The Dollmake (The Forgotten Files 2)

“And if I can’t remember, I can call Holly. I just need to change.”

“Right.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

He checked his watch. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Fifteen minutes later Tessa stepped off the elevators and found Dakota pacing. “Sorry. Got a call from the lab. Had to take it.”

“No problem. Are you hungry? Need to eat?”

“No.”

“Let’s go.”

He was parked across the street, and she hurried to match his long strides. She slid into the passenger seat and snapped her seat belt in place.

His computer sat between them. In the backseat was a box filled with active investigation case files. It was neat and organized. She’d kidded him once about his organization in both his car and apartment. He’d attributed it to the marines, said he’d picked up habits he doubted he’d ever shake. The faint hint of cigarette smoke told her he was stressed.

When he settled behind the wheel, she was aware of the breadth of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The way his fingers wrapped around the gearshift when he put the car in drive and pulled out of the space.

“The funeral director said there was a doll in Kara’s coffin.”

She twisted in her seat and faced him. “Say again?”

“According to the funeral director, a little girl brought the doll to him and told him Kara’s mother wanted it laid beside her.”

“Why would this killer ask a child to give the doll to the funeral director?”

“The doll seems to be his calling card. The child was a way to deliver the doll without him being noticed.”

“Why would the killer attend her funeral?”

“Killers go to funerals for a variety of reasons. Guilt, remorse, a perverse need to relive the murder. That’s why I want to go over the list of those in attendance.”

“Assuming the killer would have bothered to sign the register.”

“If he showed, had the doll put in the casket, I’d bet money he couldn’t resist signing the log and not even use an alias. He’d want a lasting memento of his presence.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Andrews suggested an exhumation.”

“God, Dakota.”

They drove in silence as Dakota cut through traffic at speeds frightening to most people. She’d forgotten how fast he drove, but now as before, she didn’t worry. He’d always maintained an utter sense of control.

“About what happened yesterday morning.” She needed him to hear this. “If it happened again, I wouldn’t be sorry.” She settled back in her seat. “In fact, I’m planning on it happening again.”

He glanced at her, the sunlight splashing across her face. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

For the first time in a year, she felt a sense of calm. “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

He didn’t utter a word for the final fifteen minutes of the drive. They pulled up to the front gate of Shield Security. Dakota showed both their identifications and told the guard they were meeting Garrett Andrews.

In the lobby, a large, muscled man was waiting for them. He wore black slacks and a black turtleneck that covered most of his neck and arms, but she saw the faint scarring on his left hand and on the left side of his neck. He’d been badly burned.

As he approached, Andrews’s cool blue gaze didn’t show a hint of welcome or emotion. “Agent Sharp. Dr. McGowan, correct?”

“Yes,” she said, extending her hand.

Without hesitation, he accepted it in a firm grip.

“Welcome,” he said.

She sensed he’d read a book on politeness and was ticking through bullet points. “Thank you, Mr. Andrews.”

Andrews guided them toward a bank of elevators, and when they were inside, he pressed the top floor. The computer expert made no effort at small talk, and Dakota, who had never mastered the skill, didn’t attempt it either.

When the doors opened, they followed Andrews along a carpeted hallway to a state-of-the-art computer lab. “I’ve cross-checked names of attendees you sent with a database,” Andrews said.

“And?” Dakota asked.

“Two of the men had a prison record. Larceny, drugs, no charges involving sexual assault or any predictors suggesting an escalation to murder.”

“Women are also capable of killing.”

“Agreed,” Andrews said. “So I had a look at anyone who might have had a mental-health issue.”

“That kind of information is now classified by the HIPAA law. How can you access this?” Tessa asked.

Andrews stared blankly at her. “If it’s connected to a computer, I can get to it.”

Judging by the equipment in the room, she had no doubt he had the digital world at his fingertips. “Good to know,” she said.

“What about people who were there and are now showing up during the course of this investigation?” Dakota asked.

“Diane, Elena, and I were there.” Tessa scanned the list shown on the large display screen. “Stanford Madison was there.”

“Madison?” Dakota said.

Andrews tapped computer keys. “I didn’t see his name.”

“He has a distinctive signature,” Tessa said. “It’s unreadable.”

Andrews pressed more keys and blew up the list. “It must be this one.”

She looked at the elaborate scroll swirling over what looked like mountain peaks. “That’s it. It’s how he signs his work. It’s supposed to be an S and M.”

“He was earning his master’s in art at the school you attended, correct?” Andrews asked.

“Yes,” Tessa said.

“Until a few days ago, Madison was preparing for an art show,” Dakota said. “After I paid him a visit, he tossed all his work in the trash and vanished. I’ve got a BOLO out on him.”

“Interesting,” Andrews said.

“He also knew my sister, as well as Tessa and Diane,” Dakota added.

“It sure shines a bright light on him, doesn’t it?” Andrews said.

“The evidence pointing to Madison feels heavy-handed,” Tessa said.

Andrews nodded. “If I wanted to frame someone, he would be the perfect choice.”

“You think he’s being framed?” Dakota challenged.

“I think it’s important to keep an open mind and not get tunnel vision based on personal bias,” Andrews countered.

“He’s crawled under a rock and is planning his next move.”

Andrews shrugged. “Give me his basic data. I’ll search for him.”

“How?” Tessa asked.

“Most of us leave a digital trail. If he has one, I’ll find him.”

“There have been no hits on his credit card,” Dakota said.

Andrews absently rubbed the back of his hand. “Let me look. Anyone else you remember from the event that struck you as odd, Dr. McGowan?”

“I remember very little. I was still recovering after the accident and was moving slow,” she said.

“Given Sharp’s theory about the Dillon boy’s connection to Diane Richardson’s death, it’s logical to assume the boy’s killer would be present at his funeral. Will you be attending his funeral?” Andrews asked.

“Yes,” Dakota said. “It’s tomorrow at ten at DeLuca’s Funeral Home.”

“Send me the guest book as soon as the funeral is finished,” Andrews said. “I want to cross-check.”

“Assuming the killer signed the book before,” Tessa said.

“He signed it,” Dakota added. “This guy has displayed his work twice, and he wants credit for it. I’d bet money he derives satisfaction watching a roomful of people mourn the person he killed. It’s his version of an art exhibit.”

“That’s so demented,” Tessa said.

“No argument there,” Dakota said.

“I’ve also scanned for crimes involving facial tattoos and women,” Andrews said.

“Any hits?

” Tessa asked.

“None yet,” Andrews said. “But it’s only been a few hours. I’ll keep you posted.”

He stared at Tessa a moment, then shifted topics. “I dug deeper into Knox’s past since we last spoke. His son who drowned had a juvenile record. Knox did a good job of covering up his son’s troubles, but I was able to access records. The kid liked to set fires.”

“Fires,” Dakota said. “What did the Knox kid set fire to?”

“Trash cans in his backyard. But what landed the kid in real trouble was a fire in his neighbor’s backyard. Incinerated a toolshed filled with gasoline and the neighbor’s dog. Caused quite an explosion. Knox paid the damages, lost the police report, and that was the end of the matter. The boy drowned a month later.” Andrews handed Dakota a file. “A copy of the arson file.”

“I won’t ask how you got this,” Dakota said.

“Wise.”

Tessa and Dakota thanked Andrews and made their way back to the car. On the return trip, neither spoke. She thought about the two women she’d known who had died senselessly and knew Dakota well enough to know he was processing the case. When Dakota pulled up beside her car, she hesitated before getting out.

“It’s what you do when you’re quiet for long stretches,” she said to him. “You’re looking at the puzzle pieces.”

“Yes.”

“I always felt like I was intruding when you’d get quiet. I felt shut out.”

He faced her. “You were always my anchor. I didn’t have a right to expect that of you, but you reminded me there was more than the work.”