“Yep. Hey, a lot of people don’t really care. Said the woman had ID that seemed legitimate. Of course, it wasn’t,” Angela said. “We have people down there.”
“Los Angeles,” Thor murmured. “That would go back in the right direction—someone involved with Wickedly Weird Productions.”
“How well would any of them know Alaska?” Clara asked, mystified.
“Ah, glad you asked!” Angela said. “Actually, the entire group here from the Wickedly Weird Production Company headed north about three months ago—site inspections and all.”
“The only two women left alive who are with the company are Misty Blaine and Becca Marle,” Thor said.
“Then again, it might not be a woman,” Clara put in. “And maybe the letters aren’t love letters at all—they may be coded, as you said.”
“Anything is possible,” Angela said. “But, best educated guess is that Tate Morley is there and working with someone he’s been corresponding with for some time. Again—go figure on people. As I said, some women think that they can change a man. Some are just accomplices in crime. They are just as perverted and mentally deranged and cruel as the men they find in life, or in the prison system.”
“And then again—as you pointed out, Clara—we can’t take anything at face value,” Thor said, studying her. “You could be right. It could be anyone.” He looked back at the computer screen. “Angela, anything more on Marc Kimball?”
She shook her head. “Marc Kimball might as well be a wraith. As far as any eyewitnesses go, he just appeared in the Seward police station.”
“What about past history of our friends on the island?” Thor asked.
“We’ve kept searching, but so far, nothing we’ve found stands out in and of itself. Anything could mean something. Becca Marle could hate men—she was left standing at the altar, but one of our agents out there spoke with a coworker from a previous project who said that Becca had been unsure about the marriage herself. She was embarrassed, but over it quickly. Tommy Marchant had an abusive wife—he could really hate women, except that he’s supposedly been happy as a lark since he’s become his own man. Has he ever done anything that would suggest he was ready to go out and kill and mutilate women? No, not that we can find. Friends say he’s a nice guy—a little leery now when they try to fix him up with someone they think would be nice. Our agents have done extensive work on the backgrounds of the Wickedly Weird people, and we have nothing. Then again, men like Bundy and Gacy were liked by their neighbors, so that doesn’t mean really mean anything. We have Will working on discovering if there is some kind of a code in the letters; we also have people in Los Angeles. I’ll let you know the minute that we have anything, anything at all. You know that.”
“Thanks,” Jackson told her.
“Stay safe,” she said.
As the connection was broken, Mike Aklaq joined them; they brought him up to speed.
“We still have people in the caves and caverns,” he told them. “They’ve got camping gear. They’ll work through the night.”
“They have techs and cops out there,” Thor said. He looked at Clara. “The caves and caverns are extensive. Beautiful when times are good. Ice is so powerful...it’s like you’re in haphazardly designed crystal palaces. The killer has taken advantage.” He glanced over at Mike. “They’ve enough of a police presence still, right?”
Mike nodded. “Yep. They’ll be working in shifts, police guards on and off. Though to be honest, neither Brennan nor Enfield seem to think that anyone in a group is in danger—they believe that the killer, or killers, watch carefully, and strike when a woman is alone.” He looked around at Jackson, Thor and Clara, and said, “I’m famished. Anyone else?”
“Let’s see if the Goth Magda has gotten something together for dinner,” Thor said, and asked Clara, “Has Kimball been around?”
“I don’t know,” she told him. “Jackson and I were with the Wickedly Weird people.”
“According to the cops, he’s been upstairs all day,” Jackson said.
Leaving the office behind, they discovered that Magda Crowley, as sour-faced as ever, was in the living room, looking for them to announce that dinner was being served.
“And if anyone cares, you can check on those film people,” she said. She said the words film people as if she were speaking of an inferior alien race.
“They were all cleaning up and taking showers,” the police officer on guard in the house told them.
“They should be out by now,” Clara said. “I’ll check on Becca, just in case she is ready.”
“I think she said she was going to take a nap,” the on-duty police officer told her. “I’ll just knock on their doors. You folks go ahead.”