Page 25 of Last Girls Alive

“Nothing on her. And the phone number 555-2711 is not a working number—of course.”

Katie sat back in her chair feeling a bit defeated. “Why the name Amy Striker?”

“It could be a purely made-up name or a name from the past. An old childhood friend. A neighbor. A fictional character in a book. It could be just about any name that she wanted to use.”

Katie sighed. “You’re right.” She grabbed her phone. “I just can’t help but think that hooded guy is somehow tracking us.” Looking at the image, “Who are you?”

“What’s that?” asked McGaven.

“I took this photo when we entered the crime-scene area at Elm Hill just for documentation.”

“Send it to my email,” he said.

Katie sent two photos to McGaven.

With a few keystrokes, he enlarged the images. “Hmm,” he grumbled.

“What?”

“Why is it when you need to see an identity of somebody—they are standing in the perfect position with the lighting to make it next to impossible to identify who they are?”

Katie pushed her chair next to McGaven and scrutinized the screen. She let out a breath. “Maybe if I had waited another second or two, there would be a better photo. But, we’re assuming that that hooded guy is the same guy I chased at Green Street.”

“Look at the build,” he said.

Katie saw the guy had his hands in his pockets and had shifted his right shoulder to further obscure his identity. “Yeah, he appears to be like the guy I chased. But look at how he turns his body to make sure that his identity isn’t seen.”

“It’s like he knows where the potential cameras are.”

“Who would know instinctively how to do that?”

“Well, criminals, for one.”

“What about someone who understands camera angles?”

“You mean like a photographer—or a model, I suppose. Interesting.”

Katie looked at the second photo with other people. “Look at how everyone else is oblivious to anyone watching them or photographing them.” The others were leaning in and craning their necks to get a better look at the crime scene. “It’s a huge contrast between hooded guy and the others. He doesn’t seem to be curious about the scene, but cautious.”

“Well, we have plenty more information to dig through,” he said.

Katie glanced at her board and realized that they really needed a confirmation that the body at Elm Hill Mansion was Candace Harlan’s sister—Carol Harlan. She also had a sinking feeling that they were missing something—or someone.

Thirteen

Tuesday 1845 hours

Katie searched for 1188 Spreckles Lane as she slowly drove by the brightly painted houses. It was a nice older neighborhood with cottages that had been remodeled and nicely kept up. It was pretty and inviting. The sidewalks were neat and tidy, as were the grass and bushes. Green was the color of the day, after all the rain they had received made the landscape pop.

“Eleven eighty-eight, where are you…” she muttered to herself and glanced at the tiny piece of paper with the neatly printed address once again. No explanation. No other notes of direction. Just the address. Even her GPS wasn’t any help.

Katie drove the police sedan around the block again. “What am I missing?” she grumbled. “There’s eleven eighty-six and eleven ninety… where’s…” That’s when she saw it. A small yellow house tucked back behind two towering trees down a single long driveway. It had climbing vines and two large lemon trees.

She parked her vehicle on the street and got out.

Small stepping stones ran along the side of the drive leading up to a detached single-car garage. The instant aroma of orange blossoms and another sweeter smell filled the air—even though it was late in the season. It reminded Katie of long summers when she was young—before going back to school.

There was a pounding noise coming from inside the small house—like a tool hitting a pipe. Rhythmic and constant. The closer she came to the front door the louder it became.