“We’ve got nothing,” Kaminsky said flatly before Charlie could reply. Kaminsky’s tone had an edge to it. She seemed to take personally Charlie’s failure to recognize the Boardwalk Killer among the crowds.
“The man I saw that night at the Palmers’ isn’t in any of the photos I’ve seen.” Addressing her response to Bartoli, Charlie kept a grip on her patience with an effort. Kaminsky’s attitude was really starting to wear on her nerves. Reminding herself that she was operating on maybe four hours of unrestful sleep and was not perhaps at her most calm and centered was the only thing that kept her from snapping Kaminsky’s head off as the agent sent photo after photo to her monitor, saying, “Really? You don’t recognize anyone?” every time she replaced an image with another one.
“Assuming you even remember what he looks like,” Kaminsky said now, casting her a dark look.
“I remember what he looks like.” Charlie’s reply was tart. “But after fifteen years, he’ll have changed. For one thing, if it’s the same guy, he’ll be—wait for it—fifteen years older.”
“Our age-enhancing software is pretty good. That picture up on the right-hand corner of your screen”—the age-enhanced image of the sketch made from Charlie’s description of the Boardwalk Killer that night at the Palmers’ was a tiny constant on the monitor—“is pretty much who you’re looking for. That’s why it’s there.”
“There’s no way to be sure how accurate that is,” Charlie retorted. “He might be balder. He might be fatter. He might be wearing a hat. Who knows? And it might not even be the same guy. It might be a copycat.”
“Which would make this whole thing pretty useless,” Kaminsky summed up.
This whole thing meant you, Charlie knew.
“We got a possible lead on the heart,” Bartoli intervened before Charlie could respond. Probably a good thing, because her annoyance level at Kaminsky was rising dangerously. “The Sanderling holds a barbecue and dance every Friday night during the summer.”
“The Meads were killed and Bayley Evans went missing on Wednesday,” Kaminsky pointed out.
Bartoli held up a hand. “Let me finish.” He was clearly a patient man, certainly far more patient than Charlie was at this point. Charlie decided that she liked that. In fact, she liked just about everything she’d seen of Tony Bartoli, from his dark good looks to his apparent willingness to work until he dropped to find the missing girl alive.
“When someone pays admission, the staff at the Sanderling stamps the back of the customer’s hand with a red heart and the date,” Bartoli continued. “We’ve been talking to Bayley Evans’ friends, and a group of them went to the Sanderling this past Friday night, the last Friday night before the whole thing went down. The group included Bayley Evans.”
“Which, since Dr. Stone thinks the unsub has a red heart on the back of his hand, means there’s a strong possibility he was there as well,” Crane added on a note of barely suppressed excitement.
“Is Dr. Stone ever going to clue us in on the technique she used to come up with the theory that the unsub has a red heart on the back of his hand? Because I still don’t get how she could possibly know that,” Kaminsky objected, darting another less-than-fond look at Charlie.
“That’s the whole point of bringing in an expert,” Bartoli answered before Charlie could. “To tell us things we don’t know. A lead’s a lead, and this seems like a solid one. That’s all that interests me.”
As rebukes went, it was mild, but Kaminsky definitely got the point. Her eyes darkened. Her mouth thinned and firmed.
“Today’s Friday,” Crane stated the obvious, and Charlie wondered if he meant to deflect attention from Kaminsky’s chagrin. “There’s going to be another dance tonight.”
“So we’re going to check it out?” Kaminsky stood up abruptly, her relief apparent. “Suits me.”
Charlie knew how she felt: at this point, just about anything that would get them away from the computer and out of the tin can (RV) was a welcome development. And a dance—Charlie had a sudden flashback to Holly wearing sausage curls and puffy pink prom dress. The nightmare Holly who had come to her in the hospital all those years ago. The killer could have forced her to dress up as if she were going to a dance.…
Charlie’s pulse picked up the pace.
“Yup.” Bartoli looked at Charlie with the slightest of smiles. “You up to going on a field trip, Dr. Stone?”
“Absolutely.” Far be it for her to look a gift horse in the mouth, but … “There’s just one problem: even if the killer did come into contact with Bayley Evans at this place, he has her now. It’s unlikely he’s killed her yet, so he has no reason to go trolling for another victim. He shouldn’t be there. He has no reason to be there.”
“Unless he works there,” Crane pointed out. “Or has some other reason to hang around the place.”
“He won’t stay with the victim all the time.” Charlie mulled the possibilities over as she spoke. The image of Holly in that garish prom dress stayed stuck in her head. Of course, it wasn’t anything she could share. “He’ll try to go about his normal daily routine as much as possible to avoid attracting attention. So if he works at this place, you’re right: he should be there.”
“Then let’s go.” Not even trying to disguise her eagerness, Kaminsky pulled her jacket off the back of the chair and headed for the door. She wore another of her form-fitting skirt suits. This one was navy blue, with a white short-sleeved blouse bisected by her shoulder holster. Watching Crane watch Kaminsky walk past, registering his expression, Charlie wondered once again what was between them, because clearly something was. But it wasn’t any of her business—and in any case, she really didn’t care, Charlie concluded, standing up at last, glad for the opportunity to stretch.
“Think we could grab something to eat while we’re there?” Kaminsky threw the question back over her shoulder. “I’m starving, and fast food is getting old.”
“No reason why we can’t,” Bartoli agreed, as he waited for Charlie to precede him then followed her out into the semi-organized chaos that was the rest of Central Command. “As long as we eat fast.”
The RV’s main living area had been retrofitted as one large office. In it, phones rang, computers hummed, a couple of administrative assistants manned phone lines and keyboards, and various law enforcement types went about their business. Over in a corner a pair of guys in suits—local FBI agents Sy Taylor and Frank Goldberg; Charlie had been introduced to them earlier—were using a large black marker to X through gridded areas on a map.
“They’re marking off search areas,” Bartoli told her, seeing where her gaze lingered. “The local cops are conducting a physical search for the girl or anything that turns up that might lead us to her. Thousands of volunteers are out there combing every square inch of every neighborhood and marsh and woodland in the vicinity.”
Charlie nodded. Once again, she found it comforting to realize just how huge the effort to save Bayley Evans was.
“Any leads?” Bartoli asked Taylor as the agent glanced around at them.
“So far, nothing worth mentioning, but it only takes one time to get lucky.” Taylor’s bulldog eyes were almost lost in the pale folds of his drooping eyelids. Shiny, bald, and bulky in the way of weight lifters, looking to be in his late forties, he was, so Kaminsky had told her earlier, a career agent with over twenty years in the local office. Goldberg, some ten years his junior, was tall and thin, with slicked-back dark brown hair and handsome, aquiline features.
“It’s like she vanished into thin air.” Goldberg sounded frustrated. “Where the hell does he take them?”
“That’s what we’ve got about four days to figure out.” Bartoli’s grim reply reminded everyone that the clock was ticking. Taylor made a tired huffing sound as he and Goldberg turned as one back to the grid.