Author: Allison Brennan
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/allison-brennan/page,2,536826-the_third_to_die.html
Something bright in the direction of the tire treads caught her eye. Neon? Maybe the ATV driver lost control and crashed.
Her cop instincts took over before she consciously thought about it. She stopped, assessed her surroundings. No one was around. The ATV tracks had come from the left of the trail, over the path, and then down toward the lake.
“Hey! Is anyone down there? Anyone hurt?”
Her voice echoed, but there was no answer.
She walked parallel to the tracks, hands free where she could grab her gun if needed.
Yeah, she was weird—she ran with a gun in a fanny pack. Better safe than dead was her motto. It was probably nothing, but something was down by the lake, and neon was a favorite color of bikers and hikers, especially in rural areas where you didn’t want to get mistaken for a deer during hunting season.
She hadn’t heard anything but nature’s sounds since she arrived at the lake for her run—no trucks or ATVs or snowmobiles, so these tracks were likely more than an hour old. But they were relatively fresh, the peaks of the melting snow still sharp. That told her the sun hadn’t hit the tracks, so they were made after sunset last night.
The tracks led almost directly to what Kara had thought was a neon vest. But as she got closer she realized it was much smaller—a bright pink stethoscope. A stethoscope that was wrapped around the neck of a dead woman dressed in green scrubs.
The woman lay faceup, eyes open and glassy, on the rocky ground near the water’s edge. Her stomach had been flayed, and blood soaked into the damp earth beneath her. Her face was so pale, so young, so lifeless, that Kara hesitated. A shiver ran through her body before she locked down her emotions and focused on the crime scene. She realized she’d drawn her gun. She hadn’t consciously remembered, but seeing a dead body did that to a cop—muscle memory took over. Murder victim equals murderer; he might still be around.
She stood silently and assessed the surroundings. Making sure the killer wasn’t somewhere, watching her. She heard nothing except birds happily chirping even as this woman lay dead. Everything else was still. Not even a breeze to rustle the leaves or stir the water. More blood was on the ground to her right, opposite the ATV tracks. How did she come to notice it? How had she picked up on its subtlety?
It’s your instinct. You’re a cop.
But she was more than a cop. She was also a con artist. And being a con artist meant you had to read every person, every situation, every landscape perfectly.
She looked back at the dead woman. From the visible injuries, blood, and lack of bruising around the neck, she was likely exsanguinated. A nurse, by the look of her clothing, as if the stethoscope wasn’t the giveaway. Probably too young to be a doctor.
Too young to be dead.
Kara walked back the way she’d come, retracing her footprints to avoid further contamination of the crime scene, until she reached a spot on the trail where she had a cell signal. She called 911.
“This is LAPD Detective Kara Quinn. I’m about a quarter mile past the four-mile marker on Liberty Lake Trail. I have a DB, adult white female. You’ll want to call in Spokane’s crime scene unit. She’s been murdered, and it ain’t pretty.”
3
Washington DC
4:30 p.m.
FBI Special Agent in Charge Mathias Costa hated sitting at a desk and itched to get out in the field, but he had a team to fill. He’d been stuck in the DC headquarters since the New Year, when the new Mobile Response Team was officially approved and budgeted, and he and his boss, Assistant Director Tony Greer, could start interviewing agents and requesting transfers.
The MRT was Tony Greer’s brainchild, but Matt immediately understood the value of the unit when Tony tapped him to run it. Many areas of the country were underserved by law enforcement, either because of limited forensic capabilities or lack of trained investigators. Several FBI jurisdictions covered hundreds of thousands of square miles—two field offices covered three states each.
Besides himself, the only full-time hire who’d already started working for the team was Ryder Kim, the team analyst. The kid was smart, fast, and didn’t seem to have the animosity toward bureaucracy that Matt had. Ryder knocked on Matt’s open door.
“Assistant Director Greer needs you in his office immediately, sir.”
“Thanks.”
Ryder’s only problem was formality. Matt had plucked him right out of Quantico. The kid had served three years in the military out of high school, studied criminal justice at SUNY Albany on the GI bill, then spent fourteen weeks in the advanced analyst program at the FBI Academy. He was fucking brilliant, and Matt enjoyed grabbing him out from under three other offices who’d wanted him.
Matt took the stairs up two flights to Tony’s much nicer digs—which included not one but three windows. His secretary motioned him to go right in.
“The Triple Killer is back,” Tony said.
Serial killer. Contrary to popular television, there weren’t many out there. Depending on which report or analysis you read, the figure was anywhere from fifty to two thousand. Matt leaned toward the smaller number, but there was compelling evidence that hundreds were operating completely under the radar.
“The sicko who murders three random victims—including two cops—three days apart, every three years?”
“That’s him. And each of his cycles have started on the third of March.”
“That’s today. We were looped in fast.”
“At the beginning of this year, the Behavioral Analysis Unit sent out a memo reminding all law enforcement agencies what to look for in a Triple Killer crime scene.” Tony handed Matt a slip of paper. “From a Detective Andy Knolls—the only detective in Liberty Lake, Washington.”
“Never heard of the place.”
“Town of seven thousand outside of Spokane—which itself is not a major metro center. Served by a small Resident Agency under our Seattle field office.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“It’s your first MRT case, Matt. I have you and Ryder booked on the last flight out to Spokane tonight—you’re gaining three hours, so you should be able to hit the ground running in the morning. I asked Ryder to print out the complete case files on the previous murders, but they are bare bones—two different states, bodies found at various stages of decomp. But we did a preliminary profile on the case three years ago.” Tony paused, and Matt knew what was coming next. “Catherine wrote it.”
Dr. Catherine Jones was arguably the most brilliant profiler the FBI had currently working for them. She was one of Matt’s closest friends—at least, she had been until last summer. Still, there was no one else Matt would rather have working with him on a complex case like the Triple Killer.
“That’s terrific,” he said.
“She’s not coming back, Matt. You know that,” Tony said.
“For this case she will.”
“She’s been on leave for eight months.”
“Six months of that was a suspension, which was bullshit, and you know it.” Matt glanced at his watch. It was five-ten. “I’ll get her back. What time does the plane leave?”
“Nine-forty. Brief layover in Chicago.”
“I’ll pack a bag and stop at her condo on my way to Reagan. I can bring her onto my team, right? That hasn’t changed, has it?”
“Of course not, but she doesn’t want the position. I talked to her twice in the last month, and she is not budging.”
“She will.”
Tony continued as if Matt hadn’t spoken. “Catherine recommended a new profiler, a Dean Callahan. He has solid references—before Quantico he worked in—”
Matt cut him off. “I want Catherine.”
Tony threw his hands in the air. “Good luck.”
“She wrote the profile on the Triple Killer—she’ll want to be involved. You and I both know that.”
> Tony nodded his agreement. “So you’re going to guilt her into it?”
“If that’s what it takes.” Matt had known Catherine since their time in the academy. They’d become good friends over the years, to the point that he’d been an usher in her wedding and had become best friends with her husband. Matt understood her better than she knew herself, and he wasn’t going to let her sit this case out. Not when she’d written the original profile.
“I suppose if anyone can convince her, it’s you—but tread carefully. Catherine has been through hell and back. I don’t have to tell you that.”
No, he certainly didn’t. Matt opened the door to leave, then turned and said, “If this guy kills three people every three years, how much time do we have?”
“Six days total.”
“Six?”
“Two and a half to his next strike. He’ll attempt to kill again on March 6 and then again on March 9 if his pattern holds.”
“So we have less than three days to stop him.”
“Good luck with that—based on his profile, he has his second victim—and likely his third—already selected. He stalks them, knows their habits, when to grab them without anyone seeing. Seven dead and no witnesses, no DNA, no suspects. Once you’re out there, you’ll have less than forty-eight hours before another body drops.”
“I’m not willing to accept that we’re going to lose someone else,” Matt said. “Like you said, we have forty-eight hours and more information about him now than we did in the last two killing sprees. The local cops are already on it, plus we have my new team.”
Tony shrugged. “Read the files. We have shit on this guy, even with the murder today. An MO and a rough profile. You’re going to have to make some fast hiring decisions. Right now, besides Ryder, you’ve only approved Michael Harris out of Detroit—I’ll expedite his transfer. And we have Jim Esteban from Dallas ready to come on board.”
“The cop who ran the Dallas crime lab?” Esteban was both a sworn officer and a crime scene investigator—many jurisdictions required at least one member of their forensics team to be a law enforcement officer.
Tony nodded. “He might see something in the forensic reports that others have missed. I’ll have Ryder send him everything we have before he leaves, and Esteban can get started before he gets to Spokane.”
“Good.”
“What’s up with the candidates I put on your desk this morning?” Tony asked.
Matt sat back down, realizing he couldn’t avoid this conversation. “No, no, and absolutely not.”
“We need this team staffed, Matt. I don’t like sending you out West with only three people besides yourself—two of whom aren’t going to be there for more than twenty-four hours.”
“I’m not bringing in just anyone.”
“I thought the kid out of Sacramento would be a good fit.”
“Can we talk about this after we stop the Triple Killer?”
Tony sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I have a few more files to go through—I’ll send them through Ryder after I vet them.”
Matt stood again. “I’ll call you after I talk to Catherine.”
“If she’ll let you in.”
“I’ll break down her damn door if she doesn’t.”
4
Georgetown, Washington DC
8:10 p.m.
The doorbell chime made her jump.
Catherine reddened, embarrassed that the sound of a visitor made her heart race. She knew who it was. She’d been avoiding Matt’s calls for the last two hours, but Matt was stubborn, and he would never take her silence in the way it was intended.
Which was: Leave me the hell alone.
She was even more irritated because she lived in a secure building, and no one could come here without her buzzing them in through the main doors. No one, that is, except Mathias Costa because they had once been friends and her husband, Chris, had given him a key to the condo years ago. When Matt came to the city, he would stay here because they had an extra room. And until she’d separated from Chris, the condo was rarely used.
Now he was abusing their friendship. What did she expect of him? Respect? Understanding? Common decency?
This was Mathias Costa. He thought he was a demigod and the world revolved around him.
Angry, she walked through the living room and foyer and opened the front door before he used his key to come in.
He already had it in hand.
A charming smile crossed his face. “Hello, Catherine.”
She sighed and let him enter. She shut the door behind him and was surprised that, when she turned around, he pulled her into a hug.
“Don’t,” she said, stiff.
He squeezed her before dropping his arms. His dark eyes followed her as she walked into her gourmet kitchen. She straightened her spine, felt her bones creak. She had been inactive for far too long. She hadn’t left her condo in two days, even to go to the community exercise room.
Catherine poured herself a second glass of wine. She didn’t offer one to Matt, even though her manners almost compelled her to. Instead, she put the bottle down and walked to the living room.
Matt helped himself to a glass. Of course he did. He drank his wine as he walked around her half-packed living room.
“You’re not moving,” he said.
“The condo is on the market.”
“That may be the case, but in this market you would have sold it in a day—and you listed it two months ago. You don’t want to move, hence a half-packed house.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Matt.”
He sat in the chair across from her and put his glass on a coaster. Matt had always been able to get under her skin, like an annoying little brother. Just the way he was looking at her made her... What? Nervous? Hardly. Angry, more like it. Frustrated that he wouldn’t leave her alone. Nostalgic for a time when life wasn’t so complicated and painful.
He said, “The Triple Killer is back.”
“I got your messages. And Tony’s.”
“I need you.”
“I resigned.”
“And your boss put you on a sabbatical.”
“Formality. I’m going into private practice.”
“You’ll die on the vine.”
“This job has cost me my marriage. My family. Or do you not care about anything or anyone but yourself?”
She said it to make him angry, and she saw a flash of his Cuban temper. But he controlled it. Matt had become much better at controlling his temper as he aged.
“Catherine,” he said softly. “Chris loves you. Lizzy loves you.”
“Stop.” She was not going to talk about her family with Matt.
“Dammit, Catherine, you brought it up! Chris is my best friend—we both know you think you need to be punished and that’s why you left him. He’s giving you time and space, even though I told him not to.”
She hated that Chris had talked about their relationship with Matt. She probably shouldn’t blame him—he needed someone to vent to. And probably better to Matt than Chris’s sister—who had never liked Catherine—or a colleague. Still. It bothered her on multiple levels.
“Stay out of my life, Matt. You just don’t get it. I’m broken. I can’t do the job anymore. I don’t want to do the job anymore.”
“That’s bullshit, Catherine. You’re the single best profiler the FBI has. You’re the one who has these skills, this awesome and terrifying ability to get into the heads of killers. Yeah, it sucks, it hurts, but you’ve saved people. That’s all you’ve ever wanted to do. Help the helpless and put the bad guys behind bars.”
She hated that Matt knew her so well. It’s why she had been avoiding him for so long. Without him in her ear, she had almost convinced herself that she could walk away from this work without regrets. Yet he was right. And he knew he was right. He
r job was more than a job. The dark side of humanity had called out to her since she was young. But at what cost?
“I don’t know,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “if I can find a way to save my marriage if I go back.”
“You moved out—you’re not doing shit to save your marriage now.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You’re the one who walked out on Chris and Lizzy. You could have let Chris help you grieve. Instead, you pushed everyone away after Beth’s murder.”
“It was more than that, and you damn well know it, Mathias,” Catherine snapped.
His voice softened. “I know. I’m the only one who knows.”
And that was the crux of her problem. Only he knew she had lied to the FBI, lied to her husband, lied under oath—and Matt had backed her up. He had never wavered. How did he do that? How could he put everything that happened with Beth—with her killer—behind him so easily when the guilt ate at Catherine?
That’s why she had to leave Chris—because she couldn’t live under the same roof with the man she loved when she had lied to him. She loved her daughter, but she didn’t have it in her to be a good mother. The last thing she wanted to do was bring the darkness of humanity—the evil Catherine worked with every day—into her daughter’s life. Beth’s death had brought it all too close to home.
“Catherine, if you leave the FBI now, because of your sister’s murder, it will haunt you forever. Stop another killer. Get justice for other victims. It’s what we do—it’s what we are so good at.”
“I really wish you would respect my decision,” she said.
She’d had eight months to brace herself against any argument to lure her back into the darkness, and she stood firm now, even though he was right.
He made no move to leave. He looked at his watch, and she suspected he was on a tight time schedule. For some reason that irritated her. He expected to be able to change her mind with just one conversation sandwiched in between headquarters and the airport? He stared at her as if he saw right through her.