Charlie shook her head. “Maybe it’s not the files. Maybe at the time of the original murders there was speculation in the media that the Boardwalk Killer might be trolling dances for victims. Or maybe he has some kind of tie to the original killer, so he knows how the victims were selected.”
“All possibilities.” Tony’s face was a study in concentration as he kept pace beside her. “We’ve gone over the original Boardwalk Killer investigation with a fine-tooth comb. There’s no mention of dances in there, unless we just plain missed it, which I don’t think we did.”
Charlie stopped as she reached the point opposite the rented beach house where they’d started their run. Having finished with a flat-out sprint, she was panting. Tony stopped beside her, and she saw that he was panting, too.
She felt one hundred percent better.
“Look, I know you’re banking on this being a copycat. But at this point that’s not something we can be totally sure about.” Tony gave her an unsmiling look as they stood there catching their breath.
Charlie knew he was right. Still, she had to argue, and she knew why: to do anything else was to admit the possibility that the bogeyman who had stalked her nightmares for years was back. “This guy’s not using duct tape. And the original Boardwalk Killer definitely wasn’t subduing any of his victims with a stun gun.”
“So maybe he’s evolved.” Tony sounded impatient. “Charlie, I know this is hard for you. But you’ve got to keep an open mind. For your own safety, and for the investigation. Fixating on the idea that this is a copycat might cause you to miss something that’s important.”
Tony was right, of course. Charlie knew it. The idea that the vicious animal who had killed the Palmers was slaughtering new victims and possibly now setting his sights on her terrified her to such an extreme that she was doing her best to reject it at every level. She recognized that, and also recognized the possibility did indeed exist. The last thing she wanted to do was miss something that might assist in the search for Bayley Evans.
They had maybe four days left to find her alive.
“I’ll keep an open mind, I promise,” she said, and headed for the house.
“Good.” He followed her. Once inside, he asked, “Can you be ready to go in half an hour?” and she nodded.
After bracing herself to encounter him, Charlie felt a degree of letdown as she walked into her rooms and discovered Garland was nowhere to be seen. The TV was still on, but there was no other sign of him. She clicked the TV off, then considered. Having somehow gotten out of the cage she’d created to keep him safe, had he not been able to get back in, sort of like a dog with an invisible fence, which, having breached the shock barrier to get out is then stuck on the outside? That and a dozen other possibilities occurred to her as she quickly showered and dressed in order to get back downstairs at the appointed time. She had half expected Garland to materialize while she was in the shower—the salt barrier clearly wasn’t working, and that would be just like him—but he didn’t. By the time she was ready to leave, she was sufficiently concerned to use a DustBuster on enough of the salt crystals that he could get back in if that was what was keeping him out.
The possibility that something might have happened to him—like, say, he’d been whisked off without warning to the Great Beyond to answer for his sins—bothered her more than she cared to admit, even to herself.
Of course, there was always the possibility that he was here and just keeping himself invisible to mess with her.
Finally, as she was getting ready to exit the room, she couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Garland, are you in here?” Although she was careful to keep her voice to a near whisper, impatience sharpened it as she glared around at thin air. “I don’t have time to play games this morning. If you’re in here, kindly cut the crap and let me know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Nothing. Not even a shimmer. A knock on the door seconds later was the only reply. And it wasn’t Garland on the other side, Charlie knew.
“If you think you’re worrying me, you’re wrong,” she hissed, and opened the door.
“Are you sure there isn’t anyone else in here?” Kaminsky cast a suspicious look past her. “I heard you talking to somebody.”
“Oh, my God, are you still stuck on the idea that I’ve got some kind of naked sex god tucked away in here?” If Charlie sounded a little annoyed, there was good reason: annoyed was exactly how she felt. The really annoying thing about it was, the naked sex god in question had very annoyingly disappeared. “If you heard me talking, it was to myself.”
Kaminsky eyed her with something very close to out-and-out dislike as, closing the door behind her and casting a surreptitious look around the upstairs hallway for Garland, Charlie joined her on the landing. Kaminsky was in another of her body-hugging suits. This one was charcoal gray pinstripes. The blouse was pale gray, the shoes killer. In her own signature look of utilitarian black pants, sleeveless blouse—this one was coral—and sensible shoes, with her hair coiled into a loose bun at her nape in deference to the heat, Charlie felt frumpy in comparison.
She didn’t like the feeling.
My clothes serve their purpose, she thought defensively. Which was to look professional, not sexy. But at the time she’d put her wardrobe together, the population of men around to observe it had been such that her purpose was to obscure her femininity rather than play up her looks. But maybe it’s time I shopped for a few new outfits. For when I’m not working.
“I’ve been thinking about it: I know I saw what I saw last night.” Kaminsky gave her a piercing look. “A tall, blond, hot, naked guy was on the landing. The only place he could have gone was into your room.”
Kaminsky was exactly right, but there was no way Charlie was ever going to admit it.
“Ever think you might be projecting your own obsession with the opposite sex onto me?” Charlie parried, taking the war to the enemy camp as she preceded Kaminsky down the stairs.
“My obsession with the opposite sex?”
“It’s obvious you have one.”
“That’s total bull.”
“Is it? Examine how you’ve reacted to my inclusion in your group: you’ve been antagonistic from the beginning, and it’s quite possible that you’re having that reaction because you view me, another female, as a rival for the two males on your team. More specifically, as a rival for Agent Crane, who seems to be your primary focus. You two bicker endlessly, and that’s a classic sign of attraction. It’s understandable that you would resent another female, who you fear might start to encroach on your territory.”
“My territory …” Kaminsky was so outraged she sputtered. Gathering herself, she tried again. “If that’s an example of a psychiatrist at work, then I see why so many people, myself included, think psychiatry is total crap. If I’ve been antagonistic to you, it’s because Bartoli inviting you to tag along with us makes me feel like a babysitter. It takes me out of the field, when I’m needed there the most. And as for Crane, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I am not attracted to him, and I certainly don’t see you as a rival for him.”
“You even have pet names for each other.” Charlie reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to look at Kaminsky, who was a few steps behind, glaring at Charlie. As a means of distracting Kaminsky from Garland, her ploy had hit the jackpot. As a means of making a friend of Kaminsky, probably not so much.
Can’t have everything.
“Pet names?”
“Buzz Cut. Lean Cuisine.”
“Oh.” Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Kaminsky looked briefly self-conscious. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we went to the same high school. He and my older sister—well, we all knew each other. I call him Buzz Cut because that’s what people call him sometimes, because he always had one. That’s where he got his nickname. His real name’s Eric. And as for him calling me Lean Cuisine, I gained forty pounds in college. I lost it by eating a lot of Lean Cuisine. My sister started calling me that instead of Lena. Buzz—Crane—picked it up. Until I told him I hated it, and he stopped. Mostly.”