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“The tox screen came back on Wendy Ito. There were traces of Rohypnol in her blood.”
“The bastard gave her a roofie,” Chandler said coldly. “Date rape.”
Alvarez frowned. “Except he didn’t rape her. Never does.”
“That’s right. No sign of sexual molestation,”
Mikhail Slatkin agreed over the speakerphone. “We’re
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doing deeper tox screens on all the victims, to see if there are traces of any other date rape drugs, but they pass through the body fairly quickly.”
“Do what you can,” the sheriff said. “Thanks.”
Zoller hung up as Dan Grayson surveyed his team. “Looks like this investigation just changed course.” He rubbed the back of his neck and scowled. “I want to know who benefits from Brady Long’s death. Find his will. Dig up what you can on his ex-wives or anyone he screwed over. Who he’s dating, who he dumped, who he cheated, anyone with a bone to pick.” Tapping the table with his fingers, he added, “Could be a pretty long list. Then check out his father, see if he’s alive or dead.”
“Holding on by a thread. Hospice has already been called in; Hubert’s tough, he could last another two months or two minutes,” Brewster said. “I called the nursing home and that’s all they would tell me, but he won’t be long for this earth.”
Eyes thinning, Grayson said, “Then what about the sister? Paige, is it?”
“Padgett,” Alvarez corrected.
“That’s right. I’m thinking she’s about to become a very rich woman.”
Stephanie Chandler said coolly, “Searching for Long’s killer is all well and good. However, there are still five dead women as well as two missing, including one of your detectives.”
A tic developed near Grayson’s left eye, and it was evident that he was trying to keep his simmering anger under control. “Make no mistake, Agent Chandler, nothing has changed as far as the victims of the Star-Crossed Killer are concerned. The investigation is ongoing and intense. We aren’t letting up an inch. We’re going to use every resource of this 254
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department to find that son of a bitch, but now the investigation has widened, taken an unforeseen turn. We’re not only looking for a killer who gets off on letting his victims freeze in the wilderness, we’re searching for a murderer with another reason to kill as well. Maybe something deep and personal. A vendetta, perhaps. I’d say the psychological profile of Star-Crossed just changed, so we’re going to adapt.” He was standing now, leaning across the table, the tic intense and rapid. “But it’s my intention, no, make that my personal mission, to find the twisted prick and throw his ass in jail before he takes another life!” He looked around the table. “Now, let’s make it happen.”
They all scooted back their chairs and picked up their papers and coffee cups, but as Alvarez made her way back to the desk, she glanced out the window at the steely clouds and blowing snow that caked against the windows.
The storm wasn’t abating.
Nor was the Star-Crossed Killer.
He wasn’t finished and he told them so in the notes he’d left at each killing ground. There was no note near Brady Long’s body. In that respect, Alvarez felt, sliding into her desk chair, Grayson was right. Long was a departure. Maybe killed by an accomplice? Or because he knew something? There had to be a connection. One that wasn’t yet obvious.
Another copycat? That seemed beyond coincidental. Then what?
She picked up copies of other missing persons reports, of women who seemed to have disappeared in the last six weeks. Flipping through the pages,
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reading the names as she looked at pictures from driver’s licenses, or graduation photos, or snapshots taken by loved ones, Alvarez’s heart sank. Patricia Sorenson.
Alma Rae Dodge.
Holly Benjamin.
Tawilda Conrad.
