Spooky Business (The Spectral Files #3) - S.E. Harmon
Chapter 1
“Fate leads the willing, and drags along the reluctant.”
-Seneca
As the hand of my watch inched—and I do mean inched—slightly past two, I acknowledged several things. One, talking to a serial killer was not good times. I don’t think many people would argue with me on that, so let’s just change that from a theory to law. Two, even though Thomas Kane requested my presence, he clearly had no intention of ever telling me where he buried his victims. Three, and most important of all, the next time I did a favor for Alford Graycie, my ex-boss at the FBI, he would be very old and gray. Probably on his deathbed.
To be fair, when Graycie told me that a notorious serial killer wanted to meet with me, it hadn’t been a question of whether I’d go, but when. I was a detective and former profiler, which meant I was terminally afflicted with insatiable curiosity, the kind that would probably get me zip-tied to a chair with some maniac pointing a gun at me. Oh, wait, that had already happened.
The ghost standing in the corner didn’t help matters. I wasn’t sure if I brought her with me or she was already there. She stood with her arms crossed, staring a hole in Kane. I cast another glance her way. Now that I really thought about it, she kind of looked like one of Kane’s victims, Bee Williams.
Bee was blonde, willowy and tall, clad in a flowy paisley skirt and lavender blouse, with a stack of thin bracelets on each wrist. Her citrusy smell was pleasant and fresh, strong enough to battle the acrid scent of Kane’s cigarette smoke. I didn’t know what she wanted yet, but I knew she’d make her demands known because sooner or later, they all did.
For the first time in Kane’s life, there was no offer on the table. No deals to be made. His obligatory last-ditch appeal for clemency had been denied. Kane had appointed himself judge, jury, and executioner for his victims, and now it was his turn to die. So, just what the hell did he have to say to me?
I cleared my throat. “I’d like to switch gears a little here and talk about the disappearance of your wife.”
Kane’s eyes glinted dangerously. “What about her?”
“Delilah Rose is an important part of your story, is she not?” I was prepared to step lightly but determined to proceed. “Your first victim went missing six months after you got married. Abby Stockton in 1976.”
He looked at me slyly. “Who?”
I gritted my teeth. “Abigail Stockton. They found her dog’s collar in your valet box.”
The red collar had been torn, a heart-shaped tag dangling from the middle. Abby’s information was printed on one side, the name Buddy on the other. Her mother had identified the collar immediately. A month later, the golden retriever was found in a shelter two towns over.
“I told you before. They don’t have names anymore.” He smiled lazily. “They’re only Roses now.”
He blew a cloud of smoke my way, but I didn’t blink. We’d dispersed with the no smoking in the building rule on hour two. He’d gone through the entire pack of Newports with ruthless efficiency, methodically chucking each of the butts in his empty soda can. I was seriously debating whether anything he could tell me was worth eventual cancer.
He eyed me through a smoky haze. “You think I killed my wife, don’t you?”
Duh probably isn’t the right way to go.
Graycie had left me a file for Kane, but I already knew this case inside and out. His modus operandi had been trolling bus depots and long stretches of remote highway, looking for women in need of a ride. He’d operated under the radar for almost twenty years, until Cindy May Weatherby. Kane offered her a lift but hadn’t known that Cindy had a stalker. Her sleazy, yet concerned, ex had reported Kane’s license plate, and the police connected the rest of the dots.
Cindy May Weatherby was never seen again, but a lock of her hair and her license were found in Kane’s closet. He’d carefully stored the items in a battered valet box. The belongings of seven other missing women were in the box as well—an old business card, two licenses, pieces of jewelry, and pictures. We suspected victim number nine was his wife, Delilah Rose, who’d been missing since the early eighties. A week after each victim disappeared, the family received delivery of a dozen roses, presumably from Kane.