Kaminsky pulled open the RV’s door. The slice of brilliant blue ocean and sugar white beach Charlie could see through it glittered in the sun. Waves rushed toward shore with a muted roar that blocked out the sounds coming from inside the RV. Wet and heavy, the air smelled of the sea. The sky was starting to show the striated shades of lavender that heralded the approach of night, but near the horizon it was still dotted with fluffy clouds as white as the froth that curled in on the surf.
“Just one thing, Kaminsky: before we get there, you need to lose the shoulder holster. And the attitude. If our unsub is there, we don’t want him to make us as feds the minute we walk in,” Bartoli said.
“You want me to go in unarmed?” Kaminsky sounded mildly outraged. She and Crane were already standing on the asphalt driveway as Charlie, eyes narrowed against the sudden brightness of the golden evening sunlight, started down the rickety metal steps of the RV. Even at this relatively late hour, the heat and humidity were intense enough to make her feel like she was stepping into a steam bath. Her sapphire shirt was sleeveless, thin silk. Nevertheless, it was too much, and immediately felt like it was clinging to her skin. With it she wore slim black slacks and low-heeled pumps, professional attire that, since she had left her jacket behind in her rooms that morning, she’d expected to be comfortably cool in. Now, walking into the wall of humidity, she felt way overdressed for the heat, and for the beach town in general. Bringing up the rear, Bartoli closed the door behind them. Glancing back at him as she stepped down onto the pavement, Charlie registered his suit jacket and long-sleeved shirt and tie and quit feeling sorry for herself. Clearly a better person than she was in that regard, Bartoli hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“It’s a dance, not a gunfight,” Bartoli told Kaminsky dryly as he rattled down the steps. “I think you’ll be fine.”
“You’ll have Bartoli and me for backup if you need it,” Crane added. “We’re armed.”
“Oh, wow, I feel better now,” Kaminsky retorted as Bartoli reached the ground. “Not.”
“Think of this as an undercover operation.” Bartoli started walking, and the rest of them followed toward the end of the RV. “We’re tourists out for a social evening. If the unsub even begins to suspect we’re there looking for him, he’ll disappear like that.”
He snapped his fingers.
“Special Agent Bartoli? Do you have any comment on the progress of the investigation? Or any information at all that you would care to share with our viewers?” A reporter with a microphone jumped in front of them, seemingly out of nowhere, catching them by surprise as they emerged from the alley formed by the RV and the house. Blond and willowy, she was accompanied by a camera crew that instantly zeroed in on the four of them as the reporter thrust her microphone toward Bartoli for a reply.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Taking in the reporter’s gauzy orange sundress, Charlie felt a stab of envy: in something like that, she would at least stand a chance of beating the heat.
Before Bartoli could answer the woman’s question, a shout went up from somewhere to Charlie’s right. Glancing in that direction, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the blinding sunlight, Charlie saw to her dismay that a whole pack of media types was rushing toward them. Apparently the “secret” location of their imported team was no longer a secret.
“Special Agent Bartoli! Any leads on Bayley Evans?”
“Do you think she’s still alive?”
“What’s being done to find the victim?”
“Is this the Boardwalk Killer again?”
Reporters yelled questions as the news crews mobbed the four of them. Mobile klieg lights which were brighter than the brilliantly setting sun blinded Charlie to the point where she had to look down at the heat-softened asphalt underfoot. A shuffling wall of legs and feet surrounded her, backing away incrementally from the four of them as the cameramen jostled for position.
“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” Bartoli responded tersely, his hand closing on Charlie’s upper arm, pulling her along with him as he forced his way through the horde by, as far as Charlie could tell, sheer force of personality.
“Have there been any ransom demands?”
“Were the other girls tortured?”
“How were the victims killed?”
The shouted questions came so fast and furiously that it would have been difficult to reply even if Bartoli had wanted to, which he clearly didn’t. Stone-faced, he plowed through the crowd with Charlie in tow and Kaminsky and Crane right behind them. Half blinded by the lights and wary of the cameras anyway, Charlie kept her head down and kept going.
The black SUV in which she and Bartoli and Crane had driven from the airport was parked just a few yards behind the RV. Unlocking it with a click, Bartoli pulled open the front passenger door and thrust Charlie inside. Even as she registered the suffocating heat in the interior of the vehicle, Bartoli slammed the door on her. Fortunately the windows were tinted. Charlie was fairly certain that the flashes aimed at the SUV could not penetrate them. Still, she ducked her head.
“Are our citizens safe in their homes?”
“Can you at least tell us if you’ve identified any suspects?”
As the vehicle’s other doors were jerked open almost in unison the media’s shouted questions peppered Charlie’s ears like hail.
“Should we expect more murders?”
“What is it that the victims have in common?”
A moment later the other three were inside and the SUV was once again closed up tight, doors locked against the onslaught. To Charlie the scene felt surreal, as though the four of them were barricaded inside the sweltering vehicle against a mob. Bartoli, who was driving, looked over his shoulder as he backed the SUV away, slowly and carefully so as not to hit an importunate reporter. The cameras kept filming even as the vehicle broke free of the crowd at last. Still reversing toward the street, the SUV picked up speed.
“Damn.” Bartoli flicked a glance at Charlie. “What are the chances they’re not going to run your picture all over the eleven p.m. news?”
She grimaced. “Maybe they’ll think I’m just another agent.”
“We knew they were going to find out who she is sooner or later.” In the backseat with Crane, Kaminsky rolled down her window to let in air despite the running, shouting, filming camera crews that were doing their best to keep up. It was so hot and airless in the vehicle that Charlie didn’t blame her. Besides, the cameras were by that time too far away to capture much, and she was in the front seat, which made the chances of them getting a good shot of her even more remote. The sounds of all the commotion going on outside coupled with the whoosh of air coming through vents as Bartoli cranked the air-conditioning made it necessary for him to raise his voice as he replied.
“I was hoping it would take a while.” Bartoli whipped the SUV out onto the road, shifted into drive, and steered around the news vans that were partially blocking the way. Flipping down the passenger visor, Charlie watched through the inset makeup mirror as the news crews broke ranks and raced for their vans to follow. “I was hoping they would focus on the local search headquarters in town and leave us alone.”
“Think we’ll be lucky enough that they’ll just identify Dr. Stone as a noted serial killer expert we’ve brought in and leave it at that?”
“No.” Bartoli’s face registered no emotion. “So far, we haven’t caught a single break in this entire investigation. No reason to think we’ll catch one now.”
“You think they’re going to publicly identify me as the sole survivor of the original Boardwalk Killer murders?” Charlie’s heart started pumping hard at the prospect. The nightmares that had haunted her for years seemed suddenly way closer to reality than she could bear to think about: ice-cold terror filled her veins as the scene at the Palmers’ popped into her brain. If the killer knew she was here, knew that there was a high probability she could identify him, what would he do?