Already Missing (A Laura Frost FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 4) Page 8

  “Veronica Rowse.”

  “Shit.” Laura looked at Nate, her eyes wide. The photograph in the house had been a few years old. Bradley Milford had longer hair then, and the angle was bad. She hadn’t recognized him.

  Even though she’d only see him a short while before.

  “What?” Nate asked, catching her look with an alarmed eyebrow raise.

  “Back to the Rowse place,” she said. “Right now. We have a suspect.”

  A man who’d dated one of the victims in the past. Was dating one of them now.

  And he wore the number twelve on his jersey.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  They had him already – just so long as he was still where they’d left him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He settled back in his seat, watching the barn.

  He wouldn’t stay for long. It wasn’t safe to be around here. There were any number of things that could go wrong, and he knew that. It was why he was so careful. But at the same time, he wasn’t really worried about getting caught. How could he be?

  Everything had gone so very smoothly so far.

  He turned slightly, glancing into the backseat. He was thorough, liked to check things over again and again. It was clean, the whole space clear of anything that might make him stand out during a routine stop. He liked to keep it that way.

  He liked the riddle of the farmer, the fox, and the hen trying to cross the river. The farmer couldn’t put the hen and the fox together on either side of the river, because then they would eat one another. He saw things a bit like that.

  If he travelled with a kill kit, the tools required to put together the rigged platform, and the victim all at the same time, it would be pretty obvious that he was the one responsible for all of it.

  That’s why he liked to do things in stages. First, scout out a nice remote location, like this one. The old barn on a condemned property. A place no one was ever going to go, not until the land was sold and the barn cleared – which could take decades to ever take place.

  Then he’d take his tools over there. Set up the platform, get it rigged up nice and secure. If anyone happened by, they might not even know what they were looking at, once it was all set up. And if they did, well, he wouldn’t be anywhere nearby. All he had to do was turn around and drive away if he happened to notice other vehicles around the property when he was coming back to it.

  As for the victim, well, that was so easy. So easy that it almost seemed like it shouldn’t be true. But then again, they deserved to die. Maybe it was the universe intervening, making things right. Paving the way.

  Or maybe people as a whole were just that stupid that they made it easy for him.

  He sighed lightly, running his mind over the events of the last day. How he’d gone ahead and found the next one, right where they were meant to be. Even keeping track of a few different potentials, it was surprisingly easy to build up an accurate picture of someone’s schedule. To stay in the shadows and watch them until you could predict with a high degree of accuracy where they would be on any given day at any given time. People were creatures of habit.

  From there, you could easily spot the times they were the most vulnerable. The sweet spot was that combination of routine and vulnerability. Crossing under a dark underpass for the very first time, a person might feel scared, might have their wits about them. Ready to run. But walking to a car in a parking lot that was almost always empty of other people at that time, when it was something that you did every day? Most people didn’t even look up from their phones in that kind of situation.

  So, it had been easy to get the latest one into the trunk of his car.

  After that, it was easy to get them out of the trunk and set up inside. A matter of minutes. In and out so quick, there was little chance he was going to get caught. It was the perfect set-up. Minimum risk, just for a little extra effort.

  He got out of the driver’s seat, finding that thought about the journey here crossing his mind. It was always worthwhile to check. He opened the trunk, casting an eye over the interior. He used his fingers to sweep across the sides of the area, just in case there was something small that had managed to get caught up in the seams. You never knew. Something tiny like an earring – it could be his undoing if he missed it.

  There was nothing. He relaxed, walking back to the front of the car.

  He took one last look at the barn, before settling behind the wheel and starting the engine. He didn’t need to stay until the end. He knew what the ending was going to be. All he had to do now was get on with the next job. This one was done.

  There was another routine to check, another location to set up. He couldn’t rest now. There were people out there who deserved this, and he was going to make sure they got what they deserved. Cheaters. The kind of people who needed to die, to set things right.

  He drove away from the barn, glancing at it only once in his rearview mirror. He wasn’t going to be coming back.

  This job was as good as done, and he knew no one was going to make it out of there alive without help. And if help did come, well, he was better not being in the vicinity to get caught. In the meantime, he had those boards to get off the window at the new place he’d seen – the perfect place to set up another of his platforms and make everything right again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Laura tried to focus on the road, not on Nate’s questions, as they roared through Atlanta towards the house they’d only left a short while before.

  “It was some Sherlock Holmes level observation, that’s all I’m saying,” Nate said. He was looking out of the window, not at her, and his voice had that tone to it like he was trying very hard to keep it casual. “I just glanced over the photographs and didn’t notice anything.”

  Laura shrugged, speeding through an intersection just before the light turned red. “I wasn’t enjoying looking at Ross’s face,” she said. “Studying the photographs was less awkward. That grief – it was so raw. I hate having to talk to people like that.”

  “Yeah.” Nate’s voice was sympathetic, heavy. Laura knew he felt it too. “Still, kudos. I didn’t catch it. And it was a hell of a coincidence to pick up on, that twelve.”

  “I guess our minds analyze facts in different ways,” Laura said. “I’ve been playing around with that twelve hours, twelve noon, twelve midnight collection in my head all day. That’s why it jumped out at me.”

  It was all true enough, of course. This time, Laura was glad she could actually tell him why she’d fixated on that detail. The vision had helped to reinforce a sense of timeliness in her, a deadline that was coming up. But noticing the number twelve on the photograph had been all her.

  It was nice to remember that she was actually good at her job, sometimes.

  “It’s a good link,” Nate acknowledged.

  Laura pulled the car to a screeching halt outside the property, looking up at it. The same cars were still parked on the road as before. It didn’t look as though anyone had gone home. “It’s tenuous,” Laura admitted. “But the fact of being the boyfriend of both of them – that’s much stronger than the number connection.”

  “And he’s our first lead,” Nate grinned, getting out of the car. Laura followed suit, straightening the front of her jacket in a subconscious effort to prepare herself. She hoped he was going to come in for questioning without a fight. With so many other people there, things could get awkward. People could be hostages. Could get in the way, impede a chase. There were a lot of reasons why she so much preferred when these confrontations went down as the suspect was alone.

  “Let’s do this,” Nate said, nodding sharply at her and turning for the door as soon as she nodded back.

  Within seconds he was hammering hard on the front door, making sure that he would get someone’s attention. It was the older brother, the one they hadn’t spoken to, who opened it. He had a look of surprise on his face, like they were the last people he was expecting to see.

  “Bradley?” Nate
asked, keeping his voice low. Not loud enough to be heard by the people inside.

  “No, I’m John,” he said, his expression blank and confused.

  “No,” Nate hissed, leaning forward to keep his voice low while being understood as clearly as possible. “Bradley. Is he still inside with your parents?”

  “Oh.” John blinked again, then slowly shook his head. “No, he had a practice session to get to.”

  Nate looked over his shoulder at Laura, his eyes wide. “When?” he asked, turning back.

  “Right after you left.”

  Laura was running calculations in her head. When they first interviewed everyone, Bradley had only just been returning. He’d been out somewhere – to the store, he’d said. She had no idea how long he’d been gone for prior to that. Long enough to head out before noon, set up his victim, swing by the store on the way back, and then pretend it was all innocent?

  And now – why had he left again? Was he really playing ball, or had he gone to check on his latest victim?

  “Where?” Nate asked, following up with the obvious. Behind him, Laura was already pulling out her cell phone and dialing Captain Blackford’s number. She turned her back on the conversation and moved towards the car, already preparing to get into the passenger seat so that Nate could drive while she talked.

  “Captain Blackford,” he said, his tone surprisingly pleasant.

  “This is Agent Frost,” Laura rattled out, opening the door and getting into the car. “I need you to trace a registration plate for me. Then we need to put out an APB. Our suspect is on the move.”

  “Name?” Blackford barked. It was funny how the man could put so much emotion into one single word. Laura heard how his tone had hardened, realizing who he was talking to. But she also heard a note of grudging respect, no doubt towards the fact that they had already managed to get a suspect on a case that had proven difficult for his men.

  “Bradley Milford,” Laura replied. “He’s a minor league baseball player for a local team, if that helps.”

  “I know the man you mean. We just spoke about him,” Blackford replied, with a light trace of irritation in his voice. There was a kind of rustling noise and then clacking, like he’d moved to a computer and started typing. Somehow, it didn’t surprise Laura that he was interested in the local sports scene. Nate got into the car beside her, behind the wheel, and started programming the GPS with whatever location John Rowse had given him.

  “We’re told he’s at practice right now, but if we don’t find him there, we’ll have high reason to believe he’s on his way to set up or check on a new crime scene,” Laura said, as Nate started the car and began to drive. “No idea on whether he’ll be armed, so best advice your people to approach with caution.”

  “Got it.” Blackford’s typing stopped. “I have it here. You got a pen handy to note it down?”

  Laura pulled out her notebook to jot down the registration, as well as the make and model of the car – a newer black coupe. “Thanks,” she said. “We’ll keep you updated.”

  Blackford ended the call on his end with a grunt, as if that stood in for a sufficient goodbye.

  “You got it?” Nate asked, his eyes flicking overhead to take in the lights as they sped across the city once again.

  “Yep, and his guys will keep an eye out,” Laura said. She was feeling a surge of adrenaline, a kind of excited hope that they might be on the right path already. If this was him, it was going to be thrilling. Done with a troubling case in less than a day. She wouldn’t just have the weekend with Lacey, she’d have the whole week before it to catch up on paperwork and get ready, too.

  “We aren’t far,” Nate said, checking his mirrors. “Sounds like Bradley wasn’t entirely honest with us. You think he genuinely works at the hospice?”

  “Maybe he’s part time. Or a volunteer,” Laura said. “These minor league guys, they make… what? Peanuts, really, compared to the majors.”

  Nate nodded. “I don’t think it’s a high-A team,” he said. “But it’s still shady that he didn’t mention it. You’d think he’d want to bring it up, if he wasn’t hiding something.”

  Something like his number. Laura couldn’t help but agree. Nate was already turning through a set of gates that opened up onto a baseball field, the parking lot to the left scattered with just a small number of cars.

  Among them, as Nate found a spot, Laura craned her head and found a black newer-model coupe. The registration matched up.

  He was here.

  “That’s the car,” she said, nodding towards it as she opened the door and jumped out. Nate had to hold back to switch off the engine and put the car in park, joining her just as she was done looking through the windows to see if there was anything incriminating left out on the seats. She shook her head – the car was clean. Almost too clean. Like he’d made sure of it before coming out. And who exactly went to practice the day after their girlfriend was murdered, as though nothing was happening?

  Maybe someone who didn’t quite feel the emotional impact they claimed to. Maybe, Laura thought, someone who had done the killing themselves and didn’t need to stay at home and deal with the shock.

  “Inside, then,” Nate said. Laura followed his lead as they marched across the lot and towards the ticket kiosks guarding the entrance to the field, which were currently manned by a bored-looking teenager in a reflective vest.

  “We’re closed for practice today,” he called out as they approached, his voice coming out strangled with that scratchy quality of late adolescence, not yet fully deepened. “No members of the public.”

  “Then it’s a good job we’re not members of the public,” Nate said, flipping his badge open. The kid’s eyes got wide. “We’re looking for one of the players. Are they all on the field?”

  “Yes, sir,” the teenager said, making an awkward movement with his arms. It was like he’d had the urge to salute, realized it wasn’t appropriate, and tried to suppress it. “Um. Should I call my supervisor?”

  “That won’t be necessary, son,” Nate said. Despite the gravity of the moment, Laura had to try hard not to smile. Nate was probably less than twenty years older than the kid, but he was obviously leaning into the fearful respect he was being given. “Just close the gates behind us. We don’t want anyone leaving without our having spoken to them.”

  “Um.” The kid looked to the left and then to the right, like he was afraid something was about to happen right now. “What about the other entrance?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Straight shot down that side,” the kid said, pointing. “We have one at either end of the lot, so it’s not too crowded on game nights.”

  “Thanks,” Nate said, glancing at Laura to make sure she’d heard. “Maybe you ought to radio that supervisor after all, get him to shut up shop over there too. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” the kid said smartly, nodding and yanking a handheld radio from his belt.

  Laura and Nate walked past him, hearing him excitedly pass the message onto his supervisor over the radio as they did. Then there was a creak and a clang of the pedestrian gate closing. He was doing what he’d been told.

  The field wasn’t a big one. It was set up a lot more casually than some of the stadiums Laura had seen: the seating areas for fans were smaller, closer to the ground, not built up in a full circle around the field like they were for the majors. The ground was dry, the grass a little on the brown side, as they walked unimpeded right onto the field itself. A cohort of players in white uniforms were set up in various practice areas, running through the motions of different types of training.

  Laura shaded her eyes as Nate did the same, both of them scanning the men as much as possible. Although the field was wide, Laura started to feel an increased prickling of alarm. She didn’t think she could see the man they’d met at the house.

  “Hey,” she said, calling out to a man jogging by. He looked like a junior coach or some kind of assistant, judging by how he was dressed. “Excuse me �
�� can you tell me where Bradley Milford is?”

  “Are you scouts, or something?” the guy asked, coming to a stop not far from them. Laura walked a few paces closer anyway, not wanting to shout the information loud enough for it to be overheard by others.

  “Something,” she said. “We’re with the FBI. Just want to talk to Mr. Milford about something we think he may be able to help us with.”

  “Oh,” the coach said, paling. “Yeah. I heard about his girlfriend. It’s super sad. I don’t think he’s having a good time of it, today.”

  “Is that why he isn’t on the field?” Laura asked, nodding towards the other players. They already knew he was here, somewhere. Unless he’d left his car behind as evidence that he’d gone where he was supposed to, then walked away. Would he do that?

  “He’s in the locker room,” the coach said, turning and pointing back in the direction he had come from. “We told him he could go home if he wanted, but he said he just needed a little break and then he’d come back out. I don’t blame him. Playing can take the mind off things, but it’s hard to let go in the first place, you know?”

  Privately, Laura thought: no. Neither of us probably know. How could we know what goes on in the head of a killer?

  “Thank you,” Laura said, nodding at him. “We’ll take it from here.”

  The coach, or whoever he was, seemed hesitant. Like he didn’t want them to go back there. But he didn’t say anything, letting them pass by.

  They were probably lucky. Someone with more authority on the team might have put up an argument. Something about how non-team personnel weren’t supposed to go back there, or especially how women weren’t supposed to be in the men’s locker room. But they had a killer to catch. That went beyond the normal rules of who was and wasn’t supposed to be in a particular place.

  Passing inside the building, a scent immediately hit Laura: something like old socks and body odor. She wrinkled her nose, glancing at Nate, who only laughed.

  “You get used to it,” he said. “The gym I go to smells like this, too.”