The door swung open and Sheriff Hale stepped into the room, his boots heavy and loud on the wooden floor. In one hand he held a sheaf of papers, rustling in the silence like a flock of birds taking flight. “Got something for you,” he said. “A list of people who own units at Securicall Storage. The owner just sent it over.”

  “Excellent,” Ella said. She welcomed any new information, even just a list of names. The sheriff placed the papers down on the desk and went on his way. Ella took the list, speedily reading the names then glanced over at her partner doing the same. Each name had a name and a number next to it: the date each unit was first rented and the unit number.

  None stood out.

  “Any of these mean anything to you, Dark?”

  “Nope. None except David Harper, number three-hundred.”

  “Yeah,” said Ripley. “Maybe we need to start looking into the scam business David fell for. There could be something in that.”

  “I took a quick look already. Two guys, known scammers, both in jail. Nothing to do with David’s scam, but still, it puts them out of the picture.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” said Ripley. “What about David’s creditors? His ex said someone loaned him money, didn’t she?”

  “Couldn’t find anything,” Ella said. “No records of anything other than David’s income going into his account. Lots coming out, but nothing sketchy being deposited.”

  Ripley angrily crumpled the paper in front of her, her frustration palpable. She looked through the list of names as she retreated on her chair, forgetting it wasn’t a recliner and jamming the base into her back with a sudden thud. She didn’t sell the embarrassment. “So one of these four-hundred names could be our unsub,” she said.

  “Four-hundred and ten,” Ella confirmed, “but it’s better than two-thousand.”

  “Our killer knew that David was living here, so he had to know the basic details about his life, but that could be a huge circle. Could be a friend of a friend. Anyone could have let that information slip.”

  “His ex said he didn’t have many friends, and even she didn’t know he was living in that unit. It had to be someone close to him.”

  “Or someone that just happened to see a potential target in an isolated area,” Ripley said.

  Ella wasn’t buying that for a second. “Ripley, this town is nothing but grass and mountains. If this was a random lust kill, our killer couldn’t have chosen a worse spot. He picked one of the few places in the town that actually does have cameras. David was always an intended target.”

  Ripley’s eyebrows knit together as Ella’s words sunk in, accepting the explanation in silence.

  “That could have been part of the thrill,” Ella continued. “He technically invaded both victims’ homes. The violation of sanctuary. The interaction with the victims. The intimate killing method. If the victimology was consistent, I’d say there was a sexual element at play.”

  “He was in and out too quickly for there to be a sexual component,” Ripley argued. “Think about it. You’re alone with these victims. You can do whatever you want without interruption. Why would you stab and run without savoring the moment?”

  Ella pondered the idea, drawing on past serial killers for reference. It was true that lust killers preferred to spend intimate time with their victims when possible, usually dispensing mutilation or dismemberment postmortem. It wasn’t an exact psychological science, more so a general rule, and there were always exceptions. Ripley had a point in this case. Usually, knife wounds were a symbolic substitute for penetration, but if sexual release was this unsub’s goal then he certainly didn’t show it.

  “Fair enough. Sexual gratification is off the table. If he’s not the hedonistic type, then he’s either a thrill seeker, revenge seeker, or a mission-oriented killer.”

  “Let’s hope it’s the latter,” said Ripley.

  Even in the context of homicide investigations, Ella had to pray for the best case scenario, and the best possible outcome was that this killer was on some kind of mission. Usually driven by delusions or the desire to right some perceived wrong, mission-oriented offenders were so dedicated to their goals that they’d go to extreme measures to carry them out. It was a double-edged sword, because it meant they wouldn’t stop hunting their targets until death or imprisonment intervened, but it also meant that they were more prone to mistakes. They also had a much smaller pool of victims, and while most mission-oriented killers targeted select groups like ethnic minorities or sex workers, there was a sub-category of this offender that targeted specific individuals. From what Ella had discerned so far, this unsub fell into this rare category.

  The deeper she thought about it, the more she went back to her original belief: these two victims had to be connected, no matter how ambiguously. Her eyes still swept across the names on the new lists; if their killer was on here, it meant that person would also have a link to Joanne Gustafson.

  But replaying the conversation she’d had with Joanne’s ex-husband, she realized she knew barely anything about the woman. She was a troubled drug addict who’d lost a child and that was pretty much the extent of it. She recalled the previous conversation in full detail, but there didn’t seem to be anything she could grasp onto despite the intimate details her ex had shared.

  Ella’s gaze drifted across the list, her shoulders slumping in resignation. No matter how hard she clawed for a connection, none of the names were familiar. Night began to set in outside and it seemed defeat had won the day.

  But motivated by prospect of having to face this brick wall again tomorrow morning, Ella zoned out and willed her subconscious into the driver’s seat. The old artist’s trick. The age-old method that historical authors apparently used to combat writer’s block. She didn’t know if it worked, and debates about the subconscious even existing at all were numerous, but it was a last-ditch attempt to make progress with the current information at her disposal.

  She felt a whirling kaleidoscope of memories spinning through her head. Images and words crashing against her mind’s eye like waves on the shore. She first thought of Ben, then her interview with David Harper’s ex-wife. She remembered how David had consigned to homelessness and how it was reminiscent of Japanese CEOs killing themselves out of some misplaced honor. Then this little spark led her down a winding trail of similar thoughts, landing on her interview with Joanne’s ex-husband.

  What had he said?

  I know Joanne was seeing someone. She was seeing one of the execs at her workplace. Foreign name. I want to say Hiko-something, maybe Hiro?

  A spark of understanding ignited, forming a chain of thought that linked together the disparate pieces in her mind.

  As consciousness came back, she felt her gaze glued to a particular name on the list of storage unit owners. It pulled her in, like a sparkling jewel in a field of weeds.

  The name was Hiromu Takahashi.

  “Ripley,” Ella said in lieu of an exclamation. “Unit number three-oh-four. Look at it.”

  Ella’s partner clutched the paper and found the line in question. “Hiromu… something. What about it?”

  “Didn’t Chris say Joanne was seeing someone new? A foreign guy from her work with a name like that?”

  “You tell me. You’re Miss Memory Bank.”

  “Yes he did.”

  Ripley scrutinized the name a little further. “I mean, it’s not a solid link, but according to this he started renting the unit a week after David.”

  “And it’s only four units away.”

  Ripley already had her laptop back open and was furiously typing. “Nice catch. Looks like that memory of yours is good for something.”

  “I have my moments,” Ella said, keeping her nerves at bay. It was just a name on a piece of paper and didn’t mean anything at all. Right now, the last thing they needed was a wild leap that would result in nothing but crushing disappointment.

  “Christ on a bike,” Ripley said. “Dark, get your ass over here.”

  Ella leaped out of her seat, around to Ripley’s side of the table. She was on the local police database, staring at the file of the person of interest.

  “Oh crap, he’s got a criminal record,” Ella said, fighting against the mounting exhilaration. The first check in the potential suspect column.

  “Insider trading,” Ripley said, “but now he works at…”

  “Avon Textiles. Where Joanne worked.”

  “This is him,” Ripley said with a slam on the table. Ella welcomed the rush of excitement that raced through her veins, greeting it like an old friend. This man, Hiromu Takahashi, was a good fit for Joanne’s boyfriend, and he had a storage unit only four doors down from David’s.

  It was getting into early evening, but Ella knew they had to pay this man a visit.

  “What are we waiting for?” she said. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ella checked the time before knocking on Hiromu’s door. Nearly nine p.m. Still plenty of time to catch a murderer before the day was out.

  The suspect’s home was a vast, sprawling estate around three miles outside of Alfa Creek. Its tall walls and columns of marble belied a life of luxury and excess - affluence earned not through honest labor, but judging by Hiromu Takahashi’s criminal record, his corporate wrongdoings. The lavish home was tangible proof that karma didn’t exist, not in this world.

  Ripley went first, pounding on the door with a clenched fist. Ella looked up and saw a light flickering on the first floor followed by the twitch of a curtain. Someone was home, and that person had spotted them.

  A minute passed, and so Ella knocked with slightly less force than would shatter the door down the middle. “Mr. Takahashi, please open up,” she shouted.

  A moment later, the door clicked open and a hesitant face appeared in the crack. A tiny figure, camouflaged amongst the shadows. “Hello?” the man asked.

  Ella flashed her badge and said, “Mr. Takahashi, we’re with the FBI. We need to talk to you.”

  The gap between the door and the frame grew a little wider as the suspect came into view. He was short and dainty, dressed in a brown shirt and suit trousers. His eyes looked red raw and his forehead glimmered with a line of sweat. The man had wrinkles for days, but according to his record, he was only forty years old. Ella thought maybe they’d caught him in the act, but when she spotted the crust around his nose, she had a sudden spark of insight.

  “FBI?” he asked, no hint of a Japanese accent but his ancestry was evident in his features. “What are you doing in my house?”

  “We’re not in your house, we’re at your door,” Ripley snapped. “But we’d like to come in if that’s alright with you.”

  “Absolutely not. You can’t just come in here. What do you want?” He began to retreat but then thought better of it.

  Ella said, “Mr. Takahashi, we’re investigating a series of homicides and we believe you were close with at least one of the victims.” Ella left it at that. Always keep the details minimal and let the interviewee potentially incriminate themselves later. That was the number one rule.

  “Homicides? You mean Joanne?”

  There it was. “So you know,” said Ella.

  “Of course. She was one of our employees. The police told us yesterday.”

  “You knew her well?” Ripley asked.

  Hiromu shifted his weight forward. “Not as well as you’re implying. What are you trying to say?”

  “Nothing. We’re just asking questions.”

  Ella studied the suspect carefully, examining his body language, his tone of voice, his potential capacity for murder. It wasn’t rare for persons of interest to lash out upon questioning, but discerning the reasons why was a different story. Some suspects faked outrage in a desperate attempt to appear slighted, others did it out genuine anger at the privacy violation. Others did it because they were trying to hide something. She didn’t have enough intel on Hiromu Takahashi to make an educated guess yet.

  “We’re just wondering about your connection to her,” Ella said, hoping Hiromu might take the bait.

  “My connection? We didn’t have one.”

  The first lie. Perhaps the first of many.

  “Really? Well, someone told us you and her were dating.”

  Hiromu scratched his hands and smirked away the accusation. “Well, your source is wrong. Now please leave me alone.” The suspect gripped the door, but Ella’s firm hand kept it from shutting. She caught a close-up of his knuckles, scratched and blotchy with a few deep red sores. Instantly, the pieces of the puzzle slotted into place like a key unlocking a hidden door. Rage began to build, because nothing frustrated her more than cowardly murderers who tried to deny all accusations. All serial killers were bottom-of-the-barrel scum, but there was a special circle of hell for the ones who maintained their innocence in spite of hard evidence.

  “Mr. Takahashi, please don’t make this difficult. We already know.”

  Fury burned his face. His jaw clenched as he reined in his heavy breathing. “You don’t know anything. I’m not going to tell you again. Leave me alone or I’ll report you for harassment. I could sue you.”

  Ella’s anger overflowed into her fists. Hiromu had pulled out the magic combination that always sent her into a rage-fueled frenzy: denial and threats of legal action. If she didn’t go verbally nuclear, she’d run the risk of punching him square in the jaw. “Joanne was a drug addict, and judging by those sores and your incessant scratching, you are too. I’m guessing we’ve caught you in the middle of a session, which is why you’re so desperate to get rid of us, but I’ll tell you now that we’re not going anywhere, and I’ll happily drag you out here by your skull if I have to.”

  Hiromu halted, coming to an abrupt standstill. His expression melted from fury to unease as Ripley stepped closer and put her hand on Ella’s shoulder. “Dark, take a moment,” she said. “Mr. Takahashi, we know about your relationship with Joanne, and we understand you rent a unit at Securicall Storage, is that correct?”

  The suspect nodded, then opened the door and stepped out into the cold. He sidestepped away from Ella to face his questioner head on. “Relationship isn’t the right word. And yes I do own a unit there. Why?”

  Ella stepped back, realized she’d overstepped a boundary. She’d gone in all guns blazing and shot herself in the foot.

  Ripley said, “Securicall Storage was the site of a second homicide. Four units away from yours.”

  Hiromu glanced between the agents and said, “And why are you asking me about it?”

  “Because we thought you might be familiar with both of our victims. You knew Joanne, you rented a unit by David’s. It’s not a stretch to think you might have seen him around. Care to add anything?”

  “I knew Joanne. That was all.” Hiromu turned to Ella, “And we were recovering together actually. Not doing drugs. I don’t expect the person mentioned that little tidbit, did they?”

  “Recovering?” Ella asked. The man’s sores and blemished skin said otherwise, and he had a good reason to lie being in front of FBI agents and all.

  “Yes. A hundred days for me. Joanne… different story. She couldn’t escape. Relapse after relapse. There was no helping that woman.”

  “You saw her recently?” asked Ripley.

  “No. Not for a long time. She stopped answering my calls a while ago. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

  “You said you worked with her. You didn’t see her around?”

  Hiromu shook his head. “I’m the Associate Director. Joanne worked on the floor. I don’t see day-to-day stuff.”

  “So how did you meet?” Ripley asked.

  “Recovery meetings. She recognized me. We got to talking.”

  Ripley nodded in understanding, accepting the explanation. She said, “Right. And your storage unit? Any details on that?”

  Hiromu looked dumbfounded. “What do you want me to say? I needed a storage unit. Besides, it’s not even for me. It’s my daughter’s. She has the key to it. I’ve only been there once and that was to sign up. She did everything else. You can ask her.”

  Ella stayed quiet, letting Ripley do the talking. Maybe her comment had been a step too far, but idle threats always worked in the past. Ripley must have still been pissed about her threatening to shoot a guy on the last case. Understandable, Ella thought, because she still felt bad about it herself.

  “Mr. Takahashi, where were you on Friday between one and three p.m.?”

  Hiromu’s jaw dropped an inch. “Why? You don’t think I could have hurt Joanne?”

  “You can prove whether you did or not by telling me your whereabouts.”

  Hiromu smiled. A winner’s smirk. Ella recognized it a mile off. “Recovery meeting. Smart Recovery at Saint Paul’s Church on Lichfield Street. Ask anyone there. There are cameras in the lobby too. They’ll have caught me going in.”

  Ripley cracked her neck with a sudden jolt and said, “Thank you. We’ll check it. What about last night between eleven and midnight?”

  The winner’s smirk returned. Ella’s heart plummeted to her stomach, a heavy stone sinking in an ocean of dread. She felt like she’d come first in a race of fools. Barely an hour ago, she’d idly praised herself for not giving into temptation and connecting dots that were barely visible. Now, out here in icy darkness, she found herself having done just that. Jumped headfirst into something she had no real evidence for, only to be proven wrong and sent back to the starting line with absolutely no new information.

  “I was driving back from Ohio. My dash cam recorded the whole journey. I got home about half past one.”

  “We’ll need that footage. Right now if you have it,” Ripley said.

  “Agents, please, I have to be up early in the morning.”

 

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