Insatiable Desire Page 7

  Sheriff Waller rubbed the back of his neck, then turned to Clarissa. “Do you need a ride home?”

  “No, thanks. I’m staying with Eloise and Ronnie tonight.”

  “All right, but call if you need anything.” The sheriff gave her hand a squeeze, and she smiled in gratitude, knowing she had her work cut out for her. Eloise would likely wake with nightmares, and Tracy’s ghost would probably haunt her all night.

  Tracy needed help to move on.

  If she hadn’t fully realized her fate, finding Clarissa there with her grieving mother and brother would force her unfortunate destiny to sink in. Then her wails of sorrow would begin.

  And the only way to end them was for Clarissa to see that Tracy’s killer paid. Doing that meant working with the sheriff and Vincent, a man who had his own dark secrets.

  A man who made it obvious he didn’t want anything to do with her.

  “We need to go to the girl’s apartment tonight,” Vincent said. “And call a CSI team to examine Tracy Canton’s car.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Sheriff Waller asked. “I’m dead on my feet.”

  “You want to find Tracy’s Canton’s killer, then it’s tonight. By tomorrow the scene and her car might be contaminated. The killer could have destroyed any link to him he might have left behind.”

  Waller heaved a weary sigh and then phoned for a team to confiscate the car and another one to meet them at Tracy’s house as he drove to a run-down apartment complex on the outskirts of the town.

  “I want this place dusted for prints,” Vincent told the CSI. “Anyone and everyone who has been in here needs to be accounted for.”

  The crime scene investigator nodded and the two young men went to work.

  “All right, Waller, let’s tear this place apart,” Vincent said. “Look for notes, phone bills, journals, calendars, a computer, cell phone, anything that might offer a clue as to who Tracy might have met up with lately.”

  Waller rubbed his chest, his ruddy cheeks showing his age and failing health, but nodded. He might not like to take orders, but at least the man had enough sense to admit he was in over his head and to ask for help.

  Which meant he was smarter than that worm of a deputy who had his dick in a knot over Clarissa.

  Shit. He had to get his head back in the case and forget about Bluster. It was possible a local might have snapped and turned into a killer. A local whom no one would suspect, whom the girls might willingly trust.

  He spotted the computer in the alcove to the left, strode toward it, then sifted through the mail on the small desk. “Here’s her cell phone bill.”

  Sheriff Waller glanced at it and grimaced. “Don’t see anything suspicious.”

  “Maybe not, but let’s cross-check the numbers with the other victims’ phone records, see if they had any friends in common. Check their landlines, too. Maybe we’ll find a connection.”

  Waller scratched his chin. “I’ll request the landline records first thing in the morning.”

  “While you’re at it, get Bennett’s. We need to know if Tracy called him when her car broke down,” Vincent said. “I’d like to take the computer and examine it.”

  Waller nodded, and Vincent carried it to his car. If Clarissa was right, and the unknown subject—UNSUB—used the victim’s greatest fear as his MO, he could glean that information by asking questions. Reading a journal. Talking to her or e-mailing her. Hacking into a chat room. The possibilities were endless.

  They spent the next hour searching and found no leads, no journal with personal dates, just Tracy’s school planner, a calendar listing doctor and hair appointments, and a neat, orderly apartment. He did find service records on her car, work that had been done at the dealership where she’d bought it, not at Bennett’s garage.

  Waller’s cell phone rang, and he answered it, mumbling beneath his breath. A minute later, he disconnected and turned to Vincent. “That was Bluster. He brought Bo Bennett in for questioning.”

  Vincent nodded. “Then let’s go have a chat with Mr. Bennett.”

  As Vincent and Waller entered the police station, the sound of cursing echoed through the halls.

  “What do you mean dragging me in here, Bluster?” Bennett growled. “I told you where l was last night.”

  “Just settle down, Bennett,” Bluster ordered.

  Vincent studied the suspect. Bo Bennett was a meathead thug with prison tattoos and a bad attitude. His dark eyes narrowed with accusations as Vincent leaned against the scarred table where Bo was seated, his beefy body swelling over the wooden slatted chair.

  “We just need to ask you some questions, Bennett,” Vincent said.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Vincent flashed his ID. “Special Agent Valtrez, FBI.”

  “He’s here at my request,” Waller cut in. “Tracy Canton was murdered last night. Where were you, Bennett?”

  Bennett released a string of expletives. “Just because I have a rap sheet, you’re going to blame every shitty thing that happens around here on me.”

  “It’s a fair question,” Vincent said calmly. “Answer it.”

  Bo scrubbed a scarred hand through his buzz cut, sweat beading on his forehead. “Like I told the deputy, I was with my girl. She’ll verify it.”

  Vincent leaned toward the man, his tone lethal. “She wouldn’t lie for you, would she?”

  A sinister smile slid across the man’s chiseled jaw. Then he shrugged.

  Vincent shoved a pad of paper toward him. “Write down her name, number, and address.”

  Bennett cursed again but did as he was requested, then shoved the pad back toward Vincent. “She knows I’m trying to make an honest living with the tow service.” A lecherous grin lit his eyes. “Besides, she keeps a tight rein on me, if you know what I mean. Don’t want any of the other women stealing me away.”

  “Yeah, ’cause you’re such a catch,” Vincent muttered sarcastically.

  Bennett chuckled, then stood. “Now I’ve answered your question. If you aren’t going to arrest me, I’m out of here.”

  Waller held up a hand. “Let me call and verify your alibi first.”

  He stepped from the room to make the call, and Vincent crossed his arms. “One more thing, Bennett. Tracy’s car broke down last night. Did she call you for help?”

  Bennett’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What? You think she called me to tow her car and I killed her?”

  Vincent simply arched a brow.

  A vein bulged in Bennett’s jaw. “Listen, I paid my dues. I’m trying to make an honest living with my garage. I wouldn’t jeopardize it for a piece.”

  Waller walked back in with a scowl. “All right, Bennett, you can go for now. But don’t leave town.”

  Bennett stalked to the door, but Vincent caught the man by the collar. “If I find out you killed Tracy or any of the other girls, I’ll see that you pay.” His gaze shot to the scars on the man’s hand and face. “And those will look like child’s play.”

  For a brief second, fear flickered in Bennett’s eyes, but he masked it. “Fuck you.”

  Vincent grinned and watched him go, although he felt the darkness in him begging to be unleashed.

  He hadn’t been lying. He didn’t like the SOB one bit. And if Bennett had mutilated Tracy, he’d show him what it felt like to have someone carve his flesh into pieces and play in his blood.

  Bluster muttered a curse as he headed back to the cabin he’d rented north of Hell’s Hollow, parked, and let himself in. He didn’t want the feds here in Eerie, not poking into his business.

  Didn’t want Valtrez looking into his past or knowing that he had dated all three of these victims.

  Dammit. There was definitely something between Valtrez and Clarissa.

  He grabbed a beer and booted up his computer.

  The fed’s files were sealed, but he dug around and stumbled on an article about his parents. At age ten, Valtrez had been found outside the Black Forest covered in dirt and blood. />
  He’d claimed he didn’t remember what had happened, that he thought his father might have hurt his mother.

  The authorities checked their home but the parents were gone, so the courts ruled child abandonment, and Valtrez was sent to live in a foster home.

  Bluster rocked back in the wooden chair. Did Clarissa know about this?

  He had plans to see Sadie Sue tonight, but he had to talk to Clarissa first. Find out what she knew about Valtrez.

  And just how much she knew about these recent murders.

  Sadie Sue LaCoy devoured a bowl of chicken and dumplings, washing them down with a jelly jar of sweet tea, then left Hell’s Kitchen. A place where she felt safe, where she could hang out with Myrtle, the head waitress who’d been like a big sister to her ever since Sadie Sue had got pregnant at sixteen and her mama had thrown her out. A place where she ate comfort food and pretended that she was going home to her baby boy to read him bedtime stories instead of heading to work at the Bare-It-All Truck Stop, where she read a different type of bedtime story to the locals. Men who cheated on their wives, and the truckers and out-of-towners who stopped off the expressway for a cold beer and a tittie show.

  At least God had gifted her with big breasts, and at her age, they were still perky and high and bounced all over the place, which earned her far more tips than she could get slaving as a waitress at the Kitchen. Knowing she’d work off those dumplings dancing the next three hours, she didn’t skimp on dinner like some of the young girls did. ’Sides, from her experience, men didn’t want to bang a bunch of bones but appreciated curves and enough ass to grab hold on when they rammed inside you.

  Earning a little extra cash on her back had first made her feel cheap, but she needed the money too damn bad to turn it down. After the first few times, she’d gotten used to the sex, and when she closed her eyes, every man looked and felt pretty much the same.

  Except for the ones who wanted to slap her around. Those she got away from fast. Her mama might have thought she was stupid, but she wasn’t.

  Sadie Sue had learned a lot about survival in the past few years, and she was nothing but a survivor.

  She slipped through the back door of the Bare-It-All, hurried to the dressing room, and began to strip. What should she be tonight? The French maid? Town saloon girl? Motorcycle babe?

  Donning a robe, she tiptoed to the back of the stage and peered through the curtain. Saturday night, the house was packed. Some regulars, a couple of leather-clad bikers, a man wearing a black cape, his face in the shadows.

  Maybe the Little Red Riding Hood costume tonight. After all, men were animals. She’d play the innocent little girl the wolf wanted to eat.

  As long as he had cash, she’d let him have her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Vincent’s dark side always emerged at night.

  He tried to ignore the incessant draw as he and the sheriff settled into Hell’s Kitchen.

  Waller scribbled down the name and directions to a mountain lodge that would rent him a cabin to stay in while he was working on the investigation.

  Vincent hoped to hell it wasn’t long. He didn’t like this damn town, didn’t like the mountains or the mines and caves that held secrets. Didn’t want the reminders of his childhood and his father, or the echo of the wild in the dark recesses of the woods, of the Black Forest, calling him to join them. To find out what had happened there and how he’d survived it.

  Tonight his blood sizzled in his veins, his temperature rising as if an inferno burned deep in his soul, and the allure of the hunt tugged at his sanity.

  As did his primal urges. Man was, after all, part animal. He had needs. Cravings.

  Vincent needed sex. Craved the feel of his cock pumping in and out of a female body. Needed the release of his seed spurting into the warmth of a willing woman.

  He would not have that release tonight. Not here in Eerie while he was on a case. Not when the woman he hungered for was Clarissa.

  God, he’d never expected to want her so badly. But fantasies of her filled his head, images of her tender lips on his flesh, milking him. The feel of her skin, hot and tingling beneath his hands as he stroked her to orgasm.

  He’d expected that same little homely kid when he’d arrived, not a sex siren. The moment she’d opened the door at the Cantons’, his eyes had zeroed in on that lone droplet of perspiration trickling down her neck into that sweet spot between her breasts. He’d watched it disappear beneath the thin layer of her tank top, and his tongue had flicked out to lick it off.

  He fisted his hands. Hellfire and damnation. He was losing control. He had to get a grip. No blackouts while he was here. No sex, either. At least not with a woman who talked to ghosts.

  He saw enough of the dead in his line of work, didn’t need her telling him what they said.

  Or hinting that she could talk to his mother.

  Then she’d know he was evil like his father.

  Waller swerved into Hell’s Kitchen’s parking lot, the red flaming sign spiking upward in an arc with the name painted in bold yellow. Several cars crowded the lot, and as the men climbed out, complaints about the heat wave—and the danger a drought posed to the streams, the river, and the locals’ gardens—rumbled around him.

  Others huddled, whispering and worried about the recent deaths of the young women, and Tracy Canton’s murder. Two blue-haired women in contrasting knit jumpsuits gave him a wide berth as he entered with the sheriff, as if he might be a suspect, not here to help.

  Or maybe they sensed his darkness.

  Inside, the red and yellow decor mimicked the devil’s lair. Why did these people frequent a place that served as a reminder of Hell’s Hollow, where so many of their loved ones had died?

  “That’s Myrtle.” Sheriff Waller gestured toward a heavyset woman with spiked orange hair. “She makes the best country fried steak and fried green tomatoes in the county.” He handed Vincent a menu. “Plus a mean rattlesnake stew—that is, if you don’t mind setting your throat on fire.”

  He didn’t care what he ate, foodwise. Waller ordered the stew and he ordered a burger, ignoring Waller’s scowl as he requested it rare.

  “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Waller asked.

  “I’m going to check Tracy’s computer tonight, see what I find. If she has a MySpace or Facebook page, e-mails, if she might have joined an online dating service.”

  “I doubt Tracy Canton did any of that. She was a country girl, didn’t have much money for extras.”

  “Listen, Waller, we have to check every avenue. You’d be surprised at how technologically adept kids and young people are today.”

  Waller conceded and sipped his sweet tea, then dug in to his food as if he hadn’t eaten in a decade. Vincent bit into the burger, savoring the blood-red meat.

  “Let me see the files on the other two girls’ deaths, then I’ll review them tonight and we can meet tomorrow and regroup.”

  Waller nodded again, his expression grave. “I want folks to feel safe around here. But I have a bad feeling.”

  “How long has Bluster been with you?” Vincent asked.

  Waller frowned. “Actually, he just came on board. Transferred here from Nashville. Why?”

  “Just curious.” He hadn’t pegged Bluster for a suspect, but if he was new in town, maybe he should. After all, everyone in town would trust the deputy.

  Waller slathered butter on a biscuit. “You know, there is another new resident I forgot about. A real-estate developer. Bought up some property and built a development on the outskirts of town. Think he owns the apartments where Tracy lived.”

  Vincent’s fork clattered. “Have you questioned him?”

  “No, but I’ll bring him in first thing tomorrow.”

  “Good. Is there a place in town the young people go to hook up? A bar, club, maybe?”

  Waller seemed to ponder the question. “Well, some of ’em ride up to Hawk’s Ridge to hang out. It’s a lookout spot over the mountain. And a few go
bowling or to Six Feet Under, a bar down the street. But ones looking for some T and A go to the Bare-It-All club on Wiley Street.”

  Vincent’s body twitched at the thought. The temptation to take a trip there tonight made him itch to leave.

  But the case came first. Tonight he had files to review.

  Tomorrow night would be soon enough. He’d check it out in case the killer had chosen it as a spot to search for his prey.

  Besides, a strip show would be the perfect distraction to keep him from lusting after Clarissa.

  Clarissa checked on Eloise and found her resting, and Ronnie had retreated to his room with a six-pack of PBR.

  She’d taken his keys and hidden them, deciding a drunken tear at home was better than him being on the road in his condition, full of anger and male testosterone.

  Unable to sleep for worry, she retrieved her computer from her car and booted it up, checking her calendar for the next day. She made notes to cancel two appointments so she could be free to offer grief counseling for the Cantons and Tracy’s friends and to confer with Vincent and the sheriff.

  Headlights blared up the drive, and she checked the window. The deputy’s car. He parked and climbed out, and she opened the door and met him on the front porch. His serious expression sent alarm through her.

  “Hi, Tim. Any news?”

  He gave a clipped nod. “I thought there was something odd about that feebie. You should take a look at this.” He shoved a printed file toward her.

  Her throat closed as she read the contents.

  Ten-year-old Vincent Valtrez was found near death on the edge of the Black Forest. Valtrez was in shock and had suffered numerous physical injuries.

  Authorities reported that the boy claimed he thought his father had murdered his mother, but authorities found no evidence of a murder.

  Although the child sustained a blow to his head, doctors say there should be no permanent brain damage, but he did suffer acute memory loss and couldn’t tell authorities how he’d survived the Black Forest.

  Legendary tales about the dangers in the forest abound, but three police officers ventured in-side the terrifying woods to search for the boy’s parents.