that someone from his office?”
“No,” Nick replied.
Hank jumped in. “Before he left, did he seem okay?”
“Okay?”
“Normal,” Nick said. “Or different somehow?”
She exhaled, stared off into space as her mind drifted back to that last meal. After a moment, she shook her head.
“The police asked me the same thing,” she said. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t remember anything odd about him that day. I mean, he was alone, so he ate quietly, except when I stopped by to check on him, refill his glass, and bring him his check. When he left here, I just assumed—I assumed he’d be back in a couple days. Like always.”
They thanked her for her time. Nick nodded to the harried manager—who was bouncing from table to table, checking on orders, refilling glasses—on their way out.
As they crossed the parking lot, Hank reflexively scanned the ground for any tripping hazard, and grumbled, “Random victims.”
If the killer had chosen his victims at random, he would be difficult to catch through investigative leads. They’d need him to slip up at a crime scene, to leave behind DNA evidence or fingerprints, assuming he was in one of the criminal databases. Otherwise, they needed a witness to one of the abductions, and that was something out of their control.
Basically, they needed to get lucky.
Nick’s cell phone rang: Wu.
“Yeah, this is Burkhardt.”
So that Hank could hear both sides of the conversation, Nick put the call on speaker. Over the tinny cell phone connection, Wu said, “You wanted to be notified about any new missing person cases. One popped up this morning. Sheila Jenkins, thirty-two-year-old leasing agent. Left a bachelorette party at
La Porte Bleue
last night. Failed to show up at work this morning.”
“Hangover?” Nick wondered.
“According to the bride-to-be’s sister, who hosted the party, Sheila made a quick exit,” Wu said. “Alone. Mentioned an early morning appointment.”
“Anybody check her home?”
“After she failed to answer her cell and landline, her boss had somebody from the office swing by her place,” Wu said. “No answer. And her car’s missing.”
“Did you get a plate number?”
“Already in the system,” Wu said. “Patrol units notified.”
Sheila might have left the party early to hook up with someone, and she might have slept over and not returned home. That would explain the empty house and the missing car. But not the cell phone silence, nor the absence from work. Of course, if she had taken her own party elsewhere, she might have continued to drink throughout the night, passed out in somebody else’s house or apartment. But Nick had a bad feeling that her disappearance fit the admittedly small profile of the others. They were both found weeks later. So Nick held onto the possibility that Sheila might still be alive. He asked Wu for addresses and phone numbers.
Propped on his crutches, Hank took out a pen and small notebook and copied down the details on the witness and Sheila Jenkins’ place of business. More leads to follow, but Hank looked resigned.
When Nick disconnected the call, Hank said, “You know what this is?”
Nick nodded. “Another random grab.”
* * *
The untended vacant lot had been home to a garment factory before a fire gutted the interior. Intending to rebuild, the owners had the factory razed. But the business had been underinsured and the flagging economy had left the project in limbo. A temporary construction fence surrounding the lot had fallen into disrepair, and, in several sections, had simply fallen. Bulldozers, backhoes and excavators had left the ground uneven, while weeds had been allowed to overrun the property. In short, the lot had become an eyesore.
None of that mattered to David Munks and Cody Kuberski. With a few hours to kill before dinner, they rode onto the lot on their mountain bikes, after effortlessly sneaking through one of the gaps in the perimeter fence. The choppy terrain gave
“No,” Nick replied.
Hank jumped in. “Before he left, did he seem okay?”
“Okay?”
“Normal,” Nick said. “Or different somehow?”
She exhaled, stared off into space as her mind drifted back to that last meal. After a moment, she shook her head.
“The police asked me the same thing,” she said. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t remember anything odd about him that day. I mean, he was alone, so he ate quietly, except when I stopped by to check on him, refill his glass, and bring him his check. When he left here, I just assumed—I assumed he’d be back in a couple days. Like always.”
They thanked her for her time. Nick nodded to the harried manager—who was bouncing from table to table, checking on orders, refilling glasses—on their way out.
As they crossed the parking lot, Hank reflexively scanned the ground for any tripping hazard, and grumbled, “Random victims.”
If the killer had chosen his victims at random, he would be difficult to catch through investigative leads. They’d need him to slip up at a crime scene, to leave behind DNA evidence or fingerprints, assuming he was in one of the criminal databases. Otherwise, they needed a witness to one of the abductions, and that was something out of their control.
Basically, they needed to get lucky.
Nick’s cell phone rang: Wu.
“Yeah, this is Burkhardt.”
So that Hank could hear both sides of the conversation, Nick put the call on speaker. Over the tinny cell phone connection, Wu said, “You wanted to be notified about any new missing person cases. One popped up this morning. Sheila Jenkins, thirty-two-year-old leasing agent. Left a bachelorette party at
La Porte Bleue
last night. Failed to show up at work this morning.”
“Hangover?” Nick wondered.
“According to the bride-to-be’s sister, who hosted the party, Sheila made a quick exit,” Wu said. “Alone. Mentioned an early morning appointment.”
“Anybody check her home?”
“After she failed to answer her cell and landline, her boss had somebody from the office swing by her place,” Wu said. “No answer. And her car’s missing.”
“Did you get a plate number?”
“Already in the system,” Wu said. “Patrol units notified.”
Sheila might have left the party early to hook up with someone, and she might have slept over and not returned home. That would explain the empty house and the missing car. But not the cell phone silence, nor the absence from work. Of course, if she had taken her own party elsewhere, she might have continued to drink throughout the night, passed out in somebody else’s house or apartment. But Nick had a bad feeling that her disappearance fit the admittedly small profile of the others. They were both found weeks later. So Nick held onto the possibility that Sheila might still be alive. He asked Wu for addresses and phone numbers.
Propped on his crutches, Hank took out a pen and small notebook and copied down the details on the witness and Sheila Jenkins’ place of business. More leads to follow, but Hank looked resigned.
When Nick disconnected the call, Hank said, “You know what this is?”
Nick nodded. “Another random grab.”
* * *
The untended vacant lot had been home to a garment factory before a fire gutted the interior. Intending to rebuild, the owners had the factory razed. But the business had been underinsured and the flagging economy had left the project in limbo. A temporary construction fence surrounding the lot had fallen into disrepair, and, in several sections, had simply fallen. Bulldozers, backhoes and excavators had left the ground uneven, while weeds had been allowed to overrun the property. In short, the lot had become an eyesore.
None of that mattered to David Munks and Cody Kuberski. With a few hours to kill before dinner, they rode onto the lot on their mountain bikes, after effortlessly sneaking through one of the gaps in the perimeter fence. The choppy terrain gave
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