Sinister Secret (Alexis Parker Book 21) Read online

  “Flattery will get you nowhere.” I was already committed to helping Lucca. But as his former partner, it was my job to bust his chops a little.

  He gave me that hardened FBI stare of his. “Come on. You owe me.”

  “A lot of that going around,” I muttered.

  The waiter returned with two steaming plates. I moved the folder to the side, so he could place my dinner in front of me. “Fresh pepper?” he asked.

  “No, thanks,” I said. Lucca shook his head, and the waiter retreated back to the kitchen. I picked up my fork and knife and cut the meat. “Maybe I should have ordered liver.”

  “Parker,” Lucca growled.

  “Relax. I’ll do it. You know I can’t say no to you.”

  “Since when? You used to tell me no all the time.”

  “I never told you no.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Fine, but you never listened. Apparently, that hasn’t changed. You always did what you wanted, when you wanted, consequences be damned.”

  “You know how I am with a case. It’s just how I’m wired.” Sometimes, I wished I could turn it off for everyone’s sake. “Why did you go through this whole song and dance routine? You could have brought this to me at work and cashed in your chit. We didn’t have to meet for dinner.” I shoveled a bite into my mouth and chewed. The lamb was tender and perfectly seasoned. Once reheated, it wouldn’t be as good.

  “How else was I going to get you to talk to me? You were ducking my calls.”

  “Because I wanted to avoid dinner. Things go sideways when we’re in close proximity to one another.”

  “You need to get over your neuroses. I know you’re afraid of what will happen if we work together again. But nothing’s going to happen. No one’s going to get stabbed or shot.”

  “You can’t be certain of that.”

  “If something happens, that’s not on you. Agreed?” He chuckled. “What am I saying? Of course, you won’t agree. You have the worst martyr complex I’ve ever seen. It’s always your fault. Aren’t you working on that in therapy?”

  “I’m not in therapy.”

  “Really?” He looked surprised. “You should be.”

  I’d been attending group meetings in a church basement, but Lucca didn’t know about that. At least, I didn’t think he did. “I’ll do this on one condition.” I pointed a finger at him. “The same rules apply to you. If something happens, it’s not on you either. Agreed?”

  “But I promised her.”

  “I know. But you did your best. Now step aside and let a professional handle it.”

  Two

  After parting ways with Lucca, I returned to the office. At this time of night, the place was practically dead. Most Cross Security investigators did their best to maintain normal business hours. The security teams were out on assignment, so only the skeleton crew of techs and medics remained.

  I grabbed a cup of coffee from the break room, stowed my leftovers, and settled in behind my desk. The file Lucca had given me was massive, so I moved to the couch and coffee table.

  The first thing I had to do was make sure the Lightning Killer was dead. According to FBI records, Andrew Holland was the infamous serial killer, and he’d been killed by responding officers. OPR had cleared the agents involved in the shooting, as had the PD’s internal affairs unit. Holland was the only other person at the scene besides Daria. When officers and agents entered, he pulled a gun and was killed.

  That went along with Lucca’s retelling of the events from that night. But I didn’t doubt that’s what happened. I just wondered if Holland was the notorious serial killer. The FBI and local police departments never found much in the way of forensic evidence. Holland hadn’t left fingerprints or DNA behind at the other scenes. But since they’d interrupted him mid-kill, they’d found all kinds of things inside Daria’s apartment.

  I looked at the other crime scene photos. The Lightning Killer had drowned each of his victims before dressing them and posing them like dolls. Each of his victims’ apartments was immaculate, which meant he’d cleaned up everything when he set the scene. That explained the lack of prints and DNA, but it didn’t sit right with me.

  Flipping to the end, I examined the photos taken after Holland’s death. The FBI had found eleven photographs depicting each of the previous crime scenes inside Holland’s car. The clerk at the camera store positively identified Holland. Surveillance footage had a rough approximation of what the killer looked like, but it wasn’t enough for facial recognition to get any hits.

  A few stills had been printed and were included in the file. I picked them up and looked at them. Each had been taken in a different city, but the killer always wore the same red sneakers. Those were the same sneakers Holland wore the night he attacked Daria.

  I put the photos down and picked up the report. As I suspected, after Holland’s death, the techs combed through every bit of footage they could find. The man with the red sneakers had been stalking Daria for an entire month before he struck. He’d even gone so far as to break into her apartment when she was out.

  I had no idea what he’d taken. I couldn’t find the details included anywhere in the report, but surveillance footage showed him sneaking in through her fire escape window while she was out. He’d invested a lot of time and effort when it came to stalking his prey. If Daria was being stalked now, whoever was terrorizing her was following Holland’s playbook.

  All Holland’s planning and preparation paid off since it took the authorities so long to catch him. He’d killed eleven women over the course of two years before he was stopped. If they hadn’t figured out he was printing his own photos and tracked down the equipment purchased to a store in the metro area, he might still be killing.

  That left me with one major question. Since Holland wasn’t terrorizing Daria this time, who was?

  Getting up, I went to the computer. Keying in Andrew Holland’s name and alias, I hit enter and leaned back while Cross Security’s extensive database populated my screen with dozens of hits. The Lightning Killer was dead, but that didn’t mean his antics hadn’t caught the attention of some other psycho who hoped to emulate the serial killer or complete his legacy.

  While my computer found tons of search results, I familiarized myself with everything the Bureau had on Holland, but since they hadn’t known much about him until he was caught, they didn’t have any details regarding his known associates. As far as the FBI was concerned, Holland worked alone.

  He never strayed from the victimology. He always chose female artists in their mid-thirties. The type of art varied, from painters to clothing designers to commercial artists. But the women were similar enough. Each had attended art school and was on the rise. Unfortunately, none of them attended the same art school, which made figuring out how they’d gotten on Holland’s radar even more difficult.

  Holland was an art school dropout who specialized in photography. Whatever caused him to leave art school was probably the same thing that helped him decide on his victims. After all, nothing was more frightening to a man than a successful woman in the same field.

  In his early twenties, Holland had been arrested a few times for vandalism, larceny, and illegal trespass. He’d gotten a fine and some community service each time. While these offenses seemed minor, they were prerequisites to stalking, terrorizing, and eventually killing his victims.

  I searched every police report I could find, even going so far as to place several late night calls to other jurisdictions and fudging on the details concerning my identity in order to get the specifics. But Holland had never been arrested with anyone else. He’d always been brought in alone, and the police had no reason to believe he was working with anyone when he was tagging billboards or wandering into unlocked buildings.

  Returning to the file Lucca gave me, I read the rest of the case report. Holland picked his targets and watched them, finding ways into their homes and cars without them noticing. He’d take objects, clothing, or tools of their art, probably to k
eep as trophies or to test the waters. All the missing items had been discovered inside Holland’s mailbox. Instead of traveling back and forth, he’d mail the items to himself for safe keeping. That was a smart move, at least until he was caught. The tiny voice in the back of my head couldn’t help but think that’d be a great way to frame someone. But I was paranoid and a bit delusional, so I let the thought pass.

  Given how Holland played with the FBI agents assigned to capture him, I assumed he did the same with his victims. He broke into their homes and took something they’d be sure to miss, either to confuse or scare them. After all, knowing someone had been inside one’s house was all sorts of creepy.

  He waited for them to be most vulnerable and drowned them. Then he photographed the murders, like it was just another art project. It was sickening. And he did it over and over again as he worked his way across the country, growing ballsier as he taunted the FBI by sending them photos of his future victims. But without the victim’s name or location, facial recognition never got a hit before he struck.

  I skimmed each of the entries the computer spit out. The news media had gone crazy. Prior to his capture, their profiles varied wildly. But everyone agreed on one thing; the Lightning Killer worked alone.

  It was hard to argue with that kind of consensus. But I had to be certain someone else wasn’t involved. Daria insisted the killer was back. Maybe she was crazy, and maybe I was just as crazy for believing her. But I told Lucca I’d do my best, which is what I was doing. So I started my search where this began for Holland—art school.

  Social media hadn’t been as prevalent back then, but it still existed. The few photos I found of him were taken in various art studios. I couldn’t find any personal photos or private images.

  Picking up the phone, I dialed Amir’s extension. He was one of Cross Security’s technical experts with advanced training in forensic and computer sciences. He normally didn’t work nights, but the boss had him working late this week on a top secret project. So I hoped he’d still be around.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Parker?” Amir asked.

  I explained the situation. “I want to know if Holland was close to anyone. Someone might be acting on his behalf by terrorizing his final victim.”

  “I’ll see what I can find. Do you need a rush on this?”

  “Sooner would be better than later.”

  Amir made a humming noise. “Does Mr. Cross know you’re working on this?”

  “Not yet.” I still had to ask Cross if he could spare a security team to watch Daria, but that could wait until tomorrow, after I had a chance to suss out the legitimacy of the threat.

  “Once you get his approval, I’ll bump this up the list. You have access to the lab and our resources, but your cases can’t be prioritized over Cross Security’s. And you know Mr. Cross’s stance on murder investigations and police matters.”

  “This isn’t either.”

  “Maybe not now, but it was at one point. I want to help, but I have to follow orders.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll give it a quick look and let you know if I find anything within the hour.”

  “Thanks, Amir.”

  While Amir was digging into Holland’s personal history, I did some searching on my own. I had worked this gig solo before. I couldn’t let all my skills go to waste.

  An internet search on Andrew Holland’s name turned up plenty of websites. True crime was big business. People were fascinated by unsolved murders and highly publicized killings. Dozens, if not hundreds, of podcasts, shows, books, and movies were dedicated to such things. And not everyone who followed this stuff did so innocently.

  The Lightning Killer was a known celebrity among the true crime crowd. The majority of these podcasts and message boards reported and dramatized the events, increasing the scare factor. Most of the people who frequented these places were amateur sleuths or crime drama junkies. I dismissed those easily enough, but a few posts glorified Holland’s kills.

  The most vocal weren’t always the most dangerous, but since Daria believed the killer was back, any one of these fanatics could be responsible for her recent unease. Sickened, I called Lucca.

  “Parker?” He sounded as though he’d been asleep. “Is something wrong?”

  I looked at the time, wondering how it could possibly be after midnight. “I’m e-mailing you a list of websites. You should run the administrators and anyone who’s active in the comments. From what I’ve read, some of these whack jobs act like Holland’s a god.” I rambled off several handles while I typed them into the e-mail, figuring Lucca might not remember this in the morning. I continued scrolling through the posts and comments, but I didn’t see Daria’s name or address listed anywhere. The details concerning Holland’s final victim had been withheld from the media for security reasons and had been sealed and redacted from public documents. Gaining access to that information would be difficult but not impossible if someone knew where to look.

  “Hang on a sec.” Lucca came back after checking the message I sent. “Yeah, I already explored those possibilities.”

  “And?”

  “None of them have gotten close to Daria.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “It’s called the worldwide web for a reason. Only one or two of these wackos are in the city, and the few who are haven’t gone anywhere near Daria. I ran them each down, including alibis for the dates and times she claims to have seen someone watching her.”

  “Are you sure no one tracked her down and came here to find her?”

  “I already exhausted that possibility, but I’m glad you’re taking this seriously.”

  “I told you I would.”

  He yawned. “Will Cross swing a protection detail?”

  “I haven’t asked yet.”

  “Don’t wait too long.”

  “It’s fine. I got this. Go back to sleep, Lucca. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He grunted good night and hung up.

  Parker, what have you gotten yourself into this time? the voice in the back of my head asked. I didn’t have an answer. All I knew was I had a debt to repay. But I didn’t like pissing off serial killers or serial killer wannabes. I’d done it enough in the past, and I’d learned my lesson.

  Drumming my fingers against the desk, I scanned the entries on my screen for a few more minutes before giving up. The internet was full of vitriol. But most people were all talk and no action. It was usually the quiet ones who caused the most damage.

  I’d just picked up the file to see if it contained any information on Daria Waylon’s next of kin or potential witnesses when my phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket, smiling when I saw the name on the caller ID.

  “Hey, beautiful,” James Martin said, “am I calling too late?”

  “Not at all.” I dropped onto the couch, glad to hear his voice. “How was your day?”

  “Better now.” I could hear him smile. “Today was like pulling teeth. Two steps forward, and four steps back. I don’t understand why things aren’t getting done. No one wants to give me a straight answer. You’d think I wanted to know something complicated. All I asked was if they wanted to move ahead on this project and what the timetable might look like.”

  “It’s corporate America. You should be used to getting the runaround by now.”

  “I’m used to the usual bullshit, but this is something else. They’re all a bunch of indecisive morons.”

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “No one has the balls to pass on the project or to sign on. They have to think about it or present it to the board or get approval from their stockholders. It’s ridiculous. I’m starting to think this is because no one wants to be tied to the scandal with Lucien Cross.”

  “But that was resolved. He was cleared.”

  “I know, but it’s complicated.”

  I licked my lips. “Do you think your history plays a factor in this?” Martin had been wrongly accused of killing a w
oman on his yacht. His name had been cleared quickly, but since his business partner, my current boss, had recently found himself in a similar predicament, business tycoons might have taken notice. Who would want to go into business with two wrongfully accused killers, well, besides me?

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you forget it and come home?”

  “You want me to give up?”

  “No, I want you to come home. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too. How was dinner with Lucca? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”

  “Lucca blindsided me by asking for a favor.”

  “Should I be concerned?”

  “If I say yes, will you come home?”

  Martin laughed. “You miss me that much?”

  “Not you. Marcal and Bruiser. Your valet keeps the fridge stocked, and your bodyguard’s always good for a sparring match. I’m not sure how I survived so long without them.”

  “Rosemarie said you haven’t been home at all since I left.”

  “How would your housekeeper know? She only comes to clean every other week.”

  “Alex,” Martin said in that tone that meant he knew exactly what I was doing, “how are you? Really? Do I need to come home? Because I will.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Are you still planning on flying out this weekend? I can’t wait to show you the house in Malibu. It’s incredible. You’re going to love it. And I have a surprise for you.”

  “You know how I feel about surprises.”

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy this one.”

  “Like the last surprise you brought me when you came home two weeks ago?” I snickered at the memory. “Because I don’t think that counts since I wasn’t particularly surprised.”

  “But you enjoyed it. Multiple times, if I remember correctly.”

  My cheeks heated. Luckily, no one was around to see me blush. “So did you.”

  “I most certainly did.”

  “Do you want to know what I’m wearing right now?” I asked, my voice husky.