Page 38 of The Devoted Game

Across the room, the timeline had been updated. The photo of Alyssa Byrne remained along with comments regarding the resolution of her abduction. Next to that was a photo of Katherine Jones with the same information. A separate section had been created for known facts about the unsub. There were only two: He, assuming he was male, was a fan of Ryan’s and lived somewhere within a hundred-mile radius of Birmingham.

The MO was curiously different in each incident, and the victims were totally unalike. Not one damned thing usable for putting together a decent profile. Which, Ryan surmised, was the point.

Grace arrived, a folder in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. She placed the cup in front of him, then sat down at the table.

Never one to turn down a fresh cup of coffee, even when it came from a potential enemy, he took a welcome swig. “Thanks.”

“Are you ready for an update?”

This was the first time she had spoken to him since they left the hospital. She had taken the initiative and followed up on the evidence found at the various crime scenes, which, he imagined, would net them nothing useful.

He lowered the laptop screen and turned his full attention on her. “Shoot.”

Her speculative glance told him he shouldn’t tempt her; after all, she did carry a weapon.

“The same sedative was used on Alyssa Byrne and Katherine Jones, but it was a dead end. Nothing reported missing; at least, nothing in the system. It’s possible the unsub ordered something on the internet.For the most part, those sales are untraceable—particularly when you have no starting place. So we can’t get a lead on him via that route.”

Ryan downed another slug of coffee and waited for the rest. There would be more. The lady was thorough. She wouldn’t come to him with nothing. Grace was a good agent—as agents went. He wasn’t shaving any points for her freezing up at the cemetery. Newbies often balked at the sight of death or suspected death the first few times. Still, instinct told him that hers was a deeper reaction, to something beyond this case.

Not his problem. He had to remember that.

He wasn’t here to play amateur psychologist or to give career advice. Anyone who sought career advice from him was not operating on all cylinders.

“Forensics found nothing in the way of evidence in either mausoleum,” she went on. “The floors were swept with a broom the caretakers use on the property. No hair, no trace evidence whatsoever.”

Hearing her reiterate what he had already guessed made him feel ill. Every time an agent walked through those doors he tensed, worried that another email had arrived.

A more demanding challenge.One I might not be able to meet ... even with Grace’s help.

It was only a matter of time before another communication came; manipulating names on a list or rehashing what they already knew wasn’t going to stop this guy. The reality abruptly hit like a punch to the gut.

“Damn it!” He plopped his empty cup down on the table.

Grace blinked, her own frustration visibly restrained. On the other side of him, Davis scooted back from the table. “Let me refill that for you.” Davis extended his hand.

Ryan exhaled some of the tension and turned the cup over to the agent. “Thanks.”

“As you know,” Grace carried on, as if he hadn’t just shown how close he was to coming undone, “Katherine Jones didn’t see our unsub. She stopped at a convenience store and picked up a bottle of wine. The last thing she remembers is emptying the bottle. When she woke up,she was in that Reddy Ice container with water up to her waist.” He motioned for Grace to get to the part he didn’t know. Listening to that summation was like going for a repeat root canal. It hadn’t been fun the first time.

“We may have gotten lucky at the Jones residence.”

Now that got his attention. “How lucky?”

“There were prints, but we’re still ruling out family members. Hair and other fibers appear to be connected to the victim.”

“Grace,” he said with a pointed look, “I’m waiting for the lucky part.”

She met his annoyed look with one of her own. “I’m getting there.” She paused for effect or to irritate him further before continuing. “A neighbor came forward.”

“Wait a minute.” He sat up a little straighter. “I was under the impression all the neighbors had been questioned and that no one saw anything.”

“None of them did.” She tried to suppress a smile but that wasn’t happening and he wanted to shake her. “A neighbor’s beau saw something.”

He frowned. “Beau?”

Grace nodded. “Mrs. Roberta Norris. She’s eighty and a widow. Horace Jackson is her boyfriend. When she called him this morning to tell him about the police questioning her, he told her what he’d witnessed. At the time he wasn’t aware it meant anything.”

“It being ...” Ryan prompted, completely out of patience now.