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But in the short term, the amusement helped energize me for the next steps.
This time, I couldn’t keep watch on my next target. Without that security blanket my anxiety skyrocketed—each phase had its difficult aspects, and for this one, I was running blind. But I had a few very important tasks to complete, and the block of free time allowed me to devote my full attention to them.
Through the course of my life, I’ve learned so many things from books. Nowadays, of course, there’s YouTube as well—so many things you can learn by watching, from waterproofing your house to picking locks. I had several devices I needed to make and with very little research and a few innocent-looking objects, I was on my way. I spent the rest of my afternoon finalizing them and making sure they were functional.
When I was satisfied, I double-checked everything. Then, once I was sure I’d done everything I needed to do, I grabbed my coat, headed out, and allowed myself to enjoy the next phase.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-NINE
Jo grabbed a healthy dose of Starbucks on her way back to HQ, and handed a venti drip to Arnett when she arrived. He thanked her effusively, but barely looked up from the security footage he was poring over.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
He paused the recording. “Slow but steady. The gym’s external camera is pointed directly toward the main aisle, so I get a nice, clear, head-on shot of the license plates that come from that direction. But if they come from the perpendicular direction, here”—he gestured to the screen—“it’s hit or miss.”
She slid into her chair. “While you do that, I’m going to pull up the two rape cases Ossokov was indicted for before Zara Richards’ murder and see if I can find anything relevant there.”
“The system wasn’t as fully computerized back then, so I pulled the physical files.” He jutted his chin toward two folders, then restarted the video.
“Thanks.” She pulled the files over, then flipped open the one for Tasha Quintana.
From nearly the first page, Jo could see why everyone had been so sure the Zara Richards assault was related to Tasha’s. A twenty-four-year-old white administrative assistant with brown hair and eyes, she bore more than a passing resemblance to Zara Richards. She’d been assaulted close to midnight outside a pub in Oakhurst; according to the report, she’d met two friends for drinks, but had switched to water halfway through the evening because she had to work the next day. She left before they did, alone, for the same reason. Her assailant appeared out of the dark and forced her by gunpoint into a dead-end alley behind the bar. When he was done, he told her to count to a hundred before turning around, and that he’d shoot her if she moved before that. During the assault, he attempted to control where she looked, but when he forced her behind a dumpster enclosure, she managed to get a full look at his face illuminated by the light next to the enclosure. He wore a condom and gloves, so her identification was crucial.
Jo’s phone buzzed, interrupting her with a text from Goran.
Some guy came over to pick up Ossokov. Ran the plates, it turned out to be his uncle. Ossokov drove uncle back home, is now on way to work.
Jo sent back an acknowledgment.
Guess he really doesn’t like public transportation.
She finished up the file on Tasha and switched to Jennifer Woods. Jennifer was twenty-six, white with brown hair and brown eyes, very much the same physical type as both the other women. The rape was almost identical to Tasha’s; Jennifer was a flight attendant originally from Chicopee, living in Boston, back for the weekend visiting family and friends. She’d gone to a pub in Northampton to meet a blind date set up by her mother for an after-dinner drink. The man never showed up, and while she waited, sipping a glass of wine for over an hour, another man struck up a conversation with her and bought her another glass of wine. He came on strong so she made her excuses and left. As she searched her purse to call a cab, a man appeared out of the darkness, forced her at gunpoint into the alley behind the bar, and raped her behind a utility shed. He’d apparently learned his lesson from the previous rape and was careful to make sure Jennifer never saw his face, but this time the condom he wore broke, leaving DNA evidence behind. When he realized this, he cursed at her, and told her if she went to the police, they’d never believe her because he’d tell them the sex had been consensual. He used the same count-to-one-hundred technique to buy time to get away.
The no-show blind date sounded pretty darn suspicious, and Jo latched on to it as she scoured the file. As it turned out, Bandara’s suspicions had also been aroused by the missing man, but it turned out he had an iron-clad alibi—he’d been in a car accident on the way to the date that broke one of his legs, and had been taken directly to the hospital via ambulance. Jo swore under her breath and returned to the rest of the file.
The possibility that the man who stood her up was her rapist had occurred to Jennifer, too. Once she calmed down enough to call the cab company as originally intended, she went back to her mother’s house, where she was spending the night. She didn’t tell her mother at first, worried that she’d blame herself for having fixed Jennifer up with the man. But when her mother heard her crying inside the bathroom, the truth came out. She insisted Jennifer go to the emergency room.
Jo pushed the files away as she finished, frustrated she hadn’t learned much. The evidence was strong that Ossokov had committed the rapes; Arnett was right when he said Ossokov would have been smart to take his overturned conviction and slip away into the night. He wouldn’t be the first egomaniacal narcissist who wasn’t able to let go of a slight even when it was in his best interest, but there was nothing in the files that got her any closer to proving he’d committed the current murders. Thank goodness the surveillance teams were watching him—hopefully they’d be able to prevent him killing anyone else.
Jo’s phone buzzed with another text. Before she could answer it, Arnett spoke. “Marzillo’s summoning us to the lab.”
“Let’s go,” she said.
As she grabbed her coffee and followed him, she threw another frustrated glance back at the files. So much could go wrong with waiting and hoping to catch Ossokov in the act—she said a prayer that Marzillo had found something—anything—that would help them.
CHAPTERFORTY
There are many things about law enforcement I’ll never understand. But the one I find the most amusing is that undercover cops actually think we don’t know they’re undercover, like the absence of a light bar and zebra paint is some Cloak of Suburban Camo that renders them invisible. Maybe for some people the sight of two fiercely serious men driving a neutral-colored sedan is completely ordinary. Maybe most people don’t bother to track the vehicles around them, never worried about who might be following them. I suppose it’s just one more way I’ll never again be like other people.
I wasn’t a bit surprised when I spotted them. I knew it was only a matter of time before they tried to surreptitiously watch their primary suspect, and I had a plan for dealing with it. One that not only would undermine them but enable me to use the situation to my advantage.
Still, I watched for a while to be sure. Watched them hang several cars back, change lanes after judicious delays, sip their coffee with unending patience.
Once I was certain, I picked up the phone.
CHAPTERFORTY-ONE
When they reached the lab, Marzillo stood over a table with the swatch of bloody fabric they’d found blindfolding Deena Scott. As they entered, she pulled off her gloves and shifted over to her computer. Jo was struck by how tired she looked, with bags under her brown eyes and a flock of black curls straying from her bun.
