“Now tell me about Cameron Wilde,” the chief said gruffly.
He wished that he had more to say. “You know Cameron Wilde is missing.”
The chief lowered into Bennett’s desk chair.
“Wilde and the Porsche.” The traffic camera had caught that vehicle fleeing, and they’d gotten the tag number, a tag number that showed the owner of the vehicle was one Cameron Wilde.
His hair isn’t dark. It’s blond. But, otherwise… “There weren’t any signs of foul play at his house in Mobile. Ivy told me the guy had a second home over at the Fort Morgan beach area. I had officers from the Fort Morgan police department check the place out, but they said it looked deserted.” Not a good sign. “They’re going to head back at first light and check again.” Though they sure hadn’t sounded very hopeful when they’d talked to him.
“How are those sketches going?” Chief Quarrel asked him.
“Fucking worthless.” He shook his head. “We had three witnesses who saw the guy—Morris Hatch, the head of the security at the gate, a guy named Todd Wiles, and Peter Blask, the valet. All three men saw the driver of that Porsche. And when they were paired up with sketch artists, all damn three of them described a different man. The pictures are useless to me.”
The chief sighed. “You know how faulty eye witness descriptions can be—especially in situations like this one.”
Yeah, he damn well knew how unreliable such testimony could be. He’d had his share of issues with misleading descriptions during his time with the FBI. But he’d hoped they’d gotten lucky. He’d needed to see who he was hunting.
“I’ve got the APB out for Wilde,” Bennett said. “Uniforms are searching his property and his business. We should be able to find him.”
The chief just looked back at him.
And Bennett knew the chief was thinking the same thing he was. We should be able to find him…provided that Cameron Wilde was still alive.
He wasn’t so sure about that. Maybe the killer had stabbed Cameron and dumped his body, then taken his ride.
“You’re the hotshot from the FBI,” the chief groused. “I know you worked with serials. Is that what we’ve got here? A serial?”
Bennett’s hand rose and pressed to his side. Beneath his shirt, he could just feel the ridge of his scar. So many scars marked him. “Usually, serials have certain victim types that they enjoy.”
“Like pretty young brunettes…”
“Just like that.”
The chief’s fingers tapped on Bennett’s desk. “Give me a profile.”
Bennett’s brows rose. “I’m not a profiler, not some psychiatrist—”
“Aw, cut the bullshit. You were Violent Crimes. I know you’re the one who tracked down the Greenville Trapper.”
Bennett didn’t let his expression alter. Greenville Trapper. That was the name the media had come up with for the killer who had terrorized the Greenville, South Carolina area. A man who’d hunted his prey—and had trapped that prey. The Trapper had seen himself as some sort of big gamesman, and he’d only gone after big prey. Men in their prime. Men who were physically fit. Men who could survive his game for longer periods of time.
Because after he’d trapped his prey, the sick freak had enjoyed torturing them…for weeks.
“I tracked him,” Bennett said grimly. The marks beneath his clothes—the scars he would always carry—seemed to burn.
“So I think you know a pretty good bit about profiling killers.” The chief motioned to him. “Profile this one. Go—”
Bennett’s door flew open. Ivy stood there, chest heaving, her dark eyes blazing at him. “Three hours,” she snapped.
What was she doing there? She was—
“I’ve been back in holding for three hours.” She stalked toward him and jabbed her finger into his chest. “Like a common criminal! I’m all for protective custody. I mean, hell, do what you need to do, but you can’t just lock me up and forget about me!”
As if he could forget about her.
“You need to use me,” Ivy said flatly. “The killer is calling me. He’s hurting my friends—use me.”
The fuck he would.
“Ah, Ms. DuLane,” the chief murmured as he rose. “I was wondering when you’d be making an appearance.”
Ivy glanced over at him. “As exciting as I find your jail, Chief. I think my time can be better spent elsewhere.”
“Actually,” the chief drawled. “I think you might be here just in time. Detective Morgan was just about to tell me what sort of profile he had for the killer.”
“He was?” Ivy asked quickly.
“Uh, chief, she’s a civilian. She—”
“Do you have any idea how many cold cases the woman has solved in the last year?” The chief marched toward Bennett. “I tried to draft her for my force, but she likes playing it independent. Just like her grandfather.”
And he suddenly wondered if—like Dr. Battiste—the chief had enjoyed fishing with Ivy’s grandfather back in the day.