Identity

“I asked them not to. Is it okay there? Do you like it?”

Studying the fountain, Olivia patted a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “He would’ve gotten such a kick out of that.” Then she bent down, kissed the top of Morgan’s head. “He’d be so proud of you. I love it. I love it almost as much as I love that some of his cleverness rubbed off on you.”

With a hand on Morgan’s shoulder, her other holding Audrey’s, Olivia turned to Miles. “I’m betting she drafted you into hauling that ton of concrete over there.”

He just flexed his biceps.

“I hope you and Howl will stay for dinner. We picked up some nice tilapia on the way home, and I’ve a mind to blacken it. You like spicy, Miles?”

“What man would say no?”

“That’s settled then. It looks like you’ve already had some company.”

Morgan rose, picked up the agents’ glasses. “Sit down, and I’ll get some fresh glasses and tell you about it.”

Audrey stopped her with a touch on the arm. “This is about him. About Gavin Rozwell.”

“Yes, but it’s not all bad. Let me get the glasses first.”

Audrey watched her go. “I’m glad you were here, Miles. I’m glad she wasn’t alone.”

“So am I, but she’s right. It’s not all bad.”

Olivia sat. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”

They listened, with the summer sun streaming, with the faintest breeze just whispering in the air. And he watched as Audrey took her daughter’s hand, as Olivia never took her eyes off Morgan’s face.

“He made her care about him,” Audrey murmured. “He took all that time to gain her trust, and more, make her care about him.”

“Because the cruelty is the point. He didn’t kill her grandparents,” Olivia continued, “because that’s not what he does. But more? I think more, because he knew how much they’d suffer. The cruelty is the point. What a sick, twisted life he lives.”

“It’s time he lived it behind bars. It’s way past time.”

Morgan gave her mother’s hand a squeeze. “That may be coming, Mom. He made that mistake, not disabling the tracking system, and they got all that information from his—I’m not sure what I’d call him—the car guy.”

“He could switch cars again anytime,” Olivia pointed out.

“He could, but they know where he is. I didn’t get to the last thing. While they were here, they got an alert. He’d checked into a hotel in Kansas City. The local police were responding. They could have him already. It could be over.”



* * *



He wanted to do some shopping, and walk around to stretch his legs and get a feel for the area surrounding his hotel. He always made a point of checking out the traffic patterns, the local hot spots. Plus, he’d grown tired of the beach look. His current identity called for a more arty wardrobe.

Italian sandals, a pair of animal-striped Vans, black jeans, some new shirts, and a straw boater.

He enjoyed himself enough to stop and take an outdoor table at a bistro, order a glass of Malbec and a French dip. With his shopping bags tucked under the table, he set up his laptop, checked out the news reports for Myrtle Beach.

There she was! A very nice photo, all smiles and beach-blond hair. The artist drawing of Trevor Caine—suspect—wasn’t bad, he concluded. Then again, Trevor Caine was as dead as Quinn Loper.

He read the report while he ate, and found himself mildly disappointed they’d yet to connect him, the real him, to Caine or the murder.

They would. He counted on it. A man needed recognition for accomplishments, after all.

He wondered if those bumbling Special Agents Beck and Morrison were on the case yet. He hoped so. It gave him such satisfaction to frustrate them, time after time.

Had they told Morgan? Oh, he really hoped so. He made a mental toast as he imagined her shivering with fear in a dark room, door locked, while her mother and grandmother wept in concern.

His mother had spent plenty of time locked in dark rooms nursing black eyes, cracked ribs.

He congratulated himself on not disposing of the junk jewelry he’d taken from Morgan’s drawer. Leaving those pieces on the women he’d finished? Inspired, if he said so himself.

And he did.

What would she think when she found out a corpse wore her cheap, tacky bracelet? He drew a picture in his mind of her curling into a ball, crying, hysterical, begging for someone to protect her.

He’d see that, he promised himself, in reality, in the fucking flesh. And that would balance the damn scales before he finished her.

He finished his wine, paid the check, and because his musings put him in a fine mood, added a generous tip.

Carter John Winslow III could afford generosity thanks to a hefty trust fund. It allowed him to pursue his art without worrying about a paycheck.

Not that he needed that background story at the moment. He wouldn’t stay in Kansas City more than a couple of days. He planned to head south of the border, book a suite at a resort on the Pacific Coast. A nice R and R.

God knew he’d earned it.

If he hadn’t taken that walk around, done some shopping, stopped for a bite to eat and a glass of wine, he wouldn’t have seen the police cars and the black SUV pull up in front of his hotel.

He wouldn’t have been half a block away when cops poured out and rushed into the hotel lobby.

He wouldn’t have been able to keep walking, just keep walking with his heart pounding in his throat and sheer shock ringing in his ears.

How had they found him? How? He’d ditched the Caine ID before he killed the bitch. He hadn’t left a trail.

He kept walking.

Somehow he had left a trail, and now his Winslow ID was useless. And his things—cash, other IDs, other electronics, clothes—they’d have those now.

The sweat that slicked his skin turned icy as he went into a drugstore. He needed hair dye, some haircutting tools, some basic supplies.

No Mexico now. No, he couldn’t risk a border crossing now. North, he’d go north. Montana, maybe Wyoming, where cows outnumbered people and people minded their own fucking business.

He couldn’t get to his car, so he’d have to steal one. Some old junker he could hot-wire. He had to find a place to deal with his hair. Cheap motel. He had cash on him, and ways to access his accounts.

A cheap motel, change his look, steal a car, get the hell out of goddamn Kansas City.

No, no, steal the car first and get out. Roadblocks, manhunt. His mind whirled with fear, with what-ifs.

He walked out without buying anything, and kept walking until he found a bus stop. He got on the first one to come by, kept his head down and turned. Buses had cameras like every other damn thing now.

He reminded himself he had the laptop, at least he had the laptop.

But his hands shook and more sweat pooled at the base of his spine.

It took him nearly an hour of walking, riding, walking until he found a likely car in the vast parking lot of a Walmart.