Page 11
Skye studied her. The rookie wasn’t wrong. “So what’s your idea?”
Maggie met her eyes steadily. “I’m his type.”
Skye’s stomach dropped. “No.” Maggie absolutely was his type.
“He only saw me in uniform and a hat at the scene. I’ll put myself on his radar. The gym, grocery store, coffee shop. Let him notice me. Then I go out at night, between eleven and two. That’s his window. You stay close. When he moves, we take him.”
“It’s dangerous as hell,” Skye said. “And sketchy. If he figures out you’re a cop—”
“He might like the challenge,” Maggie countered. “He taunted you, right? By going to the scene? Or maybe he’ll ignore me. Still, it’s worth the shot. We have nothing that puts him at any scene. Not even a vague witness statement. We need his DNA. This could force his hand.”
Skye shook her head, even as her mind started turning over the logistics. It just might work.
But it was dangerous. She could risk the entire case against him.
How many young women is he going to destroy?
“He can’t see us together. Not once. If he smells a setup, he’ll never bite.”
Maggie’s expression didn’t waver, but her eyes sparkled in excitement. “So . . . it’s a good idea?”
“It’s a crappy idea,” Skye muttered, rubbing her temple. “But I don’t have a better one.”
VIII.
Skye hated not working. She’d get her paycheck, and the extra time with Mac should have given her peace and comfort. But the moment he left for work, the silence in her cozy house became deafening. She was adrift, useless, and every idle hour felt like another victory for the man she couldn’t touch.
After her conversation with Maggie at the bar, Skye had handed her everything: the exhaustive list of Calderon’s movements over the last few months, her victim-interview notes, every scrap of detail the women could remember about the weeks before their attacks. Which wasn’t much. Maggie kept Skye updated on her off-duty tails. No sign of him at his favorite hunting spots. Which only meant he was better at hiding than she’d thought.
Or found a new place to find his victims.
On Friday, the walls closed in. Skye couldn’t stand another minute at home. She drove fifteen minutes up to Calderon’s neighborhood in Keizer, parked across from his upscale townhouse, and stared.
Nice place. Not flashy, but comfortable, well within a state lawyer’s salary, though she suspected he’d made far more in private practice. She’d asked him once why he’d left corporate law for less money and a government paycheck. He’d fed her some polished line about public service. She hadn’t believed a word. When she’d reached out to his old firm, they’d stonewalled her. No warrant, no leverage. Just lawyers protecting lawyers.
Did he have some hidden connection to Governor Brown that she’d missed? Had he been forced out of private practice? HR complaints, settlements, nondisclosure agreements? All of the above? Whatever it was, no one would talk.
He didn’t hunt in his own backyard. In some ways that made him careful. In others, like hunting closer to his workplace, that made him arrogant. Or lazy.
She voted arrogant.
She still couldn’t figure him out.
Do you need to understand him to stop him? Or do you just need to be a better cop?
It’s not your case anymore, she reminded herself.
The thought burned. She drove back to Salem but couldn’t face her empty house or her dad’s bar, where his concern would force her to lie and say she was fine, just fine. Instead, her truck seemed to steer itself to Ashley Carillo’s small bungalow in West Salem.
Ashley was his first victim.
She answered the door with a flicker of hope that quickly sharpened into fear. “Detective? Come in.”
The house smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink. Ashley was a programmer who worked from home on Fridays; her laptop sat open on the dining table.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Skye mumbled.
“Do you have news?”
