Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [99]
Brutally.
“Maybe he had a gun,” Rafe suggested, thinking aloud. “Or maybe the knife was enough to keep her docile until they got this far.”
Mallory frowned. “You want my hunch, I say she didn't see that knife until they reached this clearing. The instant she saw it, she tried to run. That's when he got her.”
Rafe didn't know why, but that was his hunch too. “And it's the same way he got the other two. Somehow he persuaded these women to leave their cars and walk calmly into the woods with him. Smart, savvy women who, from all accounts, were way too careful to let any stranger get that close.”
“Which means they probably knew him.”
“Even if, would you leave your car and just stroll into the woods with some guy early on a bright June morning? Especially if you knew two other women had recently died under similar circumstances?”
“No. But I'm a suspicious cop.” Mallory shook her head. “Still, it doesn't make sense. And what about the cars? All three women just left their cars in pull-off rest areas beside fairly busy highways and walked away from them. Keys in the ignition, for Christ's sake, and not many do that even in small towns these days. And we don't know whether he was with them when they stopped, or somehow flagged them down and then persuaded them to come with him. No tracks out at the rest stop to speak of with all that hard dirt and packed gravel.”
“Maybe he pulled a Bundy and claimed to need their help.”
“Could be. Although I still say that would have worked loads better if they knew who was asking. This guy isn't killing strangers. I think the profilers got that one right, Chief.”
With a sigh, Rafe said, “Yeah, me too. I hate like hell the idea that this bastard is local rather than some insane stranger passing through town, but I don't see any other way to explain how he's getting these women to go with him.”
“Unless he's some kind of authority figure they'd be inclined to trust and obey. Like a cop.”
“Oh, hell, don't even suggest that,” Rafe responded so instantly that Mallory knew the possibility had already been in his mind.
She studied him unobtrusively as he scowled down at the body of Tricia Kane. At thiry-six, he was the youngest chief of police ever in Hastings, but with his solid background in law enforcement in both training and experience, nobody doubted Rafe Sullivan's qualifications for the job.
Except maybe Rafe himself, who was a lot smarter than he realized.
Mallory had wondered more than once if his tendency to doubt himself and his hunches had anything to do with his looks. He wasn't exactly ugly—but she had to admit that his self-described label of “thug” pretty much fit. He had a harsh face, with sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes so dark they tended to make people uncomfortable. His nose had been broken at least twice and he had a sharp jaw with a stubborn jut to it and high cheekbones that marked him indelibly with his Celtic ancestry.
He was also a very big man, several inches over six feet tall and unmistakably powerful. The kind of guy you wanted on your side no matter what the fight was about. So he definitely looked the part of a cop, in or out of uniform—and it was mostly out, since he disliked uniforms as a rule and seldom wore his. But anyone, Mallory had long ago discovered, who had him pegged as all brawn and no brain, or who expected the stereotypical dense, cud-chewing Southern cop was in for a surprise, sooner or later.
Probably sooner. He didn't suffer fools gladly.
“That's three murders in barely three weeks,” he was saying, dark eyes still fixed on the body at their feet. “And we're no closer to catching the bastard. Worse, we've now officially got a serial killer on our hands.”
“You thinking what I'm thinking?”
“I'm thinking it's time we yelled for help.”
Mallory sighed. “Yeah,