Tatum’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, squeezing it angrily as the traffic moved at a snail’s pace.
“It all fits,” he told Zoe, his voice sharp and tense. “Sorenson believes the perfect woman is a dead woman. That’s what he learned from his psycho mother. His dead sister was the only one who didn’t make his mom angry. And she kept them inside for a week, holding the body’s hand, combing her hair, God knows what else. I mean, of course he turned out crazy.”
“So he kills his fiancée,” Zoe said.
“Right. Body decays—he has to get rid of it, or the neighbors will complain. He dumps it but becomes obsessed with the idea of having a dead spouse.”
“He could have known Susan Warner because he fixed the pipes at her home,” Zoe said. She stared ahead, biting her lip. “Remember what her friend said? That the apartment’s sewage kept overflowing? She must have needed a plumber multiple times. Plenty of time to look around, see that she lived alone.”
“You met the man. Does he look like the person in the security footage?”
“It could be him. It was really hard to get a good look at his face in the video. But he did look familiar. Maybe his body language or his stance.”
“Fits your profile nicely too. Early thirties, works with his hands . . . does he own a van in addition to his mom’s car?”
“Yeah. There were two vans when I stopped by. His employee was loading a sink on one. It had Sorenson’s Plumbing painted on it, which explains how Lily knew he was a plumber . . .” She slowed down, frowning.
“What is it?” Tatum asked.
“He doesn’t fit the profile so neatly. I saw him try to lift a steel sink and hurt his back. How did he carry those bodies so far away with a weak back? Monique Silva was practically in the middle of the park.”
“Maybe that’s why his back was so sensitive. From the exertion.”
“Yeah, but . . . Clifford Sorenson functioned well with women. He was engaged. They were trying to start a family—this wasn’t a man who couldn’t have a relationship. This wasn’t a lonely man. It doesn’t fit at all.”
“Okay, but listen,” Tatum said slowly, trying to find a way to disagree without saying that maybe she was wrong. “Maybe you were, uh . . .” The hell with it. “Wrong. I mean, you couldn’t have known about this crazy story with his mother. Maybe he just has a thing for dead women, and after some time with his fiancée, he decided—”
“The other brother,” Zoe interrupted. She clearly hadn’t listened to a word he’d said.
“Yeah? Sure, there’s another one, but Clifford Sorenson is a plumber, and you said—”
“What if the other brother is a plumber too? Clifford has an employee named Jeffrey who seemed to be really close to him. And he called him Cliff. That woman said his mother used to call him Cliff when he was a boy, so his brother probably calls him the same. Jeffrey was strong. He picked up the steel sink easily. He would be able to carry a woman’s body if he needed to.”
“So if you’re right, this guy Jeffrey was the one who went to fix the sewage problems in Susan Warner’s apartment.”
“Yes. And Jeffrey killed Clifford’s fiancée. That would explain how Clifford had such a tight alibi. Because he really was innocent. It also makes sense that his brother would wait for a day he knew Clifford would be gone. A day when Clifford went fishing with his friends.”
“Damn. We should call Martinez,” Tatum said.
“We still have nothing,” Zoe said quickly. “This is completely circumstantial. It’s probably not even enough for a warrant. And we aren’t supposed to be here.”
She was right. They were building an intricate castle on a fluffy, thin cloud. “Then what do you suggest?”
“Let’s look around. Maybe we can spot some blood on one of the vans. Maybe if we look through their windows, we can see a container of formaldehyde. I don’t know . . . anything that would give us a shred of actual evidence. Enough to show Martinez.”
Tatum grimaced. There he was again. Going forward with no backup, without consulting his superior. This time he’d be kicked out of the bureau for sure.
CHAPTER 71
The woman and her two children were dealt with, for now, bound and gagged. He had been surprised to find out how easily a mother could be controlled. All he had to do was threaten to cut the throat of her little girl, and she willingly let him tie her up. After that, tying the frightened children took a matter of minutes.
He stared at the three of them, trying to make up his mind. The little girl was nice; he could imagine himself as her dad, playing with her and her dolls, dressing her up in frilly pink dresses. He smiled at the thought of their shared life together. Him, a father—who would have thought? He’d be a good father; he’d never follow his mother’s example. He would spend time every day with his child, never yell at her or hit her. But the boy? A toddler. A line of snot ran from his nose, his eyes red and teary from crying. To be entirely honest, he didn’t want two children. He wanted only one. Embalming both of them would be a hassle, and he’d have to carry them back to his home, not to mention the endless chore of moving them from one spot to the next once they began their life together.
No, he had no use for the boy.
He yanked the child up. Where had he put his knife? He glanced around. There, on the counter. He dragged the boy over to the counter, the little runt screaming hysterically into the rag in his mouth. He grabbed the knife and put it against the kid’s throat. The mother emitted muffled screams as well, her eyes wide, shaking her head.
“I don’t need him,” he said simply, pressing the blade harder.
He paused and pulled the blade back.
He had never embalmed a child before. He might screw things up. It was safe to assume their veins were smaller; he might botch the girl. Having a backup would be useful. He could learn to love the boy, sure. If he had to.
He inspected the child’s throat. Hardly nicked it at all. Good. He dragged the boy back, dumped him by his sister.
It was time to prepare the embalming table.
It was just like the time with Susan. The best place to do it all was the bathroom, where the shower supplied both running water and a drain. He didn’t want blood all over the floor; it would be messy to step in. He had a folding table in the van that would fit well enough. It wasn’t the table in his workshop, but he couldn’t have it all.
It was a lot of effort, carrying the table, the containers with the embalming fluid, the embalming machine. Then he grabbed the bag with the toys he had bought the day before. It was purely sentimental, really, but he wanted to give his child a new toy to play with once they were done. Last time he had been there, he had noticed that most of their toys were used and broken.
He’d be a good father.
CHAPTER 72
Only one van was in front of Sorenson’s Plumbing when they parked next to the small warehouse. One of the plumbers was gone. Zoe got out of the car, slamming the door behind her, and marched toward the remaining van. She heard Tatum run after her, felt his hand grab her wrist.
“What?” she snapped.
He looked at her with concern. “We have no warrant or permission to be here. Just . . . be cool.”
“Right,” she muttered, feeling anything but cool.
They approached the van together at a measured pace. Once they reached it, Tatum slid against the van, trying the door handle. The door didn’t budge. Locked. Zoe circled the van, glancing inside it, trying to see its interior. The rear windows of the van were darkened; it was impossible to see anything through them. Tatum joined her at the van’s rear, glancing at it.
“No blood, no formaldehyde, not even a serial killer club membership card.”
Zoe nodded glumly. “Let’s go inside.”
“And do what?”
“Well . . . I’ve been here before. I can just say I came to ask a few more questions.”