Three Times a Lady

Chapter 37

Using both hands, Bill Krugman shielded his eyes from the bright Florida sunlight that was pounding down from the cloudless blue skies above.

Exotic-looking seabirds squawked high in the air overhead as he pressed his nose against the glass and tried to get a good look inside Dana Whitestone’s vacation house, tunneling his vision with his palms and fogging up the window with his breath.

Krugman could just make out a sparsely furnished living room that had been decorated with two wicker armchairs, a rattan settee and the kinds of oil paintings you might find at a neighborhood rummage sale for fifteen bucks apiece.

Watching this as she jogged back down Indian Bayou a few minutes after her odd encounter with the old landscaper at the church, Dana felt a cold lump of dread form deep in the pit of her stomach. The man known to everyone in the FBI simply by his title of ‘the Director’ didn’t come by to pay former agents a personal visit for no good reason. That couldn’t be good news for Dana under even the best of circumstances, and was probably enough to justify the expense of her running away to Bora Bora instead of the more easily accessible Gulf Coast of Florida.

Sweating like a pig by the time she’d finally turned up the driveway thirty seconds later, Dana blinked hard against the salty rivers of perspiration sliding down her forehead and into her eyes, stinging her retinas and blurring her vision.

For the most part, Indian Bayou was a quiet street that housed mostly seasonal residents – people who’d saved a year or more just to afford the high rental prices. The clientele for these winter getaways ran the gamut of humanity. Many were retirees fleeing the cold back home in Michigan or Ohio or Pennsylvania – Rust Belt states where the sun only shined three or four months out of the year. But there were also some younger couples there, as well. These people were in their late thirties or early forties who were embarking upon their first real vacations with their small children in tow – sawed-off, freckle-faced little tots who invariably clutched plastic buckets and shovels in their tiny hands to facilitate the digging of elaborate trenches in the sugary-fine sand of Fort Myers Beach.

The gravel-lined driveway crunched beneath Dana’s rubber-soled Nikes, causing Bill Krugman to turn around and smile down at her from the landing. ‘Dana,’ he said warmly, not looking in the least bit embarrassed by the fact that he’d just been caught playing the role of the quaint, seaside town’s Peeping Tom.

Krugman’s gold Rolex glinted in the bright sunlight as he straightened the crisp white sleeves of his dress shirt, pulling them into sight from beneath the arms of his lightweight, flawlessly tailoured blue suit. Dana wasn’t at all surprised to see the Director’s choice of attire. Even considering the blazing temperatures, Krugman wasn’t the kind of guy to break a sweat. Ever. Cool as a cucumber at all times, that was him.

Dana nodded a hello up at her former boss, squinting against the irritating drops of sweat searing her eyes. ‘Hello, sir,’ she said. ‘How is Marie doing?’

Krugman beamed. ‘Picture of health, I’m proud to say. Not a single trace of cancer left.’

Dana smiled. And why not? She was genuinely happy to hear the news. ‘Thank God,’ she said, meaning it from the bottom of her heart. ‘I’m so happy to hear that.’ Dana paused, knowing the Director hadn’t traveled all the way down to Florida just to deliver a personal update on his wife’s medical condition. There had to be something else. Clearing her throat, she asked, ‘So, sir, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

Krugman descended the wooden steps. ‘No time for pleasantries, huh, Agent Whitestone? Fair enough, I guess. I was never one for small talk myself.’ He reached the foot of the stairs, squinting irritably against the blinding sun. ‘Could we maybe go inside? It’s hotter than hell out here.’

Dana flushed, suddenly remembering her manners. She might have been raised in six different foster homes, but not one of them had been a barn. ‘Of course, sir,’ she said quickly. ‘Come on in and I’ll get you something cold to drink.’

Dana brushed past Krugman and ascended the wooden steps before sliding her key into the lock and opening up the door, stepping aside to let Krugman in first. She followed him inside and asked, ‘What can I get for you, sir? Beer? Water? Soda?’

The look on Krugman’s face let Dana know that alcohol was out of the question for him – and probably should be for her, as well. Crinkling up her face in sudden embarrassment, Dana hoped he couldn’t smell the beer on her breath. Then she shook her head to chase away the concern. What did she care if he smelled beer on her breath? She didn’t work for him any more. She could drink whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. ‘Water would be great, Agent Whitestone,’ Krugman said. ‘Thanks.’

Dana did her best to ignore the fact that Krugman was calling her by her former title as she headed into the kitchen with the Director following closely at her heels. Pulling out a bottle of Aquafina from the refrigerator, she twisted off the cap with the gunshot sound of snapping plastic and handed it over. Then she and Krugman went back into the living room and took seats on opposite ends of the rattan settee.

Krugman tilted back his head and took a long swallow of his water before clearing his throat. ‘I need you back, Dana,’ he said, cutting right to the chase. ‘I’ve got a serial killer on my hands who’s murdering famous people.’

Dana looked away from him, knowing she couldn’t even deal with what had happened to her in the parking lot of the coroner’s office back home in Cleveland yet. No way in hell she’d be able to deal with another serial killer. Not now and probably never again. It was just too much too ask of her, not to mention too soon. After all these years of staying strong despite the nearly insurmountable odds that had been stacked up against her, the woman in the autopsy video had finally broken Dana’s spirit. Crushed it, actually. She had nothing left to fight with any more. She’d become completely and utterly empty.

Unfortunately, Krugman mistook her silence for interest. ‘The press has taken to calling this person “the Censor”,’ the Director went on. ‘The targets are mostly B-list celebrities. Dinah Leach from The Real Housewives of Atlanta was the first victim last year. Penelope Hargrave – Steve Hargrave’s oldest daughter, the guy who’s trying to bankroll the rebuilding of the Twin Towers – was the next to go in New York City. And Amber Knightly was murdered just two nights ago out in Arkansas.’

Dana lifted her eyebrows in surprise. The question tumbled out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop it from coming. ‘The pop singer?’ she asked.

Krugman nodded. ‘That would be her. Hell, the killer we’re after is starting to make Aillen Wuournos look more like Angelina Jolie – a real do-gooder hell-bent upon single-handedly saving the world.’

Dana frowned at Krugman’s odd analogy. ‘How do you know the killer’s a woman? How do you know it’s not a man?’

Krugman shifted in his seat. ‘Oh, it’s a woman, all right.’

It took everything Dana had to not shout at her former boss. ‘OK, but how do you know that?’

‘Because we know who she is,’ Krugman said, catching her completely by surprise. ‘We know her name and we found her prints at the scenes of each of the murders I was telling you about. Her name is Nicole Preston and she’s from Chicago. Killed her mother late last night, too, according to the field office out in Illinois. Hung her dead body from a steel hook in the family’s butcher’s shop after the deed was done. Real sick piece of work, no two ways about it.’

Krugman paused and closed his eyes. When he opened them up again, he held Dana’s stare. ‘I know what happened to you in the parking lot of the coroner’s office, Dana,’ he said softly.

Dana’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart slammed against her ribcage. She was much too stunned for a moment to even breathe.

Finally, she swallowed back the shame in her throat and whispered, ‘How?’

Krugman again shifted in his seat, uncomfortably this time. ‘Nicole Preston’s prints were also found in the autopsy room in Ohio. I saw the video, Dana, saw Preston hold up the picture of your brother to the camera. That’s when it occurred to me to check out the surveillance footage from the parking lot. I saw what those men did to you. I’m very sorry that happened. It was absolutely awful.’

Dana’s lips trembled, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t know what to say.

Krugman straightened on the settee. ‘Anyway, Nicole Preston killed Christian Manhoff, too, but that’s not the main reason she was in Cleveland. Manhoff was just a prop. She came to Cleveland because she’s targeting you too, Dana. I don’t know why, but that much I know for a fact.’

Dana shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. Still, she already knew that Krugman was telling her the truth. She let out a deep breath that deflated her chest eight inches. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Preston told me that much right to my face. But how in the hell do you know that?’

Krugman cleared his throat. ‘Because the Illinois field office found a list of five names pinned to the chest of Nicole Preston’s mother.’

‘And?’

Krugman dropped his stare. ‘And your name was the last one on it.’