He ran his hand through his short hair. “I asked her not to tell me anything until this siege was over, which it now is. She can fill me in on everything I missed. Tell me the new stuff.”
“The task force is trying to place Caroline Perry at the scenes of any of the deaths of the FBI agents in question. We are also looking at Karl Feldman. Seeing if they were possibly working together. We have someone trying to trace where she purchased the gun but nothing so far.”
Dominic rubbed the bridge of his nose. The scab had healed, and his bruises were starting to fade. His shoulder still ached though. And his ribs. But the injuries were fading, and he was keen to put this nightmare behind him.
“Task force is trying to establish a connection between her and any of the NYFO cases your squad worked. Maybe she assumed another identity and isn’t really Caroline Perry.”
“Have the BAU worked up a profile of the likely offender yet?” asked Dominic, trying to ignore the whirlwind of activity that swirled around him. Ava crossed her arms and stared at him, patiently waiting for news.
“Given the wide-ranging, potential crimes with differing MOs it hasn’t been easy,” Rooney admitted. “They found plastic explosives on Fernando Chavez’s speedboat on the weekend. The guy was insanely lucky that there was a fault with a detonator or else he and his whole family would probably be dead by now. The fact the UNSUB can move across the country so easily suggests they have means and are above average intelligence but we haven’t narrowed it much further than that, yet.”
Dominic’s world slowed. “Wait. Fernando Chavez? Fernando only crossed over with some of the older agents by a couple of months…”
“Task force is examining the cases.”
Dominic’s mind was racing. It was his life. He knew the facts better than any task force. “I need to make a call. I’ll call you back.”
He strode out of the building barely aware of Ava on his heels. He searched for the contact information of a female vice cop he’d worked with during the hunt for a notorious serial killer named the “Lost Girl Killer” by the press.
Peter Galveston had liked to pick up hitchhikers and keep them for weeks or months at his upscale cabin in remote woods where he raped and tortured them. Eventually they died from their injuries or he’d grow bored and finish them off by hunting them in the woods near his house, or strangling them with his bare hands.
The guy had taped much of it in graphic detail, but they’d always thought he’d had someone helping him. Maybe more than one person.
Finally, Dominic found the number he was looking for. Sandra Warren.
“Sheridan?” She sounded exactly the same as she had a decade ago. “What the heck can I do for you?”
“Hey, Sandy. Where are you at, right now?” His heart was pumping fast.
“That’s an odd question?” Classic cop, not giving anything away.
“It’s really important that you listen to me carefully. This is not a prank. I want you to head straight for Federal Plaza. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t drive your own car, don’t drink or eat anything…”
“What the hell? Is this some sort of secret society hazing thing? Do I win a prize at the end of it?” She was laughing.
Dominic’s mouth was dry. “Where exactly are you now?”
She lowered her voice. “Talking to a sex crime victim in lower Manhattan.”
“Alone?”
“No. I have a detective with me. Why? Hey, come on. You’re scaring me, buddy.”
“I can’t explain, but I really need you to do as I ask. Get a cab to the FBI office and wait there until someone contacts you.”
“What about my family, Dominic?” Her voice rose with fear. She was taking him seriously.
“Call Ben, tell him to pick everyone up—not in your own car, get a cab—and meet you at NYFO. Call me when you get there…”
“Okay, but if this is a joke I’m going to roast your ass.”
“It’s no joke.”
She hung up, obviously in a hurry to warn her husband.
“You figured it out?” Ava asked, watching him as they threw their belongings into their go-bags. He ignored the sight of the messed-up sheets on the mattresses on the floor, but Dominic did not forget what they’d done.
It paled into insignificance when compared to the deadly actions of this killer—not the act itself, but the associated shame.
“You know who it is,” Ava declared, grabbing the wash bags out of the tiny bathroom and tossing him his.
“I think so.” He dialed Lincoln Frazer. Nausea swirled in his stomach.
“Who?” she asked.
Frazer answered with a terse, “What is it?”
“Peter Galveston,” Dominic said.
“Galveston is dead,” said Frazer.
“I know. I shot him.” It had been the first time Dominic had killed a man, but not the last.
“These murders do not share an MO with Galveston,” Frazer argued.
“I’m telling you, Linc, it’s connected to him. He was our major focus when Fernando Chavez joined our squad. We caught him within a month of Chavez being there and Preston Daniels retired shortly afterwards. Fernando effectively replaced Preston.” Dominic’s fingers cramped from holding the phone so tightly. “I know it’s related to Galveston.”
“I’ll call the task force and ask them to prioritize reviewing his case files.”
Dominic had lived and breathed that case for months. He knew the case files inside out.
“I called a female cop called Sandra Warren who acted as bait for the serial killer. I told her to get to NYFO ASAP and get her family there too. Whoever is doing this will target her.”
His phone showed another call coming through. “Wait. She’s calling me back. Let me take that.”
“Fine,” Frazer said. “I’ll call the task force.”
“Dominic? I can’t reach Ben.” Sandy was talking quickly, too quickly. “What the hell is going on?”
“Did you check the school?”
“The kids are both in the principal’s office. I told her to keep them there until I pick them up.”
“Let someone else do that, Sandy. Let an officer—”
“No. Goddammit, if they are in danger, I’ll be the one to pick them up. Tell me what the hell is going on.”