Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [128]
“And the other woman?”
“Attractive woman in her mid-fifties, two grown kids. Yoga instructor at the local YMCA. Husband died two years ago.”
“Boyfriend?” Annie leaned against the door frame, her expression pensive.
“They didn’t say. According to the news report, she was well-liked. Active in the community, spent a lot of time doing charity work. They haven’t been able to come up with a motive for either of the killings.”
“There’s always a motive. Sometimes it’s just harder to find. They need to do a profile on the victims.”
“I was waiting for that.” Mara watched her sister’s face, knew just what she was thinking.
As a criminal profiler for the FBI, Anne Marie McCall’s experience had taught her that the more information you knew about a victim, the more likely you were to find the perpetrator of the crime.
“Can’t help it. It’s my nature.” Annie waved Mara toward the kitchen. “Come on, dinner’s going to get cold. Do I have to be hostess in your house?”
Mara got plates from the cupboard while Annie removed the little white boxes from the bag and arranged them in a straight row along the counter.
“Buffet is good.” Mara nodded approvingly and handed her sister a plate.
They chatted through dinner, but Mara could tell her sister’s attention was wandering.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.” Mara waved a hand in front of Annie’s face.
“Sorry.”
“You’re thinking about those women. The Marys.”
“Yeah. Sorry. Can’t help it.”
“You’re wondering if the FBI will be called in.”
Annie nodded.
“And if you’ll be assigned to the case.”
“Sure.”
“You know where the phone is.” Mara pointed to the wall.
“Maybe I should just—”
“Go.”
“And actually, I have my own phone.” Annie reached in her bag for her mobile phone, then paced the small kitchen while the number rang.
Somewhere deep in FBI headquarters, the call was answered.
“This is Dr. McCall. I’d like to speak with John Mancini. Is he available?”
Damn, but didn’t that just beat all?
The man spread the newspaper across the desk so that he could read the article that continued below the fold.
He shook his head, bewildered.
Unbelievable. He’d screwed up not once but twice!
He ran long, thin fingers across the top of his closely cropped head, laughing softly in spite of himself.
Good thing I don’t work in law enforcement. Sloppy investigative work like this would’ve gotten me canned. And better still that I wasn’t getting paid for the job.
Not that he’d ever done work for hire, of course, but even so . . .
What was I thinking?
He picked at his teeth with a wooden toothpick and considered his next move. He really needed to make this right.
He folded the paper and set it to one side of the desk. He’d have to think about this a little more. And he would. He’d think about it all day. But right now he had to get dressed and get to work.
He’d been lucky to find a job on his second day here, even if it was only washing dishes in a small diner on the highway. It was working out just fine. He got his meals for free on the shifts he worked and he made enough to pay for a rented room in a big old twin house in a rundown but relatively safe neighborhood in a small town close enough to his targets that he could come and go as he pleased.
Of course, he’d had only three targets in mind when he arrived.
The fact that he’d missed the mark—not once, but twice, he reminded himself yet again—would prolong his stay a little longer than he’d intended. His real target was still out there somewhere, and he had to find her—do it right this time—before he could move on.
And he’d have to be a little more cautious this time around, he knew. Surely the other M. Douglases—there had been several more listed in the local telephone book—might understandably be a bit edgy right about now. It was his own fault, of course. He’d gotten uncharacteristically lazy, first in assuming that the only Mary Douglas listed by full name, the kindly woman who lived alone on Fourth Avenue in Lyndon, was the right Mary Douglas. Then, to his great chagrin, hadn’t he