“Thank you.”

They all stood, grabbed their coats and scarves. Taylor allowed Baldwin to help her into her shearling. She saw the waitress, Amy, laughing in the corner with one of the busboys. A thought occurred to her.

“Chief, whatever happened to Stephanie Sugarman?”

“Steph? Name’s Anderson now. She had Copeland’s kid, a girl. About a year after the kid was born, Steph ended up getting married to the owner of the Point and Shoot. They had a few more, too. There are lots of Anderson kids running around these days. Got them some sweet grandbabies now.”

“So she still lives in town?”

“Yeah. Right down the street from here, actually. It’s just north, right up from the police station. You can’t miss it, it’s a pretty house. Biggest one on the street. Three stories, red brick, brown shutters, with a wide white veranda. You might even catch her at home, she babysits the grandkids in the afternoons until their parents get off work.”

“What about the daughter?”

“Ruth? She’s a sweet girl. Doesn’t live here anymore, but visits sometimes. You know how it is when they grow up.”

Baldwin shook the chief’s hand in farewell. “I take it the Point and Shoot does a steady business?”

“Son, you know it. Keeps us all in high cotton—them with the bar earnings, me with the drunks getting into fights in the parking lot. Y’all be safe out there, you hear?”

Taylor watched the chief amble toward his patrol car, tipping his hat at a couple who came out of the bookstore. What a story. It didn’t surprise her though—the Pretender would have a mythology. He couldn’t have just been a crazy kid, no, the courts would claim he was twisted into being by his psycho mother. It fit his profile so well.

She knew he’d never been an innocent, despite what Baldwin said.

“This file’s pretty thin,” Baldwin said.

“Yeah. We need to get some more background.”

“Let’s go talk to Stephanie Anderson. She might be able to give us some more insight. I’ll let my team know what we’ve found, too.”

“Okay.”

They headed toward the car, Taylor’s head swiveling around the shops on the main street. Had they known what evil resided in their midst? And what would the Pretender do when he found out they’d cracked into his background?

And Jesus God, he had a half-sister out there. A sibling. Another potential target.

The thought made her knees go weak. They needed to find Ruth.

Twenty-Three

To: troy14@ncr.tr.com

From: bostonboy@ncr.bb.com

Subject: Indianapolis

Dear Troy,

Mind-numbingly simple. Surely you have a bigger challenge ahead?

BB

He had to admit, the steak lived up to expectation. And the atmosphere in the St. Elmo Steak House, home of the world’s best shrimp cocktail, wasn’t too bad either. Cozy. Warm. Brick. He liked brick. Liked the looks of the hostess who was stumbling around in impossibly high heels, too, casting glances over her shoulder at him every time she wobbled past. Blond hair, brown eyes. Tight black skirt over one of those buttonfront pin-tucked blouses that was actually a bodysuit. He had an ex-girlfriend who loved those things. They snapped right at her cunt, perforated for easy access. They could fuck up against a wall and she’d never have to get undressed.

He took a sip of his excellent Bordeaux and sighed. The hostess wasn’t a part of the game. He’d have to save her for another time. The job was finished here in Indy. He’d killed a woman named Mary Jane. Sweet Mary Jane Solomon. Mary Jane, the pretty and plain. All tied up with a delightful little bow. She’d scratched the hell out of him, raked her nails along the edge of his arm, but he’d brushed her nails with her toothbrush before he left, and changed into a long-sleeved shirt before dinner. He’d gotten blood on the UPS delivery uniform and had to burn it. Exorcise the DNA demon with fire and toothpaste. Some Indy cop was going to find a naked UPS man and think someone had a uniform fetish.

He laughed to himself. Pretty plain Mary Jane’s eyes had lit up when he came to the door. She wasn’t used to getting packages; she lived alone, had few friends…by choice, of course. Terribly shy Mary Jane. A stutterer, poor thing. Then he had rung the doorbell. Rung Mary Jane’s bell, too. Changed her life forever. Death did that to a girl.

One bite left. The meat was luscious, melting in his mouth, leaving little greasy butter trails running down his chin. He always drowned his steaks in butter, just like dear old mom used to do. It made the meat tender.

He checked his watch, it was only 10:00 p.m. He wasn’t scheduled to be in Nashville until noon the following day. He’d gotten ahead of the game, so to speak. He had time for dessert, then a chat with the hostess. Maybe score a number, or an email, or, the best of all possible worlds, she would whip out her smartphone and friend him on Facebook. Reverse look-up the number and he would have her home address. Email and he could track her down on the internet with ease. But with Facebook, he’d have her pants down in moments. These silly girls put all their personal information out there for the taking, their birth dates, pictures of themselves drunk and naked, announcing to the world exactly where they were at all times. They made themselves bait. They asked for it. He loved technology. It made the job so much easier.

He waved to his waiter for the check. It was time to move on to the last portion of the game. Time for his big reward. He was looking forward to a nice calm night. He could swing back through Indy on his way home, see if he couldn’t get himself a date.

Twenty-Four

The chief was right, it was impossible to miss the Andersons’ house. Not only was it beautifully huge in the Southern style of miniature Taras, there were tricycles, toys, multiple discarded gloves and a small batterypowered minicar parked on the front lawn, damning evidence of a juvenile invasion. Children’s laughter rang in the air, shouts of joy that made Taylor’s stomach hurt. When was the last time she’d been so innocent and carefree? So very happy?

They pulled up to the curb, watched as a gang of little boys tore around the edge of the house into the dead grass of the front yard. Playing cowboys and Indians, it seemed, all bundled up against the cold.

Taylor smiled. She did love kids, so long as they weren’t hers.

She and Baldwin wended their way through the game to the front porch. One of the boys, a towhead with incredibly light blue eyes, stopped to gawk at them. When Taylor grinned at him, he picked his nose and ran off toward the back of the house.

“Charming,” Taylor said.

“Little boys,” Baldwin replied. There was something strange in his tone. She glanced over at him. His face was shuttered, he looked lost in thought. He’d been acting weird for two days now, and she was pretty sure it didn’t have anything to do with his suspension, though finding out about that had gone a long way toward settling her down. She’d had a crazy moment when he’d looked at her sideways in the car and she wondered, for the briefest of seconds, if he was having an affair. It was a silly thought. Baldwin wasn’t the kind of guy to sneak around behind her back, but something was up. She let it go—they had enough on their plates. He’d tell her when he was good and ready.