Blood Secrets - By Jeannie Holmes Page 0,95
or get left the fuck behind. She’d gotten in. Now she was sandwiched between two Enforcers decked out in body armor and carrying more firepower than she’d seen short of the last open house day at the National Guard Armory.
“Talk to me, Reyes,” Damian barked into the handheld radio from the front seat. “What can you tell me about Strahan?”
“Not much, unfortunately,” Reyes Cott answered amid the static. “His record’s surprisingly clean.”
“I find it hard to believe one of the most prolific serial killers in history never had a run-in with the law somewhere.”
“That’s my point. I’m not finding any records for Peter Strahan before 2003.”
“How is that possible?” Damian asked. “There has to be something—driver’s license, tax records …”
“Nada,” Reyes said. “No credit cards, bank accounts, parking tickets—nothing. I can’t even find a birth certificate. The guy’s a fucking ghost, sir.”
“How was he able to buy a house without even so much as a driver’s license?” Damian asked.
Reyes issued a low whistle. “He didn’t buy it. He inherited it.”
“Inherited from whom?”
“Benjamin Corman.”
“Wait a second.” Tasha sat forward and grabbed the radio from Damian. “Is this the Cottonwood property?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Reyes said. “Court documents refer to it by that name and they’re all I’ve been able to dig up on Strahan.”
“I was out there yesterday,” Tasha said to Damian. “No one answered the door when I knocked. The place looked deserted.”
Damian’s fist slammed down onto the dash. “Goddamn it!” He took the radio back from Tasha. “Reyes, Strahan’s a fucking vulture. He’s been tailing Sabian for years, that much we know. Expand your search to include Louisville and surrounding areas. Look for properties like this plantation. Those will be his targeted marks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you mean he’s a vulture?” Tasha asked.
“The fucker lives off carrion,” Damian explained. “He waits for someone to die and then uses a fabricated identification to swoop in and pick the estate clean. He’ll hop from one to the other, changing identities each time. Peter Strahan is just a shell name. That’s why we can’t find information on him.”
“How do you determine his real ID?”
“The only way is to keep him alive and question him.”
“But he’s killed hundreds of humans,” Tasha exclaimed. “That gives him an automatic death sentence.”
“We have a body for one, and we can’t conclusively tie it to him yet.”
“He has Alex. Surely kidnapping a federal agent is something you can pin on him.”
“That we can make stick, but depending on what we find when we get there, he could be sentenced to prison instead of death.”
“Which gives you plenty of time to question him.”
Damian fixed his golden eyes on her. “Only if we catch Baudelaire in time, otherwise there may not be anything left of Strahan to question.”
twenty-one
VARIK KILLED HIS CORVETTE’S ENGINE AND COASTED TO a stop outside the sprawling Caspian Drive farmhouse. The original house had been added onto in a haphazard fashion over the years with each addition featuring the dominant style of the period. Tying the disparate architectural elements to one another was the commonality of dingy and peeling white paint. The overall effect gave the house an appearance of a bloated toad lying in wait for its next meal.
He grabbed his Glock and badge and stepped from the car, leaving his cell phone behind. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he cautiously approached the house. Experience tempered the instinct to rush inside and shout Alex’s name. This was the Dollmaker’s domain and as such it gave an advantage to his opponent. Varik would have to proceed carefully and hope he found Alex before—
He shook his head to clear it of negative thoughts. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by the what-ifs.
Ancient cement steps crumbled in protest of his weight and porch boards creaked underfoot as he glided up the front stoop to the door. A screen door hung to the side but the weather-beaten main door swung open easily when he turned the knob.
Crouching to make for a smaller target, he entered the dark foyer and toed the door shut, pausing to allow his eyes time to adjust to the gloom. Blocky shadows slowly identified themselves as display cases and shelves clung to the walls, each holding an inventory of dolls whose eyes seemed to follow his movements.
He slipped through an archway and into what he assumed would’ve been a dining room if it held a table and chairs instead of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Hundreds of dolls watched him as he checked corners for hidden dangers. The room was