Page 15 of Closer Than You Know (Vera Boyett #2)

Randall Residence

Washington Street, Fayetteville, 2:45 p.m.

The interview with Vance Honeycutt had been much like Kayleigh Marshall’s, quick and to the point. He and Nolan had classes together in school. They had known each other their whole lives. But they were never friends. In fact, they hadn’t liked each other back in high school and still did not. The trouble had started when he and Nolan both ran for class president. Nolan started the rumors that caused so many of his classmates not to vote for Vance. Nolan swore it wasn’t him, but then when Vance took over the restaurant from his father, Nolan ensured the story was buried. If Vance had felt any doubts all those years, that move relieved him of every single one. Vance considered Nolan to be arrogant and far too “me focused.”

Vera couldn’t deny that Nolan Baker, bless his heart, was both of those things.

It was on to Oliver Randall then.

“Mr. Randall,” Vera began.

“That’s my dad,” Oliver said. “Just call me Ollie. My friends do.”

Vera nodded. “Ollie. The sheriff and I were discussing whether you were acquainted with the other victims before the abduction.”

“I went to school with Van and Nolan. Van is a good guy. Hard worker, let me tell you. We’re not close, but not for any particular reason. We go to different churches, and truth is, we’re both busy with our respective family businesses. Like I said before, I don’t know Kayleigh much at all. She’s come into our restaurant since ... what happened, but if she came before, I never noticed.”

“You and Nolan Baker,” Bent said, “played football together as well.”

Ollie paused, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond to the comment.

“Team members are usually pretty tight,” Vera pointed out.

“I played football,” Ollie said, his tone growing noticeably hard. “Nolan played being on the team. He got the spot because his daddy is Carl Baker. Otherwise, a jersey would never have been wasted on him.”

And there it was ... the thread that tied them all together.

“But your uncle was the coach,” Vera argued. “Some may have thought you had your spot on the team because of his position.”

He laughed. “No offense, ma’am, but I still hold the all-time record for the most catches and the most touchdowns for any player in the history of Lincoln County High School. I was on that team because I was good, and I worked hard. Nolan Baker couldn’t catch a house if it landed on him, much less a football. And he sure as hell couldn’t carry it to a win.”

Vera could hardly hold back the “I told you so” she wanted to say to Bent.

“Tell us,” Bent prodded, “why your uncle resigned in the middle of the season. Why not finish out the year?”

Ollie’s face showed all the disdain he had for the answer to that question. “The Bakers insisted he wasn’t being fair to their son. Nolan was spending all his time on the bench, and that was unacceptable. My uncle chose to sacrifice his position so that I could still play without all the drama. The next coach made the same decisions as my uncle. The Bakers still put up a fuss, but they let it go after a bit. Anyway, we’re not friends—Nolan and I. I hope he’s released soon. Unharmed, as we were, but otherwise I got no sympathy for him.”

“If you remember anything else relevant to your abduction,” Vera said, “please let us know.” She had heard all she needed to hear.

When they were back in Bent’s truck and on the road, she spoke up. Rather than I told you so , she said, “This is beginning to smell rotten, Bent.”

“You were right.” He glanced at her. “Doesn’t help that I received a text from Conover while we were talking to Randall. He’s found some trace evidence from all four victims in that shed behind Owens’s shack.” He braked for a traffic light at Lincoln Avenue and College Street. “I think we both know Owens is not capable of pulling this off. And that shed looked far too ready to collapse to serve as a place to hold a hostage. Unfortunately, we still can’t question the guy because he hasn’t recovered from his psychotic episode. But this is clearly a setup.”

Vera lifted an eyebrow. “That just leaves two suspects, in my opinion—Nolan or his mother—and I’m leaning toward the mother. Maybe dear old Boggie wanted some sort of big event to boost her son’s fledgling media career. Mothers have done far worse to get what they wanted for their child. Even one all grown up.”

“Could be the husband,” Bent countered. “Or some crazed fan of Nolan’s.”

Vera wasn’t even going there. “If the perp was after Nolan, why bother with the others? All three of the previous vics are people who don’t like Nolan. Who could be seen as having wronged him somehow. This”—she turned to Bent—“is about that and boosting his name. Nothing else.”

“You’re right,” he repeated, and ducked his head in acknowledgment.

“Well then, why’re we beating around the bush?” Vera demanded. “It’s time to confront Boggie.”

“We will do that,” he promised. “Soon. But we need to take a minute and talk about what happened at your house first.”

She got it now. He was holding the confrontation with the Bakers hostage until she agreed. Damn it.

Vera’s heart had bumped into a faster rhythm. “Did Conover find a match with any of the prints?”

Bent parked at a popular Mexican restaurant on the square. “He did not. But I want to hear more about your interactions with the Messenger. All of it. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I need to be prepared just in case.”

“I think the discussion is premature. It can’t be him,” she argued. Couldn’t be. The scumbag was in prison.

“Premature or not,” he said as he reached for his door, “we’re having it.”

Vera stared at the restaurant. Funny how Bent somehow always managed to make sure she had her next meal. Although the topic of conversation he’d chosen was hardly appetizing. Before she could climb out of the truck, Bent was at her door. They entered the restaurant together and followed a server to a booth.

When they’d given their orders, he looked to her. “Talk.”

“As I told you already,” she said, weary of the subject before she’d even started, “it was a mistake that I ended up on the case. No one already working the investigation wanted me there. But once I was digging around and the Messenger acknowledged me, there was no turning back. The FBI agent leading the investigation was thrilled, and so was I. This was my big chance. I wanted to make the most of it.”

The server brought their drinks. When she’d moved on, Bent said, “Tell me what you learned about him.”

She poked a straw into her sweet ice tea. “Dr. Palmer Solomon turned out to be the Messenger.” She made a sound meant to be a laugh, but it fell short. “He’s the epitome of a cliché. A psychiatrist who knows how people think and who used it to get his thrills. A regular old Hannibal Lecter. He would select his prey—a long and careful process. Always someone who would be classified as lonely. No social life. Busy with work. No family, or nearly none. Few friends. The easy targets.”

Vera felt a little sick at the idea that she had fit the profile of his preferred victim. She imagined the federal agent in charge had noticed as much and that detail had gone into the decision process for adding her to his team. The cops—no matter the rank or the agency—who truly wanted/needed to solve their cases at all costs would do most anything to make that happen. Including using a new, inexperienced detective who just happened to fit a serial killer’s profile.

Special Agent Xavier Alcott had wanted desperately to catch the one who had been evading him for a decade.

Their food arrived, and though it smelled wonderful, she wasn’t sure she would be able to eat a bite.

“The FBI determined that Solomon had been actively killing for ten years ... which,” Vera said, thinking back, “I found a bit unusual since he was sixty at the time. Most serial killers begin well before that, as Alcott no doubt knew. Hell, the whole team did. But there was no evidence to support the theory in his past beyond that ten-year mark. He was careful. One victim per year, unless he used a different MO or we just didn’t find them. Considering how he loved to show off, I don’t believe that’s possible.”

“He would have had eleven if not for you,” Bent said before taking a bite of spicy rice and cheese.

Vera forced herself to lift her fork and taste her own rice. A bed of it was covered with cheese. There was chicken in there somewhere, too, but she wasn’t sure she could manage to eat any meat just now.

When she’d swallowed, she continued with the story. “He’d been watching Gloria Anderson for months. When he was ready to make his move, he gave her the usual caution. A message warning that he was coming. For Gloria, he had put it in her email. He’d used a computer at a library and a Gmail account listed to M. Messenger to send her an email. He’d gone into her office and opened her email so that when she started work that morning, it would be the first thing she saw when she touched her keypad.”

He’d proven to be such a smooth, highly intelligent operator. He’d known how to get in and out and how to stay just under the radar. Some killers were that way ... cunning, clever ... elusive.

When her lapse into silence persisted, Bent said, “The messages were all very similar.”

“Yes. I’m coming for you. You’re next. That sort of thing. But only one. Always, only one message before he struck.” She picked at the rice with her fork. “Until I came into the picture. He sent me three. First was I see you , then I’m intrigued by you , but the last was something different.” Her gut tied itself into a dozen knots.

“ I’m going to enjoy killing you, ” Bent said.

Vera resisted the feeling that went with that memory. “The first was on the mirror in my bathroom. Since it was February and cold as hell, the second one was on the windshield of my car.”

“But not the last one,” Bent said, his face reflecting the worry twisting inside him. “It was carved into the woman you found before he could finish his game with her.”

She nodded, forced a forkful of rice into her mouth. The fact that he took the poor woman that second time just to send Vera a message still tortured her dreams.

“His victims were always women,” Bent said. “He appeared to love torture.”

“The worst kind of monster,” Vera confirmed. “A torture-murderer.” Inside, where Bent couldn’t see, she shuddered. The things the Messenger did to his victims were merciless. He carved them up, inducing incredible pain, but never deeply enough to cause a quick death. His process ensured death was slow and intentional. She forced the memories away. “And, yes, his intended victims were always women. Anyone else was just someone who got in the way.”

“How did you find him?” Bent abandoned his fork, half his rice and cheese and chicken gone.

Vera had barely taken two bites. “I’ll be completely honest with you, Bent. I think he let me find him. Maybe it was some subconscious way to stop himself. I don’t know, but he left me several clues. He never left evidence. Ever. Maybe he just wanted to see if I would follow them without involving the rest of the task force.”

“And you did,” Bent said pointedly. “You risked your life.”

“But I saved Gloria Anderson’s life.” Vera exiled the thought. Going back to that place was not something she wanted to do just now. Not with Bent. At least not until she had no other choice.

“I need you to promise me, Vee,” Bent said, leaning toward her, “that you will not do that if this happens again—with any perp.”

She smiled, shook her head slowly. “I can’t make a promise like that, Bent. You know it as well as I do. Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.”

He drew back, anger tightening his features. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be involved with police work anymore.”

“Maybe not.” If he’d meant to hit her where it hurt, he’d done so. But his wasn’t the only law enforcement department around who called on her for assistance. She was a civilian consultant. Over the past several months she had worked for a number of different southern Tennessee law enforcement groups. As long as there was crime, she would always have work.

He held up his hands, his expression repentant. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

“I can promise you this,” she said, in hopes of smoothing things over.

“I’m listening.”

“Unlike twelve years ago, I will never put myself in a position that I know up front I cannot handle. I will be careful and smart, Bent. I’m not that naive newbie with something to prove anymore.” This was exactly why there were things Bent never needed to know about the Messenger case—about all that happened at the end ... with her and Eric. Eric had gotten in the way and ended up being the bastard’s first known male victim, and that was her fault.

“Fair enough.” He glanced at her plate. “Now eat. We have work to do.”

On some level Vera hoped Elizabeth Baker and maybe her husband and her son had set up this whole Time Thief thing. That would mean there was no crazed alien-obsessed wacko running around out there abducting people. That would also mean that Nolan was most likely safe and would be released soon.

Tonight, if the usual MO played out.

That said, if it was Elizabeth or her husband, the two were really, really award-winning actors. They had already done two television interviews begging for the release of their son. The fear and anguish had looked real. Certainly there were those who relished putting on a good show. As much as Vera didn’t like Elizabeth, the woman truly loved her son. Would she really be able to fake that level of concern if she was responsible for his abduction?

If the person who’d taken Marshall, Randall, and Honeycutt was not the same person who’d taken Nolan Baker, then he was in trouble. Serious trouble. Because the sheriff’s department was looking for the same perpetrator ... not someone different.

As much as she did not want to entertain the idea even for a second, it was there, waiting on the edge of her thoughts. And it tore at her insides.

If, by some bizarre twist of fate, the Messenger was involved in Nolan’s abduction ... if he had for some reason chosen this time to come after Vera through some other means—a surrogate, maybe someone he’d met in prison—he might capitalize on an ongoing situation. It was the perfect path to worm his way into her life. With the Messenger, nothing was outside the realm of possibility.

And if that was the case, Baker would last two or three more days at most, depending on his ability to keep the bastard entertained, and then his throat would be cut. He would bleed out on the ground or wherever he was left to die—some place that had meaning for him.

If the Messenger was in any way involved, it would turn everything—not just this case—upside down. No one, least of all Vera, wanted to learn that Solomon had found a protégé interested in creating heinous crimes similar to those of his past.

Because if there was a new partner, the bigger question was, What the hell had that deviant been doing all this time? Watching his idol ... waiting for his turn ... training for the big production? Whatever the case, he, too, might very well have left in his wake a trail of mayhem that hadn’t been found yet.

Or was Nolan Baker to be his first?