Tatum looked at her unhappily, and she shrugged. Did they have any other choice? Calling Martinez right now would get them nothing except a one-way ticket out of Chicago.
She walked into the shop, her eyes scanning the interior quickly. Clifford Sorenson sat behind his desk, reading a newspaper. As Tatum joined her, Clifford put down the newspaper and looked at them both.
“Hello,” he said. “You’re the one from the FBI, right?”
Zoe swallowed. “That’s right,” she said. “This is Agent Gray, my partner.”
Clifford nodded at Tatum. “How can I help you?” he asked, his tone of voice slightly chilly.
“Just a few follow-up questions,” Zoe said. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” Clifford said, folding his hands. He didn’t ask them to sit down or offer them coffee. They were not wanted here.
“I prefer that no one overhears our talk,” Zoe said, treading carefully. “Are we alone here, or is your brother here?”
“Just you, me, and your partner,” Clifford answered. “My brother went to a client’s house.”
Zoe nodded, feeling an inkling of satisfaction. They really were brothers. “Okay. I wanted to verify the timeline before you discovered your fiancée was missing. You went on a fishing trip with your friends, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Just your friends? No one else?”
“No, just my friends.”
“The reason I’m asking this is that sometimes people remember things differently, especially after a long time. Didn’t your brother join you on your fishing trips?”
“Sometimes he did. Not that time. And I remember that day perfectly. It was the worst day of my life.”
Was it? Was it really worse than being locked up with your dead sister in your own house?
“Do you remember why he didn’t join you on the trip?”
Clifford’s eyes narrowed. “I get the idea that this isn’t just a follow-up, Agent. Are you trying to pin this murder on me again? I think I should call my lawyer.”
“Was Susan Warner a customer of yours?” Zoe asked desperately.
“Now I’m definitely calling my lawyer.”
“We’re not accusing you of your fiancée’s murder, sir,” Tatum said in a low voice. “But we do have a likely suspect. And it would help if you answered our questions.”
“Really?” Clifford said. “Because it sounds like those questions are about me.”
Her insides churned as she stared at the man’s hardening features. How sure was she that his brother was the murderer and not him? Because if she was wrong and told him what they knew, he could give up his brother’s location, and then, once they were gone, he could disappear. The prudent thing to do was to talk to Martinez. Try to convince him they had a good enough case here. Get a search warrant, maybe someone to watch both brothers.
The only problem was that she couldn’t shake the hunch that Jeffrey was prowling for a victim. Maybe had even found one. They could have only hours until another woman was dead. Or minutes.
But this was all it was. A hunch. For all she knew, Clifford was the murderer. Or maybe both of the brothers. Or they could both be innocent. Would she really endanger the case by showing their cards?
She glanced at Tatum worriedly. His eyes were calm, and he gave her a gentle nod. He trusted her.
She turned to Clifford Sorenson. “Sir, we have reason to believe your brother is the man who killed your fiancée.”
His eyes widened. He picked up the desk phone and began to dial. “I’m calling my lawyer,” he said. “And then I’m calling my brother to make sure he talks to my lawyer too. You bastards—”
“Think back,” Zoe said hurriedly. “Did Jeffrey usually miss your fishing trips? You said you went fishing with him several times two weeks ago. But on that night, he didn’t join you, did he? And where was he during the week that your fiancée was missing, before her body was found?” She could see that he’d stopped dialing, that his hand trembled. “Did you see him at all? I’m betting you didn’t. Where do you think he was? What was more important than supporting his brother and helping in the search?”
Sorenson looked ill, and she knew the possibility had occurred to him that his brother had been with his fiancée’s body.
“Remember what you said? Veronika told you some apples didn’t fall far from the tree. She wasn’t referring to your father and you. She was talking about your brother and your mother. We know about your history, Mr. Sorenson. We know about your mother’s illness. What if Jeffrey began saying strange things to Veronika? What if his irrational behavior was scaring her? That would explain why she was so tense, why she didn’t want to be left alone. Did Jeffrey have a key to your home? Was he stable after what happened with your sister? Or maybe he got into trouble. Did he ever date anyone? Ever meet any of his girlfriends? Can you really be sure it wasn’t your brother, Mr. Sorenson?”
It was a shotgun blast of guesses and hunches, and his face showed that some, or even most, hit their mark. He slowly put the phone back in its cradle. Zoe knew that the shock would fade, that in a minute or two he would start rationalizing, finding answers to all her questions. She had to keep striking now, while the metal was hot.
“A woman named Susan Warner died a few months ago,” she said. “You might have read about it in the paper. We have reason to believe her death was linked to Veronika’s. And we suspect she may have been your client, that your brother went to her home several times. Can you look it up? Maybe we’re completely mistaken. Maybe this was all just a huge misunderstanding.”
Clifford turned to his laptop and began tapping, his keystrokes mechanical, his expression dazed. Finally, he leaned back and said in a defeated, toneless voice, “Susan Warner was our client. Jeffrey went to her home three times.”
Zoe’s mind whirred. There were so many questions she wanted to ask this man. But one question took priority over all the rest.
“Where is your brother now?” she asked.
“I . . . I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
“You said he went to see a client.”
“That’s what I assumed. He didn’t tell me.”
“We need a list of all the clients your brother’s handled in the past three months,” Tatum said.
“Could be hundreds of names.”
“Let’s check, okay?”
Clifford’s fighting spirit had been shattered. He showed them how to read the Excel sheet on the laptop. Tatum sat by the computer and began to go over the list. Zoe was about to argue but then saw he was clearly much more proficient than her when it came to manipulating the data. For a burly FBI field agent, he had impressive computer skills.
There were ninety-three names on the list.
“He’ll be attacking her in her home,” Zoe said. “That means he’ll probably target a single woman.”
Tatum removed the men, leaving forty-one names.
“Do you think he’s targeting a woman with children?” Tatum asked.
“Probably,” Zoe said. “But we can’t really tell if the client is a single mother from this list.”
“Laura Summer,” Clifford said. “She wanted a discount because she’s a single mom.”
Zoe glanced at the name. “He visited her twice,” she said. “I think that’s her.”
“We need to make sure,” Tatum said.
Zoe dialed the number on the file, and as she listened to the phone ring, she said, “Email this list to Martinez. We’ll call him on the way and explain.”
Tatum nodded. As he worked on it, he asked Clifford, “Does Jeffrey have a phone with him?”
“Uh . . . yeah. Sure.”
“We’ll need the phone number.”
Clifford nodded and grabbed a piece of paper.
Zoe waited, tapping her foot anxiously. Laura didn’t answer her phone.
“No answer,” she said.
Tatum pressed send and stood up, grabbing the piece of paper with Jeffrey’s number on it. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 73