was a Wall Street hotshot who’d made a fortune and retired at thirty-five. Never married or had kids. Her younger brother inherited everything. Naturally the cops liked him for the murder, especially when they found out he was chronically unemployed and had a couple of drug arrests. Again, though, they were never able to make a case.”
“Were both victims killed in their homes?”
Deni raised her eyebrows. “You ask all the right questions. No, neither one was. Ofelia Valdez was at her ex-husband’s house. They still slept together sometimes. A lot of divorced couples do, but most don’t like to talk about it. In fact the cops couldn’t find anybody Ofelia had told. That’s why the cops arrested her ex. Who else would have known where she was staying the night? But he’d gone to work at three A.M ., loading trucks at UPS, and they could never figure out how he snuck home to kill her.”
“And Banta?”
“Well, Ellen was a sports nut, but she really liked to eat. Every few months she’d sneak away to a fat farm, live on rice cakes and carrot juice, and sweat the pounds off. She didn’t want anyone to know. Always told people she was off scuba diving in the Bahamas or someplace.”
“So let me guess. She was at this fat farm when she was killed, and only her brother knew where she was?”
“Actually, they were never able to prove he did know. But he was her closest living relative, so they figured he’d be the one she told.” Deni paused. “You see the pattern? Five years ago, two years ago, thirteen months ago, and then your daughter. There’s the shoe print in the cases of your daughter and Marlee Clark, and latex glove powder all over the bodies in all the murders. Like most serial killers, this one is compelled to kill with less time between victims. And of course there are probably more victims we don’t know about, and he’s operating on an even more accelerated timetable. In each case the local cops assumed it had to be a lover or family member or close friend, because the killer showed such an intimate knowledge of the victim in the way he got at her.”
Coop nodded. He saw the pattern, all right. Both patterns. “Valdez was sleeping with her ex-husband; Banta didn’t advertise the fact she was going to a fat farm; and Marlee Clark was in her high-security condo, so it had to be somebody who knew how to sneak past the alarms and cameras. And my daughter was at my cottage, and the only way for the killer to know that was if she’d told him.”
“Exactly. That’s why you went to Haverton yesterday, wasn’t it? To find out who she’d told? Did you have any luck?”
“According to your theory, how do you—” Coop began.
“You cops. Ignore the question and ask one of your own. Is that something they teach you at the police academy?”
“According to your theory, how do you figure the killer learned his future victims’ secrets?”
“My guess is he’s a Ted Bundy type, a charmer who insinuated himself into the victims’ confidence and affection.”
“That’s only speculation.”
“I’m going to test it, though. If Marlee Clark knew someone like that, her lover Sue Coppolino probably also knew him, or at least met him. I managed to arrange an appointment to question Sue Thursday in Florida. Want to come along?”
Coop wasn’t sure of his answer. “You’re doing all this because you think there’s a book in it.”
“Of course. I’m a writer. Are you afraid of what we might find out about your daughter?”
A woman who sensed weakness. And exploited it. “It isn’t that,” Coop said. Not entirely that.
Deni’s lips curled into a half smile. “Then come along.” It was a challenge. “It’s in both our best interests to work together on this. We can be a team, pool our resources and talents. You think like a cop, and I think like a writer. You have cop connections, I have connections that aren’t all cops or criminals. My guess is you’re not exactly
“Were both victims killed in their homes?”
Deni raised her eyebrows. “You ask all the right questions. No, neither one was. Ofelia Valdez was at her ex-husband’s house. They still slept together sometimes. A lot of divorced couples do, but most don’t like to talk about it. In fact the cops couldn’t find anybody Ofelia had told. That’s why the cops arrested her ex. Who else would have known where she was staying the night? But he’d gone to work at three A.M ., loading trucks at UPS, and they could never figure out how he snuck home to kill her.”
“And Banta?”
“Well, Ellen was a sports nut, but she really liked to eat. Every few months she’d sneak away to a fat farm, live on rice cakes and carrot juice, and sweat the pounds off. She didn’t want anyone to know. Always told people she was off scuba diving in the Bahamas or someplace.”
“So let me guess. She was at this fat farm when she was killed, and only her brother knew where she was?”
“Actually, they were never able to prove he did know. But he was her closest living relative, so they figured he’d be the one she told.” Deni paused. “You see the pattern? Five years ago, two years ago, thirteen months ago, and then your daughter. There’s the shoe print in the cases of your daughter and Marlee Clark, and latex glove powder all over the bodies in all the murders. Like most serial killers, this one is compelled to kill with less time between victims. And of course there are probably more victims we don’t know about, and he’s operating on an even more accelerated timetable. In each case the local cops assumed it had to be a lover or family member or close friend, because the killer showed such an intimate knowledge of the victim in the way he got at her.”
Coop nodded. He saw the pattern, all right. Both patterns. “Valdez was sleeping with her ex-husband; Banta didn’t advertise the fact she was going to a fat farm; and Marlee Clark was in her high-security condo, so it had to be somebody who knew how to sneak past the alarms and cameras. And my daughter was at my cottage, and the only way for the killer to know that was if she’d told him.”
“Exactly. That’s why you went to Haverton yesterday, wasn’t it? To find out who she’d told? Did you have any luck?”
“According to your theory, how do you—” Coop began.
“You cops. Ignore the question and ask one of your own. Is that something they teach you at the police academy?”
“According to your theory, how do you figure the killer learned his future victims’ secrets?”
“My guess is he’s a Ted Bundy type, a charmer who insinuated himself into the victims’ confidence and affection.”
“That’s only speculation.”
“I’m going to test it, though. If Marlee Clark knew someone like that, her lover Sue Coppolino probably also knew him, or at least met him. I managed to arrange an appointment to question Sue Thursday in Florida. Want to come along?”
Coop wasn’t sure of his answer. “You’re doing all this because you think there’s a book in it.”
“Of course. I’m a writer. Are you afraid of what we might find out about your daughter?”
A woman who sensed weakness. And exploited it. “It isn’t that,” Coop said. Not entirely that.
Deni’s lips curled into a half smile. “Then come along.” It was a challenge. “It’s in both our best interests to work together on this. We can be a team, pool our resources and talents. You think like a cop, and I think like a writer. You have cop connections, I have connections that aren’t all cops or criminals. My guess is you’re not exactly
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