it into a fist. “He’s flesh and blood. He eats and drinks. He puts on his pants one leg at a time. He sweats. He’s real, and he lives among us. I can touch him, and I’m going to catch him.” He paused and inhaled deeply. “Where could he be, Talia?”
“I don’t know. I swear I don’t.”
“Hometown?”
“He claimed none. He told me his parents were itinerant workers.”
“Where?”
“I got the impression of southern California. But I don’t know if he told me that, or if that was conjecture on my part.”
“His parents’ names?”
“He wouldn’t talk about them. He said he’d risen above his roots, and didn’t want to revisit the past. Ever. And, anyway, they were both deceased.”
“No family?”
“None.”
“Old friends?”
“No.”
“Convenient.” He had expected as much. “Did he mention past relationships, former marriages?”
“He was married once, a long time ago. She died.”
“She didn’t die. He killed her. Her name was Lyndsay Cummings.”
Talia glanced at the file. “She was the first of the eight?”
“First that we know of.” He wiped his damp upper lip with the side of his index finger. “Did he ever talk about her and their marriage?”
“He said the memories were too painful.”
“No doubt.”
She rested her hand on top of the file, staring at it. “No bodies were ever discovered, Drex.”
“Which doesn’t mean they weren’t killed. What it does mean is that we haven’t had forensic evidence that could connect the disappearance of one woman to another, and then to another, establishing a pattern that would ultimately point us to an individual. Not until Marian Harris, that is.”
She pressed her fingertips to her lips. “He couldn’t have done that.”
He didn’t argue with her, but she gained some breathing room when Gif returned. “A message from Rudkowski. He says we either deliver the material witness within half an hour or he’s coming here after her, and woe be to us.”
“Shit!”
“Locke’s patting his hand, but you know Rudkowski. Where’s Mike?”
“Hand-patting the patrolmen outside.”
“How long are you willing to wait, Drex?”
“Five more minutes.”
Gif divided a look between him and Talia, took in the seating arrangement, and must have concluded that Drex was putting on the full court press. He said, “I’ll check to see if there’s anything I can do to further Mike’s cause.” He left by way of the garage door.
“You heard,” Drex said. “You’ve got five. So think and talk fast. What did Jasper bring into the marriage?”
“Sorry?”
“Possessions, Talia.”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“The guys I profile are sociopaths, and they share characteristics. No conscience. Above the rules. They’re smug and have overblown egos.”
“I overheard you describing that to the detectives last night.”
He nodded. “They’re also compulsive collectors.”
“Collectors?”
“They take souvenirs.”
He watched her face as she reasoned out what he was saying. Her gaze dropped to the file. “What were they missing?”
“We don’t know, and that’s been damn frustrating. None of the women had the same body type, no common feature like blue eyes, crooked teeth, long hair, short hair, a beauty mark. They were physically different, and lived different lifestyles. No common hobby.
“Nothing alike except healthy bank accounts that were emptied within days of their disappearances. He could collect safe deposit box keys, ballpoint pens, locks of hair, fingernails. We don’t know. But I would bet my career that there’s something he takes from them. And saves. And takes out on occasion and fondles. Possibly masturbates.”
She looked nauseated at the thought.
“Does he have a safe, sealed packing box, tool box, tackle box, anything that he asked you not to open?”
She was shaking her head before he finished. “He told me he had sold everything when he moved to Savannah.”
“From Florida.”
“He said Minnesota. He told me he no longer needed heavy clothing and cold weather gear, so he had disposed of everything.”
“A logical lie. But didn’t he have any personal items? Photographs? Memorabilia? Stamp collection? Coins? A cigar box of postcards?”
“Nothing, Drex.”
He looked at his wristwatch. “Think, Talia.”
“He had his car, his clothes, some cookbooks.”
He shot to his feet. “Where are they?”
“They’re cookbooks.”
“Where are they?”
But by the time he had repeated the question, he had remembered the shelf above the stove. He went over to it and picked one of the books at random. It was a two-year-old edition with a glossy cover. The spine was unbent. The pages were so new and unused, some stuck together. He remarked on its newness.
“When we met, he hadn’t been a foodie for long,” she said. “It was a hobby he began after his retirement.”
“Books are good hiding places. I’ll have Gif tear into them.”