Parker had refused to say more, other than that they were on their own. And that everything he’d revealed to them was classified.
No pressure. Only four young women’s lives at stake.
Micki sat at her desk, gazing at the image on her computer screen. The painting Parker had mentioned. Artist Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare. A sleeping woman. Or was she swooning? Whatever state, she was completely vulnerable. A gargoyle-like creature crouched over her. Dark and atmospheric. No hard lines, the quality of a dream. Creepy.
Mind. Blown.
Major Nichols had called Zach and her into his office first thing. They were officially back on the missing coeds, at the FBI’s request. But was the request from the FBI that believed in monsters? Or the one that didn’t?
Zach returned from a lunch run and set the bag of take-out and two bottles of water on her desk. “You okay?”
“Hell, no. Freaking the fuck out.”
“It doesn’t show.”
“Thank God.” She tilted the computer monitor his way. “Is that what it looked like? The Dark Bearer?”
“No. And yes.”
She frowned and reached for the bag of food. “Explain.”
“As a literal representation, no.”
“No gargoyle then. That’s a relief. So, what’s the yes part?”
He popped open the styrofoam box, dug a fork into his salad. “The foggy, indistinct quality of it. And the way the image makes me feel.”
Vulnerable. Threatened. She suddenly wasn’t hungry and pushed away her sandwich. They hadn’t talked much since they parted the evening before. Mostly superficial. As if by keeping it light, they didn’t have to deal with what Parker had shared. Not in any kind of real, to-the-core way.
They would have to deal with it soon; they had no choice. The two of them were on monster detail. Which meant, sooner or later, that bad boy was going to pop up and force the issue.
“Got the Bureau’s file while you were gone. Made us both a copy.” Mouth full of salad, he just nodded. She handed him one of them.
“They’ve done with Putnam what we did with Miller. Traced her steps, interviewed friends, family, and neighbors. Connected with everyone she came into contact with.”
“What about video surveillance footage from that night?”
“Done.” Micki shuffled through the pages. “They searched for a place the two women’s paths intersected—”
“Besides partying in the French Quarter on their twenty-first birthday.”
“Yes.” Appetite returning, she reached for her sandwich. She looked from it to him. “Is this a wheat wrap?”
“You won’t even notice the difference. Whole grains, partner. The only way to go.”
“Dude, really? Remind me to make the lunch runs from now on.” She sighed and took a bite. He watched her chew, swallow, then take another bite. “Well?”
“Not completely awful.”
He grinned. “Pretty soon you won’t want anything else.”
“Doubt that.” She gave her bag of baked chips a skeptical look then ripped it open. “As I expected it would be, their investigation was thorough, down to a search of the national databases for like crimes.”
“Any?”
“None that hit all the search criterion.”
He ticked them off. “Coeds. Twenty-first birthday, the number seven.”
“Exactly.”
He took another bite of salad, chewed in silence. Obviously thinking it through. “They’ve no doubt narrowed it down. What does their UNSUB looked like?”
“A lot like ours. Male, early twenties to thirty. Dark hair—”
“Whoa, dark hair? How’d they come to that conclusion?”
“Friends and family of the victims indicated that’s what they gravitate toward in boyfriends.”
“Typical. Notice nobody ever says tall, blond, and handsome?”
“Seriously, you’re going to go there? The way I see it, you’ve got ’em lined up.”
“Just fighting against stereotype.”
She rolled her eyes, then checked her notes. “Strong, strongly built. He overpowers the girls and gets them out of the apartment without leaving behind evidence.”
“He’s charming,” she read on. “Charismatic. A regular to the club scene or in the service industry. Bartender, bouncer—someone like that. He picks his victims at random; his ritual is evolving and he’s unorganized.”
Zach scraped the last of his salad out of the styrofoam container, then reached for her chips. “It’s evolving all right. And about to get a whole helluva lot more unorganized.”
He slid the chip bag back her way. “So, how do we . . . nudge our task force friends in the right direction?”
“Take a look at this.” She cleared the top of her desk to make room for a map of the French Quarter. “I marked all the bars Putnam and Miller visited. Red for Miller, blue for Putnam, and purple for the ones they both spent time in the night they disappeared.”