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But what would he do if she wasn’t at home, again? She wasn’t here; he knew, because he had checked. Where could she be?
He would find her. He knew who her parents were and where they lived, he knew the names of her brother and sister, and their addresses.
He knew a lot of things about her. He knew a lot of things about everyone who worked here, because he loved reading their private files. He could write down their social security numbers and dates of birth and find out all sorts of things about them on his computer at home.
She was the last one. He couldn’t wait. He needed to find her now, needed to finish the task Mother had given him.
Very quietly he laid down the pipe beside the unmoving woman, and crept out of the storage room. He closed the door as silently as possible, then tiptoed away.
Detective Wayne Satran stopped by Sam’s desk with a fax. “Here’s the report on the shoe print you’ve been waiting for.” He dropped the fax on top of a pile of reports and continued to his own desk.
Sam picked up the report and read the first line: “The tread does not match—”
What the hell? All crime labs had books or databases on sneaker tread patterns, updated on a regular basis. Sometimes a manufacturer wouldn’t get around to sending in an update whenever they changed their styles or refused to do so for reasons of their own. When that happened, usually a lab would simply buy a pair of the shoes in question to get the pattern.
Maybe the shoes had been bought in another country. Maybe they were an obscure off-brand, or maybe the guy was slick enough to have used a knife to change the tread pattern. He didn’t think so, though. This was no organized killer; this guy operated on emotion and opportunity.
He started to toss the report, but realized it was rather wordy for a simple “does not match.” He couldn’t afford to overlook a single detail, couldn’t let his sense of urgency distract him. He began reading again. “The tread does not match that of any athletic shoe for men. The pattern does, however, match an exclusive style that is manufactured only for women. The section of tread pattern available is insufficient for determining exact size, but indicates probable size between eight and ten.”
A woman’s shoe? The guy was wearing women’s shoes?
Or … the guy was a woman.
“Son of a bitch!” Sam said between his teeth, lunging for the phone and punching in Bernsen’s number. When Roger answered, he said, “I got the report back on the shoe. It’s a woman’s.”
There was dead silence for a moment; then Roger said, “You’re shitting me.” He sounded as appalled as Sam felt.
“We excluded the female employees from the NCIC search. We hog-tied ourselves. We have to go through their files, too.”
“You’re telling me a woman—” Roger fell silent, and Sam knew he was thinking of the things that had been done to Marci’s body, and Luna’s. “Jesus.”
“Now we know why Luna opened her door. It didn’t make sense that she would. But she was on guard against a man, not a woman.” That feeling of having missed something was growing stronger.
A woman. Think of a blond woman. Immediately he flashed to Marci’s funeral, and the tall blond woman who had broken down and wept in Cheryl’s arms. A drama queen, T.J. had said, but Jaine had a different take on it: The wheel’s still going around, but her hamster’s dead. She thought the woman had a loose screw, that there was something wrong there. Damn it! She had even mentioned her when he asked about employees who had experienced difficulty getting along with others at work.
T.J. had said something else, something that hadn’t clicked at the time: the woman was in her department, human resources. The woman had access to everything, all the information in all the files, including private phone numbers and the names and addresses of relatives to call in case of an emergency.
That was it. That was what had been nagging at him. Laurence Strawn had specifically told him the personnel files weren’t on computers with Internet connections; it was impossible to hack into them. Whoever had called T.J.’s cell phone number had gotten it from her file, but that file, without specific authorization, was accessible only to those in H.R.
What was her name? What was her damn name?
He reached for the phone to call Jaine, but the name popped into his head before he could dial Shelley’s number: Street. Leah Street.
He dialed Bernsen instead. “Leah Street,” he rasped when Roger answered. “She’s the one who was crying all over Marci’s sister at the funeral.”
“The blonde,” Roger said. “Shit! She fit the profile, too.”
Right down to the ground, Sam thought. The nervousness, the excessive emotion, the inability to stay in the background.
“I’ve got the file here,” Roger said. “There are several complaints about her attitude. She didn’t get along with people. God, this is classic. We’ll bring her in for questioning, see what we can shake loose.”
“She’ll be at work,” Sam said, and alarm clawed his gut. “T.J. went to work today. They’re in the same department, Human Resources.”
“Get on the phone to T.J.,” Roger said. “I’m on my way.”
Sam quickly looked up the number at Hammerstead. An automated answering message picked up on the first ring, and he ground his teeth. He had to listen until the recording gave the appropriate extension for Human Resources, which took valuable time. Damn it! Why didn’t companies use real people to answer the phone? Messages were cheaper, but in an emergency the delay could cause real trouble.
Finally the recorded message gave the extension he wanted, and he punched it in. A harried voice picked up on the fourth ring. “Human Resources, Fallon speaking.”
