, Menundez, and Talia in the interrogation room.
“You wanted him to blab all that on TV?” Locke asked.
“In the hope of luring Jasper to the courthouse for my arraignment. Once he learns I’m being publicly disgraced, I don’t think he can stand to miss it.”
“That’s your plan?” The detective looked skeptical.
“Do you have an alternative?” When no one spoke, Drex said, “The first step worked, and it was crucial. While Rudkowski is busy being a TV star, let’s take another look at that security video.”
“I’m supposed to be booking you,”
Locke said.
“A minute or two isn’t going to matter.”
Grudgingly, the detective did as asked. Drex sat down at the small table. The other three gathered around to watch the video.
“As I play it, keep an eye on this person and watch how he navigates.” Drex pointed to a blurred figure on the monitor. “See? He walks right past Gif, then turns and comes back. It’s hard to tell with all the jostling and shoving, but I think that on that second pass, they bump shoulders. That could have been when he struck.”
“How could he have done it that quickly, and without anyone noticing?” Talia asked.
“Someone did.” Drex paused the video. “Now here, five seconds later, Gif has disappeared. We know that he was on the ground. A minute after that, here’s the same individual, standing a few yards away, watching. EMTs arrive. He makes a slow circuit of the area.”
He fast-forwarded, picking up the person at various spots around the perimeter of the camera’s range. “Once Gif had been taken away—” He fast-forwarded before pausing the video again. “—he reappears briefly here before being swallowed up by the crowd. That’s his back,” he said, pointing.
“I don’t know,” Locke said, frowning. “Looks to me like just another curious bystander. There were dozens of them milling around.”
